tagIncest/TabooKnocking Up Mom

Knocking Up Mom


Hi guys! It's me; Sam Jason. My account was stolen and sadly somebody just deleted my works. But I'm lucky, I have another copies on my PC. I will publish them for you. I hope you like it. I love you guys. :)


"Blake is no doubt the most gifted art student I've ever had the privilege to instruct," Mrs. Mackly said.

Mrs. Mackly was a small, dried up woman in her late 60's. She wore thick round glasses circled by tortoise shell rims. She hunched forward and pointed a stubby finger that punctuated almost every word she thought important.

She had been my son Blake's art teacher for three years, this being the fourth as he started his senior year in High School. Blake had complained about her many times: how she acted, how she sounded, how she droned on. He had complained plenty about her.

This was the first time she complained about him. I had been called down to the school for a private meeting with Mrs. Mackly after school had let out. Even Blake didn't know about it.

"Mrs. Mackly," I said, "Can we make this quick. I have to get back to the church and prepare for Sunday's service. As you know, being a Pastor's wife in a small community can be awful time consuming. There's only my husband, Pastor Ed, me, and Blake, God bless him, to take care of all the details that need getting done. Can't we talk about Blake's art some other time when we can schedule ahead?"

"I wish we could, Mrs. Best," she said.

"Please, call me Kim," I said. I didn't like the added layer of formality the titles associated with the clergy added.

Mrs. Mackly took a deep breath and looked like she didn't want to be in this room any more than I did at this point. "Kim, like I said, you son has amazing talent. Painting, sculpture ... anything he set his mind to concerning art opens up and flowers in his hand. But, most remarkable are his pen and ink or pencil sketches. They're breathtaking. Each so lifelike."

"Yes, I've seen them, of course. He always seems to be drawing at home," I said. "But, I don't understand? Why are you telling me this, something you must realize I already know?"

She nodded, then held up a thick sketch pad. She shook it slightly before dropping it flat on the desk separating us. "This was left behind today when all the students went home. This is Blake's. He sits in the back row, and it must have fallen out of his backpack."

I reached for it and said, " I'll be sure to give it to him when I get home, but I hardly think it was worth a trip all the way down here to—"

"It's what's in it, Mrs. Best. What's in it."

Suddenly, it felt like calling me "Kim" wasn't the right tone for this meeting.

"I always appreciate looking at my students' art. Maybe I was overstepping Blake's privacy a bit, but I wanted to see what he was up to artistically. I wish now I had never opened it."

"I don't understand? Blake is such a good boy. He's a Pastor's son and has always been a model student," I said.

"If it had been anyone else," she looked down before she continued, "I would have brought this right to the Principal. But since I'm a member of your congregation, and I wouldn't want this to get any unwanted attention, I thought I would take this directly to you."

"Let me see what you're talking about," I said and reached for the sketchbook.

Mrs. Mackly pulled it back and warned: "You'd better prepare yourself. Although, artistically, it's all beautiful, some of it is very disturbing." Then, she handed me the pad.

I opened it and saw some sketches i recognized, the settings and the partial figures. Then, I got to what I could only call pornography. They were sketches of Blake, naked. He was engaging in various sex acts with a woman. Her face was either hidden by hair or facing away, or not filled in with details.

They were copulating in all positions: missionary mostly, but also with the woman on top, and also with her on her hands and knees, breasts hanging and Blake behind her.

My face must have shown my shock, because Mrs. Mackly said quietly, "Now you see why I called you down here and want this to remain private."

I nodded, unable to speak.

She continued: "Art expresses itself in so many wonderful and beautiful forms. That includes, of course, the human body. But, because of the words here, the captions along with the drawings ... well ... I just thought you and Pastor Ed would be the best ones to deal with this."

She was right. I'm glad no one else had seen these. They could be misinterpreted and Blake could be judged harshly. The captions all had one urgent, almost violent message: impregnation. None of the sex acts carried tenderness, or caring, or pleasure. There was only one drive for the sex displayed: to make the woman pregnant.

All of the captions were in ugly, dark, jagged capital letters; they were penned as if he drew over each letters dozens of times until the pen almost tore through the paper. Most said "KNOCK YOU UP!" Some were "MY BABY!" or "FEEL MY CUM!" or "PREGNANT!" and even "OUR BABY!"

