My Son My Conqueror Pt. 01

Incest stories. Either you hate them or love them. I'm on the fence despite having written a few and now here I am, providing yet another. There is something so naughty about writing them. It scratches an itch. Now, while I am not proud of writing incest stories, I am aware of the draw for some people.

Does this make me a bad person? Probably. But I've never pretended to be a nice person.

I love stories with proper endings--not some long protracted series of events that go on and on with more and more implausible things happening. I know readers demand more and more in the stories I create, but you need to understand most times I like the ending and that's it for me. I won't go farther down the rabbit hole, usually content in what I've created.

This story will have a few parts, but not many.

Please enjoy,

Love,

Lana Ocean

Canada

Prologue

"A man who has been the indisputable favorite of his mother keeps for life the feeling of a conqueror." Sigmund Freud.

My psychologist instructed me to write down the events that led to me taking my son into my bedroom, my life, and ultimately, my heart. Not the heart of a mother, but the heart of a lover. The quote above from Sigmund Freud is so appropriate to me and my son. My psychologist had quoted it to me during a session after I had admitted to her I had slept with my son. I had gone to her to help me with my emotions. Not to stop me, but to help me make it work.

She also gave me this quote:

"It sounds not only disagreeable but also paradoxical, yet it must nevertheless be said that anyone who is to be really free and happy in love must have surmounted his respect for women and have come to terms with the idea of incest with his mother and sister." Sigmund Freud.

So much of Freud is exclusively focused on the man and so little on the woman. Or rather, on the son, and not the mother. When incest is discovered and exposed, it is the woman who suffers the hardest. She will be the more criticized. The more shunned. I feel all those feelings toward myself, all on my own. Thankfully, my son and I have found a way to co-exist. To live in our sin. To find solace in our combined peace and happiness. And no one will ever know.

Still, I can't escape the guilt and shame. They are now my constant companions, but I have come to terms with them. Just seeing the look my son gives me erases all those doubts. It's not right. It's illegal. It's horrible.

And I've never been happier or more in love. I actually have three loves, but that part of the story will come later. Just know that I am so very happy.

It started innocently enough; I suppose. First, a forced encounter. Then another. Then I rose to the challenge. I'm not proud of what I did. But I'm proud of the results. A little hypocritical, but I don't care anymore. My son has accepted all my ministrations and manipulations. It's strange. I've been in love many times in my life, and I have always loved my son from the moment I became pregnant to the moment I held him for the first time in my arms and took him to my breast to feed him. Nourish him. Care for him. As only a mother can. Knowing I was providing his much-needed life sustaining nutrients bonded me to my son in a way that only women understand intimately. The line between mother and son blurs at times. That special bond that is created at conception and continues until your dying day.

And now I love him beyond what my heart and soul can handle. It's so raw and real and floods my mind with desires that my body can barely contain. It can be overwhelming. Its psychological and physical.

My son feels the same way. When you cross that line--the incest line--you open something almost surreal. You wonder: It can't be this real, can it? All I can say to explain it is, my love for him knows no bounds. There is nothing I will not do for him. Nothing. It's as simple as that. All my prior loves pale in comparison. I live in a constant state of arousal as a forty-year-old woman. Constant. And I love it. It has transformed me and brought meaning to my life.

Enough. I was told to write this down chronologically. To explain my feelings along the way. My psychologist is very keen on this story, and I've spent hours with her already. She sits perched on the edge of her seat, her eyes locked on me, writing furiously, grinning at times.

I can tell this story excites her terribly. I can smell her in the room. And she can smell me. It's carnal and I enjoy watching her expressions shift and change. She's addicted to my story. And I can't blame her. I'm addicted.

Okay. Deep breath. Here we go...

Chapter One--Jessica and Desmond Smith, Mother and Son

My name is Jessica Smith. That's obviously not my real name, but let's stick with that. I live in Smalltown, USA, somewhere in the Midwest. The main industry is agriculture and livestock, and the people are not very complex. It's a simple life. The summers are hot, muggy, and wet. The winters are very cold, snowy, and windy.

