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Zinnia Blossoms Ch. 01

Category: Incest
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Part 1: Great Dane,

I think I’m going mad. But that’s not the worst thing.

I don’t know how it got to this point. One moment everything was normal and then… I don’t know. I feel like someone’s reached into my life, twisted around everything I thought was normal and said, “There you go, deal with that.” Nothing makes sense any more and I don’t know how to get back to what I thought was normal.

But that’s not the worst thing.

There’s no doubt that my life – as I know it, anyway – will be over if anyone finds out about this. I shouldn’t even be writing any of this down. I’m going to keep as much of this anonymous as I can without ruining the story but if someone traces this back to me then that’s it, it’s all over.

That’s not the worst thing, either.

The worst thing, the absolute worst, is that I know I’m probably going mad… and I just don’t care.


Back in the days when I was normal I was –

Well. Like I said I have to hide some details. You can call me Zinnia; it’s a flower I’ve always loved. I wanted them planted in my front garden but to be honest I’ve never gotten around to it. It’s not my real name, of course, but sometimes I secretly wish it were. My real name is so dull, just like my life used to be. Just like I used to be – or thought I was.

I’m not that old. I just turned forty-one, actually. That’s not even half a life. People seem to think a woman’s over the hill as soon as she’s past thirty-five but it’s not true.

I’m not going to tell you what country this story – my story – happens in, either. But I will tell you that it isn’t the United States. If you’re in the United States and you’re reading this, feel free to imagine some smoky, hot accent to go with the words. I think my voice is a bit boring but I’ve been told that I should be working on a phone sex line.

Maybe I will…

I used to be married. I’m tempted to give him the pseudonym ‘Fuckface’ but that wouldn’t really be fair. Our breakup was as much my fault as it was his. Probably more mine, really. We don’t talk about it so I can’t tell. We’ll call him Luke (not the Skywalker kind).

Luke and I met in university. We fell in love and it was an intense sort of time. I remember there was a lot of sex back then; he popped my cherry before we were even dating. We both played around a bit with other people but always gravitated back to each other. When he got me pregnant I decided to drop out and he decided to propose. It wasn’t exactly fairytale romance material but it was love. It was real.

My son was born and we both got jobs. Everyone told us it was a stupid thing we’d done – I mean, they were happy things were working out (I think) but they all thought, you know, university romance, unexpected pregnancy, hasty marriage. No way was that going to work out, right?

A few years later we had twin girls and that shut everyone up. Not only that but we renewed our vows. It seems silly to get upset over that now but I miss him. Whoever was at fault I miss him. Maybe I just got used to him. I don’t know. But even when my bed’s not empty at night…

It doesn’t matter now. This isn’t about him except in as much as he left and there was a man-shaped hole where he used to be.

Luke vanished. I don’t mean he went with no provocation; there were months of arguments, years of tension, beforehand. We kept it hidden from the kids as best we could but our marriage was in trouble. He said some stupid stuff, I said some stupid stuff and suddenly the gap between us got really wide, really fast. One day after work I got home to find the twins crying over a note they’d found. Luke had gone and had taken most of his personal things. He wasn’t coming back. My marriage was over.

Seems such a stupid way to start the story but it’s how things went. He left, my girls cried, my son punched a hole in the hallway wall. I kept it together for them and cried myself to sleep where they couldn’t see… but I suppose they could hear.

He really never did come back. The next and last time I saw him was at the divorce hearing. He said he wanted joint custody of the kids; his own children told him (in court, mind you) to ‘fuck off and die.’ He hasn’t seen them since. I wish I could say I’ve done my best to try and convince them to see their father but I haven’t. I’ve told them a couple of times they should see him but I don’t push back when they refuse to. I probably would if Luke bothered to try to keep in touch with them more.

So that’s the stupid story of my stupid marriage and how it ended. Stupidly.

The rest of it… I’ll warn you, it gets a bit weird.


