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Sooner or later you know that you’ll be caught – or at least caught out – because, after all, there wouldn’t be any point to risk-taking if there wasn’t a genuine possibility of losing out. And if a risk is chanced often enough then that moment when the trap closes gets ever closer.
But all of that is not to say that the trap closing still doesn’t come as a surprise – a shock, even – at the moment when it actually occurs.
And nor do we always foresee the repercussions or reactions of others with any clarity.
Don’t get me wrong though. I hadn’t become blasé about the calculated risk I was taking, and repeating. I wasn’t exactly carrying out the deed on a daily basis, but it was frequent enough that I had grown used to the thrill it brought me – although I never found that it was any less exciting despite the number of times I partook of the chance.
I can’t say that the chances were taken as a way of warding off the gradual but inevitable encroachment of time, even though I am now in my mid-thirties. With a son kicking around the house who has been a teenager either forever, or for seven years now – Ben’s nineteen – my life was never short of a drama or two. Or a melodrama at a push.
But my life was classically ordinary. An ordinary mother with ordinary looks (although rather well-preserved, even if I say so myself), ordinary hobbies, an entirely ordinary divorce, an entirely ordinary love of shopping, and an ordinary house in an ordinary suburb of an ordinary city.
The risk-taking was the only thing about me that pushed the boundaries of ordinariness. But like I say, it didn’t start as a desperate step to arrest the impending arrival of middle-age. I’d been taking the same risk – or rather, variations on the theme – for a couple of decades. It had evolved alongside my maturing (although there are some who will doubt the latter after reading this, I’ll bet), and as my son, Ben, approached both his twentieth birthday and the time when he finally left home, it had grown into something that was almost entirely ‘other’ when compared to where it had started.
In a nutshell, I’m a chatter. Some might say that this equates to ‘mouthy bitch’ and I won’t gainsay them – although I might enter into a long discussion about it. The internet has provided me with a way of allowing my natural chat tendencies to find freedom, and a the same time it has provided me with that delicious risk element that I find so intoxicating.
So, I chat – and I chat about all sorts of things I would never, ever consider doing in real life. That’s one of the joys of internet chatting – the mind can roam free and into areas that you would never genuinely allow your body to roam. At the same time, though, I always need one foot – or toe, at least – anchored in the real world. And this is where the risk comes.
If I chat about being daring and taking chances, I’ll sit here in this very chair completely naked. Even if I know someone else is in the house or due to arrive here shortly.
I started that way two decades ago when I lived with my parents and older brother, my heart racing as I typed the words, and just lately the risk has grown immeasurably as Ben has matured, with the result that, if anything, time has made the risk appeal even more, the heart beat even faster. There’s nothing jaded about my chance-taking in the slightest.
As Ben progressed through school I would sit here starting chat sessions in the hours before he was due home, sometimes leaving things until I heard the front gate close before I would scramble for the safety of a dress or robe. My figure, as lithe now as it was as a teenager, has always been a tad full on top, and scrambling into clothing safety requires consummate timing and steady hands – always a difficult ask when the excitement is high. And, as the start of this tale relates, it was to be my eventual downfall. Although far from the way I had ever imagined.
Ben was working part-time sessions at a local convenience store while awaiting his start at university, and his hours were as regular as a metronome. He would leave here before lunchtime and arrive home at precisely half-past five each weekday and every other Saturday. So, when the mood took me – with alarming frequency of late – I would settle down at maybe four o’clock or half an hour earlier, and log onto a chat site.
The views of a genuine woman, let alone mother, are rather obviously sought after, and I would soon find myself teasing and chatting with young men – or middle aged men with decent acting abilities – and occasionally the topic of conversation would get my blood racing. Or rather, racing even more than the fact I always, but always, chatted naked.
From what I’ve already said, you must be aware that I’m well-practiced in the art of taking risks such as these and I was not joking when I said that I had never become blasé about them. But that afternoon events conspired against me.
