The Sweetest Sin

"I've booked us a table for dinner tonight," my son said. "A place I've been wanting to try. Just us two."

"Oh, I'm not so sure, Jack. I don't feel much like going out. I don't know what the matter is. I'm a bit down at that moment. Maybe I have a cold coming on."

"Yeah, I know you're not feeling right, Mom. That's why we're going out. We need to talk, we need to get to the bottom of what's wrong. Oh, and wear your hair up."

"I can't, Jack. You're father's been biting. There'll be marks."

He examined the back of my neck. "Nothing a bit of foundation won't fix. Now:up."

I knew what that meant: he wanted me on display, as he so often did when we went out in public. Putting my hair up accentuated my height and accentuated my neck. Even my eyes. But all Jack was interested in was that it accentuated my "killer tits". I piled my hair high and checked in the mirror. That modest updo was doing a hell of a lot of accentuating.

Me, if we did have to go out, I would have preferred to attract as little attention as possible. But I couldn't say no: he was my son. If he wanted to show me off, he'd earned the right.

He stood behind me and his hands went under my blouse, cupping my boobs, rolling my nipples maddeningly. I moaned low. He knows I'll do anything for him when he handles me like that. But as I began to writhe and leant back to offer my mouth to him, he withdrew.

Now he was holding up a dress.

"Not that one," I protested. "It shows way too much." I was only a few weeks pregnant, but already my epic boobs seemed to have grown an extra cup size. "My breasts would spill out."

"Spill out, then. I'm not complaining."

"And none of my bras fit now.'"

"Good. Don't wear a bra."

No bra, no underwear. A sexy updo, a risque low-cut dress that rose high on the thighs. Was this suitable attire for a pregnant middle-aged woman?

I sighed. But complied.

+++

Dressed like this, with what I've got up front, I know I can rule a room. But in my subdued mood, I crept as unobtrusively as I could to our table. With a chest this big and no bra, I still drew plenty of glances when I bounced across the floor.

As I sat down and waited to stop wobbling, Jack murmured, so only I could hear: "My God, you look beautiful. Those feeders are absolutely stunning."

I looked down at my chest. The edges of my areolas peaked cheekily above the plunging neckline. I hitched the dress up. I was dressed completely inappropriately for my state and my age.Why does he do this to me? And why do I love him for it?

"So, Mom," he continued. "Let's talk. The past week, it's been great. Parts of this are working really well. Cassie and me, we've hit it off in bed, and you and Dad, you both seem to be having fun. But other parts..."

"Mmmm. I know..." But I wasn't listening. Jack kept talking. But ever since we arrived, I had been distracted by a figure on the other side of the restaurant. Not a waitress; a manager or hostess or something, late twenties, perhaps, flitting between tables, chatting to customers.

Startlingly beautiful. Tall for an Asian, dressed in the tightest light-green sheath dress that stretched to her ankles. Gorgeous doll-like face, blazing eyes. And the blackest, sharpest bob I had ever seen. Her fringe seemed to have been cut with a scalpel. No - a laser. She looked amazing. Every manga pervert's wet dream. I couldn't take my eyes off her.

I don't know how long I had been staring when Jack nudged me under the table with his foot. "Mom, you haven't heard a word I've said. You've been mentally pussy-fucking her for the past five minutes."

"Mmmm - what did you say?" My eyes lingered on the woman, running languidly, longingly, over her tightly sheathed curves. Her blood-red lipstick and fierce, piercing eyes. That super-sexy bob. "Jack, don't be so dramatic, I was merely... oh shit!"

She'd caught me staring.

The reaction was instant. Like a hunter that scents its quarry, her head snapped up and her eyes locked onto me. She broke off her conversation. Oh no - she was walking our way.

Waking? Gliding, more like, floating towards us.

I couldn't take my eyes off her, and now I noticed her breasts. Dear God, her breasts. High and full. Not enormous, like mine, but they looked far too big for her slim body. The fabric clung to them, outlining them perfectly. Most men, and a lot of women, would have assumed the work of a skilled surgeon, but by the gentle juddering as she approached, I knew only God himself could have placed such perfect milk mounds on such a slender body. And then - genius move, Lord -- not captured them in a bra.

As she closed in, her gaze never left me. She made no pretence of subtlety. This was a predator, homing in for the kill, her pitiless eyes already devouring me. She was the hunter and my pussy was the prey.

