Loading...“Hey, Zoe, why don’t you and Peter do that walk over the hills? That should get him fit and brighten him up a bit.”
Over the hills that form a backdrop to our city there is a chain of hostels, each about a days walk apart. To walk the whole distance took about a week and Bern and I had done it a couple of times, but Peter had never been with us.
Peter had finished his final year at high school and seemed to go into a state resembling depression. Even when he got his exam results, which were brilliant, and he got his picture in the newspaper and he was even on T.V., he still did not brighten up.
“Post study reaction,” our local GP had diagnosed, “needs to get some exercise and fresh air.”
It was a rough diagnosis, but I knew he was right. Bern and I had encouraged, (or should I say “pushed”?) Peter pretty hard for several years. Peter wanted to enter Medical School and we knew he would need a very good pass to get accepted. Now he had been accepted and that didn’t seem to cheer him up either.
I suppose the fierce concentration had a detrimental affect on his social development. The old saw, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” applied in this case.
Peter had simply missed a lot of the things that most young people engage in, and added to that, his focus on study gained him the title “Nerd” among his peers. His one and only sport, if you can call it that, also tended to be isolating, namely, weight lifting.
Bern and I were proud of his academic achievements and his magnificent physique, but suffered some degree of guilt that we had not encouraged him to socialise more. Apart from general socialising, young people these days do a lot of their sexual maturing during teenage years, which means a fair amount of youthful copulating. As far as I could gather, Peter had not had any of this either.
So it was that Bern suggested the week long walk over the hills, stopping each night at one of the hostels. He couldn’t make it himself because of work commitments, so it was up to mother to make the arrangements and then endure foot slogging journey.
On making the suggestion to Peter he shrugged, showed little enthusiasm, but muttered “Okay.” So I went ahead and booked our places in the hostels, and since only one place had a warden I collected the keys to the other places.
Having made the bookings I had second thoughts because most of the time we would be walking alone and at the hostels we would most probably still be on our own. Nevertheless, having made the arrangements I decided we would go ahead, and perhaps the fresh air would do wonders for Peter.
One advantage I hoped to reap for myself was that Peter and I might re-connect. Right up until he entered high school he had been very affectionate towards me. Soon after starting high school he seemed to draw away from me. If I tried to hug or kiss him I would get shrugged off and told, “Don’t do that mum.” Perhaps having me as a fellow hiker there might at least develop a bond of companionship, if not a restoration of the old affection.
So on the day of our start, with our rucksacks filled, Bern drove us to where we were to begin our journey; a place called “Stony Creek,” where a trail started. Bern kissed me goodbye, told us to “behave ourselves,” and drove off into the misty and rather cold morning.
The trail was easy at first, passing through a State Reserve where a wide variety of trees and native undergrowth flourish. Occasionally there was the rustle of some animal moving in the undergrowth and once a snake undulated across our path. We came upon a group of wallabies that on sighting us, bounded away through crackling scrub.
The trail crossed a road then continued up a hill and into another State Reserve. The sun had by now pierced and driven away the mist and the temperature was rising. The country was harder here and we began to toil up a steep hill, until we came to a place where the trail dropped down almost precipitously to a creek.
We stopped here for our first rest, taking off our sweaters so as to continue the walk in shirts and jeans. We drank from our water bottles and ate some cheese and biscuits, sitting with our backs against a big old gum tree.
We had said hardly anything during this first part of the walk, but now Peter commented idly, “Hell mum, that’s a long drop down to the creek.”
“It gets rougher later on,” I replied, “in fact you’ll end up being glad when it does go down, because I swear that parts of the trail go up in both directions.” That got a bit of a laugh from him, which was nice because I hadn’t heard him laugh for a long time.
We hefted our rucksacks and began the descent to the creek. Sometimes going down can be harder than going up, and by the time we reached the bottom my ankle and knee joints were making themselves felt. We crossed the creek on stepping stones and were immediately confronted with a clamber up to a ridge. It must have taken us an hour to get to the top.
By now I was sweating and the straps of my rucksack were beginning to dig into my shoulders. Another rest was called for, more water and some cold sausage and cheese.
Peter did not seem in the least bothered by the strenuous efforts we had made, but he did ask, “How far to the hostel now, mum?”
“About another hour and a half,” I said. “We walk along the ridge and that’s fairly easy going, then a bit more up and down, and we’re there, “Thank God” I thought, as visions of a wash, fried sausages and potatoes, then sitting by the stove rose up in my head.
