Do the Math

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MarciaRH
MarciaRH
388 Followers

I used the hall bathroom, and then, after eyeing my disastrous countenance in the mirror for a time, returned to Jonathan's bedroom and stood over him, watching him sleep. I realized my self-loathing had abated a bit. I was not close to acceptance, not within a light year of that, but I did feel marginally better.

I love you, I thought dispiritedly. In a way God, nature, or society ever intended. I stood there, belted robe on over my pajamas, not remembering putting it on, not remembering much of anything about tonight, arms crossed, coming to grips with myself.

I made love to you, eyes wide shut, consciousness unplugged, my limbic system in direct control; a million evolutionary years of sanity shirt-circuited completely. I wanted to do it again, that was the horrid part. My body cried out for him. My arms wanted to encircle his neck, my lips to glue to his desperately seeking mouth, my tongue to engaged in battle. Disastrous or not, last night had been the most intimidating, beautiful experience of my life. Its defining moment, almost certainly.

And it must never, ever happen again. Not ever.

I went to bed and slept in my robe atop my covers.

* * *

Thursday is a blur. Jonathan was gone to school; I showered and shaved, became presentable in makeup and clothing, went to work, and accepted belated congratulations on my 32nd birthday, which I had slept through the night before. Accounting had refrigerated my cake overnight, and we all ate a piece, Donna Michens noticing, and conspicuously eyeing, my just-visible hickey. She wondered without asking who my new boyfriend was. If she only knew, I thought.

My dad came by around 2 o'clock, gruff as always, enquiring about my health. I told him quite truthfully that I had celebrated my birthday a night early and couldn't get out of bed yesterday morning. He eyed me, but left it at that.

"Jonathan can vote now. See that he does next election," he ordered. I saluted sharply and said aye, aye, sir, my standard response to his pompous behavior. I got spanked a lot for that as an early teen, but never cowed, taking the punishment as a matter of course. Even at thirty-two, I was not too old for a good spanking in his mind; we both knew it.

"You look terrible," he said.

"I feel kinda terrible," I admitted.

"Why don't you go home?"

Why don't you kiss my ass, I didn't say. "I was out yesterday, Dad. I can't be out two days in a row."

Laurie Cantor, Donna Michen's older divorced sister, was passing by and said causally, "Do what your father tells you, young lady. He's the boss, and you're not too old for a spanking, you know."

Reddening, thinking, of all the things to say to me today, I protested, "You're my boss, not him!" Did I have the request printed across my forehead in scarlet letters?

"You heard the lady. Get out of here now."

"Jesus, Dad," I muttered, tightly. "Stop throwing your weight around, please?" Then I sighed and added, "OK. I really am not in the best of shape, I guess."

"As long as it doesn't become an everyday occurrence," he said, patting me embarrassingly on the rear end.

I didn't want to leave. Arriving home at 3 p.m. would put me in the house the same time as Jonathan. I couldn't do that. It would be hard enough arriving home at my normal time. He would want to talk, would probably corner me this time, and then the fight would begin. I did not want to fight. A fight would be very bad.

Instead, I decided to shop and headed for the mall, planning to browse at Macy's or Lord and Taylor for work outfits. My salary, decent though it was at $44,800.00, was still a single household income; I was dressing the male and female version of the same clotheshorse, I thought sometimes. It's galling to pay more for a pair of tennis shoes for Jonathan. than two pair of expensive heels for me. Do you know how much coats from The North Face cost?

I made it halfway there and then turned left at Gardner Boulevard, when I should have gone straight. I looked in my rear-view mirror, watching my escape route to the mall disappear in the distance.

What are you doing, I asked myself.

You have to face this head on, my left-brain asserted.

No, we do not!

You can't bottle this up inside. You made a mistake. Reconcile it, dammit!

That's easy for you to say, I responded fiercely. You're not the one who almost put your son's cock in your mouth and sucked the damned thing!

Of course, she was, though. I signed in defeat and drove home.

* * *

I trembled uncontrollably. Hitching my purse strap over my shoulder, I locked the car and carried my valise inside, praying he wasn't home. That hope was dashed when I tried the door and found it unlocked. Bracing, standing frozen a moment with my eyes closed and breathing raggedly through parted lips, I opened the door and stepped inside. Music played, too loud. Bass thumped through the floor into my feet. I looked at the ceiling and tried to imagine how to handle Jonathan up there with a girl. He surprised me, coming out of the kitchen in his boxer shorts and a t-shirt. Oh, God, I thought. Can this get any worse? Though surprised, there was no guilt or panic in his eyes, only concern.

