Breach Pt. 03

Guilt. Again.

When I awoke, guilt seemed to coat the surface of my heart like a shadowy film. For the span of a few seconds, I could hardly comprehend the reason for it, but there it was. Guilt. Shame. Regret. It was as if my conscience never slept, but stood immortally over my shoulder, scowling at me as I slept, meeting me with a severe scowl as soon as I became conscious. When my mind focused to form a coherent stream of thought, I realized where the feeling was coming from.

I was lying in my bed under the covers, my son's slumbering body draped limply over mine. We were both naked, our legs tangled and his penis glued to my behind, not quite hard, but warm and noticeable. Realization came, remembrance resurfaced and scenes of last night's transgression played in my mind. The shame bloomed as it justified its accusations with evidence from my own memory; with every master stroke of my son's egregious cock that came to mind and every secret, tingling sensation it presently brought to my very core. The shame didn't necessarily grow but rather swelled, as if inhaling, puffing itself up. Truthfully, I'd felt five times worse after the first night we shared a bed. But somewhere deep down I knew the guilt should have been worse.

As my mind continued to gain focus and direction, shaking off sleep, I half-heartedly agreed with the guilt, holding loosely to it lest I lose all semblance of a rational, moral woman. Else, nothing would be left but an empty, hollow shell of a person, craving to be filled and nourished by nothing but the most decadent of perversions. And yet, the memory of my son's godly body slamming forcefully into me made me shudder, my breath catching. The sound of his flesh crashing against mine, the filthy words we exchanged, the way he tasted, the way he smelled. Oh God! He'd fucked me so good!

My heated flesh quickened with each decadent recollection and my conscience's scowl darkened, causing me to clench my teeth, take a deep breath and try to put my thoughts elsewhere. When all that could be felt was the dark, opaque layer of guilt floating on the surface of the vast ocean of desire, I detached myself from my sleeping son and got out of bed.

Avoiding my mirror, I left my room where my sexy young son was lying nude in my bed. I closed the door behind me and sighed, standing naked in the hallway. "What are you doing, Saide?" I whispered to myself, shaking my head and looking down at my feet. I made my slow way to the bathroom to shower away the filthy feeling, asking myself, "what the hell are you doing?"

An array of answers to the question presented themselves as I showered and thought.

I was damaging my son psychologically. I was exhibiting signs of PTSD. I was potentially destroying my marriage. I was eternally damning myself. I was making a mistake. I was reacting horribly to a horrible trauma. I was surviving a sexless marriage. I was enjoying my sensuality. I was taking what I deserved. I was having the best sex of my life. I was using my youngest son. I was scarring him emotionally. I was damaging him psychologically.

Round and round my thoughts went until I shut off the hot spray, having merely stood under it until I could feel the fact that I was running out of hot water. Like a roulette wheel my mind had spun and when I stopped it, the ball landed right on guilt; what I knew I was supposed to feel, what I knew I deserved to feel. I turned off the lukewarm water and stepped out of the shower.

There weren't any clean towels in the bathroom closet, and so I tiptoed back to my room and silently opened the door. Abram was thankfully still asleep. As vulnerable and guilty as I felt, I really wanted to get fully dressed. I didn't want to spend too much time underdressed in a house alone with my son. Who knows what he would do when he awoke. But neither did I want to wake him and find out sooner. I needed time to gather some resolve before facing him. I simply swiped the mint green little robe off the floor that I'd discarded the night before.

I left the room again without making a sound and put the feather-light robe on my dripping, naked skin. It felt a bit uncomfortable to put a dry garment on my wet body, but I had little choice. I clutched the robe tightly to my body and tied the belt snug, presuming to maintain some form of modesty. But I knew how it accentuated and flaunted my voluptuous shape and opened it back up to start over. I closed the robe again but left it loose, the belt hanging slack across the front. The wispy little robe hung straight down over my hips revealing pretty much all of my fleshy thighs and, depending on how I moved, a sliver of wet cleavage between my large, hanging breasts. Several times I had to readjust to keep myself covered up.

I went into the kitchen and started on breakfast consisting of eggs, bacon, sausage, toast with butter and jelly, and Abram's childhood favorite: sauteed cinnamon apples. I couldn't say why I chose this day to make the apples as I hadn't made the dish in at least two years. Something in it spoke of innocence and simplicity, two words that probably could never again be used to describe my life. I could remember the first time I made the sweet breakfast treat for Abram when he was barely hip high. He'd picked curiously at the brownish crescents spotted with little black dots, his little face twisted in a grimace.