We sat for a bit longer admiring the view from our vantage pointed, seeing the forest stretching away, then in the middle distance farmland and vineyards and beyond, more hills.
Hefting our rucksack again we began the walk along the ridge. At one point the trail took a sharp turn and coming round the corner we came face to face with an old man kangaroo. We stopped only a couple of metres from the animal, he staring haughtily at us, and we looking back at him. We stayed like that for at least half a minute, and then in what looked like a contemptuous manner he turned and thumped slowly away.
“That’s the closest I’ve ever been to one of those,” Peter said a little breathlessly. “Just as well we don’t have man eating tigers in this country.”
“No,” I responded, “but we do have some nasty poisonous snakes,” I reminded him, pointing to a long black form draped over a bank of rocks on the side of the trail, its head raised, looking at us fixedly.
We hurried on.
We came to the end of the ridge and struggled up and down a number of steep slopes, to emerge onto a flat open area where there was the Ranger’s house. Passing it we crossed a dirt road and walked the last bit of the trail to the hostel.
It was in fact an old Nissen Hut that is essentially a half round tunnel-like structure of corrugated iron with a concrete floor. It had no showers and water had to be drawn from a rainwater tank and heated if you wanted a warm wash. The toilet was a separate structure with a cement arrangement with a hole in it. Beneath the hole was a seemingly bottomless pit, the purpose of which I leave you to imagine.
Inside the hut there was a division with a notice, “Men,” on one side and “Women” on the other. These were the sleeping areas. The small kitchen was provided with bottled gas and a single gas ring, and a lounge area that had old armchairs with the stuffing hanging out of them, and as a central feature, the iron stove.
It was now about half past four, so Peter brought in water in a bucket and filling a large saucepan the water was heated for washing purposes. I was to wash first, so I departed for the toilet while the water was heating, and seating myself over the hole I prayed there were no redback spiders lurking in the place.
My wash consisted of stripping off in the kitchen and dealing with the essential parts of the anatomy while Peter brought in wood for the stove. When I had finished I redressed, omitting my bras as I hate the things anyway, and more water was boiled for Peter and he washed while, as the day was cooling, I lit the stove.
When Peter had finished it was cooking time, if you could call the rather basic activity cooking. We ate the rough meal ravenously and then retired to the lounge. There were some old board games lying around and Peter, who now seemed to be more cheerful than I had seen him for a long time, said, “Let’s play snakes and ladders, remember how we used to play it when I was little?”
I felt a lump come into my throat as the memory of those days when he was a child welled up into my head. Those happy days when it seemed that he was all mine to teach and love and he would sometimes put his little hands on my cheeks and say, “You’re the most beautiful mummy in the whole world.” Then I would kiss him and say, “Thank you, darling.” How we look back to what seems like the halcyon days when innocence has hardly been defiled by the “I wants” and the “I must haves” of our so-called “maturity.” I could never have him again like that, but surely there could be something between us? The love of mother and son that seems to go beyond almost any other relationship in its depths; could we have that?
That evening we played our games of snakes and ladders, laughing, accusing each other of cheating, and letting our tired limbs relax as we sensed the sounds of silence in the world outside the hut. The silence unfortunately was broken with the sound of a possum dropping on to the corrugated iron of the hut and scrambling and screaming for about half an hour.
Then it was time for bed and sleep to prepare us for the next day’s strenuous march. We took no notice of the “Men” and “Women” signs; both of us electing to sleep in the women’s section. Peter stripped off to sleep naked as he always does.
Modesty was thrown aside, and this was the first time I had seen Peter naked since he became a teenager. I could not help feeling a little thrill of pleasure ripple through me as I covertly admired his beautiful body. “I and the weight lifting helped to make that, “I thought; then chastised myself for my prurient interest.
As I began to undress, taking off my shirt, I began to regret that I had not put on my bras. I was very aware that Peter was doing his own covert looking, and there was no way I could conceal my breasts completely from his vision. More disconcerting was the fact that I could see his penis rising.
I clambered into the wooden bunk and under the covers removed my panties. Peter turned out the gas light, and we were enveloped in darkness.
I thought I would go to sleep very quickly, but instead lay awake for some time. All was silent except for the occasional scrabbling of some night creature outside the hut. My mind kept returning to that brief glimpse of Peter’s rising manhood and troubled that it seemed to be the glimpse of my breasts that had inspired it. Surely he couldn’t? He wouldn’t want to? No, it was impossible, wasn’t it?
