Wendy and John

This story contains descriptions of a sexually explicit nature and consenting mother/son incest. Both participants have at least achieved their 18th birthday. The story line and characters are entirely fictional: any similarities are purely coincidental.

If such material is illegal in your current location, please click away from this page without reading further.

If the nature of this story is offensive to you in any way to, you may feel more comfortable with other stories available on this site.

If you got this far, I'll assume it's legal and you're happy to read on. Although the story stands perfectly well alone, some readers may recognise the characters from my 'My Son the Photographer' collection. To those readers who have asked me to continue this series, I can only apologise for the long delay: the muses deserted me and I can't 'force' a story. I do have further plots floating around in my mind and in various states of completion but they wait for just that spark of inspiration which will set my fingers tapping again. Meanwhile ...

Enjoy.

~ooOoo~

"Damn you to hell, Frank!" She slammed the phone onto its cradle and turned to see her son entering the room. Her face was flushed with anger and she brushed a tear from her eye.

"I guess that," he indicated the phone, "means Dad has another oh-so-urgent demand on his time." The sarcasm in his voice didn't hide the pain he felt. His father was so wound up in his business and this was not the first time he'd neglected his family in favour of his emergency trips. "What is it this time?"

"The usual crap. A problem at the Newcastle office and they have a Monday morning deadline. He was calling on his way the airport. He should have been coming home: today of all days he has to go. He told me to apologise to you. So much for your 18th birthday dinner. Damn him, John. He should BE here for you – for all of us!"

She took a moment to simmer down and, with a deep exhalation, came to a decision. "Right! We'll celebrate without that bastard: just you and me. You'll have your party; he's already booked the table. Tonight you and I are going to spend the precious bloody money his precious bloody business makes." She held out her arms and gave him a hug. "The table's not booked until seven o'clock but I fancy a cocktail hour. We'll get changed and have an early start. Book us a taxi first but give me an hour to get ready. And put it on your Dad's business account!"

She made her way to the bathroom, stripped and got under the shower, standing for a few minutes, allowing the hot jets to soak away her anger before she massaged the shower gel over her body. Humming to herself, she luxuriated in the slick sensuality as she passed her hands over her small breasts, down her tight tummy and hips, lingering between her legs, cleansing herself thoroughly. Picking up the razor, she shaved the stubble from her legs, her pubic region and underarms. She rinsed off, stepped out of the shower stall and reached into the airing cupboard for a towel.

John called the taxi office and was promised a cab at 5:45. He made himself a coffee and sat down to listen to the news headlines on the radio. Nothing earth shattering; the bulletin gave top spot to the latest scandal involving a Cabinet Minister. He finished his coffee, turned off the radio and made his way upstairs to the bathroom.

He opened the door and was frozen in mid stride at the sight of his mother, stark naked, reaching into the airing cupboard. She jumped in surprise and he noticed how her small breasts bobbled a little. For a second or two she never moved then grabbed a towel and the vision was gone. He felt the colour rising to his face and stammered an apology. "S ... sorry, Mum. I didn't know you were in here and the door wasn't locked." But his eyes had trailed over her body in that short time. He turned away and closed the door behind him.

Yet in his mind's eye he could still see the bounce of those small, pert breasts, see the darker pink of her large areoles topped by long nipples. He could still see the beads of water running down her slim, boyish body, glittering over her shaved mound and dripping at her feet. He reached his room and sat on the bed but couldn't get that vision from his mind. He loosened his belt, pulled his jeans down to his knees and took his rigid shaft in his hand.

Wendy, his mother, was mortified. She was no stranger to flashing her body but had always been scrupulous at home, never dashing from bathroom to bedroom in her undies, no matter how pushed for time. And now she had embarrassed her son just because she forgot to lock the damned door. She dried herself and put on the terry bathrobe hanging behind the door.

"I'd better apologise to him," she thought. Stepping to his room she opened the door calling, "Johnny, I'm so sorr ... Oh Jesus, no ..." She saw his horrified face staring at her as a string of sperm splattered onto the bed head behind him. "Oh god, I'm sorry again, John."

