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From: [email protected] (Pink Bette)
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Subject: {ASSM} Mom Finds New God, part 1 of 2 (mF incest d/s) 
Date: Tue, 10 Apr 2001 02:10:03 -0400
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This never happened.  It's a story, right?  -- I made it up.  I don't even
have a son.  But I'm often turned on by the mother-son incest stories I see
here, and I thought I'd make a contribution to the genre.  I had to split
this story in half due to space limitations in my mailer, but part 2
follows close behind.

   As labeled, this is an incest story, son and mother, with
domination/submission, a hint of BDSM, and one of my all-time favorite
sexual elements -- blasphemy.

   Standard disclaimers apply.  This is a story for adults; if you're a
kid, close your eyes and go away.  If you think the story will offend you,
ditto.

   -------------------

   MOM FINDS NEW GOD (mF incest d/s)

   "Look at this filth!" I said with disgust.

   My son smirked.  A stupid remark, I realized: he'd already looked at
this filth.  Had probably jacked off to it.  I pushed the thought aside and
pulled another magazine from under his mattress.

   This one's cover featured a woman in a nun's habit on her knees with her
hands held together in the attitude of prayerful devotion.  The object of
her worship was not Christian in nature.  It was a fully erect penis
jutting out from the crotch of a young roughneck, perhaps a construction
worker, who stared arrogantly down at her.  His shirt was open so one could
see his well-muscled chest and toned belly and the thin line of hair below
his belly button that led down into thick black pubic hair, from which his
manhood seemed to spring out.  "Nun finds new god!" the headline
blasphemed.

   "Like it, Mom?" my son said.  "You can borrow it if you want."

   "That's enough out of you, mister!" I snapped back.  I reached under the
mattress to see if anything else was hidden there, but I seemed to have
gotten it all.  "I don't know where you got this filth, but this is the
last you're going to see of it."

   He shrugged indifferently.  It was maddening.  This was the second time
I'd discovered a porn stash in his room, and he seemed unaffected by my
outrage about it.  "And you're also on restriction for a month!" I added. I
picked up the pile of magazines and walked out.  "Get ready for bed!" I
said harshly.

   I needed to try to understand this.  Now more than ever I wished there a
man in the house.  When he was younger, Matt hadn't been as badly affected
by the divorce as I'd feared, but now he was 15, in the full throes of
adolescence, and he needed a man to talk with.  So did I.  A man would know
what it was like to be a 15-year-old boy trying to sort out his sexual
feelings.  He'd know how to talk to Matt about this.  I cast about in my
mind for someone who might be able to help.  But all I could think of was
our priest.  I sighed.  Father Wadler would _really_ get a kick out of "Nun
finds new god!" He'd probably recommend excommunication on the spot.

   I took the magazines into my room, determined to figure out a solution.
Last time I hadn't even looked at them, I'd just piled them in a car and
driven to a dumpster outside the neighborhood to make sure there was no
chance any of my neighbors would accidentally discover them.  Just imagine
if Eileen from next-door, or her self-righteous husband Al, found out that
my son was turning into a perv!

   I would NOT allow my son to turn into a perv.

   That was my thought, anyway.  It was hard to know how I could stop him
from it, given the kinds of things I'd seen on those covers.  Matt wouldn't
buy such magazines -- or however it was he acquired them - if they didn't
turn him on, now, would he?  And if that was the case...  was he going to
turn into one of those whipwielders, one of those weirdos who dressed all
in leather and tied up their girlfriends and spanked them?  Or worse yet,
who let their girlfriends tie _them_ up?

   I dumped the magazines onto my bed and switched on the bedside lamp.  I
heard Matt go into the bathroom and shut the door.  Maybe he did buy these
magazines.  He was only 15, in his freshman year in high school, but he was
already pretty big, maybe even big enough to fool someone at a newstand or
an adult shop into thinking he had a right to be there.  He'd make a good
showing on the football field, I reflected, if he'd been interested in
sports.  As it happened, he wasn't.  He preferred the computer and books...
and magazines, I thought sourly.  He did use his weight set religiously,
and by now he'd developed quite a nice build.  He often lounged around the
apartment with his shirt off, and it was difficult not to notice how
handsome he'd become.

   I sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the "nun" magazine.  The
strange thing about it was, the woman really looked like she could be a
nun. She didn't have the garish make-up or the airbrushed model look I'd
have expected from a dirty magazine like this.  She wasn't even wearing
lipstick.  She was nice-looking, but in a normal every-day way.  And so the
look in her eyes -- what kind of look was that?  yes, a _hungry_ look --
didn't seem like an act.  It seemed real.  She was hungry for that man's
penis.  No, not his penis -- his cock.  His hard cock.  She wanted to suck
it.  She wanted to take his stiff manly prick full in her mouth.  She
wanted to go down on him like a whore.

