{\rtf1\ansi\ansicpg1252\deff0\deflang1033{\fonttbl{\f0\fnil\fprq2\fcharset0 Times New Roman;}} \viewkind4\uc1\pard\lang2057\f0\fs48 In Praise of Incest\fs24\par \par \fs32 by Rex Antioch\par \fs24\par \par I lay the tray on the table next to Jane and placed a glass of iced \par orange at her elbow.\par "How's things?" I asked.\par Jane was my twin sister. We were not zygotic twins, born of the same \par egg, and so people who didn't know we were twins rarely guessed it for we were \par no more like each other than any random pair of dark-haired, brown-eyed \par reasonably slim women of thirty-five . Nevertheless our lives had followed \par remarkably similar paths so far; we had married very similar men - dull, solid \par and successful - had each born one male child, Jane's a year before mine, and \par lived safe, unexciting, middle-class lives. Although Jane was forty-five minutes \par older than me I was a couple of inches taller, she was perhaps the prettier but \par I, in my own estimation, was the more intelligent.\par "Oh.......," she shrugged, avoiding my gaze and I knew something was up.\par She, her husband and their son Martin lived close by and she visited me \par or I her on a weekly basis, our sons in tow if school was out as it was now. I \par settled on my own chair with a drink beneath the sunshade on our rear veranda \par and watched my son Peter, who was fourteen, with his older cousin Martin setting \par up Coke cans at the bottom of the garden for some target practice with the \par air-pistol I had had to buy him because Martin had one. They were clearly in \par view but well beyond hearing range which, in my view, was the best place for \par them.\par "Jane?"\par She shot me a glance and then returned to watching the boys, the Coke \par cans glinting in the bright sunshine on the wall beyond them.\par "How's Peter," my sister asked. "Got himself a girlfriend yet?"\par If she wanted to change the subject I wasn't going to press it.\par "Not that I know of," I laughed. "There's a couple of girls at school \par he's mentioned, but I don't think there's anything there to worry about, yet. \par Has Martin?" Was whatever was on her mind connected to Martin, I wondered? Since \par his accident it had crossed my mind that my sister had become very protective of \par him, which was hardly surprising even though he had, by all accounts almost \par completely recovered from it.\par "No. That is......" She tailed off into silence again.\par I wasn't going to play guessing games with her. If she wanted to tell \par me, she would - eventually. We were as close as any two people who have shared a \par womb can be, and we certainly knew much more about each other's sex-lives than \par our husbands would be happy to learn. Not that there was anything scandalous in \par it for either of us. I let the conversation lapse. Down the garden there was a \par phut and a Coke can dropped out of sight behind the wall, the ping of the \par contacting pellet arriving a moment later.\par "Jenny?" Jane asked quietly and slowly, clearly composing herself for \par something difficult. "Have you ever seen Peter's prick?"\par That was a startling and unexpected question, taking me aback for a \par moment. Then, "Well, I gave him a bath practically every night for five years," \par I said.\par "No. I mean recently," Jane said, not looking at me.\par "No," I admitted. "I can't say that I have." I'd seen the bulge like a \par little sausage in his swimming trunks and our doctor had reported that his \par testes had descended normally a couple of years before, so I was happy that all \par was well in that department.\par Jane dropped her voice even further. "Does he .... you know. Wank."\par That was a word I'd not heard for twenty years, since our early teens \par when Jane and I had had to keep boys at bay - not always whole-heartedly.\par I gave a sigh of exasperation. "I don't know. I guess so. All boys his \par age do, don't they? I found a girly magazine in his room a few weeks ago. Pretty \par harmless stuff. I suppose I've left that kind of thing to his father to sort \par out."\par My sister was silent and I waited. Six months ago Martin, doing \par something silly in a tree, had fallen out of it and across a fence. He had \par broken a leg and several ribs and for a time it had been feared that he had \par fractured his spine and was facing a life-time in a wheelchair but although \par badly bruised his spine had not been permanently damaged and after four months \par in bed, much of it in traction, he had been declared fit again. He was still \par limping slightly, I noticed as I watched him take pot-shots at the cans, but \par compared with what might have been he was a picture of health.\par Unless, I suddenly thought, the accident had affected him sexually - had \par rendered him impotent, perhaps. Yet while I could imagine that would deeply \par affect his mother I couldn't see why she should be having such difficulty \par talking about it.\par "Is it Martin?" I probed, trying to help my twin. "Is it that he can't \par wank, or something?"\par "No," said Jane quickly. Then she shot me a nervous glance. I had never \par before seen my usually confident, assured sister like this. Even during the \par worst days immediately after Martin's accident she had been positive and \par determined.\par "Jenny, I......." She tailed off and then looked around the garden and \par the sky as though for help. "About a month before the accident I caught Martin \par wanking," she said to the air. "Oh, it was stupid. Martin didn't know I was in \par the house and I didn't know he was. I just walked into his room to change his \par sheets and he was lying on his bed, no clothes on, prick in his hand, stupid \par smirk on his face. You remember how boys are when they're playing with their \par pricks."\par I did. Jane and I had been reasonably 'good' girls - virgins to \par seventeen in her case and eighteen in mine, and very careful even then - yet \par we'd also had a healthily normal curiosity, and interest, in boys and at \par fourteen, fifteen and sixteen had been perfectly willing to watch boys wank \par themselves off, and even to wank them off if we liked them enough as they groped \par at our breasts and down our nickers.\par "He, of course, didn't know what to do and I just said something stupid, \par like 'oops, sorry' and backed out of the room. I thought that would be it, but \par it wasn't. I wasn't mad at him or anything. Why should I be? I was just \par embarrassed that I'd burst in on him at that moment. I'd never thought of him \par wanking but you don't, do you. Not your own son. I suppose it's a bit like \par crapping. You know they do it, but you don't think about it and just keep the \par loo-roll holder full." \par "Well, yes," I agreed, wondering where this was going. I'd never \par considered Peter, my own son, masturbating but it occurred to me that, at \par fourteen, there'd probably be more to worry about if he didn't than if he did.\par "But afterwards," my sister continued, "I couldn't be normal with \par Martin. Not like we were before. He couldn't look into my eyes and I couldn't \par look into his, and I realised he had begun trying to avoid me. My own son. That \par was awful. I didn't tell John (her husband). I'm sure he wouldn't worry about \par Martin masturbating, and might just have had a quiet word. But I knew it was \par between Martin and me. It was personal, and I had to do something."\par "Ok. Yeah. I can understand that," I reassured her.\par "So," Jane went on with a rather tired sigh, "A couple of days later, \par when I had him to myself, I cornered him in the kitchen, sat him down and told \par him I knew he wanked, that there was nothing wrong with him wanking, that I \par didn't mind at all that he wanked, and that I even wanted him to wank if he \par enjoyed it."