Mom Strips Naked for Nude Day Ch. 02

Chapter Two - Swallowing it all, Hook, Line, and Sinker, Mom Takes the Bait

"About me? Why suddenly now are you having problems writing about me," she said looking at him with disbelief, before looking down at his book filled with erotic stories about her, "when you never have before?"

"Now don't get mad and don't take this the wrong way," he looked at her, while waiting for her to give him a nod of affirmation and when she did, he continued. "But I've been trying to write about you naked and I just can't," said Jason trying to control the sexual excitement that he suddenly felt by the thoughts of agreeing to strip naked and her sitting in his room and on his bed naked.

Had he stuck a pin in her, he wouldn't have gotten more of a reaction. Had he torn her cross from the wall and the thrown the picture of Jesus with his Apostles at his Last Supper in the trash, he wouldn't have received an angrier stare. Had he ripped open her blouse, which he so wanted to do, he'd never evoke such a disgusted look.

"Don't get mad? Don't take it the wrong way? How can I not get mad and take that the wrong way, when my perverted son is stuck trying to imagine me naked, while writing a story about me, his mother, naked? Oh, boohoo. That's just too damn bad you can't imagine me naked. Newsflash, Jason, you're not supposed to imagine your mother naked," she said lecturing him in the way that she always did.

When she acts like that, so confident in herself and so angry at the world, is when he's attracted to her the most. Filled with opinions and ideas, his mother is a real woman and not some empty headed, cute, little ass or a blonde piece of fluff, that he dated in the past. Obviously, none of his prior girlfriends measured up to Mommy. None of his girlfriends could fill her size 7 shoes.

"All that I've written so far for this story is garbage," he said continuing in hopes of trying to explain the difficulty that he was having in trying to write her nude character with the hopes that she'd take pity on him and strip naked.

"Garbage in is garbage out, Jason," she said with a satisfied motherly look. "Writing incestuous stories about your mother is garbage from the start. Trying to imagine me naked is fruitless. You will never see me naked," she said wrapping her arms tighter around herself and crossing her legs to make herself look like a pretzel.

"It isn't believable," said Jason ignoring his mother's comment and persevering, in spite of her negative opinion of his creative work, albeit incestuous writing, along with his hint of wanting to see her naked. "My writing, suddenly, about you is all forced. For the first time in more than 3 years, I may not have a story to enter in the National Nude Day contest and if I don't enter a story, I won't have a chance to win any money. Moreover, I'll lose all my fans."

She looked at him unflustered by him wanting to see her naked and about him not winning any money, that is, until he mentioned fans. As if his writing became realer because there were readers, she softened.

"Fans? What fans? You have fans?"

She looked at him with a face full of surprise that her son would have fans reading his stories about her. A flash of sexual excitement crossed her face, before she returned to being his mother.

"Yes. Mostly older men, of course, but tens of thousands of people from all around the country and all around the world, United Kingdom, Australia, Japan, China, India, Germany, France, Spain, and the Netherlands write comments and e-mail me about my stories and about you, Mommy."

"They write to you about me, your mother, having sex with you, my son, and about you, my son, having sex with me, your mother?"

"Yes, Mommy, they do. They love my stories. They love your character. They think you're hot," said Jason feeling his cock twinge and so wanting to tell his mother that he thinks that she's hot, too. "I even receive comments and e-mails from some women, too, who have a secret desire to have sex with their sons."

"Gross," she said making a sour face, as if having just bitten a lemon. "I don't know how a mother could ever have sex with her son. That's just so perverse."

"Just because it's a son's sexual fantasy to have sex with his mother or a mother's sexual fantasy to have sex with her son, doesn't mean that either will go through with it. Incest is just a sexual fantasy for most, more for some and less for others. Just reading about the possibility of having sex with your mother or with your son is stimulating enough for most people to masturbate over the thought of having incestuous sex," said Jason suddenly wondering if his mother masturbates and if she does, what arouses her enough for her to masturbate.

