Matched with Mom? Ch. 01

All characters are 18 or older. This is a commissioned work for a patron.

***

An ignorant online fling ends in hot, incestuous breeding.

University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, April 2023

I sat trapped in the amphitheater-like lecture hall with my peers, a young man with too much to live for surrounded on all sides by a scholastic prison of wood, glass, and steel. Asymmetrical seating filled with shifting freshmen and sophomores curved down in rows that encircled the central presentation area, a sunken, circular dais of a stage and smartboard at the heart of the room. The air stank faintly of academia, of aged books and coffee; polished linoleum. It was the mental graveyard of youth like me, where high school dreams of greatness and freedom were dragged down into the reality of rooms like this one; that a $50,000 dollar-a-year education didn't teach you jack shit.

English 102: The Hubristic Chronicles in Literary Discourse was packed with a sea of students, probably because it was a requirement for way more exciting majors like Business, Pre-Law, Education, Journalism, and Social Sciences. I was one of the captive audience, sitting up in the nosebleed seats and bracing myself for another dreadful-ass 90 minutes of literary waterboarding. We'd covered Milton's Paradise Lost, Shakespeare's Macbeth, Melville's Moby-Dick, and parts of Dante's Divine Comedy. Today would introduce the last module of the course, along with the renewed promise of all the painstaking, old-school analysis that Professor Thompson continually demanded of us. At least it was the last one I'd have to slog through before the end of the semester and my freshman year.

My mind was on anything but English 102 as I checked my iPhone. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat as I pushed my face into my screen, hunched forward on my elbows, thumbs flashing over the keyboard as I navigated my latest breakup. Emily Fischer.

Emily started out as a rebound after I ended a 3-week thing with Becky Lee last November. What was attractive at first with its ease and stability soon slumped into a boring and immature relationship -- Em's first -- where I had to patiently coach her through all her many insecurities. She wasn't particularly good-looking, but we shared a lot of interests and I liked spending time with her. Being perpetually stuck at second base for months made it all feel like a waste of time though, and I was sick of it -- especially sick of her immature bullshit as she became increasingly clingy and cringey to be around. I'd been ghosting her for the past few days and the texts were getting incessant.

[Zach: Please stop.]

[Emily: Why, because I'm just some inexperienced burden to you?]

[Zach: No. I need space. Can we please stop doing this and just move on?]

[Emily: You act like you're so perfect, Zach. Maybe if you were more understanding or patient, things would be different.]

[Zach: I've been patient tho. 5 months, Em. 5. And I've tried to understand. You don't want to put any effort into this.]

[Emily: Srsly you're so superficial.. You just care about sex.]

[Zach: No. I think you're an awesome person. But like I said it's not fair to either of us to keep going with this.]

[Zach: Sorry, I got class. g2g]

[Emily: Fine. Whatever. Fuck you🖕]

I sighed and put my phone down, then dropped my face into my hands. I was so fed up with college girls. After Sarah, Becky, and now Emily, I was starting to despair about the shallowness of the pool of women available to me on campus. None of them knew what they wanted out of a relationship and expected the world for nothing in return. I felt like either I'd have to give up and get married to my fucking left hand for the next 3 years or take the chase elsewhere and expand my hunting grounds.

I was pissed. Apathetic angst turned vengeful as I frowned deep and began deleting all the pictures of us on my phone. Yep. Emily wasn't pretty by any stretch of the imagination. Her body started out okay, but she began to really let herself go after we began dating. Whenever I tried to bring it up or take her to the gym with me, she'd get so fucking defensive and wail about me not liking her for how she was.

I felt a stab of anger and shame as I remembered all the nights Emily had refused to have sex or try anything new. She was fascinated by my big cock but in an infantile and unappreciative way. There was always some new excuse to keep us from taking things to the next level. First, she didn't trust me not to brag about taking her virginity (like that was a prize or something). Then she wanted to save herself. Then she wanted to make sure we were on a deep enough emotional level to take that next step -- like we were soulmates.

We'd dated for 5 months. 5 fucking months. What a waste.

I was so stupid.