\par She gave a little laugh. "He took it like a man," she reminisced. "He \par smiled and said, 'Thanks, mum' Stood up and gave me a hug - do you know he's almost as \par tall as me, now? - and it was even better after than, 'cos we had our little \par secret and he'd wink at me and I'd tap the side of my nose and we could laugh \par about it."\par "But," she went on, looking anywhere than at me, "I couldn't get the \par sight of him lying on his bed, his prick in his hand, out of my mind. Like you," \par she shot me a shy glance and then away, "I hadn't seen his prick for years. When \par it was a little boy's prick." She lifted her hand and wiggled her little finger \par at me, and I remembered my son's tiny five-year-old prick drooping innocently off the base \par of his stomach like a twig on a tree-stump all those years ago.\par "And then there he was with this huge, man-sized prick in his hand. He \par could only just get his fingers around the shaft, and the great red bulb \par throbbing away. I just....." Jane lapsed into silence.\par Rather startled by this I watched Martin innocently reloading his \par pistol. He didn't exactly look like a satyr.\par "Oh," Jane was apologetic, catching my glance. "I'm not saying he's \par over-endowed or anything. I don't suppose his prick is any bigger than his \par father's, and he's almost as tall as John anyway, but - God, it's stupid - I \par just didn't expect it. He wasn't my little boy anymore. He was a man, and like a \par stranger."\par "Well, it happens," I said a little helplessly.\par "I suppose it's what Freud called 'penis envy'," Jane went on, rather \par vehemently. "Sisters are supposed to feel it towards their brothers but, hell, \par why can't mothers feel it towards their sons. We don't have pricks, those spikes \par with which men rule the world, but when we create our sons in our wombs we give \par them those pricks, so they're ours in a way. Perhaps mothers are jealous of \par their son's pricks. That's why they try to pretend they don't have them."\par I was taken aback by the angry passion in my sister's voice at this, \par which sounded rather like amateur psychology to me. "Might be an idea for an \par article for 'Cosmo," I observed, trying to lighten the mood. "But I can't say \par that I'm jealous of Peter's prick."\par "But you haven't seen it," Jane snapped. "And if you had the chance to \par you'd look away, wouldn't you."\par She'd scored a point and I shrugged, confused. "Yeh, well."\par Jane drank some of her orange juice to cool down.\par "Look," I said gently after a moment. "You're a woman, I'm a woman. I \par love having a prick in my cunt. It gives me orgasms and I love having orgasms, \par so I'm quite fond of pricks. Alan (my husband) probably doesn't have a \par particularly big prick but it does the job and it's all I need. If I fancy a man \par I might wonder what his prick is like and what it would feel like in me, but \par that doesn't mean I'm going to do anything about getting it there. It's true I \par haven't seen my son's prick, but if I did there's probably a part of me that \par would say, 'hey, that's a good looking prick', even if another part of me told \par me that wasn't the way a mother is supposed to look at her son's prick. I don't \par see it as anything to worry about."\par My twin nodded slowly, and I knew she had not yet reached the heart of \par it.\par "After the Accident," she said - Martin's fall from the tree had been \par the major incident in both our lives for a long time, and had become known just \par as 'The Accident' - "And he was lying there in bed all trussed up, it was awful \par for a while. He couldn't do a thing for himself. It was bed-baths, bed-pans, \par changing his pyjamas every other day. He hated the nurse doing it, and he hated \par me doing it. I had to hold his prick for him while he peed in a bottle. Boy, is \par that ever a bonding experience. I tried to tell him that I'd done it all before \par for him, when he was a baby, and he tried to believe it, but it's hard to \par imagine a more demeaning thing for a teenage boy."\par I remembered some of it. After the immediate crisis, once it had been \par determined that he wasn't going to be a cripple, Martin had been returned home \par with daily doctor and nurse visits. I'd spent hours around there just supporting \par Jane, cooking and cleaning the house to free her to do all the things she had \par just mentioned although I'd never been in on it, of course. I suppose I knew it \par was happening. I just hadn't thought about it. Peter had spent a lot of time at \par his cousin's bedside, too, chatting, doing schoolwork and, once Martin had the \par use of his hands again, playing computer games. Dealing with an invalid can be \par difficult and I'd been quite proud of my son.\par "In the last month," Jane continued. "When he was out of pain and \par recovering well, he had a couple of wet dreams and I had to clean up the mess in \par the morning. He would have died had the nurse found him with spunk all over his \par pyjamas and sheets. So....... So........."\par She fell silent and I waited. I had an inkling where this was leading, \par and couldn't see how I could help her.\par "So I offered to help him. I reminded him of our little secret and \par suggested that if he felt the need he let me know and I'd wank him off. It'd \par keep it nice and clean, and he wouldn't have his wet dreams. I mean - OK - \par wanking might be a thing for father and son to talk about man to man, but I 'm \par damn sure Martin would rather have his mother than his father actually doing it \par to him. I hope so, anyway."\par Jane fixed me with a gaze I couldn't look away from. "I thought it would \par be just like helping him pee into a bottle. Something he needed to do that he \par couldn't do himself. But it wasn't."\par She released me from her gaze and looked away. "Three days later he \par said, 'Mum, I feel a wet dream coming on.' So I folded back the sheets, took his \par prick in my hand and began wanking him off.\par "Jenny," she nailed me with her gaze again, willing me to understand. \par "I've wanked boys off before. So did you when we were girls. I've even wanked \par John off if he's got frisky in my periods. But when I started stroking my son's \par prick it was like nothing I'd done before. It was incredible. Feeling it grow in \par my hand, it was like feeling a tree grow ten years in as many seconds. Feeling \par it twitching, pulsing with life, with my son's need, and knowing I had created \par it, that it had come from me. God, Jenny, as I fondled and caressed my son's \par prick it was as if it was part of me. I felt that I was feeling what Martin was \par feeling as I stroked it, and that I knew exactly what to do, where and how to \par touch and stroke and squeeze it. When Martin came his spunk shot three feet \par straight up - it was like a fountain - and his prick throbbed as though I had \par his heart in my hands, and I had an incredible orgasm of my own just as if it \par had been buried in my cunt and shot its load into me."\par "Wow," I said, because I couldn't think of anything else.\par Jane sagged slightly in her chair and some of her despondency returned.\par "Martin didn't notice, 'cos I suppose he was too involved in his own \par orgasm. I got over it before he did, and he just said, 'Gee thanks, Mum. That \par was terrific.' I cleaned up his spunk and tucked him up but I was still tingling \par when I left the room. When John came to bed that night we had sex like we've not \par had it for years.