Magnus and His Family Ch. 03

Paul Larsen felt really sorry for his mother, Imogen.

Now twenty and about to start his junior year at Lorimer College, Paul had spent the last two years watching his mother remain in a profound depression after leaving her husband, Magnus. She had never really given Magnus—or Paul or his sister Kristen—any compelling reason for her breakup; she had muttered something about trying to "find herself" and needing to get away from a domineering spouse, although from Paul's perspective his father was just a naturally dominant (not "domineering") man who was in no way cruel or impatient with those around him. In fact, it amused Paul to see how much of a teddy bear Magnus could be around Kristen, who seemed to be able to wrap her father around her little finger.

And Paul had never noticed his father treat Imogen with anything other than old-world consideration and courtesy, even if his large physique, deep bass voice, and determination to get things done in the most efficient way possible might have come across to others as vaguely imperious or commanding. Okay, sure, Magnus wasn't exactly a feminist, but he was no ogre, either.

Meanwhile, Imogen had lapsed into a kind of moping melancholy that was a radical transformation from what Paul remembered growing up. Then, without being exactly perky, she had been warm, cheerful, tender-hearted, and affectionate to almost everyone. Sure, she was a little on the timid and meek side, avoiding conflict or argument or loud, obnoxious people who didn't know how to shut up; but she seemed deeply in love with her husband, almost worshipping him in some ways—in spite of the fact that, for most of the years they were married, she earned a larger salary than he did, as she ascended up the corporate ladder to be a mid-level executive at a bank. Magnus couldn't have been less concerned about this, since he was devoted to doing good, careful work whether there was money to be made by it or not.

Anyway, it didn't seem as if Imogen had really done much to "find herself" in the past two years. As she trudged every week to and from her not terribly stimulating job, she didn't seem to go on any dates at all with other men, only seeing (very occasionally) a small cadre of female friends, several of whom were also divorced, from whom she no doubt elicited mutual sympathy for their plight.

Initially Paul wondered whether his own presence in the household—they had had to occupy a relatively small apartment, since Imogen had magnanimously allowed Magnus to keep their big house, most of which she had paid for—had been a factor: she certainly wouldn't have wanted to bring a man over while her adult son was in the place, let alone spend the night with him in her cramped bedroom while Paul was in his own bedroom right next door. But she could have gone to the guy's place, couldn't she? Paul, who had bedded down with a few girls at college over the past two years, wasn't exactly a stranger to intimacy (although, truth be told, both he and his bedmates were really looking more for fun than a deep emotional relationship), and whatever minimal embarrassment Imogen might have felt at spending the night away from home with a man wouldn't have been enough to deter her from the fairly imperative need for regular sex.

Paul, in fact, had reached the stage of not being able to fathom how anyone, man or woman, could go an entire two years without intercourse. He had learned that women were just as ardent as men, and just as liable to becoming irritable and crabby if they didn't receive stimulation at frequent intervals.

Of course, a conversation of this sort wasn't something he could have with his own mother, even if both of them were now full-fledged adults. He couldn't just say, "Come on, Mom, you need to sleep with someone!"—could he? Anyway, it had become clear that his mother was one of those women who needed to feel emotionally close to a man before they could expose their bodies to him.

Paul really didn't know exactly how to react to the breakup of his family. Paul—who was all set to take a dorm room at Lorimer—didn't really have much of a problem staying in the small apartment Imogen had rented and commuting to college. In some strange way it made him feel like the "man of the house"—or even . . . No, he wouldn't think of that.

The two years spent with his mother were actually pretty nice, even though he missed his dad and sister, neither of whom he saw very much. The two of them quickly got into a comfortable rhythm; and the only bad thing, from Paul's perspective, was the way Imogen kept moping around as if the world was about to end. Damn it, why didn't she go out more? There were plenty of online dating sites where she could meet perfectly respectable guys. After all, she had been the one to separate from her husband—so why was she so glum when she should have felt a sense of liberation from his "domineering" ways?

This was the scenario when Paul came home from the college library one Saturday afternoon.

