Watching Mom

Copyright © [2025] Igor Pajic. Published by Taboo Dreams. All rights reserved.

 

This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and events are entirely fictional or used in a fictional context. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

 

No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the author or publisher, except in the case of brief quotations used for the purposes of review or critique.

 

 

Watching Mom

 

 

It was nearly nine, according to the clock on the fridge, and he hoped his sister would come downstairs soon. She never slept in on Saturdays — not unless she’d been out late the night before — and even then, she was usually gone before ten, heading off to her job at The Gap. He silently hoped she’d show up soon; otherwise, all this preparation wouldn’t exactly be wasted… just not what he had planned.

He placed the full filter into the coffee machine and turned it on. There. That should be brewing in a minute or two—now back to the eggs. Over-easy is not his specialty. He was having to keep a constant watch on the little bastards. Now where was that tray . . .

Yes. Oh, wonderful. Rachel’s foot on the stairs.

There she was, her golden hair pulled back in a ponytail, her clothes only slightly less slutty than usual—for her, that meant formal attire. In a tight off-white shirt he could see her bra through, the tightest of jeans, and a silver-chain belt showing off her slender waist. She paused momentarily at the bottom of the stairs to regard him.

“What the hell are you doing?” She spat, making it sound like she was amazed he was doing anything.

“What’s it look like?” he said. “Making breakfast.”

Rachel rolled her eyes slightly, gave him her best you’re-a-moron look, and said, “Uh, you don’t drink coffee, dipshit.”

“Making Mom breakfast,” he corrected.

“Mother’s Day was a week ago.”

“Yes, it was.”

Oh my god,” said Rachel, her face now panicky. “It’s not her birthday, is it?”

“No, Rachel. You don’t have to wait till someone’s birthday or a national fucking holiday to be nice to them. You should try it sometime.”

“Oh, fuck you too.” After another moment, Rachel said, “What’s with you, anyway? You have some kind of religious conversion or something?”

“Because?”

“Because you’re acting weird lately. Oh wait, I know . . . You’re failing ’chemistry, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Uh, no, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are, you big fat liar head!”

Ian smiled and flipped over an egg. “Well, you just go on thinking that if you like.”

“You are; you’re wiping out in Chem!”

“You wish.”

“Oh, brother. So you get up and make Mom coffee and eggs and bacon. That’s your way of buttering her up. What a retard.” Rachel deftly snatched one bacon slice from the pan and headed for the door.

“Love you too, bitch.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

The front door closed behind her. Seconds later Ian heard the chirp of her car alarm being deactivated.

Failing chemistry: what an idea, he thought. True, he had been doing pretty poorly in Mr. Robinson s’ class a month or so ago. Mainly because he sat behind, and one row to the left of, Marilyn Adams in that class. Many, many formulas and equations had drifted right over his head and out the window while he admired the glorious curve of her butt in tight shorts, or checked out her long legs, or nearly came in his pants when she put the tip of her pencil in her mouth. But that was then, and then was a long time ago. Now, able to concentrate more clearly, he was at last understanding chemistry. His buddies also worshipped at the altar of Marilyn Adamson; when they saw his grades, they’d be sure he’d turned gay.

Whir-r-r-r. Whir-r-r-r-r-r. The sound of Rachel’s engine trying to start.

Oh shit, thought Ian. Start, you bastard, start.

Whir-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r.

Come on! Don’t flood it, you crazy bitch!

Whir-r-r-r-r . . .vvvrrrooooommmmmm!

Yes. Oh, thank you, God, thought Ian. He left the sputtering bacon to watch his sister’s departure through the living room curtains. That’s right. Keep going. Halle-fucking-lujah.

Quickly, he returned to the eggs. Just right, he thought. Bacon? Good enough. Okay, onto the plate, and the plate onto the tray. Coffee in the cup, one sugar. Good . . . but something’s missing.

Being careful to open and close the door silently, Ian stole out into the yard to clip one magnolia flower for the breakfast tray. He was glad he hadn’t forgotten. No way could he have done that with Rachel around—she’d know something was up.

Before taking the tray upstairs to his mother’s room, he made double sure the doors were locked and bolted.

