One Mothers Story

I don't know how to start this so I'll just come out and say it: My children turn me on.

Before I go into detail, I feel like I owe you some background. I have two children, Amy, 16, and Adam, 15 (not their real names, of course) whom I love dearly. Their wonderful father and I have been married for 18 beautiful years, and still enjoy a thrilling and varied sex life. However, in the last year or so, I have started to become aroused by thoughts and fantasies involving my children. I know it's terribly wrong, but I can't seem to help myself. To all the world I am the typical (upper?) middle class housewife, with a beautiful family and a perfect life, and to be honest, in many ways I am, and it is. But in private I'm starting to feel more and more like a very bad mother indeed.

I'll start with my son. Adam is, and always has been, all boy. If it's dirty or dangerous, he'll be there. He has always participated in, and excelled in sports, and in spite of his, sometimes rambunctious, outgoing, fun-loving personality, when it comes time for conferences, his teachers always have nothing but good things to say about him (except for perhaps a missed home work assignment here and there).

In the last year however, the little boy with dirty sneakers and skinned knees, has quickly disappeared to be replaced by a broad shouldered, square jawed young man, who bares a striking resemblance to his father. I wish I could say that I wasn't affected by the sight of his athletic figure wandering back and forth to and from the bathroom in his towel, but that wouldn't be honest. But it's not just his defined arms and torso that has caught my attention. He's definitely developing in other areas as well.

Most every morning, I give a knock on his door and poke my head in to make sure he's up and wish him good morning, and although this practice began as a perfectly benign and motherly exercise when he was young, I must confess that lately I have developed ulterior motives. Once in a while he is slow in reacting to my knocks on the door, and by the time I poke my head in he still hasn't disguised the, rather substantial, bulge in the sheets that betrays he is a victim of that particularly delicate, yet thrilling condition that men often find themselves in first thing in the morning. I wish I could say that was all, but I have to clear my conscience. There have been several times when I have forgone the knocking and instead quietly opened the door for a longer look. Several times I have been rewarded by a glorious view of my sleeping son in, were it not for the covers, all his glory. And, exactly twice, I was delighted to discover he had kicked off the covers enough to reveal not only his bare chest and stomach, but also the thin old worn out gym shorts that he usually sleeps in. Only one of those times was he a victim of the aforementioned condition, but that once was quite enough (oh my)!

I know that this is my son, the fruit of my womb. I know it is so wrong, but I can't seem to help it. If there is a woman out there who can look on a beautiful male form and face in such a vulnerable state, son or not, whose member (to put it delicately) is so obviously...affected, and not feel some stirring in her loins, then sister, my hat's off to you, for you are a stronger woman than I.

Most of the time I am so overcome that I need some immediate attention. Sometimes I merely dash down the hall and attack my husband, much to his delight, but most days he has left for work already and I must take matters into my own hands, or hands and vibrator as the mood and circumstances allow. Since this requires some time and privacy, I usually have to simmer (or marinade) while I move about the house getting my children off to school. The tension builds for the next hour or so, till finally, by the time I have them out the door, I'm almost inconsolable. The few minutes after that are the worst. I have to watch from the window while they get into the car and make sure they do actually leave (Amy drives them both to school). Only then is it safe to indulge myself. I have learned from experience that the walk from the house to the car is the best place to remember things like textbooks, keys, homework assignments, gym bags, and cell phones. It only took one time. I was so overcome, that I had made it only as far as the living room sofa before I opened my robe and lifted my nightgown. The sound of the front door flying open sent my heart up to my throat. Fortunately, my reflexes were so keen, and the intruder was so focused on his goal, (a text book in this case, I think), that I highly doubt he saw anything, but it's a risk I have decided is not worth taking.

I wish I could say it was only the morning images of my son that put me in this condition, but alas, there is more, much more.

Bless his heart, he's a good boy, but he really has no idea the effect he is having on his poor old mother. He'll go around the house in a tank top, or worse, bare chested, all sweaty and glowing after practice, or outdoor chores. And all too often I notice him trying to disguise the embarrassingly spontaneous, yet unavoidable condition that boys his age so often find themselves in. Other times all it takes is for him to flash that charming, yet mischievous grin and I suddenly find myself in very urgent need of relief. I also know, from emptying the trashcan in his bedroom that he is no stranger to self-gratification, and that realization, dear reader has been very bad for business.

You'd think this would be bad enough, that a mother lusting for her own son would be the low point I could sink to, but I have to continue. I still haven't told you about my daughter.

Amy is, to put it in a very un-motherly way, extremely hot! If she weren't so carefully modest with the way she dresses and behaves, I would have very real concerns about her safety out in public. This is not to say that she is unfashionable, or prudish. She's just one of those luck girls who hit the genetic jackpot (I'll take some credit for that, thank you very much) and would be just as stunning in a burlap sack as most of us ever hope to be on our wedding day. I know this sounds like motherly bias, but I defy anyone who meets her not to admit that she is truly something extraordinary to behold.

