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Second of four chapters.
All participants over the age of 18
I came to think of it as the day my life began, the day I first fucked my son.
Nothing could ever be the same again. He was my man now. He slept in my bed. We made love every morning, then again at night. At least once during the day.
I marvelled at his ability to get it up and keep it up. My daily orgasm record was seven, although one of those was when he ate me out.
OK, you’re wondering how we could have so much sex? Jack told me he had sometimes masturbated eight times a day thinking of me – so screwing his mother half a dozen times for real was not a problem. Young, hung and full of cum.
And me? When a well-endowed teen gives an affection-starved, cock-hungry divorcee the best raw sex in her life, why not take as much of it as she can, while she can? Teenage boys have an unlimited supply of sperm, and older women have an infinite demand. An economist’s wet dream.
Then there is the indefinable factor. The attraction of two people who are part of a gene pool of two.
Gene pool? Gene puddle, more like. We were so close, genetically, emotionally, even geographically: for all Jack’s life, he had lived, slept and studied separated from me by only a thin wall. And jerked off, too, over and over again every day, to visions of his mother. Endless streams of fresh young jism.
Who understands what brings together the female who carried a child for nine months and the male who depended on her for everything for years. It must be a powerful force to overcome one of the strictest taboos in our society. When that force is translated into physical terms, it’s unstoppable.
I don’t want to romanticize this. I think it’s a love story; others will regard it with horror.
Most incest is coercive and degrading, an abuse of power, I recognize that.
But who had the power in this relationship? He worshipped my body as much as I worshipped his.
Mother-son sex happens, probably a lot, which is no surprise when two sexually mature people live in such close proximity. Both may have urges that they have no outlet for. Then something sparks the flame between the confused, shy boy and the horny, neglected wife. A seemingly innocent remark; accidental contact on the sofa; walking in when she is undressing; glimpsing him as he steps out of the shower.
There is something primal, something unfathomably elemental about a son planting his life-seed in his mother’s womb; about a woman welcoming her son into the body that gave him birth. Jack was back where it all began. Back where he belonged.
And a good-looking 18-year-old plunging into me, over and over and over … what’s not to like?
In my lust and excitement, one small voice did nag at me, though. What if I gained a lover and lost a son? What if I enjoyed unbelievable sex with this fucking machine, but lose connection with the child I gave birth to and suckled?
Amazingly, I found that I had both – the lover and the son. It heightened the sexual delight that the man whose spunk I was taking in such large doses, the lover who brought me to juddering orgasms, was the same precious son who had been such a central part of my life before that first sight of his erect penis triggered me. Since birth, I had breastfed him, washed, nurtured, comforted, guided, advised, taught him. Oh, the things we were teaching each other now!
Even apart from the sex, we loved each other’s company. We shared a sense of humor, we enjoyed the same food. We often finished each other’s sentences. He read my moods, he understood my desires sometimes better than I did. We could spend hours, side by side, reading quietly or doing the Saturday crossword. Or hours making noisy, glorious love. Jack could be playful, serious. Always respectful and considerate. He was more mature than any other lover I had known. It was a true partnership of equals. Sometimes in the night I would lie awake, listening to him breath, and offer a silent prayer of thanks.
I have always enjoyed reading stories where the woman is the “Mommy-slut” and the man is the “Motherfucker”. Master, slave, whore, pet, bitch, jizz-junkie-dick-monkey. That was a real turn-on. But in real life, we never used words like that, rarely talked dirty. We didn’t need to. We had us.
Don’t get me wrong. We were vocal during sex, but it was more love talk. I called him Jack, darling, sweetheart, beautiful boy, baby boy, my man. He mainly confined himself to Mom and Mommy … there aren’t many other options in the circumstances. But when your son is in you, up to the maker’s name, crying, “Mom, I’m cumming in you” – well, those are the most beautiful words I have ever heard. I’ve never got tired of hearing them.
Strangely, it took a while before we said “I love you”. Strange, because we had said it without thinking for years. And we had said it repeatedly during sex, in the clutches of our climaxes. (But I’d once had a man tell me he loved me while cumming in my mouth and then never seen him london escorts again, so…) When finally Jack and I did say it to each other for the first time as lovers, my God, did it feel good. We never again said it casually, never said it without knowing what it meant; we were always aware of how powerful it was.