\par "The next night I actually asked Martin if he wanted me to wank him off, \par and I know I wanted to. He grinned and said yes, so I did. I got his prick in my \par hands and it responded to me and I responded to it. Shit, it was like getting a \par wild stallion that lets you climb onto its back and asks you where you want to \par go. All that strength, all that power, and it's at your command. As my son's \par prick came to life to my hands I suddenly knew what it would be like, how \par incredible it would feel, to be in a woman's mouth being sucked. So I went down \par on my own son. I sucked and licked my son's prick until he came in my mouth and \par I had another orgasm just at the taste of it.\par "Christ, Jenny, you know I've never sucked a man off before. I couldn't. \par Even the thought of having a prick in my mouth made me feel sick. But I sucked \par my son's prick like a pro and loved it. And hey, it was a hell of a lot cleaner. \par No mess to clean up afterwards."\par My sister gave a little laugh. "Martin was speechless, but I just said \par it was something grown-ups did and he'd have to get used to it. That night I \par went down on John, too, and it blew his mind as well, tho' it wasn't as good for \par me as it was with my son. It was good, tho', and I wish I'd had the guts to do \par it years ago."\par She gave me a challenging stare and I set my lips and stared defiantly \par back. I'd never wanted a man's prick in my mouth either, tho' I knew Alan wanted \par me to take him there, and we'd even had some rows and sulks about in the early \par days of our marriage. Sucking a boy, or man's, prick was something only \par prostitutes and sluts did, and I was neither. I was annoyed at Jane's sudden \par about-face on this point, and she was clearly aware I was going to be shocked by \par her admission of such sluttish behaviour, but for heaven's sake I suddenly knew \par she was going to tell me that she was having sex with her son, it was the only \par thing that would explain her awkward reluctance to talk, and compared to that \par sucking cock was surely Sunday-school stuff.\par "Yeah," she said defiantly, seeing my thoughts in my eyes. "I eventually \par fucked Martin. I screwed my own son. Wasn't all that long after that first wank, \par either. No good pretending that I was just a loving mother doing the noble thing \par for my poor, sick child. Martin's prick, which means Martin's heart, mind and \par soul like any man's prick, wanted to fuck me and I could feel it wanting my cunt \par when I had it in my hands. And I wanted it to fuck me with all my heart, mind \par and soul. One day when we were alone in the house...... I didn't ask him, I just \par pulled down the sheets and the damn, wonderful thing jumped to attention like it \par was so pleased to see me. I still hadn't decided to then. I knew I wanted to but \par I thought just holding it in my hands, and having it in my mouth wasn't so bad. \par You know, not real sex - like Clinton. But I could feel Martin wanting to fuck \par me so much and I knew he wasn't going to say, "Oh, fuck me Mum," 'cos he still \par thought I was just doing it for his benefit, and thought that mothers don't fuck \par their sons. And I thought, 'if it's what my son wants and what I want, why the \par hell not?' So I stripped off, climbed on the bed and straddled him, and lowered \par myself onto his prick. My son's prick."\par She was white-faced and had closed her eyes to make the confession. "And \par it was out of this word. Incredible. I could feel my son's prick in my cunt, yet \par it seemed like I could also feel what Martin was feeling, having his prick in my \par cunt. God, I almost passed out. It was like ten orgasms simultaneously. Talk \par about mind-blowing. It was like your first ever fuck when you find out that \par fucking is much, much better than you'd ever dreamed, but without the pain and \par the worry about getting caught, and getting pregnant, and getting clap, and \par hearing all about it in the canteen the next day. Oh God, it was like going to \par heaven."\par Jane gave a big sigh, her eyes still closed as she avoided seeing my \par response to this confession. \par "And when he came in me.... My son's prick exploding in my cunt and \par pumping his cum in me...... I could feel it hitting my cervix in great hard \par squirts, and my womb was drinking it in like I'd drunk it in my mouth and it was \par like champagne, fizzing and bubbling, and feeling cool 'cos the inside of my \par cunt was so hot.... And I thought, my baby's trying to give me a baby. That \par tiny, slimy, blood-streaked, helpless little man that slid out of my vagina \par fifteen years ago is back in there trying to make another baby in his mother. \par And I was so happy that I cried even while I was having orgasm after orgasm \par exploding in my cunt."\par She was crying again, I noticed with amazement - tears streaming over a \par soppy grin on her face even as I saw her hips revolving in tiny circles on the \par chair as if she was grinding and squeezing something in her cunt. My heart was \par pounding and if I was sweating it wasn't just because it was a hot summer day. I \par watched my sister orgasm at merely the memory she was experiencing, her body \par stiffen and quiver in the chair, her mouth make a silent O and the muscles of \par her thighs in spasm under her slacks. That'll wet your nickers, I thought \par unsympathetically and, yes, a bit jealously.\par Jane came-to slowly, shook her head, cleared her throat and laughed in \par dismay. "Oh boy!" she said in a small voice. "Auto-eroticism."\par "No. It's called incest," I told her brutally.\par "Stuff you," she snarled back at me instantly with a viciousness I'd \par never known in my sister before. Then in the next moment she looked horrified. \par "Oh, Jenny, I'm sorry. I know you're right. It is incest - but to me it's the \par most beautiful thing that's ever happened to me in my life, and there's no way I \par can make you understand. Since that first time Martin and I have been fucking \par like teenagers who think they're the first to discover sex. You know what \par teenage boys are like. They can fuck like rabbits. Even now he's well we fuck \par almost every day when he gets home from school, before John comes home. Yet John \par and I are having sex that's better than anything we've had before, even when we \par first met. And it's not because I feel guilty and need to make it up to him in \par some way. It's,... well.... it's like I have just discovered sex for the first \par time. And it's not some poor, feeble thing crushed and half dead under the \par weight of great chains of things you shouldn't do, things 'nice' girls shouldn't \par even want to do, and trying to ignore the slime and the smell and the mess and \par the sweat and the farty noises a prick makes in your cunt sometimes. Sex is \par about feeling good and making someone else feel good and jumping feet first into \par the great river of life that boils and roars over a sheer, terrifying, \par exhilarating waterfall called orgasm. If you care for someone you should have \par sex with them 'cos it's the best thing you can share with them even if it is \par with your son. Christ, Jane, if I saw a strange man on a train looking glum and \par depressed, and having sex with me would make him get off the train feeling \par happier even for a few hours, why shouldn't I have sex with him. He'd gain, I'd \par gain, the world would gain."\par I could easily think of a dozen reasons why having sex with a stranger \par on a train wasn't a good idea, but I'd never before heard Jane make a speech \par like it and I was too bemused to argue.\par "Would you?" I asked helplessly.\par "Would I what?"\par "Fuck a stranger on a train?" To me it was inconceivable, and I would \par have said it would be inconceivable for Jane, too, a few minutes before.\par "Shut your mouth. You look like you're catching flies," my sister \par snapped and I obeyed, not realising it had fallen open. "Don't worry," she \par added. "I'm not about to start fucking strangers on trains. I'm not that brave, \par and never use trains anyway. What I'm saying is that I love my son, I'm fucking \par my son, I love fucking my son and I don't see why I shouldn't if that's what we \par want, and I don't care what you think about it."