The Sweetest Sin Pt. 03

He took his time before replying. "Who knows what'll happen to the world outside out little love-bubble. I hope, this time every year, we can do this, or something like it. Get away and be ourselves. But I know what you're saying. You wonder how committed I am to this. Mom, I don't see anything else in my future. You're all I want. I love every bit of what we have. It's everything I've been led to believe a good relationship should be."

The sun was fierce. He took off his shirt and draped it over my knees to protect my pale legs (and possibly African eyes). I ran my palm over his smooth, muscular chest and ran my eyes over the scratches down his back.

"It's perfect, you and me. It's everything I have ever wanted," I said. "I want to thank you for the change you made in me. I feel so much more confident, so alive. You saw something in me that no one else could, that I didn't see."

"Don't thank me, Mom. You weren't a project for me. Operation Ugly Duckling. I didn't liberate an inner you that I could love. I've always loved you. Always thought you were the most beautiful thing. As a child, growing up, you were so patient and loving and nurturing and protective. Then, after the divorce, as I grew older, and I saw the sacrifices you made for us, I wanted to be the one doing the protecting and nurturing. I guess I wanted to be the man of the house for you, with Dad gone. A 14-year-old kid, it's natural that he wants to protect his mother. But it came to be more than that. I wanted to be more than a son to you."

There were tears in his eyes. "I'm not in love with the 'new you'. I've always been in love with you, Mom. It's you that's in love with the 'new you'. I've never seen you happier, more in tune with your body. If I've helped with that, I'm proud. And yeah, I love the way you look. I love your hair. The weight you've lost really emphasizes those gorgeous breasts even more. But you weren't a project I took up. Don't think I wanted to change you for my sake - I wanted you to be happy with how you look and feel. I saw a women who tried to hide who she was. A woman who tried to deny how beautiful she was. I wanted for you to see yourself the way I see you. "

I felt so humble, so much in love.

"But I worry that I'm standing in your way," I said. "You'd be only human if you wondered what you were missing. Not everyone stays with their first love, you know. If you were to meet someone your own age, I'd wait for you. Five years, 10 years, I'd be here if you decided to come back. I'd still be waiting even if you never came back."

It was tough to say those words. Jack was my everything; I didn't know what I would do if he left. But I felt it needed to be said.

He swept the hair out of my face, drew me closer and kissed the top of my head. "You shouldn't have to wait, Mom. You shouldn't have to wait for love and happiness and a good sex life - you deserve it all, and more, and if you let me be part of that, I will. You've waited long enough to be happy, Mom. Just enjoy it. I'm not going anywhere."

I put my head on his shoulder and snuggled him. Jack Quentin, I love you, I whispered to the sand and the sea and the gulls overhead. All my doubts vanished. This was a good man. This was for always.

We reached our destination in the evening and checked in with the people who ran the little seaside motel that had seen better days. A nice elderly Episcopalian couple. We arrived late and hadn't eaten. The place didn't have a restaurant, but they invited us to supper and we fell into conversation.

The woman admired my wedding band and the chain that dangled from it. "Some sort of necklace? Is it real metal? Isn't it heavy? May I?" She turned it this way and that, not realising that, down below, her fingers on the chain were transmitting signals direct to my clitoris. I was almost sorry when she let it go.

"My, is that the time?" her husband said, rising to clear the table. "You'll be wanting to get to bed after such a long drive. Let me show you to your room. Come up here for breakfast tomorrow. Wait. You reserved a double room?"

"Yes," I said.

"But mother and son ... I mean -- one bed?"

I thought quickly. "Oh, darn, sorry. I meant to order a twin room - I always get double and twin mixed up!"

We all laughed, although I was a little uneasy. After a day's riding in the car, I was looking forward to another hour's worth of riding in bed. And the woman playing with my clit - albeit unintentionally -- had put my pussy on high alert.

The man scratched his head. "I'm afraid we have three doubles and two singles. Only one twin room - the beach house. Or I suppose you could take the two singles..."

"No, the beach house sounds grand. We'll take it," Jack said quickly. He was as eager as I was to get to work. "I'll fetch our bags."

The man was apologetic about the room, and it was easy to see why. It was clean, but drab. And the killer touch: two no-sex single beds. The narrowest adult beds I'd ever seen. They looked as though they had come from a convent school. Sexual intercourse on them would be a feat of gymnastics; sleeping side by side a miracle.