"What is this?" he'd asked, sounding halfway disgusted.

"Apples," I'd said with a smile.

"I don't like apples." He had stopped fidgeting with his food and folded his arms, pouting. He knew that I would not permit him to leave the table until he ate everything on his plate, just as I had to do with most of his vegetables and almost anything he had never eaten before. That time, I simply took his fork and picked a slice of sweet apple and put it in my mouth. I smiled at him as I chewed and swallowed. He skeptically picked one up and put it in his mouth too. His eyes got big and he smiled at me as he joyfully ate it. From that day until some time in his mid teens it was undoubtedly his favorite dish.

To reminisce on those times lifted my mood some. The guilt was just beginning to slowly fade, and I was starting to relax into more fond memories until I heard my bedroom door open. I tensed, listening as Abram entered the bathroom and turned on the shower. What will I say to him? I thought. How could I tell him what we did was wrong after last night? After I'd wholeheartedly plunged so deeply into depraved affection for a second time. Maybe he won't assume anything. I was the one who initiated everything. If I don't entice him, it'll probably be like a normal day alone with my son. We could simply eat breakfast, have small talk, and then he'd leave me alone to sort out my guilt and possibly figure out a way to repair what was broken inside of me. I entertained the unlikely notion and tried to hope for it.

When I heard Abram leave the bathroom, my heart flinched. Excited? Afraid? Some of both, probably. I calmed again when he walked down to his room. I had a few more minutes to gather myself. More sooner than later he emerged. I turned my head to watch him stride toward me. He was topless, wearing only a pair of jogging pants and a smile. I successfully kept my eyes on his, resisting the urge to check whether he had bothered with underwear. He came straight to me as I stood over the stove, a smile spreading across his lips to match my own.

He greeted me and hugged me from behind as I stood over the stove. There was a nonchalant sensuality in the way his arms tightened around my waist, how he spoke low near my ear and how he pressed himself into me. I felt a rush, remnants of all the emotions and sensations I had enjoyed the night before trickling into my bloodstream. "Good morning, Sadie." He said, emphasizing my name, the simple word embodying his intimate knowledge of my body. I turned to face him over my shoulder, unable to keep the smile off my lips. He took my ligerning stare as an invitation and he kissed me squarely on the lips with only the faintest of hesitation.

I made the kiss end quickly before it grew downright salacious, remembering the guilt I'd been wracked with for the last hour. It seemed more distant now, the dark film over my heart growing remarkably sheer. "Good morning, baby," I said and turned my head back to the stovetop full of food I was cooking. My son peered over my shoulder at my work, having a weak excuse to keep his body pressed against mine, his hand slowly roaming my soft curves. He wasn't trying to be sneaky, exactly, but rather subtle and smooth.

"Mmm, looks good," he said with an inflection that told me he might not have been talking about our breakfast. I grew self-conscious of my open cleavage, choosing not to look to see whether Abram's eyes were glued to my water dotted chest. My son's hand slipped dangerously against my right hip, his fingertips causing my skin to prickle as they ventured beneath the hem of my short robe. The simple touch was so thrilling.

"You're being bad, Abram," I said, meaning it to be an admonishment. It came out more flirtatious than anything and my son read it as such, nuzzling me behind the ear and unabashedly kissing my neck.

"What? It does look good." He took a slow whiff of my neck near my damp hair. "Smells good too."

How does it feel? I was tempted to ask, but didn't for reasons I couldn't seem to remember. I didn't need to say anything though, because Abram slipped both hands upward, bracing my hips in between so that my little robe rose up halfway past my ass. I gasped at the sudden rush of air flowing up between my legs. One part of me wanted to stop him, but about nine parts wanted him to do as he pleased and tease his mother until she melted and surrendered to his dominating will. I had already lost, but I tried to fight still. "Babyyy," I said in a giggly, shy schoolgirl tone, "stop it."

He didn't stop.

Even when I tried to use my one free hand to pull my robe down to cover my ass, my son persisted, filling his greedy hands with whatever ample expanse of supple flesh he could. "Abe, I'm trying to cook here," I whined, my will to resist audibly wilting.