"You can see from his writing why I thought this had to be addressed as soon as possible. Your son seems fixated on not just the sex part, but even more so on the aspect of getting this girl pregnant. It would be such a mistake to let this slide by without trying to avert an act that could change not only his life, but his partner's for the rest of their lives. Don't you agree, Mrs. Best? ... Mrs. Best?"

I numbly nodded. My mind was totally blown, like I was in a trance. All I could think to say was, "Thank you, Mrs. Mackly. You did the right thing to call this to my attention. You can be sure I will talk to Blake about this and do my best to stop him from doing anything that will cause him or anyone else any harm." I put the pad in my bag and got up to leave.

Mrs. Mackly added, "You know we have a psychologist on call for all the students, and I'd be happy to—"

"I'm sure we can handle this with an understanding talk, and a little prayer," I said. I wish I was as confident as I tried to make that sound.

Once I got into the car, I looked around and made sure there was no one else in the parking lot. Then I pulled the pad out and went through all the sketches. They got more explicit and detailed as they progressed.

There were always just two subjects in each drawing: Blake and the woman. The woman was taller than Blake by a few inches and had large breasts that hung low without the hint of sagging. They were capped with aureoles about the size of a poker chip and tipped with hard dark nipples. She had a dark triangle of thick pubic hair between her long athletic legs. She also had a beauty mark: a tiny discoloration on her left butt cheek. It inhabited the shape of a heart.

I recognized it. I recognized the faceless woman.

It was Blake's mother.

It was me.


I made a cup of tea when I got home and sat at the kitchen table. The tea went from hot to room temperature without me taking one sip. I know at least an hour went by, but I didn't notice. My mind raced, but I can't remember one thought from that agonizing wait in the kitchen.

It was shocking enough to find out my son was drawing pornography. It was quite another thing to realize it was INCEST. INCEST WITH HIS OWN MOTHER!

We were lucky Mrs. Mackly had no idea who Blake's sex partner was. That would have added a whole 'nother level of perversity to the subject.

It shook my entire belief system. Here I was a pastor's wife. I thought I had brought Blake up to be a good person in all ways. But, now, I wondered how I could have failed so miserably. Of course I realized that a young boy (Blake had turned 18 just the previous week) would have a certain preoccupation with sex. But, to have such an obsession with impregnation was not normal in any way. AND—even so—shouldn't it be with a girl his own age, someone he knows, and not his own mother?

What would his father say? Oh my God! His father! Ed, "Pastor Ed" as all his congregation knew him must never learn of this. He was super strict with Blake as it was. This would send him into one of his fanatical religious rages. Blake would suffer, and I would not escape his righteous wrath either, even though I was blameless.

Ed must never find out about this. I would have to handle it quietly, discreetly, and swiftly, even though I wanted to run away from the problem and hide.

I would talk to Blake as soon as he got home, show my stern disapproval, get him to promise never to do anything like that again, and say a prayer asking for forgiveness. That should take care of it.

I was starting to feel pretty good about my plan when Blake came in through the kitchen door, acting as normal as ever and that this sketchbook of filth didn't exist.

"Hi, Mom," he said, and headed for his room, as usual.

I used my serious mother voice and said, "Blake, we have to talk. Sit down."

"What did I do now? Or is this some more of Dad's rules I have to follow?"

"I wish that's what it was, Blake. I got a call from Mrs. Mackly."

"Is this about the art scholarship?" He looked hopeful. "Did I fill it out all right?"

I couldn't find he right words. Who was I kidding: I couldn't find any words, so I took his sketchbook from my bag and slid it onto the table.

In a small voice he said, "I wondered where that went. I thought I left it in my locker."

"You left it where Mrs. Mackly found it, on the floor near your desk. Do you know how much trouble you're in, young man?"

"That's private. No one should look at that but ME!" Blake slammed his fist on the table to emphasize his last word.

"I WON'T tolerate that kind of behavior. What's got into you?"

"What's got into YOU? Or, better still what hasn't got into you?" He grabbed the sketchbook. I thought he was going to get up and take it into his room, but instead he opened it. "LOOK!" he yelled.

