My mom binge watches monster porn. After a rare medical complication… I accidentally became her fetish FictionEveryone in this freaky, horny story is 25+, communicating, and consenting.
Mom always told me I was smart and good-looking enough that I could become any man I wanted to become. This year, I turned 25, and had become what you might call a 'failson.'
I know it's a harsh term – please don't use it on yourself – but for me, it's true. The realization hit me at the top of mom's staircase, the day I moved back into her house. Following the clomp of mom's fluffy slippers down the hall toward my old bedroom. Ignoring, as we passed mom's room, a purple dildo left accidentally erect on her bedside table. Elbows bumping the hallway's heavy wood grain photo frames, featuring mom's neurologist parents, and mom's neurology PhD. Carrying a thirty-pound box of Pokemon cards (some PSA graded). Thinking, "Mom's so good to me. I failed her: I'm a failson."
Mom, of course, says, "What the hell is that talk? Don't ever say that! You're the most amazing man I've ever met." At a quiet Italian restaurant, way out of my budget, she pulled an olive pit from her puckered lips with a smooch. The pasta was mom's treat: she wanted to celebrate me moving back in. "Well, not 'celebrate,'" she said. "I know: I need to push you to be independent. A 'mensch.' I've already emotionally prepared myself for you leaving – again." Mom's got big, expressive eyes that look twice as big when they're watery. "…But I can't help being a teeny bitexcited to have my baby back. My sweet wittle six-foot-five bundle." Mom's eyes look twice as happy as anyone else's when she makes herself laugh. She loves making me cringe. "My tall glass of water." The more I cringe, the happier and prettier she looks, so I keep cringing.
The waiter asked if we were celebrating an anniversary. I look older than 25; mom looks way too good for 50. Soft skin, tight curves, and long, dark hair.
"You're joking," she smiled at him. "Are you joking? You're hitting on me, right?" Joy and naughtiness and all things mom burst out of her in one quick laugh. The waiter didn't know what to say, so mom said, "Seriously: I'm his mother. He's just been through a break-up. What kind of idiot would leave him, right? I'm buying him wines so I can get all the gory details. Could we see a drinks menu?" Mom's a lot.
When the waiter came back, he snuck a peak down mom's chest, as mom's cleavage was hoisted proudly over the table by her cocktail dress. and impossible to avoid. Mom's kind of got an 'oil painting' build. I always do my best not to stare. Here are the gory details she extracted:
In September, I lost my job at a small, online content mill, where I wrote emoji-rich social media posts for OnlyFans women. 😜🔥 My boss, a fairly hands-off Thai millionaire, sent me a Google-translated email explaining: "the memes you write have too much spice." I suspect my department was replaced by AI. The job market is bad.
A couple weeks into my job hunt, my girlfriend was acting distant. Bri was the first girlfriend I ever lived with, in our own shared apartment. Part-time waitress. Aspiring cozy game streamer. For ~two years she was my cuter, more spontaneous half, who liked the way her party-girl antics made me nervous. Taught me how to dance. Wild in bed. Down for anything.
One night, she sat me down on the edge of our mattress with a glass of cold water, and she said, "So, you know how you didn't want to go to our class reunion?" It was true; I couldn't face my old friends, unemployed. "But I went to the reunion? Alone?" Uh huh. "Have some water."
(I did.)
My girlfriend confessed that she had had sex that night with all eight male and female members of the anime club.
I said, "Oh my god, Bri. Oh my god. Like the Wexley U nine?"
She said, "No, not like Wexley. It was very much consensual."
"But they coerced you? They took advantage of you, drunk?"
"It was anime club. We're kinky, socially anxious people. We signed contracts, sober."
The water was so cold, and the glass suddenly so empty. "If that's what you wanted… You could've asked me if I wanted to participate in something like that."
"You would've said no."
"I guess so."
"It just felt… right that night, I don't know. There was an energy in the air. It was incredible: being pushed and pulled around from all sides. Like making love in eight directions at once."
I asked Bri to please stop talking, and packed my stuff. Clothes, video games, school work from two dropped uni degrees, yearbooks (burned them), and my thirty-pound box of Pokemon cards. I can't drive, so I bused my boxes to mom's.