This time it was she who closed the door behind her and crossed the passage to her own room. This time it was she who had a vision seared into her mind: of a hand gripping a lovely thick tool, of the veins bulging purple, of a foreskin pulled back, exposing the glistering head, of the spurt climbing in a fast, low arc past his staring eyes.

Ignoring the dampness between her legs and the tinglingly erect nipples, she proceeded to get herself ready. It was a dinner/dance at the Royal Station Hotel. Strictly formal dress was de rigueur: black tie for the men and the gown she'd hired for the evening was a gorgeous off the shoulder full length, figure-hugging shantung silk creation in the same blue/grey colour as her eyes. There was a slit up the left leg to the bottom of her hip. All edges were trimmed with silk tape in a two-shades-darker blue. She had searched the shops to find a suitable lingerie set and had settled on matching the colour of the beading tape. Her bra was more aesthetic than functional: she didn't need the support. It and her high-cut panties were a delicate semi-transparent lace.

She tidied her hair as best she could – her frizzy blonde curls were uncontrollable at the best of times – fixed her makeup then slipped into her 3" shoes and went down to the kitchen to wait for the taxi. John was already sitting at the kitchen table, idly swirling some water around the bottom of a tumbler. Gosh, he did look quite the man in his dinner jacket and tie: the maroon cummerbund setting it off a treat. But he was slumped on the chair, almost shrinking away from her.

John glanced up when he saw his mother then turned away again, his face suffusing with blood. "Listen, John, I'm really so sorry, especially the second time." He heard the words but they didn't sink in. He felt her cool hand on his wrist, stilling the twiddling glass.

"I never knew you were in the bathroom," he blurted. "The door wasn't locked. You must think I'm a pervert walking in on you. Then you came and ... saw me ..."

"Hush, John; it's all right. I know you're not a pervert. It was my fault both times. I should have locked that door, I didn't even realise I hadn't. My fault! I'm sorry. The second time, I should have at least knocked on your door and not come bursting in. You're entitled to your privacy, but I was in such a hurry to apologise for the first time. Again, my fault: again I'm deeply sorry. I've embarrassed you twice.

"About what you were doing, Son, it's no shame to masturbate. It's natural, it's healthy and you won't go catching diseases."

Her other hand cupped his chin and he felt his face being drawn round to look at her. "We all do it, John." He saw the corners of her mouth twitch in a tentative smile. "Will you forgive me? Pretty Please? Then we can and go out and have one hell of a good birthday party and we can both forget what we shouldn't have seen. Hugs?" She opened her arms to him. He stood up and gave her a big hug, both of them being consciously making it chaste.

But neither of them forgot and they both knew what had inspired the masturbation session. John was wondering if he could ever hope to see his Mother like that again. She was a little flattered that just one sight of her body could cause her Son to react that way. "Get thee behind me, Satan!" she said to herself as lustful images started insinuating themselves into her mind.

The Royal Station Hotel was one of those palaces the railway companies built at their main terminals; it still retained much of its original Victorian formality: the sort of place which just oozes old fashioned charm. They found a quiet corner table in the cocktail bar and ordered their drinks. John didn't drink much; tonight was the first time he was drinking legally and he had only seldom joined his mates on their weekend binges so his glass contained more soda than brandy. Wendy was partial to vodka and the barman suggested some blueberry flavoured vodka, just on its own. It tasted so good as she savoured the richness of the liquor on her tongue and felt it trickle creamily down her throat.

The events of earlier faded into the background as they relaxed into general conversation: how his studies were coming on, the state of the drive after her car shed it's oil, his latest computer games, her email friend in Australia ... But by unspoken agreement they didn't discuss his father or the business. They had always been comfortable talking to each other, even maintaining 'contact' during his adolescent rebellious spell. Maybe because they saw so little of his father, they had been thrown together more.

The Maitre d' Hotel took their order. The Chef had some tender asparagus, just flown in this morning? They accepted his recommendation. "John," Wendy asked, "would you mind if I had raw meat? I really would like a steak tartare; I haven't had one in simply ages." He looked blank.