He presented one sketch to me, then turned the page, "LOOK!" he yelled again.

I turned my head away and squeezed my eyes shut.

"Blake, why are you doing this? Are you going crazy?"

"I'm going crazy all right, Mom. Crazy from all the years of you and Dad fighting about not being able to have another baby. All the years of Aunt Bev coming over and all you talk about is not being able to have another baby and how it's Dad's fault, but he blames you. All the years of him having to get drunk to even get it up—"

"Blake Griffin Best! You have some respect for your father! You have no right to talk about him ... about us and our private life ... our sex life together."

"What sex life? Tell me that. You complain so much about it. You tell Aunt Bev constantly about how you're sex-starved and haven't been satisfied in years. Admit it."

"Blake ..." I couldn't think of what to say. Everything my son had just said was true. I hadn't realized he had been so attuned. I had tried to keep it private, but in retrospect, I guess I hadn't done a very good job.

Blake went on: "And now Dad's made a big deal about it! Everybody in church knows that you haven't been able to get pregnant and—"

"Blake, I'm 41 years old so—"

"Mom, we know it's not you who's to blame. It's Dad. He can't handle the job. Hasn't been able to for years. Remember, my bedroom is right next to yours and I hear everything. And besides, you tell Aunt Bev the same identical thing. You're frustrated and I get it. You've wanted another baby all these years. And you're not getting what you need in the physical department. You told Aunt Bev you can't remember the last time you had an orgasm."

"BLAKE! I won't have you disrespecting me OR your father!"

"How is it disrespect if I'm telling the truth?"

I didn't have an answer for that.

"So now Dad made a big make-it-or-break it promise in church. You know he's been losing members and he wanted to make a big deal about how miracles can happen. And so what miracle does he pick? You! You having a baby!"

It was true. Ed, as part of his sermon about faith, had detailed how we had tried to conceive for the past five years. Saturday afternoon was a special "miracle" prayer service. It also coincided with my scheduled ovulation. I think Ed actually believed that the congregation could create a miracle with its combined faith. I wasn't so sure, knowing the true extent of Ed's failing sex drive and performance. He could only get an erection after the consumption of alcohol, and his ejaculations had gotten weaker and weaker until now only a few drops could be coaxed out of him at best.

"I told your dad not to make any promises, but he wouldn't listen."

"Yeah! And now if it doesn't work, he promised to step down as pastor. Some big test of faith thing. It's crazy, yet he put us all in this situation. It's had me crazy worried for weeks now."

"Is this what these pictures are all about?" I asked.

"Yeah, I guess. I'd been thinking about it but didn't have to guts to talk with you."

"You could have told me you were afraid, Blake. You know that."

"It's not about being scared, Mom. In fact I'm glad you saw those drawings. Now I know that it's right I talk to you about my plan."

"Your plan?"

"Mom, we both know Dad is hoping for a miracle. A miracle is something happening that no one could ever count on or expect. Something so out of the ordinary that only supernatural forces could put it all together. Something so outrageous that it could only happen because it was supposed to happen no matter what people thought."

Blake was getting that same fervent passion that Ed channeled when he preached. "What are you getting at, Blake?"

"Mom, there's only one way you can get pregnant on Saturday."

"And that is ...?"

"We have sex, Mom, you and me. And I knock you up!"


I sat with my second cup of untouched tea. I made it after I sent Blake to his room. After his outrageous statement, I couldn't even speak—I just pointed in the general direction of his bedroom. He took the hint.

This was going from bad to worse. I thought it was sinful for Blake to have drawn those filthy pictures, but I never imagined he would actually think they could become a reality. That was crazy.

Maybe he DID need psychological counseling.

My hand reached for the sketchpad. I opened it, and with a gaping mouth I looked at each and every drawing.

Blake got his love of art and I guess, talent, from me. I loved to draw. Always had. And I may be a little vain in thinking I was pretty good myself. But Blake would soon surpass me in skill. These, aside from the subject matter, were very good.

He captured the detail and the posture and the emotion. He drew his own face with expressive force. You could definitely identify him and the intensity, almost ferocity of his sexual act. If it hadn't been portrayed as me, his mother, on the receiving end of it, I would have almost considered each a work of art.