“Mom?” he whispered at the door of her room. It was open slightly; he pushed it gently with the tray. “Mom?”

There she was, well-snuggled into the covers, like a little girl. All but her tousled head and one arm were buried beneath the big comforter. Lying there, snoring softly, with the ghost of a smile about her pouty lips, she was the very picture of sweet innocence and leisure. Ian put the tray down on the bedside table and sat next to her.

“Hey,” he said softly, kissing her bare shoulder. “Wake up. Rachel’s gone.”

Ivy Thompson was dreaming. It seemed like the dream had gone on forever: sweet, slow dreams. She had heard that dreaming in color was a rarity. That was nothing. Not only were her dreams in color, but they were even in slow motion sometimes. And she could smell things in her dreams. Vividly, like she was really there.

In her dream this morning, they were castaways. That probably came from watching The Blue Lagoon together the other night. They had been alone on the beautiful, lush island for many days and had long ago stopped bothering with clothes. There was no one around to see them, to interfere. The island smelled of coconuts and palm trees, salty sea air, pineapples, and mangoes. There was probably no island that really smelled this good, but this was her dream, and it was all real.

They had been out in the surf, playing. It was a glorious day, and she could feel the warm embrace of the sun on her limbs. Her body was younger and fitter in her dream, and she loved the way he looked at it. Her body gave him a hungry expression that made her wet with desire, so that now, as she collapsed on the shoreline and spread out her dripping, tanned legs for him, and his face lit up, she felt a stirring in her stomach, and a thrill passed through her chest. She smiled delightedly as he dropped to his knees before her, his body also bronzed and dripping, and knelt to lap at her crotch.

Now came the slo-mo part . . . With agonizing slowness he bent his face to her offered pussy and dragged his tongue up and down the furry slit. She reveled in the delicious sensations, running her fingers through his damp brown ringlets in encouragement, grinding her butt into the powdery sand. And there, there was that smile, that wonderful smile, lighting up every corner of his lovely face . . .

“Mom . . . hey . . . wake up, sleepy.”

Yes. That face, her son Ian’s.

The coconuts and the salt sea air faded, to be replaced by more familiar smells: coffee, bacon, and toast? Yes, there—on the nightstand. What an angel.

“I made you some breakfast,” he said. “Rachel’s gone.”

“You sure?” was all his mother said, but she smiled beautifully and squirmed luxuriously.

“Positive. Locked the door behind her.”

“Mmmmm . . . ,” she purred and brought her other hand out from beneath the sheets, reaching for the front of his shorts.

Ian was thrilled and stood up to assist her. She constantly surprised him. He had hoped to create a cozy atmosphere in her bedroom that morning, to ease her into their day with breakfast and coffee, and then to spend a leisurely hour or so beside her. But this sleepy urgency was better than he had hoped for. He had barely unbuttoned and unzipped before she was grasping at his dick, rapidly hardening inside his underwear. My God, he thought, she’s barely even awake! But there she was, easing up on one elbow to smile sleepily at his cock, to take its throbbing head into her warm mouth. He combed a few strands of her brown hair behind her ear as she sucked him in, stood beside the bed and watched as she slowly devoured him, felt his knees weaken, and heard himself moan as the delicious suction increased. He leaned forward so she could suck him with her head still on the pillow, and she now used her free hand to hold his balls. Her other hand, he noticed, had disappeared beneath the covers.

Ian rapidly peeled off his tee shirt and gingerly kicked off his sandals, being careful not to disturb his mother. When she had engulfed nearly five inches of him in her mouth, she moaned in a long, low tone, sending a buzzing sensation through his entire body that nearly made him cum. This was wonderful, so fucking wonderful. He had never dreamed anything like this.

He was so hard, he filled her mouth, and he was all hers! Ivy flicked a loving eye up and down his frame as he got naked for her, noting his bare chest and his tight little belly. He was young; he was fit. Oh, not as fit as some other boys at his school, he was no jock. But younger, fitter, and more beautiful than anything she’d seen in a long time. And he was so hard, and she was doing it to him. She was loving his dick, so much bigger and stronger than she’d thought it would be, and he was happy; he was loving her for it. She could see it in his eyes.

