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 couldn’t stop thinking about her. It was a mix of shame and desire. She had taken me from the foster house, and given me a home. In a sense, she was a mother to me. Not biologically. But she was in all the ways that matter. And yet, one night, one accident, and everything had changed. She was now a woman. A sensuous woman that I lusted after. I caught myself glancing, time and again. I caught myself fantasizing. I caught myself wandering by the bathroom as she showered. I caught myself wandering by the bedroom as she changed. And every night, I caught myself listening, hoping to hear her. I caught myself hoping she’d call me to her room again. But, alas, the days passed quickly, and my hand was all I had to relieve the pressure, the unfulfilled desire, the insatiable craving of her.
I was almost ready to move on, to accept that my fantasy was crazy, insane, and never to come true, when John announced he’d be spending a few weeks abroad, trying to salvage a failed project. “This won’t be quick”, he said, “they have no idea what they’re doing over there”.
And so he left, his return date uncertain, his goodbye as cold as ever. In a normal marriage, there would have been signs. But in John and Martha’s? No. He was always cold. Detached. And he had made his exit quite convincingly. He called a few days later. It was quick. He didn’t see the point in staying married. He didn’t care. He would send money. “Don’t look for me.” he added on his way out.
Martha didn’t take too kindly to the desertion. She knew there was no love. It was all a pretense, a facade. But that was her plausible deniability. She could tell herself it was all good as they fell asleep silent next to each other. Now? Now even that was gone. And so she drank. Two whole bottles of wine. And as she stumbled her way to the bedroom, “Chad, please come sleep with me” she said.
I went to retrieve my PJs from my room, changed for the night, brushed my teeth and knocked at her door. “Come on in” she said. She was in bed. Visibly buzzed. Her speech slurred. She was wearing a thin white nightgown. Thin enough that you could imagine every inch of her skin from under the fabric. Her perfect pink nipples, her luscious birthing hips. You could even catch a glimpse of the thick bush crowning her pubes, if the angle was just right. It was almost as good as seeing her naked. My heart skipped a beat. Maybe two. And then caught up. By beating hard. Fast.
She didn’t even notice. “I can’t believe your father would do that. What am I gonna do now? I am old. An old lonely hag. With nothing and nobody.” she said, hugging me, letting herself sink deep into my shoulder, my arms. I could feel her warmth. I could feel her full sensual body pressed against mine. Her breasts were firm pushing against my chest. It was an effort beyond words not to become erect against her right then and there. As I felt myself fail, I moved slightly away. “You’re none of that. Not lonely. Not a hag. You have me. And you are still beautiful. Attractive. Don’t fret it. You’ll figure it out. And come out ahead”.
As I said this, our mouths inched closer. She was laying down, I was resting on my arm, my body ever so close to hers, my mouth almost touching her. My words were but a whisper. I could smell her breath, and she mine. “You have nothing to fear. Don’t rush things. You are beautiful” I said, as I could feel my immense desire to close those last few inches, and savor her.
But it was she who actually did it. She was the one to move her head forward, and to let my lips meet hers. She allowed our kiss. She let her tongue in my mouth. She let her hand press my head against hers. I was shocked. In awe. I was terrified. And overwhelmed. I wanted her. This was like a dream. But it was real. She felt a million times better than any of the fantasies I had pleasured myself to. She was everything I had wanted. And more.
I leaned forward, pushed her back on the pillow, and kissed her neck. I bit it. Licked it. I blew air softly in her ear, and let my tongue lick it gently, slowly, softly. She moaned. Writhed. Gasped. She was not used to being doted on. Sex for had probably meant sporadic and brief thrusting. And there I was. Tantalizing every nerve in her body. Knowing her as man knows woman.
“We can’t”, she whispered, softly. It was her duty. “We must”, I retorted. She was vanquished. Like an enemy town after a long siege, I had conquered her, and I would ravage my new domain. I found my way to her thighs, spread them, let my head between her legs. I licked. Titillated. Her legs thrust forward. I savored her sweet pleasure. I drank it. Savored every drop. She pushed me hard, closed her legs on me, her hands on my head as she moaned and begged for more. She came. She invoked God’s name and mine as her body tensed and spasmed with unbearable release.
“I want you Martha”, I said. “I want to be one with you. I want to be inside of you. I want to fuck you.”
I could tell that she too wanted it. “Not tonight. Not yet. Please”, she answered. I knew I could push just a bit more and have my way with her. I knew she’d surrender to me. Her lust was too powerful. Too strong. But I chose to torture myself and her. I chose anticipation. I chose desire. I stood beside her. And stroked myself. In front of her. Looking at her, laying down, spent with pleasure, her hair scattered all around her face, her cheeks red as cherries. I stroked. And stroked. I stared at every curve of her body. And as I was ready to relieve myself, I looked at her, and whispered that next time this very seed would be deep in her womb. She let out a sigh. A deep sigh of longing. And I erupted in a mind-blowing orgasm.