After laying awake for some time thinking Peter was asleep I was surprised to hear what sounded like gentle thumping sounds accompanied by little gasps. The thumping increased in speed and the gasps grew more audible and culminated in a low moan. I knew what this meant; Peter was masturbating.
This in itself did not surprise me since at home I washed his handkerchiefs and bed linen, and was fully aware that since he seemed not to copulate with girls, he needed to relieve himself. It was actually hearing him in the deed that disconcerted me. I felt as if I had been spying on him during a private act.
Even more disturbing was my response to hearing him. The previous night Bern had made love with me and given me the works. When it was over he grinned and said, “That should hold us both for a week.” Since we normally copulated about three times a week I doubted his optimism, but after one day?
Why was I so wet between the thighs and why were my nipples so hard and upstanding? I knew the answer well enough; it was hearing Peter masturbating. As quietly as I could I began my own self relieving, hoping Peter freed from his own sexual tension, was now asleep.
I took hold of a breast so my fingers could gently press a nipple and began to stroke my vulva, gradually parting its lips then pushing a finger into my vaginal tunnel. My genitals felt swollen and very wet so I eased a second finger in and then a third. I worked slowly at first, and then gradually speeded up. Still working my fingers in and out I let my thumb rest on my clitoris and then began to circle it. I had often done this when Bern was away on business and I needed relief.
It was agony trying to stifle my cries as my climax hit. I struggled to fantasise Bern, but the image of Peter, laying so close to me, kept intruding until finally I yielded, letting it have its way with me.
When it was over I continued to be wakeful, castigating myself for letting my own son become the object of my sexual desire. This had not been at all what I had wished for when I had hoped for a renewed and closer bond with him.
“You’re an evil unnatural woman,” I told myself, “harbouring libidinous thoughts about your own son.”
Had I imagined that his masturbating had been inspired by me? Of course it hadn’t; he had simply had the overfull testes of youth that needed to be emptied. Did I imagine that he had fantasised me as he ejaculated? Of course he didn’t. It would have been some girl he has seen or some female in an erotic picture.
Thus I told myself I had not been the one to disturb him, but why did I feel deep down slightly affronted at this? With that thought sleep came and then a dream, a dream that was even more disturbing than the waking reality.
I was laying spreadeagled, not tied down but held by some force that seemed to come from within me. I made no effort to struggle against this power that held me and looking up I saw Peter standing between my wide spread legs.
He was looking at me intently and I saw his massive erection – long, thick light brown shaft ending with a massive purple head that shone with pre-cum. As I watched he came down between my legs. I felt the wetness of my vagina as his massive crown moved inexorable towards it, seeking entrance.
I was crying out, “yes, darling, yes.” I felt the tip of his penis touch the lips of my vulva and he said softly, “Mother, mother…”
He was about to plunge into me when I awoke, startled. Peter was indeed standing over me, but beside the bed saying, “Mother, mother, it’s time to wake up, we need to get started soon.”
With the awakening came the bitterness of loss – the loss of something I had wanted very dearly. Impulsively I extend my hand to Peter and was about to try and complete the dream when moral consciousness prevailed and I said,”Help me up.”
He grinned down at me and said, “Feeling a bit stiff after yesterday, are you?” I tried to smile back at him as he pulled me up. I had completely forgotten that I was naked and as I rose from the bed I heard him gasp. I grabbed a blanket and covered myself, and without a word he disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
I dressed slowly, all too aware that I still retained the genital wetness and firm nipples inspired by my dream.
Nothing was said about what had happened; in fact we both seemed to be rather introspective, saying little about anything.
We began the days trek by walking beside a fast running creek and then sloshed our way across some marshy ground until we emerged on to a dirt road. We passed through rolling farmland for about an hour, and then went back on to the trail to struggle along over rock rubble that could slide away from under you, throwing you off balance.
I think thrown off balance describes how I felt that day. Both of us seemed to be introspective as we plodded along saying very little. What was engaging Peter’s thoughts I did not know, but mine dwelt on the events of the night and my state when I woke in the morning.
I felt as if a demon and an angel were battling inside me, or perhaps I should called it vice and virtue.