"I know, Sadie. I'm just admiring your...body of work." I tittered at the terrible pun. My son's hands continued to roam the secret erogenous areas of my body, distorting the placement of my robe and causing my skin to feel flushed. Abram kissed my neck again, this time more sensually, humming. "Mm." Then again on the other side. "Mm." He slid satin off my shoulder, exposing it and most of my right breast, including much of my wide areola. He kissed my naked shoulder.

"You're begging for trouble," I said in my flirtatiously warning voice and slid my robe back over my shoulder, using both hands to close the top tight, putting my breast back out of sight. I could see my hardened nipples poking through the soft fabric, unable to deny my excitement. Abram surely saw it too. Or heard it in my voice. Or sensed it in my manner. I was buzzing with sensual energy, as horny as ever. It permeated me and everything I did.

"I'm just trying to see what you got here," Abram said innocently as his two hands slid back down to my ass, cupping it and squeezing it over the soft, thin layer of clothing. He then whispered into my ear, so softly I could hear the slight quivering in his voice. "I just can't wait to taste it."

My breath caught in my throat and I stood panting, unable to speak. If I would have spoken, taste me, baby, would have spilled out of my mouth. So I kept quiet as Abram once again lifted the bottom of my robe up over my ass. He kneaded my tushie and my thighs, delicately at first, but then grew more bold, separating my two fleshy globes and touching the sensitive, slightly sweaty valley in between. I sighed when both hands slid up my ass, around and over my hips then finally converged between my quivering thighs.

Abraham spread my pussylips apart and traced the inner line of my wetness with one finger as if it belonged to him. He brought one hand up to lick his finger right over my shoulder as he played gingerly with my wet pussy with the other. I moaned. I knew somewhere far away in my head that I was supposed to say 'stop', and so I whispered weakly, "stop teasing me, sweetheart."

Abram kissed me and I turned to meet his lips. We shared a kiss that degraded from almost modest to exceedingly inappropriate for a mother and her young son. His lovely tongue paid tribute to me in exquisite ways, prodding my mouth with equal parts desperation and confidence. He sank slowly to his knees, ceasing to massage my pussy but instead spreading me from behind. I leaned forward slightly, and spread my legs a bit too, no longer feeling guilty in the least bit, but gloriously whorish.

My youngest son lapped at my pussy from underneath me as I finished cooking our breakfast. The fact that I was engaged in another mundane task added a spark of eroticism that I wasn't expecting. It wasn't like the intense explosion of lust I received when he'd fucked me, but a low, deep rumble of naughtiness and delightful sensations. If our neighbors were to look through their window into ours, they'd see a robed woman simply cooking, unaware that her son had his nose buried in her ass and was eagerly tonguing her cunt just on the other side of the counter and stove. The thought of being watched thrilled me.

I let my robe come apart and I openly played with my breasts, exploring the exciting, anxious sensation of possibly being caught by nosy neighbors. Abram sucked my labia into his mouth, nipping gently at the sensitive skin. "You like how I taste?" I asked decadently.

"Mm, I want more," Abram groaned and squeezed my ass cheeks hard as he spread me further apart. He tongued my hole, my tight pussy easily parting for his searching tongue. Though he could only penetrate me shallowly from his position, I have to say that he was rather skilled. He ignored no part of my intimate places, licking the skin all around my swollen pussy and then through my pink slit and back into my hole. I almost wished he would attend to my clitoris but found I rather enjoyed the slow build up of pleasure he prompted. The payoff for my patience, I knew, would be marvelous. He pressed his face deeper and spread me wide as if he was famished, eating me like a sweet, juicy cantaloupe. His nose pressed firmly between my ass. I even heard him sniffing me there, which I would have mistaken for simple labored breathing if he hadn't hummed in decadent delight after every deep, soulful whiff. My son was such a little freak and I loved it.

Inevitably, Abram switched his focus, turning his attention to my puckered asshole. Replacing his tongue with a finger in my pussy, my son pushed one fleshy buttock aside and tasted his mother's forbidden ring. He lashed at it with devotion, his busy tongue slick and wet. I luxuriated contentedly in this royal treatment, massaging my breasts and flicking my nipples as my son licked my asshole. No longer being so desperately horny from neglect, I could approach my orgasm with much more subtlety, enjoying the climb on our way to the summit. Having enough discipline not to cum, I finally stopped Abram and suggested we should eat.

