A Mold of Mom

Prologue

 

If you’re reading this, you already know I’m not normal. You probably think I’m worse than that—some kind of pervert, a creep, maybe even a criminal. You’d be wrong about that last part. I keep every receipt, and the only thing I’ve ever stolen is a secret, the kind that most people are too scared to admit even to themselves.

 

The letter came on my first night in the new back when I moved home. Mom’s handwriting is unmistakable—loopy, slanted, a little too neat for someone who’s always a mess. She’d left it in my sock drawer, of all places. The last place anyone looks unless they’re desperate or just moved in.

 

To Tom,

 

Enjoy your stay, it’s good to have you back, I’ve missed you and been lonely since your Dad left. If you need anything please help yourself and don’t feel the need to wake me up

 

Mom x

 

I must’ve read it a hundred times before I let myself believe it was real. It had to be a joke, some kind of trap, what does it mean?

But Mom—my Mom, my secret obsession, the woman I’d been jerking off over since she first padded barefoot down the hall in nothing but a t-shirt and panties—she doesn’t do jokes like this. Not unless she means them.

I spent that whole first night lying in bed, staring at the letter on my chest, heart hammering, cock like a fucking stone under my sheets. My mind ran wild—scenarios, ideas, a thousand filthy “what ifs” swirling in the dark.

I could touch her. I could do anything. She’d let me….or does she mean the fridge? Hmmmm..

And that’s when it started. Not the filth—not yet. That would come later, like rot working its way up from the roots. No, what started that night was the freedom. The sweet, dangerous freedom of knowing that for the first time, my dirtiest thought were fair game and if it was a misunderstanding it’d be too late – win win for me

I fell asleep with the letter pressed to my heart, drifting slowly to sleep and wondering what could be.

By dawn, I already knew what I’d do.

 

Chapter 1: The First Mold

 

The plan hit me in the shower, water blasting the sweat and guilt off my skin. I was jerking off as quietly as I could—Mom was up early, moving around in the kitchen, probably making that thick, bitter coffee that somehow made her smell even better.

 

I kept thinking about the letter. “Help yourself, don’t feel the need to wake me up.” I pictured her sprawled in her sheets, legs parted, lips slack, blissfully unaware. The permission was all mine.

And that’s when the idea took hold.

I wanted a trophy. Not a photo, not a memory. Something physical, something I could fuck when I couldn’t touch her. Something of her.

I wanted to make a mold of her pussy.

It was insane. It was perfect. It was the filthiest thing I’d ever imagined, and now it was mine for the taking.

The rest of the day, I walked around half-hard, picturing how I’d do it. I researched online—alginate molding kits, the kind you use for “art projects” or supposedly to make keepsake handprints. Ordered two, next-day delivery. The anticipation was brutal, every minute like chewing glass.

 

Mom was casual, as always. She wore shorts, loose t-shirts, moved around the house without a care in the world. Every time she yawned, stretched, or flopped on the couch, I saw another angle I wanted to capture. I was polite, normal. She’d never guess what was brewing behind my eyes.

 

The night the kit arrived, I barely made it through dinner. Mom teased me, as usual—feet up on the chair next to me under the table, casual touches, nothing overt. If she knew, she was a world-class actress. She claimed her legs hurt but I knew she wanted me to see her toes. I excused myself early, feigning tiredness, and retreated to my room, where I opened the box with trembling hands.

 

I spent an hour practicing with the instructions—timing the mix, checking the set time, figuring out how to do it without making a fucking mess. My hands were shaking the whole time, my cock pulsing in anticipation.

 

The real moment came around 2 a.m.

 

I crept down the hall, careful to avoid the one squeaky board outside her door. Her light was off. I paused, listening to her breathing—deep, slow, completely out. I opened the door as quietly as I could.

Mom lay on her side, one arm curled under her head, sheets twisted around her thighs. She wore a loose tank top, no bra, and a pair of tiny cotton shorts that barely covered her ass. I watched her for a full minute, my pulse hammering in my ears.

She was beautiful. Vulnerable. Completely mine.

I set the molding kit on the floor, mixed the powder with water, working quickly before it started to set. The smell was sharp, chemical, almost medicinal. I pulled on gloves—no fingerprints, no mistakes.

 

I slid the sheet off her hips, moving slow, terrified she’d wake.

She didn’t. Mom slept like the dead. I hooked my fingers in her waistband, eased the shorts down, baring her ass, her thighs, her pussy—soft, pale, lips parted just enough to drive me mad.