She could also feel it in her mouth. One throb, two—he was close. She knew it, could feel it, and could hear his quickened breathing above her. Sometimes when Ivy got him this close, she liked to stop, just to see what he would do. As hot as her dream had gotten her, as urgently as she was rubbing herself beneath the sheets, and as much as she wanted to taste his cum, she stopped now, popping his cock from her mouth with the sound of a champagne cork.

There, she thought, smiling up at him. Now what would he do?

Before she had time to guess, he was at it. What a wonderful boy. What a sweet boy. He didn’t grumble, didn’t complain. Didn’t grab himself and jerk off on her face (although in truth, Ivy thought she might not mind that sometime). In an instant he was at the foot of the bed, scurrying under the covers to crawl up between her legs. She sighed and wiggled her ass hedonistically against the covers, almost able to imagine herself back on that beach. In seconds she could feel his hot breath on her thighs and felt him wrenching aside the crotch of her panties to bury his face in her moist curls.

What a treasure, she thought, as she felt his tongue plunge into her. Such a good lover he was becoming. Not thinking of himself, not even touching himself—his hands were under her butt cheeks. Just concerned with her pleasure. He was having a tough time with the panties; she eased her butt off the bed so that he could drag them down. An instant later his tongue was back in her, lashing. His lips were sucking her in. He was always frantic at first: a few frenzied seconds of devouring her, and he’d slow down, start to kiss and nuzzle her clit, and tongue-stroke her channel the way she’d taught him.

Had David ever been so considerate, so careful of her pleasure? She thought he may have been when they were very young. She made herself push the thought from her head. She did not want to think of Ian’s father—his lies, his cruelty—but of Ian. Of her own baby boy, now doing his level best to suck the whole of her cunt into his mouth.

There. Now he was slowing; now he remembered. Up and down. Round and round—ohhhh—that was nice. Ooooh, God in heaven, yes. Oh Jesus, oh baby --

“Oh Jesus fucking Christ!” she muttered, unable to contain it. “Oh baby, that’s right . . .”

Wonderful, incredible. She let go of his head and ran her palms along both sides of her tits, rubbing the silky material of her nightgown over her nipples. Electric. Rippling little shocks all the way down to her pussy, the pussy he was licking and tonguing so sweetly. Good, she thought, observing the little points her nipples made in the gown, but not good enough. She slipped the straps down over her arms and hauled out her heavy breasts. Yes, they were big, not as tight and firm as she’d like. But he liked them. Oh yes. The tips of her fingers went round and round each nipple. The tip of Ian’s tongue went round and round her button. Oh my god, yes. She pinched her nipples hard and wrenched at them. Oh fuck. Fuck yes. Ian loved her tits. He gobbled them up every chance he got. She imagined his dick between them now, imagined it throbbing and spurting, her hard nipples covered with his boiling cum . . .

“Oooohh,” she moaned. “Oh god . . .”

He had stopped! Was he learning her tricks now? Was he able to sense when she was close, holding off to tease her?

No. He was just coming up to see her now. Here he was, all breathless and pussy-soaked. His grinning face, his bright eyes. That look: Was that good, Mommy? Are you proud of me? She’d seen that look since he was a little boy but never imagined it could be so exciting. She kissed his flushed face and noted the slickness of his bare chin. Poor kid, he smelled like a pussy factory.

Oh! She shuddered violently. He had bumped into her, below. Such a hard, hot bump against her tender lips. My god, he was so, so hard. He was so, so wonderful. He wanted her so bad.

He still had trouble sliding into her. No matter, he would learn. Right now she rather enjoyed reaching down, taking the hot wet shaft, and guiding it into her. She felt him now, like an iron bar in her hand. There. Yes, and now here it comes. Here it comes. This was going to be good . . . ooooooooohhhhh . . .

Ivy almost came just feeling him slide in. Objectively, she knew he wasn’t hugely blessed in the dick department. His father hadn’t been so, either. But what a difference when he slid into her. He always got her so hot and bothered that when he at last entered, he seemed to go on forever. There were inches and inches of him sliding into her pussy, and he just kept coming. Juice ran from her pussy onto the sheet; they were making quite a wet spot beneath them.