The demon kept saying, “He’s a young man sexually at his most potent. He needs a woman, a woman who will show him the delights of the female body, who will guide him in the ways of satisfying a woman’s needs as well as his own. He lusts for you, so what if he is your son? You are man and woman alone together, what more natural than you should be drawn to each other?”
The angel fought back: “He is your son and from the beginning incest has been abhorrent to humankind. There are laws which forbid it, moral principles that oppose it. We must control our baser instincts and if we love such as our children we must rise above the carnal to a spiritual love. Remember the warning that consanguinity results in deformed and mentally handicapped children.”
“Aha,” replied the demon, “the mere fact that there are strict laws regarding incest betrays the fact it frequently takes place. And why should you deny yourself and your son pleasure? Come, be brave, no harm will come to you or him, and it will deepen the bond between you.”
“No, cried the angel, it will destroy the beautiful bond of filial love you might have experienced.”
So it went round and round in my head. One good thing that came out of this inner conflict was that I did not notice the soreness of my shoulders from the rucksack straps, or the insipient blisters on my feet.
Twice we stopped for a rest and a bite to eat and in the mid afternoon we approached the hostel. This time we had to collect the key from a house near the hostel and I asked the woman who kept the key if anyone else was using the hostel. I was praying that she would answer “Yes,” so Peter and I would not be alone for the night. She shook her head. My prayer had fallen on deaf divine ears.
This hostel was more up to date than the previous one, with showers, a well set up kitchen, running water, electricity and two separate sleeping rooms instead of the partitioned area as before.
We took our showers – separately I hastened to add – then sat around for a while. I was inspecting my feet for signs of blisters. Next day we had the longest march of the whole trip, with many hills to tackle; a walk that would take us about eleven hours.
Peter, seeing me looking at my feet came over and said, “Let me massage them for you.” I lay back on the sofa where I had been sitting and extended my feet. Peter knelt before me and began to gently massage.
I think it was the very tenderness of his touch that set the fire burning in me again. I wanted to reach out and touch his hair and face, to kiss him and….
“You see how tender he is with you?” the tempter said. “He loves you and why not, you’re an attractive woman, you know many men have desired you. He desires you, so confess, you desire him for he is a good looking young man. You love him, so what more natural than that you should give him the fullness of that love, the ultimate physical union of man and woman?”
“No,” countered the angel. “The love of son and mother must not be like that. It must go beyond the desires of the flesh. Confess you dread the thought that he will defile you and himself with foul lust, forever shutting out the love that might have been. And are you not afraid that he will fertilise you? You are still fecund and may bring forth a child begotten in sin.”
“That feel better, mum,” Peter’s voice interrupted the inner warfare.
“Yes darling, much better thank you.”
He continued kneeling in front of me, and laying has hands on my thighs said, “You have very pretty feet, but then, you have a very pretty everything.”
A quiver of pleasure speared through me. His sweet compliment, his hands on my thighs, so close to my womanhood, had set my nipples hardening again and my vagina to lubricate. I felt as if he had only to touch my lips with his and I would yield to whatever he wanted of me.
“That’s it,” said the demon, “let go, stop resisting, you know you want to.”
“Resist,” countered the angel, “Set aside these base feelings of concupiscence.”
“I’ll start to get some food ready,” said Peter, rising, and jerking me once more out of the battlefield that was me.
A moment before I was sure he was about to try and seduce me, but his mundane offer to prepare the meal seemed to shatter that idea. Part of me felt relieved but the other part felt almost aggrieved. Had I been deluding myself that I had inspired sexual desire in him? Was it all a foolish fancy; the wish to be desirable to one’s own son; the need to be convinced of my own sexual appeal?
I had once heard it said that if a mother was not beautiful in the eyes of her son, then who would think her beautiful? On the other side, if a mother does not think her son attractive, then what woman will?
Well I was certainly finding Peter attractive much to my discomfiture.
As we ate Peter said casually. “We can sleep in the same room tonight, can’t we?”
I was taken in the flank with this question but said, “Oh…I suppose so, if you really want to.”
“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked a little anxiously.
“No darling, of course not, why should I, after all we are mother and son so we don’t have to hide anything from each other.” I knew there were things we should hide from each other but was not going to say so.
That evening we were both restless. We idly scanned some old magazines that had been left by previous hostellers. There seemed to be much getting up and down and pointless tidying. Finally I came upon a story in one of the magazines and settled down to read it. It proved somewhat erotic in its content and the demon and the angel began their arguments again.