\par I stared at my sister. In her slacks and top she looked like a million \par other well-off, well-groomed, reasonably pretty, reasonably content 35-year-old \par wives and mothers you'd find waiting for their kids outside schoolyard gates \par right across the westernised world. There was absolutely nothing remarkable \par about her at all. Yet she'd just confessed to fucking with her own teenage son. \par Christ, how many other of those mothers waiting at the school gates were fucking \par their sons? I realised that as far as anybody knew most of them could be but it \par was all hidden away beneath this great conspiracy of silence. Maybe they all \par thought that because we all believe mothers don't fuck their sons they were the \par only ones doing it, and therefore weren't going to go around bragging about it. \par It was one of those thoughts that creeps in and subtly alters your universe \par around you, and I didn't like it.\par And Jane? We'd never had any secrets from each other but that was \par because we'd never had any secrets worth keeping, yet now it was as if she's \par suddenly declared that she was from Mars and I was from Venus.\par "If you don't care what I think, why tell me?" I asked slightly sourly. \par "Frankly, I don't think I want to know."\par "'I'm telling you 'cos you're my twin sister, and you know all there is \par about me to know." she replied bitterly, and then her voice softened into an \par appeal. "And 'cos I've got a problem," she added.\par 'I think you've got a whole lot of problems,' I thought uncharitably, \par but said nothing as I knew she'd reached the point of asking for my help.\par "A couple of days ago," Jane went on, tiredly, "Martin and I were lying \par on his bed in a state of what I believe is known in polite society as \par 'post-coital bliss', just sort of snuggling and sharing our thoughts, and he \par asked me if I'd let Peter fuck me."\par "What?" I nearly bit my tongue, fearing that my exclamation had been \par loud enough for the boys to hear. But they continued playing some sort of \par complicated game with the cans piled in a pyramid on the wall, which seemed to \par involve shooting cans out of the patten without bringing the whole thing down.\par "What?" I said again, quietly.\par "Yes. Well. I was a bit startled, too. But it seems Peter decided last \par Friday, the last day of term, to cycle round to see Martin rather than come \par straight back here, and it also seems the boys are in the habit of letting \par themselves in and out of Martin's bedroom window by climbing onto the garage \par roof and over the porch. I hadn't know that, and I'm sure Martin wasn't \par expecting him. It seems Peter got onto the porch roof where he could see in \par Martin's window, and saw us on the bed banging away.\par "He was good enough to creep away again, but asked Martin about it on \par Sunday and Martin had to come clean. You know Martin's always been a bit of a \par big brother to Peter anyway, and of course Peter's dead keen to find out all \par about sex so Martin gave him all the details. I even think Martin's proud of me \par and enjoyed telling Peter he had a mum who'd let him fuck her. Peter then \par decided that if I was fucking my son I wouldn't have any problem about fucking \par my nephew, and so asked Martin if he thought I would."\par "Jesus," I said with feeling. "And would you?" I asked dryly, and more \par than a little bemused.\par "Don't be silly," my sister snapped. Then she gave a little nervous \par laugh. "'Course I would," she said. "I like Peter. He's a great kid. And I've \par already told you that I've come to realise that sex is the nicest thing you can \par share with someone you like. I think it'd be fun. But don't worry," she added, \par seeing the look on my face. "I'm not about to seduce your son. Not without your \par permission, anyway." I felt - I certainly hoped - that she was kidding me and \par that this new, startlingly promiscuous sister of mine was not seriously \par considering letting my son, her nephew, have sex with her.\par "But my problem is that Peter now knows about Martin and me, and that \par scares me shitless. Your problem is that Peter knows Martin is screwing his \par mother, and is almost certainly wondering if his mother will do the same for \par him."\par I could sympathise with her on the first point, and knew she would be \par dead right about the second.\par "Thanks," I said bitterly.\par "I think you should, of course," she said softly, looking at me \par pointedly. "Take it from me, it's the most wonderful thing. And if you think you \par know and love your son now, imagine how close you'd be, and what that love would \par be like, after you'd shared sex with him. But of course," she shrugged and \par turned away. "That's up to you and your inhibitions. I just felt you ought to \par know what Peter was thinking. And be forewarned about what he might do about \par it."\par I suppose I had to be grateful for that. I watched my fourteen-year-old \par son play with his airgun, caught in that no-man's-land between boyhood and \par manhood. Had he the guts to arrange things so that I 'accidentally' caught him \par wanking, his prick like a gun in his hand? I had a powerful feeling that he had. \par With a sudden, hot pang in my stomach I suddenly realised that my own son was \par now almost certainly tall enough, old enough and strong enough to rape me, if he \par set his mind on it - given that even in that situation I wouldn't defend myself \par with anything that might hurt him, my own son. And I certainly wouldn't tell \par anyone about it afterwards.\par "And if you can impress on him," my sister went on savagely, "That I'll \par kill him if he breaths a word to anyone else about what Martin and I are doing, \par I'd be grateful."\par I knew it was an empty threat. If rumours started to gather around her \par at school, or around the neighbourhood, that she was having sex with her son, I \par knew Jane wouldn't seek revenge or retaliate. She would accept the disaster her \par life had become with iron determination to see Martin through it. However, Peter \par would not know that.\par But to deliver the threat to Peter I had to let him know that I knew \par what he knew. I groaned.\par "OK," I said unwillingly. "I'll do what I can."\par "Thanks." Jane looked relieved.\par She'd achieved what she wanted and seemed happy to drop the subject, and \par I certainly couldn't start asking the questions on the detail of her having sex \par with her son, that I had asked so avidly - and she had answered in detail - with \par regard to her having sex with her husband. Yet it was hard to pretend that \par nothing deep and fundamental had occurred as we called in the boys for the usual \par lunch that preceded the end of such visits. I was, too, acutely aware of an \par extraordinary, invisible electricity that seemed to envelop Jane and her son \par whenever they were together. Outwardly they were a perfectly normal mother and \par son, but with knowing eyes I saw deep in Martin's face a kind of serene, loving \par joy as he watched his mother over the table, and sensed in my sister a hidden \par but palpable excitement in her body as it responded to the proximity of her son. \par It seemed to be exactly like the kind of love you read about in those appalling \par romantic fiction paperbacks but, I had to admit, if you add the joy of \par uninhibited sex to the deep love any mother has for her first-born son, what you \par have is exactly what the authors of that kind of rubbish were trying to \par describe.\par So it seemed that it wasn't rubbish after all!\par After lunch they left, leaving me alone with my son.