A Mother's Lust Ch. 02

It's the middle of July and the weather is as gorgeous as I look now. I'm lying flat on my back on a towel laid out on the freshly cut grass, wearing nothing but a skimpy red bathing suit to conceal my modesty from the neighbors' gaze. About ten feet away, my teenage daughters splash about in the inflatable pool with their older brother who's home for the summer holidays.

My husband is sitting in a deck chair a short distance away wearing swimming trunks and a baseball cap while taking care of our youngest child. Our baby son has diapers and a big sunhat on to keep the sunlight off his face while keeping his mop of blond hair under control. He stares with wide blue eyes at the sunny landscape of the backyard while his older siblings play.

Honestly, I would much rather be the one taking care of my baby, but I can't pass up the chance to sunbathe, so it's my husband's turn to babysit. My eyes are closed as I soak in the sun and feel the warmth of summer caressing my skin. The sound of my brood splashing and laughing a dozen yards away brings a smile to my lips. I can almost pretend that we're a normal family.

Just as that thought occurs to me, my firstborn child steps out of the pool, his nineteen-year-old body all toned muscle from head to toe and glistening with water from the pool. His dark-blond hair is drenched and plastered flat against his head even as he tries to brush several wet strands away from his forehead.

I'm so proud of the fact that such a sexy male specimen emerged from between my toned thighs that I almost fail to notice that he's approaching me. He stops a few feet away, towering over me and awkwardly opening his mouth as if he's about to say something.

My stomach forms a knot in my belly. Ever since he came home from his freshman year, we've been keeping our distance except for the occasional exchange of family platitudes. Both our eyes glance over at the reason for the awkwardness giggling as my husband tickles his belly. He's blissfully ignorant of the fact that the baby on his lap is actually his grandson, causing the knot in my stomach to tighten with guilt.

We've successfully kept up the pretense that nothing happened last summer for long enough, and I can't take it anymore. I stand up abruptly and pick up the towel as I turn to leave, waving to my husband so that he knows I'm heading inside. My son stands there looking confused, thinking that I'm avoiding him until I gesture for him to follow me.

The cool air inside the house is deliciously soothing, and I immediately untie the top and bottom pieces of my bathing suit, leaving me traipsing naked through the house. It's a perfect symbol of the schizophrenic feelings I've been struggling with for months: the shame of what we did and the fear of getting caught colliding with the desire to do it all over again.

My son follows behind, but when I glance over my shoulder, I can't read what he's thinking on his face. Is he eagerly anticipating another chance to sleep with his own mother, or are his footsteps being weighed down by his own misgivings? I wish I could tell.

"Trunks off, please," I instruct him, still wielding my maternal authority, "I don't want water dripping all over the carpet."

He falters in his tracks before doing as he's told, slipping his soaking wet trunks off and holding them in his hands, not knowing what to do with them. I toss my towel in his direction while still holding onto the pieces of my bathing suit, and he obligingly uses it to dry himself off, no doubt savoring the fact that mom was lying on the towel a moment earlier.

When he's more or less dry, I turn around and head upstairs, and he hurries after me with the towel and wet swimming trunks in hand. I want to slap myself for how reckless I'm now being getting naked with my son when the rest of my family might come inside and find us, but that's one reason I want the two of us upstairs as quickly as possible.

We make it to the bathroom, and I place the two pieces of my bathing suit on top of the hamper before taking my towel back from my son and laying it down on the floor while he locks the door behind us. He wrings his trunks over the sink to get rid of the excess water, then he leaves them there wondering if we're really going to do it again.

His erection is already standing six inches tall and proud, ready once again to make a mother out of the woman who gave birth to him. Time to pour a little cold water on his expectations.

"I need your help with something." I pick up a pair of scissors and give them to him.

"Uh, what are these for?" he asks as he accepts the scissors with a puzzled expression.

I lie down on the towel and spread my legs. "My bush is getting wild, so I need you to give me a trim." I love my little golden garden, but it's now so thick that my underwear can no longer contain it. "I bet it wasn't what you were expecting, but do you think you can manage that?"

