Come and Sleep in Mummy's Bed, a short story by geronimo_appleby. Date added: 2012-03-26. Times viewed: 11354.
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- Intro: Mother/Son incest
It had to stop; what she was doing; it wasn’t right. In fact, Ingrid told herself, her mind working while her body automatically pulled wet laundry from the machine. What she was doing – had been doing consistently for a month – was just plain wrong. Worse than that, it was perverted.
Why then couldn’t she stop?
Because it felt good, gave her a thrill, aroused her. He gave her the attention she needed.
But, the internal berating continued. What she’d been doing was bad, so, so bad, and which is why it had to end ... Soon ... Today.
Outside, under a high, blue sky, while sunshine blinked diamonds through the leaves of the old oak, Ingrid, oblivious to the blare of the season, her mind still absent, pegged the damp, freshly laundered clothes to the line. A waft of warm air lifted the canopy of her button-down summer dress in a sensuous caress, soft and gentle like a lover’s breath. Ingrid longed for a lover to kiss her ... down there, to lavish her vulva with lascivious, licking attention. Aaron couldn’t be that lover; he mustn’t be that lover.
How had it begun, the flirting? Could it even be called flirting? – She didn’t think there was a name for what she did ... the things she did to her son; the teasing and exhibiting herself; the flaunting. Mind wandering as she pegged Ingrid reflected upon just when it had begun. She’d dimly become aware of Aaron’s interest – his unusual interest – in his mother a few weeks earlier. There had been no defining moment for her; no time or event where she could say: Yes, that was when it started.
What had happened was more a dawning of realisation, a conjoined series of experiences which she became aware of over time. There had been the odd looks from the boy, more a young man now actually, but Ingrid still thought of Aaron as her boy, and she’d noticed how, when he thought she wasn’t looking, he’d stare at her with a ... hungry? ... almost predatory expression – A disconcerting lupine gaze. Those lingering, flat-eyed, calculating looks had twisted Ingrid’s guts in a faintly familiar way, a way she dimly recognised but couldn’t quite place, like meeting a childhood friend whose name lay on the tip of the tongue, a haze of memory that refused to coalesce. He’d grown more tactile of late as well. There were the touches, like butterfly wings, on her arm as he spoke of his day at work or told a joke; where he reached out and lay a hand across her wrist or forearm, the pressure of his fingers remaining for several seconds longer than necessary to prove a point; his knuckles accidentally brushing against her breast.
And then there’d been the kiss that golden morning on the cusp of the summer solstice a few weekends since. Standing at the kitchen counter waiting for the kettle to boil, towelling robe belted loosely, and he’d come up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, leaned into her, his body curving against hers, and kissed the back of her neck. That feeling, the tickle and slither in the pit of her stomach ...
She recognised the feeling then. Desire. That was a defining moment for Ingrid, when it became sexual for her, but she couldn’t pin down the time it had begun for Aaron, and why he looked at her way he did.
On that Sunday morning, with her son’s breath on the nape of her neck, the feather touch of his lips upon her skin, Ingrid’s nipples had thickened and her sex had oiled, a gasp caught in her throat, her knuckles blanched, and her fingers gripped the counter-top. Aaron had released his mother just as the kettle shrilled.
‘Morning, Mum,’ he’d mumbled through a mouthful of cotton wool drowsiness.
Was it just imagination on her part though? Did she read it wrong? Ingrid couldn’t be sure, and of course to ask him outright ... No that course of action just wasn’t an option. The ignominy of her son’s incredulous, disbelieving ... shocked face, the chagrin, eternal embarrassment of that between them if she was wrong, misguided in some horrible way. Unthinkable.
Appalled at her own immorality, wanting to stop even before she’d begun – and just as powerless to desist after she’d started – Ingrid began to tease her son. Just to test him. That was all. Just to see.
With the washing hung out, regimented according to size and colour – such was Ingrid’s ordered personality despite her mind’s preoccupation – she wandered through the kitchen towards the living room of the house. The room, dressed by Ikea, registered not at all upon Ingrid’s consciousness; chairs and tables and bric-a-brac with names like Helvena and Ingstrod, acquired during the Great Transition made no impression, failed to dent the armour of the woman’s musing.