\par I was aware of the change. I'd seen him talking with Martin and he'd \par seen me talking with Jane, and you didn't need to be a prophet to guess what \par we'd all been talking about. My view of my son had been irrevocably changed by \par that talk, as well. A half hour after my sister and her son had left it was \par impossible for me not to begin imagining them as they probably were by that time \par - my naked, thirty-five-year-old sister on her back on Martin's bed, her naked \par fifteen-year-old son between her knees, buttocks rising and falling as he fucked \par his mother. And as I saw my nephew like that, no longer the little boy I had \par always seen him as before, it was extraordinarily hard not to see my own son as \par the man he was becoming rather than the boy he had been.\par He helped me wash up, which was a rare event, and while I tried to treat \par him like the boy he had been I could not help noticing the bulge in the front of \par his jeans. He was sporting an erection, and it was being provoked by me. The \par realisation that I was causing an erection on my own son suddenly made a hot, \par hard bar of my own form in my stomach.\par We finished putting things away, Peter being unusually willing to do \par this as well, and I realised that he was going to shadow me, lusting after me, \par until something was done.\par "Sit down," I said softly, indicating a chair at the kitchen table. He \par sat, watching me like a puppy. I sat at the table opposite him.\par "Martin and your Aunt Jane," I said.\par He watched me and I had absolutely no idea what I was going to say. He \par was still my son, who had kicked me in the stomach before he was born, yet he \par had become also a stranger that I loved with every iota of my being, a stranger \par with his own thoughts, fears and desires in a world that was no longer mine.\par "You want to go to bed with me." I said. It wasn't a question. I knew he \par did. It was in his soul, bright in his eyes. His blood burned with it, tingling \par in his body. I could feel it.\par "Come on, then," I heard myself say, holding out my hand to him. He rose \par and took it, and I led him upstairs.\par I wondered what I thought I was doing even as I knew I had thrown myself \par into the river of life my sister had talked about, and was being carried \par helplessly towards that awesome Niagara of orgasms, the one most people feared \par and didn't talk about, pretending it didn't even exist - the one a woman gets \par when it is triggered by the man she cares about more than any husband, cares \par about more, even, than her own life. The one that is given to her by her son.\par At the door to his bedroom I pulled myself together and stopped, taking \par Peter by the shoulders. God, I didn't have to look down into his face any more.\par "What we're about to do," I said, triggering a memory of a prayer from \par long ago - "For what we are about to receive," - "What we're about to do," I \par repeated firmly, "Is not allowed. If you breath a word about what Martin and \par Aunt Jane are doing to anyone else, anyone at all, you will quite probably \par destroy your Aunt Jane, her marriage and Martin's home. And if Aunt Jane doesn't \par kill you for it Martin will, and if they don't I will. Do you understand?"\par Peter nodded, and I hoped he did.\par "And if you breath a word of what we're about to do to anyone, anyone at \par all, you will probably destroy me, my life, my marriage, my happiness, your \par father's life, his happiness and your home. Do you understand?"\par Peter nodded again, his face white.\par "That includes Martin," I added. "I'll speak to your Aunt Jane and \par she'll speak to Martin, and then you two will be free to compare notes. But \par until I say you can, you will not even give Martin a hint. Understand?"\par He nodded again.\par "And understand this. If I ever get so much of a hint that anyone other \par than Martin or your Aunt Jane know of this, that will be it. You will never, \par ever, get the chance to do it again. Understand?"\par Peter breathed, "Yes".\par "Do you still want to do it, knowing what it could do to us?"\par Peter nodded. "Yes."\par I swallowed. "OK, then. I'm going to trust you like I've never trusted \par you before." Like I've never trusted anyone before, I added to myself. What was \par at stake terrified me, and I understood why knowing that Peter was aware of her \par secret had scared my sister shitless.\par "Stay there." I left him outside his bedroom and went into it, crossing \par the room to close the drapes. Peter's bedroom was not overlooked, but I was \par taking no chances. Then I returned to the door and beckoned him into the \par shadows. Just right for what we're going to do, I thought. My husband, his \par father, wasn't due home for hours, and anyway we'd hear his car turn into the \par drive. I felt terrified, like a thirteen-year-old girl with a boy in her bedroom \par for the first time and her parents out shopping.\par My son and I stood facing each other. Of course he didn't know what to \par do, and he certainly wasn't going to do with his mother anything he might do \par with a girlfriend in the same situation. He was waiting for me, and I was \par exactly two-and-a-half times his age which gave me an advantage. I reached out, \par took him by the shoulders and drew him to me, kissing him lightly on the lips. I \par still couldn't kiss him like a lover. It didn't seem right, for heaven's sake.\par "I take your clothes off and you take mine off," I suggested gently. \par "It's hard to do at the same time, but it's the best way- so we'll practice it." \par I ran my hands to his waist, pulled his sweat-shirt out of his jeans and then \par slid it up his torso. His body felt firm and young and hard and I enjoyed it. He \par lifted his arms and I pulled it right off him, threw it onto his chair and \par returned to gently stroking his back and sides.\par "Your turn," I suggested after a moment, aware that while I had probably \par taken my son's shirt off his back a great many times in his life, he had never \par removed one article of clothing from me before - except perhaps a raincoat.\par I could feel his nervousness as he began unbuttoning my shirt, and found \par it rather sweet. This was new ground for him, very new, and I was glad he wasn't \par just ripping my clothes off in his eagerness to get to the main event as most \par men would. I was gently stoking his marvellous skin with my fingertips, \par listening to his breathing, short and tense through his nose like a stallion, \par and then freezing completely as my opened shirt fell away from my breasts in \par their bra right under his nose.\par I waited patently as, with unsteady fingers, he undid the final buttons \par and pulled the tails out of my jeans. Then I let him slip the shirt off my arms \par and noted with appreciation that he folded it carefully and lay it across his \par chair. When he turned back to me I noted with sad delight that he didn't know \par where to put his hands - that he was longing to touch me, but afraid to.\par "I'm a bra behind you," I hinted, for without that we'd both be bare \par above the waist.\par It unclasped between the cups and he fumbled lightly at the catch, \par trying hard not to touch my breasts - which was silly.\par "Peter," I said gently. "You're going to have to learn to get a bra off \par a girl before she knows it's gone, and that takes a bit of practice. So have a \par good look at the catch and then open it firmly."\par He obeyed, having to look close in the dim light of the room. I felt the \par elastic tension ease and the cups fell away from me. My son gasped and stepped \par back as though I'd kept a snake in my bra but he was only fourteen, I told \par myself, and the only women's breasts he'd seen before had been on glossy paper \par so I waited and let him feast his eyes on them.