Like any prey, reflex kicked in. My brain told my knees to close.Instead, they opened.My body was not my own. An old friend, a teacher who had obliterated a whole summer illicitly fucking one of her students, had once told me:A cunt in heat has a will of its own.

Her eyes caressed me, and it had the same effect as a physical caress. In my imagination I sensed her hands on me, moving up my thighs, over my moistening crotch and all across my overflowing breasts. I could almost feel her red lips on me now, on my thighs, my throat, my open, steaming cunt.

My nipples tightened so fast, they hurt.

I had never felt so vulnerable, so exposed. She was stripping me with her eyes. It was as though she had sliced open my dress with one slash of her razor-sharp red fingernails, and my enormous breasts had tumbled out for all to see, full and gravid and heavy, their nipples agonizingly hard, shameful bright-pink evidence of my arousal. Proof of my obscene desire for another woman.

"What can I do for you?" The face was Far East, the voice pure East Coast.

What can you do for me? Oh, what a question.Luckily my cunt couldn't talk. My brain struggled to assert itself. But of all the stupid things in the world I could have said, I blurted out: "Is that a wig?"

She sat on the banquette next to me, uncomfortably close. "Touch it."

Jesus, I was shivering. "No, I, I..."

"Touch it." It was a command.

I was like a deer in the headlights, a mouse cowering before a snake. My hand, before I knew it, reached out and I was actually touching her hair. That surgically sharp haircut of deepest black. It was soft, so soft. Smooth and sexy between my shaking fingers. Without realizing it, I was stroking it. It was like liquid silk.My God, what would it feel like between my thighs.

"Do you like it?"

I continued stroking. Continued caressing another woman's hair, imagining that black bob bobbing between my splayed legs, wondering how her savage lips would feel on my clitoris.

"I love it. It's beautiful. You're beautiful," I blurted out, before I could stop myself.

She leaned in, resting her arm on the back of the banquette. Our eyes were only inches apart. One small dip and we would be kissing. I inhaled the scent from under her arm, sharp and arousing. This was no accident. She knew exactly what effect her odor would have.

My pregnancy hormones had enhanced all my senses. So here I was, a mature woman with child, getting off on the scent of this exquisite stranger with the faultless bone structure and the laser-sharp fringe and the hunter's eyes and the lips that I desperately wanted on me. My head spun.If her armpits are this good, what does her cunt smell like?

"I... I'm pregnant," I stammered out of nowhere.What the?!?I have no idea why I said that. I guess I wanted to explain my hormonal behaviour, my off-beat reaction to her ravishing hair, to those woman's breasts on a girl's body, to her sweet bitter smell.

Maybe it was a feeble attempt to ward her off:See, I like men. I'm straight. Look what a dick did to me.

Her eyes glinted. "May I? For luck?"

Without waiting for an answer, her hand went to my belly. But she didn't just touch it - "for luck" - her hand was stroking it sensually. I let out a tiny sob as her fingers moved lower. Much lower. Through the fabric of my dress she was touching the top of my bush. She must be able to tell I wasn't wearing panties.

Our eyes were locked. I whimpered helplessly.

The room blurred out of view. Everyone in that restaurant could have been staring at me and it wouldn't have mattered.I don't care. I want this.I was aware of my every shaky breath, of the hammering blow of my heartbeat matching the aching throb deep up in my vagina. Now - Sweet Jesus! - her fingers were on my mons, ruffling my thick bush. My legs sent a signal to my knees, and this time they obeyed, opening wider. I could feel how sticky my thighs were.

She smiled almost imperceptibly. She knew what I was thinking. She licked those red-for-danger-I-want-them-on-my-clitoris lips.And something flipped inside me. A younger woman, a first-time mother, might have mistaken it for a baby's first flutter, the quickening, but I knew better.

This was pure carnality. This was longing that was turning my womanhood into hot slush. I was being seduced in front of my lover. Pleasured in front of a room full of people. I was cooking in my own juices.

If her hand went an inch lower, I would not be able to prevent myself from cumming. A thin layer of cotton separated her skin and mine. A few seconds of her fingertip - or, God help me, that sharp, blood-red nail -- on my clitoris, and I would be climaxing in front of my son and dozens of strangers. I didn't care about the consequences, I need to cum.Please?my cunt begged.Please???Nothing else mattered in that moment. Not the other diners, not Jack, not even, I m ashamed to admit, the babies growing inside me. They would all have to wait until...

But this was arousal without release.