Abram kissed me in a way a son should never kiss his mother, his palm fondling my tits and mine softly caressing his groin. He hadn't put on any underwear and I could feel his thick, hard length so prominently through his joggers. I managed to pry myself away from him even though my body begged me to jump him right then and there. I had a lot of practice being horny without cumming, and this time I'd use it to my own advantage.

Abram sat at the end of the table and I plated our breakfast, setting the dishes next to each other, right in front of Abram. I poured my son a tall glass of orange juice and a mug of coffee for myself, then set both at the table. I proceeded to close the shades, preventing any unwanted voyeurism. Who knew what would happen between us now that my guilt had been squelched and my lust had once again been kindled. The thought of being watched with Abram thrilled me. But the reality of it could have tragic consequences.

Feeling secure, I politely sat sideways in my son's lap. He helped himself to heaping handfuls of his mother's bountiful curves, clinging to me in love. As he serenely caressed my back, my ass and my bare thighs, I was left with the task of feeding us both, taking arbitrary dishes from either plate and putting them flirtatiously into his mouth. He sucked my fingers every time I fed him a piece of bacon, sausage or toast. I was sure to wipe the corners of his mouth and lick the jam from my fingers. We chatted lightly and kissed often, the state of my robe growing more and more salacious, my son's cock growing thicker underneath me (or maybe it was the fact that he was pressing it against me on purpose).

Abram fed me some of the sauteed apples, once pushing the fruit into my mouth far, prompting me to suck his finger, which I was delighted to do. Another time he 'mistakenly' dropped a piece, having no choice but to lick the sauce off my chest. I giggled and leaned away, my robes slipping down my shoulders, wide open in front and barely clinging to my body. Everything was on full display for my loving son and he cherished every inch of my skin in playful ways. Growing eager, Abram put a hand on my upper thigh and slid it inward toward my cunt. I coyly squeezed shut and took his hand out, kissing the back of it. "Patience," I said.

"Patience," Abram agreed and started instead to caress my pudgy tummy. "Teasing is what it is." He smirked and I continued to feed him. I picked a piece of still-warm apple between my fingers and put it to his lips. He took it with his teeth and fed it to me. I kissed my son's lips, sucking the tasty fruit into my mouth and eating it. I picked up another piece of apple and placed it between my lips to feed to Abram, which he somewhat reluctantly accepted but kissed me passionately.

He gave a look when I picked another piece of apple. I paused. "What?" I asked, my brow bunching together in confusion.

"I haven't had breakfast apples in years. I don't think I like them anymore."

"Oh?"

Abram shrugged. "Not little anymore."

"No, you're not," I agreed. I wriggled in his lap, feeling his erection. I stood to preposition myself, straddling his knees and facing him. "You're definitely a grown up now." I placed my palms flat on his muscular and youthful chest. It wasn't the flat, soft wall of a boy's chest, but neither was it wide and heavy and hairy like his father's. "You're all man, baby. So sexy." I let my gaze linger lustily over my son's young, toned body and my hands followed my eyes. I caressed his pecs and he even flexed a little for me, the muscles behind his butter-soft skin growing taut, rigid with muscle. I nipped my lip, meaning to suppress any expression of lust but instead exaggerated it, moaning sexily for my son to hear.

I purred in a most unchaste manner as I let my palms ride up to his shoulders, squeezing them as if I was testing their sturdiness. They were also well-muscled, my son's sheer virility making my pussy so wet. "Oh God, baby," I whined arching my back and speaking directly against my son's mouth. "You are so fucking sexy." I was growing hornier, gushing all over my son - both figuratively and literally. I wanted to stroke his ego, to give him a vivid picture of what he does to me. "You turn me on so much."

With a curious and lustful zeal I caressed my son all over, down his arms to squeeze his biceps, then back up to his chest and his abs, then around his back where I dragged my nails down, causing him to shudder. He simply sat and luxuriated in my treatment, though I could tell by his labored breathing that his heart was racing, as was mine. I scooched forward in my son's lap, necessarily spreading my thighs apart so I could feel his clothed cock against my aching quim. I began to grind against Abram in a serpentine rhythm, my lips mere centimeters from his, my eyes locked passionately into his.