Spying

IX.

FILE “PJ”

Sun., 20th. 12:32.

She went to bed early tonight. Didn’t even stay up to wait for Lara.

Maybe she had extra energy or something. She was beautiful tonight. Not as intense as the other night, but still very sexy.

She actually left the bedside lamp on tonight -- couldn’t believe my luck! Mostly she fingered herself under the covers, but she did get her tits out. WOW! Her tits and nips are simply gorgeous! Really, really big and plump. Her nips stick way out, like big stalks. She pinched them while she played with herself.

Shot my load while I was watching her. Working up another one now:)

***

Sunday the twentieth. Nine forty-five P.M.

She got through the lock easier this time.

No time to listen to the tape. It had definitely recorded something, though. Hurriedly, before Mark missed her, she turned it over again. In an hour or two she’d start on side two. Then she could listen to the tape tomorrow and then . . . well, then she could decide how to confront Mark.

***

Lara Dehner got out of the Mustang a block away from her house, like she always did. Jesus Christ, it was almost two-thirty in the morning. Her mother would be waiting to kill her.

“Hey, you little bitch!” came a voice from the grumbling car. “Come back and kiss me bye.”

Lara grinned and leaned in to kiss the man’s hungry lips, felt his rough unshaven face against her chin. She grinned even broader when she noticed his face reeked of her pussy.

“You smell like a whore,” she said to him.

“You are a whore.”

“You’re a little pussy-sucker, aren’t you?”

“You know I am, you slut.”

“Mmmm,” she moaned, kissing him again, deep. “See you soon, baby. Gotta get home and face the fucking music.”

“She gives you any trouble, tell her I said fuck off.”

“Oh yeah, that’s helpful. Bye.”

“Bye, baby.”

A cloud of smoke, and the Mustang disappeared. Lara took tentative steps all the way to the side door, unlocked it gingerly, and found herself in an empty kitchen. Up the stairs, to her room, into bed -- and no one said a word to her.

The next day at breakfast, her mother said “Oh by the way, ma’am -- what time did you get in last night?”

“I don’t know -- about twelve-thirty or one, I guess,” she lied.

“Good. Keep it that way.”

Her mother vanished. Lara just stared at the place where she’d been.

X.

Monday morning, the twenty-first.

Melinda slipped on her stockings absently, listening intently to the morning noises downstairs. Lara had already gone; Mark couldn’t be long after her. Yes, there he was.

“’Bye, Mom!” he called up the stairs.

“’Bye, honey! See you tonight!”

Amazing how normal it all sounded. Just like every other workday morning. But she was burning up inside to get into his room, to hear that tape. The thought of closure -- of hearing her son spying on her, of confronting him with the proof, of accusing. All of these thoughts she pushed away. Frankly they scared her to death.

No, what she wanted now -- in some sort of morbid way -- was to actually hear her carefully won “evidence.” It was curiosity, surely -- morbid curiosity.

There. The slamming door below; he was going. She watched him from the landing window, just to be sure. She was through the door in less than a minute.

Downstairs, putting toast in, pouring coffee, she sat down at the bar and pressed play.

Empty, hollow sounds for a long while. She scanned forward slightly.

A single sharp, slapping sound. That had been her, smacking her book on the table. Her signal to herself that she was about to begin.

A minute, maybe a minute-and-a-half of silence. She took a sip of coffee. Had she done it all for nothing? Had he not come up to watch her?

No, wait. The sound of his door rattling, the lock snicked into place. A few muffled sounds, and then, her son’s heavy breathing.

Melinda sat up straight on the stool.

More sounds of breathing -- now he would have been looking through the peephole . . .

“Ooooh yeeeahhh . . .” came a low whisper.

She set down her cup and stared at the little black box. That was Mark, all right. Oh my God. There was no doubt about it.

“Oooh yeeahh . . . Oh God yeah . . .Oh baby . . .”

Melinda bit her lip, her heart triphammering in her chest. She hadn’t been prepared for this reaction -- the whispered voice electrified her. Just hissing words and muffled breathing -- like a cheesy obscene caller. But it was Mark.

It was Mark.

“Play with that pussy baby yeeahh . . . go on play with it . . . oh fuck yes!”

Melinda leaned forward, then leaned back again in her chair -- she pulled the strap of her slip up beneath her clothes.

It was far more personal than she’d imagined it would be. She could picture him, his eye glued to the tiny peephole. His body pressed against the wall. His hand . . .