"So, that's what these stories are? In addition to being a sexual fantasy, writing about me naked is fodder for your masturbation? My son writes masturbation stories about me being naked? That knowledge makes me sick to my stomach."

"You could look at it that way, mother but, truly, they are just stories to me," said Jason having a hard time letting go of the image of his mother lying on her bed with her legs spread, while she masturbated herself over having sex with him.

Who knows? Maybe she's being so resistive to his stories of incest because he struck a familiar chord. Maybe she's just as attracted to him, as he's attracted to her. Only, being his mother, she had to show more restraint. Being his mother, unable to run wilde, she must set an example. Being his mother, she can't force her son to have sex with her in the way that he'd like to force his mother to have sex with him.

"Then, I don't understand how imagining me naked, while stripping for Nude Day, should be a problem for you, when you've already written so very many stories about me naked," she said with her face flushing red. "You've imagined me undressing, you've imagined me masturbating, you've imagined me taking a bath, giving you a blowjob, taking me to your prom and to your bed, and having sex with my naked, drunken body," she said breathlessly, as if his hot bedroom and/or his stories were beginning to get to her. "What more is there possibly to imagine that you haven't already imagined?"

"It's not at all like that, Mom. My stories are not just about incestuous sex. My stories are about real people, people who aren't incestuous perverts, but people who come together at a time, when they need love the most."

"Your stories are filthy pornography," she said pointing a finger of shame at him, as if her next line was going to be that he'd burn in Hell for all that he's written about her. "Love has nothing to do with your stories. Sex, sex, sex, your stories all about sex, forbidden sex, and incestuous sex."

"My stories are real stories with a beginning, a middle, and an ending," said Jason ignoring his mother's comments and persevering in defense of his stories. "All of my stories have a plausible plot, tension, dialogue, imagery, description, and character development. Any time I write about having sex with you," he said looking at her, as if imagining having sex with her, "it's always written in a loving way and not in a crass or pornographic way. Any time I write about having sex with you, it's more about love than it is about sex."

"I don't care how lovingly you think you write your story, the fact that you're writing about having sex with your mother cannot disguise the fact that you're writing about incest. You can put a leash on any animal, but only a dog is a dog, and your stories are trash, no matter how you present them," she said looking smugly satisfied with herself for voicing her opinion in such an articulate and metaphoric way.

"I write stories that are believable and stories that could happen between any mother and son, under the right circumstances. In all of my stories, always there's a reason why a mother and son come together, be it for love, comfort, sex, or something else, a tragedy or even a death in the family, no matter what their relationship, mother/son, father/daughter, or brother/sister, we're all humans. We all have needs sexual or otherwise."

He watched her unfold her arms and uncross her legs. Was she softening? Has he worn her down and won her over, just a little bit? He didn't know. Not able to be in the head of his mother, not able to know what she was thinking and feeling, sometimes, she was so hard to read.

"I did noticed that about your stories, many of them are about real life issues and about real people," she said distinctly softening.

"Thank you for noticing, mother."

As if they were having a conversation about something else, other than incest, she dropped the tension she had in her shoulders and gave him a soft smile. Then, she fell silent for a moment, while looking at him and he wondered what she was thinking.

"After having read all of your stories, regardless of the vile material, you have an innate ability to tell a good story. Even though the subject matter is so grossly disgusting to me, I can still read beyond that to know that you're a good writer, Jason. Nonetheless the quality of the story and feeling so uncomfortably violated, while reading it, the fact that you've chosen to write stories about me having sex with you is not only abnormal but also disgustingly disturbing Jason," she said, pulling her blouse tighter around her neck to deny her son a down blouse peek of her abundant cleavage and bra, should he be looking.

Watching her body language express what he hoped she was feeling, but saddened by what she was obviously now feeling, he could tell just by looking at her that she suddenly felt so very embarrassed by their topic of conversation. No doubt, by all that she must have inadvertently shown her son of her body over the years, and all that he saw of her by what he wrote and what she read in his stories, either she was totally mortified or sexually aroused. Was her face flushed from embarrassment or desire, he couldn't tell which?

