Oh my poor Lara, she moaned to herself. What was she doing to her? Preaching about her no-good boyfriends and “being careful,” and here she was, thinking about . . .
Stop it. Calm down, get a grip, you stupid cow.
Six fifteen.
Lara had been home for nearly an hour. It was time to do it, time to see. If she said no they could at least fight and call each other names. That would be some release anyway.
Where was she anyway? In her bedroom still? What — was she PMS or something? Oh that would be just fucking great.
“Hey Mom?” she said at the doorway, trying to steel her nerves.
There she was, lying on the bed. In the middle of the damned day.
“Um . . . are you okay?”
“Oh yeah, hon. Just got a little headache.”
“Oh. Um, I’m sorry. Listen –”
Now, you moron, say it. Say it!
“Um, is it okay if I stay at Jessica’s tonight? She’s having some friends over — all girls, I mean — and we’re gonna watch a movie and just, you know, sleep over . . .?”
Pathetic, she thought.
“Sure, baby,” said her mom. “Just call me tomorrow morning, okay?”
Lara stared, dumbfounded, for several seconds.
“Yeah, okay. I will. Um . . . hope you feel better, okay?”
“Thank you, baby.”
She stalked away silently, before her mother came to her senses.
It was a lie, a horrible one. Probably the worst lie she’d ever told. She would be off with some horrible boy who had green hair and multiple noserings.
But to Melinda , it meant only one thing: Lara would be gone. All night. It would just be the two of them, her and Mark. All night.
It was a sign.
Eleven twenty.
She was relieved she didn’t have to start early — she hadn’t worked up enough nerve yet.
They were in the den, watching a movie together. At least, they were pretending to. She could tell by the way he watched her from the corner of his eye, he was waiting for her to go to bed. Waiting to join her, on the other side of the wall.
Maybe she should wait; there would be other times, other occasions —
No, she wouldn’t. She couldn’t wait, she’d go crazy if she did. Christ, he couldn’t wait! Poor kid, he looked terrible. He’d probably lost half a gallon of cum in the last week. His whole bedroom reeked of it.
It has to be now. It has to be now.
No, God, I can’t do this! I should be shot just for thinking it!
Oh, but you want to, so bad! You know you do!
I can’t! It’s horrible.
Look — if you want, just catch him at it. See what happens from there. If it’s not right, it won’t happen!
It’s obvious what will happen. He’ll be horrified! Oh my God . . .
You’ve got to do something! You can’t go on like this, neither can he.
You’re right.
Of course I’m right. Spare the poor kid. Do it for his sake, hmm?
Eleven forty-nine, she stuffed the gum into the doorjamb.
Twelve-oh-one. Closing credits over. Yawns on both sides.
Twelve thirteen. She stepped into the hottest shower she could stand, to build up her nerve.
Twelve twenty. The whole night was before her.
She stepped out of the bathroom dripping wet, a huge purple towel gathered loosely around her dripping curves. She had let her hair down: long brown curls that reached to the small of her back. She walked around the room until she was in front of the peephole. He’d had enough time — she knew he was there. She could feel his eyes on her now.
Standing up straight with her back to the wall, she let the towel slide from her body to the floor. With no subtlety at all then, she bent slowly over into a perfect lap dancer’s tease. A move that would fill his view: her ass in his face. She peered through her legs into the peephole and slowly dragged two fingers across her asshole and down through the silken thatch of her cunt. It was, oh so obviously, an invitation.
A minute passed. Two. She worked her body for him. Slowly, seductively — but openly. She played to the peephole. She knew he was there. She was so close to the wall, she could actually hear him, grunting and groaning on the other side.
He was there, yes — devouring her with his eyes, stroking his hard cock, wanting her with all his body and soul. Just like her Phantom Joe.
No, not like him. There was one crucial difference. And it was that difference that decided her.
He loved her.
Yes. If there was anything she could be sure of in this world, it was that her boy loved her. He was a wonderful, devoted, sweet son, and that would never change. Surely such devotion deserved something in return.
Her move was sudden.
One moment, she was standing straight before the peephole, cupping her huge tits and thrusting upward at the hole, as though feeding them to him. The next instant, she darted through her door.
She was naked and wet in the hallway for a bare instant — not even long enough for the cool air to chill her skin. Yet how many thoughts and doubts flashed through her mind in that instant. But there was no turning back now.
She burst his door open with a terrific slam — the knob resounded against the wall. She was there, in the doorway.
The stuffiness of the room, the dim light of the computer, the musky scent of cum hanging in the thick air. She took it all in, savored it, looked for him.
There he was. Stumbling out of the closet.
Yes, he was naked for her. A tall, thin, fit body. Tiny nipples, chest almost totally bare. His face was the ultimate in shock and dismay — tired eyes wide with horror and shame, open mouth, the headphone wires sticking from his ears ridiculously.