Was he naked at the time? Did he get naked for her?

“Oh my God yes . . . that’s right get those tits out . . . ooooh yeeahh . . . mmm baby --”

Her toast was burning, filling the kitchen with smoke. When she jumped up to get it, her legs nearly buckled under her.

Oh my God, she thought. Oh dear Jesus. I’m soaking wet.

“Come on, come on . . . pull those sheets away . . . let me see that pussy . . . please let me see it baby . . .”

I’m soaking wet. It’s my son and I’m soaking wet.

It was true. She could see her nipples through her blouse -- hard little points. She touched one lightly and gasped.

“Yeah baby pinch those nipples . . . pinch ‘em for me . . . ooooh God . . .”

The voice was more erratic now -- jerkier. He was stroking himself. Hard. Her ass was warming up like a hotplate.

She plunked down the two blackened slices of toast, reached out to stop the tape. For several seconds there was no sound in the kitchen but her own labored breathing.

“Dr. Malone’s office.”

“Peggy?”

“Hey Mindy -- you okay? You don’t sound so good.”

“I’m not. I think I’m . . . I think I’m coming down with something.”

“Uh oh. Flu?”

“Might be,” she sighed into the receiver. “I’m running a fever.”

“Okay, hon. Don’t worry, I’ll tell him. Get some rest, plenty of fluids -- you know the drill.”

“Yeah -- thanks sweetie,” said Melinda, greatly relieved.

She swooped up her hose, panties, and the tape recorder and headed upstairs.

XI.

FILE “PJ”

Wed, 23rd. 11:47 P.M.

She keeps going to bed early, and she keeps getting wilder. Light on again, third night in a row!! Tonight she used the dildo -- didn’t see everything, but God, what I saw was good. Her pussy looks big and hairy and wet. Good enough to eat!! She was fucking herself like she meant it, making all kinds of noise . . .

Thurs, 24th. 11:36 P.M.

I think my mom’s a fucking slut! Seriously, I think she’s sex mad! I don’t know what is going on, but it’s awesome to watch.

TONIGHT I SAW IT ALL. I mean everything. She used the dildo again, but this time, on the corner of the bed, near the peephole. She was completely naked. I saw her pussy, saw into her pussy, saw her sliding the dildo in and out. Her tits were flopping around, she was moaning and crying.

My cock and balls are sore from wanking. My wrist is about to fall off. Do mothers get in heat or something? Is there something I should do?

Sat, 26th. 1:02.

Don’t know how much longer I can stand this. I can barely look her in the eye anymore. She acts all sweet and innocent all day, and then at night she turns into some kind of self-sex machine. My stupid fucking dad does not know what he’s missing! No way could I leave this woman, for anything!

Know what she did tonight? After she came -- hard, I might add, and loud -- she actually wiped up her pussy with her panties and flung them across the room. Oh God, I’ve got to get hold of those tomorrow.

She’s been like this for about a week now. If she keeps it up I’ll wank myself to death.

XII.

Saturday, the twenty-sixth of April.

Four forty-one P.M.

It had to be tonight. Oh God, she thought, God help her she knew she was going to hell but it had to be tonight. Lara would be gone. It would just be them. For . . . for how long? Three hours? Two? Maybe if she started early --

Melinda held her head in her hands, pulled at her hair. Oh God, what was she doing? What was she contemplating? How the hell did things get this far?

Right now he was downstairs, trimming the hedges for her. She had requested that, ever so sweetly -- not because they needed it but to get him out of the house. She didn’t trust herself with him inside, not in broad daylight. Her thoughts were too wild, too out of control. Besides, Lara might be home soon.

Oh my poor Lara, she moaned to herself. What was she doing to her? Preaching about her no-good boyfriends and “being careful,” and here she was, thinking about . . .

Stop it. Calm down, get a grip, you stupid cow.

Six fifteen.

Lara had been home for nearly an hour. It was time to do it, time to see. If she said no they could at least fight and call each other names. That would be some release anyway.

Where was she anyway? In her bedroom still? What -- was she PMS or something? Oh that would be just fucking great.

“Hey Mom?” she said at the doorway, trying to steel her nerves.

There she was, lying on the bed. In the middle of the damned day.

“Um . . . are you okay?”

“Oh yeah, hon. Just got a little headache.”

“Oh. Um, I’m sorry. Listen --”

Now, you moron, say it. Say it!

“Um, is it okay if I stay at Jessica’s tonight? She’s having some friends over -- all girls, I mean -- and we’re gonna watch a movie and just, you know, sleep over . . .?”