‘That’s it,’ she muttered. ‘No more. It’s done ... Finished.’ Settling into an armchair, resolute, Ingrid stretched her legs, critically appraising the light, golden hue of her tan before running her fingers through honey-blonde hair. Vanity had seeped into her character since Jack had gone; the errant husband’s desertion turning Ingrid into a cliché: The gym, the boob job, the dieting. She shook her head while reaching for her cigarettes, a singular vice left over from her previous life. Lighting one and blowing a stream of blue smoke towards the ceiling, Ingrid continued her litany. ‘I’m a mature, independent, modern woman,’ she affirmed out loud. ‘I have a successful business, I’m attractive ... Sexy, even.’ So why can’t I get a man? Although, she thought, face souring at bitter memories, getting a man wasn’t the problem, she had no trouble attracting them, the issue seemed to be finding the right man. Her son, she concluded, most definitely wasn’t the right man. ‘No more nonsense,’ she decided, emphatic.
So why did desire slither in her guts – deep in that indefinable, visceral place?
She thought of him, remembered what she’d seen, and tendrils of lust fingered lightly at her sex. It had been this way since the evening she’d watched him, clandestine, with a voyeuristic thrill hot in her belly. Spying on her son, in secret, one night on the landing, her face pressed to the door jamb, the urge to masturbate became an almost constant companion. She hadn’t meant to spy after coming across Aaron’s partially open door, which he’d formerly kept resolutely closed to debar maternal snooping, but something made her stop. She’d sensed a change in the atmosphere, almost as if the house whispered a secret, and she’d crept stealthily along the landing, closer to her son’s room.
And there he’d been ...
Ingrid moaned as her insides clenched and warmth infused her sex. Unable to resist the overwhelming urge to touch herself, she crushed the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray and unbuttoned her light, cotton dress. Sprawling in the single seat, buttocks precipitous at the cushion edge, she opened her legs to accommodate her probing digits.
‘Oh fuck, no,’ she whispered to the Swedish decor. ‘I’m going to go to hell for this ...’ Ingrid moaned a low, desperate growl when her hand slid beneath the elastic of her underwear and her fingers found the gooey folds. ‘That’s nice,’ she purred, eyes closing as she fingered her clitoris. ‘So bloody nice ...’ Grunting at the sparking from that slippery, sensitive nub, electric pulses that tingled and buzzed, Ingrid gritted her teeth while her face set in a grimace of lewd concentration. ‘Come on, baby,’ she coaxed, slipping into the thrilling, illicit fantasy, ‘show Mummy the hot stuff. Show Mummy what a big boy you are now ...’
In her mind, the dream place of half recall and half fantasy, Ingrid saw him as he’d been, with the door to his bedroom ajar while he, naked and hugely erect, tugged in frantic urgency. Ingrid remembered the cold wave of shock, her disbelieving eyes bulging and her jaw slack when she’d first realised what her son was doing.
‘Make it spit for me,’ she urged the recumbent figure in her head. ‘Come on, pull it and squirt the hot stuff for Mummy.’
The woman’s fingers moved quickly. She hissed, frustrated at the restriction of her panties against her hand. A sharp, rasping rend ended that issue and the gusset flapped loose. Ingrid’s labia gaped, swollen with desire. She moaned, widening her thighs as she scrunched lower in the chair, fingers squelching into her opening.
The fantasy son turned his face to look at her as she stood framed in the open doorway. She saw his face, shocked at first, crease into a smile. ‘You,’ he said. ‘You’ve come to me.’
With the hem of her skirt hiked around her hips as she fingered her sex, her dream-self spoke: ‘Yes, baby, I’ve come to you. I’ve been watching you.’ Ingrid thrust her hips forward and held herself open to his gaze. The thrill of his eyes staring at that place ...
The woman groaned when Aaron lifted his erection from where it had dropped against his flat stomach. His languid stroking of its length and the hot stare held her enraptured. ‘Do you want Mummy to suck it?’ she asked, moving into the room, skirt still held high so the boy could see her juice-smeared mons. She murmured: ‘Let me suck you, you can come in my mouth; on my tits; in my hair, or ...’ she paused, adding lewdly, ‘you could squirt into my cunt ...’
In reality, in the living room, Ingrid squirmed against the seat. Her hips jerked, thighs shivering as the glorious wave crashed and foamed. Out loud, she blurted, ‘I’m coming. Oh yes, I’m coming. Fucking coming ...’
Braless in deference to the warmth of the day, her free hand mauled at her breasts – the superb example of an expensive surgeon’s craft. Ingrid squeezed and massaged her tits, mewling and groaning and spitting obscenities in the soundtrack to her climax.
Her orgasm cooled, her cunt ceased its convulsive clenching around her fingers, which were smeared to the knuckles as she lay in a splay-legged sprawl; an ungainly, bedraggled heap, vulva smeared with goo, fighting for breath.
Ingrid opened her eyes.