It started with bahis firmaları me hooking up with one of the few genuine ‘other mothers’ who visit one of the sites I frequent. We’re both fantasists and honest to a fault with each other – which by no means stops us from ‘enjoying’ one another on occasion. Well this was just such an occasion, but one that was something of a departure for my friend – and therefore for me as well. The normal fantasy-mode for her was replaced by an almost school-girlish squealing quality which was most unlike her. And it soon become apparent that she had fallen foul of (or rather, thoroughly enjoyed) a real-life incident with a very young (twenty-two year old) delivery guy when the towel she answered the door in became snagged on a splinter in the door frame.
It might not sound like the most exciting story in the world to you, but for my fantasist friend, and in the way she told it, it was one of the hottest things I’ve heard for many a year. My lovely friend goes into exquisite detail at times, and I gave in to her – let her carry my mind to that day and location, and to that exposure, nervousness, pleasure and more. In short she turned me on more than I can recall being tuned on before in such circumstances. Occasionally – very occasionally – I will allow myself the pleasure of pleasuring myself when I chat, and the exquisitely prolonged descriptions of a real event that I was receiving were getting my fingers dancing to a heart popping tune as my blood surged.
Although I might play occasionally, I almost never, ever arrive at climax during a chat – fingers are needed in too many places – but that day I could feel the excitement build way beyond my usual safety zone. I was rapt. Hooked on every word that my friend typed.
And then she typed ‘fuck!’.
I was shocked. My friend almost never swears, and she most certainly never normally interrupts the flow of a conversation to do so.
When the next words, mistyped, appeared – ‘adam hoem’ – I was momentarily confused.
Then, as her text box disappeared, it struck me. She must mean that her son, Adam had arrived home and that she had to cover up fast – she had adopted some of my methods – and I felt a huge pang of disappointment as my climax begged for release. And then…
And then I realised that if Adam was home then he was either half an hour early or…
I squealed as my eyes focused on the time – 17:31. Adam wasn’t early at all. We’d just lost track of time as we got more and more excited and…
It meant my Ben was due home any second!
My belly turned a cartwheel as I realised just how close I was to climax. Another cartwheel followed when I also realised that my ability to move – other than twitching and spasming – was about to be seriously curtailed. My mind was trying desperately to block the thought, but there was no escaping the fact that I stood a very, very good chance of being still naked when the door opened. Still naked and clearly having what was now promising to be a monster orgasm.
The first shudder trembled through my belly as my brain added the image of my own son walking through that door any moment from that second. I was aghast. I was shocked as my body failed to quell the forthcoming climax. Shock after shock flooded through me as the last vestiges of control slipped away, and the final shock – the realisation that being caught by Ben was making this whole experience all the more intense – had me moaning aloud as my hips, my naked hips, bucked hard.
Perhaps, my mind squealed, I can finish before he gets here. Perhaps he’ll be late for once. Perhaps-
“Mum! I’m home!”
I swore and then squealed again as a massive wave of sheer delight rocked my entire body. It started then for real, a full-blown orgasm, my muscles useless other than to spasm and rock as wave after wave of ecstasy washed through me. As each second passed, each second that Ben took another step or two closer to my door, the intensity mounted.
I had already realised I stood no chance of covering up at all , but now, as my pleasure spiralled I lay back further in my chair, almost painfully aware of how my legs were spread wide, my breasts heaving as I gasped and moaned, desperate now to be seen in all my vainglory.
With the gentlest of creaks and then the loudest of gasps, my wish was fulfilled.
“Holy fuck, mum!”
“Oh god! Ben.. I’m ….oh yes… oh, Ben I’m sorry… oh wow, wow, wow.. oh, Ben I lost track… oh… it’s okay, it’s…oh my god its okay!”
My body had already reached heights it had never experienced before, and as I focused on my son’s hungry eyes as he stared at my bare breasts, my pulsating pussy, the sensations spiralled yet higher, my ears buzzing and my heart hammering against my rib cage.
I had imagined what it might be like to be caught, but it was nothing like this. My mind was scrambled, although I retained enough nous to understand that I had never kaçak iddaa realised what might happen if it was Ben that happened to be the one to catch me. The final shock for me was when I realised that this was perfection – I wanted him to see this so much. Another loud moan accompanied the next bucking, heaving surge of climax.