"Are you OK?"

"Are you alone?" I countered, having to know for sure.

He nodded in understanding. "I always jam in the afternoon. It helps distract me from my homework, you know?" He grinned, sheepishly as you can imagine, while I just stood at the front door.

"You're home early."

I couldn't walk. My vocal cords were frozen. Tears stung my eyes and my nose burned. Jonathan blurred as tears over spilled my eyes and I was seconds away from blubbering like a child. "I hate myself," I wailed. "Why did I do it?"

He remained for a moment and then rushed to where I stood, carelessly shoving a plate and a can of Diet Coke on the foyer table as he passed. He wrapped me in his arms as I bawled, misery streaming from my every pore. My nose ran and tears flooded down my cheeks. "What is the matter with me?" I sobbed. "I'm your mother. I wanted to suck your cock!" I screamed. "What is the matter with me?"

For the second time in 24 hours he picked me up and carried me in his arms, this time to the living room couch instead of his bedroom, sitting down with me in his lap. I curled up, desperately clutching the valise to my chest and my purse digging into both of our ribs as I quavered and cried. Guilt-driven pain has no measure, I was finding out.

He said nothing, only cuddled me on his lap. He knew better than I, what Jena needed though. The moment his hand stole inside my coat and cupped my breast, I sought his mouth and kissed him feverishly, violently, writhing desperate to get my arms around his neck, to straddle him, to shove my tongue down his throat. I was sober this time, no excuse at all, reckless and wanton, his whore mother. My father was right to beat me in college.

"Stop!" he said breathlessly.

I did, and stared at him in utter helplessness. I was crying still and he was hard to see. My breath came and went in jagged gasps. Had I ever wanted somebody more? No, I knew, and yes: two nights ago, last night, and again, now, desperately, with all my being.

"I could be pregnant!" I blurted.

He shuddered and placed his hands over my breasts. They had never needed holding more. "It's possible?" he asked.

I nodded, my breathing no better. My heart might shatter my breastbone in a moment. So aroused, so crazed, that I was secreting juices into my panties. I could smell myself. My underarms itched maddeningly, and deep inside, between my legs, I burned.

"Two nights ago was bad. Today would be insane. I am not on birth control, Jonathan."

He was a smart boy, could do the math, as he'd done two nights ago, and again just now, taking my breast and setting me free. He was counting the days since my last period.

"I have condoms in my room," he said softly.

I nodded, committing myself totally. "I want you."

"I want you too."

"No panic this time, Jonathan. I promise."

He slowly shook his head. "I thought you might kill yourself," he confided.

"I thought I would too," I confessed.

"What changed?"

I shook my head again. "Tell me this isn't just me riding some hopeless flight of the imagination, Jonathan."

"It's not," he assured me, laughing bitterly. "You have no idea how much I wanted you. I prayed for this for years. I want you the way a dying man wants salvation," he said longingly. He focused on my drying eyes. "Really? You wanted to-"

"Don't you say it!" I threatened, laughing harshly. "Do you know how awful that makes me feel, knowing I wanted to do that to you?"

"Wanted to, or want to?" he asked cautiously.

I leaned in, purposely grinding his erection with my crotch. He groaned, and shifted uncomfortably. "Do you want me to?" I whispered.

He nodded slowly, yes.

"Then I will. But not today. Today I have to preserve some shred of my decency," I said.

I kissed him, and he lifted me off his cock, using my breasts to advantage. I reached between his legs and cupped him through his shorts, feeling the shaft and his testicles through the thin material. I knew we would fuck right here, on the couch, me in his lap, and I suddenly wanted that very much. I forced my hand through the flap and grasped his shaft, stroking it clumsily. He continued to hold my breasts, kneading and squeezing them roughly through my blouse and bra, so I yanked up the front of my top with my free hand, undid the center snap on my bra, and put them into his hands, bare. He moaned and kissed me gratefully. I was so ready to fuck. And no condom would come between us again, today.