And found she was no longer alone.
Aaron knew exactly when it started. For him the moment came when his mother, one Thursday night, following yet another debacle of a date, arrived home, upset and close to tears.
The door had slammed shut, disturbing the youth from his video game. ‘You’re back early,’ he’d called from his room. Perturbed by the lack of response, unusual for his mother not to reply, Aaron left the game and went downstairs. He found Ingrid in the kitchen, a glass and an open bottle of vodka on the counter while she drew vehemently on a cigarette. His mother’s distraught expression and the generous measure of clear liquid in the glass worried Aaron. He felt a flicker of alarm. ’What’s up, Mum? he asked, eyeing the bottle.
‘Nothing, baby,’ Ingrid replied, trying a brave smile for size and finding it too large. Her lower lip trembled. She took a deep drag on the cigarette, immediately followed by a three quick swallows of the liquor. As if surprised by the tumbler’s sudden emptiness, Ingrid blinked several times, staring at the glass stupidly.
‘Something’s up, Mum,’ Aaron persisted. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be drinking that stuff as quick as you are.’ Ingrid tilted the bottle towards the glass. Vodka glugged to the half-way point. ‘Has someone upset you? What is it? Tell me, Mum ...’
‘It’s nothing, Aaron, really. I’m just being a silly old woman. Leave me alone; I’ll be OK in the morning.’ The smile, more a rictal grimace, stretched her face before dying quickly.
In the past Aaron had shown little in the way of filial piety, his mother, even after his father’s departure, had always seemed strong, assured and in control. He’d observed the usual duties, her birthday, Christmas, that kind of thing. To Aaron she was just ... well ... his mother. He loved her, sure, but she’d never given any hint, any reason to doubt her ability to cope. He’d rolled his eyes at the gym obsession, the dieting and the constant experimenting with her hair during the Great Transition phase of her life, post-husband. He’d been mortified at the boob job however – his friends and colleagues had been very vocal on that subject. But now this, this was something new.
‘Seriously, Mum, tell me. What’s wrong? This isn’t like you. It isn’t like you at all.’
‘Oh, Aaron,’ Ingrid sighed. ‘Why can’t I just find a man?’
Aaron scraped a high-legged stool from in front of the breakfast bar. He hefted himself into it and yanked another seat out for his mother. ‘Sit down, Mum,’ he instructed. Ingrid, after a moment’s deliberation, lifted herself onto the chair. Her skirt rode high on her thighs, attracting merely a glance from her son. They were his mother’s legs and were of no interest to Aaron. Not yet anyway. ‘You’ve got loads of men after you. You’re always out on dates, socialising,’ he continued.
‘That’s not what I mean, Aaron.’ Ingrid extinguished the cigarette and immediately lit another, delicately placing the filter between her lips and firing up her lighter. Exhaling, she added, ‘I go out, sure. I have a little fun, but nothing happens,’ she appended hastily and tapped ash into the ash-tray. ‘I might flirt a bit but I’m not ...’ She shrugged. ‘I’m not ... Well, you know.’
Aaron nodded. ‘I didn’t think you were, Mum.’ Not that he’d given it much thought. Some things were just best off left alone. His mother’s dates and what she did or didn’t do were not his concern.
The glass met Ingrid’s lips. A small sip this time, Aaron noted with relief.
‘I know I look good.’ The woman’s eyes levelled with her son’s. ‘That isn’t vanity, not at all. I know I’m looking good, especially for forty-three. Sure, there are younger girls out there that I couldn’t compete with in the looks department, but that isn’t what I mean, Son, what I mean is I can’t find a man, the right man, not one who just wants—’ Her head tilted to one side, she sucked at the cigarette and grimaced. ‘—you know what I’m talking about, you’re twenty-one,’ she said after blowing smoke at the ceiling. ‘They just want me for ... for ...’
‘Sex?’ Aaron supplied.
Ingrid nodded, her hair waving softly as she did. ‘I’d just like to find someone who’ll show some respect, treat me right, maybe even love me eventually.’ Her eyes rolled hugely in their orbits. ‘But all I attract is ...’
‘... Dickheads?’ Aaron furnished.
Ingrid laughed, a loud Ha! which ended in a stifled snort. She grinned. ‘Exactly. Dickheads.’