All that was missing was my face—that was blank, with the vaguest hint of amorphous features. But, Blake had captured my naked body to perfection.

"My naked body!" I said out loud. How would he have any idea what my body looked like. This wasn't just some imagined scribbling. This was a precision work.

I rushed to his room, gave a quick knock and entered. Blake was lying on his bed, bare-chested and wearing just a pair of running shorts. He had another sketchpad and pen in his hands.

"Blake, I have to ask you an important question? Well two questions, really."

"Okay, Mom. What are they? I just finished another drawing; want to see?"

"In a minute. I looked at your drawings again—why didn't you sketch my face in?"

"I wondered that myself as I was doing it. There was something that always kept me from finishing it, completing it. It was like it was a dream or a fantasy that would never have a chance of being completed. There was no way it was going to happen, so the drawing couldn't be completed either. It would always have to remain unfinished."

I thought there must have been some unconscious mechanism that let Blake know that the forbidden act of incest with his mother had zero chance of ever happening. That kept my face incomplete and always would represent that impenetrable barrier.

"Second question: how were you able to put so much detail into drawing my body? You know how modest I am and how I've never even walked around the house partially clothed."

"Oh that," Blake said. "You're probably not gonna like this part, but I'll be honest with you. Is that what you want ... honesty?"

"I've taught you honesty is one of the most important values, haven't I? I've always been honest with you, and I expect the same."

Blake got up and went to the wall of his room, the common wall separating our bedrooms. He waved a finger to me, beckoning me to him. When I stood beside him, he took a small framed photo of him, his father, and me off the wall. Behind it was a hole the size of a quarter.

"Look," he suggested.

Shocked, I looked and saw a perfect view of our bedroom.

"There's a small hole right beneath that painting you did of the waterfall. The shadow of the frame and the wallpaper pattern cover it so you could never notice it in a million years."

He said it so matter of fact that it left me in utter amazement.

"Mom, because you were so careful about not letting me see you, I got curious. So I drilled this hole and now I'm not curious. I've seen you completely naked a thousand times."

"You've invaded my privacy! You ... you ...—"

"I think the right word is 'voyeur,' but I really think that means when you look at strangers. I just look at you."

"I don't know what to say. How can my son be this person I don't know?" I questioned myself, knowing there were no ready answers. No wonder he could so flawlessly draw my body. He had studied it from all angles at his leisure."

My legs trembled and felt unsteady. I sat at his desk chair. Then, another thought hit me.

"Did you only watch me?"

"I only wanted to watch you," he said. It sounded vague and incomplete.

"Did you ... did you ever watch me with your father?" I dreaded asking, but had to know.

"Dad's a JOKE!" he snarled. "He can't even get it up. He's with one of the most beautiful women on the planet, and he can't get it up. Not unless he's drunk, that is. And that's for about two seconds."

My worst fears had been realized. Blake had watched us having sex. Or trying to.

"He's your father, Blake. Be respectful."

"I'm lucky that eighteen plus years ago he was able to get it done. That was probably the last time because you've been trying ever since. And he thinks that some magic ritual that takes place on Saturday is going to cure what's wrong with his penis or whatever? It's crazy. He bet everything on a fantasy. We're going to lose the church, our house, everything if you don't get pregnant. How smart is that? Tell me you think you can get pregnant without my help. Tell me that!"

I could see his anger and his worry. I felt the same thing, but thought I had kept it hidden. I couldn't reason with Ed. I think he actually believed, or wanted to believe a miracle could occur. I just shook my head, not knowing what I could say.

"I've seen what Dad can produce when you jerk him off!"


"Oh come on, Mom! No matter what you do, almost nothing comes out. How is that going to get you pregnant? And it's getting worse all the time."

I couldn't believe I was having a conversation, one-sided as it was, about my husband's ejaculation volume.

"He's just being egotistical about it at this point, thinking he can get you pregnant. That's something, with him always talking about the sin of pride. At least I'm not like that."

"You are too! You just don't see it," I snapped. Part of me wanted to hurt Blake back for all the emotional stress he put me through.

"What do you mean?" he asked. I could see that my jab had hit home.

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