There. All the way in. Oh god, all the way in.

He was looking at her tenderly, almost shyly. She smiled and stroked her fingers across his nipples: a throb from his cock, in appreciation. Like her, his nipples were very sensitive. Now back and forth. Back and forth. She ran her hands up and down his strong back, over his tight little buttocks. So smooth and clean. She loved the feel of his firm little body against hers. Loved to feel his taut frame working, his tense belly rubbing her as his cock plunged in and out, in and out . . .

Oh. Oh yes, he was going to cum. She could feel it and could see the smile fade from his mouth, that wonderful dazed look. Inside her, his cock grew impossibly hard.

“Yes!” she told him, running her fingers rapidly across his stiff little nipples. “Yes, baby, yes! Do it! Cum in me!”

Incredible, oh so good, so good. Throb, throb, throb, while his hot essence splashed her pussy walls. Throb, throb, while he panted and groaned, gritted his teeth, and put his head back. “Oh fuck—fuck,” he whispered, as though afraid she would hear him. Throb. Throb. His body shuddered all over. She hugged his hot, sweaty face to her breasts and cradled him, savoring every last spasm of his prick. With her pussy she grasped his convulsing cock, milking him, taking everything. Wonderful.

“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” he panted. “I just couldn’t hold it.”

“Oh, baby, don’t you dare say you’re sorry; it’s fine, it’s wonderful. Ohhhh . . .”

She lay there a full minute, trying to keep his shrinking cock inside her. At last only the tip remained between her pussy lips. His breathing had steadied. He lifted his head from her flushed chest and looked into her eyes, long and intently. They shared their first real kiss of the morning.

“I think your breakfast is probably cold,” he said, chuckling.

“I’m sure it is—that’s fine, baby. You’re so sweet to fix it for me. Tell you what,” she said, putting her arms around his neck. “We’ll just call you my first breakfast.”

Again they kissed.

“I’ll go pour you some more coffee,” he said, sliding off of her. “And see if I can warm up your second.”

“Thanks, hun,” she smiled.

“Then it’ll be your turn,” he added, with a mischievous laugh.

“Mmm—can’t wait,” she said.

She lay still and watched his beautiful naked butt as he walked out of her room. The sweetheart. She hoped he’d remembered to draw the blinds downstairs.

Still tingling from her wonderful wake-up call, Ivy rolled out of the bed and drew back the comforter. Christ, she thought, chuckling to herself. What a poor housekeeper she was getting to be. It wasn’t just that there was a huge wet spot where her son had fucked her that morning. There were half a dozen broad stains on the sheets, from when he’d fucked her Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday . . . These were the sheets of honeymooners. Very messy, but also, very wonderful. She cupped her fingers beneath her pussy; his sperm was starting to run out of her. With one hand she found her discarded panties and cleaned herself up. Gosh, what a filthy sheet. If Rachel had seen that, thought Ivy.

Oh, Rachel. What to do about her, Rachel? She hadn’t caught on so far, miraculously. Little did she dream what went on in this house, just two rooms from her own. And it had been going on for . . . a month now, had it? Had it really been that long? Yes, a month since it began. Absentmindedly, Ivy Thompson looked over her naked shoulder at a spot on the bedroom wall: an odd place, where two edges of the wallpaper came together imperfectly. It was so hard to see; you had to move your head—there, that little glimmer. That was where it all started.

“Mom?” came Ian’s voice from the doorway.

She started and looked at him. He was still naked, still smiling, and his dick was raging hard again.

“I think I’d better just make you lunch instead,” he said sheepishly.

Ivy sighed deeply and tucked the corner of the sheet back under the mattress. Then she crawled onto the bed on her knees, rested her elbows on the mattress, and thrust her ass high into the air.

What a wonderful boy, she thought.

II.

Actually, it all started with a noise coming through a wall.

Ian sat at the desk in his bedroom. It was late, his door was locked, and his dick was out. Before him lay a shimmering, smiling naked blonde, her pert tits pointing at the ceiling, her legs gathered up to expose a perfectly shaved snatch to his adoring gaze. So what if she was only ten inches long and invited his attentions from the pixellated domain of his computer screen? In his mind, she was real enough, and he pulled at his penis contentedly, waiting for a new view of her delectable body to download.