\par In truth I was proud of my breasts; they were pert and not overlarge, \par still with neat nipples despite having had this same boy sucking on them for \par over a year, and I was pleased that he still found them so fascinating. After a \par couple of minutes, though, I said softly, "Want to finish the job?" and he \par obediently slid the bra straps down my arms to carefully place the garment on \par top of my shirt on the chair. When he turned back to me I stepped up to him and \par began lightly stroking his side and back again, occasionally caressing his front \par and even his chest in the hope he might get the idea, but although he \par tentatively placed his hands on my waist just above the belt of my jeans and \par gently stroked me there I began to realise they were never going to go to my \par breasts of their own volition, although his eyes were glued to them.\par I listened to the birds singing in the sunshine outside, the occasional \par car passing up the street, the leaves ticking over on my son's bedside clock.\par "Peter," I said softly. "I'm giving you my body. All of it. That is what \par this is all about. There are no parts of me out of bounds. Nothing you cannot \par touch.\par "Oh," he breathed and, softly and with incredible caution, he slid his \par hands up my sides and onto my breasts.\par 'Oh', I very nearly echoed him, for after fifteen years of marriage my \par breasts had lost a lot of the interest they had once held for my husband. Yet \par now they were being handled, gentled, by a boy with the young man's awe, \par fascination and wonder for a woman's breasts - a delight for both of us as my \par son explored the shape and texture of my breasts, toyed with my nipples and \par traced the outline of my pale rose aureoles.\par "If you want to kiss them......" \par After a break of almost thirteen years my son took my nipples in his \par mouth again and the thrill of it tingled from my scalp to my toes along the \par length of my spine.\par I was holding him gently to me, my hands on his back, shoulders and \par sides. At the back of my mind a small voice was piping, over and over in \par disbelief, "You're going to have intercourse with your son. You can't have \par intercourse with your son," and I knew both were right although that was \par impossible. I was on a steepening slope which, if nothing or no-one intervened, \par would result in me having intercourse with my own son, and yet I knew I couldn't \par have intercourse with my own son. It just wasn't possible. It couldn't happen. \par But unless the 'phone rang or someone came to the door only I could stop \par it, and I was being carried helplessly on Jane's river of life with the mighty \par waterfall of incestuous orgasm a growing thunder of sound in my mind.\par I gave my son my breasts again for five minutes and then eased my fingers \par around the waistband of his jeans to the front, released the stud and unzipped \par his fly. His lips on my nipple were still, frozen, and I could feel the tension \par in his body as his mother prepared to release his sex from its socially accepted \par cage of cloth - it was a small enough movement, just sliding his jeans and \par underpants over his buttocks and down his legs, but the implications were \par enormous like releasing a caged lion in a crowded circus tent. I could still \par back off, with no more harm done than a frustration my son would get over and a \par memory of his mother's breasts a lot more vivid than most young men have, but \par once I had unclothed his sex a genii would be released from a bottle, and I \par wasn't sure I'd be able to put it back.\par I wasn't excited. I wasn't afraid. I was beyond both. I was being swept \par along in a mighty river towards a vast waterfall, yet as I was moving with the \par water all appeared still, even peaceful. Only hours earlier, before my sister's \par arrival, the idea that I might have sexual intercourse with my son was just not \par in my universe. Of course I had the information that it was technically possible \par - I had a vagina and he had a penis capable of erection, the basic necessities \par for intercourse - but it seemed no more likely to happen than that the \par technically possible comet collision that would destroy all life on earth would \par happen that day. Now I was on the verge of releasing my son's penis from its \par social confinement, freeing it to take me, and the inconceivable was on the \par verge of becoming inevitable. \par I slid my fingers beneath waist-band of jeans and underpants and eased \par them down. The elastic of his underpants caught on the jutting peg of his prick \par and I slipped my hand inside them to release it. My hand closed around the shaft \par of my son's penis, and the life and the power of the thing it held coursed up my \par arm and siezed me by the throat. \par My sister had described her first impression of her son's prick as \par feeling a tree grow ten years in ten seconds, and I knew what she meant. As my \par hand encircled it my son's prick responded by pulsing and swelling, and it had \par been my son's prick doing it, not my son. It thrilled me to the core as I felt \par the power in it, far more so than ever my husband's or any other prick had ever \par done, and it was because, as Jane had tried to explain, my son's penis was also \par my penis in a way no other man's could be. It was as though I had taken a great \par hound as a puppy and trained it to rend and kill before loosing it on the world, \par and then later, naked and defenceless, meeting that great, savage hound in the \par wild forest and seeing it bow its huge head at my feet. Jesus, it was precisely \par the legend of the unicorn, laying its long, sharp, killing horn carefully, \par harmlessly, in the lap of the maiden. \par Comprehension exploded in me as I held my son's penis. In turning onto \par the path of sex with my own son, a path kept carefully and deliberately hidden \par by the mundane world, I had taken a path out of suburbia and TV trivia, out of \par polite society and the conformity preached by women's magazines, into a rarified \par world of myth and mountain-tops - for incest is the preserve of the heros and \par Gods who dwell there; Osiris fucking his sister Isis, Zeus fucking his sister \par Hera, Siegmund fucking his sister Sieglinde, Oedipus fucking his mother Jocasta, \par the Goddess Ishtar fucked by her son/husband Tammuz. Mere mortals, it seemed, \par were to be denied the exquisite joys of incest unless they were prepared to \par brave the tangled thorns of social convention and risk the condemnation and fury \par of the drab, frustrated, cowardly herd.\par Suddenly I understood my sister's shamelessness and vehemence, for she \par had already trodden the path of incest and found the dire warnings of sin and \par shame to be lies, propaganda of the social manipulators. The path of incest had \par not taken her down into a disgusting mire of debauchery but up into to clear and \par pure heights where gods and heros dwelt, and she had been prepared to risk my \par disgust and revulsion in order to point it out to me as well. As I understood I \par felt a huge surge of love and gratitude to her. It was no wonder that she would \par have regarded sex with her nephew, my son, as a joy to have.\par I freed my son's penis from his clothes and slipped the clothes down his \par legs, kneeling in order to get them to his ankles, and he stepped out of them. \par Brushing the clothing aside I remained on my knees and pressed my face to my \par son's prick, feeling it throb against my cheek and forehead as I kissed his \par balls in the writhing bag that hung beneath it. I knew I was worshipping my \par son's penis just as the ancients worshipped the penis, as the bringer of life, \par yet this particular penis I had brought into the world, it was created by and of \par my flesh, and this made me a goddess - as the ancients well knew when they \par feared and revered the female. I kissed my son's penis, forgetting that only \par hours before I would have found even the thought of kissing any man's penis \par disgusting, and although I kissed it as an act of love and worship rather than \par out of any desire to stimulate it or wake sensation in my son, I felt it respond \par with an urgent throbbing to my lips on his balls, the pulsing shaft and its \par eager, blind, bulbous head, and kissed it again for the sheer joy of it.