Jack took off my chain, we cleaned our teeth and I began my night-time cleansing routine, growing hornier by the second, but with a sinking feeling that tonight was not the night. When I emerged from the bathroom, he stood in the middle of the room. My heart soared at the sight of his body, tall and chiselled, his member at attention.

I licked my lips. "But where?" I asked.

He sat on his bed and held his erection up straight. "Come here." He ran a finger between my lips and sniffed it. "You're ready. Sit on this."

I moved to straddle him as we usually do sitting down, face to face.

"No, turn round." I presented my bottom to him and parted my labia. There was that awkward moment when it seems as though he will be too big for me, then he pushed his way in as I gave a little squeal. I backed onto him, slid slowly down that glorious column, and we were locked.

He put both hands under my buttocks. "Lift your legs up, toward your chest. Good."

Then he grunted, the bed creaked and, my God! He was standing up, carrying me on his hands - impaled on his cock. My knees were up on either side of my breasts, my legs spread, my feet dangling in mid-air.

He began fucking me, shakily at first, then increasingly stronger and harder, like a battering ram. I was being harpooned by his cock as it speared in and out of me. If the tux fucks had been amazing, this took it to another level. I felt weightless, like sex in space. How could he do this, holding me, supporting my whole weight while he fucked the living daylights out of me? It was unbelievable. He was like a bulldozer, rampaging on, making the earth move for me. It wasn't subtle, but it was effective.

"I'm going to cum so fucking hard, you'll taste it for a week in the back of your throat, Mom," he growled as he slammed into me, withdrew, slammed in again.

"Do it. Plant that son-seed as far up me as you can," I gasped. "Use me, Jack. Use Mommy for your cum-hole."

We don't often talk dirty, so I knew this was going to be an epic climax. And indeed, our orgasms, when they did come, were like volcanic eruptions.

"Jack, I love you. Mommy is going to cum like a fucking train. Don't stop, Jack, keep fucking me. Harder, stud. Do it for Mommy. I said HARDER, damn it! Oh my God, son, I'm cumming, I love you, don't stop, Mommy is cumming on you, baby," I cried out as he juddered behind me, jack-hammering into me, an unstoppable force of nature.

And he was there too, roaring as he slammed his seed into me. "Take your son's sperm, take it all inside you, Mom!" He was staggering on his feet, out of control, wildly stabbing deep, deep, deep into me, fulfilling his evolutionary purpose of fucking his life force up into me as far as he could.

He stood there panting heavily for several minutes while we both enjoyed - or rather, recovered from - our orgasms.

His cock began to go limp and slide out of me. It suddenly broke free from my cunt-hole, flopping as it sprayed his life-giving fluid across the room. I felt his semen dripping out of me, spattering the floorboards.

His knees buckling, he lowered me to the floor, so delicately that my boobs scarcely wobbled. I felt as if I had come back to earth from orbit. I stood, legs trembling, listening to the steady drip, drip, drip on the wooden floor. He fell back heavily on the bed.

"Are you all right, dear?" I asked, clambering up beside him and snuggling into him. We were both hot and sticky.My bush was a tangled mass of hair, soaked with our sweat and cum.

"Yeah. Wow." It was a long time before he got his breath back. "I couldn't do that again tonight."

After such a tectonic performance, it seemed absurd that we should have to spend the night apart, in our little two-foot-wide beds, but we were so overwhelmed, we fell asleep immediately.

I woke to the most wonderful feeling a woman can experience.

Women of America, if you've never been coaxed awake by an unseen tongue licking the length of your pussy, you know what to ask for next Mother's Day. Confused, half-awake, you are unable to open your eyes. At first you wonder what is happening. Is this real? That mouth down there could belong to your pastor, your favorite movie star, the latest Vogue cover girl or ... I don't know - how about maybe your son?

Revelling in the feeling of his lips on my lips, I reached down to entwine my fingers in his hair. His tongue, giving long, slow strokes up my slit, then lapping my clitoris, repeated in endless cycles, brought me to the sweetest, laziest orgasm. No explosions, no fireworks: I was floating peacefully out among the stars, adrift in sleepy bliss, faintly pulsing. After the brutal Gotterdammerung of the previous night, it was so calm and gentle and romantic that I found myself weeping soft tears of love and joy. After I cum, he likes to stay down there, licking my hole, because he loves the taste (the incredible edible woman, he calls me). He was still beavering away as I faded off. When I woke later, confused but happy, I said, genuinely: "Jack, darling, I've just had the loveliest dream ..."