I was out of control and I knew it – celebrated it. This was the one-off accident that had been waiting to happen for the best part of two decades. This was a sight of a ‘me’ that didn’t really exist in the real world, a – literally – once in a lifetime experience. I couldn’t deny my body’s reaction or my mind’s pleasure. I couldn’t deny that I was delighting in the show I was giving my boy, delighting in how it was making me feel. Especially as he was clearly rapt and delighted, staring and staring.
“Oh god! Ben… oh, Ben… help me, help mum- ah! – It’s okay, Ben. Just this once, just… oh god that’s so good… Ben, oh Ben my angel, come here and help, Ben. Touch me!”
I told you – I was out of control. But determined to make the most of this one freak experience. If his stare had that much effect, I reasoned, then surely a touch… I gasped as he took a step closer. Moaned as he took another.
My eyes were glued to his hands as he reached out towards me, towards his loving, dirty, wonderful, delighted mother.
He was aiming for my breasts and I thrust their bareness towards him, my body still trembling in the throes of climax. I swear I could feel the warmth of his palms as they closed the gap to my aching, erect nipples, and when those soft fingers finally closed over my full breasts, any ideas I’d harboured about orgasmic intensity or lack of control disappeared. As a new, ever-more-powerful climax shuddered through me, letting him see me and even asking for his touch seemed like such little things. Even so, I scarcely recognised – let alone believed – myself when I gasped “One chance, Ben – anything you want… anything”.
I moaned as his eyes flicked down to my soaking wet pussy, and again, louder, when he looked pointedly at the front of his jeans, my pussy and then my eyes.
“Yes, Ben!” I managed.
I never – I swear – planned any of it in any way, and had never even dared to fantasise about anything more than an occasional flash of cleavage – okay, a nipple once or twice – but right then I knew what I wanted and needed, and I kept up a constant stream of encouragement and assurances as my lovely boy fumbled his jeans open and then down his legs. The cock that I had helped him wash and tend in his childhood years sprang free, bringing yet another moan to my lips.
I helped Ben out of his t-shirt as he bent back over me, pulling his naked flesh against mine, two hands – one of his and one of mine – reaching, fumbling for his engorged manhood. I finally felt its heat in my palm and spread my legs even wider, pulling him close, desperate now.
The head of it met the dampness and heat of my wet pussy lips and I thrust my hips upwards, crying Ben’s name as his cock parted me and started to slide inside. My hands slipped around him and cupped his firm young butt cheeks, a long, gasping “yes” hissing from me as I felt him push.
There was a head-spinning moment of clarity as I fully realised what was happening and I laughed in delight, muttering encouragement and pleasure into Ben’s disbelieving and delighted face. I paused and took a deep breath.
“Oh yes, Ben. That’s perfect. Your cock in my pussy, mum’s pussy… that’s perfect. Now come on… let’s… fuck, okay?”
When he said his first cogent words in what seemed like forever – when he said “Oh yes please mum” – I laughed again, the delight spilling out of me just as he started to move inside me.
That first time he spurted within a few seconds, and I just held him there, my own climax simmering down as I luxuriated in the feel of his cum deep inside me. I told him again and again that everything was fine, was perfect – and that this one-off would last all evening if he wanted. He wanted.
The second fuck was hard and fast and a delight of exploration. It was a ‘this is really real’ experience for both of us as we gradually relaxed into the act, challenging each other in a way – and shockingly, climaxing within seconds of each other.
The third time we talked more and I got Ben to tell me what he loved so much about my body, shocked but delighted when he told me that he’d masturbated thinking about my boobs before. He kept returning to the theme of finding it all so very hard to believe, and every time he did, I agreed – and pointed out that he should make the most of things so he remembered that it wasn’t a dream, letting him explore everywhere he wanted.
He might have been relatively inexperienced, but no man had ever made me climax harder than Ben did that evening. Especially when he said that I was the best fuck he was ever likely to have.