"Um, sure, I can try." My son has a strange mix of disappointment and relief on his face as he kneels between my thighs with the scissors in hand.

I understand exactly what that mix of feelings is like because I've been struggling with it myself ever since he returned home for the summer. Ever since giving birth -- and when I was pregnant -- our mother-son relationship has ceased to be normal. How can we ever go back to normal when I cheated on his father with him and gave birth to his son, who's also his half-brother?

My son has the bright idea of getting a comb and splashing some water on my pubic hair before combing it carefully and snipping away the hair one clump at a time. I trust him implicitly to give me a perfect trim, even as I try not to think about the lines that we crossed last summer. That's hard to do when the proof of what we did suckles regularly at my breast.

My son turns out to be a masterful barber, and before long, my golden jungle has been cut back to a more manageable garden of blonde curls. My own golden hair is spread out behind me like a shimmering web, and I'm suddenly aware that my son is drinking in my naked form, from my full breasts, across my belly, and down to my newly trimmed crotch.

"Shall I...shave it off?" he suggests, gazing down at the open invitation before him.

"Absolutely not." I meet his gaze as I respond. "My bush is a garden that needs pruning, not mowing down to the skin like a lawn."

My son puts the scissors back where I retrieved them from before kneeling down again in front of me. The job is done, and we're now confronted with the question of what to do next.

His one-eyed snake is pointing straight ahead, and I'm just lying there wide open and ready to receive him once again. It's a line we haven't dared to cross since the previous summer, and the consequences may yet catch up to us again.

The simmering sexual tension brewing between us is so intense that part of me sincerely wants him to ravish me right here. I imagine my son, unable to restrain himself any longer, pouncing on me, pinning my struggling body down as he plunges his penis back inside me, thrusting like a rapist with nothing to lose as he strives to put another baby in his beautiful mother's belly.

But he's not a rapist, and we both have a lot to lose.

"Fuck this." The words leave my son's mouth in a strained tone of frustration.

Instead of forcing himself on me, he grips his erect shaft in his hand and starts tugging hard on himself, looking directly into the blue eyes he inherited from both his parents. I just lie there passively, unable to let this go any further than it should and unwilling to stop him.

My son purses his lips as he masturbates, desire for his darling mother filling his expression, and unashamed of the deed he's performing over me. I invited him into the bathroom naked and asked him to trim my pubes, only for us to trip up on the wrongness of sex between mother and son. Did I really expect him to just leave it at that?

My eyes are fixed on the weapon between his legs, thick and long, with a beautiful pair of balls brimming with the seed I both crave and fear. His breathing is becoming labored, and I gulp and tense my whole body, almost as if I expect him to penetrate me right before he climaxes. I'm terrified that he might actually do that; we can't afford to take that risk again.

Then he groans as his orgasm arrives, and a long white jet erupts from the end of his penis, splattering across my naked body. It's followed by another impressive jet, and then a third, until the rest dribbles out of his cock onto to my freshly trimmed bush. I allow myself to enjoy the tingling of syrupy love running from my throat, between my breasts, and all over my belly.

Post-nut clarity hits my son hard, and his cheeks turn red with shame -- just like that time in the shower. He stands up and grabs his swimming trunks before unlocking the door and poking his head through. The rest of the family is still in the backyard, and he dashes off to his bedroom to get changed and clean himself up.

I stay where I am for several minutes, lying spreadeagled on my back covered in my son's cum. Then I regain my senses and stand up again, entering the shower before the cum can drip onto the floor. I turn on the water and spend the longest time scrubbing myself clean, wiping away the traces of my latest incestuous transgression and wishing I could do the same for the shame.

* * *

We do end up going back outside again to enjoy the remainder of the summer's day. Neither my husband nor my two daughters suspect a thing about our unusual absence, although my son and I keep our distance from one another and avoid eye contact -- back to business as usual.

I take over responsibility for the baby while my husband jumps into the pool to splash about with the three kids he actually fathered. I smile at the beautiful scene of my darling husband playing with our happy family, but it also makes my heart feel like lead as I dote on the living, breathing, giggling evidence of what a cheating, incestuous whore I am.