I dropped by the house, where the couple loaded me up with toast and scrambled eggs for Jack and my usual porridge and coffee, and I brought it back to our room.

Jack began teasing me about my porridge yet again - "I don't know how you can eat it like that with nothing on it."

"That's just how I like it. Do you have a better idea? And don't say 'sugar', because that's not healthy."

"You want healthy? Organic? Fresh from the manufacturer? Oh, Mom, you should have said."

He stood, pulled aside his shorts and grabbed me by the hair. He shoved his cock in my mouth. As it stiffened, he began pumping. He soon gave that tell-tale whimper. I prepared to receive a throatful. But at the last second he pulled out, pumped his cock and squirted his creamy goodness all over my porridge, squeezing out every drop. Splat, splat.

He handed me my spoon, put his penis away and sat down with a smile to watch me eat. I stirred my bowl and took a mouthful. You won't find it on many menus. It's not a classic combination (carbs and protein???) -- but organic, nutritious, fresh from my trusted supplier: I couldn't argue with that. Not to mention 24/7 free delivery. This I had to try again. Any way to get his sperm into me.

"Ditch the bra," Jack advised as we packed. "In this weather, we'll both feel better without it." Of course I did as he said, and enjoyed the feel as my breasts rolled and swayed under the white T-shirt. By the look on Jack's face, he definitely approved.

We drove slowly up the coast. He was shattered from last night's sex, so I took the wheel. Another deserted beach where we again enjoyed the luxury of walking hand in hand, kicking up the water and kissing like the lovers and best friends we were.

That night we booked into a big, anonymous hotel that wouldn't have noticed or cared that we shared a bed and bodily fluids.

He had a long bath and emerged to find me naked on the bed (a proper double bed - hurray!), legs splayed wide, which never fails to get him hard. But for the first time, he cried off. "Mom, sorry, I'm aching all over from last night."

I spread my lips further apart with my fingers. "But Mommy needs fucking."

"Mother dear, my arms and legs are like jelly. You took a lot out of me yesterday, in more ways than one."

I stroked my clitoris in frustration. "Jack, you're just going to have to work out longer at the gym ... or I need to lose weight."

"Jeez, no, Mom!" He seemed genuinely alarmed. "The only place you could possibly lose more weight is off your boobs, and I won't let that happen. If you weigh 120 pounds, 110 pounds of that is breast meat. And that's exactly the way I like it. No, I'll just have to hit the gym harder."

So, for the first time in months, the colt couldn't mount his gray mare that night. I did sit on his face for half an hour, though - his tongue was getting a workout, just like the rest of him.

In return, I brought him off between my tits. As I massaged him with my white mounds, I reflected that this was something all mothers should be able to do for their teenage sons. It was no different from a good shoulder rub. Why wasn't it legal? It was a fun, caring, maternal way to drain a healthy young lad, relieve his tension.

Every teenage boy needs to be milked regularly, otherwise he becomes sullen and aggressive. And who better to do it than his mom, using the soft bosoms that sustained him in the first months of life. It's almost innocent - a service that every women ought to be allowed to provide for her child. He once milked her; now she can milk him.

It makes the woman feel useful and the boy feel loved. It means he won't go straying for more dangerous avenues of release. All that pent-up sperm, building up behind a wall of frustration. No wonder it so often overflows into anger and violence.

I'm sure women all over the country would be happy to do it to please and nurture their sons. It would be a healthy bonding experience, bringing parent and child closer. No risk of pregnancy or disease. Safe, clean ... okay, maybe a little messy. But easily cleaned up (or rubbed into the skin for nourishment). And depending on how orally receptive the mother is, even that little messy problem can be overcome.

The son gets to see how a women's body works, and his reproductive gear is kept in good operating order. And if the mother's fingers stray under her nightdress, inside her panty elastic, while she drains her darling boy, well, what's unhealthy about that?