Then it happened, the epiphany, the defining moment for Aaron. Ingrid, holding the smouldering cigarette elegantly aloft, leaned her torso towards her son. As her body bridged the gap between them Aaron looked down into the tight groove of his mother’s cleavage. Sensing Ingrid’s intention – wanting a hug from her son; some reassurance and comfort – he slid off the stool to make the embrace less of a contortion. His mother lithely jumped down from her own perch and they stood face-to-face, her forehead level with his chin. Again his eyes flicked to the dizzying décolletage. Aaron recalled the shape of her legs as she’d slid onto the stool, and, for the first time really recognised his mother as a corporeal entity, a three-dimensional woman with thoughts, feelings and emotions.
Great tits and legs. Damn, he thought, Mum’s pretty sexy ...
When his mother finally leaned in for his embrace, Aaron was surprised to feel, as his arms automatically encircled her, just how fine and delicate she was. His hands slid down the xylophone of her ribcage, coming to rest on her narrow, tapered waist just above the flare of her hips. Her breasts squashed into his chest and, for an instant, as the scent of her perfume, shampoo and tang of tobacco hit his senses, he experienced an almost overwhelming urge to nuzzle at his mother’s neck. He imagined, for a fleeting moment, a heartbeat or two, perhaps three, kissing her on that place between neck and shoulder; thought, momentarily, about licking her throat, sliding his tongue over the jut of her chin, and kissing her mouth.
What would her tongue taste like as he pushed his own between her lips? Would she squirm against him – grinding her sex against the front of his jeans? Would she lift up that pink sweater to reveal those tits, hefting the heavy ripeness in her palms and smiling as she offered her teats to his mouth?
The carnal imagining lasted for just a moment, that’s all it was, a brief flick of an eyelid, a scrap in time.
Confused by the strength of his emotions, and embarrassed at the sudden, savage erection, shockingly suffused with white hot desire, Aaron abruptly broke from the embrace.
‘I ... Sorry, Mum,’ he spluttered.
Ingrid’s eyes were wide with surprise. ‘What’s wrong, baby?’ she asked unaware, in a voice full of maternal concern.
‘I have to pee,’ Aaron flustered. It was the best he could manage at the time. ‘Sorry ...’
He fled the room, leaving his mother to stare after him, bemused. He left her to her vodka, her cigarettes and her musing.
After the scene in the kitchen, Aaron found his thoughts crammed with his mother. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, couldn’t help daydreaming about her body. He thought constantly about what she’d look like naked, how she’d taste when she kissed, and was her pubic bush left natural or was she clean and smooth down there? He made up excuses to be in the same room as her while she worked on clients’ accounts in the evenings. The video games were forgotten, all Aaron wanted to do was watch his mother’s face as she concentrated on the columns of figures, her spectacles perched endearingly on the end of her nose. Occasionally she’d look up from the papers, fixing him with her pale-blue gaze and smiling brightly. ‘Make us a coffee, there’s a love?’ she’d ask, sparking up a cigarette and following him into the kitchen to where he’d hurried, like an eager puppy hoping to please her. Then came the darker times when he thought about her as he lay in bed. Then, as his fist inexorably gripped his erection, Aaron imagined all kinds of lewd and depraved scenes, scenes in which his mother stared up into his eyes as she knelt before him, her lips stretched tight around his girth, with him gushing hot semen into her throat. In those fantasies she invariably gagged and coughed and spat thick dribbles of gloop that cascaded over her chin to dangle in long, stretchy ropes. Strands that trembled and swung as she moved, and which, inevitably, spattered down onto the smooth skin of her breasts.
Then one day something shifted. His mother, the tightly wound accountant, changed. There was the afternoon, one Saturday, a scorching hot day, when his mother decided, of all things, to wear a hot-pink bikini bra and a pair of denim cut-offs that were so worn they were bone white, frayed at the edges, and brief enough to make the eponymous Daisy Duke blush.
‘Hello, dear,’ his mother had grinned when Aaron appeared at the doorway between kitchen and garden. ‘Glad you’re up. You could help me do some tidying in the garden.’ Aaron gawped open-mouthed with surprise and arousal at the brevity of the shorts and how they moulded to his mother’s backside. ‘It’s a lovely day outside,’ his mother had trilled. ‘It’d be a shame to waste it.
Her tits, he thought. Look at her tits. Fuck I’d just love to stick my cock between those big beauties and—’
‘—Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to help?’ Ingrid had called, interrupting Aaron’s internal appreciation of her assets. She then turned and, with what could have been a deliberate provocation if Aaron didn’t know better, bent and presented her derrière to her son’s view.
Staring at the delectation between her legs, Aaron was sure he could see the cleft of her sex outlined by the near gossamer of the faded denim.