The day can't end soon enough when the sun finally begins to dim and the whole family helps to empty the inflatable pool onto the grass and into the flowerbed. Then we deflate the pool and pack everything up before going indoors for dinner.

Next thing I know, it's late at night and I'm in bed with my husband having just breastfed the baby and put him to bed in his crib. My husband returns from the bathroom in his pajamas and climbs into bed next to me. He turns off the light and plunges the bedroom into darkness before rolling over towards me and wrapping his arm across my body.

"It's been a long time since we had that much fun as a family." His happiness radiates through his voice, and it makes me feel even more guilty.

"I'm so happy we had such a big family," I reply, hugging his arm like a pillow, "I've missed being pregnant and I'm so glad we had another one."

I have a suspicion about why that particular remark came out of my mouth, and it doesn't bode well for my ability to learn from the past. At the same time, I just don't have the energy to stop myself from retreading the road to the same mistake sleeping in the crib.

Did I seriously just think of my baby as a mistake? I truly am the worst.

"I hope you're not angling for a fifth baby."

My husband says that as if the idea is a joke, but ever since our firstborn son returned home from college, that terrible and terribly alluring idea has been germinating inside me like another baby in my womb. Am I really going to maneuver to have another one?

"Why not?" I ask rhetorically. "We have the finances. We have space in the house. And neither of us is getting any younger. Why not try for an even bigger brood?"

I can't see my husband's face in the darkness as he's spooning me, but I sense his realization that I'm not actually joking. His embrace of my body loosens a little, and I feel ashamed that I'm subconsciously laying the groundwork to cheat on him with our older son again.

Well, it's not subconscious if I'm actually thinking about it, and once again, that makes it worse.

"Even if that were a good idea," my husband responds, choosing his words carefully, "I'm not sure about having another baby so close to the previous one. He's still not sleeping all the way through the night and having two under two would be chaotic."

All valid points, and that makes my heart sink since I'm not thinking about this in the rational terms he's putting forward. And it's all under the false pretense that he'll be the one to father the next baby or any others who follow.

"Maybe sleep on the idea?" I suggest gently.

There's a moment of silence between us, which makes me squirm.

"Alright, I will." My husband's answer brings a wave of conflicted relief to me. "But for now, since you don't like birth control, we're gonna keep using condoms."

I hate the rubbery feeling of a condom inside me, but I hate the side effects of hormonal birth control even more -- almost as much as I hate myself right now -- so condoms will have to do.

* * *

As August begins, the subject of another baby is put on the back burner, and the chaste distance between my son and me is maintained with minimal suspicion. We can almost pretend that the two of us have never seen each other naked as adults, or that we've never showered together, or that he's never ejaculated all over my belly.

It's harder to pretend that we've never had penetrative vaginal sex when the evidence is sitting in a baby chair at every family meal, and the irrational urge to do it all over again is growing inside me every day. When my husband and I make love -- with condoms, of course -- I can't close my eyes without imagining our son's strong body on top of me, filling me with new life.

And now it's the middle of the night, just after another late-night breastfeeding and I can't get back to sleep. My husband is snoozing like a log next to me, and the reason I can't do the same is sleeping soundly in his own bedroom at the other end of the hallway.

I could touch myself. My husband and the baby are fast asleep and wouldn't notice a thing as long as I keep quiet. Except I know that won't be enough. My fingers wander down between my opening thighs all the same, sliding across the hair of my golden garden and touching my clitoris before parting the folds of my labia and dipping just inside my pussy.

I bite my lip and rub my clit in slow and gentle circles, trying to tease out a little orgasm in the silence of the night. My son's face appears to me in my mind's eye, his muscular chest and shoulders bearing down on me and his toned six-pack sliding across my belly as he enters me once again. That's when my fantasy breaks down. I need the real thing.

I've been going to bed naked recently, partly because I got tired of repeatedly taking my pajama top off for breastfeeding and putting it back on again and partly because I'm still shamefully trying to maneuver my husband into agreeing to another baby. Either way, it's a simple matter to slip out of bed, put on a skimpy satin night dress, and sneak out of the bedroom.