I was mentally composing a letter to my congresswoman along these lines. "Dear Madam Representative, as a proud wife and a mother, a patriotic American and the lucky possessor of a fine pair of perky milk-makers, I am sure you will agree ...") when I heard Jack whimper. I closed my eyes as the first drops hit my face, and - contrary to my theory that this was a non-sexual activity - found myself so turned on that I had to straddle his face for another round.

Next morning, Jack's tongue and jaw ached as much as the rest of him.

We were on the road again early and stopped for lunch at an old-style roadside diner. It was dark inside after the blazing heat. There was one waitress. We were the only customers. A counter ran most of the length of the building, ending in a large, dim dining alcove. We ordered our meals and took them to a table.

We found a corner seat and Jack gave a smile of appreciation: My top was showing a healthy amount of cleavage and my bra-free nipples were prominent.

There was a shuffling behind us. An elderly gentleman sat down at a table opposite and leaned his cane against a chair. He nodded politely, then did a double take as he saw my chest.

Jack observed his reaction. "I want to try something. Do exactly as I tell you, and no one will get hurt," he whispered in my ear. "Move out from behind the table. Now bring one foot up to rest on the seat of your chair."

"Are you kidding? Jack, in this skirt, everything I own will be on display. Unless he's an obstetrician, he'll have a heart attack."

"Yes, but he'll die happy. Now: keep one foot on the floor and lift the other onto the chair."

I sighed, but of course I did as I was told. My mini skirt rode up, completely exposing me. Jack parted my fur with his right hand and began to play. At first he feathered my cunt lips with his fingertips, a super-light strumming that was maddeningly arousing. Then, as he felt me responding, he dipped fingers into my rapidly wettening hole.

The gentleman continued his meal for a few seconds, oblivious, but when he glanced up, his eyes popped out of his head. He couldn't take his eyes off my cunt, as Jack finger-banged me, rubbed all along my slit, then circled my cherry. Then back to feathering my quivering, swollen labia.

In the mirror above the man's head, I saw the waitress slouched over the counter. She could see my face, but nothing that was going on below, I was sure. If she started toward us, I would have plenty of warning, so I settled in to enjoy my public finger-fucking.

Fingering and me go back a long way. I had been fingered by drunk uncles, by boys who immediately bragged about it to their friends, by lovers during foreplay.

But Jack was the only one who considered it an art, a discipline like intercourse or oral, that a woman would welcome, that would bring her to orgasm. (Tips for becoming a master fingersmith: clean hands and short, short nails are an indispensable start.)

But this was my sexual debut in front of an audience. Part of me was petrified, part was enjoying a stranger's gaze. I was getting into it now. Watching him watching me, watching the woman in the mirror. I lifted up my T-shirt and held my huge boobs out to him, the nipples hard and pink. I was growing more and more excited at Jack's fingering. I nuzzled his neck and drew his mouth to mine. Could the waitress see us? I didn't care.

"Mommy's nearly there," I sighed before I could catch myself. I knew I shouldn't be saying the M-word in front of someone. It was dangerous, even if the man probably was half-deaf. But I wasn't in control, and this is how I talk when I'm not in control. I lowered the volume. "I need you to make me cum," I murmured between little mewls of pleasure. "Please, you can do that for me, can't you, Jack. Please make the nice lady cum."

I began to thrust forward, fucking myself on his fingers. I moaned as my climax built, then I came as silently as I could, with two strong fingers curving up inside me and his thumb rotating lightly on my clit. I tried to be quiet, but couldn't suppress a long string of little grunts, "Uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh" as I lost control. The table was shaking with me, the cutlery rattling. The cups were clanking in their saucers. The pepper pot fell over and rolled across the table, onto the floor.

In the mirror, the waitress looked up. A thought struck me: Can she see my reflection, all of me, open pussy, fingers and all? I'm never sure with mirrors. But I was too far gone, and in those seconds I couldn't have stopped if the waitress, the chef and the entire sheriff's department had walked in on us. I just had to have my orgasm, and what should have been the quietest of cums turned into one of the noisiest.

Finally I stopped shaking and the crockery stopped rattling. Panting, I pulled my T-shirt down and tugged at my skirt while my son licked his fingers clean.

Jack stood calmly and went to get road directions from the waitress, leaving the two of us alone. The room reeked of cunt. I felt guilty that we had invaded the old man's day. I hoped he had enjoyed it as much as I did, but maybe he was trying to control his outrage and disgust. I smoothed down my skirt. I felt I had to say something.