Hanging in the air below, throbbing into space, his beautifully hard cock — bigger than she’d expected, harder than it had any right to be. More enticing than she could stand.
With a soul-dredged cry of abandon and relief, Melinda Dehner fell upon her knees and took her son’s dripping, swollen cock deep within her velvety mouth.
XIII.
One thirty.
His mother was spread out beneath him. The legs, the belly, the mammoth breasts he’d been watching for so long were now inches away. He wasn’t just seeing their movements in pale blue light; he was touching them — they were touching him. Her legs were big, powerful, smooth — they were coiling around his own, her calves rubbing up and down his buttocks now and then, encouraging him. Her belly was soft and warm — it pressed against his own — they were sweaty there, love sweat. Her breasts were huge, twin moons — lustrous mountains in the misty light — he longed for them even though they were right there, within reach, his to possess. The slope of her shoulders, the sleek, fleshy arms, the pool of shadows around her neck. Her taut, enervated face, lovely and loving — eyes closed, mouth open, head back, hair a glossy halo on the pillow.
He leaned forward as he thrust to kiss the dew from her forehead. Her warm breath bathed his neck and chest. He put his hands beneath her shoulder blades, felt the undulating pressure of her breasts against his wrists. With a silent, strained expression, eyes clamped shut, she met his every slow plunge forward. In time she loosed a long, shuddering, sobbing moan.
He was in love with her.
Three thirty.
He barely knew what he was doing now; it was all such a whirling, soaring, wonderful blur. He didn’t know what she wanted until she was taking it from him. He felt he couldn’t hope to please her but her pleasure was boundless. Again and again, he lost himself in her.
She was beneath him again, but differently. With every slow thrust his belly pressed her wide, trembling buttocks. He felt himself being pulled in, coaxed, demanded. Required. Sometimes, when he had the strength, he would straighten his body and study her tightened shoulders, her glowing back, the globes of her bottom at his fingertips. Other times he would relax, slumping forward to hold her like a child, running his fingers over her dangling breasts, wedging his hands beneath their sweaty weight.
No words had passed between them but frantic, whispered instructions from her, uncertain queries from him. He wanted so desperately to please her — his first lover. She showed him, openly, again and again, that he was thrilling her with every last tentative move.
Now he cried aloud as he came within her for the third time — she too sobbed and panted as essence gushed forth into her. She squeezed and sucked and milked him until he was a shivering, sighing mass against her back.
Six thirty.
She awoke briefly, started at the presence in her bed, sighed and smiled and relaxed when she remembered. She melted back into him where he lay, spooning her, snuggled up behind. His legs were under hers, his head lay against her shoulder. She took his encircling arm and held it, and put his hand over her breast.
None of it was happening, she thought. It couldn’t be. She may as well enjoy the fantasy.
Eight thirty.
Morning had lit the room in patches, though they had closed the blinds. In what remained of the darkness, there on the bed, she pleasured him — lay on her side between his knees and meticulously loved every inch of his cock and balls. He lay still, only half-awake, watching her. He had no effort left, only enthusiasm. It was enough for her.
Melinda forgot everything else on Planet Earth and beyond to focus on Mark’s staggered, yet determined tool. It was an endlessly fascinating game: making it rise and harden, throbbing with delicious heavy weight — then watching it topple and slacken, threatening to shrink away. Her lips massaged its every sinewy curve, her tongue devoured it, now dancing lightly, now plowing a thick swathe. With her fingers she coaxed and caressed the warm, dangling balls, or tugged gently at the base of the shaft, or rubbed in the coat of her saliva evenly. She especially liked pressing it against her cheek when it was hard, and feeling its hot tightness slowly ebb away. It was like making him cum again and again.
She was such a selfish mother. Just wanting more and more. He had cum four times for her already. And here she was, trying to find a fifth.
But he was so sweet. Now and again he stroked her hair, now and again he snored. She had thoroughly worn him out — but, she thought proudly, he could fuck with the best of them. There was no denying that. Well, one more time — for his sake. He had earned it.
By now she’d got his cock hard and let it slacken at least ten times. Time now for all that practice to pay off. With a will this time, she enveloped his shriveled cock head with her mouth and began to suck it, slowly but insistently, working her lips and tongue over its every contour. As she worked she got to her knees on the mattress, bending to her task with her ass held high in the air behind her. As she felt his length begin to stir yet again, she couldn’t resist nestling a finger into her own fur — there was nothing that excited her more than feeling a man harden in her mouth. And this wasn’t just any man.
Maybe it was lack of sleep, or stress, or the weeks of confusion. Maybe it was just hours of slow, passionate, immensely satisfying sex. But she actually felt joy in that fact now — that this wasn’t just “a man,” but her own beloved boy. He was hers entirely, and she was fulfilling his every want and need, like no one else ever would or could. What more could a mother want?