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[ Dear Readers:
If you prefer to read episodes of this series without their predecessors, that’s fine and I hope you enjoy them that way. Just a heads-up, though: It’s not meant to be an anthology. All the episodes (except the first) build on those before them, so you’ll probably conclude some things differently from what was intended.
Some of our readers’ public and private comments touch on unmentioned matters, just a few of which are safe sex, STDs and common real-world consequences of things and events in the story.
Two chief rules in theatre are, first, everything on stage must have a reason to be there, second, everything that the action requires must be present, whether explicitly or implicitly. It’s not much different in written fiction. By the second rule, if a story does not get into some particular issue explicitly or implicitly (for example, indirectly through consequences) then it is irrelevant because the author deems it so and asks the reader to consider that issue adequately handled without mention. Sometimes action may be simplified a little from what is actually meant for the sake of smoothness and avoiding distracting details unnecessary for understanding the scene. A good author has respect for the reader’s intelligence and imagination and does not feel compelled to paint every scene with photographic detail.
In short, if it ain’t there, it don’t matter. Please remember that this is a story, not a case study or the news.]
SECRET NO LONGER
Jason: Completing the Surrender, and Some Changes
“I have always had a preference of what the Americans call heavy petting. It’s something I was studying over there at college in Missouri. And I adore the oh-so-painfully slow escalation of touch and caress, tiny, nibbling kisses, the sigh of silk on milk-white flesh. I love the ache; it can go on for hours and hours. But it’s worth the wait. When you come, it’s like a sigh,like a delicious,drawn-out sigh.”
That delightful bit of philosophy is found in the movie Scandal, the one about the Christine Keeler/John Profumo affair of 1963. It is articulated by John Hurt, playing the randy osteopath, Dr. Steven Ward, just before a convivial little orgy.
It is also a very apt description of the rapturous experience into which I was now immersed, the painfully, beautifully slow penetration into the increasingly intimate spaces of my mother’s body, and from there, her very being, all heralding another penetration, which, as obvious as it may have been to an observer, was unsure enough in our mutual altered state of mind to make each tiny bit of progress a new, and newly exciting, discovery, re-kindling the sharp thrill of anticipation.
The fairy-tale vehicle she led us through worked just as it was supposed to: it gave form and definition to the most powerful milestones of our shared advances, underscoring and amplifying each one. The bit about the “First Gateway,” as she called it, the passage through which marked the point where her sweet, lush pubic patch was revealed, added force to the simple knowledge that she was now allowing–no, insisting–that I now behold what no man is invited to behold unless she intends to offer him the further joys of her intimacy, and does so from her own desire. She desired me, and her story was an intense seduction, driven by that intense desire.
She knows well how exceptionally sexy that particular configuration of her waist, her hips and her legs is to men, and she made the very most of it to inflame my passions ever higher, disclosing them to my sight in that very way the randy doctor in the movie so eloquently masaj porno described. The pants, allowed to descend and expose only in that slow and yet deliberate fashion, finally fell to the floor and were tossed aside. Now, inches before my eyes, my mother’s nude body stood, itself aching for me, for my touch, my fire, and ultimately, my instrument, now carbon-steel hard and vertical, knowing well its immediate destiny and well ready for it.
The sweet dialogue between us has been laid out before, so I shall not repeat it here. Suffice it to say that it, as with everything else, worked its charm upon us both.
I reached behind her, gently held her butt and drew her hips to me. That same little mat of curled fuzz that declared her womanhood grazed my nose, my cheeks and lips. In response I felt her force her hips forward, into my face, and upward, raising her own erect clit to find the tip of my extended tongue. The two met, mated, and danced, my tongue circling, then stroking and pressing, and then back and forth, along its tiny length, doing its best to give her the greatest pleasure and satisfaction I could know how to give. As I did so, I felt a finger touch the thoroughly saturated “third gateway,” her pussy, and with yet another heart-pounding pulse of thrill, as I felt it pass the gate, the signal from heat and moisture within spoke again to me of the aching craving she felt for this man, and I heard the sharp catching of breath as she felt my penetration.
