Spying

“Yeah, that’s right,” she muttered softly, her nose inches from the tip of his prick, her fingers stroking her spit into the skin. “Come on, baby . . . come on, baby . . . come on baby . . .”

He stirred slightly and mumbled at her. She felt his hands on either side of her head as she resumed her steady sucking. In her mouth he went from firm to solid, then to stiff standing. She resisted the urge to climb on top of this glorious prick, to feel him inside her once more. This was about him, about his pleasure. She exulted inside when his mumblings turned to moans.

“Yeah that’s right, that’s it,” she coaxed, utterly caught up in her work. Her eyes flicked from his responding cock to his awakening face. “Yes, baby . . . yes, baby . . . come on . . . cum for Mama . . . cum for Mama --”

“Ohhh shit --” he grumbled. She laughed and kept sliding her spit-soaked fist up and down, up and down.

“Yeah baby -- yeah cum for me -- cum for Mama -- cum for Mama baby --”

Her mantra seemed to excite him, helping to take him to the edge. It was exciting her as well. She couldn’t believe the words that came bubbling out of her, any more than she could believe any of her actions. Still she said them rapidly, and they seemed to strike a chord between mother and son.

“Give me that cum baby -- come on, give it to me -- Mama wants it -- Mama wants that cum -- come on honey --”

“Ohh God.”

“Yeah, come on baby -- cum for Mama -- cum for me -- cum for me -- yeah --”

“Ohhhh fuck!”

“Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes -- yes! -- oh yes! -- yes baby yes --”

His head shot back with a whump against the pillow, his fingers twisted sweaty handles into the bedclothes. For a few spectacular squirts, his cum fountained out of him while he gasped and groaned and thrashed. Then it ran, slow and even, from the tip of his deflating cock, over his mother’s knuckles, and down to the brown curls at its base.

The phone rang. Incredibly, his mother answered it.

“Hello? . . . Yes, honey . . . Yes, is everything okay? . . . Uh huh.”

Head lolling helplessly to one side, Mark watched his naked mother at the edge of the bed. She was all bright smiles and full flushed cheeks, obviously talking with Lara.

“How was the game? . . . Didn’t you say you were all going to a game? . . . Oh, a movie -- that’s right . . .”

While she was chatting emptily, she tilted her head toward the light from the window. He could see in the warm glare that she wore a spattering of cum spots across her cheeks, like freckles. A wide rivulet was running down her forearm. The hand holding the phone was a gooey mess.

She winked at him. He shook his head wearily, smiled weakly -- amazed for the thousandth time.

He fell asleep.

XIV.

When Mark Dehner awakened he was alone. He found himself, coming out of his deep slumber, wondering if it had all been a dream. He swiftly discovered it could not be. For one thing, he was naked, and in his mother’s bed. She had straightened the sheets and covered his body, so that the room no longer looked like the sight of a no-holds-barred fuckfest. On the other hand, the room didsmell like a fuckfest had taken place there, as indeed it had. Mark knew well the smell of cum: of his own solitary pleasure. This was the smell of sex -- he lifted the covers slightly, inhaling the deep, heady aroma of two peoples’ mutual juices. His mother’s musky scent, which he had come to know from her panties and bath towels, now inundated everything. It was the most wonderful fragrance he had ever known: better than a garden of flowers, more appetizing than a cake in the oven.

His third bit of evidence that their night of rapture had really taken place came when he tried to get up: he was wickedly sore in every muscle, and groaned like an old man as his delicious aches and pains surprised him. A twinge in his back from hours of fucking, soreness in the arms from supporting his weight -- a crick in his neck, courtesy of that last incredible blowjob. He felt like he’d been beaten up. It was wonderful. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he truly felt like a man.

The clock on the dresser said twelve thirty-five -- he’d slept for four hours. Gingerly, he eased himself out of the bed and poked his head out into the hall. No sign of her. In his room, putting on some fresh clothes, he glanced now and then at the opening of his closet. Incredible to imagine -- it too was now “the scene of the crime,” the place where it all began. He had stood right there in stupid shock, as his own panting, gorgeously naked mother bathed his cock with kisses and licks -- he had leaned back against that door as he lost control, and loosed his first orgasm into her hungry mouth. His amazement at the previous night’s peep show -- the way she seemed so very aware of her audience, the lewd and lovely acts and poses she performed before their encounter really began -- now seemed a dim memory in his mind.