We slept through the night. Peacefully. With as much serenity as one could have in our newfound circumstances. As I rested, awaiting sleep to catch me, I hoped this to be just the beginning of many more nights together.
She wanted it. I knew she did. And I wanted it too. But every night, at the last moment, she said “not yet”. At first, she would guide my hand to my erect cock, she would guide me to my own release. Then she let her own hand do it. She looked me straight in the eyes as she stroked me and begged me to cum on her breasts. Eventually, it was her mouth. She sucked me. She sucked me with passion, dedication. Her desire to pleasure me ever so genuine. And yet she always denied me the ultimate release. “Not yet” she would say every time I tried to find my way inside of her. I wanted her so bad. The desire was driving me crazy.
It was the first anniversary of John’s departure. He had sent some money a couple times, we were not left wanting, but not a single word. Not a phone call, not an email.
Martha and I were in bed. My tongue was deep inside of her. She was moaning, writhing, she was begging me to go deeper, to lick faster. I was savoring her juices. I wanted nothing more than to feel her tighten against me as the spasms of pleasure took over. We did this almost every night. In Martha, I discovered an insatiable sexual creature. How she had hidden it all those years, endured John’s cold heartless demeanor, I didn’t know, and she wouldn’t say. But now, now that she had found a young man who craved her, her body ached for pleasure all day, and begged for it all night. And yet it had been so long, and the final barrier remained unbroken. “Not yet”.
I hit the magic spot, the one that I knew always did the magic. She tensed, her legs clenched my head tightly in place, denying me escape, and in a last spasm she moaned my name, and came, twitching, quivering, her whole body shaken by wave after wave of lust and pleasure.
“I’m ready” is all she said. Her urgency so great that she repeated herself before I could even process the words. “I’m ready”.
Did she truly mean what I thought she did? I climbed on top of her, I pinned her down to the bed, her wrists pushed against the soft linens. My mouth against her ear. “Ready? Ready for what? Say it”, I teased her
“I’m ready for your cock. In me. I’m ready to be fucked. Fuck me, Chad.” she answered, with desire, anticipation, lust.
We had pretty much done everything two people could, but somehow this was different. I was about to go balls deep in my adoptive mother. I sighed as my cock tried to find its way inside of her. She helped guide me to her entrance. Looked me in the eyes. And nodded. Her cheeks flushed red, her eyes big and wide, her hair messed up in that unique way that only sex can. I pushed. The tip of my cock in her. Her mouth opened. She gasped. I was no longer a virgin.
I pushed again. Deeper. Her pussy had always felt amazing around my fingers, around my tongue, but the feeling around my cock was beyond words. Every nerve in my body was speaking to me at once. Nothing else mattered in that moment.
I heeded nature’s call. I began thrusting. Her hips danced against mine, in a dance as old as life itself. She guided my hand to her breast. “Hurt me Chad. Make me feel alive” she begged. I pinched her nipples as hard as I could. She hissed. And moaned. No matter how hard I squeezed, she wanted more. She wanted to be fucked deeper. She wanted to be hurt. Slapped. She begged me to choke her. Her every perversion, her every indecent desire, she confessed to me as my cock pounded her, as my teeth sank into the flesh of her neck.
“Call your own mother a slut” she begged. “Tell me you’re disgusted by me”. I wasn’t. But I obliged her. I insulted her. I discovered new indecent vocabulary that night. She wanted to feel degraded. She wanted to feel depraved. “A dirty whore that fucks young boys” she said about herself, as she exploded in her own orgasm. The feeling of her pussy tighten around me, the feeling of her walls massaging my shaft, it was almost too much. She read the uncertainty in my eyes, for she answered my silent question. “No, don’t pull out. Cum. In me. Cum Chad cum” she begged and moaned.
And I did. Those words of encouragement all I needed. I closed my eyes, pushed just a bit deeper, and as our hips collided one more time, and her legs closed in around my ass, I came, unloading my thick creamy load deep in her.
It had taken us a year, but finally, I lay next to my adoptive mother, my lover, spent, in the amazing glow of my first orgasm from proper actual sex. I knew I loved her. I knew I wanted her. She was my adoptive mother. She was my lover. As she fell asleep, I whispered it to her: “I love you Martha”. She didn’t hear me, or if she did, she didn’t say.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/bam6ct/mf_incest_fsolo_msolo_im_ready