*

Imogen herself had spent a lot of time running errands, and seemed pretty exhausted. She liked taking afternoon naps on weekends—she said they were a way of clearing her mind and rejuvenating herself. Paul could see the sense in that, although he wasn't one to take naps.

So it surprised him a little when, from her bedroom, Imogen called out: "Paul, why don't you come and take a nap with me?"

He peeked into his mom's bedroom and saw her lying on the bed in one of her thinner and frillier nightgowns. There was a curious expression on her face—weariness and also that habitual melancholy, but also a kind of suppressed excitement.

"You really want me to, Mom?" Paul said nervously.

"Only if you want to," she replied, as if girding herself for a rejection.

"Sure thing, Mom," he said. "I'll be happy to."

He walked stiffly into his own bedroom to change—or, rather, to strip. He actually didn't even have much in the way of nightwear, so if she balked at his near-nudity he wasn't exactly certain what to do.

Imogen's bedroom was dark as he entered it, and she may not have noticed what he was wearing—or, rather, not wearing. Her eyes were already closed, and as he got into his usual position, head between her breasts, he felt a little ridiculous, as his calves and feet extended so far below her that he had to bend at the knees to accommodate himself on the queen-size bed.

Imogen wrapped her arms languidly around her son as she exhaled; she already seemed on the point of falling sleep. Presently Paul noticed that her breathing—which he could feel brushing the hair on the top of his head—had become soft and regular; and he also noticed that every breath raised those breasts up to his face like luscious balloons. When he looked up at her, he saw that she really did seem to be asleep.

The nightgown she was wearing had a scooped neck that revealed a disturbing amount of cleavage. There was a slight sheen of perspiration on her upper chest, and its faintly sweet odor made Paul almost dizzy. Certainly, he wasn't going to get any sleep here! One of his arms had gone around Imogen's neck, while the other was resting on her hip. As his breathing became ragged, he took that hand and placed it gently over one breast. It was clear that she was not wearing a bra underneath.

He swallowed heavily. There was no way he should be doing this, but it was as if he was being commanded by a force outside himself. He took the neck of her nightgown between his thumb and index finger and brought it gently down. After what seemed like excruciating minutes, one breast was suddenly exposed.

He thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

It was exquisitely round, firm, and shapely, and the brown nipple was protruding and seemingly swelling before his eyes. Didn't that only happen when a woman was . . .? It seemed almost sacrilegious to touch it, but he couldn't help himself. He placed his hand ever so gently on that maternal breast, and the feel of it almost made him cry out: it was so much nicer and lovelier than the breasts of the three or four young women he had bedded down with in the past. The only way he could describe it was that this was a breast with character.

Pulling himself back gently, Paul now made the same effort to expose the other breast. The pair of them, now bare in front of his eyes, seemed far more than the sum of their parts; and, what's more, they no longer seemed like his own mother's breasts, but like the Platonic ideal of every woman's breasts. Here, in essence, was the very epitome of these wondrous objects that could both nurture the growing infant and also feed the spirits of the grown man. For the first time in his life, Paul came to the full realization of the extraordinary capacity of a woman's breasts to serve as a placid haven of peace and security to weary and frazzled masculinity: their rondure, their texture, and their symbolism all united in being the place where a man could go to achieve serenity from a turbulent world.

And now, with a quick look up at her face to make sure she was still asleep, Paul placed his lips gently around one of his mother's nipples.

There was, of course, no way he could remember being suckled there as a baby; but that firm, swelling nub, once it made contact with his mouth, stimulated him more profoundly than anything he had ever experienced. And the stimulation was such that he almost unconsciously brought a hand down to his underwear and stripped himself in a swift motion.

Equally unconsciously, as he placed his head firmly in between Imogen's breasts and sucked and nuzzled with increasing ardor, he raised up the hem of her nightgown so that her legs were exposed—and when his burgeoning cock touched the firm flesh of her thighs, he thought he might explode on the spot.

