The Sweetest Sin

It began, as many of the best stories do, on a dark and stormy night.

The church meeting had overrun, mainly because the committee kept pestering me to take over as treasurer. This argument happened every year. "God gave us all talents, Susan, and he meant us to use them," Mike, our minister, said primly.

I shot him daggers, then glanced at my watch. My shoulders and back were aching. I just wanted to be home. "Look, how about if I agree to audit the accounts at the end of the financial year?" By the smiles, I knew I had fallen into their trap. At this rate, I really would be treasurer next year.

By the time the meeting finally ended, it was pouring outside and I got drenched on the short walk to the car.Thanks Mike,I fumed, driving home in wet clothes in the growing storm.If you'd wrapped up two minutes earlier, instead of passive aggressively quoting Parables at me...

So I was not in the best of moods when I got inside.

"Hello! Anyone home?" I stood at the kitchen sink, tipping water out of my shoe, and tried to make myself heard above the rain and howling wind.

I walked down the corridor and knocked. The extension had been worth every penny. As Cassie's behavior deteriorated and she grew ever more obnoxious as she stomped through her teens, it was useful to have her out here, away from the main arena of family life. I had hoped, by some chronological alchemy, that she would become a sensible, pleasant, good-humored adult when she turned 18. No such luck. I knocked again. "Cassie, dear?" I called in my most non-threatening Mom Voice. No response.

I retraced my steps through the kitchen and lounge room and stood at the foot of the stairs and shouted. "I'm baaack!" They must be out -- maybe even overnighting at a friend's, unable to get home in this weather.Kids. I always tell them: I don't mind what you're doing and where you are, so long as you let me know!

I'd phone them later. Right now, what I needed was a hot bath. Shoes squelching, I trudged upstairs and along the hall toward my room, when I heard a giggle and a thud.Oh, someone's home.

"Jack?" I knocked on his door and turned the handle. "Honey, I'm ... What the..."

Cassie, sitting on the bed, was frantically trying to button her blouse. Jack was scrambling to pull his pants on. I stared in shock.

"Mom, we didn't hear you..."

Cassie pushed past me, covering her chest. I caught a flash of nipple, plump and pink. I picked her bra off the floor and threw it at her. "You forgot this." She caught it and fled.

I had never in my life expected to find myself in a situation like this, but parental instinct kicked in. I needed to take charge. I pointed a finger at Jack: "I will deal with you later."

I slammed the door and started down the stairs. Halfway down, I stopped.

OK. What had just happened in the past 15 seconds? What had I seen? It looked dreadful.But don't all siblings play doctors and nurses,I asked myself. Maybe, but not when they are both 18! That sort of experimenting can have unintended consequences.And from the little I had seen, it looked as though they'd been planning to take it a whole lot further.

Still, that pause allowed me to cool down. No sense screaming and accusing. My heart was racing, but my mind was calm as I reached her room. I counted to 10, then: "Sweetheart. We need to talk."

She opened the door a few inches. "Mom, I'm sorry. We were just fooling around. It looked a whole lot worse than it was."

"Fooling around? With your twin brother, Cassandra? How much worse would it have gotten?"

She hung her head. "I'm sorry, Mom. It won't happen again."

Her eyes were red. I was furious, but kept my anger in check. This was new for me: a meek, contrite daughter. She knew she had done something terrible, and for once she couldn't dismiss it with a snappy retort. She was ashamed, embarrassed, and I should have played it for all it was worth, but I was tired and irritable. "It shouldn't have happened at all, Cassandra. But it's late. We will talk about this tomorrow."

Iknewit was her fault. Cassie had always been advanced for her age, physically and emotionally. Younger than Jack (if only by seven minutes), but much more worldly. I could imagine her drawing him into her little game.

Sassy Cassie. Always ready with a sarcastic word or a scathing putdown. It was like looking into a mirror at myself, 24 years ago. A distorted mirror: because although we looked so alike, obviously mother and daughter, she was dazzlingly beautiful. Tall, great legs, pert butt. Big breasts, perfectly symmetrical, sitting high and firm on her chest. Always a member of the Cool Girl Club. A massive prick tease, or so I had overheard ("Virgin Ice Queen" was one phrase). Well, the ice queen was certainly melting, going by what I had just seen in her brother's room.