“You’re ‘over the hills and far away’,” whispered the demon, “so who’s to know?”
“The eternal eyes are upon you,” contradicted the angel.
I kept hearing Peter sighing, and looking up at him I saw his eyes upon me. I caught him like that several times, but then, I suppose he caught me looking at him.
Despite the fact that we had a hard day ahead of us we seemed to delay bedtime. I began to wonder about undressing. Should I modestly go into the shower recess and strip, then cover myself with a towel and sidle into bed? Or should I climb into bed as I had the previous night and undress under the covers?
The demon and the angel had quite a bit to say about that.
Finally Peter stood up and said, “Time for bed, I think.”
As he stretched and yawned I decided that all was well and that he really was tired, so I cast aside modesty, and agreeing with him, we went into the bedroom.
With our backs to each other we undressed and when we were naked Peter said quietly, “Good night, mum.” The demon and the angel fought, and the demon won that round. I wanted to see my beautiful boy in all his young nakedness, so I turned to face him. I make no pretence; I was ready for penetration, my nipples hard and vagina leaking lubricant. I looked at him and he was indeed beautiful. The weight lifting had made him a fine muscular figure, not in that rather grotesque manner one sees in some weight lifters, but in a still slender and robust manner.
Men have the disadvantage of having difficulty hiding the sign of their sexual arousal, the erect penis. Women are less obvious in that respect, unless the man knows how to read the signs of the hardened nipples and the moist lips. I thought that Peter, being sexually inexperienced, would be unable to read the signs.
I could read his; the bright eyes with their dilated pupils; the body tremor and above all, his erection and beneath his blood engorged shaft, testes that looked as if they were swollen with his semen. His manhood stood up long and hard, the crown of his penis shining with pre-cum. We stood, looking at each other, neither of us daring to move. Then almost as if it was someone else doing it, I moved to him and took his penis into my hand.
He gasped, “Mother…mother…” the echo of my dream the previous night. He seemed to sag at the knees and slump against me.
“I began to slowly move his foreskin over the crown of his penis saying, “You’re beautiful Peter.”
My inner struggle was over; the demon had won. I wanted Peter and it was all too clear he wanted me.
“Over the hills and far away,” sang the demonic voice.
“It’s all right darling,” I said coaxingly, “no one need ever know. Just lie down and let me help you.”
“Mother…mother…I’ve wanted…wanted you for so long…”
“I know darling, just lie down and everything will be all right. Just let it all go into me.”
There were only single beds available, so I gently persuaded him to lie down. No need for refined love play, we were both too far gone for that. Foreplay could wait until later, for now we had to free ourselves from the urgency of our overstrained libidos.
I sat astride him poising my opening over the crown of his penis, and then I slowly let him enter me. He gave a low moan and his hands came up to fondle my breasts. I felt his hard hot shaft penetrating me, fitting tight to the walls of my vagina. I could not hold back a sobbing cry of my own.
I had been penetrated many times before, but somehow this was different. This was my son entering the place through which he had entered the world and he was also approaching the place where he had been conceived. Supposing…but no, that was impossible. Bern and I had tried often enough. Yet suppose…a child of my child!
His length was completely inserted into me and I let him rest there for a moment, flicking my vaginal walls round him. He moaned again and said, “You have such lovely breasts, mother.”
I clenched his shaft again and asked, “Do you like that darling.”
“Oh God yes, do it again.” I flexed my vagina again and held him in my grip for a few moments, then releasing him I began to move on him saying, “Put it all in me, sweetheart, just let it all go.”
His cries became rhythmic as the first surge of his sperm was released from his testes and was thrust up his shaft to break loose from his urethra and hammer into me. I sought to move in time with the pumping of his testes, thrusting down with each new ejection of his hot young semen.
I felt the first warnings of my own orgasm begin to agitate me and I hung for a few moments in that limbo of dread of the coming climactic agony and eagerness for its delicious torment. I wanted to stop and go on at the same time, but I was beyond the point of no return.
The orgasm convulsed me with violence beyond all my previous experience. My fluid combined with Peter’s massive injection of sperm began to slither out of me. My screaming and weeping joined with Peter’s howls in a frenzied cacophony that must have been heard kilometres away.
“I love you…I want you…I need you.” The words were wrenched from me by the ferocity of our coupling. Crazed with the joy and anguish of our union I was begging and pleading, and despite the fact that I was the one in control I cried, “Don’t stop…don’t stop…stay with me…don’t stop.”