Since the baby was last fed half an hour ago and he now sleeps for four to five hours between feedings, I estimate that I have about three hours to be an idiot yet again. As I tiptoe across the carpeted landing, my common sense keeps screaming at me to turn around and go back to bed.

I make it past the top of the staircase, past the door to my daughters' shared bedroom, to the door to my son's bedroom, directly opposite the door to the main bathroom. I've made it here. I'm really about to do this all over again. I grip the doorknob with a trembling hand and turn it slowly, easing the door open and peering inside.

All I can see are silhouettes. My son's bed takes up half the floor space along with a wardrobe, a desk and chair, the hamper in the far corner, and piles of clothes and other teenage detritus on the floor. The room smells like summer sweat and deodorant.

It smells like my son.

I extend my foot across the threshold and dig my toes into what feels like a pair of his boxers, stepping inside and closing the door behind me. Then I just stand there wondering what to do next and whether I should do the smart thing and just go back to my own bed.

I can see my son's silhouette lying on top of the covers. His arms are spread out around him, and one leg is draped over the side of his bed while the shadowy shape of his penis rests against his inner thigh. I don't blame him for sleeping naked, given how hot it gets at night.

I'm hot, too.

I pull the shoulder straps of my nightdress down and let it slip off my shoulders and down my body onto the floor. I'm standing there naked in my son's bedroom, vacillating as to whether I should go through with this. Now I know how he felt when I invited him to the master bedroom.

Temptation has been getting the better of me this whole time, and its winning streak continues as I walk carefully across the floor towards his bed and kneel down before him. I bring my face down between his thighs and extend my hand tentatively towards his crotch until my fingers close around the soft shaft of his penis.

If I'm actually going to do this, I need to get him hard first, and my lips close around the head of his cock as I take part of his length in my mouth. The musk of his genitals fills my nose and mouth, but it doesn't disgust me -- no more than the smell of a teenage boy's room.

He's still fast asleep, but it doesn't take long for the blood to start flowing to his penis and for his soft length to stiffen and thicken until it's erect. I stroke his cock with my delicate hands while sucking him off with care. I'd much rather have him inside me, but the pricking of my maternal conscience still holds me back from that.

I use my other hand to feel his sack. His balls are a healthy and wonderful size, and full of the seed that gave life to his baby half-brother, my grandson, and full of the potential to give me many more. I fondle his testes with the same care as I continue to suck his cock. I don't often give my husband a blowjob, but it's a special treat for him when I do.

My son is stirring, my maternal stimulation of his penis extending tendrils of pleasure into his sleeping psyche. I continue to go down on him, bobbing my head up and down while keep a firm grip on the shaft of his cock and fondling his balls. As he stirs, he suddenly jerks awake. His cock slips out of my mouth and his balls from my grasp as he pulls away from me.

"What the--" he whispers sharply, curling up in the corner of his bed. "Mom?!"

"Who else would it be? Santa Claus's wife?" I climb onto the bed and crawl towards him until I'm inches away from his shadowy face. "I can't stop thinking about what happened between us. We've been tiptoeing around it all summer, and I can't pretend it didn't happen anymore."

My lips close the distance to his, and he squirms as I try to worm my tongue in between his teeth until he breaks the kiss off. But he doesn't push me off or tell me to leave. My heart would break if he turned me away, even though it would be the right thing to do. He just sits there in the corner of the bed, frozen by the same indecision as I am.

I scrutinize his face through the darkness, hoping to discern some clue as to his thoughts and feelings, but the tension is scarcely bearable. I want to know what he's thinking. I want some signal as to what he's feeling about this and towards me.

I can't take this any longer. I grab his ankles and pull him towards me. I'm not strong enough to move a grown man like him very far, but my assertiveness takes him by surprise, even more so when I climb on top of him and prepare to mount him in cowgirl position.

I'm usually not a fan of girl-on-top. I much prefer to let my husband take charge when we make love, but the balance of clashing motivations warring in my heart has tipped decisively in favor of lust. My son does nothing to stop me as I straddle his waist and balance on my haunches, locating his erection in the dark and lining it up with my pussy.