Cassie had been hard work. The tantrums had begun when she started high school. The constant arguments, the backchatting, the sulkiness. But through it all I swallowed my urge to explode and rememberedRule Number One: A Mother Always Loves her Child.

Oh, look, I knew I favored Jack. Not because I loved him more, but because he had always been such a sunny, easy boy. Funny, kind, helpful. It was easy to love Jack. And he hadn't gone off the rails when he hit puberty like his sister.

Both kids had taken the divorce hard. But that was five years ago. They were heathy and happy. Popular, clever, funny, good-looking. Solid friendship groups. Baseball, orchestra, church.

We all three got on well, despite Cassie's occasional meltdowns. If there were problems, I'd know. "Anyway, problems or not, nothing excuses incest," I muttered to myself.

Jesus!Incest. The word made me shiver with disgust. I don't think I'd ever said it before. "This," I muttered under my breath, "isnotan incest family." Now I'd said it twice in five seconds...

Outside his room, I gathered myself. I was upset more than angry with him. We needed a proper discussion in the morning, but now wasn't the time for getting heavy.

"Jack?"

"Mom, I'm going to bed." His voice sounded high and strained.

"I just want a word." I opened the door. He stood in the centre of the room in his bathrobe, looking as though he was about to burst into tears.

"Don't worry, baby. I'm not here to punish you. We will have a talk in the morning, the three of us, and sort this out. Because this is serious. It's not just a crime, Jack, it's a sin."

"Mom, I don't know what to say. I feel awful. I am so ashamed. I don't know what happened. Cassie, she..."

"Don't worry, I know it's Cassie's fault. You poor boy. How are you feeling?" I put my arms around him and held him to me.

"Headache."

"Tense? Tight?"

He nodded.

"I'm not surprised. This is all a bit..." but I didn't know how to end the sentence.

I guided him to his desk, sat him down in the chair and swiveled him round. "Come on, baby. One of Mom's patented shoulder rubs, that's what you need."

I began kneading and squeezing him. "Goodness, youaretense."

"Oh, Mom. That's so good. That's the spot. Your massages are the best."

His body was hard under my fingers.He's grown so much over the past year,I thought. His shoulders had broadened, he had bulked up. His body was unrecognisable from the little boy I used to massage. "We haven't done this in such a long time," I mused. "I guess you get older and you don't want your mother's shoulder rubs any more."

"No, Mom, I'll always want your magic fingers." He turned his head and looked back up at me. "This feels amazing."

I smiled back down at him. My heart stopped.

His bathrobe had accidentally parted, and it was jutting out. Blatantly, unmistakeably masculine.

My heart fluttered, my hands froze.Oh my God, oh my God.I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't look away, couldn't tear my eyes from my son's penis, its beautiful head rearing on its erect stalk through the gap in his robe, the slit glistening.

He shrugged his shoulders and rubbed his neck. "You finished, Mom? Thanks, it's been a real help. I feel so much looser."

Every synapse in my brain seemed to have fused. I was in shock. I couldn't speak, couldn't move, could hardly breath.

"Mom? Are you okay?"

I couldn't wrench my gaze from that fat cock-head, with its little drop of dew. Every nerve in my body was on red alert, and the hole between my legs was on fire. All I could think was:My son's cock. It's magnificent.

"Mom...?" He shifted in the chair and his robe closed.

I'm his mother. What am I doing?I shut my eyes and removed my hands from his shoulders. Shaking uncontrollably, I staggered to the door. "G ... good night, love you" was all I could manage. I tottered down the hall to my room and collapsed on the bed.

My son. I had seen my son's cock, sticking up, young and proud, oozing juice.

And I had found it the most exciting thing in the world.

I sat up, trembling all over. "What the hell is wrong with me? What the hell is wrong with this family?"

This was not me. I had never had incest fantasies.Never.

Or had I?Maybe, I thought,the desire has always been there but I suppressed it.

I remembered emptying his wastepaper basket and finding the semen-soaked tissues that he had forgotten to flush down the toilet. I had smiled - my little boy was all growed up! But was there something else? Had I been subconsciously turned on, holding my son's cum-wipes?

I shook my head - I'd never thought of sex with Jack, ever. Not once. It repulsed and frightened me. Yet, after what I had just seen, in those few seconds in his room, it also aroused me beyond all measure.