I work at one of the two banks in town as the Mortgage Loan Officer. My son, Desmond Smith, works part-time as a teller. I've worked at the bank for twenty years. My son started two years ago when he turned eighteen; working mostly weekends during the school year until he finishes his degree in business.

My husband left us two weeks before our son's first birthday. He moved to California, and I haven't heard from him since. I divorced him through correspondence and his pay was docked a small amount for childcare until Desmond turned eighteen. He's not a deadbeat. He simply felt trapped in a life he didn't want. He wanted to escape Smalltown and eventually he just left. I used to hate him for abandoning us. Now, I feel nothing toward him. His parents still live here, and they used to come around to see their grandson, but now I rarely see them.

Their loss. Truth be told, they're not very nice people. Sadly, they lost interest in him when he stopped being the young grandchild they could spoil. All that matters is Desmond grew into a wonderful man.

After my husband left, I struggled to come to terms with it. I blamed him. Then I blamed myself. Then I blamed my son. My in-laws. The town. The bank. Then I realised it was no one's fault other than my insecure, lost in life, former husband.

The last man to have sex with me was my husband. He fucked me the night before he left me. One last hurrah, I suppose. He left for work in the morning, kissing my cheek, and I've never seen him again. Since then, I've never been interested in sex. If I were to be honest with myself (and my psychologist tells me, I need to be more honest with myself) after Desmond was born, my sex drive disappeared. Sometimes I wonder if that had anything to do with my husband leaving. Probably. Most likely. I never missed it. You can't miss something you aren't interested in. I simply lost interest.

I am hit on all the time in the town. By men I know who are married. Almost all the men in town are married. Single men my age can't exist in Smalltown, USA. They aren't tolerated. They are suspect. Shunned even. A single man past age twenty-five is looked at as a possible deviant. Homosexual. It gets worse as they get older. I suspect a massive amount of cheating is happening in this town. But not with me. I'm just not interested.

The young men and women in town have mastered the art of hiding their relationships in town. I know. I lived it once. I was wild in my younger days. I'm the stereotypical Midwest woman. Straw blonde hair (now dyed to hide the little bit of gray), cornflower blue eyes, nice full lips, and a slim figure I work hard at keeping by running and doing yoga.

Heh. I suddenly remembered the first time my son had called me 'hot'. I had been so surprised to hear it I had snorted and looked at him in shock and admonished him, telling him that sons don't say that to their mothers. He looked so upset after I said that, that I had immediately apologized, thanked him for the beautiful lie, and gave him a chaste kiss on the lips. A motherly kiss. Perfectly normal.

My son would later confess to me that he had left the room, went upstairs and masturbated thinking of me. Not his first time, either. I had no idea my son had been masturbating, thinking of me for a long time. Now I loved to know it. That I did that to him. That I was his most secret desire. Dammit, I adore my son. He's perfect. And I made him. That makes me proud.

As I said, my son had been working in the bank since he turned eighteen. I got him the job, the bank manager doing a favor for me. I'm sure the manager had expected some kind of reward, but not from me. I had thanked him profusely. And his eyes had roamed my body. As always. Something as a woman you either accepted--that men would ogle you if you had the looks--or something that made you angry and upset despite there be nothing you could do about it. So, I accepted it. As soon as I had started to show signs of being a woman, men stared. Women attract men. And so long as they only look, there's no harm. Women who lose their mind over this need help. Such a wasted emotion, in my opinion. Can you imagine telling a moth to ignore the light? No, you can't. It's the same with men.

I just realised I'm actually enjoying writing all this out. It's therapeutic. I'll get Desmond to check it out later as we've discovered a mutual love of erotica. We find wonderful mother and son erotica and act out some of the sex scenes. It's so much fun. So much fun. Not porn though. I've convinced Desmond to stop watching porn and I think he has stopped. I provide all the relief he will ever need. I'm at his beck and call. The number of times he has simply taken me in our home... so many wonderful memories. I love feeling his strong hands grab my waist and pull me back toward him and claiming me. Pushing me down over the counter, or the table, or the bed, or the back of the couch. He loves looking down at my ass as he ploughs me. Fills me. Completes me. And I take it. And welcome it.

