In the News

"Hey, look at this."

I had been idly scanning the columns of the Saturday newspaper over breakfast and had come across an article with some pictures of a woman and a young guy.

"Look at what?" mum asked glancing up from her plate of cereal.

"I'll read it to you."

"If you must," mum said, reaching out for a slice of toast.

"It says here, 'Thirty three year old Josephine Taylor was sentenced to two years imprisonment for engaging in sexual intercourse with her son aged fourteen. Ms. Taylor is pregnant, her son being the father. The son who has been taken into State care says he loves her and they will get back together again when she comes out of prison.' What do you make of that?"

"Is she married?"

I scanned the rest of the story.

"She was but the marriage broke up two years ago."

Mum crunched on the slice and in a slightly toast muffled voice said, "Its bit hard on her being sent to prison when she's pregnant."

"What else could the judge do? All the stuff that's in the news these days about incest, I suppose he didn't want to appear to be too lenient."

"Yes, you could be right...crunch."

"You know mum, I think this is the first case of incest between a mother and son I've ever read about. It's always about men and their daughters and usually seems to involve violence and abuse. Do you think it happens often between mothers and sons?"

"I don't know; perhaps mother and son incest is hushed up. I wonder how they got caught?"

"It doesn't say. Perhaps they made it too obvious, or maybe the son told one of his mates, you know boasting, and word got around. Anyway, it seems neither of them denied it when they were questioned. Have a look at her picture."

I handed the paper to mum who studied it for a few moments then said, "She's quite nice looking, don't you think."

"Yes, and he looks older than fourteen. What do you think about it mum?"

"About what?"

"About those two...about incest."

She brushed some crumbs from her housecoat and looked thoughtful.

"Well, it's against the law, and the religious people say..."

"Yes, but what do you think?"

"It all depends."

"On what?"

"Well, if it's done in love...you know...if it's...it's between consenting adults – oh, but he isn't an adult is he."

She took another slice of toast and smeared some marmalade on it.

"You don't seem to think it's so bad."

"Well look at the situation; it sounds like the two of them were on their own, she probably didn't have a man around the place, and he's at that stage in life where he...where he...you know."

"Where he gets horny just thinking about a female?"

"Yes, but you needn't put it so crudely."

"Who do you think did the asking?"

"Crunch...crunch. Well, if I were to take a guess probably she did. Perhaps he fancied her and she could see he did and she...she..."

"Had the hots for him?"

"Yes, if you must put it that way. I read somewhere that sons often have fantasies about their mothers and..."

"Sigmund Freud," I interrupted.

"All right Mr. University Bright Boy, if you say so; but what I was going to say was, mothers sometimes have...er... feelings about their sons...oh damn..."

"What?"

"Crumbs down the inside of my housecoat, they're scratchy."

She stood up and started to try and shake the crumbs down and in the process the top of her housecoat opened a trifle to partially reveal her breasts.

She was right about sons fantasising about their mothers because this son had fantasised about his mother for some time. Nothing serious you understand, but when you love someone sexual thoughts can come into it quite uninvited – or at least you tell yourself they are uninvited.

Oddly our situation was a bit like that of Josephine Taylor and son, except it was the other way round – I mean, mum left dad when she caught him screwing the woman next door.

Mum saw me looking at her breasts and hastily covered them.

"What are you staring at, Ben?"

"I...er...nothing...I was just thinking."

"That makes a change; so why don't you think about doing the washing up while I start the vacuuming?"

"I thought we were having an interesting conversation."

"What else is there to say? They were lovers and got caught and now she's pregnant and...the silly woman she should have taken precautions."

"Perhaps she wanted to have a baby with him."

"Yes, and he should have kept his mouth shut and they'd still be enjoying each other; I'll bet it was him who blabbed; it's nearly always the men who have to boast about their sexual conquests."

"I don't," I protested, and then tried to correct myself, "I mean, I wouldn't."

Mum laughed cynically and said, "You needn't think I don't know what you get up to Ben. You've been getting plenty of action with that widow."

That shook me. "You know!"

"Of course I know; just about everybody in the street knows. You've been seen going into her place regularly – and don't tell me you're just dropping in for a cup of tea."