   Whew.  I looked around, but it was only my bedroom.  Keep yourself under
control, I scolded myself.

   All the same, it wasn't difficult to see why the nun would want that
man's cock.  He was very good looking, strong, virile.  His arrogant stance
only added to his attractiveness.  His chest and belly, so nice -- you
couldn't help but want to run your hands up and down it, to feel those
muscles, to bring your hands down again and wrap them around that full
stiff prick.

   God, it had been a long time.

   I sighed and opened the magazine.  It was called "D/s," whatever that
meant, but it was obviously one of those sick S&M magazines that Matt
unfortunately seemed to like.  There were little pictures on the table of
contents page to illustrate what the articles and stories were about, and
there were lots of whips and handcuffs and people in weird leather outfits.
The little picture for the "nun" story now showed her looking up as though
asking the construction worker if she could suck him off.  A caption read,
"Sister Mary submits to her Lord."

   They were really pushing this blasphemy routine.

   But I had to understand this.  I turned to the story.  There actually
was a story -- text, that is -- but pictures were enough to provide the
pertinent details.  Sister Mary sucking cock.  Her working class Lord
standing behind her lifting the skirt of her habit to reveal her naked
buttocks.  Her Lord spanking her.  A close-up of her face as she cried out
in pain.  A close-up of her bright-red buttocks.  Her Lord kneeling behind
her with a latex-gloved hand, inserting a finger into her asshole.  Her
Lord kneeling behind her with a condom on his dick, inserting it into her
asshole.  A side shot that gave the full effect: a habited nun, her skirt
thrown over her back, her face turned toward the camera to show her closed
eyes, her mouth open in a cry, as her Lord sodomized her.

   "Enjoying the filth?"

   I almost jumped through the roof.  I had been so intent on the pictures
that I hadn't even heard Matt come out of the bathroom, much less heard him
come to my bedroom door.  He leaned nonchalantly against the door, clad
only in pajama bottoms, his arms folded across his chest.  How long had he
been there?

   "How -- how can you look at this stuff?" I managed to choke out.

   He frowned and shook his head.  "It turns me on, Mom." Duh, his tone
said.

   "But _why_?  Why this -- these handcuffs, and whips?  Do you want to tie
women up?  Do you want to whip them?"

   He looked at me.  "Well, actually, Mom, yeah.  I especially want to fuck
'em." He paused as though to gauge the effect of his words on me.  "But the
rest of it...  yeah, I'd like to try that too.  Already have, in fact."

   I was shocked.  When had Matt ever tied a woman up and -- and fucked
her? "What do you mean?"

   He shrugged.  "In the chatrooms.  It's not 'real,' of course, but _you_
know." He shrugged again.  "You can still do quite a lot there.  You just
need to have an imagination."

   "Chatrooms?"

   He sighed heavily.  "On the Internet, Mom.  They're these places you can
go and talk with people anonymously.  You know, you just make up a name,
not your real name.  And you go to this place that's like a room and talk
with people.  And if you and someone else get interested, you can go into a
private room and do -- well, whatever you want."

   "Like 'fuck,'" I said.

   He grinned.  "Yeah.  Like fuck."

   "And I'll bet you have to lie about your age, because 15-year-old kids
aren't supposed to be there."

   He shrugged again.  "At least I'm not getting anyone pregnant."

   No wonder he liked the computer.  Here I'd thought he was spending all
his time playing violent computer games, when what he was doing was
"fucking." Not that it could really be fucking, not over the Internet.

   "So you said you've done some of that other stuff too.  Like what?"

   He seemed hesitant.

   "Whips?  Chains?"

   "Well," he said slowly.  "I'm learning about what I like."

   "And what do you like?"

   He hesitated again, then gathered his courage.  "I like to submit to a
strong woman, and have her play with me and humiliate me and use me how she
wants.  I like to dominate, too.  I like to find a strong, self-assured
woman who wants to be a slave and make her beg for me to hurt her and fuck
her." He lifted his chin, as though challenging me to scold him.  "Just
last night I had a woman who pinched her nipples when I told her to, and
put on nipple clamps, and called me Master, and begged me to fuck her, and
when I said she could, she fucked herself with a big silicon dildo, just as
hard as I would have fucked her if I'd been there.  And then she begged for
me to let her come."

   "Did you let her?"

