Mother-son Books Novels & Stories

Mother and son. Neither of us blames the other for anything. We have always just been mother and son. Riley and Esme are siblings and boy do they act like it sometimes. I swear I can get whiplash because of their moods. One day they are so close that you would swear they are twins.

"She brought me here once, after my father died. When my mother wasn't... herself." The implication hangs in the air between us. I watch his profile in the dim light, wondering how a son copes with the knowledge that his mother is capable of murder. Inside, the cabin is cozy and well-maintained, with a large stone fireplace dominating the main room. Bookshelves line every available wall space, and herb bundles hang from exposed ceiling beams. It smells of cedar, sage, and old paper—oddly similar to my bookstore. "Home away from home," I say, running a finger along the spines of leather-bound tomes that could easily belong in my father's collection.

It’s freaking me out and it’s turning me on and it’s freaking me out because it’s turning me on. He stops reading just as the characters move on from spanking to screwing. “What do you have to say for yourself, young woman? Doesn’t that sound foolish, read aloud?” He’s not just scolding me. He’s making fun of me, too. Great. I roll my eyes. “Daddy, it’s just a book. I like it, and besides, Tom Clancy would sound just as dumb if I did a dramatic reading.” He takes a step forward, and then another, taking over my personal space. I’m surrounded by his cologne, the leatherywoodsy one that’s like Essence of Grown Man, and I know I ought to back away, but instead I’ve grown roots into the rug.

“Yeah. When I was young, my dad pushed me hard to become the perfect Alpha. Training, everyday he was relentless. I never had a normal childhood.” I sat slowly beside the mess of books, listening closely. “But my mom…” he continued, his voice softening. “Every night, no matter how bad my day was, she’d read me a bedtime story. She said it was to remind me that I was still a kid. Soon I turned into my father's robotic son, I resented the books and said the stories were lame. But…” He glanced at the book in his hand. “Now they’re the only good memory I have from back then. Somehow, reading them gives me that same warmth. Just… for a little while.”

I could vividly recall Benji's face, which was etched with helplessness and despair, during his dying moments. Joshua began berating me angrily. "You're a mother, yet you always return home late at night! Your son loiters on the streets as well, just like you! Why don't you look at how Rosalind raises her son and learn from her?" "Oh? Since Rosalind is such an expert at raising kids, then you should become her husband and her son's father! Oh, right! You're already playing the role of a father to her kid!" I was practically growling out the last sentence through clenched teeth.

Still, there was never any sense of perversion in the few times anything did happen, just a father and his son. When he got home, I guess I didn’t really notice it had been later than usual. The book I was reading, well, let’s say I got through it pretty quickly. The door shut loudly and I remember being jolted by that, he had never been loud. He called to me and set me at the table to talk to me. Mom wanted back in, not so much in the family, but my life. I was her son, but that was saying about as much as someone that collects porcelain dolls saying that they were one of their children, only I’m pretty sure she’d love dolls more than she did me. She wanted to spend weekends.

~Elena~ I fucked a father and son. Yes, you read that right. I didn’t stutter. I took them both. One after the other. Sometimes at the same time. And no, I don’t regret a damn thing. They were both my mates. Not one. Not either. Both. You could say the Moon Goddess smiled at me… or maybe she just wanted to watch me break. And before you sit there with your mouth hanging open like you’ve never done anything wild, let me stop you right there.

Denae glanced at the man she had loved for years, tears in her eyes as he rammed into her. Her body was pressed against the cold walls; naked, bare to the eyes of the darkness that surrounded them. Out of all the ways she thought doom would reign over her life, this wasn’t apart of them…this was far worst. A father and a son…they both were alike, but despite loving this boy, he was worse. The mate bond between them seemed to mean nothing to him, but then again, why should it mean something?

Not once. A memory surfaced, unbidden. She was twelve, standing in the kitchen doorway while her parents argued about money. Her father's voice had been cold and clipped. Her mother's had been sharp, defensive. Christiana had learned early that love in their house came with conditions. Good grades. Perfect behavior. No mistakes. Another memory. Sixteen. Her mother adjusting Christiana's dress before a company gala, her hands rough and impatient. "You represent us tonight. Don't embarrass us." Not a single word about how Christiana looked or felt. Only what she represented.

My father is the kind of father who is holding the hands of the mothers of the daughters the fathers of the mothers of the daughters the fathers are the fathers of are the kind of fathers of the mothers of the daughters the fathers of the mothers of the daughters the fathers are the fathers of who are going to marry the men the daughters of the mothers of the daughters the fathers of the mothers of the daughters the fathers are the fathers of are going to marry. Joan and Richard are in the chairs. Joan and Richard are the small, quiet, very real people who are in chairs at benches in small parks on hills in Los Angeles on the mornings of the days the sons of the parents the parents are the p