And then mom was squirming in my lap, in the backseat of an Uber Comfort, on the way home from the Italian restaurant. Watery-eyed while she told me how much she hates Bri for hurting me. Stroking my hair under the sunset-colored mood lights of a Chinese EV. Telling me, "You'll get through this, Bundle. Financially. Emotionally. I'll help you blossom. Any way I can." We've always been hug-friendly, me and mom. Probably even more so after her and dad split. Hugging mom in that fancy electric car, thinking my life was over, belly full of $$$$-tier pasta, was like falling five storeys into a deep, warm Jacuzzi. Mom smells like Christmas morning: earthy, spicy, and nurturing. She kisses my cheek delicately, like she's worried she might break me.
But it was a bumpy drive through the cobblestone streets of mom's gated community, and her tits were bouncing out of her dress, which made mom laugh quite loudly, three wines deep. We stumbled into the house, arm in arm. I helped her tuck her giant tits away, tucked mom into bed, and kissed her nose goodnight. By then, she'd hidden her purple dildo someplace private.
Mom's a lot. I like her that way.
In order to pay rent, mom put me to work. Any time I wasn't job hunting, I was fixing up her house. YouTube tutorials helped me refinish her oak dining table with beeswax (didn't know that was possible), trim and tie the jasmine vines climbing her backyard fence, and so on. Mom said if I kept busy, I wouldn't have time to mope. She was right. I liked working with my hands. I liked checking my phone once-only at night, seeing the timeline angry about [Various World Events], and having no idea what people were talking about. That was good for my anxiety. Best of all, I liked spending time with mom.
We're so close I never thought we could grow closer, but we did. Mom would come home in her white doctor's coat on office days (good mood), or her black scrubs on surgery days (exhausted). Then she'd look at me like she had a secret. Every day. She'd sort of bite her lip and stare, then look away when I looked, like she'd done something wrong and didn't wanna say. It became an inside joke: "You want a back rub," I'd say. And she'd nod, yes yes yes, and she'd get halfway undressed ASAP.
Mom's an angel. She works so hard to help people. Massaging her shoulders, cleaning her house… It's the least I could do to say thanks. Mid-massage, her head would fly back, moaning in my hands. Purring, "Thank you, baby. Right there, baby… Ohh, god. I missed having a man around the house." With her back bare, and her hourglass hips freed, and her lips kissing plush thank-you kisses on my fingers – gentle, like she might break me – mom looked good.
Really, really good.
Am I stupid? I never noticed until moving back in, and oiling her up, that she'd aged so gracefully. My friends used to call mom 'Dr. Hart On,' eyeroll, because her name is Dr. Emily Hart. I always figured they were just messing around, trying to piss me off. Surely they didn't all have hard-ons for mom. Yet here I was, age 25, volunteering to massage her daily. Thumbs loosening tension in her hips. Angling myself away from her beautifully curved, Mediterranean ass – hoping she wouldn't feel or see the erection in my shorts.
"I wish I had one of you for my back, and one of you for my feet," mom moaned, one chilly autumn night, after I'd grilled us dinner on her back deck. She was sitting between my legs, clothed, while I massaged. The stars were out, and I'd nailed the cook on the steaks, but she was tense all the way from her neck to her tits. It had been a black scrubs day. "And then I need one more of you: to get me another wine."
I can't count how many times she mentioned, that first week, that she "missed having a man handy." Mom seemed almost flirty, sometimes. Maybe I was misreading – her signals, my attraction. After all, we were having so much fun, and laughing so much; signals could get crossed. Maybe I was still reeling after being cheated on.
One morning, my ex Bri messaged: Can we talk?
I didn't reply, or do any housework that day. Mom came home from a late shift to find me quiet on the couch. She didn't ask why. She just tossed off her white coat, pulled me up onto my feet, and wrapped her arms around me. Kissed my hair. Stroked my arms. Held my limp head against her chest like a dead fish.
Chest soft. Chest big. Chest warm. Confusing.
Mom told me, that night, about a neurosurgeon friend who does experimental procedures. 'Body-mind interfaces.' Brain chips, basically. Some of the first of their kind. She said he'd had great results so far treating depression and anxiety, my lifelong enemies. That installation was surprisingly quick and painless. That she could call in a favor, if I wanted.
Then the autumn's first dead leaves were encroaching on every sidewalk. It was the last gray morning of September, and I was sitting in a corner office inside a cuboid medical building. The office door had a Microsoft Word printout taped on: "Becoming Corp.," it read, in small, Times New Roman.
