A Mother's Lust Ch. 02

I lower myself down on top of his cock, and the familiar fullness of his penis pushing up inside my vagina causes a gasp of air to escape my lungs. It feels so good to welcome him home again, and once I'm in a comfortable position, I begin bouncing up and down on his shaft.

Taking control of the sex is deliciously novel for me, and I savor every tasty moment of this taboo coupling of mother and son. He grips my hips to guide me as I squat up and down, and I plant my hands on his bare, muscular chest to steady myself.

I wish I could see his expression through the dark. I want so badly to be able to read his thoughts and feelings on his face with its beautiful mixture of features from his father and me. But I can sense his emotions through his body language, his reluctance and reservations slowly giving way to the desire we both know has been there all along.

He's thrusting his hips up into my crotch as I bounce on top of him. His grip on my hips tightens as he digs his fingers into the flesh of my ass. Perhaps he actually wants this to end but doesn't know how to stop me, or perhaps he really is slowly coming around to what we both want.

My legs are already getting tired from squatting up and down, so I kneel completely on the bed with his cock still buried inside me, and begin to ride him like a belly dancer, undulating my hips and waist in a sensual back-and-forth motion. That makes it easier for him to grip my hips and guide me as I ride his cock, and I feel like a seductress as I make assertive love to him.

A seductress committing incestuous adultery with her own son. The fact that we ought to feel ashamed of what we're doing registers in my mind as an afterthought and nothing more.

I take hold of my son's hands and guide them up the curves of my body -- the body that nurtured his growing form for nine beautiful months -- until his fingers close around the soft flesh of my breasts. The breasts he used to suckle from as an infant, and the same breasts from which the fruit of our profane union suckles.

Whatever lingering sense of shame might have been afflicting my son is no longer in evidence as he fondles the flesh of my breasts. I love the way he caresses my body while allowing me to ride his cock. The feeling of his penis sliding back and forth inside my wet womanhood makes me want to cry out in shameless pleasure.

But we dare not do that. I have just enough shame and common sense to remember that we're not alone in the house, and the awful deed we're committing would destroy our lives if anyone woke up and discovered us together like this. For everyone's sake, we have to keep quiet.

My son takes control.

He grabs my shoulders and rolls us both over until I'm lying on the mattress with my son poised between my naked thighs. I suddenly feel very submissive with my naked body exposed to my son and my pussy ready to receive his cock again. The power and control I briefly enjoyed is now gone, replaced by the exhilarating vulnerability of being underneath a man who wants me.

He kisses me again, and this time, our tongues tangle together while his hands fondle my breasts and caress my bare skin. My own hands hold his face close to mine while he maneuvers into position and prepares to mount me. We're both terrible people, and I'm a terrible mother, but I'm the one who started this and neither one of us can stop now.

He reaches down between his legs, and I feel the tip of his penis brush up against my labia. My breath seizes up as I feel him prepare to enter me. I feel so vulnerable and yet so eager to accept him back inside me, to welcome him home back into the place he came from.

My son presses the tip of his cock in between my labia and pushes inside. I gasp at the fullness of his penis stretching my vagina wide again, pushing all the way inside until all six inches are buried in the depths of my womanhood.

He starts humping me immediately, the masculine vigor of his thrusting providing me with a forceful reminder of why it's so much better when the man asserts dominance in the bedroom. He fucks me much more confidently than the last time we made love. I'm sure the moral angst is still there, buried in his heart just like it is in mine, but the raw sexual instinct has primacy now, and we're long past the point where we can resist the irresistible.

He presses his chest against mine and rests his head next to my ear as his ass rises and falls between my thighs. I embrace him as his loving mother, savoring the feeling of the contours of his chest and six-pack rubbing against my taut belly and full breasts. The sliding of his chest and belly against my own is lubricated by the sweaty heat of the summer's night, just as our lovemaking is lubricated by the liquid lust flowing from my pussy.

