Pictures of Lilly

"Are you all right?" I asked after some time.

Her breathing, if anything, was more reedy. She placed my mouth back on her left nipple, which was immensely hard, and as long as the tip of my little finger. I had her against the couch arm and her robe was undone but still beneath her; I hadn't bothered her pajama bottoms yet. I had however, brushed the front of her pajamas at the crotch and found them wet.

She moaned desperately, as though in sudden, awful pain. I raised my head and she grabbed it between her hands and dragged me up to her mouth. There was no tenderness in our joining now, only starved, desperate hunger. Our tongues battled to see which could farther penetrate the other's mouth. Her fists gripped my hair and I took two fistfuls of her own. We warred against each other as only two people in love can war.

Suddenly she forced herself flat onto the couch, dragging me down with her. She released her death-grip on my hair and then, extricating her own hair, forced all of our hands down to our groins where they engaged in a frantic struggle to free her of her clothing. It took an immensely long time to understand that she wanted me to rip her pajama bottoms right off of her, which I did, bellowing in triumph as the thin material shredded in my hands. Then, not quite knowing how my cock had come free of my pants, I plunged into her and she answered with her own primal scream, cut off when she buried her teeth into my shoulder.

I came in her in less than five seconds.

She came for twenty seconds more, then passed out.

This is all wrong, that's what you're saying. A mother and son can never find a successful, post-coital relationship, no matter how badly either or both may want it. It's just not possible, you say. Mental strain and feelings of guilt will drive them apart, probably sooner, than later. And perhaps you're right. It's too early to tell will us. But I can tell you this: We've been together for nearly a year now, and we're still happy.

Of course, not everything's gone well. Dad stopped paying child support on my eighteenth birthday. The college fund he'd been managing for eighteen years turned up unaccountably short on funds; I now attend the University of Maryland at College Park, instead of Stanford University, his Alma Mater.

In short order, we realized that even the state's meager tuition was more than we could afford. (Lilly's never seen a dollar of alimony from the bum, even though dad makes a cool two hundred-thousand plus a year, against her forty-thousand). Soon thereafter we moved out of our comfortable, North Potomac brick home into a vinyl-sided, two-bedroom townhouse in Prince George's County.

Still, we have it good. A month after my eighteenth birthday, Lilly and I went shopping for a pair of matching wedding bands, one of which I wear whenever we're home, the other that she's taken to wearing all the time now. Newlyweds! In spirit, if not reality.

Are we really happy? Most of the time, but we have our ups and downs. Lilly, for instance, lost sixteen pounds in the first two months, mostly from violent, recurring sex, but also from not having time to eat. But she put it all back on again, and then some, in the months following. And the sex? It's not as frequent or as violent as it once was, but hey, that's to be expected.

Where is she now? You can't hear her out in the kitchen? Chopping up celery and bitching about how her back hurts and how much she has to go pee? And how much shehates having hemorrhoids. God, how she hates those hemorrhoids.

Know what I tell her? Once every eighteen years is not so bad for dealing with hemorrhoids, dear.

" 'Easy for you to say,' " she counters, waving a knife casually in my direction. "You're not the one they'll give an enema to, not the one who'll practice breathing for twenty hours straight, not the one who'll stand up straight in the stirrups screaming for her mother when the contractions come."

What about the risks? Isn't it dangerous? you say.

It is, but it happens more often than people are willing to admit. And officially, we don't know who the father is. Lilly went to a party back in August and passed out in a stupor in the host's bedroom. In the morning, she had no panties on and never found out who took them. It was okay; she'd always wanted another child.

Genetic damage? We've had tests done three times and so far, everything's okay. She could have aborted it, but Lilly says that life is too precious, even for a life at risk.

The sex of the child? Well, we'll know in two or three days whether he looks more like his mommie, or his daddy.

We think we'll name him Michael.

THE END