And so it went on. For a full two hours, while his mother, apparently innocently, went about her business attacking the flora, Aaron was tormented by frustration. It seemed that every time he looked up or returned from some errand, his mother, a single, mud-ingrained gardening glove covering one hand, secateurs at the ready in the other, and with, in an eccentric twist to her ensemble, a round-crowned, wide-brimmed straw hat on her head, was thrusting her perspiration-beaded breasts into his face. Or she’d be bent over, the cleft of her cunt chewing cloth. Aaron swore she wore no underwear beneath the shorts, while he stared, mesmerised at the long, lean muscles flexing in Ingrid’s legs as she squatted and raised, squatted and raised, intent upon her garden.
The young man’s frustration peaked in the kitchen when, after a long, cold glass of lager, in mid-afternoon, Ingrid leaned close and kissed his cheek. The kiss landed very close to the corner of his mouth. ‘Thanks for the help,’ Ingrid murmured, fixing her eyes on her son’s.
He couldn’t help but glance at her breasts as they bulged dangerously close to a wobbling over-spill in the near ineffectual bikini bra. ‘That’s OK, Mum,’ he’d babbled, reddening as the clean, honest scent of her sweat-sheened body wafted upwards. How he managed to remain in control, didn’t succumb to the fevered urge to kiss his mother, to tear that bra from her body and lick the sweat from her skin ... Ah, but if he could just pull down those shorts, push her onto her back, spread he legs wide, and lave her sex with his tongue ...
Aaron didn’t see his mother’s smirk when he fled the kitchen. Nor did he witness the scene in her bedroom, her on the bed, freshly showered and rubbing at her sex, squeezing the breasts he’d so wanted to suck.
‘Oh, baby,’ Ingrid murmured as she fingered herself to a climax, imagining herself naked, except for the hat, on hands and knees in the garden, with her son’s cock stuffed inside her body as he fucked into her from behind. ‘The sun on our bodies as we frolic naked in the garden, my darling,’ she sighed to the empty space in her bedroom. ‘Fill Mummy with your seed,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, fuck, I’m coming ...’
And the teasing and the flaunting went on.
Then came the night that Ingrid, quite by accident, an uncontrived situation, was passing her son’s room. By his own design Aaron had left the door ajar in the hope that his mother would see. The crazy idea had been that his mother would see him masturbating, be overwhelmed with lust and desire, come into the room and ... Well, I’m sure you can guess what Aaron hoped for. And all he had to do, if only he’d known, was to turn and look towards the door.
Neither mother nor son had the gumption to make the first move. Ingrid had her suspicions, indeed she’d teased, flaunted and taunted the young man mercilessly, yet he made no overt move. Suspicions were all well and good, but the woman was loath to act on mere speculation.
Aaron, despite his mother’s exhibitionism and his own inflamed desires, also lacked the courage to escalate the situation. He too was unsure.
Then came the afternoon he left work early.
‘Server’s down,’ Mr Jackson, Aaron’s boss had said. ‘Might as well take an early bath, Aaron me boy. There wouldn’t be much happening this arvo anyway. Go on, make the most of it while I’m in a good mood.’ loath
Aaron had skipped out and driven home in the old Escort – his, bought and paid for. He habitually used the back door to the house, all the family did, well, just him and his mum now since his dad was gone. He’d closed the high, wooden-slatted gate behind him and noticed the washing hanging on the line – no sign of his mother, though. Dammit, he’d hoped she’d be in the garden sunbathing ... Maybe even naked. He could never tell with his mother these days. But Ingrid hadn’t been there, much to his disappointment.
He’d walked through the open kitchen door ...
And seen her ...
... His mother, his beautiful mother, sprawled on the single-seater, her dress unbuttoned, and her body visible. Nearly all of that gorgeous body. Aaron’s heart began to race when the reality of what he was seeing hit him. He swallowed several times, eyes wide, his mouth an O of surprise.
From where he stood, scant feet from the unbelievable sight, Aaron heard his mother mutter: ‘Do you want Mummy to suck it? Let me suck you, you can come in my mouth; on my tits; in my hair, or ... You could squirt into my cunt.’
That word! Oh my God!
And her tits, her body and what she was doing to herself. Aaron knew now the answer to his question about his mother’s pubic bush. A precise triangle, geometric perfection, graced that place just above the cleft of her sex. The rest was clean and smooth. He saw his mother’s labia, surprisingly meaty flaps that seemed to suck greedily at her fingers as she fingered herself. Her face was screwed into a grimace of intense concentration, a candid expression of undiluted, candid sexual abandon. A plumb-bob the density of a house brick dropped through Aaron’s guts as his brain struggled to process the erotic image of his mother masturbating.