\par I felt it shudder beneath my lips and heard my son groan. Then his prick \par struck at me like a snake and spat his white seed at me, creaming my forehead \par and cheek and dripping onto my breasts. Another gout and another into my face \par and I received it like a parched woman welcomes rain, catching it in my mouth \par and savouring it. Hours before I would have thought it sickening, now it was the \par nectar of the Gods themselves.\par "Oh God, I'm sorry, Mum," I heard my son say. "I couldn't help it." Of \par course he couldn't. He, like me, was in the grip of the river and had no choice. \par His penis still reared quivering before my face, a white pearl of semen at its \par tip, and I leaned forward, took it in my mouth and sucked it off. Peter's prick \par pulsed again, shooting another pearl into my mouth and I swallowed it.\par "Don't worry about it," I said, releasing him. "I loved it."\par I stood up, saw him gape at the sight of his mother with his cum all \par over her face and breasts and guessed that at fourteen he was not sufficiently \par sophisticated to appreciate the connotations. A box of tissues lay on his \par bedside table and as I grabbed a handful to wipe myself down it occurred to me \par to wonder if they had been there just for him to blow his nose on. Then I \par dismissed the thought. My son's lonely wanking days were over.\par I cleaned myself up and turned back to him. He was still standing naked \par beside his bed, looking a bit forlorn but with his prick still standing like a \par spike and throbbing to his heart beat. I crossed to him, took his penis in my \par hands and felt it leap in response. I kissed him softly again and asked quietly, \par "How's my little soldier?" as I had after a thousand little mishaps during his \par years as a child.\par "Oh, it's fantastic," he breathed in reply. I wasn't quite sure what he \par was referring to in particular but I gently fondled his prick, feeling the life \par return to it, as he fondled and kissed my breasts.\par "Want to finish the job today?" I asked after a little, "Or postpone it \par to another day?"\par "Oh, Mum," he said, which was no answer in itself. But the answer was in \par his eyes.\par I let go of his prick, undid my skirt and slid it and nickers down my \par legs to step out of them and stand naked before my son. I saw him trying hard \par not to stare at the triangle of dark hair at the join of my legs, and the \par beginning of the cleft that ran between them. \par "Peter," I said chidingly, taking his hand and placing it there. "It's \par all yours. Don't be embarrassed or ashamed. I'm not. Explore. Get to know your \par way about. Get close and have a look. All women are basically the same, so you \par might as well use me as your beginner's guide. The girls you meet in the years \par to come will like it a whole lot better if you know where you're going, and what \par you're doing when you get there, believe me." I spoke from experience.\par He brushed my brush with his fingers, frowning down at it, and then I \par felt a finger tentatively glide into my crack and test its depth. I was, despite \par everything, still dry but he was gentle, probing rather than rubbing. After a \par moment I took his penis in my hands again and gently fondled it, feeling the \par life that had been exhausted by his earlier orgasm into my face, returning to it \par like the flooding tide as he explored between my legs, which I parted to allow \par him access.\par "Those are my labia, my vaginal lips," I explained softly as he probed \par deeper. "Now you're at the entrance of my vagina, known popularly as my cunt." I \par felt his finger slip an inch into me. "You're in my vagina. Don't worry about \par hurting me with your finger. My cunt's plenty big enough for it. In fact it's \par big enough for a two-litre Coke bottle I'm told, tho' I've never tried it." I \par felt his knuckles press into my crotch and his finger waggle in the soft \par recesses of my vagina, provoking a warm flush.\par "If you just felt something, my cunt suddenly becoming hot and slippery, \par it's because it's lubricating itself, getting ready for your prick to enter it."\par I felt his finger twitch and his breath catch, and felt a mild surprise. \par Surely he couldn't have doubted that I was going to let him have full \par intercourse with me, although I guessed that for many fourteen-year-old boys \par fucking anything, and especially their mums, was a dream of the impossible. He \par withdrew his finger from my vagina and returned to exploring my cleft, and as it \par was now coated with my sex-dew it slid along it very easily.\par "And that thing like a worm there is my clitoris, my equivalent of your \par prick. The tip of a woman's clit is as sensitive as the head of your prick, so \par if you tickle it, or stroke it gently, it's like me doing this." I demonstrated \par with my hand on the head of his penis and felt him melt into it just as I was \par melting into the sensations my son's finger was waking in me as teased my clit.\par I had an arm around his shoulders and our foreheads were pressed \par together as we both looked down past my breasts to his hand between my legs, \par fingers probing and stroking, and my hand gently fondling his stiffened prick. \par This is true togetherness, I thought.\par His fingers were lighting fires in my fanny, which was wet with hot \par flushes. My son's penis in my hand was rock-hard and trembling with desire, and \par I knew it was time. \par We were rushing towards the Waterfall and the current carrying us was smooth and accelerating towards the abyss. I stepped backwards, feeling the edge of my son's bed against \par my calves, and pulled him after me by his penis. Without letting go of it I sat \par on the bed, lay back and then swung my legs onto it to lay along it. I wriggled \par into a comfortable position, head on his pillows, spread my legs wide and pulled \par my son between them, although he came easily enough. He took up the inevitable \par position, hands on the bed either side of my breasts with straight arms \par supporting his weight, his back arched like a bow towards my body with his knees \par on the bed, and his penis aimed like an arrow towards its home in my body. I \par fine-tuned his aim, felt the head of his penis part my vaginal lips, and could \par do no more.\par My sister had straddled her son and impaled herself on his penis, giving \par him little choice, so their incest was her sin, her responsibility. I could not \par raise my hips to stab myself with my son's prick. Without intending to I had \par passed that responsibility, the choice to commit the sin or not, to my son and \par was totally in his power. I could not force him to penetrate me, not prevent him \par from doing so if he chose. I was the maid and he the unicorn with his horn in my \par lap.\par We were poised on the lip of the waterfall over which there was no \par return. If the phone rang, the doorbell pinged or my husband's car suddenly turn \par into the drive it was my son's choice to whether to withdraw or plunge on over \par the fall. If I chickened out, changing my mind, I could no longer prevent him \par from entering me. I, his mother, was helpless under my son's horn.