Lighting The Blue Touch-Paper

"Yes," he says, looking down, "I've never managed to do it properly before."

"Well, let me tell you, my love, you are a natural. I don't want to swell your head, but you were incredible. I can't believe you lasted as long as you did. I've never had better sex. And you are just beginning..."

"Will there be another time?" he asks, slightly plaintively.

"Do you want it? Because you know we are heading into very dangerous territory."

"I think we're well and truly in it now Clare..."

"But I want it more than anything," he adds. "I've dreamed about it for ever. I just never thought it would happen."

"Well, I'll admit it now, I've been dreaming of this too. But I've been fighting with my conscience. Mothers just don't do this with their sons."

"I think you might be surprised at what mothers and sons get up to sometimes," he mumbles.

I stare at him.

"I've read about it on the internet!"

"Oh well it must be true then." I let out a sarcastic laugh.

I'm quiet for a moment, thinking, sitting there on the toilet seat; my son's copious cum dripping from me, and his beautiful body sitting opposite me. Should I be feeling guilty? God knows, I'd just been unfaithful for the first time in our seventeen year marriage. And with whom? With our son of all people. Most people would say it doesn't get more depraved than that.

But in all honesty I don't feel guilty anymore. There's been no blinding light, no clap of thunder. The world goes on, regardless. I just have an aching, slightly burning sensation between my legs, a funny feeling in my stomach, and the deepest, deepest love in my heart.

But I stand up, and lean on the sink facing him, clutching the towel to me. I have to play Devil's Advocate, one last time.

"Look, Simon, where is this going to go?"

He stands up, and steps towards me, shrugging.

"I'm twenty two years older than you. I know I look OK at the moment, but that won't last forever. And what about you? You've got university to go to. I can't have you ruining your life for me. And then of course there's Dad..."

"Clare, can we just take this one step at a time. All I know is that I love you, desperately. I always will, no matter what happens between us."

His serious face lightens for a moment.

"And besides – look at you, you're a stunner. I can't believe you're forty!"

"Thanks, don't remind me," I say and step towards the shower.

"I don't know about you, but I'm more of a stinker than a stunner, right now. Would you like to join me?"

"Yeah," he answers eagerly. I drop the towel and get in, opening the door for him. His cock is already starting to lengthen again. He's clearly a willing participant.

We kiss, the warm water pouring over our bodies. I reach down, and grab for his cock, which within seconds has reached the horizontal.

"You naughty, naughty boy," I laugh, stroking it back and forth. "Look at you. Haven't you had enough? Its only minutes since you came,"

"You turn me on like no-one I've ever known."

"My God, you're turning me into some sort of size queen. I can't get over you. Here am I worrying that I've ruined you. I think I've been ruined for other men, more like."

"Am I bigger than Dad?" he asks. I suspect he is fishing for more compliments.

"Bigger?" I laugh, wanting to indulge him.

"Well let's see," I say, gripping his shaft, which by now is almost erect. I start to measure from the end with my fingers.

"Hmmm, one inch, two inches, three inches."

At this point I hold my thumb and finger around the girth. "There, you're probably that much bigger than him."

He grins.

"There that's pleased you hasn't it?" I laugh, "I don't know, boys and their obsession with cock-size. I've never had any complaints before."

"But I must admit I'm starting to see the attraction of a big one..."

We kiss long and noisily, my hand rubbing him up and down.

"But Darling, please don't get cocky. It's one of the many things I love about you. You're not arrogant, or conceited."

I kneel down in front of him. His cock is magnificently, stonkingly, erect. Am I becoming obsessed?

"How do you manage to lift something so big right up?" I'm stroking him, and kissing the head, rubbing him against his stomach. "Now let me see if I can do this..."

I open my mouth as wide as I can, and take the head inside, careful not to scrape him with my teeth.

"Oh Clare," he begins to groan.

With two hands I stroke him back and forth, sucking what I can of the big head. I keep it up for a couple of minutes, but to be honest it's not that successful. I love the feeling of his fullness in my mouth. But my jaw is aching. There are disadvantages in being so well endowed.

I stand up, and we cling together.

"I might have to practice a bit more at that."

"Anytime!"