* * *

It is 10:45 p.m. I needed to go pee-again-and recharge my glass from the frighteningly close-to-empty bottle of Chardonnay in the refrigerator. I am pleasantly inebriated, so please forgive the atrocious writing. It has steadily deteriorated as I have imbibed this utterly delicious wine. Am I in danger of becoming a lush, as well as a whore?

Something I forgot to mention: Sports bra. LOL. This is significant how, you ask. Well, all day Wednesday I wore one, a defensive measure, I think, a chastity belt for my breasts. Not unlike our engagement of the couch, Tuesday night's adventure began with a touch of my left breast, and I wanted to forestall any such incident happening Wednesday. If a suit of Kevlar armor had been available to me on Wednesday morning after my bath, I would have donned it.

The import is, that all day Thursday I felt constricted inside my lace brassiere, the opposite of vulnerable, as I would expect to feel. The entire morning I felt suffocated, restricted, the sensation intensifying all afternoon, until almost maddening when I got home. It doesn't have to be explained to me why. Or why the arrival of Jonathan's hand on my breast set me free and turned me wild.

We did, in fact, fuck on the couch. I experienced another meltdown, maybe ten seconds after yanking my panties aside and plunging down on his shaft, but as panic attacks go, it was very minor. I stripped off my coat and yanked my top off over my head, flinging if away as my orgasm ignited. I wanted my bra left on. I told him this, but not why, though I did explain to him later. He attacked my breasts voraciously, gnawing mercilessly at my nipples, sucking blue-black marks on my flesh. If I'd been inflamed Tuesday night, I was a blowtorch now. Everything he did to me drove me wild.

I began to violently orgasm in less than five minutes. It was probably somewhere between three and four minutes, but no more than five. He yanked my skirt up around my waist, grabbed my underwear and tore them from me, then held my bare hips and rode me up and down his shaft. I had not been penetrated with anything more than my fingers in three years, and already painful from Tuesday night, I was in agony from the battering of my cervix and the friction with my delicate, inexperienced linings. I would pay for this madness tomorrow.

Frenzied, he came, thrusting upward and bear-hugging me to his chest, immobilizing not just my arms, but my entire upper body. He held me motionless while he pistoned up and down, making me wail in a frenzy of my own, ululating, fingernails puncturing my palms, biting my lips to make them bleed, passing gas uncontrollably from my humiliating position, silent, thank God, and the smell was overwhelmed by our excretions and sweat. He finally let me collapse atop him.

"No more," I panted, "No more."

He tore into my neck and shoulders again, leaving hickeys everywhere. Then my breasts, bending my backward until I almost came off his lap. For a moment I half-fell, hand back in a panic to catch myself, then he pulled me back. I think I was close to hyperventilating. I was certainly hyper-excited.

My God, I thought, he has no intention of stopping.

He didn't, bringing me back to orgasm despite his noticeably less rigid erection, and for a tremendously brutal period we locked together our mouths and kissed violently while my presence on his erection brought him back to astonishing hardness in a very short time. I moaned continually and continued to battle for supremacy of his tongue, which he energetically fought against. I was outmatched in almost every respect. I lost all shred of self-respect when he forcibly repositioned my arms behind my back, crossed them, making me grasp my elbows, and then stuck his middle finger far, far up my rear end. This last insult to my self-esteem wound me up so tightly I re-ignited all over again, coming in seconds with the most powerful orgasm of my life. I have climaxed as powerfully only once since; the night I became pregnant with Jonathan's brother or sister.

In all, we made love six times Thursday afternoon through Friday morning, ceasing for good only after I became so raw from intercourse with his big penis that I began to sob from the pain, and then only because he made me stop. I didn't want to. I never want to stop making love to my son.

* * *

I don't know where to go from here. The compulsion to chronicle my story, to express the immediacy of the agony I felt, to explain in detail my coming to accept the truth of the situation, that I am in love with my son, and that I am pregnant as a result of this love...well, that compulsion seems to have spent itself over the preceding pages. I am done with this chronicle, I think. What little I have left to say is strictly of an anecdotal nature.

Oh, Jonathan, how I would love to kill you sometimes, LOL. Just recently, I came home from work to discover him there a day early. To my surprise and consternation, he met me in the foyer and engaged me in an earth-shattering, record-breaking kiss. Flummoxed though delighted as I was, he immediately compounded my bewilderment by lofting me over his shoulder firefighter's rescue style, and carrying me squealing and protesting upstairs to our bedroom, where he unceremoniously dumped me on the bed. Properly outraged, I demanded to know what the ef was going on.