What I wouldn't have given to have that damp fistful of tissues in my hand now, to smell and taste.No, that's disgusting. What sort of freak thinks about her son's ... what do I even call it? Sperm? No, the word was too dirty, too primal, too provocatively thrilling. Emissions? That sounded so clinical.

I shook my head. Jesus, no mother should be having this conversation with herself.

I ran a bath and climbed out of the wet clothes. As I lay back, my breasts floated in front of me, the only place where they could be free, buoyed by warm water. The nipples stood out like fat ripening raspberries, startlingly pink against the white of my body.

I tried to process things logically, tried to work out how I would talk to my children, firmly yet lovingly. "This must never happen again. It's wrong in the eyes of God and the law."

But how could I say those words when my body was in overdrive at the memory of what I had seen in the room next door. I closed my eyes, but I could still visualize him sitting there, penis pointing at me, glittering with pre-cum. Try as I might, my mind wouldn't let me shut out the thoughts of what I could do to his cock. What it could do to me.

In front of the bedroom mirror, I let the towel fall to the floor.

I still had the tight ass of my teenage years. Unfashionably thick blonde bush. I examined my face close up. The face of a 42-year-old woman who has taken care of her skin. Smooth, not too many lines. That's what comes from avoiding make-up, smoking, sunbathing, fun. I was the whitest person I knew. No shadow of a tan line. Alabaster, some might say. Pasty, others did say.

Honestly? I'm no beauty. I never had looks to drive men wild or give wives reason to feel jealous. I was never the long-legged, tanned, sexpot MILF of fuck-fiction fantasy ("Oh, Mom, you're not old. Gee whiz, all my friends think you're the hottest"). I was Mrs Average. Average height. Average age. Average name. Weight: a little over average. I wasn't fat in any one place, but I was a little too thick everywhere.

My marriage ended five years ago. There had been a couple of men since, but no one for three years. "Let herself go" is the expression. Which is fair enough. I had long since given up trying to attract a man, and it showed in the drab "don't look at me" clothes, the sexless hair of indeterminate length dyed a shade of camouflage brown, and the gradual accumulation of pounds.

The only thing that wasn't average was my breasts.

I had been nothing out of the ordinary until the kids were born. They ballooned to comedy proportions during my pregnancy, and stayed that way, graduating from C to D to E and so on up the alphabet. They are massive. The first thing (possibly the only thing) people notice when they meet mousy little me.

Please -- I'm not boasting. I have hated them for years. I can't count the number of times I've wished they were smaller. My H-Bombs, I call them. I wouldn't want A-Bombs. but something in between would be nice. Not tiny, just normal. How I miss those lovely C cups. I've often considered a reduction, but with my horror of surgery, it's easier just to put up with my embarrassing oversize breasts.

Sweat collects under them. I can't run -- I would look ridiculous, and besides, they hurt like hell being buffeted around. They weigh a ton. Only the best bras will support them. But even the best bras can't stop the straps gouging my shoulders all day. My back aches under the strain. And when I undress, I am dragged down by their full weight. Sleeping is awkward.

It's why I take so many baths: it is the one place I can be truly free of their weight.

Not to mention the amused looks, the just-out-of-earshot jokes about their cartoon dimensions. Don't think I don't know what people are saying.

And, contrary to the perkiness of every breast in every sex story I've ever read, they sag. On some days I can convince myself they're not too bad, but I can never avoid the truth for long: my enormous low-slung mammaries, with their tempting raspberries, went south for the winter after my pregnancy and never came back.

On the other hand, they are a sign that, despite the baggy clothes and the mud-colored haircut, there's a real woman under there somewhere.

And they are very sensitive. In some strange way that makes no scientific sense, there seems to be a line from my nipples to my clitoris, if handled right. Touch one, and other tingles.

But that was a moot matter these days. I hadn't had any man-action for three years.

After graduation, I settled for a pleasant, handsome man, the original Good Provider. At first the sex was great. We couldn't get enough of each other.

Then I fell pregnant. I was hornier than ever. Him, not so much. Some bullshit he'd read about how you shouldn't have sex during pregnancy. It was a turning point. The bigger my baby bulge grew, and the more desperate I was to be fucked, the more we drifted apart.

