Spying

Her tits were out -- they’re big! Kind of floppy, saggy, but they jiggle nice. Couldn’t see pussy or dildo clearly, but saw her hand working it in and out of her. Could hear her moan once, through the wall. She came just seconds before I did!!!

Wish she’d turn the bathroom light on every night. Also wish I could hear better! Could hear nothing but Lara’s music tonight for most of the time.

Still stoked. Logging on, planning to cum again. I’ve got to be crazy -- I’ve got a test tomorrow.

Wed, 2nd. 1:45.

Opened blinds a little before X went to bed. So a bit more light tonight. She masturbated a long time, under the covers mostly. Saw her get up and go into the bathroom afterward. Could see her ass cheeks, big and pale in the moonlight. She sleeps without panties on.

God, wish I could hear more! X mumbling something while she played tonight -- love to hear her. Got an idea about this . . .

Wiped out on my test today. And closet is beginning to smell like cum.

***

Mark watched his mother nearly every night for two weeks. She masturbated almost every night. He came, at least once, every time she did. He also came when she didn’t masturbate, all the while imagining her doing it. By now his conscience had long since deserted him: he was a Grade A pervert, he knew, so he might as well enjoy it. It was just too exciting to resist.

He was surprised that he didn’t regret that this was his mother he was watching. He never wished otherwise -- never fantasized that he was watching Marilyn Adamson, for instance, or even that he was spying on some unsuspecting stranger in the next apartment. In part, this was because his mother’s body -- what he had been able to see of it in the crappy lighting -- was nothing like Marilyn’s or Livia’s or any of the porn teens he admired. His mother was plump, cozy and inviting, not slender, tight and intimidating like the girls he had always worshipped. Her legs were long and smooth, but also rather meaty -- she appeared to have fat thighs and a wide ass in the dim light. Her tits were big and fat: more like gigantic water-filled balloons than the pert, upturned little apples he was used to. They splayed outward when she lay flat on her back, and bounced around a lot when she played with herself. He’d had only one very brief, uncertain look at her pussy: a flash of dark when she got out of bed one night. But it seemed evident from that one flash that she had neither the smooth shaved cunt of the internet girls nor the perfectly triangular tuft of the Playboy models -- but a wild and hairy snatch, all mossy and curly. In short, she was built like no one he had ever fantasized about, much less seen naked in person. Viewing her through the peephole was always a delightful surprise. And he found that her rotund charms and matronly curves excited him as much, if not more, than any of the “better built” girls he had ever seen.

There was also (he had to admit) something incredibly exciting about the fact that she was his own mother -- that the last woman he should be spying on, and the last woman who would suspect him of doing so, was the constant subject of his lustful gaze. There was something so wrong about it, so despicably wicked, that the very thought of her nakedness and of her sexuality was enough to make him hard again and again. He had stopped trying not to notice her broad curves beneath her dressing gown, and instead tried not to becaught noticing them. And he had to be very careful when he hugged her -- he made it a point to hug with the top half of his body only, afraid that his prick would harden up against her and betray his secret passion.

He had quickly become a fetishist for her, constantly on the look out for new “surrogate” ways of experiencing her. The fragrance wafting from her room as he passed it, or the feel of her underclothes as he put them in the washer, were enough to make his heart pound. He kept at least one pair of her discarded panties with him when he was watching her, to sniff at or, once or twice when he got really hot, to suck on. He had twice had the opportunity to briefly inspect her hidden vibrator, and was delighted to find that it did smell like her pussy on these occasions -- rich, heady, honey-like. He never felt so strange as when he popped the giant rubber dick into his mouth, trying to retrieve some taste of her from its smooth surface. He also periodically sampled her bathroom towels, subscribing to the theory that she must wipe herself off somewhere when she finished playing.

Because he had become so attached to her linen and clothing, he began volunteering to do the laundry more -- something which puzzled Lara, whose chore it officially was. Performing this duty himself however gave him a chance to hang on to her “freshest” panties for his own enjoyment. On one occasion she struck terror into his very soul when she went romping through the house looking for her “nice black underwear.” She was dressing for an office party of some kind, and, standing there in his doorway, in a lacey off-white blouse and a long paisley skirt, she asked if he had seen them.

