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From: thedisciplen@yahoo.com (DiscipleN)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 25 Jun 2003 11:32:05 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} I'll be a Mommy's Uncle! [1/6] (Fm,Ff,ff,incest, mom, son, role reversal)
Date: Wed, 25 Jun 2003 23:10:07 -0400
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I'll be a Mommy's Uncle! (1/6)

by DiscipleN
Copyright (c) 2003, by DiscipleN. All rights reserved.

Multiple codes represent the characters' gender quandaries. Otherwise,
the story is a slow strip tease for incestuous, power transgression
fans.

--------------------------


It's was dull around the house after my father died. It was really,
really boring! You never know what you're going to miss about a person
until he's gone. I'll never miss his cocaine frenzies or the
occasional flings he flaunted before mom, but my father was a pretty
fun guy otherwise. My aging memories of the time he spent with me are
vague, but I know I was never bored. When I turned eleven, it seemed
like the three previous years without pop were one eternal drag after
another.

You see my mother was very strict and proper, and she decided, soon
after my birth, to ensure I never followed the outlandish path of my
father. Curfew was instilled in me the day I left the crib. Sundown
meant straight to bed, lights out, and no noise. I could play with
friends, but only from after school 'til dinner time, five o-clock.
She dressed me conservatively, short haircut, comfortable brown shoes
probably designed by the Amish, and she only bought starched white
shirts and permanent press gray or tan trousers. I was drilled in
every pleasantry and courtesy, and learned manners fit for a duke. In
religion she was a tad more flexible, Methodist or Southern Baptist.
She took me to both every Sunday.

You begin to see my father was my only example of rebellion. After his
death, mother threw out the TV and radios. She edited the newspaper
with scissors. If I dared to cross my mom, she'd cross two lines on my
butt! Father knew what he was doing when he stole me from my room late
at night and sneaked me into an R rated movie. He wanted me to
experience the things that normal kids find when they're not looking,
weird corners of the universe. He took me to bars, (but he didn't let
me drink). He showed me risqué, old french postcards, (but nothing
showing pussy). He dragged me to his friends house where rather wild
parties would erupt, (but he made sure I was off limits.) I learned a
lot about the life mother would never let me lead, with a respectable
amount of restraint.

Unfortunately, neither mom or dad realized what their yin and yang
influence would create. I can sum it up in two words. Frustrated
adventurer.

Why they didn't divorce or separate continues to puzzle me. I can only
guess mom really believed in her marriage vows, death until they
parted. I know now she was furious at him for exposing me to excessive
behaviors, but she never contradicted him or argued with him. She was
the perfect, obedient wife. As for father, I have to guess a little
harder, but maybe mom was the best piece of ass he had ever
encountered. If he had a fetish for women with girdles and wire bras,
mom would be his goddess. I mean, look at her, my mom could have been
a champion breeding mare for kings. She was elegant, stylish, and trim
but full bodied. Her long hair signaled dark sensuality in a breeze,
and passionate brown spice in a wind. Her face could bring back a
thousand ships.

Pop died in mom's arms from a brain aneurism, dick in her pussy, snowy
power dotted around his nostrils. I still imagine him cumming in her
in a last effort to impregnate her chemically repressed womb. Mother
naturally freaked out. Years after her husband's death, she still wore
black and never dated. She hadn't loved her husband for most of my
childhood, but the widow's godhead was a powerful station in life. She
could live independently, act unquestioned in society, and be my
mother warden full time.

In my eleventh year, my adolescent adoration of parental figures was
down to the fumes. Normally, you need to be a teenager to experience
angst's full power of domestic revolt, but I had two things to assist
my transformation from child into underaged demon. First my growing
deification of my memory of my father, and second, my growing hard-on.

I noticed the connection one day, when mother was in the backyard,
hanging the wash. We had a washing machine but not a dryer in those
days. I had turned eleven about four months prior, and I was handing
her clothespins and helping raise the larger linens. A wind suddenly
kicked up and knocked a quilt into my mother. She fell upon the grass
and twisted her wrist. She yelped in pain, but stoic she was, she
turned her pain into anger against herself.