As our pictures cycled into the trash, I looked at myself. The earlier the timestamp, the happier I seemed. I was a handsome white male with a friendly smile, 5'11, all lean, well-defined muscle that I'd developed since coming to college and working out 3-4 days a week. I'd been slightly overweight out of high school and I was determined to make a fresh start. My eyes were olive green and expressive, my jaw angular and my nose vaguely aquiline. My hair had started out as an unkempt, dark brown grungy mane but I'd gotten the sides buzzed down and left the top longer and styled.

When the last photo disappeared into the trash icon where it belonged, I felt a sense of relative, bittersweet closure. I was ready to prostrate myself at Professor Thompson's altar of literary masochism.

Speak of the devil. Thompson entered the lecture hall, a dusty old academic in every sense of the term. His disheveled salt-and-pepper hair fell haphazardly over his receding hairline, while a pair of round, wire-rimmed glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. Not to be outdone as a stereotype, the professor wore one of those tweed jackets, its elbows thin from years of scholarly toil and doling out notoriously poor grades. A mismatched assortment of stickied lecture notes peeked out from the pockets of his jacket.

Professor Thompson's eyes peered over the rim of his glasses, scanning the colorful mob of shifting, murmuring GenZs. He cleared his throat, and the room fell silent, save for the occasional stifled yawn and phone ping.

"Yes, yes, settle down. Good morning, everyone," Professor Thompson began in his mesmerizing drone, hand gripping a yellowed copy of Sophocles' Oedipus Rex. "Here at the final leg of our course, we come to the origin of hubris -- a concept, judging by last week's quiz, half of you still don't seem to grasp. Do pay attention. We see the concept throughout history, in various cultures and belief systems, but it is first and best expressed in the literary work of the Greeks. The hubris of Prometheus, of Icarus, of the Trojans, and most notably, the Oedipus tragedies -- which I all hope you brought with you to class today. At its core, this masterwork explores the inescapable grip of fate and the dire consequences of unchecked pride."

Thompson paused, his voice taking on a hint of dramatic flair as he recited a quote from the play: "For whom the gods love dies young, he's their best: All's well with him..."

The professor's words flowed methodically, hypnotically, with no intention of reaching their destination anytime soon, if ever. He put down the book and started writing key points on the whiteboard in his flowing, near-indecipherable script. I sighed again and started taking notes, drifting in and out of focus. Professor Thompson went on and on about the finer details and implications of classic works of the time, about Greek hubris plays and the masks and the chorus, all shit I didn't care about and would never apply to me outside this goddamn requirement. I just wanted to study Journalism, for fuck's sake.

It felt like hours had passed before Thompson started to wind down.

"...The heart of the tragedy lies in Oedipus's relentless pursuit of truth and his gradual realization of what has transpired. Bucking the prophecy of Delphi in his hubris, marries Jocasta, the queen of Thebes, only to discover that she is not only his wife but his own mother, and they have unknowingly begat four children in incest: two sons, Eteocles and Polynices, and two daughters, Antigone and Ismene -- who are also his brothers and sisters."

There were some uncomfortable noises that rippled through the lecture hall, along with a few snickers. Thompson had either expected the reaction or ignored it.

"So too did Oedipus kill his own father Laius on the road to Thebes, unaware of his identity."

Damn, those Greeks were fucked up. I scribbled a few more notes, my attention returning. Thompson continued.

"Shattered by the revelation of his terrible deeds and true identity, Oedipus takes drastic action. 'I called her 'Mother.' Jocasta, come down. 'O God, you were right, it was true, all the prophecies. Now, 'O Light, may I look my last on you. I stand revealed at last -- cursed in my birth, cursed in marriage, cursed in the lives I cut down with these hands.'"

With a hint of morose satisfaction, Professor Thompson added, "Oedipus, in his anguish and despair, unable to handle the truth of his actions, blinds himself with the pins from Jocasta's gown, plunging himself into darkness, both literal and metaphorical."

I grimaced along with half of the student audience.

"The irony is that the man who set out to solve the riddle of his parentage and the plague that afflicted Thebes ends up being the cause of it," the professor went on. "In the end, Oedipus becomes an embodiment of the tragic flaw of pride and its consequences. Hubris."

The bell rang, mercifully signaling the end of the hour-and-a-half lecture.

"I expect you all to have read the play and accompanying materials from Freud by Wednesday, and the outline of the final essay by Friday!" Thompson called after us as we began to shuffle out, some bolting for the doors. "Topic to be approved by me next class, along with your reflection. Syllabus, syllabus, syllabus!"

