Mom's Medicine (Incest, non-futa)

Story by Hardcover

Ever since My Sister Syn, people have been asking me for more incest stories. This Mother/Son one has been one that has been bubbling around in my head for years. My original idea was to have them wake up trapped in a strange room where their desires are somehow unleashed, but I ended up going for this more elaborate set up. Although I left the ending open for a sequel, I really don't have any ideas for one, so that probably won't happen. Anyways, I think this one is an alright story, but if the subject offends you, don't bother reading this, you'll only make yourself more miserable. At any rate, I had planned to start this a while ago but it was a victim of my nearly year long bit of writers block. Please comment if you like this story, you'll make Gillian blush.

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MOM’S MEDICINE

By Hardcover

Mom’s depression began, not unreasonably, sometime after my father had died. Even though their marriage had not been a great one, the effect was profound. Although they had been married over twenty years, they had never seemed very close. Most of that was my Dad’s fault; he was a distant, workaholic who took care of Mom and us, but more out of a sense of responsibility then any real love or affection. He was always at the office, and spent very little time with me, my sister Becky, or even with Mom. He left all the parenting to her, and didn’t even sow up to our birthdays most of the time. Let alone to school plays or little league games. I hardly ever saw him, and as such, I didn’t really know him or care about him all that much. Mom was the one I was close to, and had all the love for, not my perpetually absent father whose sole contribution to my life had been providing fifty percent of the DNA needed to make me. In the end, he was a very good provider, but a very poor father, and a very poor husband.

But I suppose, Mom still loved him for whatever reasons of her own. I was nineteen when it happened. Dad had been working late at the office again, and was on his way home. Also on his way home was one Arthur Wood, a delivery truck driver who was on his way back after working a double shift, and was blissfully unaware of the brain tumor he had that was killing him. Just some poor guy, not the devil. As the exhausted man made his way home, the tumor put just enough pressure on the right part of his brain to send him into grand mal convulsions. No longer in control of the truck, he slammed into Dad’s car head on and was killed instantly, not even having time to finish his seizure. Dad survived the crash but was brain dead. He held on for two weeks as if he was stubbornly trying to finish something he forgot at the office, before expiring. Mom held a bedside vigil the whole time, keeping a morose death watch over him.

I suppose it was easier for me and Becky because in a lot of ways, we had never really had a father. But Mom took it really hard. For all his distance and isolation, it seemed she really loved him. As time went on, her depression worsened, as opposed to getting better. At first, Becky helped me, but in the end it got too much for her and she moved out at age nineteen, leaving me to take care of Mom by myself. Mom resisted getting help, but her despondency kept getting worse to the point where she barely ever left the house.

Mom had always been a beautiful, young looking woman. As a child, especially when going through puberty, I found it difficult not to try to look down her top and spy on her in the shower. In spite of the guilt, I would peep on her and stroke off, looking at her wonderful naked body. But as her depression worsened, her appearance began to change. Her once vibrant red hair took on a pale orange, stringy look, and her face seemed lined and etched with wrinkles that almost sprung up over night. Her eyes became dark and sunken with deep bags under them. She began to look like she was in her late fifties, although she was only in her mid forties.

Four months or so after my twentieth birthday, and a month after Mom’s forty fifth birthday, things got a whole lot worse. One day she finally got so down that she tried to kill herself, sitting in her car in the garage with the motor running. I found her in time, fortunately, and pulled her out.

Something good came of that, in the end. She was so horrified at what she had almost done that she finally agreed to get some treatment. After several sessions with different psychiatrists, it was decided that a stay in a low security hospital was in order. And

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