"Foolish woman, can't keep to your feet!" And she abruptly punished
herself by lifting herself to her feet using only her injured arm.

Standing next to her, I tried to assist her by grabbing her shoulder
and lifting. All I managed to do was tug her black blouse and beige
bra strap over her shoulder and down upon her arm, just as she was
using it, most painfully, to regain her feet.

"Ow!", she yelled and fell back once more upon the grass.

I knelt to assist her.

"Calvin, don't touch me!" She muttered and held her re-injured wrist
in her good hand. The pain diverted so much of her attention, she
failed to notice the one thing that would have caused far greater
distress.

Her left tit had fallen out of her blouse. Apparently when I helped
raise her, I pulled her dress enough to snap two top buttons, and when
she flounced back on the ground, the bra was pulled just far enough to
jettison it's heavy but flexible cargo. My mother's tit spilled out of
her dress like a sack of wine off a donkey cart.

I suppose most children, upon accidentally glimpsing a naked breast,
would be more than a little curious about the sight. Even little girls
might stare or even point, as children are always extraordinarily
aware of everything different about adults. It's our most valuable
tool for preparing ourselves to become them.

As for myself, I was flabbergasted! I had seen naked tits in the era
of my father when I was seven years old, either in a film or casually
at one of the wild parties he took me too. I originally reacted with
the innocent curiosity I mention above. By my second year of exposure,
curiosity had faded out of sufficient familiarity. However when I was
eleven, the idea of a naked breast meant something all together new.
It triggered a dozen, half memories of wanton women from dad's
favorite R rated films. I had yet to see pussy, but tits were my
ignorant idea of what sex was all about, hidden but plain to see. Just
like the hard prick that was suddenly stuffed in my summer shorts. The
concept matched my emotions of the time, powerful urges desperately
kept in check out of fear.

I think my mother became aware of her bare breast and my jutting cock
at the same time. She broke every expectation I'd learned about her
when she shouted, "Go to your room and masturbate, why don't you!" She
covered her exposed nipple with her elbow, but didn't otherwise try to
replace the tit into her blouse. Her injured wrist must have been
throbbing.

Naturally, I was incredibly timid about my mother's controlling power,
and I hopped to, running straight into the house and down the hall to
my room. I did not jack off. I knew mother hated the act, not that it
normally stopped me, but on that day my guilt about it was too strong
to overcome.

At dinner, that night, mother had fully regained her composure and
acted as if nothing extraordinary had happened, other than the cream
colored brace that constrasted with her pale wrist. That she didn't
assign scads of extra chores to punish me was a particular relief for
my guilty conscience.

Now I honestly believe my mother loved me as good mother's do, but her
love was expressed in classic puritanical values and action. Hard
work, proper discipline, and attention to cleanliness filled my days
outside of school. Mother was otherwise unable to express her devotion
to my upbringing. When she touched me it was to correct me.
Consequently, I touched her only when formality required it.

My early fantasy life had all but excluded her during, what I thought
were, my private jack off sessions in my bedroom. Father once told me
about boys who pumped their erect penises with their hand, but he
didn't ever demonstrate it. In my late ninth year, I was first
reminded about his casual and guilt free mention of male masturbation
when I woke up with hard-on that spoke to me. I'll remember those
first feelings of sexual desire for the rest of my life. They were
strong and new and unnamed. I wanted something but didn't know what.
My hard dick felt oddly alive in a curious way. If my father hadn't
described how some boys would take their penis in their hands and
massage it, I would never have figured it out by myself. I took to it
like a tot to candy. Because the act was associated with my father,
wild horses couldn't have dragged out a confession of it to my mother.
It was she who had dragged it before me.

In one day, I had witnessed something I could never have imagined. My
greatest, guilty secret had been exposed by my tyrant goddess. Mother
knew I was wanking my prick! On that day, my brain must have wired
it's last circuit in it's sexuality lobe. Soon after 'the incident' I
did try jerking off to the memory of my mother's naked tit. I
immediately discovered that I could orgasm at a new level, remembering
mother lying in the grass, her long black skirt splayed out like a
blanket, her upper blouse in disarray, and her full breast pressed out
into the clear sun. I came with spurts of proto-cum for the first time
in my life. Quickly thereafter, I became intent upon seeing her tits
again.