Wearing shorts, a tee shirt and some sandals, he made his way downstairs to find his mother sitting in the den, in a pensive mood. The television was on, unheeded. To his surprise she was smoking a cigarette, something he hadn’t seen her do for months. When he entered the room she looked up at him and smiled weakly; he noticed her worried eyes and wrinkled forehead, and they grieved him. Obviously she was troubled, confused, and scared. Her somberness tempered his own weary joy, and he quietly seated himself opposite her, awaiting her lead.

He had resisted the impulse to bestow upon her his usual kiss of greeting, something which had been habitual with them for as long as he could remember. It was incredible to consider, given the night they had shared, that he could not give her the simplest sign of affection -- but her look had arrested him in the act, and now he sat worried and puzzled, feeling overwhelmingly guilty.

When she spoke at last it was halting, quavering tones. She talked about her work and Lara, how much she had to take care of on a daily basis, and how stressful it all could be. She then talked about his father -- a subject that always made her look sad and alone -- and how much she had been missing a companion, and a friend, and a lover in her life. As she talked, making her feelings known to him in the most roundabout way, Mark became less nervous, more confident. He could see where her confession was leading; she was trying desperately to explain. She was feeling guilty herself, and frightened, and was trying (as she always did) to shoulder all the blame and worry herself. But he was not going to let her do that, and he thought he knew how to stop her.

“Now,” she continued, with an unsteady sigh, “I . . . I don’t know what to make of what we . . . what we’ve done together. I don’t know where it came from -- how I let myself get so . . . so carried away --”

“Mom,” he interrupted, in a soft, reassuring tone, “what we’ve done -- what we’ve shared -- well, it doesn’t change who we are. It doesn’t make us different people.”

She was shaking her head, not looking at him.

“Yes, I’m afraid it does do just that, M-Mark. Sex between two people -- it changes everything. It makes everything so . . .”

“So wonderful?” he said.

Now she looked at him, tenderness in her eyes.

“Of course it was wonderful, Mark,” she admitted softly. “I’ve never known anything so wonderful, but --”

“Then it can’t be wrong!” he said. “You don’t have to explain it, Mom -- to take responsibility for it. I don’t know how it happened either, but I’m glad it did. And the fact that it did -- well, it doesn’t change who we are. To each other, I mean. You’re still my mother, I’m still your son. It’s just that we’ve found . . . well, a new way to love each other, maybe.”

Her eyes were moist as she looked at him, listening -- she looked as though she wanted to believe him, but couldn’t quite commit to the idea.

“You know,” he said, “I could use one of those myself.”

He reached for the pack of Marlboros on the coffee table.

“No, you don’t Mark! Put those down -- don’t you start smoking or --”

Suddenly she stopped in mid-harangue when she saw his smile.

“See?” he said. “You’re still my mom -- protective, concerned. Devoted. And I’m still your boy. I do what you tell me.”

He dropped the cigarettes back on the table, while his mother visibly relaxed at his demonstration; she even giggled. With the light back in her eyes, and the worry lines receding from her face, Mark was struck by just how beautiful she was. He moved to sit next to her on the couch. She turned slightly, almost shyly in her seat, and the first time, they looked long and deep into each other’s eyes. Mark moved forward slowly -- there was an instant only when it seemed like she might back away. And then they were kissing: slowly, softly. The kiss of lovers.

“You’re not going to tell me to pretend it never happened, are you?”

She smiled and wiped the moisture from her eyes.

“No, I’m not.”

“What about Lara?”

“She can’t know, of course,” she said, a ghost of worry remaining in her eyes. “No one can know. We’ll have to be careful.”

“I think we can manage that.”

They kissed again. Her body pressed against his, warm and soft. He was shocked to feel his penis harden slightly inside his shorts. Suddenly a new thought struck him.

“Mom -- there is one thing,” he said. “About last night . . . welll, I came in you. Inside you, I mean. Are you . . . going to get pregnant?”

“No, of course not,” she said frankly. “I took care of that.”

“Took care of it?”