 

I froze, savoring the view, almost forgetting what I was supposed to do. My cock throbbed against my jeans, aching for relief. But this was better. This was forever.

 

I knelt between her legs, pried them apart just enough to get the angle right. Her scent hit me—faint, musky, pure Mom. I fought the urge to bury my face in her, to taste, to leave a mark.

Not yet.

First, the trophy.

 

I filled the molding tray, lifted it to her pussy, and pressed it gently, spreading the soft material over her lips, shaping it to every curve and fold. Mom shifted, moaned in her sleep, but didn’t wake.

My heart stopped.

She murmured something—a half-formed word, a dream—but settled again, breathing steady.

 

I held my breath, counting down the minutes, watching the gel set as it captured every detail.

I whispered to her, voice trembling, “Thank you. Fuck, thank you, Mom.”

 

The gel hardened. I peeled it away, slow and gentle, careful not to hurt her. She twitched, shivered, but stayed out.

I pulled her shorts back up, fixed the sheets, erased every trace. My hands shook as I cleaned the mold, tucked it into a shoebox, and slid back to my room.

 

I lay awake the rest of the night, staring at my prize.

 

I’d done it.

She’d never know.

And tomorrow, I’d make it into something even filthier.

 

Chapter 2: The Fleshlite

 

The mold sat in my shoebox for a whole day before I could bring myself to use it. It wasn’t fear—not really. It was awe. Every time I opened the lid, my heart would pound, my palms would sweat, and my cock would surge, fat and needy, just from looking at it.

It was perfect—every ridge, every wrinkle, every secret fold Mom kept hidden under her lazy summer shorts. I’d stare at the impression, running my fingers along the negative, picturing how it would feel to be inside her at last. “I can’t believe Dad would leave you” I whispered as I tickled the ridges.

I cleaned it with care—soap and water, rubbing alcohol, a brush for the finest detail. I let it dry on my radiator, wrapped in a towel, obsessively checking it every few minutes, terrified some smell or stain would give me away. But it came out flawless. The softest pink, the perfect shape. I could almost see the hint of her clit, the gentle parting of her lips, the curve of her mound.

I didn’t even try to fight the urge.

As soon as it was ready, I locked my door, stripped naked, and set the mold on my desk. I pulled out a block of silicone from the second kit—meant for “crafts,” but I knew what I wanted. I mixed, poured, and pressed, heart in my throat, cock throbbing between my legs. The smell was sweet, artificial, a parody of the real thing, but I didn’t care. I closed my eyes, picturing her asleep, helpless, completely mine.

I pressed the mold together, waited for the silicone to set, counting every slow, aching minute.

Thirty minutes felt like eternity.

I used the time to scroll through Mom’s Instagram, zooming in on every shot, every glimpse of her bare thighs, the shadow between her legs.

By the time the alarm went off, I was so hard it hurt.

The Fleshlite came out perfect—soft, pale, still warm from the pour. I ran my thumb along the opening, tracing the line where her lips would be. I held it to my nose, inhaled deep, wishing for her scent, getting only chemicals and the faint ghost of soap.

But it was enough.

I slathered it with lube, propped it up on the pillow, and slid inside, gasping at the feel—tight, clinging, molded to her exact body.

It was like fucking Mom in miniature, a private, dirty world I’d made for myself.

I fucked it slow, savoring every stroke, picturing her under me, limp and open, breathing soft in the dark. I talked to it, to her, whispered all the things I’d do if I could—how I’d use her, mark her, keep her forever.

My climax hit so hard I nearly passed out. I came deep inside, holding the toy tight to my hips, grinding through every last spasm until my cum overflowed, dripping down my fingers.

After, I lay panting on my bed, Fleshlite still warm in my hand, cock softening but mind racing. I felt guilt, sure—shame, even. But it was nothing compared to the pride.

I’d made this.

From her.

With her permission, even if she never meant it this way.

 

I rinsed it out, but not all the way. I wanted her scent, my scent, the proof of what I’d done. I let it dry on the windowsill, sunlight catching the slick, glistening entrance.

That night, as Mom cooked dinner, I found myself staring at her mouth, her hands, her hips—wondering if she’d notice what was missing, if she’d feel some phantom ache. I pictured her walking by my room, my cum still cooling inside her replica, her name written on the side in black marker:

MOM.

 

It was the first thing I’d written since college that made my hand shake.