Certain Internet subcultures associate the name Chad with attractiveness and virility. Naming me Chad was the first thing my parents had done for me, and possibly the best.
Quickly after my birth, they realized that meth is more fun than diapers and formula. Their downward spiral was quick. The story I was told is that my dad was shot to death in a convenience store robbery gone wrong. My mom held on a bit longer, but eventually she got caught trying to sell her own body for money, and made her way to prison, and I to the foster care system.
She met her untimely demise in prison, awaiting trial, killed by an overdose. Meanwhile, I went on to become a young troubled child, and scare away several foster families. But not John and Martha. Or at least not Martha. They took me home on my 10th birthday, gave me a cozy room to call my own, and a stable predictable routine.
It didn’t take me long to realize that there was no love in their marriage. John, my adoptive dad, had married out of a sense of duty, it was just one of the things one does, but he cared little for family life, and probably saw Martha, my adoptive mom, as little more than a roommate. He was consumed by work, his career the only thing he valued in life.
As for Martha, she had settled in the convenient routine of the rich but cold man’s wife. If he had affairs, they never affected her way of life, nor the facade of the decent proper middle class family. The child they had adopted, me, Chad, I was the only living creature standing between her and having to face the reality of her emotional void, of her deep longing and quest for love.
She was a good mother, as good as I imagine anyone could be given a child not of their own making and with the issues I had faced in my past. Until that night, nothing inappropriate had ever happened. And yet it was clear that she leaned on me emotionally more than a mother should have.
That night, though, it all changed. At the time I was a sophomore at the local high school, and yet sometimes, when dad was out of town on business, mom would ask me to sleep next to her. “Just to feel a human connection.” she said. I wasn’t proud of it, and I didn’t want anybody to know. But I obliged her. It was rare. And usually I slept through the night with no issue.
But that night, a rustling noise woke me up. I looked at the window, suspecting the leaves, but they were as still as night, the moon shining cold on them. And yet something was clearly moving. Or somebody. It was but a moment. I turned around and I saw her. Martha. Doing what could only be one thing: pleasuring herself. In the darkness, I could see her arm under the bed sheets, moving up and down, her pace steady and slow, what looked like deep forceful strokes. I could see the shape of her legs spread wide. I could see her breast heaving, her back slightly arching at the rhythm of her thrusts. I could see her dark hair covering her face, her head tilted to the side, reclined against the pillow. Her mouth slightly open letting out soft moans.
She didn’t see me. Her eyes were closed. She was intense. Focused. Concentrated. Every fiber of her being devoted to the task of her pleasure.
What was I to do? Cough, move around, alert her that I was awake? That would have embarrassed her, and me. There would have been awkward excuses, pretending what was happening wasn’t happening. I chose to do nothing. I chose to continue watching.
I watched as her breath got faster, as she went from long deep breaths to panting frantically. I watched and listened as her moans became ever so slightly louder. And louder. I watched as she bit her lip, probably worried I’d hear if she let herself go. Unaware that I was already aware. Unaware that I was watching her every move, listening to every sound. Her breasts looked firm, and yet tender, juicy, full, like two beautiful fruits ripe for gathering. I wasn’t born from her loins, I hadn’t been fed from her nipples, and yet now there I was, witnessing the power of her feminine.
She started moving her own hand faster, her pace picking up. She was ravaging herself, giving herself pain and pleasure, pushing herself at the edge. And past the edge. She tensed. Her whole body froze in place, arched, her legs spread wider than I knew possible, her every muscle stiffened. And just like it had begun, it finished. She relaxed, tossed and turned, and went to sleep, her breath now gentle, soft, almost a whisper.
But I had just witnessed the most erotic thing of my entire life, and I had a throbbing erection to show for it. A new feeling of lust was devouring me. Lust for my adoptive mother. For her supple breasts. For the warm wet pussy she had just fucked. Lust to watch her pleasure again. Lust to be the one to give her that pleasure. I had to do something, the tension unbearable in my body, the heat burning my crotch beyond relief.
I waited, made sure Martha was sleeping, and then I got out of bed, went to the bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror. And started stroking my own cock. I watched myself as I gripped tight my virgin manhood, and stroked, and stroked, and stroked some more. I watched as I whispered her name, as I let the image of her firm orgasming body run through my mind, I watched as I wondered what her womanhood tasted like, and I watched as that last indecent thought, of fucking her, of having her take my virginity, as the thought pushed me to my own pleasure. I watched as thick hot cream rushed out of me, running in the vain hope to race inside of Martha’s tight wet pussy, instead spilling on the floor.
I had relieved myself, for the night. But I knew that this wouldn’t be the end of it. I knew that a fire had been lit inside of me, one that my own hand could never extinguish.
*I would definitely love to hear feedback on this. I expect a part 2 to follow as Chad and Martha develop their relationship*
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/awzk66/fm_fsolo_msolo_voy_inc_a_fire_inside_of_me_part_1