The waiting room smelled like luxury hand soap shops I'd walked past, but never bothered browsing. Its large, potted monstera plants were real monstera, not IKEA monstera. Pamphlets on a glass top table advertised the benefits of the 'Dreamee' chip, TM symbol. "Reimagine the link between body and brain. Leave the laws of nature behind. Shed rules for possibilities…"
"…And become your dream you," the neurosurgeon would reiterate. Black scrubs. "Your timing's great. We can squeeze you in today, actually, for day surgery. I'm a great fan of your mom's. Beautiful person. Yeah. Yeah. It's so great to meet you, Austin."
"My name's Felix," I said.
"Felix. I'm so sorry. I just saw an Austin yesterday. Yeah. Super great to meet you, Felix. Does becoming your dream-you sound like something that might interest you?"
I remember a tickle behind my ear.
Twenty-four hours later, my head was wrapped in bandages, and my feet were up on mom's back deck. Mom was wearing a fall sweater for the first time. The mom-kind of sweater that's modest, but shaped snugly to every curve of a mom-body. She kept asking if I was in pain, if I needed anything, and reminding me she was proud of me. It didn't hurt at all. I felt like I felt when I worked with my hands: calm. Clear.
Mom's big, dark eyes seemed more beautiful than ever.
A technician from Becoming Corp. set up his laptop on mom's patio table, talking me and mom through the chip installation process. Explaining that the Dreamee brain chip would help me fight illness more efficiently, get better sleep, and even help me learn other languages faster. That in rare cases, users have even willed minor physical improvements, like growing an inch taller.
"He doesn't need to change a thing about his looks," mom said. "If he was any more handsome, I'd have to kick him out." She animatedly fanned herself, and winked at me, and man, I love mom.
The technician awkwardly ignored her jokes. He stressed that this step is very important. He said, typing at his laptop: "While I calibrate your Dreamee, I want you to envision your best self. Close your eyes. Think of the person you want to be."
I closed my eyes. I felt the crisp dead comforts of the autumn breeze, and the squeeze of mom's soft hands around my hand. I smelled maple pecan cookies baking in mom's oven. The fireside perfume behind mom's ears. The first calibration thought I had was: I want to make mom proud.
I want to be the man mom wants me to be.
There was a strange sensation between my ears. Not quite an electric shock. More of an electric wave, or a tingle. I kept repeating the mantra: Make mom proud. Be the man mom wants me to be.
And then mom's hand was stroking my bicep. Her thicc, Mediterranean thighs, wrapped in their Lululemon tights, were grazing my thighs. My eyes remained closed. I breathed mom's warmth. I missed resting on the pillow of her soft, round, confusing chest.
'The man mom wants me to be' became, next, I want to be mom's ideal man. Whatever that means. My cock was swelling against my leg, bulging in my boxers. My bulge was doing the thinking, not my brain:
Whatever mom thinks is attractive, hot, and sexy: that's what I wish I was.
The laptop clapped shut. "That's it?!" I asked. "All finished?"
"That's right," said the technician. "Good luck on your journey to becoming your dream you. Oh. Why? Did you need more time to calibrate?"
"No, no. That's fine," I said. I thought, How did my mind go there so easily?! Maybe watch less MILF porn.
Mom squeezed my hand, and then jumped out of her chair. Two ribbed goat's horns were growing out of my head. Just kidding: the patio table was shaking. A tree in her backyard dropped one of its larger, older branches. I hadn't noticed it rotting when I gardened, but it must've been. Peeled right off the trunk and hit the grass with a smack. Shook the damn windows.
"Hopefully not a bad omen," the technician joked.
Mom politely laughed, and looked at me like, Can he not say that right now? Jeez.
She insisted, that night, that I sleep beside her in her bed. "Just in case you're concussed, or confused, or I don't know what else. I want to be there." I said maybe; I'd think about it.
(I tried not to think about it too much, or my boxers would start bulging.)
After dinner, I had to tell mom I'd get changed by myself; no, mom, you don't have to wrestle my jeans off. "Felix, it's nothing to be ashamed of. Jeans are jeans, bodies are bodies. The surgeon said you shouldn't bend over too quickly," was her reasoning.
Mom looked too cute in her tights, in her tight autumn sweater. Imagine if her big, brown eyes were looking up at me, on her knees. Imagine looking down at those sweater puppies while she unbuckled my belt. Of course I said no thanks. I was afraid, if she pulled my jeans down, I'd whack her face with a hard-on. "I'll change slowly," I said. "Don't worry. I'm your 'baby,' but I'm not – you know."