I thought I'd been so devious about those visits, and I felt my face getting hot with embarrassment. I'd been enjoying the body of a forty five year old widow for some time. The only thing I didn't like about it was she liked younger guys – lots of younger guys - so I had to take my turn on the roster.

"Yes, you can blush; I've had half the women in the street making comments to me; 'Oh, doesn't your Ben spend a lot of time with Mrs. Franklin?' 'It must be nice at her age to have young company, and so much of it.' How do you think I feel, being told things like that?"

"Jealous bitches," I muttered.

"What was that?"

"Oh...nothing...nothing."

"Then let's get on with the work."

Mother swished out of the room and shortly after I heard the howl of the vacuum cleaner. I rose and started the washing up.

I had some study work to do so when I'd finished in the kitchen I went to my room and tried to get on with it.

A couple of hours later I decided it was time for a break. Mum usually had a cup of tea or coffee around that time so I joined her in the kitchen.

She was sitting at the table with a cup in front of her and reading the newspaper.

"Tea's just made," she said without looking up from the paper.

I poured myself a cup and sat opposite her at the table. No chance of a breast display this time because she was wearing her favourite lounging-around-the-house dark green track-suit – very sporty, and apart from lounging around it was one of those she wore when she went jogging in the morning before going to work.

I liked the dark green one best; it seemed to highlight her auburn coloured hair. I used to love to play with her hair when I was a kid. It was long and shiny and tumbled in waves over her shoulders. I would have liked to play with it that morning but I didn't think it was appropriate at my age.

She seemed very absorbed in the newspaper and glancing over I saw it was the incest article she was reading. I'd only read a portion of it to her earlier and it was a longish article. Apart from the article there was an editorial comment that moralised about the growing danger of incest in our society and the deleterious effects of this "Anti-social horror."

"All parents will be revolted by the very thought of such things happening in families," it trumpeted.

The writer was obviously getting some salacious enjoyment out of this opportunity to dramatise the subject, and in any case his claim that "All parents will be revolted" was clearly wrong, since if incest was so widespread then some parents were not revolted, as witness Taylor mum and son.

After a couple of minutes mum looked up from the paper and sighing said, "You know I could almost feel sorry for those two."

"Oh, why?"

"Well it says here that the social workers and the psychologist say the boy will be damaged for life, and he'll probably never be able to engage in a satisfactory relationship with a woman."

"Do they say why?"

"No, but the boy says it was a wonderful experience with his mother."

I grinned and said, "That's why he'll be waiting for her when she comes out of jail."

"Mmm, I wonder if he will be waiting. Things change in a couple of years, and there's the baby. What happens when a woman gives birth in jail?"

"I read somewhere that they're allowed to keep them, at least while they're small," I said.

"Breast feeding."

"What?"

"They probably allow them to keep them while they're breast feeding."

"What happens after that?"

"How would I know; foster them out or put them into some sort of institution I suppose."

"Do you think the mother is allowed to have them when they get out of jail?"

"I've got no idea, you'll have to ask the experts."

I changed the direction of the conversation.

"Do you suppose they'd have done anything about them if he'd been older...you know, the age of consent and all that?"

"Probably not, and anyway he might have been smart enough by then not to blab about it."

I got a bit annoyed at that and decided to defend my gender; "You keep saying he was the one who talked, but it might have been her."

"Yes, I suppose so, but it was you who said it was him in the first place. It might have been neither of them that talked, and they got found out some other way, like a grandparent becoming suspicious."

She rose and took her cup over to the sink and started to wash it. I decided to take a bit of a risk and asked hesitantly, "Mum, are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"How would I know what you're thinking, I'm not a mind reader."

I grinned, "You used to be. When I was a kid you always seemed to know in advance what mischief I had in mind."

"That's a mother's instinct but it doesn't seem to work so well now, so what are you thinking?"

"I was just wondering if a lot of mothers and sons have sexual thoughts about each other but never do anything about it."

She looked at me keenly for a few seconds then said slowly, "I suppose we all have thoughts like that sometimes."

"Do you mean you have thoughts like that?"