“I know you’ve been sweet enough to do the laundry lately -- do you remember seeing them?” she asked.

Mark, sitting at his desk, tried his damnedest not to blush.

“Um . . . no, I don’t think so,” he muttered.

“That’s weird. I thought I wore them just a few days ago, but they’re not in the hamper. Are you sure you haven’t washed them?”

“N-no -- I mean yes, I’m sure, Mom.”

“Oh well, crap. It’s just that, white ones will show through this skirt. Maybe I’ve got a dark purple pair or something . . . Thanks, baby.” And she wandered off.

Mark breathed a sigh of relief then. It wasn’t merely that his mother, half-dressed and barefoot in his doorway, had been casually discussing her underwear with him. That alone would be enough to shake him. It was also the fact the panties she was seeking had been less than three feet from her, balled up in his closet, covered in his cum. While she was gone he resolved to “find” them for her, making sure they were well washed first.

Matters continued in this fashion for the better part of a month: Mark doing his best to seek out and absorb every intimate and sexual detail about his mother, but always remaining careful to hide such activities from his mother. It wasn’t always easy. And there was his sister to hide things from as well. This could sometimes be very tricky, because Lara, who habitually exhibited a low level contempt for him, was prone to do things just to rattle him. Like calling him a “wanker” in front of their mother. Or suddenly pounding on his locked door late at night on her way to the bathroom -- something which had always found disturbing when he was porn surfing, but which scared him shitless now that he was spying on Mom.

Lara’s contempt, he had always known, did not stem from her age (she was, literally, only minutes older than he was) nor from any intimations of favoritism on his mother’s part. It chiefly derived from the fact that he was so blatantly unschooled in sexual matters, while she (according to gossip) could have taught classes. He moved in a geeky, thoroughly uncool set, while she was a member of the most popular cliques at school. He had barely had three dates in the last year, and no steady girlfriends, while she maintained a steady succession of boyfriends who (again, if schoolyard buzz could be believed) usually had their way with her. Mark never bothered to defend her from charges of being a slut, because she would undoubtedly be proud of the title.

If Lara thought he was pathetic because she suspected him of jerking off in front of the computer every night, what the hell would she think if she caught him sniffing their mother’s panties, or spying on her through a peephole in the wall? It didn’t bear thinking about. She’d probably have him arrested.

So Mark lived in a constant state of stress. Deathly fearful of being caught, but terribly anxious not to miss a single moment of his mother’s nudity or her self-caused sexual ecstasy. Oddly enough, he thought he didn’t actually want to have sex with his mother, even if she did give him an instant hard on these days. So far the thought of actually possessing her -- of sliding his cock into her, instead of watching her shadowy movements with the dildo -- made him mentally recoil. That was just too weird. It certainly wasn’t that her body turned him off. Far from it: Melinda Dehner’s generous curves had become the new standard by which Mark judged sexiness in woman. But the idea of sliding into her, face to face, her maternal tits pressed up against him . . . no, it was just too strange to consider. He repeatedly pushed such thoughts from his mind.

At least I haven’t sunk to those depths, he thought, as he fished a pair of pleasingly damp panties from the bottom of his mother’s hamper.

V.

Melinda Dehner let the terry-cloth bathrobe slip from her shoulders onto the floor, stood before the bathroom mirror, and sighed.

So, she wasn’t a supermodel. That was no news, surely. She had always been a bit heavy in the middle, had always been inclined to pick up weight in her thighs. As a young woman she had made up for these tendencies by having the biggest tits in the bunch. She still had those tits, of course, though she was fighting a losing battle with gravity to keep them aloft and perky.

No, in her fairest and most unbiased assessment, she was a lot of woman. Some men might call her fat. Other women certainly would. Some men would appreciate the extra curves -- would rejoice in her big ass and her mountains of tit flesh -- though she had to wonder bitterly where those men were keeping themselves.

Abandoning the mirror, she reached in to turn on the hot water tap in her shower, and shivered slightly as she waited for the room to steam up. While she stood there, her sizable, tender nipples stiffened from the damp air; she rubbed at them absently. Nice. Ever so slightly pleasant. She tweaked at one harder, tugged at -- then caught herself doing so, and dropped her hand to her side.