As our sweaty bodies writhe together in the darkness, I can hear the rustling of the sheets and the creaking of the bed springs. A dose of fear is injected into the swirling cauldron of otherwise pure sexual desire overwhelming my body. I turn my head to look at the thin wall that separates our shameful coupling from my daughters' shared bedroom.

I can scarcely bring myself to imagine the awful consequences if one of them were to wake up to the sound of sex noises coming through the wall and walk in on mommy in bed with big bro. Even worse, my husband might wake up and come looking for me, only to overhear his wife cuckolding him with our firstborn son.

The danger makes the excitement even more potent. My heart is racing with a heady cocktail of fear and lust, I can't let this go on and yet I don't want it to stop. I never want to stop feeling my darling son's body sliding against mine, or his crotch grinding against mine, or his ample penis thrusting forcefully inside the passageway he passed through to enter this world.

I want him to make love to me until the sun rises and I want the proof of our love to pass once again between my thighs in nine months' time. I love my husband, but the thing I love most about him is that he fathered my son, and right now, my son is all I want.

His breathing is getting heavier, and grunts of sexual exertion are escaping between his gritted teeth. He's going to ejaculate, and my hands move from holding onto his strong shoulders down the muscles of his back to his toned ass, pumping like a piston between my legs.

The way he's grinding against my clit, coupled with the intoxicating mix of emotions, is causing a storm of sexual pleasure to brew in my belly. It's hard to orgasm from penetration alone, but my son might actually achieve a rare feat that even his father struggles to accomplish.

Treacherous moans of pleasure are escaping between my lips, too, and I have to bite my tongue to stop my vocalized lust from betraying us to the rest of the family. A powerful climax is well and truly on the way for us both, and it's only a question of who reaches it first.

In the end, my son wins the race. He thrusts himself forward and deeper into me with his whole body, burying his face in the pillow to smother the snarl of raw pleasure that escapes his lungs. I feel his cock twitch and pulsate inside me as the first powerful jet of cum spurts into my pussy. The second jet is followed by a third and then a fourth until my vagina is flooded with my son's seed oozing warmly inside me.

The sensation of feeling my son unload his seed inside his own mother causes the bubble of sexual pleasure in my belly to burst. I achieve a true vaginal orgasm, causing my legs to shake and my toes to curl with ecstasy, and I have to press my face against his skin and moan into his shoulder for fear that our mutual orgasm will give us away.

It feels like an eternity before I feel like I can move again. My own son really did just make me cum through vaginal penetration. That was the most incredible sex I've ever had, and the forbidden nature of our coupling makes it so much more exciting.

I drag my fingernails gently across the skin of my son's ass and up his back over and over again, caressing his body and soothing his mind. I can already feel the familiar clouds of guilt and shame creeping at the edges of my mind, and I don't want him to feel the same way.

My son lifts his head and plants his lips on mine. I close my eyes in the dark and open my lips to allow his tongue inside my mouth, and my hands rise to hold his head still and dig my fingers through his dark blond locks. I love my son. I love him so much that I want him to put another baby in my belly -- every summer until he graduates.

"I was hoping we'd get to do this again." His voice is a whisper, and it's wavering.

"I'm the worst mother in the world for enticing you into this," I murmur in response, a guilty tear forming in the corner of my eye, "and I'm the worst wife in the world for what I've done to your father. But I love you, and there was no way I wasn't going to have you again."

We kiss again. His lips slide over mine and his tongue tangles with mine. The passion grows so intense we might end up making love a second time.

But we don't want to get caught.

"Keep your distance," I instruct him, "we'll find another time."

He withdraws his cock from inside me and I do my best to stand up on my own, feeling a little sore between my legs. I have to locate my nightdress by touch amidst the piles of dirty laundry before I can slip it back over my head and secure the straps over my shoulders.

"You'd better clean your room before I get back." I'm back to being the family matriarch with my stern instruction, but my tone falters awkwardly in light of the fact that I'll be coming back to his room at all. "At least put your dirty clothes in the hamper. That's what it's there for."

"Yes, mother," my son groans.