Nonetheless, how she felt, she now knew that he's always looking, while hoping to see whatever he could see of her panty and/or her bra, her pussy, and/or her breast. Regaining her stiffness, she sat like the lady she is. After reading his stories, even though he unsuccessfully tried to convince her otherwise, that his stories were only stories and nothing more, she now knew that he was sexually attracted to her.

He wondered how long she could maintain that uncomfortable posture around the house of always making sure she was modestly covered, before slipping to be more comfortably relaxed in her own home and walking around in her flimsy nightgown and bath towel, in the way that she used to do in front of him. Surely, just as she couldn't always keep her hand up to her throat to deny him a down blouse view, she couldn't always keep her knees tightly closed to forever deny him an up skirt view, too. Only, seeing what he shouldn't see of his mother would be more fun, if she wanted him to see more of her, too.

"I'm sorry, Mom, but I can't help myself from writing about you. I can't help myself from being attracted to you. Look at you, you're gorgeous," he said taking his compliment and the fact that she found out his secret, as his opportunity to stare at his mother.

As is his compliment was her light switch, she lit up and became more animated. He couldn't believe the immediate transformation in her. Just by a few complimentary words, it was as if he stroked her. It was then that he realized how lonely his mother was for affection and needy for attention.

"Thank you, Jason," she said gushing. "But you realize, of course, that I'm your mother and incest is a line you we can never cross with me. You can never have sex with me, your mother, Jason. That's just wrong. That's just nasty," she said shaking her head, while folding her arms tightly around her body again, as if she was cold or, more probable, as if she was protecting herself from him.

Obviously satisfied that she had told her son what she needed to tell him, in the way she was telling him, she spoke to him without scolding him, as if she was politely telling to him to pick up his room. Only, Jason stopped listening to what she had to say, after she said that she had read all of his stories. A sexual fantasy come true, always wishing he could share his sexy stories with her, he couldn't believe she read not just one or two, but all of his stories. Now that she had read them all, he wondered if she had a favorite.

"You read all my stories?"

"Yes. I forced myself to read them," she said straightening her posture, as if sitting in a church pew and looking over the sinners with abject superiority. "I needed to know just how mentally disturbed you are, so that I could speak to the psychiatrist with some knowledge of your state of mind," she said making eye contact with him but breaking the eye contact, as soon as she started talking about his stories.

"I'm not crazy, Mother," said Jason taking offense.

"We'll seek a professional opinion to determine that, Jason. Nonetheless and whatever your state of mind, by reading your stories, I was hoping to gain more insight of your mental illness and talk intelligently about the planned therapy for your condition created by your sexual attraction and incestuous attachment to me, your mother," she said so coldly, as if she was a psychiatric nurse.

"Mom, you're making a mistake. I don't need therapy," he said.

"You realize, of course," she said ignoring his plea by talking over him, "that's there's a possibility that you may have to be institutionalized and/or be drugged, should the doctor's therapy not work on you to remove the abnormal and immoral sexual feelings that you have towards me," she said without any emotion that he wondered what in the Hell she was thinking for her to say of that to him.

"Institutionalized? Drugged? I'm not insane, Mother. Just because I fantasize about incestuous sex, just because I write stories about incest, and just because I write incestuous stories that are about you, doesn't make me crazy," he said looking at her with frustration in trying to make her understand that, as much as he was sexually attracted to her, he was also a creative writer of fiction.

Truly, just as he sometimes forced himself to believe and wanted her to believe, that they were just stories, he knew differently. He knew that every story he wrote, he wished he could realize. Every story he wrote about his mother made him want her even more.

"Obviously, Jason, you write stories about incest and use me in your stories because you want to have sex with me," she said looking at him with detachment, while pausing, as if expecting him to answer her in the affirmative. "Dr. Sigmund Freud would have a party in analyzing you," she said with a snide laugh. "Not only thinking about but also writing about us having sex is twisted and wrong. I can't even imagine how your mind works, which is why you must be observed by a professional in a controlled setting."