Ian Thompson —only recently eighteen years of age. Reasonably bright, reasonably studious, neither a dope nor a brain. An honor student in English. Passing trig. Failing chemistry, thanks to Marilyn Adamson. No sports affiliation—not enough muscle there to be a jock, not enough raw material to turn into muscle. Tall (six foot one) but painfully thin (one fifty-five). Possibly cute, certainly not handsome. No current girlfriend. No past girlfriends worth discussing.

Nicknamed “Neo” by his gaming buddies. Nicknamed “Dork” by his sister and his sister’s friends.

Nicknamed nothing by Marilyn Adamson, because he didn’t exist to her. Ditto for Sandra Coy, Lana Davies, Kim Butcher, Livia Barfield, etcetera. These were girls, oh so impossibly beautiful girls, who existed on some other plane, who belonged to the same dimension as the girl before him now. There was no getting to these girls—not by his kind, anyway. He made the most of it. He downloaded their replicas into his lap every chance he got and enjoyed the way they smiled approvingly while he coaxed his cock to orgasm.

The girl before him now, for instance—she adored his dick and desperately craved his cum. The flashing logo at the top of the page assured him this was so. It also promised more action to be had (“Wanna see her get fucked—hard? Free Trial Memberships Now For Just $4.99!”). Not for the first time that night, Ian longed for access to a credit card, though he was sure he would max it out in a day, regardless of the limit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was nearly twelve-thirty. He could safely surf for porn only by staying up late and by remaining very quiet so his mom didn’t know he was staying up late. The noise of the television from her room—on Ian’s left—had died away about an hour before; the noise of late-night phone chatter from Rachel’s room—on Ian’s right—had ceased perhaps twenty minutes ago. Now all was uncommonly still in the house. Not a creature stirring except Ian and his dick. He was excessively silent, therefore, when the new picture loaded, and he found that the perpetually grinning blonde, impatient for him, had instead stuck two fingers into her perfect pussy. All he did was lick his lips and groan inwardly.

That was when he heard the noise.

It was low and quick and emanated from the left wall of his room. His mother’s side then. Ian stared at the wall and listened, his hand frozen on his dick. Was she awake?

Seconds later he heard it again: a low, deep buzz that sounded kind of like . . . kind of like a moan.

Surely not, he thought. As quickly as he dared, he arose from his seat and moved toward the wall. There, again. Definitely this time. A low moan.

But what kind of moan?

Ian was fifteen when his parents separated and sixteen when they divorced, his dad having taken up with a much younger, twitch-ass secretary named (of all things) Ms. Parfait. He remembered the truly awful times following their breakup, when his mother locked herself in her room, and he sat outside her door and listened to her crying within. He only brought himself to knock on one occasion, and the knock went unanswered. It was okay—he knew he could not have comforted her anyway. The sounds he had heard now reminded him of those black days.

But Ian knew that the sounds now emerging from his mother’s bedroom were not sounds of sadness but of arousal. Experience told him in no uncertain terms: these were sounds of sex.

Well, perhaps not first-hand experience. He was not utterly without a sexual history. He’d felt up his girlfriends and had been felt back. In eleventh grade Jackie Trailer had actually jerked him off. At her house, in her living room. With her policeman dad in the next room. But nothing he had ever done, with any girl, qualified him to recognize genuine feminine sexual arousal. Still, he had heard enough porn queens make the fake sounds to recognize the real sounds when he heard them. The fact that it was the real sound—real sexual arousal—excited him. The fact that the sound came from his mother . . . well, that excited him too, though his excitement also worried and disturbed him not a little.

None of these emotions could alter the mind-rocking fact that his mother—his mother, in the next room—seemed to be getting off. And, unless she had smuggled in some man he didn’t know by some means he knew nothing about, he was pretty sure she was getting off alone.

The thought fascinated him. How ironic was this? Here he was, secretly masturbating, trying desperately not to be overheard by his mother in the next room, who was, in fact, in the next room, masturbating! He then realized, suddenly, that he had never let go of his cock during this entire investigation and that his cock was still hard. Then came the real shocker: he was aroused, and his mother was aroused, at the same time, and in nearly the same place!