We wash each other. I pay particular attention to his special places, as he does to mine. We kiss frequently. I shut the water off, and step out passing him a towel.

"Come on my darling, you look like you might be up for something else."

He grins. Dropping the towel on the floor, I saunter out, coquettishly looking back over my shoulder, swinging my hips: "Come on then big boy...."

Now I'm feeling naughty, and a shudder runs through me. I kneel on the bed on all fours, waving my bottom in the air, and adopt a girly, sing-song voice: "Oh Simon, there is something you could do for me..."

He's in the bedroom in a flash, his huge cock waving from side to side. He gets behind me, resting it on my buttocks. His arms wrap around my back, and his big hands fondle my hanging breasts, tweaking my lengthening nipples.

"Come on, you great big stud," I gasp, my voice now low and hoarse: "Fuck me..."

He gasps too. Perhaps he's never heard his mother saying "fuck".

But his hands grip my hips and he lines up his cock at my entrance. I'm wet, and ready. It thrusts in more easily this time. Slowly, but steadily, he slides inside.

"Ohhhhhhh..." I groan....

"Are you OK?" he asks, pausing, leaning down and kissing my neck.

"I don't know if I'll ever get used to this... you feel like you're splitting me in two."

He leans up and shifts a bit, flexing himself inside me. "Ohhhh..." I groan again.

"I love your shape," he whispers, both hands stroking my hips, as he kneels there buried deep inside me. "I love your slim waist, but I really love the way your hips flare out at your bottom. You're incredible Clare..."

He flexes himself again, swelling his mighty head, sending spasms of joy throughout me.

"Oh you can keep that up," I gasp. Now I'm feeling really naughty.

"What, the compliments?" he asks, "Or this?" He tenses his cock to make it swell again deep inside me.

"Call me Mum," I say, wickedness coursing through me. I am going for broke. "Just for now..."

"Oh Mum, is this what you want?" He is slowly sawing himself in and out, in great long steady strokes. "Mum... my love.... Mum... you want your son to fuck you?"

The taboo, illicit pleasure, is driving me wild. What is going on inside my head?

"Yes... Yes... Yes," I cry in time with his steady thrusts... "Fuck me, my beautiful son..."

I feel my insides dissolving again. I can hear the sloshing noises, the urgent slapping of his big balls on my backside. He's leaning down over me now, reaching round pinching my aching nipples, cupping my breasts, kissing my neck. His urgent breath is hot on the side of my face.

"Mum... I love you... Mum..." he's grunting, groaning.

As my pleasure heightens still further, he picks up his pace accordingly. We're moving as one, pistons perfectly timed. Can he get any better?

I am reaching the point of no return, and my legs begin to shake. He senses it, and without breaking pace, reaches down from my breasts to my clit, just above his sawing cock, and gently rubs its shiny surface.

That's it, I'm gone. My eyes are tight closed, my mouth wide open, I can see stars, flashes of light and an out of control feeling deep inside my body. I'm making wailing, keening, gasping noises. My fluids are gushing.

My shaking legs support my weight no longer and my body collapses on the bed. He's across me, now still. But inside me he's throbbing.

"Have you come?" I gasp, breathlessly.

"No, not yet... nearly there..."

"I'm not sure I can take any more... take it out, turn me over, I want to see you..."

He does as I ask, and I slump back, my head on the pillows, drained. He's on his knees between my legs, holding his towering cock. It's glistening with our juices. Its head is bigger than I've ever seen it, angry, red, and swollen. I wipe my damp sweaty hairs from my eyes.

"You look so close... go on... stroke it for me. Let me see you cum..."

His right hand starts to stroke back and forth. He holds the base with his other hand. My heart is slowly returning to normal, and I note as his hand flies back and forth that even his long fingers didn't seem to meet around his girth.

It takes only moments, and then he's gasping.

"Oh Mum...."

I stare, fascinated. The head is spitting gouts of cum. They fly about two feet to splatter across my stomach, again and again. There must be five or six lines of it. One patch is between my breasts. More is oozing down his shaft, coating his hand. It is thick, sticky, heady, smelly white stuff.

He collapses by my side on his back, his hand still gripping his cock. It lies throbbing over his stomach. I roll over onto my side, my leg slipping between his splayed legs. I lay my head on his broad chest, and listen as his heart pounds.