"Alright. You're right. You're a man. You can handle this. But if you need my help with anything – anything at all – don't be embarrassed."
That was the first night in many nights that I sent out zero resumes. We both left the housework for the next day, cuddled on mom's L-shaped couch, and watched a horror movie. Halfway through Backrooms, mom was halfway on my lap, scared.
Ass cheeks round. Ass cheeks soft. Ass cheeks warm. Confusing.
She said, when the movie was over, "That was horrible. I mean – it was good. Really good. But it was a horrible, sad story. Hold me." I did. She confessed that she never watches scary movies unless she's got someone to watch with her.
I told her I'd protect her from movies. Any time.
Mom smiled, sleepily. And her lips parted barely to kiss the tip of my nose. The street outside her living room's large, bay window was dark, except for small, glass-mushroom solar lights that wind through her garden. A couple of neighbors' cars rolled past. An animal of some kind was rustling through her trees. Mom didn't want to leave my lap. Her sweater puppies chest weighed on my chest as she held me, arms latched around the back of my neck. Her dark, heavy eyes looked into my eyes with so much love I could feel that love overflowing into my heart. She asked me, "When they calibrated, what did you think about becoming?", but fell asleep, her hot cheek pressed to my cheek.
And I fell asleep for a little while, too. Dreaming about my belt buckle, unlatched, and mom's big eyes. About mom's gentle kisses. On my chest. On my boxers bulge. A throb between my legs. The curve of her round breasts, grazing my legs. "I wish I had one of you for my back, and one of you for my feet," mom moaned into my dreamscape, before I woke up to the glow of bright, cool light.
Lap empty. Mom's laptop was sitting on her living room ottoman. She was sighing at it, sleepy-eyed. Clicking, tsking. The street outside was silent. Her mushroom-shaped solar lights had dimmed, losing charge. It must have been near midnight.
"I forgot to ask you earlier, hon, if you could help me with a tech problem," she said. Clicking, tsking. "I'm worried I've downloaded a virus or something. It starts, and then it crashes." The cool glow of her laptop screen died, and the living room was black without it.
I booted into her BIOS. I fixed the boot order. The cool glow of her screen didn't die: it lit up mom's sleepy, relieved smile; and her sleepy, misplaced waves of gorgeous, dark hair. And then she bit her lip, like she'd done something wrong and didn't wanna say.
"I'll give you a back rub tomorrow," I said. "Or maybe in your bed. C'mon. Let's get some sleep."
Mom buried her lip bite in her hands. "No, it's not that…" She peeked wide-eyed through her fingers.
On mom's laptop screen, the source of her shame:
Porn. Dozens of porn files, unopened, but clearly named. Shortcut after shortcut, pinned, row after row. Files sitting across the bottom of her ocean sunset wallpaper:
Unsuspecting bored housewife pleasured beyond belief by many-limbed alien parasite. | Busty mommy beauty willingly stuffed from both ends by tentacle cocks. | The look on her face when she gets DPed for the first time – by a 10-foot tentacled monster.
Browser shortcuts. Erotica PDFs. MP4s. Comics. GIFs. All of them promising life-changing orgasms from eight directions at once.
I said, "Holy shit, mom."
In the cool glow of that screen, mom's blushing face looked a sort-of pink. "I thought maybe I'd downloaded… one of those files, from the wrong site. You weren't supposed to see the actual homepage. What is it? The 'desktop.' I honestly didn't think it would start."
I wasn't sure whether to laugh because my mom watches tentacle porn, or fight off an erection because my mom watches porn. So I said, "Your tastes are very particular."
By now, the pink on mom's cheeks was clearly red. "I read a weird romance book one time," was her only explanation. "Then I was hooked – so to speak."
"And now it's all over your desktop."
"Yup. Yeah."
"For instant, easy access."
"My job is stressful, Felix."
"Meaning…?"
"Meaning: When your mother comes home from inpatient shifts, and there's no man here to keep your mother company, your mother likes to sit – on this couch – with her laptop on the ottoman, and…" Mom looked me in the eyes, and those tingly waves of neural chip calibration came crashing back, right between my ears. "…And then I de-stress," she said. "I de-stress. Y'know what? I've always taught you there's nothing shameful about bodies or sex. I'm going to stop being ashamed now. Is that alright with you?"
"Absolutely." I was so unbelievably turned on. "We can share anything."