I saw her face grow pink and she seemed to be baffled.

"Well I...I...suppose there's been...been odd moments when...well what's wrong with that, they're only thoughts, and don't you have them too?"

"You mean about you?"

"Yes, come on, you asked me so now I'm asking you."

"Yes...yes...I have."

"Often?"

"Yes...er...quite often."

"How long has this been going on?"

"Oh, I suppose ever since I was about the same age as the Taylor kid."

"But that means you've...that's years ago, you surely haven't...not all that time..."

"Well it doesn't go on twenty four hours a day seven days a week, but..."

"I should hope not seeing how often you go and see that widow and...and that's another thing. I've never pried into your sex life have I?"

"No...no, you haven't."

"But what I've wondered is why you go to a woman her age; I mean, she's much older than I am."

It was my turn to blush, but since we were being so frank and open I told her the truth.

"She knows things."

"What things?"

"Well...er...the best way to...she teaches...shows me how to do things to her..."

"Oh?"

I pulled myself together and went on, "Why do you think so many young guys are chasing after older women, and why do you think the older women like the younger guys?"

"I suppose..."

"I'll tell you since you've asked. The older women are better at it than the girls, they give more, let you do more with them, and the older women like the young guys because they're more virile than the older guys. They don't get...get...fucked once a month like with their husbands. The young guys can do it with them two or even three times in one session."

"So that's why you..."

"Yes, that's why. You asked so I've told you."

Having rallied and gone in to the attack I wilted again and decided to get out of the situation – a situation that wasn't going anywhere.

Saying "I've got some work to do," I went back to my bedroom, but instead of getting on with work I flopped down on the bed and lying on my back went over our talk in my head.

I realised that we'd never talked in this way before, and certainly never admitted to having sexual thoughts about each other. I suppose I was a bit shocked to learn that mum had experienced those thoughts about me.

In a way she had been my goddess, a woman above such carnal things. I knew that was ridiculous but that was the way I'd felt ever since I was a kid. Now I had some pretty heavy revising to do in my mother thoughts; sort of de-mythologising her.

It's strange that we so often accept things about ourselves that we can't allow in others. Now I could see that if I could have sexual thoughts about mum, there was no reason why she couldn't have them about me.

The more I thought about it the more I got to like it. I began to see her not only as a mother, but as a woman...a woman like the widow, with feelings...needs. I started to get horny just thinking about mum, and wished it was my turn with the widow so I could get some relief, but it wasn't my day.

I was just going to start and masturbate when mum called me.

"Lunch time Ben, it's on the table."

Reluctantly I put my penis away resolving to deal with its problems later, and went to the kitchen for lunch.

As we ate I started to look at mum – sort of taking an inventory of her assets. She was quite a bit younger than the widow, and certainly a lot better looking.

The track suit didn't give a good view of her figure, but obviously I seen her dressed in other clothes and just that morning over breakfast I'd had that view of her breasts; not overly large, but nicely rounded and firm.

Her mouth didn't look as sensual as the widow's, but it had an interestingly short upper lip with a fuller and slightly protruding lower lip that often looked shiny and moist.

But it was her hair and eyes I'd always found most alluring, the reddish gold hair and her long lidded dark eyes that slanted upwards towards their outer edge, giving her a slightly oriental look.

She glanced up at me from her plate of soup and caught me looking at her. Her face flushed and she looked quickly down again.

I tried to hurry through the meal so that I could get back to my room and masturbate, but I seemed to be having trouble swallowing.

We ate in silence, both of us wrapped in our own thoughts. I wanted to try and work out what she was thinking, and continued looking at her, and kept getting caught doing it.

Mum seemed to be agitated and was having trouble sitting still. As she spooned the soup I could see her hands trembling slightly, and she was breathing rapidly, causing her breasts to rise and fall quickly.

One moment she glanced up at me and we looked into each others eyes and I could see her dilated pupils.

Suddenly she rose and grabbing her plate with its partially finished soup she hurried agitatedly over to the sink. She stood there with her back to me, her head bent, her hands on the rim of the sink, and her shoulders moving with each breath she took.