And of course Jack put my sexual pleasure first – for no other reason than that my sexual pleasure is more hard won than his, and, as my lover, it is his duty to help me achieve it. He knew when I wanted to make love and when I craved a nasty fucking. He could give me an hour of sensual foreplay, followed by a half-hour’s solid tooling; he knew when I needed to be handled roughly in bed – fistfuls of hair, his hand around my throat — and when I wanted the most delicate of vanilla. And the way he handled my breasts – that alone was worth the price of entry.
I had a lover who respects and cherishes his woman. Who pays me those lovely old-fashioned courtesies: walking on the outer side in public, opening doors, carrying parcels for me.
(By the way, who declared that we should do away with all these gestures? I don’t know a woman who doesn’t find these little acts of chivalry as sexy as hell. Who decided they were sexist and patriarchal? Can someone investigate for me. I don’t have time – did I mention that I have a handsome 18-year-old I need to fuck!)
Yes, he sure knew how to treat a woman, in the bedroom and outside.
I had raised a fine boy. A fine man. I must be a pretty good mother.
So it was that I found I suddenly had a much deeper, more fulfilling relationship with someone I had known his entire life. Someone who’d been there all along. And all the while I was thinking: Why have I never had this with any other male? Why is it happening with someone 24 years younger than me who shares half my DNA? I’m a good Christian woman. I deserve this. Love and sex and laughter and fun. Why has no man ever given me all this before?
He had awoken my sexuality after years of hibernation, years in which I barely thought about sex. How could that happen, going from total abstinence to all-day, all-you-can-eat?
I was reminded of a long conversation (a monologue, really) with an older friend, a teacher, 16 or 17 years ago.
An unworldly young mother with two small children, I listened agog as she confided in me about a summer affair – “affair” seems too tame a word — with a student in her class.
He was thin, tall, pale, floppy hair across his face, cocky and taciturn at the same time. Ugly and sexy, in that way only young people can bring off, with a swagger that immediately caught her eye.
Gina said: “He was trouble from the first lesson. He looked me up and down and I blushed and stammered. He radiated an energy, a feral heat that left me weak when he stood too close. And he always stood too close, so that his body touched mine, before I flinched away, face burning. ‘What’s the matter, Miss? You look uncomfortable. What do you need, Miss? What can I give you?’ He looked at me hungrily and God help me, I had to fight the urge to brush that damn hair out of his eyes and kiss him.
“He was all I could think of, every waking moment. It was playing havoc with my work and my home life. I checked his records: he’d was 18, so that was one problem out of the equation. Toward the end of term, I worked out how to get some alone time with him. I’d give him extra tuition after school and see what happened. Something had to happen. And if nothing happened, well then, I’d called his bluff, taken him down a peg or two, taken a little bit of the jauntiness out of his strut and I could get on with my life without wondering what if?”
She poured me a small glass of wine and herself a huge one. “Something did happen. The first evening, I opened my book in my lounge room. ‘I’m worried about the written exam, but your oral will be fine’, was the first thing I said. He said: ‘If you think my oral is good, you should see me fuck’.
“It was then that I knew I was in over my head. I went to slap his face, but he caught my wrist and held it. Tight. I pushed him away. Even though I had instigated this, I shit myself, I couldn’t do it, I was too scared. I’d called my own bluff. I struggled. But you don’t know how strong they are, even the skinny ones. You don’t know how persistent a horny adolescent boy can be.
“He literally ripped my dress off me, tore it in half to get at me.”
She grabbed the neckline of her blouse with both hands. “Ripped the fabric straight down the front, buttons flying. I’m sitting there, the remains of my dress hanging from my shoulders, and next thing I know, he has me pinned down and he’s tearing a hole in my panties — actually tearing a gap in the cotton, and then his fingers are in me.”
