The Changing Season (NTR)

The numbers on the page blurred before Ken's eyes. Spring was in the air, a subtle warmth that seeped into his room, making concentration feel like an impossible task. A shower, a brief escape from the stifling heat and his wandering thoughts, seemed like the only solution. He tossed his textbook aside, the thud echoing in the quiet room.

He stripped off his shirt, the cotton clinging slightly to his skin. As he headed towards the bathroom, he passed his mother Mia's room. The door, usually closed, was ajar, a sliver of light spilling into the hallway. Curiosity, a dangerous and irresistible force, pulled him closer. He hesitated for a moment, a flicker of guilt warring with an undeniable urge to peek.

He pressed his eye to the narrow opening, his breath catching in his throat. Mia was there, her back to him, just finishing her shower. A thick white towel was draped around her neck, and she was in the process of drying her body, the towel moving slowly over her skin.

Ken's heart hammered against his ribs. He had seen his mother in a swimsuit, of course, but this was different. This was raw, unfiltered, the sight of her body, completely exposed.

Her shoulders were smooth and rounded, the skin still damp, glistening under the soft light. The curve of her back was long and elegant, leading down to the gentle swell of her buttocks. He could see the faint indentation of her spine, a delicate line running down the center of her back.

He shifted slightly, trying to get a better view. As she turned, reaching for something on the dresser, he got a glimpse of her side. Her breasts, full and high, their nipples a dusky rose, were briefly visible before she turned again.

Ken's mouth went dry. He had never seen his mother like this, truly seen her as a woman. Her body was mature, voluptuous, a far cry from the image he held in his mind. The curves of her hips flared gently, promising a softness that made his stomach clench. He could see the smooth line of her thighs, the gentle slope of her calves.

He felt a strange heat rising within him, a confusing mix of embarrassment and an undeniable attraction. He knew he shouldn't be looking, that it was wrong, a violation of her privacy. But he was powerless to tear his gaze away.

The sight of her, so effortlessly beautiful, so completely unaware of his presence, was intoxicating. He felt a surge of longing, a desire to reach out and touch her, to feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips.

He watched as she picked up a bottle of lotion, the movement causing her breasts to sway slightly. He could see the delicate veins beneath her skin, the way her nipples hardened in the cool air.

He felt a tightness in his chest, a pressure building in his groin. He knew he had to leave, to retreat before he was caught, before his forbidden gaze lingered any longer.

He backed away from the door, his heart still racing, the image of his mother's naked body burned into his mind. He hurried to the bathroom, the heat in his body intensifying, his thoughts a chaotic jumble of guilt, shame, and a burgeoning, undeniable desire.

The cold water of the shower did little to quell the fire that had been ignited within him. The image of his mother, her body bathed in the soft light, her skin glistening with moisture, was burned into his mind. He replayed the scene over and over, each detail a fresh wave of arousal washing over him.

He knew, with a certainty that both terrified and exhilarated him, that his mother was beautiful. Not just the conventional, motherly kind of beautiful, but truly, breathtakingly beautiful. Her skin, even with the faintest hint of wrinkles around the eyes, was smooth and flawless. Her hair, always elegantly styled, cascaded down her back, a dark, lustrous mane. He remembered how men would stare at her when they were out, their eyes lingering on her curves, their jaws slack.

His friends, of course, had always been more vocal in their admiration. They'd refer to her as a "MILF," the term rolling off their tongues with a mixture of awe and lust. He'd cringe at first, embarrassed by their crude comments, but as he grew older, a strange sense of pride began to mingle with his discomfort. His mother was desirable, undeniably so. Men wanted her.

He remembered the way his friends would describe her, their voices dripping with lust: "Your mom is a total smoke show," or "She's got a body that would make any man weak in the knees." They'd recount encounters at social events, how his mother would move through a crowd, her presence commanding attention, how men would whisper and stare, their eyes following her every move.

One incident in particular replayed in his mind with chilling clarity. It had happened at a dinner party, a lavish affair hosted by one of his father's business associates. He had been young, maybe ten or eleven, but he remembered the incident vividly. His mother, elegant in a flowing gown, had been chatting with a group of men, her laughter light and infectious. He had watched as their eyes lingered on her cleavage, their hands hovering near her waist, their gazes following her every move with a predatory gleam. He had seen the way their driver, a hulking man with eyes like a wolf, had stared at her, his hand lingering on her shoulder a little too long, his breath catching as she leaned in to speak. He had seen the way his mother had subtly shifted away, a flicker of unease in her eyes.

The memory, long forgotten, now returned with a vengeance, fueling the fire in his blood. He imagined himself in that driver's place, his hands roaming over her body, his lips claiming hers. He imagined the feel of her skin beneath his touch, the warmth of her body pressed against his.

He felt a sudden, intense arousal, his body responding to the images that flooded his mind. He gripped the showerhead, the cold water doing little to cool the burning sensation that spread through him. He was no longer a boy, he realized with a jolt, he was a man, and his mother... she was a woman. A beautiful, desirable woman.

The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating, a forbidden fruit that he knew he should resist but couldn't seem to turn away from. He closed his eyes, the image of his mother, naked and vulnerable, seared into his mind. He could feel the heat rising within him, a primal urge that he couldn't control, a desire that threatened to consume him.

The shower water beat down on Ken's head, but it did nothing to extinguish the fire raging within him. The images of Mia, both from his recent glimpse and the memory were seared into his mind, playing on a loop, each repetition more vivid, more intoxicating.

He closed his eyes, his breath hitching as he imagined Mia's body. He pictured her shoulders, smooth and rounded, the skin still damp, glistening under the soft light. He imagined his hands tracing the curve of her back, the delicate indentation of her spine.

His hand drifted down his chest, his fingers instinctively reaching for his hardening erection. He remembered the glimpse of her side, her breasts, full and high, their nipples a dusky rose. He imagined cupping them in his hands, feeling their weight, their softness. He remembered the way they had swayed slightly as she reached for the lotion, the delicate veins beneath her skin.

His strokes became faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He pictured Mia's dress hiked up around her waist, her legs spread, her exposed thighs smooth and inviting. He imagined his hands tracing the curve of her hips, the gentle flare of her buttocks.

His strokes became more frantic, his body tensing with anticipation. He imagined his erection sliding into her, filling her with his heat, his power. He imagined her cries of pleasure, her body writhing beneath him.

He closed his eyes, his body convulsing with pleasure, the images of Mia fueling his climax. He cried out, his voice echoing in the empty bathroom.

When it was over, he leaned against the shower wall, his body limp and trembling. Shame washed over him, a cold wave that extinguished the fire within him. He had succumbed to his forbidden desires, his lust for his own mother. He was disgusted with himself, but he couldn't deny the pleasure he had experienced, the intense arousal that had consumed him.

He knew he was forever changed, his perception of his mother, and of himself, shattered.