I sought the tender location of her G-spot and touched it gently while dancing over her clit with my tongue at the same time. The result was more than rewarding: her breath accelerated and grew ragged; her eyes were fixed shut, and her hips took on a wild oscillation that made it difficult to stay with her. Her breath turned to little cries that grew into screams that told me again that she was the noisy sort, and then the movement, and, but for a strained moan, the sound, ceased as she paused to become entirely absorbed in her orgasm. A sudden flow of her passion-fluids and the resumption of the frantic expressions of her body indicated the strength of her climax. Again, and yet again, and even beyond, the cycle repeated as my multi-orgasmic mother drove that capacity to it limits.
In her account, Mom passed over this part. I doubt it’s from lack of recollection; so here it is, from my words again.
She now feverishly sought my desperately eager cock with her body, finally resting upon its head, pausing, prolonging the ecstatic agony, until the blessed moment, so long awaited, of release. I felt the warmth of her moist pussy surrounding my shaft, enclosing more and more, until the limit was reached.
And now, right or wrong, for better or worse, in joy or disgrace–I was sexually coupled with her.
I was fucking my own mother.
I had been amazed at the way she had practiced that skilled seduction earlier. No matter what, it’s hard sometimes to really grasp the thought that your own mother is also a woman who might, and if she’s wise, will, learn the art of pleasing a man. Now, though, as our mating grew from that entranced single moment of stasis into blind fury, her heat, aggressive, demanding and yet giving even more than what she demanded, was even more amazing, far more. My mom’s a hottie, I could see, crazy and wild, sexually thermonuclear! Her breath alternated with a kind of low growl of pleasure and her body bucked and thrust in every direction, each sending its own brand of overwhelming thrill through me. I felt her hips sway and roll, each movement bearing down upon the grateful senses of my swollen meet suck and fuck porno cock in a different and special way,. driving a variegated panoply of distinct sensations through it, each complementing the others, uniting in a force much greater than the sum of the parts.
Sweat poured in rivulets from her face and shoulders, matching my own, as our bodies accelerated our thrusts into each other to what must have rivaled an epileptic fit. Her low growl was growing into lusty moans on the peak of every breath, holding nothing back. The moans were growing louder and higher-pitched, almost like little screams of ecstasy. Mom’s a screamer, I realized! Several times she shot upward and tensed in orgasm, and after each I felt the sudden, warm wave of her juices drench my own skin. The sounds, the force, the frantic passion of our sex took complete control; when my own time came I could not have held back for the world.
“Mom! I’m…I’m…coming! Ah…” I cried, dreading the chance she might at this moment refuse me; but instead she called only for more.
“Yes…yes, Jason, yes, my son, come now, come here, in me, deep in me; give me all…”
Words ended there as two bodies rode a crescendo of passion, the explosion within me consuming every sense, pulsing, throbbing, wave after wave of pumping force as the milk of my manhood shot forth into the space where another man’s had once shot forth and in doing so, brought me into existence. That thought, though, did not surface; it could not, not now, not while two people seized their pleasure only by energetically suppressing it.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the maelstrom of joyful impulses subsided and we became aware of our two bodies, still joined, wanting to remain joined as long as my detumescence had not yet forced separation. Mom’s head now rested softly on my shoulder, her arms around my neck for support, shaking from exertion and passion, as were, most definitely, my own. If any misgivings about what we had just done had formed within us, they got no audience. Neither of us would allow it. For many minutes we remained thus, and then, on wobbly legs and with quivering arms, we stood, laughed at our condition, and collapsed in whatever chair or sofa was nearest.
Now, of the very few people close enough to me to know about this affair, some have asked me to compare this incestuous lust with my other, more conventional sexual experiences. The answer is, there is no answer. I quickly found that sex with Mom was a unique thing, something apart from all other, so unique that to try to compare it with anything else is a classic apples-and-oranges contradiction. There simply is no comparison. Before, then and after, our sex has not affected my interest in the women in my life; it’s just–different.