My son, my conqueror.

I would do anything for my son. He's my lover and soulmate. And he would do anything for me. I am loved, pleasured, cared for, and protected. Does it get any better than that?

When I was a young teenager, I had a thought once. What if the entire universe is something my mind has created? What if everything is there only for me and because of me? What a lonely existence that would be. That everyone and everything is simply manufactured out of your own mind and imagination. I almost believed that until my son and I merged as one. I have no doubts that my son and I share the same mind. He exists and lives in his head but with me. We become one. I can see it in his eyes when he makes love to me. It's as if there is only him and me in the universe. The rest is just our imagination. But there's two of us, and I'm not alone.

I think I'm delaying telling this story. I'm so sorry. I just lose track these days. My life has become such a pleasure. I wake every day pressed up against my son. Most mornings I take his wonderful cock in my mouth and pleasure him. Then he pleasures me. Then we shower together. Eat breakfast together. Then we go to work together. Eat lunch together. Come home together. Watch movies together. Go to bed together and pleasure each other until sleep takes us. Every day. I'm so fortunate. It's been a year now and we never tire of it. His existence completes mine.

I will say early on that there are two other important people in our lives. And inside my home, we all co-exist, and the rest of the town doesn't even blink. It's perfect.

I'm still delaying. Sorry. Okay. Whew. I'm shaking a little now. This starts so embarrassingly.

* * *

My son surprised me by bringing his long-term girlfriend home for dinner. He had turned twenty the week before and I know he lost his virginity to this same girl from his high school. At prom in a typical fashion. Surprisingly, they stayed together afterward. People told me they were always seen around town, hand-in-hand, and everyone assumed they were destined to marry and raise a family. A Midwest mentality.

Now our town is small, and you know everyone. Mostly, but most of the students from the high school were unknown to me, other than those that used the bank, but even then, I had a back office and didn't meet senior teenagers. They don't take out mortgages. After two years of him refusing to introduce me, I insisted she come over for dinner so I could meet her finally and after a lot of nagging on my part, he grudgingly agreed. That's what surprised me: that he finally agreed to introduce me to her. I was worried she already didn't like me, which would explain Desmond's refusal these past two years to introduce me. Which was unusual, I thought, until I met her for the first time.

She looked like me at her age. Not just a little bit. She looked like me. Same face shape, same hips, same bust, same length of legs, same hair, and eyes. I could show you a picture of me when I was twenty. She was my twin.

I stood in the doorway staring at a mirror image of myself and my very first thought was: He's fucking a girl who looks like me. He chose her, wooed her, and fucked her because she looks just like me.

For the first time since I had birthed my son, I felt a strong surge of sexual hunger. It hit me like a thunderbolt. My legs threatened to fail me. I put a hand against the wall and tried to breathe as my body betrayed me. Desire washed over me, and I went from cold to hot. My clothes were too tight. My bra crushed my chest and felt two sizes too small. My thighs pressed together to try to hold back the warmth and tingling.

I was so ashamed of myself. I knew exactly what was happening. I had had these thoughts before. Random flashes of thoughts thinking of being intimate with my son. They would come and go, and I would dismiss them as just silly thoughts, convinced it was perfectly normal. And my psychologist agreed. It was perfectly normal, she had said. Children imagine being sexual with their parents and parents imagine being sexual with their offspring. But it is never acted on. Never pursued. Just flights of fancy that come and go.

Desmond, of course, rushed to my side, concern all over his face. He grabbed my upper arm to steady me, and his fingers brushed my left breast. He couldn't help it. My breasts spread a little beyond the side of my body. A curse and a blessing. His fingers around my arm pressed into my breast flesh, and it only made matters worse.

"Mom!? Are you okay? You're flushed! Your face is all red! Do I need to call a doctor?"

This was Smalltown, USA. You didn't call 9-1-1. You called the doctor. There were only four doctors in town. No ambulances except for the county service, and that sometimes took hours. No, you called the doctor, and he came to your house.

I knew what was wrong and the last thing I needed was for my doctor to see just how soaked my panties were. I was struggling to compose myself. My sexual identity had just woken up. Hard. And I was so ashamed for the reason why.