His mother tensed, her limbs twitching, and Aaron’s attention was drawn to her trembling thighs and the convulsive jerking of her hips as she fucked onto her fingers. He saw one hand move to those breasts, watched her mauling and squeezing the big tits as she came noisily.
Aaron heard his mother gasp, ‘I’m coming. Oh yes, I’m coming. Fucking coming ...’
A long pause followed. The young man became dimly aware of the tumescence wedged tight against the constriction of his underwear and work trousers. He rubbed his erection through the cloth, watching his mother as she panted and gasped, caught in the aftermath of her apocalyptic climax.
A momentary impulse came over him. He should leave, he thought. If his mother opened her eyes at that moment and saw him their relationship would never be the same again. There would always be this huge thing between them. Irreversible and eternal.
But she was just too beautiful. He had to stay, had to look at her and imprint every impression, each empirical sensation, in his mind. The image of her, dress loose, splay-limbed, and with her sex pouting sulkily between her legs and oozing its desire had to be scorched into his recall for future masturbatory pleasures.
Then Ingrid’s eyes opened. Her blue stare, the same shade as the summer sky outside, that pale hue that made his mother’s gaze so unique and, at that moment, so sexually electrifying, regarded him for a few heartbeats. Aaron saw her blink as she registered his presence. Ingrid’s face clouded for a second and then her legs clamped tight against her wrist.
‘Shit!’ she exclaimed; understandable given the circumstances. ‘What ..?’ Ingrid clawed at the back of the chair, reaching behind to heft her body upright. Even as his mother struggled to stand and recover some modesty, Aaron noticed the way her breasts swayed heavily. His erection clamoured for release. ‘Oh God,’ Ingrid began to babble. ‘This ... Oh ... Aaron ... Shit ...’ Her hands, once she’d managed to stand, scrabbled for the flapping edges of her dress. ‘Aaron, I’m—’
Her son cut the words short. ‘—You’re beautiful, Mum,’ he said, quietly.
‘What?’ Ingrid replied, her cheeks rosy with her post-orgasmic flush, purpled deeper with mortification.
‘I said, you’re beautiful, Mum,’ Aaron repeated.
And for Ingrid, at that pivotal moment, it all fell into place. She had choices. She could bluster and bluff, make excuses and suffer the ignominy, or could take control and, carpe diem, influence the outcome, decide both their futures.
‘Oh, Aaron,’ she sighed, releasing the dress, allowing it to fall open and reveal a swathe of skin to her son’s eyes. ‘Do you think so, baby? Really?’
‘How can I not,’ the lad croaked. ‘Look at you.’ He nodded towards her. ‘Just look at you,’ he added, limply, his hand lifting, palm uppermost, gesturing.
‘I’ve been teasing you, Aaron,’ Ingrid confessed, ‘ever since you kissed my neck, in the kitchen the other week. Remember?’ Her son nodded. ‘That time I wore those shorts and the bikini top, Aaron.’ Ingrid took a step towards her son. ‘It was for you. All for you. I was testing you.’ Her arms flapped at her sides. Aaron saw the jiggle of her breasts and gasped. ‘You seemed to have taken an ... unusual interest in me all of a sudden. Like you fancied me.’ Ingrid laughed; a short bark, before her expression grew serious again. She fixed her eyes on her son. The youth shuffled his feet, his cock stiffening further as his mother’s eyes slitted into a feline look of wanting. ‘And I wanted you to fancy me, Aaron,’ Ingrid whispered. She closed the distance between their bodies. Aaron gulped, longing to reach out and touch his mother’s skin. He wanted desperately to feel her body, squeeze her breasts and slide a finger through the heavy lips of her vulva. But still he hesitated, even then unsure. ‘Do you fancy me, my baby?’ Ingrid’s voice was a whisper. She was close enough to her son that he could smell her and feel the heat of her body radiating out to him.
‘Yes,’ Aaron croaked.
Tutting in annoyance Ingrid yanked the ragged loincloth of her underwear down her legs. She kicked the scrap away and then reached for Aaron’s hand before, still gazing into his eyes, placed the flat of his palm against her stomach. ‘Do you want to touch me?’ the woman breathed. ‘Do you want to kiss me?’ She guided the boy’s hand to her breast. ‘Do you want to lick Mummy between her legs and then put that thing of yours into her?’
‘Shit,’ Aaron groaned. ‘Mum ...’