What the hell was with her these days? She felt like she was going sex loco lately -- like she just couldn’t leave herself alone at night. Practically every night it seemed she was playing with herself. What had been an occasional activity, a way of relieving some stress, or of falling asleep at night, had now become a nightly ritual, even an addiction. Had it really been so long since she’d had some real, genuine sex?

She sighed anew as she stepped into the shower, enjoying the rush of the hot water washing over her. Yes, it had. Three years since David had left, and the blessings of regular sex had become forcibly apparent to her. Two years since they had been divorced for good. Over a year-and-a-half since her date with Bess Winthrop’s smutty brother, and their heated (and much too quick) union in a cheap motel room. And that had been more of a caving in than a bout of genuine passion. She had been desperate and drunk that night, and could barely remember what any of their sex had felt like. All she remembered was what an ass he’d been afterward: didn’t call her, had nothing to say when she accidentally bumped into him. Apparently he had gotten what he wanted and was off. Bess had been apologetic, but who the fuck cared about apologies?

That abortive affair had pretty much poisoned her against other possibilities. Melinda’s other dates (and there hadn’t been many) had all ended sexless. And why shouldn’t they, she thought. She’d rather do herself than let in men who didn’t care a damn about her. Still, a year-and-a-half. At least. It would be so nice, so very nice, to be sharing all this steamy wetness with a loving man. So lovely to reach down amid all this clinging heat to find his hard, dripping cock by her side, entreating entrance. So wonderful to feel him tugging gently at her too sensitive nipples, running his tongue around the aureoles . . .

Damn, she was doing it again! She couldn’t even take a shower without playing with herself! Again, she made herself leave her nipples alone, and tried to concentrate on what she was doing. She needed to get clean, get in bed, get to sleep -- lots of work tomorrow, almost a full day of patients for Dr. Malone. She told herself repeatedly to focus, to get to bed and asleep as soon as possible, that it was late already. Of course, she knew it was no use: as soon as she hit the sheets, she’d be hungering for pleasure again.

In part, she thought as she dropped her robe and climbed between the sheets, all this frustration was due to her proximity to Joe Teicher. He was the new intern at the office, fresh from medical school: young, devilishly handsome in a kind of “boy band” way, and eternally flirtatious. Whether by accident or design, she and Joe had been working closely at the office lately; they’d even had lunch together the week before. All remained proper and respectable between them in the main -- he was, after all, young enough to be her son. In fact he was exactly Denny’s age, she realized with a shock. The same age as her eldest child, and here she was every night, rubbing herself into a frenzy for him.

She couldn’t help it. Melinda found his young, fit body and easy charm to be terribly effective on her sexual organs. Just being around such an obvious and confident stud made her pulse rage sometimes, her knees weaken. Of course, she wouldn’t think of making a move on him, or of responding to a move from him (as if that would happen). His ego was already superabundant, and it made her wince to imagine what he would think of her, rubbing her pussy raw each night from wanting him.

Still, she thought, as she snapped off her light, her fantasies were her own affair, and he didn’t need to know. As she luxuriated in the cool, clean feel of fresh sheets, Melinda imagined the smiling young man with her now. No, not in the bed. That was too good for him. Just standing beside the bed, naked except for some very white, tight briefs. His muscley arms, his wide chest. That incredible smile, and a heated, hungry look in his eyes. He was watching her, and the front of his briefs was swelling.

May I join you? he would say, his voice a low rumble.

Do you want to join me, she’d reply, teasingly.

Very much.

Show me how much.

A flashing white grin, and he’d roll back the briefs. There he was, all of his hardness hanging in the air right next to her.

Mmm. You want to join me quite a bit, I think.

Yes, I do.

Not just yet, Joe. Why don’t you just watch me a while?

Oh yeah . . . Now that would be fun, she thought, giving her nipples a few solid, wrenching tugs in turn. Not letting him just climb on top of her like the selfish prick he was. Just letting him watch her, making him want her. Oh, she was so wet already. Christ, she was sopping. The whole idea was intoxicating: the young, virile, sexy man, forced to just watch her, getting harder and harder. Teasing him. Prolonging his torment. Utterly in control.

