Love in the Jungle

All characters represented in this work are wholly fictional, and over the age of eighteen.

All characters represented in this work are wholly fictional, and over the age of eighteen.

It didn't occur to me that this trip might've been a mistake until we were already three days on foot into the jungle. College credit isn't worth a bent centavos when your socks haven't been dry since Manaus.

In truth, my involvement in this jungle-diving adventure wasn't necessarily based on merit, nor on the aforementioned credit. Sure, archaeology is extremely relevant to my anthropology major, but under normal circumstances I still wouldn't have attended. My application was based entirely on thewho, rather than thewhatof the journey, namely that my mom was slated to lead it. She pitched it to me as an adventure, a once in a lifetime opportunity to get up close and personal with the history of an ancient civilization while advancing my bona fides for a future archeological career.

Meanwhile, my brain was somewhere else- I think I was too distracted by her low cut top to focus on the details. I heard "credit", "camping", "Brazil", and then "Are you listening to me, Steven?", before I accepted on the spot.

For the record, I'm not attracted to my own mother. That's a sick idea. But like every other junior at UofM, if you give me an expanse of titties to look at, I'm gonna look at them (despite being in her late forties, a life of archeology has let my mom keep things tight, and in the case of her breasts, perky). To be frank, I also saw it as an olive branch, an opportunity to mend our strained relationship back together.

She was an authoritarian as a parent and as a professor, a stern but encouraging hand for both her students and myself. Pre-dad leaving her she tried to make time, to relate and bond with me, and soften her image as a mother a little bit. I wasn't the best son at the time, too focused on myself to understand her attempts to reach out to me before it was too late.

Well, dad ran off with his own graduate student -perhaps philosophy professors know something we don't about being a faithful partner- and it really hurt her. She retreated into her work, becoming Dr. Waters at home, as much as at work. She stopped trying to reach out, finally making me realize what I was going to miss: No more 'mom-son ice cream dates' or conversations over a midnight snack. She retreated into the job, and I wasn't able to drag her back out.

The only way I could possibly get my mother back was to meet her where she was, and she was in her office at UofM. Following her into archaeology again didn't seem like agoodplan, but an adjacent field in which I was already extremely interested, anthropology, seemed like a much better fit for me. It seemed like she responded to my interest in her work, and after a few years of work, I was finally able to spend a little more time with her. And yes, it was a little lascivious of me to look, but come on, don't pretend you've never sneaked a peek.

I didn't intend to make that 'little more time'a month in the jungle, but every excuse I tried to make was batted down as laziness before I could even really make it. A single moment of inattentive horniness amidst a genuine attempt to connect with an estranged parent landed my ass in the swamp of northern Brazil, sharing a tent with my mom and having to listen to grad students twitter about how great it was to be covered head to toe in mud a hundred percent of the time.

Despite my misery, I thought the purpose of our trip was actually really interesting- LIDAR instrumentation detected the presence of pre-Cabraline buildings deep in the rainforest. Some of the grad students thought it was an Incan offshoot, but as with other recent Rio Xingu discoveries, the esteemed Dr. Waters thought it more likely to be the remnants of an as-yet undiscovered civilization along the myriad tributaries of the Rio Jurua. I think being the first to see something like that is actually a bonus to the class credit (and of course spending time with mom), and indeed, the very idea of it gave me the strength to go on despite my sodden socks.

Another bonus: Getting to watch the grad student girls, and yes, even my mom, in various states of undress over the course of our journey. As shameful as my perversion felt at various times I thought that it was only fair, after dragging me out so far, that I received glimpses and glances at racks and asses the world over. I don't know what it was about the jungle, but it gave me a distinct desire for the most basic of instincts. I considered it a recompense for my suffering- having a "cheeky wank" as the British would say, while watching Carlie bathe or Bethany change. They never seemed to catch on, but Mom however, was different. Although she would never admit it (just like I would never admit todoingit), by our fourth day, I was starting to think she actually liked being spied on, and liked knowing that I was pleasuring myself to her body.

On day five, I got proof.

Dr. Waters rose first in our shared tent, stripping naked to change into her clothes for the day. I rolled over, watching her, my eyes greedily running over her assets. If she didn't want me to see, she could've covered herself, but she remained studiously bare.

Again, she kept things tight, her stomach passably attractive despite a pouch of fat covering her abs. Her hair was greying early for her age, her breasts sagging, crows feet claiming the corners of her eyes as her skin surrendered to age.

None of that mattered to me, nor my body. I felt my cock stirring, and I groaned lightly as I freed it from the boxers I'd worn to sleep. I began to stroke myself, up and down, plausibly passed off as a scratching motion if nobody looked too closely.

Dr. Waters proceeded through her morning rituals- brushing her teeth with dry toothpaste, rubbing lotion on her skin, and studiously avoiding looking towards my bedroll. That suited me perfectly fine. It was somewhat of a ritual I'd established for the last few days, to the point that I'd feel uncomfortable if I didn't get off when she left the tent.

Her lack of acknowledgement sent a thrill through my spine- as if she'd dropped to her knees to blow me, rather than simply ignoring me. My penis responded by swelling in my hand, now barely-concealed beneath my blanket, the bare freckles and curves of her body a balm to the heat of my erection. Her eyes flashed over to me for the barest second before returning to her routine.

Sheknew, and Iknew she knew.

As it became even more obvious what I was doing, I could hear others moving around outside our tent, and without a doubt she could too. We were on the verge of discovery if any of her grad students peeked in, a scandalous position in which to find ourselves given my mom's faculty status, compounded by our close relation.

I increased my rate of masturbation, watching her straighten up, pulling pants and undergarments up, leaving her breasts bouncing free. For a moment, she hesitated, shooting a quick glance to the slit of the tent.

Then, to my shock, she squeezed her voluptuous melons together, pushing them up in facsimile of a much younger woman. Her eyes found mine, and my jaw dropped open.

"Hurry up, Steven, we're almost there." Her voice was husky, hoarse from days of yelling commands and orders. Her hair framed her face, the grey-touched locks contrasting against her natural brunette coloration. She usually kept it in a bun, and seeing it down reminded me of something primal, something wild and free.

I grunted, my cock spurting in my hand, jetting a rope of sticky seed up onto my bare chest, in full view of my mother. I heard a small gasp from her direction, but was obviously preoccupied with my ongoing orgasm, eyes closed in pleasure.

By the time I opened them, Dr. Waters had departed our tent, leaving me to shamefully clean the jizz from my chest.

Why couldn't I contain myself? Why was the jungle hitting me like this?

I knew my mother hadn't been particularly sexually active since dad ran off with one of his own grad students, but was she desperate enough to actually harbor an illicit desire for her own son? There had been times when her embraces lingered too long, when her gaze seemed to lay heavily upon me. But that was just normal mother-son stuff, right?

I didn't know it at the time, but I wouldn't have long left to wonder. What my mom said was true.

Wewerealmost there.