In a moment of what I suppose was compulsion I stood up and went to her, and parting the back of her hair I kissed the nape of her neck and whispered, "I'd never tell, mum."

She leaned back against me and putting my arms round her I cupped her breasts with my hands. I felt her high firm buttocks pressing against me, teasing my penis. I could hear her breathing heavily and reaching down I pulled up the top of her track suit until her breasts were uncovered; I took them in my hands, gently pressing her nipples.

"Don't darling...don't," she gasped; "Please...please don't...oh...oh... do this to me unless you're going to...oh darling... go all the way. Don't work me...oh...up and leave me...ah...ah...hanging; you don't know what that...oh don't darling...does to a woman when she's...ah...oh..."

"I won't leave you hanging," I murmured.

I eased one hand down through the elastic top of her track suit trousers and pushing down her panties I felt for her vulva. Its lips felt swollen and engorged, and as I inserted a finger into her vagina it was hot and very wet.

I searched for her clitoris, and finding it I slowly circled it with my finger.

Mother was sobbing and crying out, "Darling...oh my darling...you're driving me mad..."

She turned in my arms and pulling my head down to hers she kissed me frantically, and in seconds we were eating each other. She struggled blindly to pull down the zip of my trousers and then took hold of my penis; slowly stroking the foreskin over its head.

"Oh God I need you," she gasped, "I need you...I need you..."

I eased her over to the kitchen work bench, bent down and pulled off her trousers and lifted her on to the bench. She did the rest, parting and raising her legs to present her vagina to me.

I stood in front of her and was about to press the head of my penis into her tunnel when I had a thought that deterred me.

"You won't get pregnant, will you?"

In a stifled voice she said, "I don't care...I don't care...for God's sake don't stop now...I need it...I must have you..."

That knocked out my reticence. I slid the head of my penis into her waiting entrance – into her hot, wet, sucking femaleness; the tunnel of love.

I moaned as I felt the walls of her vagina clinging to my shaft, as if trying to draw me in deeper.

She was whimpering and sighing, "Beautiful...beautiful darling," as I moved back and forth in her.

She started to shake with gradually increasing intensity, crying out, "It's happening...no...no...don't make me...oh no...please don't....aaah....ow...."

She seemed to convulse, putting her hands behind my buttocks dragging me close as if she would absorb me completely, and wailing, "Yes...yes...oh my God...oh my God..." Then with a long drawn out cry, "Aaaahneeeow," she started to sob in earnest.

My testes released their burden, pumping sperm up my shaft and into her. We struggled together for several seconds, striving to get my full length into her. As I finished she wept, "Don't stop...don't stop...I haven't...oh...ah...oh..."

I knew from my experience with the widow what she needed. Her orgasm was still going on, so I kept moving in her until I felt her relax.

She leaned forward weakly, her head on my shoulder. "So good...so good...oh darling..." she sobbed.

I held her to me, my slacked penis still in her vagina. When we did separate and she was standing on the floor, there was that moment of awkwardness – of shyness – that seems to follow even the most satisfying coition.

Mother glanced up at me almost timidly and said, "I'm feeling a bit shaky...fragile...I'll make a cup of tea."

The idea of making tea was so mundane we looked at each other and started to laugh. We clung to each other for a while as our laughter subsided.

When we had quietened mother asked, "Was it all right, darling, you didn't mind...I mean because I'm you mother you don't feel...?"

"It was wonderful, mother," I reassured her.

She gave a sigh of relief and said, "I'm starving, I think I'll cook something for us."

"That's strange, I replied, "I feel hungry too."

"I wonder why?" mother said in a taunting tone of voice.

When we had restored our clothes she gave me my orders.

"You make the tea while I cook."

I obeyed while she set about cooking a pile of eggs and bacon.

I had the odd thought that this too was wonderful. It was like having the ordinary and the extraordinary; having both things with someone you loved and wanted to be with. Not like when I was with the widow. After I'd screwed her two or three times in succession I was lucky to get a cup of instant coffee.

The tea was ready before the food, so I sat at the table with my cup watching mum turning over the bacon and listening to her complaining when the cooking oil splattered. In a manner unusual for me I went to her and said, "Here, I'll do that, you go and drink your tea."