Jason looked at his mother without speaking. He was graduating college next year and with a possible job opportunity already lined up in addition to the courses he was taking through the summer, he didn't have time for therapy. He realized now that he had misread his mother. Foolishly, he had hoped she'd be so flattered that he was writing about her that she'd willingly strip off her clothes for him to write a better story. Tempted to come clean months ago, he imagined his mother embracing his writing and embracing him naked, while in bed and having sex with him. He imagined him reading his stories to her. Only, he was wrong. How could he be so wrong about her?

Maybe he is insane. Maybe writing mother and son incestuous stories is wrong, after all. Maybe he does need to talk to a psychiatrist. Suddenly, much like Alex, played by Malcolm McDowell, in Clockwork Orange, he imagined himself medicated and locked away in a padded cell and under constant supervision, while he still masturbated over the thoughts of having incestuous sex with his mother and crying out, 'I love you, Mommy!'

Everything would be wonderful, if only his stories had excited her in the way that his stories had excited him and so many of his readers. Everything would be wonderful, if only she was sitting there naked and sexually aroused, after reading his stories, when he walked in his room. He imagined his mother naked and masturbating, while reading his stories. He imagined his mother attacking him, tearing off his clothes, and having sex with him. If only his visions were more than just his imagination.

He'd be so very happy to know that his mother wanted to have sex with him, as much as he wanted to have sex with her. If only his stories had made her horny in the way they made him and so very many others horny, he'd finally experience his sexual fantasy of having sex with his mother. If only, she'd agree to have sex with him, finally inspired, he'd have an entire library of mother and son incest stories to write. If only his stories had made her sexually want him, in the way that his stories made him sexually want her, his life would be complete. Obviously now, abandoning all hope of ever having sex with his mother and of ever seeing her naked, none of what he wrote will ever happen. Instantly, he lost interest in writing another incestuous story again.

Instead, now ashamed of himself and embarrassed by all that he's written about her, a real reality check, she threatened to expose him to others by bringing him to a psychiatrist for psychiatric help. How can incest, something that makes him feel so good and so sexually excited to write and read about, be so wrong? He didn't understand. He'll never understand, even if the doctor was to give him medication and electric shock therapy, if that's what they still did anymore, they'd never stop him from writing and reading about incest, while thinking about and masturbating over having sex with his mother.

Granted, even though he wanted to have sex with his mother, it wasn't as if he was acting upon his desire to have sex with his mother, by forcing his mother to have sex with him. He was only writing and reading about having sex with his mother. If anything, he deemed writing and reading about having sex with his mother, as a healthy alternative to actually having sex with his mother. Now, instead of her embracing his writing, instead of him continuing to find pleasure in writing and reading about having sex with her, he was deemed mentally disturbed by her.

He looked at his mother sitting there so shapely, so sexy, and so pretty, albeit so prim, so proper, and so uptight. He smiled at the image that flashed through his mind of her sitting there naked, while still acting so prim, so proper, and so uptight. In the way of Harry Potter exacting a spell, if only he possessed a magic wand that made his mother naked and made his mother want him sexually. If only he could hypnotize her into not only removing all her clothes but also willingly want to have sex with him. If only incest was an acceptable form of sexual contact between relatives, especially mother and son, he'd be so happy.

Even with her looking at him with horror, as if he was perversely deranged, for sure, he'd do her, if he could. She was so hot. She was so sexy. She was so pretty. She was his idea of a real MILF and he loved her not in the way that a son loves his mother but in the way that a man loves a woman.

Looking at her sitting there so stiff, as if she was constipated, undressing her with his eyes, desperately trying to envision her without her clothes, instead of being relegated to only imagine, he couldn't help but wonder what she looked like naked. Tired of imagining her naked, he'd give anything to finally see her naked.

'Take off your clothes, Mommy,' he imagined saying to her. 'Now jump up and down, Mommy. I just want to see something. I just want to see you naked. I just want to see your big tits bouncing up and down and side to side, while you're naked.' Instead, unable to truly see her without her clothes, he focused more on his incestuous stories.