He wasn't certain how much higher he dared to raise up that nightgown. He kept peeking at Imogen's face. He had noticed that a little moan had come from her closed lips when he had placed his lips on her nipple, and now he saw that she was smiling softly, although her eyes remained firmly closed.

As he continued to pull up the hem of her nightgown and stroke the flesh of her thighs, he expected to encounter her panties—and was stunned to find that she wasn't wearing any.

His first contact with his mother's bare bottom sent him into transports—how smooth, how soft, and yet how shapely it was! The bottoms of his previous lovers couldn't hold a candle to it. His hand thoroughly probed both cheeks, and he detected another moan, now from her open mouth, emerging from Imogen—a moan that found an echo in one of his own. And yet, it wasn't entirely a moan of purely personal pleasure; rather, it was an acknowledgment of the exquisite beauty of the creature he was lucky to call his mother.

Omigod! he thought. How far dare I go? More to the point, how far will I not go?

As the thought of ultimate union flitted through his mind, he was well aware that full pleasure for both sides depended on the female being suitably prepared. And so, as the soft moans continued to proceed from his sleeping mother's mouth, he gently urged her to lie on her back—and, strangely, she herself parted her legs as if in anticipation of what was to follow.

It took Paul quite some time before he could bring himself to explore that most forbidden area of his mother's anatomy—the place where he himself had emerged into life some twenty years ago. But some force seemingly external to himself appeared to be driving his hand down to investigate the space between his mother's legs—and, without much surprise, he found that there was already a lot of wetness there.

At the moment, all he could do was part the labia and coat his own fingers with her juices; he didn't yet have the courage to touch that all-important focus of a woman's passions. But, as he noted how the fluid kept pouring out of her, and as he saw her face take on a little frown that seemed to signal the need for ultimate relief, he knew there was no holding back.

His own cock, almost bursting with excitement, guided itself automatically to the very threshold of his mother's sex. He had placed himself with supreme care on top of her, propping himself up so that the rest of his body was scarcely touching her. Looking down at her closed eyes and heart-stopping lovely mouth, he hesitated only for a moment before gently entering her about halfway.

The magnitude of his act didn't escape him, but the transcendent delight he felt at fusing his body with hers overcame all scruples, and he began pumping her more vigorously, even making so bold as to place his lips firmly on hers and lowering his body onto her own. But as he continued to gauge her own reactions, he was startled to find that, although her eyes remained closed, her legs seemed of their own accord to raise themselves up and bend at the knees to accommodate him more comfortably.

The incredible thing was that he had a bit of difficulty penetrating her fully—but then he remembered that she had probably not engaged in this act for a full two years. A kind of cognitive dissonance overwhelmed him, as this quasi-virginity on her part mingled with his realization that he himself had emerged from the channel he was now filling with his own member.

It was only now, as he began thrusting forcefully, that Imogen's eyes popped open.

Paul was staring down at her, and he fully expected that her appalled awareness of what was happening would make her react violently. Maybe she would scream out and buck under him, trying to force him out of her most private zone; maybe she would burst into tears at this violation of what most people regarded as the proper relationship between mother and son.

But, instead, she just gazed up silently at him, a slight look of surprise and alarm on her face, her mouth a little open. Otherwise, without seeming to be aware of it, she encircled her arms around Paul's back and wrapped her legs more firmly around his own.

This apparent condoning of his actions stimulated Paul even more than the purely physical sensations, mind-blowing as those were. He immediately brought himself down on top of her and pasted his lips to hers; she seemed to respond, keeping her mouth open so that he ventured to insert his tongue into it. Her own tongue flicked against his momentarily, then seemed to retreat as if in mild embarrassment.

Paul knew that the culmination could not long be deferred. He was now fully on top of Imogen, his arms stroking her breasts and bottom eagerly as he thrust himself fully—all eight inches of himself—deep into her. And when his climax came, he cried out in a kind of exquisite agony as the fluid seeped out of him in frantic succession.

He had done it: he had poured his seed into his mother's womb.

