WHY I BANGED MY BOY IN THE BATHROOM

WHY I BANGED MY BOY IN THE BATHROOM
At first he was too bold, then he was too much, then he was too goood!!

By Oediplex 8==3~



There is no excuse for what I did – we did; no good one, and by that I mean a virtuous justification for our – my actions. There are reasons of course, there always are; just like there are always consequences for one’s misdeeds. I don’t ask the reader’s sympathy for me, but if you have empathy for my story, I hope this narrative provides at least an understanding. Indeed, my reason for writing it is for my own clarification as to my motives and weaknesses and needs that led to the folly and fun of incest when I fucked my son Robert.

If all that sounds like a cliche, it’s because people behave similarly in like circumstances. Nonetheless, it’s all truth. Robbie, (the girlfriends call him Robert, his pals use Rob, but my sweet son has always been Robbie to me) once more interrupted my privacy while I was showering. The third time this month. His excuse for the previous times was that his sister was using the other toilet, and he had to go real bad. (That excuse didn’t hold up I later discovered.)

The first time he just peed, but he spent quite a long time, shaking and stuffing and zipping before he was through. On top of that elongated procedure (perhaps because he was himself was a bit elongated?) he asked me something [I forget about what] and delayed his departure; I became suspicious that he was trying to glimpse my naked form behind the textured plastic that blurred the lines of my still fairly svelte figure at thirty-eight.

I must confess that I did not try to conceal myself any further, as he is 16 and as a youth in these times has seen nude female flesh aplenty. No doubt when out on dates (and getting lucky) he inspected both pulchritude and ‘what lies between the thighs’ up close and personal. I actually didn’t think much about it until later, after the second time he popped in while I was soaping up. That time I had been about to rinse and the boom-poof of a cold draft cued me to the fact I was suddenly not alone. Hubby was gone by this time of morning, so was it Sally – or her brother?

“Sorry, Ma!” the tenor voice of my athletic son called out. “Sal’s hogging the other bathroom again and I’m desperate. He flipped the lid and sat, dropping his boxers all with a smooth practiced movement. After a perfunctory, “MM-K”, which I mumbled loud enough to be heard over the running water, I continuing my rinsing. Out of the corner of my eye I saw some sort of rhythmic motion, also well practiced no doubt. ‘He’s pulling on his pecker, isn’t he!’, I couldn’t help smiling a little as I saw my boy surreptitiously masturbating in the presence of his nude mother. I was both disturbed and pleased at the same time.

What pleased me was not what he was doing. No, see I was body-proud for having inspired him; that’s why I smirked. What disturbed me was that I didn’t think that was an appropriate response for a proper mother; I felt guilty for not being outraged.