“That’s dreadful, Gina, it sounds as though you were…”
“Don’t be naive, Susan.” She took a long sip. “It was an incredible turn-on. Cro-Magnon. Never have I been more wet and willing. I wouldn’t wait for him to get london escort naked: he was fully clothed when I guided him in and he began fucking me through the hole he’d torn in my underwear. Dress in tatters, panties shredded, I was cumming helplessly on the coffee table within minutes. No time for a soft comedown: I got up straight away, kicked him out the back door, threw on another dress, and drove like a mad thing to collect the kids from nursery, smelling of guilt and illicit sperm. I had to stand in front of the carer, being lectured about being late, while his cum leaked out of the hole in my panties and I tried to stop it dripping without her noticing.
“After that, he would be waiting every morning before school at the back door after Gary had left for work.
“The first morning, I told him to leave, told him it mustn’t happen again. And I meant it. I had come to my senses. I had a husband and kids and a career. I tried to resist, but when I saw that bulge in his pants, when his hands were moving across me, everywhere they shouldn’t be, his lips on me, rubbing against me with his hardness, I just … And most of all, that look in his eyes, burning through me.
“And after that, every time I was supposed to be feeding the children and getting them ready for nursery, I would hush them upstairs with some candy, tell them to dress themselves, and let him in. Every time, Susan. I had no control, no shame, no regard for the consequences for my job, my marriage, my family. Every time, I put my cunt first.
“He would be there again in the afternoon before my husband arrived home, and the same thing – the children were deposited in front of the television or sent to a neighbour’s, while I locked myself away and cheated my way to orgasm after blistering orgasm.
“At school, we found a way. In the gym at lunchtime, the back room of the library, in the chemistry lab when we both should have been at lessons, in my car, up against a tree in the park. On weekends I found excuses to see non-existent friends, pretended to visit shops on the other side of town, bought tickets to movies I never saw.
“Nothing else mattered. There was nothing else,” she said. “That look in his eyes. His lips on my neck while his fingers went inside my panties. That bulge in his pants – it never seemed to go away, no matter how much we did it.
“I didn’t want romance. There was no foreplay, or technique, just fucking, as hard and as rough as we could make it. We were just two pieces of meat. I’d sit there in the morning, my whole body shaking, waiting for 7.45am. If it had been winter, you would’ve seen the steam rising from my cunt.
“Term ended and we met up constantly that summer. If not at my house, then at the back of supermarkets, in the swimming pool changing rooms, a deserted balcony at a matinee. The children were spending longer and longer at nursery. Once, while we were fucking in a restaurant toilet, I took a call asking when I planned to pick the kids up. ‘Right away,’ I said. As soon he makes me cum was the real answer.
“It’s a miracle we weren’t caught. I wasn’t just careless, I was stupidly reckless. He blinded me to everything else. I had to have him at every possible opportunity. Once” – she laughed and covered her face with her hand — “once I even told my husband I felt sick and I had to drive to hospital at 2am! Can you believe it.”
“Gary never suspected?” I asked.
She refilled her glass. “That’s the million-dollar question. I mean, he worked long hours and we lived fairly separate lives, but how can you not suspect when your wife is being ridden so relentlessly. Sometimes he came home early and I didn’t have time to clean myself up properly – just the smell alone, you’d think he would’ve guessed. Twice I was caught out in a lie – after that I made sure my alibis were airtight. I had to use make-up to cover the bruises on my arms and body. But if he knew, did he care? Some men, you know, they get off on their wives straying, or they’re happy for another dick to do the job for them.
“I can’t even remember the year – I could find out — I think it was an election year. After those first words when he tore my dress off, I can’t recollect a single word we said, a single thing that happened that summer. All I remember is the heat and the sex. Oh, and the smell. Cigarettes and coffee — that’s all he seemed to live on. I never saw him eat. I hate cigarette smoke, I don’t drink coffee, but when he kissed me … his breath, tasting of cigarettes and coffee, it was the most erotic thing in the world.” She shivered. “Even now…
“And then one morning, he wasn’t there. Army family. They moved on. I never saw him again, except in my dreams.
“It was like the phantom pain when you lose a limb. For months I kept hoping to open the back door and find him slouching there, his eyes telling me all the devastating things he was going to do to me. I still have that phantom pain, you know. He’d be middle-aged now, fat and domesticated, proper haircut, family of london escort agency his own, of course.” She took another sip and her eyes got that faraway look. “But every morning at quarter to eight, I stop and I think of him. Arrogant and confident, his hard prick looking too big for that pale, scrawny body.