"It's a raw finely minced fillet of beef, Sir," the MD offered, "mixed with chopped shallots, various herbs and an egg yolk. Not for the faint hearted, I fear." He smiled.

"Well, if you can eat it, Mum, I guess I can watch you. But I think I'll stick to something more civilised."

"The Steak Tartare for you then, Madame?" He scribbled on his notepad when she confirmed her order. "And for you, Sir?" John finally settled on a fillet steak.

"But cook mine, I'm not a cannibal. Medium rare, please. A few mushrooms and a small mixed salad."

"Make that a large bowl of salad and we'll share it," Wendy chimed in.

"Very good, Madame." The MD finished his scribbling with a flourish. "Your table will be ready when you are. Enjoy your evening." He smiled, stepped back a pace, briefly bowed his head and made his quick but unhurried way back to his desk.

The Sommelier presented his list; Wendy grabbed it and ran her finger down the pages. "Champagne, tonight, John. We're celebrating!" She stopped at one of the entries and said, "That one please."

Wendy ordered a second vodka but John just nursed his glass. A couple of minutes after 7:00 they presented themselves to the Maitre D' who led them to a cosy table where they could watch the small dance floor. A quartet of musicians was setting up its instruments at the top of the dance floor and the tables were beginning to fill up: the men looked handsome in their black and white and several of the ladies looked lovely in their various creations. It was like stepping back in time.

The asparagus tips arrived as the main restaurant lights dimmed to about half brightness and the musicians struck up with a spirited rendering of 'It's not Unusual'. The champagne was chilled to perfection

The asparagus was just dripping with melted butter and Wendy took sensual pleasure in sliding the tips between her lips. She saw her Son watching her and the invisible little devil sitting on her shoulder told her to simulate oral sex with the slippery green phallus: in her mind was not a green stalk but a purple-headed tool. John was fascinated and she noticed him flinch when she suddenly bit through the tip. Slowly she pulled the mutilated stalk out through pursed lips, sucking at the butter as it emerged, then made a show of swallowing the tasty vegetable.

"Don't forget to eat, John." His Mother's voice penetrated the confusion in his mind: "it's getting cold." He saw her dabbing her buttery lips and chin on the napkin then lifted her fluted glass and drained it. As she pulled out the next stalk she gestured to him to eat. He picked up a tip from his own plate and started eating almost mechanically. Her lips shaped into a gamine grin and an impish twinkle came in her eye as she slid her food between her lips again. It didn't help his confusion: his Mother seemed to be flirting with him and, despite his misgivings, he was conscious of his tool starting to show interest.

Wendy pulled herself together and they both finished the course eating normally. When they had nothing left but the discarded stalks on their plates, they cleaned all the errant butter from their face and fingers. They sat back, each with a full glass in hand and she told him to drink up so they could get clean glasses, indicating the grease masking the glinting crystal. He complied and sat back as the clutter was cleared away and fresh champagne bubbled in fresh glasses.

They watched two or three couples on the dance floor for a few minutes until there was a flurry of activity near their table. A small table was placed next to theirs, the waiter assembled the tools before the Head Waiter came and started mixing the raw ingredients of Wendy's steak with practiced showmanship. As he finished arranging the meat on a plate and presented it to her, John's steak was served. Condiments were offered and served and they both tucked in to their delicious meals.

"How's your steak, John?"

"Scrummy, Mummy," he grinned. "How's your cannibal food?"

"Mmmmm, delicious. You should try some." He looked dubiously at the forkful she proffered. "Go on, it won't bite back." With just a moment's hesitation he accepted the morsel and chewed on it to get the taste and flavour before swallowing.

"I could get to like that," he finally decided then sipped at the wine to clear his palate.

The little devil was whispering in her mind again, arguing with her conscience. She selected a portion of steak on her fork, looked her Son right in the eyes and said softly, "I love having raw meat in my mouth." She licked her lips lasciviously and slowly brought the fork between them, dragging the meat in with her tongue. She closed her eyes, savouring the meat like freshly ejaculated semen as the sticky mass slithered down her throat. She shuddered and opened her eyes to see John staring like a rabbit caught in headlights. She licked her lips again then smiled as she saw the blood rushing to his face.