“I’m on the pill again. I’m not entirely new to this, you know.”

“But when did you -- how long have you --”

“I’ve known for over a week.” Now she laughed mischievously. “Ever since the night your bowling ball fell off the shelf.”

He began laughing too, and the whole incredible sequence of events flashed through his mind in a new light. She knew he was watching; she did those things for him. She had wanted him, probably before she had even realized it. And he was utterly in love with her.

“What time is it?” she asked in a low voice, as their laughter faded.

“About quarter to one, I guess. Why?”

“Oh, Lara said she’d be back at four, which means five --” She leaned in for another kiss, this time touching his cheek with her hand. “Which means we’ve still got some time.”

Mark grinned. “Think I can manage it?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m sure you can,” she said, running her fingers over the crotch of his shorts. “You’re a growing boy.”

XV.

That was the beginning of it all, their new relationship, their new significance for each other. Melinda had had two weeks of solid reckoning to get through, a time when she rigorously questioned their secret, and examined her own feelings about it. In the end she decided that Mark had summed it up best: they really had found a new way to love each other. With intuitive wisdom (a quality that, she liked to think, he got from her), he had said it all. It was hard to believe that it really could be that simple: that there was nothing dirty or unhealthy about their lovemaking, that it actually made good sense.

Like so many things in life, it all boiled down to conditioning. Say the word aloud -- “incest” -- and you think of hillbillies and rednecks, trailer trash, molested children, decrepit offspring. But their own relationship was none of these things. It was just a word, after all, and like so many words -- “marriage,” for instance -- it did not begin to account for all the variations and versions.

Really, it wasn’t that surprising that it could happen, or that it did. Melinda had had three children with David. Dennis had always been too rowdy for her liking, too reckless with other people’s feelings -- too much like his father, in a way. Lara? Well, she had her own issues, but she also played a bit too fast and loose with your emotions, and was given to saying or doing things solely for their power to hurt. Mark, with his studious habits, quiet temperament and sensitive nature, had always been her favorite. Was it so strange that he should be her lover -- especially with David and Dennis gone, and she and Lara perpetually at odds? She didn’t have David anymore nor did she want him back; she didn’t trust anyone else. Why shouldn’t she take advantage of a love she knew was right here, in her own house?

After all, she reasoned, what did a person look for in a new relationship? Kindness, respect. A sense of humor. Intelligence. Sexual attractiveness, certainly. Mark had all of these things, and still more. She didn’t have to play games with him (though their “courtship” had been a most involved game, of spy versus spy). Didn’t have to peer into his eyes to determine if he really cared, or listen for telltale signs of apathy or boredom in his voice. She knew that he loved her -- it was unquestionable. Yes, it was sometimes incredible to think that this boy, whom she had nursed at her breasts, was now given to sucking those breasts with gusto, or pulling out of her cunt and shooting his seed all over those breasts. It definitely took some getting used to. But at the end of two weeks or so, right smack in the middle of the romantic month of May, her doubts began to lessen, and she came to accept her lover mentally as well as physically.

The logistics of the affair were something else again. After that first wonderful weekend, the routine of life had to be accounted for and dealt with. Mark had school, she had work -- that left little time for sexual adventure. And then there was Lara to be reckoned with. At times, Melinda was reminded of the early days with David, when the baby had to be pacified and put to sleep before they could have any fun together. She dealt with the Lara situation by increasing the length of her “leash,” so to speak -- by being less critical about where she was, when she was returning, who she was seeing. She didn’t want Lara getting knocked up by some two-bit loser, of course, but she did begin to relax her tight grip on her daughter just a bit: a decision that puzzled Lara not a little, but which she didn’t dare question.

She and Mark made the most of weekends and week nights, when Lara was pretty sure to be gone. Sex with Lara in the house was extremely risky, which is not to say that they didn’t do it. To her delight, she found that Mark was so addicted to her love that he would habitually stay up to the wee hours, just in the hopes of stealing into her room and enjoying a quick, quiet fuck. She was never totally relaxed on these occasions, could never free herself from fear of what might happen if Lara were to awaken and come looking for her. But the tension was something exciting in itself. It made her feel like a horny teenager again, jerking off her boyfriends on the couch, while her watchful mother remained just one room away. The possibility of being caught heightened her pleasure, and there was nothing like having to cum for Mark as quietly and covertly as she could.