We lie conjoined for a long time.

I glance at the clock. It's late – almost one o'clock in the morning. I realise how exhausted I am. I nudge him. His breathing is long and steady. His cum, now smeared across my stomach and his side, is cold.

"Simon... get me a towel... and we need to get some sleep."

He groans, and slides across the bed, and pads to the bathroom and comes back with another towel, wiping himself, rubbing his cock, which was again swinging between his legs.

"That's what it means to be well hung," I think idly, as I take the towel, wipe myself clean, and then slip on a pair of panties.

"Come on... you've almost killed me. Get in bed, let's snuggle together."

He climbs in and we pull the duvet over our bodies. I put my head on his chest again, and we lie there in silence. I've never felt so content, so warm, and so in love. I've also never felt so utterly shagged out.

***

Chapter Two: Roger's story

I was kicking myself big time after telling Clare what I saw when I disturbed Simon in the bathroom. I lay next to her in bed, asking myself why I'd told her about it. She'd been shocked, and it was clear from her reaction that she had no idea how well-endowed he was. But I could see the effect it had on her. She was clearly turned on.

I lay there in the dark, replaying the scene in the bathroom. Barging in there was a complete accident, but I was so surprised at what I saw, I guess I hadn't been thinking straight. I've seen my fair share of cocks in locker rooms etc. but I'd never seen anything like Simon's.

Despite myself, I could feel my dick hardening.

Clare was lying on her side, her back towards me.

"You awake?"

"Yes..." she replied.

"This is probably pretty sick..." I said cautiously, "But I'm a bit turned on right now..."

She was silent.

"You?"

There was more silence.

I stroked her hip tentatively.

"Yes..." her voice was so quiet, I could hardly hear it.

I pulled up the bottom of her nightie and began to stroke her bottom. I slipped my hand underneath her panties.

She groaned, and rolled over onto her back. Her eyes were tightly closed. I pulled her panties down, and slipped my hand down to her cunt. My finger slipped inside, and I could feel her wetness. She was soaking.

We made love for the first time in weeks. It was warm, familiar, and loving. But I couldn't help wondering what was going on in her mind.

Afterwards we lay side by side. I was agonising about what to say.

"Clare..." I began.

"Roger..." She cut me off. "I'm tired - I don't want to talk right now." She rolled over with her back towards me.

I felt crushed, defeated.

"I do love you, you know..." I whispered.

"I love you too," she said again, in the same small voice.

She was up before me in the morning, and when I went downstairs for breakfast, she was already heading out to the supermarket, earlier than usual. I think she was finding things to do, to avoid me. It was a Saturday, and I picked around the house, unable to settle to any particular job.

I had been wondering about their relationship. They seemed much closer than mothers and sons normally are. For a long time I thought it was very touching. Of late I'd wondered if I was being naive.

Since Simon's younger years they'd been very much a unit, and sometimes it had felt like I was along for company. The first thing to explain is that I'm not biologically related to Simon. He was a small baby when Clare and I first got together. He was the product of a fleeting relationship Clare had had with a man called David. She was young back then, and fairly reckless. I think she'd led a pretty wild life until she met me.

I brought up Simon as my son, and loved him as much as I would my own child. But in the back of my mind I guess I always thought that Clare and Simon had a special bond. I put it down to their genetic connection.

Simon had always treated me as his father, and as far as I know had rarely asked about his biological father. When he was younger he called my Daddy, and it was only when he was about ten that Clare even told him something about his parentage. It didn't seem to affect his relationship with me.

But as he grew older, and if anything the connection between Clare and Simon grew stronger, I sometimes sensed a tension from him. Did he resent me sometimes? Could he have been jealous of my relationship with Clare?

I was certainly partly to blame for their every-day functioning as a unit. It must have had something to do with my frequent absences for work. I felt guilty at the amount of time I spent away, but Clare had always encouraged me in my career, and she'd rarely complained when I told her about the next foreign trip I was making.

She was still a very beautiful woman. In fact, I often thought she'd grown in her beauty, and was even more attractive as a mature woman than she was when she was younger. She was slim, with long thick dark hair. Fantastic bone structure I always thought. And Simon had inherited her looks. He'd grown into a very handsome man.