‘I watched you, you know, Aaron. Just like you caught me now. I caught you and watched you. Upstairs, when you were in your room ... Wanking.’ Ingrid leaned closer to Aaron and, placing her lips against his cheek, kissed him. ‘I wanted to go to you when I saw it, Aaron. I wanted to go to you and suck you until you came.’ Ingrid took half a step backwards and overlay her son’s hands with her own, urging the young man to massage her breasts. ‘I wanted to suck my own son’s cock.’ Ingrid pushed Aaron’s hands more firmly against her tit flesh, savouring the feel of his palms against her nipples. ‘That’s so wicked, isn’t it, Aaron? Me wanting to do that to you. But I have a feeling you would have let me, my darling boy.’
‘Yes, Mum,’ Aaron moaned, his face slack as the reality of his mother’s taut, heavy breasts registered under his fingers. ‘Anything ...’
Ingrid unzipped her son’s flies and unbuckled the belt holding his trousers up. ‘You’ve grown into such a big boy,’ she murmured, fingers curling around the girth of Aaron’s erection and easing the thing out. ‘Such a big, lovely boy.’
A whimper came from Aaron as his mother slowly eased her fist up and down the length of him. ‘Mum ...’ he managed before a long groan overtook his ability to speak.
‘Kiss me, my darling boy,’ Ingrid instructed softly.
The woman’s stroking increased in tempo as her mouth opened and her tongue slid between her son’s lips and past his teeth. She held the boy’s cock in an underhand grasp as though holding a tennis racquet. Sensing his need, knowing he craved the sweet agony of ejaculation for it had gone on for too long, her taunting him in the past, it was only proper that she should help him come.
For Aaron the kiss was more exciting than seeing his mother climax. Her hand on his cock meant less than the kiss; to him the kiss embodied a true connection. Ingrid offered her son a lover’s kiss, not the chaste peck on the cheek expected from a mother, but a true mixing of their emotions, a signal of her desire to take him into her body as his tongue rolled and parried with his mother’s. He knew then that he would fuck her. It was inevitable. The moment he entered her, heard her sigh and murmur his name as they made love, proper love, for the first time ...
‘Mum,’ Aaron warned. ‘Mum, I’m ...’
‘Do it,’ Ingrid urged, delight in her tone. ‘For me, baby. Do it for me.’
The woman reversed her grip, all business focussed upon those inches of iron gristle in her fist. Aaron moaned, head lolling, hips jerking as he fucked into the woman’s hand.
They kissed again, tongues swirling, breath mingling, and with Aaron grunting his intentions into his mother’s open mouth. The boy gave one, long, final groan. Ingrid positioned herself in front of the boy, her mons close to the end of his cock, crying in triumph when the first squirt of jizm splattered against her body.
She gave another shout of delight. ‘Oh, yes, my lovely boy,’ she crowed. ‘It’s coming out of you so hard! Cover Mummy’s tummy with it, baby. Come on, spray it over my cunt.’
The stuff kept pouring out of him. All the pent up frustration, weeks of it, finally unloaded onto his mother’s skin and the fluff of her pubic thatch.
Ingrid pumped and pumped, even when the shower had slowed to an ooze she kept tugging at her son’s root, coaxing all of the gloop from the slit in the head of the thing. His semen slid down her body, trickling over the mound of her pubis, hanging in a thick strand from her labia to plop onto the parquet woodwork of the living room floor. She smeared her son’s seed into her skin, writhing and wriggling with renewed desire. She wanted to fuck, wanted to be fucked by her son, all of that long, thick cock splitting her open ...
‘Let’s go upstairs, baby,’ Ingrid suggested. ‘To my bedroom. I want you to come upstairs with me.’
She released Aaron’s cock. The thing, jutting undiminished from the sprouting of the boy’s pubic hair, an ardent finger eager for more, sprung upright. Ingrid turned, shrugging the redundant dress to the floor; she had no need of it now. The garment rippled like water as it slid over her body. With swaying hips, which hypnotised Aaron, Ingrid walked from the room towards the stairs. She paused with a hand on the banister and one foot on the lowest riser, to turn and look back seductively over her shoulder. ‘Come with Mummy, darling,’ she grinned, and then licked smears of semen from her hand.
Aaron, spurred by his mother’s invitation and the promise of her derrière, hurried after her.
Ingrid lay on her bed and looked up at her son, who knelt between her open thighs with his cock in his hand and an earnest expression on his face. ‘What’s the matter, Aaron?’ she asked.
‘Is this right, Mum? What we’re doing.’
