Blushing you stop to think, wondering how things got this way, but there’s no denying that we share this passion, this desire, this fantasy, like kindred spirits separated at birth but so bonded by blood that we’re no less likeminded.
‘Are you this hot in bed in person?’ you reply, collecting your thoughts, shattered and showered all over the bed around you. ‘I’m tormented by how realistically you write us together,’ you add with hearts and hugs and kisses.
‘Maybe I’ve fantasised about you a few times too many, but I get no complaints,’ I send. ‘I’d love to have sex with a beautiful woman like you, mom. Funny how you’re fantasising over the fictional “Us”, written by the real me, when maybe it could be you and me…’
Right away you return to our story to the point where you overpower me to take control. We roll aside where you mount me and we kiss, passionately and whispering sweet words of encouragement to each other. “I’m in love with you” and “you’re so beautiful” and “I’ve always wanted this” are but a few of the confessions fuelling our passion and then you take me in hand and sink down onto me so slowly and seductively, and we ride panting and gasping in unison, in love, and in your mind you know this was always meant to be. It needs no thought or reason, we fit well and we love each other, you’re my mother and my lover and I need nothing else now that we’ve given in to our feelings…
Then you put down the story once again, daring to bring me back into the fold. ‘This is making me come so hard. Do you mind me being so honest? You’re such a beautiful dreamer. I only wish I had a lover like you in these stories.’
Kisses, hugs, hearts…
‘Then imagine putting down the story and crossing that line with me…’
‘Jesus Christ, Ben!’
Hearts, hearts, hearts…
‘For real, you and me making love right now,’ comes my next message. ‘Would you?’ And finally that mental barrier breaks, only so many fingers in the dam to hold back the flood. You can’t hold back anymore.
‘I’m dying, you’re killing me,’ you reply, toying frantically between typing, slipping over the edge a bit at a time. ‘But goddammit I’m your mother. As much as I want to we can’t.’
‘Can’t or shouldn’t? That’s part of the fantasy!’
‘The operative word being “FANTASY”,’ you protest with a silent scream. Another wave of orgasmic pleasure destroys the penultimate protective wall of your sensibilities. And I’m doing this, tempting fate itself, because I need to know for sure. I need to know that beneath our mutual secret belies a greater purpose.
‘Only because of what we’ve never dared to do in reality,’ I defy, thinking mutually about crossing that line in my mind and as you continue to pet your dripping pussy, fingers stuffed in to the knuckle and sopping, you come so hard that I hear you from the room next door. ‘We want each other. We might tease each other with fantasy and “what ifs” but deep down and on the surface both, we want each other!’
‘We do,’ you agree.
‘Then what do we do about it?’ I ask.
‘We cross the line,’ you finally reply. Hearts, hearts, hearts, hearts!
Moments later I’m crawling naked onto the bed to join you and the fear is palpable between us, but so is the desire, and the love that has never left us for as long as I’ve lived. I soak in the dreamlike sight of your curvaceous thighs, your hips, your hourglass waist, and am mesmerised by your breathing, which causes your breasts to heave.
‘Come up to me,’ you beckon and then I’m in your arms as screaming doubt and needful compromise collide without effect. You’re thinking hard, imagining what is to be, as I gaze into your eyes and await your approval.
‘Once we do this, everything will be different,’ you say. ‘We can never go back.’
‘I don’t want to go back,’ I say. ‘I want to take us to where we want to be.’
‘Where is that?’ you ask.
‘Living the fantasy,’ I say, ‘and if you’ll let me, falling so deep in love with you.’
You push me back with a hand on my chest, your eyes wide and gleaming, intense and studious. Without warning you flip back your legs, tearing off your panties then spreading wide for me. I gasp, jaw dropping, at the beautiful sight.
‘I’m already beyond soaked and dying to be fucked,’ you say in between harsh breaths, clearly as frightened as you’re turned on. ‘And you’re rock hard and clearly dying to be inside your mother. There’s only one thing left to do.’
I place my hands on the back of your thighs, holding your legs aside where they are. Nodding that I understand, you then nod back, wanting to speak but knowing that what happens next goes beyond the need for words.
I shift forward to position myself, on one knee, the other leg flat out behind me and ready to return to be held in your arms, both of us imbued with this soul-bursting, heartfelt fearful excitement which has never been experienced before.
My heart aches with the rest of me, my cock strains at the sensual cleft of flesh where you part, now exclusively to me. And I try to maintain as much eye contact with you as I can, while gazing dreamily at my mother’s stunningly pretty pussy as it awaits to accommodate me.
‘Mother,’ I whisper.
‘My son,’ you relate, and I bear the weight of my hips into you so slowly, and we slide together so effortlessly, your eyes glazing over – with such a soft and helpless cry…
“I literally feel like I just had the real thing with my own son and I don’t know how to feel,” Tammy typed into her reply that night. “Love you. Mom.” And with a string of pink hearts, she sent it his way before sleep stole her.