He was, in every respect, the perfect lover. He was kind and he was thoughtful, and she the loved the little ways in which he would show her how much he loved her, and how much he enjoyed her body and the things she did with it. At first she had been a little self-conscious about her body, but Mark -- with a disarming crudeness -- had put her fears to rest. Eighteen year old boys, he had said, are obsessed with tits and ass. The fact that she had extra amounts of tits and ass, therefore, could only be a plus. After they had been having sex for a week, he showed her the “journal” he had kept on his computer, describing her masturbatory habits and his reactions to them. He had been surprised by her delight as she read them, smiling and giggling throughout. She had been surprised, and completely gratified, that he obviously found her so attractive, found her excess curves and motherly body exciting enough to “shoot his load” over.

And he was helpful in other ways too; at last, she had a genuine companion. Her thoughts, her fears, her concerns became his own now more than ever. About Lara, for instance: though his sister was two years older, Mark offered perspectives about her that were almost parental, and helped to assuage some of Melinda’s own misgivings. So when she asked him to find out what he could about Terry Joiner, Lara’s new boyfriend, Mark went to work. He reported that there was no student at their school named Terry Joiner, and speculated that either Lara was giving her mother a false name, or that Terry was a few years older than Lara. This troubled her quite a bit at first, but when Mark reassured her that Lara was smarter than she acted, and that he knew she was being careful, Melinda was inclined to trust her son’s younger perspective and allow her daughter a little breathing room.

But the great engine of their romance was indubitably sex. This worked out great, since both she and he had been wanting it so very badly. She remembered reading somewhere that men hit their sexual peak around seventeen years, while women wanted it most in their late thirties. This fact, if true, was further evidence that the universe was irrevocably fucked up. Thankfully, she and her young toyboy had found a way around it. She loved the feel of his cock, loved the taste of his cum, loved the things he did to her, the expressions on his face, the sounds he would make. And if he was inexpert at things -- well, that was just cute, and all the more endearing. What highly-sexed woman of forty-one wouldn’t want a young, fit, perpetually hard teenage boy that she could train to please her?

Their love together, and all the feelings that went with it, made her feel empowered. She could turn up her nose at Joe Teicher or tease the bagboy at the grocery store with the same confident ease. The only thing she couldn’t do, though she would love to, was brag about how Mark had fucked the living daylights out of her to the girls at work. She cherished the idea of relating all the gory details, thus making even her closest friends jealous.

As for Mark, his grades improved, and his demeanor strengthened, so that the very simplest things he did, like just walking across the room, he now did better, with more spring and more self-assurance. According to him, the girls at school had “lost their power over him” -- which meant, she knew, that some of them would decide they wanted him now. Even this didn’t threaten her. The little sluts might have trimmer waists or tighter asses, or even prettier faces -- but none of them had bigger tits than her. And none of them could hope to be so willing or so capable as she was when it came pleasing his cock. There were many ways that Melinda couldn’t compete, as her husband’s slimy affairs had certainly demonstrated. But if she knew anything in this crazy world, Melinda Dehner knew what to do with a dick.

XVI.

“Ohhh fuck yes. Nice and wet.”

“Don’t say fuck, honey.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Not unless you’re fucking me, honey.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Ohhh . . . God, baby, what’re you doing to me? I’m trying to drive!”

“Just playing a little. Getting you warmed up.”

“I’m well past warm already.”

“I noticed that. What do you like me to call you?”

“Mmm . . . hmm?”

“Melinda or Mindy or Mom -- which do you prefer?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“You know. When I’m cumming.”

“God, I don’t know -- it depends. Oh shit, keep your head down, baby. That’s the Porter’s car.”

“’Kay.”

“Yes hi Mrs. Porter. Yes here I am waving at you too, hello. Bet you wish you had some young stud fingering your pussy, don’t you? Old bat.”

“Ooh, I love it when you talk dirty. So what does it depend on?”

“Um . . . mmm . . . I guess, on the mood. Like if it’s been all sweet and slow and tender I like Melinda. If we’re being really hard and rough and dirty, I think I like Mom. It makes me feel like a little slut or something.”