I can almost see the eye roll through the darkness accompanying the stock reply of generations of teenagers to generations of nagging mothers. It brings another tear to my eye to think that we could be a normal family -- but haven't been for some time and never will be again.

I slink out of my son's bedroom like a thief in the night, tiptoeing to the other end of the corridor back to the bedroom I should have never left. As I pass the shadows at the top of the staircase, my tiptoeing pace turns to a brisk walk as the shame impels me to return to my husband's side.

He's still fast asleep as I sneak back into the master bedroom and shut the door as quietly as I can behind me. I remove my nightdress and put it back where I found it before crawling back into bed. It's only once I'm back under the covers that the emotional hangover hits me.

I don't deserve to be married to the man sleeping soundly beside me. Not only am I a cheating whore, but I've cheated on him with our own son, resulting in the birth of another son who will almost certainly be followed by another sibling.

What's wrong with me?

No answer comes to me in the darkness as I drift off to sleep again, trying to ignore the tingling sensation of my shame trickling out of me onto the sheets.

* * *

We do it again, because of course we do. It happens several more times over the course of the last few weeks of my son's summer holiday. Any moment when my husband and the girls are out of the house, my son and I find the time to procreate. We even make love in the shower and the marital bed once again, re-enacting our earliest transgressions.

They're not mistakes at this point. We know exactly what we're doing, and we'll have to pay the price if we're ever discovered. But for now, the overpowering urge to enjoy my son's body before the day he puts a ring on another woman's finger is what drives me.

The passion does fade as the fateful day of his return to college draws near, giving way to the recurring guilt and shame which somehow is never strong enough to yank us back to our senses. All that time, I've also been buttering up my clueless husband for another baby, and when my son and I stop making love, I convince my husband to take the condom off.

I hold back the tears as he thrusts dutifully inside me, his reluctance giving way to his desire to make his wife happy. The fact that this is a necessary deceit to convince him that he's the father of the incestuous embryo that's already growing in my womb doesn't make it any better. I'm actively cuckolding the man who's given me so much, including the young man who actually fathered our latest baby-to-be, and I won't pretend that he's done anything to deserve it.

My youngest two babies' real father has already started his sophomore year in college by the time I break the news of my latest pregnancy to the rest of the family. My husband takes deep, slow breaths, my older daughter calls me an idiot, and my younger daughter starts crying.

Then the four of us embrace in the biggest group hug we've had in a long time.

That was back in October, and now the family is back together again for Christmas. The sultry summer heat that helped to get me pregnant again is long gone, replaced by twelve inches of snow on the ground outside and festive decorations inside.

The six of us devour a big turkey, complete with stuffing and vegetables, followed by Christmas pudding and the yanking open of Christmas crackers. My husband and firstborn son have wine while I, for obvious reasons, stick with pineapple juice -- one of my cravings.

And now I'm relaxing on the couch with a Christmas sweater covering my four-month-swollen belly, relaxing in the arms of my unborn baby's grandfather. The girls are next to the Christmas tree fussing over their presents while their older brother plays with their younger brother.

"You were right," my husband murmurs softly to me. His big hands slip underneath my sweater and then under my shirt so that he can feel my modest baby bump. "Having a big family was the best decision we ever made."

I don't answer him. Instead, I glance uneasily over at my handsome firstborn son entertaining his own firstborn. The filthy secret at the heart of our wholesome, happy family is right there crawling about on all fours with his messy blond hair and wide blue eyes.

"Do you think this will be our last?" He asks. That's a question that I have to answer.

"I don't want it to be our last," I reply, craning my neck back to meet his gaze. "I'd like to have two more after this. I want to bring as much life into the world as possible while I still can."

It's a cynical excuse to continue fucking our son and have him be the one to fill me with new life, but the desire is still a sincere one. I've had a year and a half to untangle the ethical knots I've tied myself up with, and I still can't figure it out.

My husband caresses my pregnant belly lovingly, feeling the curvature of my protruding bump.

"I think you might have won me over on that."