Pathetic, she thought.

“Sure, baby,” said her mom. “Just call me tomorrow morning, okay?”

Lara stared, dumbfounded, for several seconds.

“Yeah, okay. I will. Um . . . hope you feel better, okay?”

“Thank you, baby.”

She stalked away silently, before her mother came to her senses.

It was a lie, a horrible one. Probably the worst lie she’d ever told. She would be off with some horrible boy who had green hair and multiple noserings.

But to Melinda , it meant only one thing: Lara would be gone. All night. It would just be the two of them, her and Mark. All night.

It was a sign.

Eleven twenty.

She was relieved she didn’t have to start early -- she hadn’t worked up enough nerve yet.

They were in the den, watching a movie together. At least, they were pretending to. She could tell by the way he watched her from the corner of his eye, he was waiting for her to go to bed. Waiting to join her, on the other side of the wall.

Maybe she should wait; there would be other times, other occasions --

No, she wouldn’t. She couldn’t wait, she’d go crazy if she did. Christ, he couldn’t wait! Poor kid, he looked terrible. He’d probably lost half a gallon of cum in the last week. His whole bedroom reeked of it.

It has to be now. It has to be now.

No, God, I can’t do this! I should be shot just for thinking it!

Oh, but you want to, so bad! You know you do!

I can’t! It’s horrible.

Look -- if you want, just catch him at it. See what happens from there. If it’s not right, it won’t happen!

It’s obvious what will happen. He’ll be horrified! Oh my God . . .

You’ve got to do something! You can’t go on like this, neither can he.

You’re right.

Of course I’m right. Spare the poor kid. Do it for his sake, hmm?

Eleven forty-nine, she stuffed the gum into the doorjamb.

Twelve-oh-one. Closing credits over. Yawns on both sides.

Twelve thirteen. She stepped into the hottest shower she could stand, to build up her nerve.

Twelve twenty. The whole night was before her.

She stepped out of the bathroom dripping wet, a huge purple towel gathered loosely around her dripping curves. She had let her hair down: long brown curls that reached to the small of her back. She walked around the room until she was in front of the peephole. He’d had enough time -- she knew he was there. She could feel his eyes on her now.

Standing up straight with her back to the wall, she let the towel slide from her body to the floor. With no subtlety at all then, she bent slowly over into a perfect lap dancer’s tease. A move that would fill his view: her ass in his face. She peered through her legs into the peephole and slowly dragged two fingers across her asshole and down through the silken thatch of her cunt. It was, oh so obviously, an invitation.

A minute passed. Two. She worked her body for him. Slowly, seductively -- but openly. She played to the peephole. She knew he was there. She was so close to the wall, she could actually hear him, grunting and groaning on the other side.

He was there, yes -- devouring her with his eyes, stroking his hard cock, wanting her with all his body and soul. Just like her Phantom Joe.

No, not like him. There was one crucial difference. And it was that difference that decided her.

He loved her.

Yes. If there was anything she could be sure of in this world, it was that her boy loved her. He was a wonderful, devoted, sweet son, and that would never change. Surely such devotion deserved something in return.

Her move was sudden.

One moment, she was standing straight before the peephole, cupping her huge tits and thrusting upward at the hole, as though feeding them to him. The next instant, she darted through her door.

She was naked and wet in the hallway for a bare instant -- not even long enough for the cool air to chill her skin. Yet how many thoughts and doubts flashed through her mind in that instant. But there was no turning back now.

She burst his door open with a terrific slam -- the knob resounded against the wall. She was there, in the doorway.

The stuffiness of the room, the dim light of the computer, the musky scent of cum hanging in the thick air. She took it all in, savored it, looked for him.

There he was. Stumbling out of the closet.

Yes, he was naked for her. A tall, thin, fit body. Tiny nipples, chest almost totally bare. His face was the ultimate in shock and dismay -- tired eyes wide with horror and shame, open mouth, the headphone wires sticking from his ears ridiculously.

Hanging in the air below, throbbing into space, his beautifully hard cock -- bigger than she’d expected, harder than it had any right to be. More enticing than she could stand.

With a soul-dredged cry of abandon and relief, Melinda Dehner fell upon her knees and took her son’s dripping, swollen cock deep within her velvety mouth.

XIII.

One thirty.