“I went back to being a faithful wife and tried to make amends to my children for the months I had put them second to a floppy-haired kid with a never-ending erection. Gary and I continued our colorless, flavorless sex once a month.”
“You never …?”
She emptied the bottle into her glass. “No. I couldn’t have found that with another student, another man. There was no point trying. I had been given a few brief months of the most incendiary sex possible, then nothing. One incandescent flare to light my life. Most people, that’s all they ever have. One transcendent moment. Some people don’t even get that. It was the first thing that brought meaning to my life — and I say that as a mother of two children. I would have followed him anywhere, done anything for him. Abandoned my job and my kids and my friends and my family and my hometown. I know that makes me a terrible person, a terrible mother.”
She looked me in the eye. “But I tell you what, Susan, I’d do it all over again, every last bit, except harder, faster, rougher.”
She downed her wine in one gulp and hiccupped. “I sometimes wish he’d given me a baby boy. I would have brought him up cool and pale and thin and obnoxious and grown his hair long and floppy and fucked his brains out on his 18th birthday.”
She was slurring now, and giggling. “Keep him in a tower, climb up his hair and spend all day with him. Cockwork like clockwork: 7.45am, 4.15pm, and in the library at lunchtime…”
Was she trying to shock me? Impress me? Amuse me? In truth, she was pretty far gone and I passed it off as the drink talking. I didn’t understand what she meant, didn’t understand what she was telling me.
It wasn’t about incest (after all, how could she know that in one day I would take my son to my bed). It was about seizing that bright, hot moment and keeping hold of it forever.
I didn’t know that then. I do now.
Gina was in her late 30s that summer, in her early 50s when she told me. She would be pushing 70 by now. She’d had to make that hot summer last 30 years.
I wondered, if anything happened to Jack and me, would I go back into hibernation, like Gina? Probably. Jack had awoken me, but if we ended, I didn’t see much point in trying to pretend any other man could do to me the things that he did.
As for Jack, he had gone through the usual experiences of a growing boy. Sniffing my panties in the laundry basket, spilling his seed to fantasies of what he would do to me.
He had never caught me naked. One time he saw me from behind, nude, at my dressing table. He recalled watching through a half-open door while I sat at my vanity table, my bare back to him for a few seconds, brushing my hair. That was long enough for him to shoot his load to the sight of my boobs curving out at the sides of my body, frantically jerking off with one hand and catching his semen in the other, so as not to stain the carpet. Such a potent image, at once innocent and frighteningly erotic.
But he had never caught even a glimpse of me full frontal. “When you kissed me, in your robe, and I saw your nipples for the first time, I knew there was no going back. I was frightened of doing something, but I was way more frightened of doing nothing and never getting to see you like that again.”
“You don’t think they’re … I’m sorry … they sag a bit.”
He put his palms under my breasts and weighed them. “Mom, they don’t sag. They’re heavy. Not saggy at all. They’re big and they’re heavy and they’re the sexiest things on earth.”
Good Lord, he did know exactly the right thing to say. Big and heavy – hadn’t I been complaining of that for years? But when he said it, it sounded so different. That was the last time I ever thought of my breasts negatively. The last time I thought they drooped or wished they were smaller. If he loved them, that was enough for me.
So, life was good. Life was great.
I have never been so glad of working from home. If I got to my desk an hour late, dripping semen, weak-kneed, head still in the clouds, well, what of it.
I like to think I kept my professional work standards high while I was getting royally railed at all hours of the day. However, I admit the shopping and housework and cooking suffered, although Jack could be counted on to help out. A small miracle: Cassie even volunteered to do the laundry.
She was often out, however, caught up in the high school social whirl, and when she was home, she withdrew to her lair. Jack and I had the run of the house. Not that we took risks, but we had soon christened every room. Yes, even the lair — I was scared, but Jack insisted, and he was right: it was fabulous, cumming at the top of my voice in her room. And thinking, wickedly: “Cassie, dear, you don’t know what you’re missing.” If I hadn’t come home when I did, it could be my daughter on her hands and knees now, being injected with Jack’s sperm. Thank you, pastor Mike. I wonder if there’s a Parable for that.
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