Her cheeks heated, her breathing growing quicker, Melinda eased her tits out of their flimsy confines beneath the sheets, allowing her grasping fingers to work their magic uninhibited. Yes, she had such big, lovely, smooth tits. So nice to squeeze and caress.

You’d love to squeeze them, wouldn’t you, Joe?

Damn right I would, Melinda.

I can tell you would. You can touch that if you want to, by the way.

I’d rather you touched it

Mmm, I bet you would. Oh well -- suit yourself.

Yeah. She would rub her tits ever so lovingly, ever so seductively in front of his starving eyes. Eventually he would cave in, would grab his throbbing tool and start stroking it, never taking his eyes off of her. He would want her -- she would make him want her.

Suddenly Melinda wanted to feel this fantasy -- to feel it in every possible way. She thrust the top sheet away from her, felt the cool breath of the night air on her bare breasts. Her nipples, already rock hard, throbbed in appreciation. Joe would be looking at those nipples with his mouth watering, she thought. Smug little fucker.

Just what would he see, she wondered -- if he were here, with her, right now. She reached over and twisted open the blinds of her bedside window, allowing the pale blue moonlight to bathe her body in its glow. Hmm, not bad. The moonlight was far more flattering than the harsh lightbulbs in the bathroom. Her spacious tits and upturned nipples, her thighs beyond, all looked creamy and warm in the blue glow.

Her fantasy spectator still very much in her head, Melinda found herself getting excited by the sight of her own body in the flattering light. The idea of tormenting the cocksure young stallion seemed much more believable to her now, as she pulled away the rest of the sheet, and sat up to remove her nightgown. There, she thought, as she lay flat again and surveyed herself. Now I look good enough to eat.

You look good enough to eat, baby.

You wish, Joe. You just hold your horses for a while.

Yes, very nice indeed. The pattern of the blinds on her dreamily lit body somehow de-emphasized her imperfections, lessened her flaws. Her waist didn’t look quite so thick to her, her legs were more slender. And her tits! They were sublime -- a man would have to be queer not to want them desperately.

Melinda’s temperature was now going through the roof. Her pussy ached and throbbed -- she rubbed at it through her panties as she squirmed and wriggled on the bed, enjoying the tempting jiggle of her breasts, savoring the reckless look she imagined in Joe’s eyes, his fingers’ quickening pace on his own swollen tool.

Oh God . . . Don’t stop, Melinda. Please.

Don’t stop what, dear?

Don’t stop . . . taking it off. Please, I want to see all of you.

Are you sure you can handle it?

Twisting at her left breast with one hand, she used the other to yank at her rapidly dampening panties, easing her butt off the bed slightly to get them off. Now. Yes, she was naked and lovely and desirable in the soft cool glow. Her hips swiveled invitingly against the sheet, her pussy was a dark, swelling mount between the creamy skin. Any man would want her. All men would want her.

Melinda closed her eyes and rubbed her open palm lightly against her crotch, never ceasing her attentions to her nipples with the other hand. She was silky, warm, wet to the slightest touch. She let one finger slide languorously along her cleft -- that was Joe’s tongue, she was allowing him a taste -- and waves and ripples of pleasure rocked through her. Suddenly her fantasy was splitting in two -- she wanted poor Joe to just watch and want her, but she also wanted him in her, fucking her, making her cum. In her mind she made herself slow down. He was still there beside the bed, stroking his big cock. Yes, she had allowed him one taste but that was all for now. But her fingers quickened -- she rapidly delved two of them deep into herself. She was ovening hot inside, and so wet that her fingers made wonderful squelching sounds each time she withdrew them.

For a long time, how long it was impossible to tell, Melinda squirmed and gyrated on the bed, her fingers working madly in and out and all around her drenched pussy. Sometimes Joe was still there, watching her frenzy with puppy dog eyes. Other times it was his fingers working her -- his tongue lapping up her flowing juices. She just couldn’t make up her mind, and frankly, she didn’t care by now. It all felt so good. The cool air on her naked body, the bounce of her tits, the romantic moonlight, the dancing pressure of her (his!) fingers. Even the wet spot beneath her ass, growing wetter and wider by the minute. All so damn good.

There was one thing, however, that she could make up her mind about. It was time to be fucked.