‘What do you think, baby? How does it make you feel? I’ve thought about it, the consequences, it hasn’t just been about the fantasy for me. And,’ Ingrid grinned, attempting to reassure her son, ‘you started it.’ She shifted on the bed, moving away from the boy. Sitting upright, with a pillow propped behind her, she reached a hand to Aaron in a come here gesture. He complied and lay with his head against the quilt cover, level with Ingrid’s hip. Ingrid swivelled her body to face her son, thus bringing her sex, a calculated act on her part, inches from his face. ‘Do you love me, Aaron?’
He nodded, replying with, ‘Yes, Mum, of course I love you.’
‘I don’t mean like you’ve always loved me. I mean, do you love me, like you’d love a girlfriend? Do you want to be with me ... For us to be a couple?’
‘I ... I’m not sure. I mean I’ve thought about you a lot, thought all kinds of ... You know ... Dirty stuff. I haven’t really thought about us being together.’ The impact hit Aaron then. The full meaning of what he’d wished for materialising. To be with his mother, like in a relationship, a proper, grown-up thing. Lovers. What if they argued and it ended up like it did with his dad? The implications were enormous. Frightening.
‘You know how I feel, Aaron. You know I want a man who respects me, loves me, and who doesn’t just want a quick fuck. Although,’ Ingrid’s voice grew treacly, a low, seductive growl, ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve been fucked.’ As she stressed the obscenity, Ingrid lifted a leg and revealed her vulva, sticky-lipped with lust. ‘A nice little fuck, Aaron,’ she purred, sliding a finger between the folds of her labia, gasping when her finger slid over the slick nub of her clitoris.
‘You mean?’ Aaron asked, swallowing heavily at the sight of his mother’s pouting sex so close to his face. ‘That ...’
‘Just once, Aaron,’ Ingrid urged, rolling onto her back and opening her legs. ‘Just one little fuck. Then we can discuss the future and, well, if you feel you can’t commit, why then, we’ll have a little secret to keep between us forever more.’
‘I do love you, Mum,’ Aaron insisted as he rose to his knees and settled between his mother’s legs again. ‘You’re beautiful and sexy and—’
‘—Kiss me, darling,’ Ingrid interrupted, reaching for the lad’s cock. ‘Kiss me and put it inside me ...’
Ingrid gasped as her son’s blunt cock head nudged at her sex. She moaned when, after the tiniest resistance, Aaron thrust and slid half of his considerable length into her.
With his mouth pressed against hers, Aaron began to slide in and out of his mother’s body, thrusting deeper on each inward glide.
‘I love you, Mum,’ he sighed, overwhelmed with tenderness for the woman whose legs had encircled his hips and who was doing her utmost to take as much of him inside her body as she could manage. ‘I want to be with you forever. I want us to love each other, like this, all the time.’
‘Every night,’ Ingrid replied, panting as her arousal heightened. ‘Every night. Doing this. You fucking me. Every night you can come and sleep in Mummy’s bed ... Oh, baby, we can be naked together in the house all the time. We could go on holiday and walk together in the evenings like a real couple. The two of us, my darling boy ...’
Aaron, holding his torso tilted away from his mother, but with hammering hips, slammed into her harder and harder. He leaned down and kissed her again. Maintaining the speed, urgent tempo and rampaging violence of his downward thrust, Aaron craned his neck and sucked his mother’s nipples. He fell against her body, pushing his arms beneath her to grasp her shoulders. They kissed yet again, Ingrid bucking her hips upwards to take more of Aaron into her body. Her need to have him inside her burned white hot. She wanted him deep, needed to feel that cock pulsing, a living, elemental entity invading a place it shouldn’t be. The taboo nature of the act, mother and son copulating ...
It was that which brought on Ingrid’s climax, the illicit nature of what they were doing, what she was doing, with him, her son.
Damn them all, Ingrid thought, recklessly euphoric as her climax broke. He’s my son and we’re in love. I won’t care what anyone thinks of us. And then, for long seconds, she let the glory of her orgasm thrill through her body.
His mother’s vehement reaction to the sensations, the delicious rush of ecstasy that surged through her veins and which tingled in her fingers, brought Aaron to his own orgasm. He had time to blurt a warning, not that Ingrid could hear it, before the spurts of jizm squirted into his mother. The goo poured out of him, a rush of hot seed that filled Ingrid and farted obscenely as the couple’s slippery conjunction forced the gloop between his pistoning gristle and her soft insides.
Finally, as they lay spent, Aaron, chest heaving, lying alongside his equally breathless mother, decided that he wanted nothing more than to be with her like this, always. Every night with her. Fucking her. Every night he could come and sleep in Mummy’s bed.
Written by Geronimo Appleby (Managua, Nicaragua. March 2012)
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