She withdraw her hand and I gasped as her long sharp nails languidly scratched --hard-- across my belly and raked the side of my tender, swollen breast. Pregnancy had heightened my sense of touch too, and her nails seemed to be made of fire as they scorched their way across my body.

My pussy flipped again as she stood and her fingers went to the back of my neck - part of every woman's top erogenous zones. She lightly stroked me, just below the hairline. She had abandoned all pretence of what she was doing: if her fingers had been in my cunt, she couldn't have been more blatant.

The tingling in my neck spread down my entire body. Then her hand moved to the spot where my neck joined the shoulder. Her nails sank into the flesh and I knew she was marking me. Marking me as hers. Claiming me. Owning the pregnant slut.

Nails are a no-no inside a vagina, but I would have given anything to have those fingers, those nails, inside me, clawing a climax out of me.

"You like oysters." Not a question, a statement.

"I... I don't know. I've never..."

She was standing in front of me, and I was suddenly startlingly aware that her pussy was no more than a foot away from my face.

"Try the oysters. They're always in season." Her nails dug into me again. "You liked touching my hair. You liked how it felt."

"I absolutely loved it, it's gorgeous," I gushed before I could prevent myself. "Your hair, your smell, your..."and I stopped myself just in time.

She lent closer: "Imagine the possibilities."

She took my chin in her hand and tilted my face. "Once you have tried an oyster, you'll never go back." I thought she was going to lean down and kiss me, and automatically I arched up. But, for the first time since she had noticed me, her gaze turned away, and I felt as though something had been torn from me.

She turned and glided away. Her ass was as flawless as the rest of her. Her scent was in my nostrils. I still felt her sharp nails on my belly: my skin tingled where they had traveled. I knew her nails had left a mark, the hot crimson mark of possession, where they had dug into my neck.The Sign of the Owned Woman.

I slumped back in my chair, a limp, wet, shivering puppet whose strings had been cut, and I found myself back in the real world.

I hung my head. I couldn't have felt more raw, naked and exposed if she'd slung me on the table and licked me to an orgasm in front of the whole restaurant.

For the first time, I noticed Jack. He grinned. "That was quite a show, Mom. Like watching a fawn get hit on by a tiger."

I wiped my forehead. "Jesus. What just happened, Jack?" I glanced around. "Do you think anyone saw? It was like I wasn't in control of my body. I couldn't stop simping like a schoolgirl. My crotch is a hot mess. Just smell it. God, I was babbling, I was whimpering. She had mewhimpering, Jack. I don't know if it's hormonal or I'm coming down with something, or what."

He reached for my hand. "Are you okay, Mom?"

"Jack, I'm confused. Not just tonight, all the time. One minute I feel like I want to fuck everyone and everything, I want the whole universe in my cunt. The next moment I'm in floods of tears. My body has never felt so alive, so sexual, but I'm always unhappy. It's not just baby brain. If you knew what I wanted to do just now, if you know what her fingers and her eyes and her smell were doing to me, if you knew how her hair felt..."

I broke off, took a deep breath and tried to pull myself together. "I know why you brought me here, Jack. We need to talk about Cassie. Cassie and me."

He nodded. "Something's not right. You and her - that's what you wanted, you said so. You couldn't wait. But now that it's a real thing, you've changed your mind."

"It's complicated. I haven't changed my mind. I mean, I want her so much. Too much. Have I turned into the creature every girl is warned about - the predatory lesbian? The bull-dyke who seduces innocent straight girls and ruins them for any man. I'm prepared to tear down every social convention, override every maternal imperative, to sleep with my own daughter. What does it say about me that I lie awake, aching for her -- aching way up inside - and that I fantasize about her constantly and what we could do to each other. I feel so ashamed. I'm getting good dick 24/7, yet still I long for my 19-year-old daughter. How sick is that?"

He began to speak, but I held up my hand. "And before you start, no, it's not the same as fucking my son. When you and I first made love, it felt so natural, it felt right. We both wanted it. It was good. It was the best thing ever."

"But you're not a predator, Mom," he said gently. "You're forgetting one thing: Cassie wants this as much as you do. She's aching for you too. When we're together, you're all she talks about. She asks me to tell her every detail. How you like your boobs touched, what your cunt tastes like. She's confused and upset. She wants you so badly and she thinks you're rejecting her, thinks she disgusts you."

"Oh Jack, no, never. I long for her so much."