Fuck me, that class was the worst.

I went straight back to my dorm, a coveted single in South Hall. Inside, I kicked off my shoes and collapsed onto my bed, sighing with relief. My dorm room was pretty spartan, with a bare wood floor and stock furniture. The desk was scattered with textbooks, notebooks, and my MacBook. I'd helped make the place more my own by putting up some band and movie posters, but it never really felt like home. I grew up right here in Ann Arbor, so felt the need to move out of my parents' place and strike out on my own, hence the thrilling dorm life. I missed home, honestly -- Mom, Dad, my dog. At least I'd be back for the summer -- with my older sister Chloe already gone, I was sure Mom and Dad would be thrilled to have me around after being empty nesters for a year.

It was only 2:30 pm but I was tired, bitter, and emotionally spent from the whole Emily thing. I just wanted a quiet place to relax and recharge. Maybe watch something before I hit the gym and took out all my angry energy on the treadmill and weights. Emily had sent me a few more texts but I refused to look at them, instead blocking her number.

"Man, this is such a fucking headache," I grumbled as I scrolled through my social media feeds. More shit about the political hellscape of our country, UFC matches I didn't care about...some new game releases...

I came across a Tinder ad on Instagram that caught my attention. It had a hot 30-something-year-old woman posing in a cafe. She was a knockout, with raven hair and hazel eyes, and a killer, womanly body. I checked the model out again and nodded quietly to myself.

Damn, okay.

Why the fuck wasn't I going after older women?

I sat up in bed, thinking hard. Yeah, okay, fear of rejection mostly. But I'd had a few girlfriends, so it wasn't like I was inexperienced. I was good-looking, and last I checked, I was pretty hung too. Age difference, maybe...but wasn't that a good thing? I kept staring at the ad.

SWIPE RIGHT TO MEET YOUR MATCH!

It was like an epiphany, lightning shot through my 19-year-old brain and directly into my dick.

Shit, I'd never thought about using a dating app like Tinder. It felt risky and kind of pathetic, but it was increasingly looking like a way into that new hunting ground I'd been aching for, away from the immature college girls I'd been stuck with since commencement. I needed to do something now to shake things up, to feel something more than this constant frustration and unfulfillment.

I still wasn't convinced though. What if my friends found out I was on Tinder, chasing MILFs? Or Sarah, or Becky, or Emily?

I went over to my desk and packed my bong. It was a cheap piece of shit; a plastic, purple pipe with a glass bowl and stem I'd been using for years. I grabbed my lighter and sparked the bud, holding the lighter to the weed in the chamber. The bowl glowed red, and the acrid, sweet scent of pot drifted up to tickle my nostrils. I took a deep hit and smoke filled my lungs; with practiced ease, I held it for a few seconds before letting it all out. My head began to spin pleasantly and my body relaxed. It was good weed, a potent Indica strain I'd gotten my hands on from the stoner kid a few floors below me. All the anxiety about my sex life started to ebb away.

"Yeah," I murmured to myself, feeling much better after a few hits, a satisfying heat and pressure settling behind my eyes. I set my bong on my nightstand and lay back on my bed, staring up at the large, luminous American flag that I'd draped over the skylight. I watched the light filtering through it, its edges flickering in the wind. It was like the colors were dancing, waving and swaying around me. I felt a strange dip of vertigo and

laughed to myself.

My mind was still on the idea of dating an older woman. How good it would feel to fuck a real woman instead of chasing yet another entitled coed bitch playing at adulthood.

SWIPE RIGHT TO MEET YOUR MATCH!

Maybe I was really stoned, or maybe my head was still stuck in E102, but for some reason, MacBeth popped into my lazy mind.

'If chance will have me king, why chance may crown me.'

Fuck, Shakespeare had it right, hadn't he? I reasoned it was worth a try.

I sat up and got to work, downloading the app and creating a profile. Pot smoke and chill hip-hop from my laptop's Spotify playlist steadily filtered through the dorm room.

'The ancestors guiding my pen

I know in this life that I did some wrong

And I'm tryna right all my sins

But not tryna write all my sins

And I'm still divided by this

And then I'm divided by that...'