But stop we had to eventually. Even after he had shot the last of his sperm into me I continued to move on his gradually slackening shaft, struggling to satisfy the diminishing shudders of my orgasm. Even that ended and I leaned over him, my breasts brushing his chest, softly kissing his face with moist lips as I repeated, “I love you…I love you…”
Finally I withdrew from him. He winced as I pulled my vagina over his nerve tingling crown, exiting with a sucking noise. Forgetting we were on a single bed I went to lie beside him and nearly fell off the edge of the bed. He had to save me in very unromantic fashion; clutching hold of me to stop the fall on to the cement floor.
Somehow we managed to tuck ourselves in together, our bodies pressed against each other. I could feel his wet sticky penis against my belly and the cocktail of our juices oozing out of me. I was lying on my side facing him and the fluid was running down one thigh onto the bed, gradually cooling as it left its warm haven.
This was proving very uncomfortable so I suggested a shower and an attempt at cleaning up the bed. The latter was achieved because we had brought our own sheets and we had been using my bed, so Peter’s sheets were still unsullied.
Since I had the greater embarrassment of our joint outpourings I showered first while Peter changed the bed sheet. When he returned from his shower naked and displaying another erection I decided to go for broke with him.
I got him lying on the bed again and saying, “Now, my darling, we’ll see just how much you love me,” bestrode him again, only this time placing my sex organ over his face. My legs were wide apart. I gave him a few moments to view my female equipment, guessing that my inner lips would be at least partially displayed.
“Lick me there,” I commanded, and lowered my vagina to his mouth.
For a moment he gasped and spluttered, but then seemed to get the idea and I felt his tongue entering me. I kept control of the situation and after a while I lifted up the little hood covering my clitoris and redirected his tongue to the sensitive little nub of nerves.
I gave little flickering jerks with my sex organ and wondered how he was coping with my fluid and female aroma. “Well, I’ll find out eventually,” I thought. “He’ll either hate it, in which case he might never touch me again, or he’ll love it and he’ll become an unstoppable lover.”
From what I felt going on down below I was getting the distinct impression that Peter was enjoying himself. The storm signals began and my next orgasm was on its way, overtaking me like a gale force wind. I put my hands behind his head holding him tight to me and began to squirm myself over the poor boy’s face.
He seemed to be able to inspire the most ferocious orgasm in me I had ever had. I was wailing and sobbing and commanding him never to leave me all at the same time. He certainly wasn’t going to leave me until the consummation of my delightful agony.
Fluid must have been pouring out of me onto his face, and when my juddering came to an end and I moved away from him I could see the ravages I had wrought. His face was soaked and I could even smell myself on him.
“Now for it,” I thought apprehensively, “You shouldn’t have done that, Zoe, not so early in the relationship. The poor boy must think I’m a sexual monster.”
I needn’t have worried. He looked up at me and smiled, saying, “Can we always do that, it was great.”
I smiled back and decided his acceptance of oral sex with me deserved some reciprocal activity on my part. He was still stretched out on his back, so I kissed my way down his body until my face hung over his penis. I took the beautiful length of flesh into my hand and brought its crown to my lips. I took it into my mouth and began sucking and licking along its hot length.
I could hear his cries of, “Ah…ah…ah…” and then there was a sudden upward thrust and he was firing his load glutinous love juice into my mouth.
Since he had already ejaculated once I had anticipated only a small amount of sperm; I was wrong. I had not taken account of the potency of youth and its ability to quickly replenish the store of semen. I swear he must have discharged a bucket full. I tried to swallow the salty fluid but it was too much for me and it was running out of the corners of my mouth.
When he was finished I managed to bubble out through the gluggy mess. “Well, darling, we do know a bit more about each other, don’t we?”
“My God, mum, will it always be like this?”
That seemed to signal that from his point of view there was going to be more of “this”. That is one of the dangers I suppose. You might think to yourself, “This is just a one time thing,” but if that “one time” proves wonderful and deeply satisfying, and my activity with Peter had been exactly that, how did you stop it right there?
I suggested another cleansing; I to get the last of Peter’s sticky sperm out of my mouth and from other parts of my anatomy – the stuff seemed to have got into the most unlikely places – and he to get my discharge off his face.
In the process of this cleaning up the battle began to rage again.