He didn't pull out at once; instead, he fell on top of Imogen like a dead weight, relishing the continued melding of their bodies as she herself seemed to hold him close. It seemed in some strange way as if his entire body was in hers, and he wished the sensation would never end.

But at last he withdrew and flopped over to the other side of the bed.

He was now prepared for all manner of abuse and recriminations and lectures about what he had just done. But instead, after catching her own breath, Imogen merely said in the gentlest possible manner:

"That was pretty naughty of you."

The mildness of the rebuke almost made him laugh, and he enthusiastically seized his mother and dragged her on top of him. She landed on him with a comical "Oof!" escaping from her, and he took her head in his hands, brought it down to his own, and kissed her almost violently.

"Oh, Mom," he cried, "I love you so much!" I did this out of love, you know.

"I love you, too, dear," she said ruefully, "but we really oughtn't to have done that."

"Well, it's done!" Paul said happily. "Can't undo it now!"

"No, I guess not," she said pensively. Then she broke out into a broad smile, eyes twinkling. "You really are very naughty!"

Imogen was still wearing the nightgown, even though it ridden up to her waist, not to mention the neckline that had been pulled down to expose her breasts. Now, as if in tandem, both mother and son made the effort to get it off altogether, and Paul tossed it away to a far corner of the room. Then he urged Imogen to lie on her back, and he simply gazed at her.

"Omigod, Mom, you're so beautiful!" he breathed.

"Thank you, dear," she said graciously, although with a faintly wistful tone, as if thinking: It doesn't seem as if many other people have thought so lately.

Somehow that thought transferred itself to Paul's mind, and he spoke to his mother almost as if chastising her.

"Mom, why haven't you gone on dates? You've been out with practically no one these past two years." No man, anyway.

"Oh, Paul," she said, suddenly becoming weary, "my heart just hasn't been in it. Leaving your father was so traumatic that I just couldn't bring myself to go back into the dating world. You really don't know what it's like for a woman of my age. People have so much baggage—divorce, children, financial problems, on and on. You're so lucky that, at your age, all you need to think about is falling in love with the right girl."

Paul digested all this; he had a feeling that's what Imogen would say. But he seized on one part of the remark, knowing that it might prove upsetting to his mother.

"Mom," he almost whispered, "why did you divorce Dad?"

Imogen just closed her eyes, saying nothing for a long time.

"I don't know, dear," she said at last. "I really don't know."

Paul felt that the subject desperately needed to be changed. In fact, this was no time for talking. He took up her mother again, like a big rag doll, and placed her on top of himself. This time he gloried in her naked back and shoulders and thighs and bottom, and he couldn't resist slipping a hand between her legs and feeling the joint wetness—his and hers—seeping out of her.

A quick thought did enter his mind. "You—you're not going to get pregnant, are you?"

"I think that's very unlikely," she replied quietly.

Paul began kissing her all over her face and neck and shoulders, and Imogen received his passion with grace—and a certain gratitude. In some strange way he no longer thought of her as his mother. He couldn't help calling her "Mom," but that just became a name, just as you might call another girl Mary or Violet.

And, as a result of his actions, the inevitable happened. He got hard again.

Imogen wasn't unaware of her son's excitement. Looking down at him, she said: "You want some more?"

"Yeah," he said in an agony of longing.

She gave him something of a blank stare for some moments. Then she bent her head down to his ear and whispered: "Would you like to try something else?"

Paul wondered if she was a bit sore from his earlier entry into her. After all, it had been two years! But if she was just suggesting some other position—and he had had his share of contortions with some of the college girls who had willingly slipped into his bed—he didn't know how that would help.

So it was with more than a little surprise that she said: "Would you like to go into my bottom?"

He gasped. "You really like that?"

"Yes," she replied simply.

"Did—did Dad do that to you?"

"Yes."

"A lot?"

"Not a lot. Sometimes. It took me a while to get used to it, but I got to like it in the end." She shifted her body so that she was facing him, resting on her side. She seemed to have not the slightest embarrassment at exhibiting her heavy breasts or the thick fur around her pussy to him. "You need to get some lube, you know."