Masked Mommy: Halloween MILF

I’ve always been a man of exceptional urges, but none so powerful as my obsession with my mother’s body.

Hair the color of caramel with white-hot, blue eyes. A thick-lipped devil mouth that seems to suck in my soul as well as the dicks of my dreams.

The way she carries that hourglass figure through life as if she’s a goddess among mud people. Tits overflowing cups, ass that hugs her too-tight clothing to the point of explicit sexuality, legs made longer by high heels, a waist that begs to be choked on my cock.

How the hell am I supposed to get off to girls my own age?

Answer: I can’t.

Mothers hold all the cards, and mine carries them between her chest.

Fuck, how am I supposed to eat my Cheerios when she’s clapping her yoga pants down the stairs? If nature had a heart, it would have given me ugly, stupid, or unavailable mothers to worship from afar.

But no, it had to bless me with perfection. And to make matters worse, my father appreciates my mother as much as a pimp appreciates his ho’s.

Not to mention that I’ve inherited my panty-ruining good looks from the man who comes home rarely and leaves me with the freedom to watch her like a horny monogamist. Call this the fate of the loser who craves a real man’s woman, but I had no option but to become obsessed with Heather Mayfield.

If only things were simple, right? I would have thrown myself at her toes years ago. Hell, I’ve never even jerked off to girls my own age. I’m so addicted to Heather’s curvaceous ass, I need to get rid of my brain cells.

Well, here’s hoping fate hands me the opportunity to GET IN MY MOTHER’S GOOD GRACES through scenarios that don’t include preening or slitting my wrists.

When I was younger, Heather must’ve been on a real estate closing winning streak, because she’d ask me for foot massages after work and act like she wasn’t enjoying the shit out of my gestures.

No, she wasn’t in any way romantic, but she let herself get comfortable. Bra off, breasts and nipples poking into her shirt, mouth curled up in a way that said she liked to be the queen.

I’d choke on affection and compliments, which emboldened her even more to be brutally honest about her own beauty. She’d call me her “Big Boy” and make me rub her calves and feet while she gloried in the television and other relaxation rituals. Even then, I was caught between wanting to please her and resenting her as a fellow male.

Now that I’m an adult, I see those exercises as BDSM foot worship to her dominance and sense of worth as a woman. Those weren’t steamy sessions, but she did get her toes licked clean and her ankles kissed. More importantly, those foot massages took me out of the Friend Zone and into Panty Raider Zone, if only in my head.

Heather has always loved herself… and I’ve always loved looking at her, even though it’s been a borderline-things-that-make-you-go-ewww obsession. We had real power as patient and Queen of the Castle. I was young, but I had enough testosterone in those times to buy small countries. Heather may or may not have realized her “Big Boy” was a ticking sex bomb. Maybe she didn’t care. All I know is I was her son, but she was the epicenter of my cock.

I suspect more fathers would institute a “son can’t please their mother” policy if they witnes