Ian’s hand jumped away from his penis as though it were some unholy thing. He looked about him, almost in a panic, wondering what he should do. There was his lovely blonde, still smiling and fingering herself on his desk. There was his alarm clock: twelve thirty-seven now. There was his bed. He really should, he thought, turn off the blonde, set the alarm, and get to bed, pronto. But . . .

Something to listen with, something to listen with . . . There! An empty juice glass on his nightstand. Crouched by the wall, the mouth of the glass to the wall, his ear to the bottom. Yes. Yes, sort of. He could hear something, but couldn’t be sure . . . Into the closet—that was the answer. The back of his closet might be a thinner wall, which might bring his ear closer to the action. (Action? he thought—you pig!) He speedily moved away old shoes and fallen clothing from the closet floor and flattened himself against the back wall. If Rachel were to see him now, it would confirm her lifelong impression that he was a freak.

Listening, listening . . . There! Another moan, and what sounded like words, rapid words. There! Another, this time a quavering moan, as though she were trembling. Ian’s dick, which had begun to lose some of its attitude, now stiffened up again at the sound. You . . . Pig! he thought. He couldn’t believe himself. He would leave it alone and wouldn’t touch the damn thing. There! There! A long one—oh my gosh—a loud one . . . How did Rachel not hear that one? How did the rest of the neighborhood not hear it? It seemed deafening in the stillness. Now, subsiding, subsiding . . . and silence.

Silence, that is, except for the pounding in his temples. Ian’s heart was hammering, and his mouth was dry. His cock—against all codes of human decency—was still rigid and throbbing. He couldn’t explain it, didn’t want to think about it, and was thoroughly ashamed of himself. But for the better part of twenty minutes he remained, crouched uncomfortably against the wall at the back of his closet, his ear glued to a jelly jar, listening for more. Eventually he heard a new sound: soft, repetitive buzzes that told him she was asleep. His little audio porn show (you pig!) was over.

Tiptoeing gingerly around his room, Ian turned off his computer and his light, took off his shirt, and climbed into bed. Once there he had a long and spirited argument with himself.

Wow. Mom was masturbating. My mom.

No shit, Dick Tracy.

Yeah, but . . . it’s just weird.

What’s weird? Everybody masturbates. You masturbate, and she masturbates.

Often?

Like you don’t masturbate often? Christ, you could hold the record.

Well, yeah, but I’m eighteen, and I’m not getting any.

So? She’s forty-one, and she’s not getting any either. And, unlike you, she used to get some on a regular basis.

Well, but . . . So why does it bother me?

It doesn’t bother you, jerk-off—it excites you.

It does not.

Hello? Is your dick hard?

Yeah but --

Is your dick hard? Right now?

But I was hard anyway. I was looking at porn.

Uh huh. Over an hour ago, you mean. And you’re not thinking about porn right now, pal.

Well, I’m not going to do it. I’ll just go to sleep.

Self-control? You? Don’t make me laugh.

True to his word, Ian turned on his side and tried to go to sleep. A good hour or so later he gave up, rolled onto his back, and grabbed his insistently erect penis. While he stroked, he made himself picture the lovely, smiling, fingering blonde girl. But his head was full of his mother’s low, trembling moan minutes later, when he shot his hot sperm all over his belly.

The next night he found himself waiting for the sound. And he was not disappointed. Halfway through an excellent photo set of two “Young Amateur Lesbians,” the soft but insistent sounds came buzzing through the wall again. Ian lost no time on this occasion but instantly shut down his computer and returned to the inside of his closet, straining to hear. As the indistinct muttering and moaning fell upon his ear, he was somewhat surprised, and a little ashamed, to note that his cock grew hard again. He had tucked it away inside his underpants, but after a few minutes of indecision, he pulled it out again and rubbed it softly as he listened. He told himself that it didn’t matter that it was his mother’s pleasure he was reacting to. It could have been a total stranger, or his sister, or even his grandmother in the next room, and he still would be excited. The fact was that these were sex sounds, from a female, and his cock simply didn’t care which female they were coming from.