"Then tell her," he said. "Look, Mom. This is natural, too. This is right. You and Cassie, it could be the best thing ever. Your pussy-hunting Tiger-Lady is hot, but Cassie, she's just on another level."

I dabbed my eyes. "Really?"

"Just picture it. Two pregnant straight women getting off on each other."

Picture it? I picture it all the time. I can't get those images out of my head.

"And you're forgetting one other thing," he added quietly. "The most arousing thing in the world."

"What's that?"

"She is the only person on earth who can call you Mommy while you eat out her pussy."

I sat back, stunned. That one sentence had cut through all the fog.

Jack took out his phone and began texting. "One last thing, Mom, in case you're still in doubt. Just wait."

Within seconds I heard my phone ping softly. I fetched it from my handbag and opened the message.

Mom, Jack says you're eating out tonight.

Ping.

I wish you were eating me out tonight.

Ping.

I gasped. The screen was filled with a photo. A shaven pussy, life-size, the labia a startling pink against the dazzling white skin.

Ping.

I moaned. Smooth slit parted, the moist flaps open, the flesh inside glistening. I could almost taste its forbidden teenage sweetness.

Ping.

I groaned. Lips fully spread. I could see up into my daughter's most intimate anatomy. At the top of the screen her clitoris blazed bubblegum-pink.

"We have to go." I rose. The seat was soaked. Jack was trying to clean it with his napkin, but I didn't care. I'd had enough of shame. There is no shame in wanting one's own flesh and blood.

+++

I knocked. Cassie opened her door. We fell into each other's arms, sobbing. I lifted my dress over my head, her t-shirt dropped to the floor, and we were in bed, kissing away the tears. Our hands were everywhere, exploring each other's bodies. Clumsily, tenderly, lovingly.

Too emotionally shattered for sex, we kissed and stroked and fell asleep in each other's arms, big breast mashed against big breast, legs tangled, my luxuriant bush pressed against her thigh, my hand cupping her smooth mound.

+++

Her head on my chest, her blonde hair entangled in my gray, we woke to a storm of sunshine and a riot of birdsong.

Just Cassie and me.

Our menfolk intuited that we needed time. We were struggling out of sleep when there was a sharp knock on the door, and a breakfast tray on the floor outside. And a note:Take your time - but don't forget to turn the cameras on. PLEASE!!!

We ate and drank in bed, eating food while devouring each other with our eyes. At last, here we were. The slut with the face of angel. My virgin whore. And her silver vixen of a mother, with tits that would embarrass a porn star. Together, alone at last.

We sat, facing each other. There was no hurry. This was not like my first time with Jack, with all the desperation and fear and uncertainty, not knowing where this was leading, not knowing what the other wanted, afraid that a misplaced word could bring the whole thing crashing down and cause us to walk away from a lifetime love.

No, this time I knew where this was leading, I just didn't know how. All I knew was that it would be from a gesture, a touch, a look, not from words.

Cassie made the first move. She reached out and touched one of the big blue veins at the top of my breast. Her finger traced it all the way down.

My breath caught, my guts clenched, my nipples sang. "Oh, Cassandra," I whispered.

She shivered. "God, Mom, I love it when you call me that. It just does something to me."

Cassandra. The name I had called her since she was at my breast as a baby. The name I had used while she was growing up, filling out, becoming a woman. The name I call her now when she is either very good or very bad. In our tenderest moments and our most tempestuous, too. The name no one else uses. Only me. The name that connects us from her cradle to my bed.

She traced another of my thick blue lines, slowly following it all the way to the tingling nipple. I sighed in bliss.

"These veins," she murmured. "So sexy. So motherly. The mark of a mature woman. You don't know what those huge breasts do to me, how often I've dreamed about them. I've never seen anything like them."

"They're not as beautiful as yours." I ducked my head. "They've sagged."

Cassie put a finger under my chin and lifted my head, looking into my eyes. "Fuck 'saggy'. Don't ever think that, don't ever say that."

She reached for my heavy, pendulous breasts, weighing them in her palms and echoed her brother a year earlier: "They're the most beautiful things in the world."

"Really?" That a creature as lovely as Cassie could admire this mature body.

She laughed. "Oh, Mom, did you never realize? How could you not know. All the times I'd burst into your bedroom without knocking, hoping to catch you undressing. Checking if you left the bathroom door unlocked when you were showering. Praying you'd let me in the changing booth with you when we went shopping, so I could get a glimpse. I was desperate for just a flash of nipple, a second or two of those massive boobs."