"That's right, we can. Your mother – …" Mom sighed. "Iwatch and read tentacle porn to de-stress after work. Sometimes for hours at a time."
"Awesome." I was raging hard. "Everyone's got a thing." And mom's thing is gooning to monster sex.
Mom's mouth kept opening to silence, looking for the right words. In the process, she said too many words. "I have very sensitive… nerves."
I said, "That's cool," like I was up for Sex-Positive Son of the Year.
"And so, because I'm a sensitive, vulnerable person, I like to fantasize about being… roughed around, from all directions." Mom's chin was held high. Her face was contorting into the naughtiest of smiles, like she was fighting back laughter.
"Is it the alien element that does it for you, or…?"
"No, no. Don't be silly. Aliens, monsters, squid-people… No. I just like tentacles."
I was nodding. "Tentacles."
She almost seemed excited to talk about it. Maybe for the first time: "It sounds weirder than it looks. I like the little cups along the tentacles – you know the ones I mean? – suckling your skin. Basically, holding you down and lifting you up easily. That's a normal thing for a woman to want, right? Overwhelming strength. Attention. Tickles. Like, in the fantasy – " she literally, eagerly, shifted in her seat. "Like in the fantasy, you're wanted all over. Every part of you. At the same time."
"By tentacles."
"That's right."
My ears were ringing. I was thinking about my mom's fingers, soaked in her own juices, circling her clit on that very same couch. And the way her thicc thighs might rise, spread-eagle, into the air. And the way my mom's pretty, plump mouth might drop and hang open while she watched freaky, kinky porn. And so I laughed, to hide my arousal, and then we laughed together, mom and I. Hugging. Giggling. Thinking about work stress, masturbation, and the obvious hard-on tenting through her son's pajamas.
"Can you ask the neural chip to forget the last ten minutes?" she teased.
"I was thinking of replaying that memory, actually. Just to see your face go red." Intrusive thought: mom cumming so hard her face changes color. We laughed our way upstairs, and I lay my bandaged head down gently in her bed.
Mom asked if it was alright that I big-spooned her. Yes, it was.
I asked if it was alright that I rest my arm over her chest. Yes, it was.
"Nothing hurts?" she checked again.
Nothing at all hurt.
We fell asleep while my heart beat violently into our cuddle. Her feet rubbing mine. My palms petting her warm, round chest. Aware of her stiff nipples, poking perky and bra-less under her tight pajama tee. Aware of my guilty throb, prodding through my pajama pants, barely angled away from her thighs.
"What a day," mom mumbled. "Things are going to change for you…" She cupped my hand in hers, over her stiff nipple, and her breasts rose with slowed, sleeping breaths.
In my dreams, mom was underneath me. Biting her lip. Writhing over her bed's silky white sheets. Luring me closer for a mother-son kiss. She opened her plush mouth to let me slide inside. She lifted her chin proudly to invite a gentle grab of her pretty, feminine throat. She was writhing underneath me. Pulling her top up until her supple mommy tits dropped out, wobbling; ripe for pinching. Undulating her oil-painting hips until my grasp slithered below her, where I wrapped myself around each dense, spankable ass cheek. Her pussy was glistening wet and waiting. Her asshole puckered, clenching and un-clenching, anticipating the first inch of her son inside her body. I felt her up all over, and everywhere at once: her softness, dense when pinched too tightly; her tightness, soaked and stretching around me. I felt her moan against my skin as clearly as I felt her clench between her legs. Around one cock. Two. Three. Swallowing everything I gave her. Drooling down her chin. Rolling her big eyes back. Creaming down her thighs. Moaning my name… "Fuck me from all sides."
I woke up hard in her bed the next morning. Cock standing tall. So stiff it had wrestled past my pajama pants button and burst into mom's bedroom in my sleep: head pink, swollen, and standing naked in the middle of the room. Thank god I was alone. Mom and her white work coat were gone. I tried to sit up and tuck my throbbing cock away, but the bed wouldn't let me. It was like the mattress itself was tugging me back onto its silky white sheets.
The alarm clock read clearly: 8:30 am. The morning light through mom's linen curtains was harsh. I wasn't dreaming.
I kept pulling and pulling, trying and failing to sit up, until the sensation of pulling ached along my arms. I called out, "Mom?" But she'd already left the house. Above, I found the problem: my arm was stuck like superglue to mom's wooden headboard. Airtight, like a suction cup had sprouted from my wrist.
~