   He grinned.  "Only after she'd earned it."

   "And when did she earn it?"

   "After she acknowledged that I was her owner, and she was my whore for
me to use however I wanted."

   I snorted, shocked and disbelieving.  "A 15-year-old boy?"

   He heaved another long-suffering
15-year-old-explaining-well-knownfacts-to-Mom sigh.  "It's not the age,
Mom. It's the attitude."

   "It's all just imagination.  It's not real.  You're not really fucking
anyone."

   He shrugged again.  "Then it's harmless, isn't it?  I'm just imagining.
And she's imagining with me.  So what's wrong with it?" He sighed.  "So I
suppose you're gonna yank the computer now, huh?"

   "Just think about how I'm a strong woman, and submit to the punishments
I give you."

   He smiled widely.  "I'd like that very much, Mom."

   "Huh?"

   He unfolded his arms and put them down to his side.  "I'd like very much
to submit to you, Mom." And to my shock and astonishment, he then and there
sank down to his knees, with his knees spread wide, his hands behind his
back, his head bowed.

   "What are you doing?!!!"

   "I submit to you, Mom.  I await whatever punishment you deem just."

   "Get the hell off the floor, Matt.  What in hell is coming over you?"

   "Yes, ma'am." He obediently got to his feet, but he kept his legs spread
wide.  I hadn't heard him use the word "ma'am" since he was 11.  His hands
were still behind his back, and the positioning of his arms made the
muscles of his chest stand out prominently.  He was a handsome young man --
but this perverseness -

   "Would you prefer to submit to me, ma'am?" he asked politely.  "I am
fully prepared to take over, if you so desire."

   Even as he said this I noticed that the action of getting back up to his
feet had caused his pajama bottoms to ride down on his hips.  I could see
the lines from his hips that curved inward to descend to his loins.  I
could see the topmost curls of his black pubic hair curving over his pajama
bottoms.  I could see the tenting forward of his pajamas that could mean
only one thing.

   I looked at his face.  He didn't seem at all embarrassed.

   But I was.  Flushing, I snapped at him, "That's enough of that.  Out of
my room.  Go to bed."

   He bowed his head.  "Yes, ma'am, as you wish."

   "And no computer," I warned.

   "I will obey." He backed out of my room, his head still bowed, his
pajamas still tented forward at the crotch, and dissappeared.

   This was even worse than I thought.  That hard-on he was wearing -- did
that mean he was -- was -

   I could barely bring myself to think it.  But I had to be realistic.  I
remembered back through our talk.  He said something about submitting to
me, and then about me submitting to him.  It seemed like a joke, but - when
he stood up -- he was hard.  Was he excited by the thought -- of me?

   I sat there on the bed, the picture of the nun being sodomized by the
construction worker in my lap, and thought about that.  My son's cock,
hard. Was he in bed now, his hands strapped around his stiff prick, rutting
into his hands, imagining that he was rutting into me?  His mother?  The
very thought was -- was -- was there any word for it?

   Upset, I spent the an hour distractedly thumbing through the filthy
magazines I'd found under his mattress.  Erect penises and glistening pink
vaginal openings; women, or men, tied down with ropes or chains or leather
bindings in humiliating and vulnerable positions; men, or women, standing
over them with leather whips or evil-looking metal implements; people of
whichever sex crawling on the floor on hands and knees, being led around by
leashes like dogs, even bending down to drink from bowls on the floor. 
Leather collars with studs.  Men fucking women.  Men fucking men.  Women
sodomizing men with strap-on dildos.  Women fucking each other.  Faces
grimacing with pain or open-mouthed in the throes of orgasm.

   I dreamed that night of being naked except for a black leather collar
around my neck.  I was being led naked, on hand and knees, and whoever was
leading me halted me before a water bowl and made me lap from it like a
dog. Then I felt someone spreading my labia, felt myself being entered,
felt the muscular thickness and warm heat of a hard cock pushing slowly
into me, then pulling out again and thrusting in, hard.  I panted like a
dog and pushed back against his next thrust, felt him inside me, powerful
and dominating.  I was a bitch in heat, mounted by some unknown man, virile
and strong, who was fuck, fuck, fucking me like a dog.  "Bitch," he
whispered harshly in my ear.  "Who owns you?" And suddenly the water bowl
from which I'd drunk like a dog changed shape and grew into a mirror, and I
could see behind me the man who was hammering into me now with savage
force. It was no man.  It was a boy.  It was my son.  He grinned at me
cruelly and fucked his rock-stiff prick into me.

   [continued in part 2]
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