My husband and I realized early on that we had a looker on our hands and tried to raise her with dignity and self-respect, and she grew up with a maturity that belied her years. I'm sure she knows that she's blessed, but to her credit, she remains wonderfully charming and down to earth and even a bit shy. She is the studious type and only has a few close friends. This attitude, along with her personality has kept all but the boldest boys at arms length, but it's impossible not to notice the lingering looks she constantly gets when she's out and about, from both men and women! She always conducts herself with decorum, but I suspect it's a bit of a strain on her to always be so self-aware, because when she's at home she lets her guard down a bit.

Now, a little more background. I am a heterosexual woman, but I have never denied the appeal of the female form. I have used my natural charms to my advantage, and in spite of the effect age and children will have on a woman's' physique, I think I'm holding it together pretty well for a woman my age. Most women I won't even notice physically, I'm not really looking anyway. But every so often, even from the time I was young, I'll see some beautiful feminine creature and I'll salivate right along with everyone else. My daughter is such a creature, particularly when she's at home.

When she's at home she feels safe and comfortable and her attitude, behavior, and choice of wardrobe reflect this. She's more outgoing and witty, even a little spunky. She's usually in a hurry to change out of her school clothes into something more comfortable and usually more revealing. In warmer weather she'll lounge around in just a pair of shorts that would be scandalous in public and a tank top (the kind with the built in support that don't, though probably should in her case, require a bra). Sometimes I'll see her getting ready for bed in nothing more than panties and a thin old oversized t-shirt that leaves little imagination as to the shape of things beneath. She doesn't usually allow her father or brother to see her dressed like that but she never suspects that it's probably her mother whose temperature she's rising the most. I've lately tried to find excuses to visit with her in her room right before bed. We often have a lovely little chat about whatever, but my mind is almost always elsewhere. I'm sure she thinks I'm just trying to bond with my nearly adult daughter before she's grown and gone, and doesn't even guess my dirty little secret.

The kicker, though, really came a few months ago when we had a girl's night out as part of her sweet-sixteen birthday. We got all dolled up and went out to a fancy restaurant, just the two of us. This is something my husband and I decided on before hand. When they turned sixteen we would take each of our children out and have an open-faced conversation about sex. The idea was to open a dialogue and hopefully build some trust with our children so that if they ever have questions they feel comfortable coming to us rather than their peers or whomever else. My husband will be doing the same thing with our son on his next birthday.

I have to admit, I was shaking like a leaf when we sat down at the restaurant. I felt like such a hypocrite sitting there trying to present myself as a sexual role model for my daughter, while at the same time trying to prevent my eyes from straying all over her amazing attributes so obviously displayed in the dress she was wearing. On top of that we were about to talk about sex. Discussions on this topic always greatly affect me, and I was already well out of my comfort zone. To my relief, once we got the ball rolling things went quite easily, although I had to excuse myself twice to make sure I wasn't staining the seat of my dress. We'd already covered some of that ground when she got her period a few years before, but now it was more woman to woman rather than mother to daughter.

For the sake of my daughters' privacy I won't go into detail about that conversation, but I will say I learned a great deal about Amy that night. Beneath that modest exterior she is a sexual being just like the rest of us, with passions and desires that rival any woman with warm red blood in her veins. Seeing my daughter in that way put a new spin on my already dangerous mental picture of her. Armed with the acute awareness of her sexuality, the images I had of her became much more vivid, realistic, and frequent. I began to wonder about her fantasies. If she commented that she found a man attractive or if I saw her talking to a boy, I would wonder if she ever thought of having sex with him. This would inevitably become part of my fantasy life. Between my son and daughter and my dirty little mind, it wasn't long before I put two and two together.

My favorite fantasies currently involve both my children together. I imagine catching them in a passionate tryst and then staying as they continue, knowing full well that I'm there watching. Sometimes I'll imagine them masturbating together or alone while the other watches. The stories on this web sight are always giving me plenty of new ideas. I'll sit here and read your contributions and imagine one or both of my children in the situations you describe. Sometimes I'll imagine my daughter with one of her girlfriends and that really gets me going! I can, and have, spent hours pleasuring myself while entertaining all sorts of depraved thoughts involving my children. I have tried to avoid imagining them actually with me. That seems like going too far, but there have been times when I'm so far gone that I'll cross that line too, and even though the resulting climaxes are usually mind-blowing, I always feel very guilty afterwards.

I know that I am probably sick, but I love both of my children very much and want nothing but the best for them. I honestly don't think I could actually act on my fantasies. My hypocrisy goes only so far. I rationalize that as long as they're just fantasies what harm can they do? But deep down I know that a mother isn't supposed to think about her children that way. But I also know that I'm not going to stop. Strangely I don't feel guilty about my thoughts (except for the aforementioned exception), and if the truth be known I like feeling oversexed and a little depraved. I enjoy being aroused and actually try to be as often as possible. My husband has noticed the change, but he's not complaining. My only real fear is that someday, in a moment of weakness, I'll say or do something that will cause some real damage.

I know this is long. Thank you to Solo Touch, and those of you who read the whole thing. Words cannot describe how good it feels to have unburdened my soul about this.