The age-old story that you hear kaçak bahis about teenage guys – that there are irrepressible, full of an incredible stamina – veritable mister ever-hards – is not, I now know, strictly accurate. But there again they’re close enough to those descriptions that they might as well be true. The one-off nature of the event was taken very seriously by my son and he tried his hardest to make sure that he made the most of his one night pass. It was a couple of hours before he even made it clear that he believed what was happening, but both before and after that point he lived for the moment to the fullest extent that he could. I was touched, tasted, probed, penetrated, worshipped and made to sweat hard. I can’t even begin to describe how wonderful it all was. With the exception of one fit of sneezes, those were the continually happiest moments of my life to that point.
And here’s a funny thing. Although it feels as if I remember every second of every minute of every hour we spent locked together in one embrace or another that night – I genuinely can’t remember how many times Ben brought me to climax. Or how many times I got him to spill his seed.
Eventually though, despite the continual, seemingly never-ending excitement – despite the fact that we were both acting on the understanding that the night’s activities were a one-off circumstantial trip into the unknown – despite all of that, we fell asleep together sometime just before sun-up.
I fully realised just what ‘together’ meant when I woke up, the first of the pair of us, some hours later. Any thoughts that I might have dreamt the whole episode were somewhat disproved by the fact that my boy was still buried, half-erect, inside me. Five seconds of wondering whether I was the worst woman on the planet were swiftly replaced by a warm glow of the deepest pleasure. Ben was smart. Ben would know just how lucky he had been, and, given his natural tendency to disbelieve good fortune, I knew that I simply needed to remind him that I was more than happy with what had happened.
I was mulling over the possibilities for how I might achieve that when a distinct twitch, deep inside me, made me aware that my boy was waking up. A second twitch a few seconds later had me stifling a surprised – almost shocked – laugh as I realised the movement of my son’s penis, right inside me, was arousing me in an instant.
When, a minute or three later, Ben came more full awake it was clear that my memories and knowledge of their reality gave me a distinct advantage over him as he lay there blinking, not daring to believe where he was and what had happened.
“Good morning, my lucky boy.”
He gasped a little, his cock twitching once more inside me, “Mum? This is.. really… I mean, last night.. and.. oh, mum!”
Inside my warmth and wetness, he became rock hard in a second. I squeezed my pelvic muscles around his shaft, “Yes, Ben. Last night was real and you are where you are.”
“You’re not kicking me out of bed then?”
“Not yet, no.” I looped my arms around his shoulders, “But you’re free to leave if you want to.”
He gave a tentative rock of his hips, “This is still part of the one-off thing, then?”
“I mean that if you want to stay here a little longer and make love to me again – to fuck me again if you prefer – then yes, it’s still a part of it, so you’re free to- oh! I’ll take that as a yes then,” I finished as he started to move hard and fast.
I thought it might prove next to impossible to bring an end to our extended one-off, but a combination of tiredness, soreness, and over-full bladders finally had us rolling out of bed and limping around the house.
There was an almost surreal quality to the rest of that day – and a lot of hugs, accompanied by mutual assurances that our one-off would remain both solely ours and a single night to remember. If anything, Ben showed greater maturity than I did, and apparently an easier acceptance and belief about what had happened. He didn’t even boy-pout or sulk when I got fully dressed and made it clear just beforehand that he was seeing me in a state of undress which, barring genuine accidents, would be for the last time. We did have a last undressed hug, though.
That was two weeks ago now, and as you can probably tell from what I’ve written here, I’ve come to terms with what happened. I’ve come to accept that it was an experience that excited me more than anything had done before it, that it might be wrong for some, but was perfect for Ben and I.
So, I’m sitting here in a little robe, typing away and in a state of high arousal. What I’ve told you about has been one of the main reasons for that. But the other main reason? Well, Ben’s due home in a little under half an hour now, and although he doesn’t know it yet, he’s going to find out that we women are fickle things sometimes. We change our minds a lot. Out prerogative, in fact. He’s going to find out that I’ve decided our one-off should be a two-off. At least.
And now you will have to excuse me. I need to take a couple of hundred deep breaths before Ben comes home. This might well be another long, long night.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32