I had to give him a reason to relax. I could see his girlfriend looking at me in a strange way and, at the moment, I was certain she understood what was going on with me. My cheeks burned hot. She knows! She knows I'm having sexual desires for my son. I was disgusting. Immoral. Sinful.

Oh my God, I thought, I need to get away for a moment. I need to calm myself.

Desmond was staring intently into my eyes, looking for something. I could see his worry, and I nodded at him and straightened. The whole incident had taken mere seconds. I straightened my skirt and smiled at him.

"Hot flashes, I think," I said, and forced a little laugh, although I was nowhere near menopause. "It will pass. Desmond, please introduce me."

Desmond looked at me for a longer moment, and then his eyes went to his hand around my arm. He could feel his fingers pressing into my breast, and he let go like he had been branded. He wiped his hand on his jeans and turned to his girlfriend. That little action made me sad, for some reason.

"Mom, this is Leanne. Leanne, meet my mom."

Leanne smiled, and her face lit up with it. She was beautiful, and I was immediately struck by how proud I was for my son landing a girl like her. Oh, right, she looks like me and I'm suddenly a narcissistic bitch. "Hi, Mrs. Smith, nice to meet you?"

She spoke strangely. "It's Miss Smith, Leanne. Desmond and I took my maiden name after the divorce. But please, call me Jessica. And come in! Get out of the doorway. Come inside. I have a small starter for us to enjoy while we acquaint ourselves. Leave your shoes on. It's fine. I just need a moment. I'm so sorry. Desmond, why don't you take Leanne into the kitchen? The starter is in the fridge. I'll be right there, okay?"

Desmond nodded and led Leanne deeper into our small home. She made comments about how nice the house was.

I ran up the small set of stairs leading up to the bedrooms and went into our only bathroom. I was desperate. I went over to the toilet, turned my ass to it, pulled my panties down, noting just how damp they were, sat and did something I hadn't done in over a decade. I pleasured myself.

I pushed through my thick unruly bush and found my labia slick and thick and plunged two fingers into my vagina to wet them, and then found my clitoris, hard and exposed, and rubbed it furiously. I came in seconds. It had been so long since I had last orgasmed. The feeling washed over me in waves that built and built. I had forgotten the feeling. The euphoria. The bliss. I came hard, grunting, keeping my voice from screaming. My pussy vibrated, and I felt the orgasm reach a peak. It was too much. Too much pleasure. I imagined my son standing before me, me on my knees, his cock thrusting obscenely at me. Rigid, hard, pulsing with his heartbeat, the head engorged, swollen, veins thick and protruding. My son and his cock. Wanting me. Needing me. Then I imagined Leanne, my doppelgänger, licking me. Eating me, my son behind her, fucking her so hard her ass would ripple and undulate.

I exploded and my pussy clamped hard, almost painfully. I heard water hitting the water in the toilet and looked down as the orgasm clenched me hard again. A small amount of liquid gushed from my vagina, and I moaned. I had never done that before. Never. I kept rubbing my clitoris as the orgasm went on and on. This was a first for me. I had orgasmed before with my husband, but never like this. It was too powerful. Too strong. I rode it feeling like I was riding a wave. The thoughts of a woman pleasuring me had been my surprising undoing. I had never had those thoughts before, and those images coupled with my son... Behind me towered a massive wave and it frightened and excited me. I rubbed harder and then the wave crashed down on me. I was lost, tumbling in the surf, I was biting down on my left hand, holding back the primal scream.

I don't know how long the orgasm lasted. It was a series of them. One after the other. Slowly, it faded, and I released my fingers from my clit. My left hand hurt, and I pulled it from my mouth and teeth. Deep grooves from my teeth marked my hand. I had almost broken the skin. I panted and then shook as another minor orgasm wafted through me. I heard dripping and looked down between my legs. My pussy was dripping. Actually dripping.

Oh my God, I thought. That was too much. Too much.

I caught a drip in my hand and raised it to my mouth and licked it away. I had done it so quickly that I froze. What have I just done?