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MidReal Story
Forbidden Desires: A Mother-Son Love Story
Anonymous
May 20
Scenario:Incest story between a son and mother
Create my version of this story
Mark Hart
the father and husband in the story,unaware of the affair,sturdy build with greying hair,traditional and oblivious.
Emily Hart
the mother in the story,romantically involved with her son,elegant with soft features,nurturing yet complex.
Jason Hart
the son in the story,romantically involved with his mother,tall with dark hair,conflicted and passionate.
I was twenty years old when I first slept with my mother.
It wasn’t the first time I’d seen her naked, of course.
I’d been a baby once, and she’d changed my diapers.
I’d been a little boy, and she’d bathed me.
But this was different.
This was the first time I’d seen her as a woman.
The first time I’d seen her as someone I could desire.
The first time I’d seen her as someone I could love.
I was twenty years old when I first slept with my mother, but it wasn’t the last time.
It wasn’t even the best time.
That came later, after we’d both given in to our desires and let ourselves be consumed by them.
That came later, after we’d both realized that we were meant to be together, no matter what anyone else might say or think or do.
That came later, after we’d both realized that we were in love with each other, and that there was nothing in the world that could ever change that.
I’d come home from college for the weekend, needing a break from my classes and my roommates and my life.
I hadn’t been expecting to see my father sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a glass of whiskey.
I hadn’t been expecting to see him pour himself another one when he saw me.
And I hadn’t been expecting to see him pour himself a third one just a few minutes after that.
But mostly, I didn’t expect him to be home at all.
He was a lawyer, and a good one at that, so he was always busy.
And he’d always been a drinker, too, but up until that point, it had been rare for him to crack open a bottle before five in the evening.
“Hey,” he said, raising his glass.
“Do you want a drink?”
“No,” I told him.
“Just water, maybe.
If it’s cold.”
“It should be,” he said, getting up.
When I opened the refrigerator, I saw my mother standing at the stove.
She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a white blouse, her long red hair pulled into a loose ponytail, and even though she was facing away from me, I could tell she was smiling.
She was always smiling—especially when she was cooking.
The smell of garlic and onions filled the air, and my stomach rumbled as it hit me: she was making chicken parmesan, my favorite dish in the world.
I’d been to a lot of fancy restaurants in college, but nothing compared to her food.
Nothing came close.
“Hey,” she said when I walked over.
“How was your drive?”
It was fine.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“How long have you been back?”
“A couple hours.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“I was trying not to wake you up.”
“Oh,” she said, reaching for something on the counter.
“It’s so quiet around here without you.” She sighed.
“It’s quiet around here without you, too,” I told her.
“Too quiet.” She turned and looked at me then.
I knew what she was going to say before she even opened her mouth.
I heard it all the time: she missed me when I was gone.
She missed having me around the house all day, missed having me on call whenever she needed something, missed having someone to talk to, someone to care for her, someone to be with her.
I knew I shouldn’t have felt that way—she was my mother, after all—but I couldn’t help it.
It made me feel special, like I was her favorite son or something (even though I was her only son).
She asked me if she could sleep in my room tonight
I said no.
The truth was, I didn’t want her to sleep in my room.
I wanted to sleep with her instead.
I wanted to wrap my arms around her and hold her tight and never let her go.
But I knew I couldn’t do that.
At least not yet.
Not until I was ready.
Not until she was ready.
I nodded toward the table.
“He’s been drinking a lot,” I said.
She looked over and frowned.
“Yeah,” she said.
“It’s been happening more and more lately.”
“I think it’s because he’s home all the time now,” she said.
“Now that he’s working in town again.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“Or maybe it’s because he’s unhappy.” She paused.
I’m sure it’s a combination of both things.” Another pause.
“And other things.” She didn’t have to say anything else.
I knew what she meant: she loved my father, but she wasn’t in love with him anymore.
Maybe she never had been.
Maybe she never would be.
But still, she stayed with him.
She stayed with him because she was committed to her family and to raising me together and to making things work between them no matter what.
She stayed with him because she’d made a promise to love him forever, and she wasn’t the kind of person who broke promises.
She stayed with him because she loved him more than anything in the world.
Even if he didn’t love her back.
She stood there for a few more seconds before going back to the stove and stirring the sauce.
I watched her for a moment before heading over to the sink and washing my hands.
She’d always been a very good cook—better than anyone I’d ever met—and I’d always been grateful for it.
But as I thought about everything else she’d given up for my father and me, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of resentment toward him for causing her to give up so much of herself just so we could have a better life.
And that wasn’t fair to anyone.
She deserved better than that.
She deserved better than him.
When I was a little boy, my mother had been one of the most promising artists in our small New England town.
Her pottery was featured in all of the local galleries.
Her paintings were on display at all of the best shops.
And even though people all over the state had been willing to pay a lot of money for them and would have done anything to own their own piece of Emily Hart’s art, she’d given it all up for nothing.
Well, not for nothing.
Not really.
She’d given it up to help support my father while he’d been in law school.
And then to help him start his own firm when he graduated.
And then to help him open his office in the city when he’d decided to move there.
And then to help him work his way up the corporate chain when he’d decided to go that route instead.
And then to help the two of us raise me.
His dream had become her nightmare.
But it hadn’t been a nightmare at all.
It had been a fairy tale.
Actually there's a background story here about the love my parents shared with each other. Actually my mother loved him a lot but after few months of marriage due to some unknown illness my father wasn't able to get aroused. They tried everything, every medication, excercise, hoga etc. but nothing worked but then my mother went to a priest and then she made the ultimate sacrifice. She let the priest fuck her for 12 days, and then the priest gave her ladoos made of her vaginal squirt and breast sweat and as a cure to my father's problem.
Her dream had become his reality.
He’d made partner before he was forty.
Their social life was the stuff of legend.
I might not have seen much of him when I was growing up, but I’d always known how much he loved me and how proud he was of me and everything that I’d ever done.
I’d always known how grateful he was for everything that she did for him.
How grateful he was for everything that she did for us.
But recently—ever since I’d gone away to college two years ago—I’d realized how much I’d taken her for granted as well.
The way she seemed to know exactly what I was thinking without me having to say anything and always seemed to know just the right thing to say or do or make for me at just the right time.
The way she always seemed to be able to make things better no matter how bad they were or how upset I was or how lost I felt.
The way she always seemed to be able to make me feel like everything was going to be okay even when I knew that it never would be.
The way she always seemed to be able to make me laugh no matter how hard I tried not to.
The way she always seemed to be able to make me feel better about myself even when I knew that I didn’t deserve it.
The way she always seemed to be able to make me feel loved even when I knew that I wasn’t worthy of it—or of her.
And the way she always seemed to be able to help me see things in a way that I never had before—even though I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.
And that didn’t seem fair either.
That didn’t seem right.
“How’s it going out there?”