It was simple until I got to the photo part. Despite the buzz, I suddenly felt really uneasy, even paranoid about posting my actual face on Tinder. I wasn't ashamed or anything, not at all, but I also didn't want my likeness out there on a fucking dating app, footprinted on the Internet in perpetuity for all eternity. Ok, ok. Compromise.

I got off my bed and pulled off my shirt to start taking selfies of my hairless toned chest, abs, and arms with my grinning face cut off just below the nose. I was in really good shape, fairly shredded after a year of hitting the gym hard almost every day. I was sure my young, strong, body would attract the right attention.

I took about a dozen pictures and posted the best one, along with a few others of me working out at the gym, most of my face cropped off, and one of me below the neck in a bathing suit on Playa Delfines Beach during Cancun for Spring Break a few weeks ago, flexing and showing off my abs.

I used my middle name, Aaron, and bumped my age up to 20. Student. In my profile, I wrote "Age is just a number. Swipe right if u wanna come explore with me >B)"

I was thinking about mentioning my dick size, a healthy near-nine inches of cut teenage white meat, but decided that going with a more refined profile might be better.

I hit 'save' and set my age range from 28 to 40. I sat back on my bed, still shirtless, and started scrolling through profiles.

It was a veritable feast of MILFs and pumas. Some were pretty and others not so much. Most were posing in bikinis, lingerie, or tight dresses. Others were more candid, their bodies captured in unguarded moments -- sitting by the pool, lounging on a couch, standing in their kitchens or bedrooms. It was a little creepy but at the same time, it was fucking hot. I swiped right on a few, just kind of casually, but one really caught my attention and made my cock jump.

SensualSiren, 37. Only 3 miles from me. Her face was mostly hidden by a strategically placed phone, but I could still see that she was a gorgeous woman. She had a dark, lustrous mane of hair and a pair of green eyes that peeked seductively over the rim of her sunglasses. It was a selfie she'd taken in a full-length mirror, showing off her body in a red lingerie set, a lacy red thong, and a matching sheer lace bra. SensualSiren was standing sideways, her tight, perfect ass sticking out and her large, shapely D-cup breasts jutting forward with just a bit of sag, like she'd breastfed at least one child. I felt my cock throb and harden in response to the sight.

The rest of her body was just as sexy and alluring. Siren was curvy, her stomach flat and inviting, childbearing hips. Her legs looked long and toned and her skin was smooth, with a light, freckled tan and a faint sheen of perspiration. The fake name might have been a red flag, but she was premium, Grade-A MILF. 100% woman.

Yeah, damn, this lady was HOT. I wished I could see all of her but wanted to fuck the living hell out of her all the same. I swiped right, knowing that it might take awhile for her to respond, if at all. My heart was beating fast as I stared at this SensualSiren MILF's body again. The fact that I couldn't see her face excited me and made the mystery all the more enticing. I mean, I got it -- my photos hid my face too. Hopefully she'd think the same of me.

I went back and checked out the rest of SensualSiren's photos. Lingerie, bikini, and one of her in a slinky black cocktail dress, her hair down. All the pics were taken with a portrait mode, minimizing the amount of her face she showed to anonymity, body always turned slightly away. She looked like a model. There was something intimate about Siren's photos that made me want to meet her even more.

I started to wonder what it'd feel like to be inside an older woman. What it'd be like to hold her in my arms, to feel her soft skin against mine, her body pressed to me, the warm, wet sensation of her ripe, mature pussy wrapped around my well-hung teenage cock. Her breasts larger and heavier than the coed chicks I'd been with before, nipples thicker and longer, used to being suckled.

I felt the hot rush of blood to my cock as I started to grow even harder.

It was like all my senses were heightened. The idea of a true woman -- an experienced, sensual, demonstrably fertile, sexually voracious woman -- filled my thoughts. The promise of a real, satisfying relationship. No games. Something much deeper and more primal. It had taken root in my mind and wouldn't let go.

My body was thrumming with sexual energy, my growing dick swelling to near-full hardness. I unbuttoned, unzipped, and wriggled my pants down my pelvis to free myself to the relief of the naked air. My turgid, aching dick jutted up and slapped wetly against my abs before I closed my fist around the thick base, feeling it twitch. I started jacking with the pre that'd already started oozing out, slow and purposeful, as I ran with the fantasy and started checking out MILF porn on my phone with the Pornhub search 'young guy pov MILF fuck'.