I think somewhere in the back of my mind there was a niggling sense of confusion and uncertainty when I thought about them both together. But doubts did not really begin to surface until about six months before the bathroom incident.

I was actually on a work trip to Copenhagen at the time. It was a lovely autumn day and I'd been sitting in a park at lunchtime when I noticed a striking looking woman sitting on a nearby bench with a young man.

They were holding hands, talking, and laughing. They were both very Nordic looking. She was blonde, blue eyed, and probably in her early forties, with an attractive face and body. She seemed smitten with her younger companion, who was also blonde and had a gymnast's body. She had a wedding ring on. He didn't. He was probably in his early twenties, or maybe even younger.

I was idly looking at them, thinking what a good looking couple they made, despite what I first assumed was a May-September relationship. I was musing about how lucky he was. I thought back to my late teenage years, and the awkward fumbling I'd done with girls of my own age. Sexually I was pretty hopeless back then, and none of my girlfriends were any better. What would I have given to have been taken in hand by an attractive older woman and shown the ways of the world?

I was thinking these thoughts and actually getting rather turned on. I looked at them again, and it suddenly struck me how alike they looked. It wasn't just their classic Nordic looks. They had the same nose, the same shape of face, and the same eyes. It suddenly hit me, as I sat there, probably staring rather obviously by now. What if they were mother and son?

I couldn't get that couple out of my head for the rest of the day. I don't know why. I had no idea who they were and I'd probably never see them again. But that night, as I lay in bed in my hotel room, images of their beautiful bodies making love ran through my mind incessantly.

I sat up in bed, got my laptop out, and for the first time in my life, I typed "incest" into Google and started reading.

Hours later, I started to realise the time, and felt pretty disgusted at how turned-on I'd become at what I was reading. I'd wanked twice after one search led to another, and another, and eventually I found one incredible website with hundreds, if not thousands of stories about incestuous couples.

I know it sounds ridiculous, but at this point I really didn't make the conscious connection with what my subconscious fears were telling me about Clare and Simon.

As the months passed, in this hotel room or that, I returned to the website again and again. I was very confused about my feelings. At times I was appalled at my reactions to what I was reading. I felt like some sort of pervert. But something about this unknown taboo world kept drawing me in.

A lot of the stories were patently absurd, but every now and then I came across one that had me spell-bound, and I wondered whether they could be true. These I returned to over and over again. But I couldn't work out why I was becoming fixated. Was it the sheer naughtiness, the depravity?

It was actually quite a long time before my conscious mind allowed me to make the obvious connection.

I couldn't think of anything in my own childhood that had sewn any kind of seed. However much I loved my mother, I'd never thought of her like that. And certainly not my sister either.

I finally made the connection, as once again, I was fantasising about the couple from the park, who'd become a sort of fulcrum for this dark fantasy world I was concocting. As I "pleasured myself" in some hotel room somewhere, imagining their writhing bodies, I suddenly pictured their faces in the moment of mutual orgasm.

It was Clare and Simon.

This really threw me for a while, and I was so sickened by my thoughts that I stopped reading those stories, and told myself I was going way too far. I managed about two weeks of abstinence, but like a beautiful and deadly Siren on the rocks, I was being beckoned back, even if it would lead to disaster.

I was becoming very distracted. My thoughts kept returning to Clare and Simon. I was veering from one emotion to another. I kept relaying incidents I'd seen at home – their hugs in the kitchen, their animated chats on the sofa sitting so close together, their long periods together when I was not there. I thought again about the unguarded comments from friends about what a great relationship they had. I thought about the lack of serious girl-friends Simon seemed to have despite how good looking he'd become.

These thoughts left me torn and confused. I felt jealousy for the quality time they were spending together. I even felt threatened that he was with my wife. But the rational part of my mind kept telling me I was being ridiculous. This was all the product of my fevered disgusting mind. They were mother and son, not lovers. But plainly, my internet trawling had told me these taboo relationships sometimes happened, and did not exist only in the realm of fantasy.

And then there was the bathroom incident. And I was left kicking myself that maybe I'd unwittingly lit a blue touch paper. But I have to admit it did also make some of those mind trips even more lurid.