John wrenched his gaze from his Mother's lips and concentrated on the rest of his steak. The blood was rushing to more places than his face. Why was she doing this? She was his Mother but his thoughts were not exactly filial right then. He never looked up until he had placed his knife and fork across his empty plate. His mother was dabbing her lips with the napkin. She took another sip at her wine – she had ordered a second bottle while they were eating – and sat back listening to the band.

The guy who seemed to be in charge played a nice mellow sax to lead them through 'Autumn Leaves'. She identified in turn each of the instruments: the bass was strumming a slow, rhythmic harmony; percussion was stroking her brushes gently across the skins while keyboards played a high, quiet piano descant with lots of falling arpeggios and ripples. Several couples were now on the floor, mostly just moving round to a slow shuffle. When the tune ended with a final long ripple, there was an enthusiastic round of applause which Wendy and John joined. After the band acknowledged the applause the leader turned to the others and issued the cues for the next piece. The pianist led off in a Chopin waltz so Wendy asked her son to dance with her.

He reluctantly allowed her to pull him out to the floor, placed his hand at arm's length on her waist and, with his palm only just in contact with hers, he led them into the dance. His former girlfriend had been a ballroom dancing enthusiast so he was normally competent on the dance floor but tonight he was missing his steps.

She stopped dancing for a second, stepped in close and whispered, "John, hold me when we dance. I won't break. Honest! Now let's relax." She placed his hand firmly onto her waist, felt him hold her palm and allowed him to lead her into the swaying rhythm again. She continued to whisper into his ear, "Let's just enjoy ourselves this evening. Hold me like you mean it." She felt him relax on his feet and become more adventurous with their movements around the floor. "Mmmmm, that's better. You're a lovely dancer, John. I could do this all night."

He was beginning to enjoy himself too and when the tempo of the music speeded up he led his mother in as wild a dance as the small floor permitted and on the final clash of cymbals he pulled her close to his body and held her there. They were both panting from their exertions and they smiled at each other with wild excitement in their eyes. They held like that briefly: his thoughts were wishing he was holding that naked body he had seen all too briefly earlier until John became aware that the lump in his trousers was pressing into his Mother's thigh: he jerked back and they returned to their table with John avoiding contact.

Wendy too had been very much aware of the tumescence – and the look in his eye turning from desire to anguish when he realized she must feel him pressed into her. Her own blood was roaring after the thrilling dance and her heart was beating rapidly at the memory of their bodies coming together and separating as they moved around the floor. As she walked back to the table she determined she would have that lovely cock. But she knew she would have to loosen her Son's inhibitions somehow.

"Thank you so much, John," she panted when she sat down. "That was fun. You danced like a dream and I was amazed I was keeping up with you. Phew!" She reached for the bottle of wine to top up their glasses but the waiter was right there to save her the task. They smiled their thanks at him then she lifted her glass towards him. Drink up, John. You're celebrating, remember." She drank half her glass and waited 'til he copied her before draining it and encouraged him to do the same.

She rested her hand on John's arm and squeezed. The waiter discreetly refilled their glasses and took the empty bottle away. "John, it's OK, nothing to get upset about. It often happens, at least with the men I've danced with. To be honest, I like to know I'm dancing with a real man and I think of that automatic reflex as the gallant salute of a gentleman." She leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, "Your Father used to go to the loo and kinda reposition himself down there so it didn't try to poke a hole in his trouser leg, but I could still feel it and enjoy it. Look, I know you liked what you saw this afternoon: don't be afraid to hold and touch the body you saw.

"OK, I've got to 'powder my nose', why don't you pop to the gents and when we come back, I'm not your Mother, I'm your girlfriend, here to celebrate your birthday with you. We'll have something scrumptiously sinful from that sweet trolley we've seen floating past and dance the night away. Deal?" She raised her glass.

He had been listening as she talked, scarcely able to believe his ears as it sank in that his Mother knew what he was wishing and really didn't mind, hinting that she might let him go further. He looked into her eyes, seeking confirmation. They crinkled as she smiled then the left eye winked. "Deal, Boyfriend John?"