Just how does a young boy go about exposing his mother's body? There
are more than enough fantasies about mind control and drugs and
blackmail and psychological weaknesses that allow precocious boys to
get into their mother's skirts and brasiers and girdles, but in
reality there is no chance in hell a male child is going to get his
mother to strip let alone put out, unless that boy hadn't yet heard
any of them.

Think about it. My joys in life were limited. I couldn't even piss
standing up. From an early age, mother had commanded that the only way
to avoid dirtying the rim of the toilet bowl or the bathroom floor mat
was to sit and stick it in the bowl. It being my young little cock.
One day, after a lifetime of fear that mother would kill me for
knowing how and loving to jack off, she yells at me to do just that.
Multiply that with discovering my best wanking fantasy of all, and
you've invented monomania.

I promised myself, admittedly foolishly, that I would figure out how
to see my mother naked whenever I desired. If only desires were
fulfilled by simply desiring them, there would be peace everlasting in
this world, hah! I came up with a plan. It was a stupid plan, as
you'll learn. But stupidest thing about it was, it worked.

Mother never mentioned masturbation or her naked breast after the
event. I thought of them continuously. On a sunny day, during a
particularly silent lunch, I asked her, "Mom, can I wear your
clothes?"

Mother stopped chewing and swallowed. "No. Finish your cream of
spinach."

"Why mommy? I hate wearing the same old white shirt and these stupid
pants. All the other kids get to wear whatever they want."

"All the other kids are going to grow up to be drug addicts." She took
a modest bite from her sandwich.

"Humph!" I snorted. It's was the same thing she said whenever I
mentioned how different we were from the rest of our neighborhood.
According to her, everyone else either lived in, or were headed
towards living in, despair and ruin.

That was round one. Score one for mother.


A week later, I asked her. "Mom can I wear your shirt?"

"It's a blouse. No."

"I hate this shirt." I told her again.

"We don't hate anything in this household, Calvin. Hate is evil. Got
that? Besides, you don't hate that shirt, you're simply tired of it."

Round two: 2 points for mother.


Another week passes.

"Mom, can I wear your dress?"

"No. Dresses are not for boys."

"If you can hide that weird top thing under your dress mommy, why
can't I hide this awful shirt under it?"

Mother didn't say anything for a second. She'd never heard anything so
outlandish and crazy.

"Calvin, I want you to stop complaining about your shirt. We don't
have enough money to buy you new clothes." My mother was a clever
soul. She easily figured out I had an ulterior motive for my stupid
requests.

"I know, that's why I want to wear your clothes!" I shouted. Mother
was less able to fathom logic out of nonsense.

"Shout one more time, and I'll paddle you." She defaulted.

Round three: 3 points for mother.


A week later I came into to dinner wearing one of her gray sweaters.

"Calvin, take that off at once." Mother barely raised her voice.

I resisted. She repeated her order, her un-amused expression didn't
flinch.

I unbuttoned the soft wool garment and pulled it off my arms. My thin,
hairless chest was naked beneath it.

Mother's eyes remained emotionless. She got up from the table, grabbed
me by the ear, and hauled me into the living room. She paddled my ass
long and hard.

Round four: 4 points for mother.


On the fifth week, mother opened my bedroom door and confronted me.
"Calvin, what have you done with my blouses?"

The answer was simple. I had taken them all out of her dresser and
closet and piled them at the foot of my bed. The result was much more
interesting than the act. Mother stood in my doorway, light streaming
from the bathroom behind her, wearing only her skirt and a bra. She
walked across the room as if they were her normal garb and plucked up
the pile of blouses. My eyes grew wide as soup spoons staring at the
cream colored nylon supporting and concealing her bountiful tits. If
only I could have pulled my cock out right then I would have spurted
out my increasingly milky cum far enough to soak her thick,
conservative undergarment.

"I'll see you in the living room in two minutes."

Round five should have gone to me, but my resulting backside was so
red and sore, I'm not sure it was even a tie. 4 and 1/2 points for
mom. Half a point for me.


To Be Continued...

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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