It's beautiful to hear him say that, and I snuggle backwards into his embrace. His acquiescence in my plan to give birth to two more babies fathered by my favorite child is yet another layer atop the mountain of guilt and shame that I can't stop building higher and higher. At the very least, I can stop feeling sorry for myself and enjoy the company of our happy family.

* * *

Christmas is gone as soon as it came, although the snow stays piled up in the streets late into February. By the time my son returns home for Spring Break, the snow is gone except for a few sad patches of white where deep drifts had once been.

I'm now seven months pregnant and not particularly graceful. My ankles are swollen, and my back is constantly aching. I'd stay lying on the couch all day if weren't for the baby pressing against my bladder. But despite all of that, I couldn't be happier.

We've just had dinner, and my husband has taken the baby upstairs for another nap while my daughters are at a friend's party. Fortuitously, my husband also wants to go to bed early once the baby is asleep, leaving me some time alone with my other special someone.

My son approaches, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, exposing his toned legs and strong arms, and sits down at the opposite end of the couch from me. I'm wearing a loose skirt with turquoise patterning that reaches down to my ankles. I've decided to be daring and take my top off.

Perhaps because I've already crossed far worse red lines like incest and adultery, exposing my breasts and belly in the house doesn't really bother me. Or maybe some part of me wants to be caught so that I don't have to bear the burden of hiding the terrible secret in my belly or the one in the crib upstairs. Either way, I feel quite liberated being half naked in front of my son.

He leans over until he's lying down almost on my lap, and rests his head on my pregnant belly, caressing the beautiful bump full of the life he put inside me. The baby's kicking constantly, a good sign of a healthy baby. I reach over and stroke my son's hair.

"I've been meaning to talk to you." My son's comment injects an ominous note into what's otherwise a tender moment. "It's about...this. What's the endgame for all this?"

"What do you mean?" It's a stupid question. I already know what he means.

"Well, I come home for the summer holidays. We fool around behind dad's back. Then, nine months later, another baby arrives." He looks up at me to meet my gaze before finishing: "Are we really gonna keep this up until I graduate?"

"That's the plan," I confirm, continuing to stroke his hair, "one baby for each year you spend at college. But you're right about one thing: this won't go on forever."

There's a moment of silence between us, as if neither one of us knows what will happen after that. Except that I already know what should happen, and it's about time I spell it out to him.

"I want you to promise me something." My voice is soft, and it wavers a little as I try to speak. "Promise me, as your mother."

"Promise what?"

I take a deep breath before telling him. "Promise me that you'll find a good woman to marry. Treat her with the same love and care that you treat me. Make love to her the same way you do to me and raise a big, happy family with her."

My son looks at me as if he were expecting something more daunting.

"So basically, you're telling me to live happily ever after."

"Like I said, this won't last forever." Tears are forming in my eyes just by saying that, despite the fact that we both know it's true. "To tell you the truth, there's a certain narcissism about wanting to keep you to myself. I carried you in my belly and gave birth to you, so there's a part of me that feels entitled to have you all to myself."

A heavy sigh escapes my mouth as if I'm trying to exhale the selfishness from my body.

"But we don't own our children." It feels hard to say that as a mother, but it needs to be said. "My parents didn't own me just because they conceived and raised me. Your father and I don't own you; I don't own our baby son or the baby in my belly, and you won't own your children when you start a family of your own. The worst thing a parent can do is to clip their children's wings, so I want you to promise me that you'll do what I just asked of you."

My son doesn't answer immediately. He lifts himself up and crawls towards me. I feel a shiver of sexual anticipation as he looms over my pregnant belly and brings his lips to mine. The kiss feels romantic, like the prelude to more illicit lovemaking.

"I promise." Our matching blue eyes meet each other's gaze as he tells me that.

I smile and the tears really do come this time. I love my son so much, even more than my own husband. Maybe it's because he's almost a younger version of the man I married, but whatever the reason is, it makes me so happy to hear his solemn promise.

"In the meantime, though," I wipe the tears from my eyes as I shift the topic, "you've still got two more years of college; so that means two more babies I want you to put in me."