In the end, I don't know why we even called time on the marriage. We had reached a calm, tepid, sexless doldrums; we could have drifted on until death us did part. But he met someone else. We separated with no animosity and a generous divorce settlement.

I'd had a couple of flings since then, but they went nowhere. The only man who was any good in bed had left for me a prettier model. Throughout history, women have had two currencies: their beauty and the hole between their legs. It's true men will do anything for sex ("How many men does it take to replace a lightbulb? Only one -- they'll screw anything") but, given the choice between two sets of genitals, they'll take the young one with the pretty face every time.

Maybe if I'd made more of an effort with my appearance ... but anyway, no one wants to hitch himself to a dowdy divorcee with two kids who has deliberately put on weight so everyone notices her boobs less.

So, there I was, in my 40s, alone, contemplating the long, depressing slide into the second half of life. And thenthishappens. My son's cock happens.

I gathered my robe around me, no closer to a decision about Jack. I knew how I felt -- unbridled lust. But how did he feel?

Then I thought: his erection! While I was massaging him, he grew hard, fast. He was leaking within two minutes of me touching him.

But was I assuming too much? Maybe he was still stiff from that roll and fumble with his sister.

No! I recalled that he was standing in his bathrobe when I came back for our chat. There is no way he could have stood there and concealed that epic boner. So it must have been my shoulder rub that did it. It must have beenmewho did it.

So -- had I already made carnal contact? If I had moved my hands on his penis and gotten him stiff, that was sexual, obviously. But moving my hands on his shoulders and getting him stiff ... what did that mean? Was that sexual contact? Had I - we - crossed the line without knowing it?

All those backrubs and shoulder massages down the years; they were innocent, weren't they? It was never sexual, was it? No! Sex with my son - it had never crossed my mind. I was a good mother. Still, what is utterly unthinkable at 14 becomes dangerously thinkable at 18. He's a grown man. We're both adults. It's not so innocent now. Maternal fingers probing hard young muscle. Flesh kneading flesh. Flesh needing flesh.

This was giving me a headache. I tried to consider things clearly. My first-born child. I would be violating my own flesh and blood. Tainting his innocence. Defiling him.

But for several minutes, a question had been forming in my mind, and now it was flashing neon bright. "What if," I said quietly to myself, "what if hewantsto be violated?"

Just speaking the words out loud got my juices bubbling.

But how was I to go about it?

This would be the biggest gamble of my life. I am not a natural gambler. I have saved money all my life against a rainy day. I joined the most boring profession in the world. I've made a fetish of stability, safety, and security. In financial terms, that had served me well. And it was the right thing for the children. But in the process, I had sacrificed my happiness, sublimated my needs. I had put myself last in every important decision I ever made.

It was so long since I had raked my nails down a muscular back while a tongue invaded my mouth. So long since I had tasted a man's essence while he gripped me tight by the hair and face-fucked me. So long since I had been held down, helpless, by stronger hands.

Above all, it was too long since I had been mounted. Mounted andridden.

It is the most natural thing in the world, yet the weirdest at the same time. Millions of people do it every day. But having the engorged appendage of another human pushed into you, and then thrust again and again - how did our Creator come up with that idea to make pleasure and babies? Now I realized how much I missed it.

And I wanted my son to do all that to me and more. I wanted to corrupt him, use him for my own pleasure. My dear, sweetson. It was wrong, but God, it excited me.

Incest. I'd heard the stories of horror and abuse. But surely there must be other stories too, stories like mine. The sex-starved divorcee and the well-endowed, hard-bodied stud. In any other context, the world would be shouting: "You go, girl! Get a piece of that!" But because of our genetic connection, we would be vilified and prosecuted. I would be the Incest Witch; society's ultimate outcast.

Any other woman would probably have masturbated herself to sleep and woken up as normal next day, the episode in his bedroom just a fond, wistful memory to fantasize about for the rest of her life. But I've always found masturbating a bit like trying to tickling yourself, or faking a sneeze. Or scratching an itch that returns as soon as you stop scratching. It wasn't going to help.

My mind was overwhelmed. I couldn't think. So this time, for once, I was going to pay attention to my body. I stood at the threshold of the forbidden and listened to the jungle drums inside me, luring me on into the darkness. That slow, deep throbbing between my legs was telling me: "I have never wanted anything so much in my life."