Sex stories, incest, Mother grooms her son through his fetish for her lingerie, Sigmund Freud is a name I know, but I’ve never actually read any of his work. Although I am aware he proposed what he called the Oedipus complex.
It seems he came up with a theory that all small boys select their mother as their primary object of desire! He also believed that this occurs between the ages 3-5 years old.
As someone who fell passionately in love with his mother and became her lover at the age of 18, I have to disagree with the old guy on that point.
I never had carnal thoughts for her until I became a man.
I also have problems with Freud’s assertions that boys wish their fathers dead- so as they can replace them in their mother’s bed!
Again, not true in my case. I really cared for my Dad, that was until he fucked off and left us for a fat redhead. Then I wanted him dead.
I think my desire for Mum came to me by a circuitous route. Probably beginning when I discovered thrilling sexual stimulation from holding and smelling her makeup and lingerie.
But looking back I can’t honestly pinpoint any specific event that imprinted this fetish on me.
Anyway, here’s my story, so you can judge for yourself.
When I was 18 our family life changed irrevocably after dad met another woman and decided to leave Mum and me without warning.
One day we came back to an empty house. All our suitcases had disappeared, as had his clothes.
And to put the cherry on the cake, he had emptied their joint account, leaving us penniless.
The only item of any value he left behind was his wedding ring, which he had left on Mum’s pillow.
Fortunately the deeds of the house were in Mum’s name. Otherwise he would probably have kicked us out and installed his whore!
Somehow we coped and survived that seismic upheaval in our lives.
The consequence was that Mum had to take a job, which left me alone in the house for long periods after returning home from college. But at least I was still in education and hadn’t had to leave and take a job. I was in my second year of a photography course I hoped would eventually help me set up my own photographic studio.
In a happy coincidence mum had managed to get herself taken on as a back office assistant by a busy studio producing catalogues for some of the better known UK manufacturers of quality lingerie and makeup.
She liked the work and they seemed to take to her.
Looking back I still can’t imagine why Dad left Mum for a chubby red-headed tart ten years older than himself.
While Mum was no film star, at 36 she was slim and attractive with a head of shiny jet-black hair.
And while she mostly dressed down for work, she scrubbed up really well at weekends, when she put on makeup and wore stockings under quite tight skirts.
I knew she was proud of her figure, often commenting how she was still the same weight and dress size she had been at 17, just a year before I had been born.
More than once I had caught her standing side-on at her bedroom mirror, checking out her figure.
And sometimes she even asked me how she looked, and if I thought she was getting old.
I always told her the truth that I thought her the most beautiful woman in the world. Most times that got me a cuddle against her firm breasts, a closeup smell of her perfume and lipstick and a kiss on my forehead.
Those were the moments I cherished most in my life. They were possibly one reason I gradually fell in love with her. But there were other reasons.
At this point it might help the describe myself to you as I was at the time of my story, as it should add some fun to any scenes you might care to imagine.
Many of my friends thought me a throwback from the Mediterranean, because my skin was darker than theirs, despite my mother having the pale sallow skin of the indigenous English.
By biggest embarrassment came initially in the school showers and later in the gym, when everyone saw the skin of my circumcised penis and testicles was considerably darker then that of my body.
Of course the jibes and jokes were remorseless, but the oddest thing was the number of guys who came up to me to look at my dark prick and tell me how the girls would love that in them.
But at the time I just I couldn’t see it, and tried to hide myself whenever possible.
But my main characteristic was,(and still is) I’m a hairy man, black curly hair on my head, constant Bluebeard chin and curly hair growing thickly over my chest, back, arms and legs. A gene inherited from my father’s side of the family.
Whenever I wore sleeveless `T` shirts, girls I knew came up to me and twirled or pulled at the hair sticking out from my shoulders chest and back.
Some loved it, some found it repulsive. Not too surprising in a world where men are preferred with their bodies shaved clean, like porn stars.
So I looked more like a Sicilian pimp than the diligent, but shy, English photography student (and virgin) I was.
However the was one girl, Simone Andretti, AKA ‘Simmi’, who was always hanging around me. Seems It was obvious to everyone (except me) that she was hot for me.
While the other girls were tugging my body hair she was the only one caressing my arms, as if she loved the touch of my wiry hair.
Simone, half English, half Italian, was a tall, elegant girl with curly black hair like mine. She liked to wear her hair big, exploding outwards onto her shoulders.
And she was tall, if anything a smidgen taller than me.
Her height, svelte figure and intense beauty she inherited from her mother, Selena Andretti, whom she always called Mama.
I’d met Mama a couple of times when I called for Simone.
Selena was a true beauty, quite breathtaking, one of those magnificent women that hush a room when she enters, everyone turning just to glimpse her grace and radiance.
While Simone had undoubtedly inherited the awesome gift of beauty from her Mama, she lacked the finesse, charm and heart-melting femininity that differentiates a beautiful looking woman from a truly beautiful person.
Like her Mama, Simone could hush a room with her looks, vivacious smile and flashing eyes when she entered.
But should any sexual predator move in on her, instead of finding grace and gentleness, they faced the bared fangs of a young she wolf.
It was that same height, same big hair, tough self-confidence and disarming aggression that intimidated many of the guys on the course.
Indeed, most people kept their distance from her because Simmi had a bite. And when she was going to bite she would snarl and curse her victims in crude Italian.
Yet she never bit me – nor snarled.
Some said she was a psycho bitch, but I really loved being in her company. She purred at me. Indeed, she was always warm, patient and caring.
On the other hand, she could be a delight to be with.
During various course photographic projects we tended to drift together, and had often taken portraits of one-another.
The camera loved Simone.
A couple of times we had dated, but she had always been keener on our friendship than me. Although I liked her very much and did enjoy her company, I found her a bit too touchy-feely.
But I must confess I did enjoy just looking at her, the symmetry of her face, her firm body and wonderful breasts.