"Take off your clothes," he ordered.

Flustered, I demanded to know where he got off, telling his mother what to do.

"Take them off," he repeated sternly.

Incensed, I told him unkindly to eat cake.

Laughing in distain, he folded his arms and intoned: "You wouldn't talk to your father that way."

"You're not my father," I politely pointed out. By now, I had a pretty good intuition of what he intended for me. The prospect raised my blood pressure, erupted me in gooseflesh, and subjected me to intense anxiety.

"I'm the next closest thing," he advised.

"And that is?"

"Your owner."

I barked laughter. He then grabbed my hair-"Ow, Jonathan! Ow!"- hauled me to my feet, dumped me over his lap, yanked up my skirt and hauled down my panties and gave me the soundest spanking I'd received since calling my mother an effing bitch when I was 13.

Again, he had done the math, intuiting the secret I had buried, even from myself, since early adolescence: that I had provoked my father into spanking me with my behavior and activities. That I had needed the spankings, even enjoyed them on some subconscious level, that possibly even my actions in college were a cry for help, pleading with him to do what I could not: put and end to my downward spiral into promiscuity and despair. He even put me on my knees in the corner afterward, hands atop my head, bare rear end pulsing like a lighthouse, squirming, trembling, indignant and patently unrepentant.

Oh, how incredibly aroused and outraged I was, an absolute stew of emotions. My nipples ached fiercely, threatening to punch right through the cups of my bra. I felt like a swamp inside, imagining I could smell myself. Tears born of helplessness and humiliation streamed down my cheeks, and I so wanted him to put me in bed and fuck me like crazy. Which he finally did, after making me suffer in agony half the night. We most certainly conceived his little brother or sister in the offing.

* * *

Most likely, I will dispose of this journal before it can do me grave harm. I can imagine some hacker in Russia stumbling across it while looting my bank account or turning my laptop into a cog in his nefarious botnet-much less chance of that, I know, with my Macbook. But what if Jonathan were to stumble across it sometime? Since becoming intimate, every parent-offspring barrier between us has collapse. I have no secrets anymore, and precious little privacy...much the same, I imagine, were we man and wife.

Anyway, it's way past my bedtime, I'm excessively inebriated for a work night, and tomorrow will not be an easy day in the office. I need to have my wits about me. And, of course, Jonathan will be here tomorrow night. I am goose-bumped all over, thinking about that. Time to go to bed now. Farewell, and good night.

Sunday evening

March 8, 2015

I revealed the existence of my journal to Jonathan Friday night. He read it sometime past two o'clock in the morning, following our second bout of energetic lovemaking (our third was much more reserved, an exquisite dessert after the fiery main course and second helping) and he was disturbed. Not so much at the fact the journal existed, but the level of despair I endured for two days following our game of strip Monopoly and resulting plummet into incest. He read it through twice without question or comment. Twice he cried, which touched me more deeply that anything he's done since bringing the glass of Ovaltine to my bedroom that first afternoon. Handing back my laptop, he had nothing to say other than how sorry he was, and that he thought I should publish the account online, anonymously. I was appalled at the suggestion and said no.

When my initial panic subsided, however, and after discussing the idea sometime later, following dessert, he brought up a very good point. A true account of incest, he explained, told from the viewpoint of the female participant (he kept using the word victim, to which I strongly and consistently objected), detailing the mental anguish I underwent could be a powerful teaching point for another women in the same position. I had to grudgingly agree, and consented to publish my account online. This, of course, sparked additional disagreements.

I wanted to retool the account as a short story, told in the third person in order to address the effect on both mother and son. He said no way.

Doing so dilutes the whole premise, he said. My unvarnished words carry the emotional impact to the reader. A short story would be viewed as that: a story, fiction, pandering to the base tendencies of a mostly male readership. I admitted the truth of his observation, asked if I should at least edit the account, correcting my atrocious spelling and grammar, and he shook his head, stating the account should stand as-is; polishing would dilute the impact. As usual, Mom acquiesced.

MarciaRH
MarciaRH
388 Followers