His mother was spread out beneath him. The legs, the belly, the mammoth breasts he’d been watching for so long were now inches away. He wasn’t just seeing their movements in pale blue light; he was touching them -- they were touching him. Her legs were big, powerful, smooth -- they were coiling around his own, her calves rubbing up and down his buttocks now and then, encouraging him. Her belly was soft and warm -- it pressed against his own -- they were sweaty there, love sweat. Her breasts were huge, twin moons -- lustrous mountains in the misty light -- he longed for them even though they were right there, within reach, his to possess. The slope of her shoulders, the sleek, fleshy arms, the pool of shadows around her neck. Her taut, enervated face, lovely and loving -- eyes closed, mouth open, head back, hair a glossy halo on the pillow.

He leaned forward as he thrust to kiss the dew from her forehead. Her warm breath bathed his neck and chest. He put his hands beneath her shoulder blades, felt the undulating pressure of her breasts against his wrists. With a silent, strained expression, eyes clamped shut, she met his every slow plunge forward. In time she loosed a long, shuddering, sobbing moan.

He was in love with her.

Three thirty.

He barely knew what he was doing now; it was all such a whirling, soaring, wonderful blur. He didn’t know what she wanted until she was taking it from him. He felt he couldn’t hope to please her but her pleasure was boundless. Again and again, he lost himself in her.

She was beneath him again, but differently. With every slow thrust his belly pressed her wide, trembling buttocks. He felt himself being pulled in, coaxed, demanded. Required. Sometimes, when he had the strength, he would straighten his body and study her tightened shoulders, her glowing back, the globes of her bottom at his fingertips. Other times he would relax, slumping forward to hold her like a child, running his fingers over her dangling breasts, wedging his hands beneath their sweaty weight.

No words had passed between them but frantic, whispered instructions from her, uncertain queries from him. He wanted so desperately to please her -- his first lover. She showed him, openly, again and again, that he was thrilling her with every last tentative move.

Now he cried aloud as he came within her for the third time -- she too sobbed and panted as essence gushed forth into her. She squeezed and sucked and milked him until he was a shivering, sighing mass against her back.

Six thirty.

She awoke briefly, started at the presence in her bed, sighed and smiled and relaxed when she remembered. She melted back into him where he lay, spooning her, snuggled up behind. His legs were under hers, his head lay against her shoulder. She took his encircling arm and held it, and put his hand over her breast.

None of it was happening, she thought. It couldn’t be. She may as well enjoy the fantasy.

Eight thirty.

Morning had lit the room in patches, though they had closed the blinds. In what remained of the darkness, there on the bed, she pleasured him -- lay on her side between his knees and meticulously loved every inch of his cock and balls. He lay still, only half-awake, watching her. He had no effort left, only enthusiasm. It was enough for her.

Melinda forgot everything else on Planet Earth and beyond to focus on Mark’s staggered, yet determined tool. It was an endlessly fascinating game: making it rise and harden, throbbing with delicious heavy weight -- then watching it topple and slacken, threatening to shrink away. Her lips massaged its every sinewy curve, her tongue devoured it, now dancing lightly, now plowing a thick swathe. With her fingers she coaxed and caressed the warm, dangling balls, or tugged gently at the base of the shaft, or rubbed in the coat of her saliva evenly. She especially liked pressing it against her cheek when it was hard, and feeling its hot tightness slowly ebb away. It was like making him cum again and again.

She was such a selfish mother. Just wanting more and more. He had cum four times for her already. And here she was, trying to find a fifth.

But he was so sweet. Now and again he stroked her hair, now and again he snored. She had thoroughly worn him out -- but, she thought proudly, he could fuck with the best of them. There was no denying that. Well, one more time -- for his sake. He had earned it.

By now she’d got his cock hard and let it slacken at least ten times. Time now for all that practice to pay off. With a will this time, she enveloped his shriveled cock head with her mouth and began to suck it, slowly but insistently, working her lips and tongue over its every contour. As she worked she got to her knees on the mattress, bending to her task with her ass held high in the air behind her. As she felt his length begin to stir yet again, she couldn’t resist nestling a finger into her own fur -- there was nothing that excited her more than feeling a man harden in her mouth. And this wasn’t just any man.

Maybe it was lack of sleep, or stress, or the weeks of confusion. Maybe it was just hours of slow, passionate, immensely satisfying sex. But she actually felt joy in that fact now -- that this wasn’t just “a man,” but her own beloved boy. He was hers entirely, and she was fulfilling his every want and need, like no one else ever would or could. What more could a mother want?