\par My son eased himself into me, the soft velvet bulb of his glans penis \par parting my body and burrowing into the soft cushions of my vagina, and we tipped \par over the edge into the thundering void of the waterfall.\par I orgasmed as never before as the soft, wet, slippery walls of my cunt \par tried to seize my son's prick and suck it into my body, deeper and deeper. I was \par falling into the roaring chasm into which poured the river I had chosen, the \par river of incest, and was spinning helpless in a world of stinging spray that \par glittered about me in the light of a white-hot sun and flashing rainbows. My \par body dissolved into light and drifting spray, formless and weightless apart from \par the rock-like rod of my own son's penis in the tunnel of my vagina. It reached \par into me and withdrew, and my soul was sucked in its wake crying for it to come \par back. It was almost gone, my vaginal lips clinging desperately to its slippery \par tip, and I knew the desolation which the emptiness of my vagina would bring \par would be unbearable. Then it plunged back into me and my relief as it filled me \par again ignited the excruciatingly sweet sensation of its friction into orgasm \par after orgasm that mingled with the light and the spray and the thunder of the \par waterfall and I was aware of nothing else but my son's prick sliding backwards \par and forwards in my cunt.\par I felt my son climax, his penis buried utterly in my vagina and throbbing \par like a heart as it pumped his seed into me, his mother, and as I felt it gush into \par my womb I felt as if the whole river of life had found its way between my legs, \par flooded into my vagina and was filling my body with an orgasm that was more than \par any mere woman could bear.\par I came to with my son lying on me, his panting weight on my beasts and \par his arms around me. He was still inside me, his penis twitching and pulsing \par irregularly as it pumped the dregs of his orgasm into me, and my body was \par shuddering and quivering as the echoes and aftershocks of that incredible orgasm \par swept through me in waves, although I doubt my son was aware of them. My arms \par were around him, holding him as they had when he was a baby, and his head was on \par my shoulder. Despite his exhaustion he was laughing quietly, little waves of \par soft laughter such as a man makes when a great weight has been lifted from his \par soul or a terrible dread had proved groundless, and I felt hot tears pricking my \par eyes as, oddly, I wanted to cry with joy that I could have given him such \par relief.\par Now I understood my sister's reference to the stranger on the train. \par Just for a little while, in the aftermath of his orgasm, my son was a baby again \par in my arms - free of all worry and care - and I knew I could do the same for any \par man. I did it for my husband, I'd done it for my son, and maybe I would do it \par for the anguished, heart-heavy stranger if I could find the courage to which \par Jane had referred, which was to give myself utterly for no return.\par I gently stroked my son's head on my shoulder, as I'd done to the baby \par so long ago. "How was that?" I asked.\par "Oh Mum," he breathed. "That was fantastic. Unbelievable. I can't \par believe you'd let me do it with you. You're a mum in a million."\par Was I, I wondered? If I was, the other nine hundred and ninety-nine \par thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine didn't know what they were missing.\par My son lifted his upper body clear of mine and grinned down at me. \par "Thanks," he said. "A million times."\par My son had just given me the best orgasm of my life and he was thanking me! \par "'s'all right," I growled. "After all, what else are mums for?"\par His grin became a wide smile. In the world back behind the waterfall we \par had just been swept over mums were not for fucking and my son knew it, but while \par he might not be thinking of it in terms of myth, gods and heros I knew he was \par aware that something very special had happened between us, and that we were \par special as a result. I suddenly knew that the secret of our relationship, and \par the one between my sister and her son, was perfectly safe with him for he \par realised now that it was just too special to be shared. I also realised, as my \par sister had, that we should be sharing sex with our nephews as well with nothing \par but joy and love.\par Unbelievably, for I had forgotten how resilient teenage boys were, my \par son began fucking me again and I relaxed into it, knowing I was beyond orgasm \par for the moment but just quietly enjoying the feel of his prick moving in my \par cunt. It was hard work for him but he was determined and, with sweat dripping \par off his nose onto my breasts, he eventually ejaculated into me again. It was his \par third climax in forty-five minutes, I noticed. I allowed him five minutes on my \par breasts to recover and then told him to go have a shower, as I had some potatoes \par to peel and a dinner to start.\par Wearily he lifted himself off me and his shrinking, content penis slid \par out of me with a slurp. He rolled over my leg and onto all fours on the floor \par and crawled away, groaning pitifully as I giggled like a girl. Then he was gone \par and I dredged up enough strength to grab some tissues from the box and wad them \par to my crotch, for I did not want my son's bedspread to become any more stained \par than it already was with the damp patch under my bottom. I knew it would dry and \par become almost invisible, and the chances of my husband noticing it were remote. \par If he should, tho', I could imagine his little, secret thrill of pride as \par he registered the fact that his son had obviously had full sex with a girl on \par his bed. He might even whisper a little, proud, 'well done, son' under his \par breath. But if he were to discover that the damp patch had been the sex-dew of \par his own wife mixed with the semen of his son and hers......... My mind fled from \par the thought. I knew I still had to have a long talk with Peter about what had \par happened, and what the consequences were.\par I lay recovering until Peter came into the room, patting his wet hair \par with a towel and with his beautiful young body still glowing and damp from the \par shower. I noticed with pleasure that he was already comfortable with being naked \par in his mother's presence and, indeed, his gaze sought out my face rather than my \par own nakedness. \par With a groan I forced myself off the bed, for the potatoes wouldn't peel \par themselves, and I saw my son notice the wad of tissues between my legs, soaked \par with his semen.\par "Oh gosh, Mum. I.... I mean..... I'm sorry."\par "Can't be helped, Peter. It goes with the territory," I assured him.\par "Yes. But.... Could you get pregnant or something?"\par "'Something' isn't an option," I told him, assuming he wasn't talking \par about AIDS or any of the venereal diseases. "Could I get pregnant? In theory, \par yes. Despite what you think, I'm not all that old. And my eggs and your sperm \par don't recognise that we're mother and son, so they'd make a baby if they could. \par But I'm not going to get pregnant for the same reason that you don't have any \par brothers or sisters, and that is because I don't want to get pregnant." \par I crossed to him, took him by the shoulders and gently kissed him on the \par lips, my nipples brushing his chest. Then I let him see the serious look on my \par face.\par "You understand, Peter, that it didn't happen."\par He was serious himself. "I understand. Will it not happen again?"\par I could not hide a smile. "I think it very likely it won't happen again \par tomorrow."\par His face lit up with joy.\par "Oh, wow. I love you, Mum," he crowed.\par "And I love you, son," I told him.\par And what more could a mother want?\par \par \par \par \par \par \par \par \par \par \par \par \par }