Much time passed as we collapsed in exhaustion, shyly and self-consciously giggling at first as real time and space returned to our so recently fevered minds. I suppose we both feared a spasm of remorse and shame, but none came. It had been too beautiful, and had felt too natural and right, to allow that.
I’m sure I need hardly tell you that this was not the only instance of our sex that day!
Just as Mom described herself before, I was sex-drunk as well. The entire world, time and space, just didn’t matter now; it was our world. When Mom made a point of showing up nude for that little errand at Sammy and Jannie’s, it seemed only natural, the most obvious thing to do. I have to admit that I was absolutely thrilled at Sammy’s reaction to my mother’s beauty and the sexual captivation of her nude form.
The milf porno strange contradiction of her–in fact, our–automatic and unquestioning dismissal of any thought of sharing sex with Sammy and Jannie versus the comparatively outrageous fact of sex with each other, was in our own minds no contradiction at all. That will be made clear later, and my her voice, not mine.
As Mom told you, our next few days were spent without clothes, except for fun, bodies meshing whenever the spirit moved us, going for sex in one place after another, just about everywhere–except her bedroom.
Then came that shock with my friend, Timmy. Damn, it was lucky he was the one, and not some other friend of mine! One in a million chance, but some force must have been looking out for us and we just managed to squeak by that one. And it turned out for the best, because now we were safe to let him know how it was with us, and we both knew how it was with him and his family too.
Days passed and ordinary life returned, frequently interrupted by whatever random impulse grabbed us at one time or other. One evening I had an announcement to make.
“Mom, I just want you to know that Lori and I broke up,” I told her.
She looked really surprised, and a little concerned. You know how mothers are, no matter what; they want to shield you from every bump and scrape on the road. As long as mother and child are still living, mother will be like that.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she replied, soothingly. “You doing OK?”
“I’m doing OK.”
“Good.” She then paused, thoughtfully, then asked, “is it because of…you-know-what?”
“Nope, not a chance. She doesn’t know, and it had nothing to do with my own decision. Well, think about it: we’re both just twenty years old, and we agreed that we both want to play the field, have other relationships, maybe a lot of them, who knows? Anyway, more than a few; you need to know how to be close to different kinds of personalities before you learn how to really get it right with the one you’ll spend your life with. There’s still time and we don’t want to waste it.”
“Wise thinking, Son. Sounds like a speech your father…”
She suddenly stopped short and a terrible look passed over her face. It almost looked like she would pass out. I was alarmed, but in an instant I knew what it was, because exactly the same thing suddenly gripped my own heart in an ice-cold grasp. I may have had a different physical reaction; but the emotional one was essentially identical.
The thing, the one thing we both had invested so much mental energy into suppressing for the sake of our time of debauchery, had caught us off guard, insinuated itself into our conversation when we were not prepared for it. Both of us, in our own ways, had to wrestle with it, and both of us managed to stuff it back behind the walls we had erected to contain it and all the other reality we needed to ignore while we continued our venture into the realms of the forbidden.
Mom coughed slightly and cleared her throat, the way some people do when something cuts their speech short like that and they want to make it seem it was just an unexpected, momentary irritation of the throat. It was automatic; she certainly knew that I knew what it was–and that it had happened to me just as it had happened to her.
“Er…what I was about to say is,” she continued. “What you were saying sounds a lot like something…” Another momentary stumble. “something we might have told you. Maybe we did and I don’t remember.”
“Probably. Anyway, we’re not in any hurry to get tied down for life. Time enough for that later. So we’re fine, still friends, all that.”
“Good to know. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
Yep. Once a mother, always a mother.
I could tell you about the rest of this conversation but Mom is tapping my shoulder rather insistently. Time to yield the floor to her.
(to be continued)
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