“You have sinned and will pay the price,” said the angel, adding, “You have defiled yourself and him.”
The demon countered with: “It’s the best you ever had, isn’t it, and you want more, lots more? It’s done now, there’s no turning back, so enjoy.”
The demon had won the debate. For me there could be no turning back whatever the outcome.
Returning to the bedroom it became a question of who slept where. I think we could easily have gone on playing with each other and copulating, but there was the hard day ahead of us. It ended up with me sleeping in the bed with the sheets and Peter making do without a sheet.
Sleep came, but some time in the early hours I was awakened by Peter’s hands fondling my breasts.
“I want you again, mum,” he pleaded.
It was no hardship for me, and since we were both so new to each other, sexually speaking, it was understandable that we wanted each other very badly. I pulled back the covers and drew him down on top of me so that I could kiss him. I am sure he had never been deep kissed, so I had to train him in that as well, but his male instincts led him to my breasts.
It seems odd to me that the male wants to caress the female breasts and suck the nipples. Then come to think of it, the female wants the caressing and sucking, and can even orgasm while it is done to her.
I certainly welcomed Peter’s loving of my breasts. It was as if he was my little baby again and I was feeding him. I told myself I was feeding him again now, but it was for a different sort of hunger – the hunger of the mature male to ultimately impregnate the female. The fact that we were mother and son seemed to add to the force of that desire in me as well as in him; could his seed penetrate to the place where he had been conceived and fertilise me? Could I…dare I…have a child conceived in love with my son?
I felt safe in thinking these things since I knew it was not possible for me to conceive. For years Bern and I had tried to produce another child and had achieved nothing.
For the first time Peter took me in the yielding so-called “missionary position.” He had not yet learned the art of holding back his orgasm so he shot into me fairly quickly. I did not orgasm myself, but felt a great pleasure in serving him.
When it was over we slept again.
Next morning, despite the shortage of sleep we seemed almost exuberant and ready to face the long walk to the next hostel. We even sang as we walked, rejoicing in each other and the natural world around us.
I had anticipated an eleven hour hike, but it turned out to be thirteen hours. This was because during the course of our halts we twice made love on the grass. Thus we staggered into the hostel just as it was getting dark.
This place had no showers but the rest of the facilities were good. I should like to say that we spent another night of love, but in fact we fell into bed to sleep the sleep of exhaustion.
The next morning we were stiff from the exertions of the previous day, and we were thankful that the distance to the next hostel would be covered in about four hours. In fact the walks to the remaining hostels were over far easier country and this meant frequent copulating at night.
We ended our weeks hiking feeling very fit, except that I had a sore vagina due to so much usage. We caught a bus that took us back to the city where Bern picked us up.
“My God you look fit and well,” he chortled. “You must have had a good time.”
Peter and I agreed that we had indeed had a very good time.
That night Bern needed his share of me, and despite the sore sex organ I served him as best I could.
The question now arose between Peter and me, “What do we do now?” We had had our hike; we had made frequent love; we had enjoyed ourselves hugely. Was that the end?
We both knew that it couldn’t be the end. We were deeply involved with each other sexually. We had added this dimension to our relationship and neither of us was willing to let it go. It had become too precious to us and we were too hungry for each other.
We knew that Bern must never know so we acted with great caution. We could only share a bed together was when Bern was away on business. The only other times were when Bern was out at work and Peter at home. It was four weeks after our week’s hike that I realised that the impossible had happened; I was pregnant. The question was whose was it, Peter’s or Bern’s? Short of some sophisticated tests that would never be known, but given that Bern and I had never succeeded and that soon after my entering a sexual relationship with Peter it happened, I had little doubt about who the father was.
Bern was amazed but pleased. “After all these years,” he chortled. “My God, that hike must have done you some good.”
Perhaps the years of not conceiving had built up a sort of interest on my womb capital because I produced triplets; three girls.
Incidentally, they were not physically deformed nor mentally retarded.
Peter of course wanted to know if he’d fathered them. I replied that “We’ll never really know.” He agreed, but secretly we both knew who daddy was. After giving birth I made sure to get myself on the pill thinking, “Next time we might not get away with it so easily.”
That was ten years ago now. Peter has long ago finished his medical degree and is in local practice. Bern often puzzles as to why Peter still lives at home with us. I tell him, “Perhaps he has all he needs here.”
Well, that at least is the truth.