I don’t like television much. I love books and I play on my computer way too much. I read things online and follow some blogs but television really hasn’t ever thrilled me. So the story really starts on my birthday, my fortieth birthday, three years after my divorce.

Let me tell you this much: when I was in high school I was a terrible flirt. I was young and gorgeous and I knew that flirting with the boys got my parents riled so I did it a lot. My first sexual experience was with my older brother’s best friend – we didn’t get too far but he felt my boobs and I sucked him off. He came way too quickly. We were both virgins, you see. When I was in university I was a much, much worse flirt but it wasn’t until Luke and I fucked in the back seat of his car that I really got going. That was terrible, let me tell you. Nothing magical about it. We were both drunk and he could barely keep it up. But he got me off with his tongue and boy! Did that open the floodgates!

Sex in university was fun. I had an awful lot of it. It didn’t bother me too much if it was a cock I was sucking or a clit under my tongue, I was bisexual and I knew it. Even the pregnancy scares didn’t stop me. It wasn’t until Luke and I really started actually dating that I slowed down. It’s probably a good thing I dropped out of uni because I’d completely fucked up my studies. I’d have had to screw my lecturers just to pass – and to be honest I don’t think that would have bothered me in the slightest.

Our sex life after we married slowed down a lot. I was as horny as anything when I was pregnant with my son and Luke got a real pregnancy kink going on for a while but it was totally different with my girls. My libido dropped right off. A typical morning during my first pregnancy saw me bent over a kitchen bench with my belly hanging down, Luke’s cock pounding in and out of me like a piston while I shrieked at him to go harder, faster. During my second, though, I was lucky if I could summon the desire to swallow a load of Luke’s juice before he left for the office. Work was bad for Luke around then, too, so we didn’t fuck at all when I was carrying the twins. And after that, I don’t know, we just never got back to our usual steam.

But with the exception of my second pregnancy I’d never gone more than a few months without Luke in me. Not since we met at uni; even when we weren’t dating we were fucking on the side. I wish I could honestly say everyone we were dating knew about it, too, but I can’t.

Three years without sex was maddening. The very day after the divorce I spent about sixty percent of it, I think, masturbating and crying at the same time – I’ve got no idea what I was thinking, so seriously, don’t ask – and then bam, no libido for six months. My best friend told me I was ‘licking my wounds’. Licking was the furthest thing from my mind but I sure as hell felt wounded. After that it took another six just to get comfortable enough to masturbate again at all. All three of my kids live with me. The twins are just starting university themselves and my son helps with the rent, mostly because if he didn’t I’d have to move out and he’s got this thing where he doesn’t want anyone outside the family having the home he grew up in. Fingering yourself when your kids might hear – adult kids who know what masturbation sounds like – is intimidating. At least it is for me. Was for me.

I started masturbating, really, when I started playing MMOs. You can meet some seriously horny people on those games. That was a really fun time – I met a bunch of people and joined a guild who were all into the same sorts of things as me. Hell, we were role-playing orgies just as often as we were raiding or anything else. At one point the guild leader – she was so hot – even built a secure room in our Ventrilo server and started fucking herself so we could hear. She was a hell of a screamer so it was a mess of shrieking, buzzing and wet, sexy noises, punctuated by the men and women of the guild frigging themselves and accidentally hitting their push-to-talk buttons now and then.

And yeah, I have to admit – I joined in. I hadn’t been so damn wet since… I don’t know how long, really.

But then things went wrong and people got angry. Arguments broke out, people got jealous, girls got bitchy, guys butted heads and before you knew it the whole guild just… imploded. I stopped playing MMOs after that. I was a bit heartbroken, to be honest. They tell me that kind of thing happens all the time but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

So my attention switched to Tumblr. A friend suggested I start a blog there. I’ve no real idea why but it certainly gave me things to, um, think about. There’s one dirty mother in particular I found early on when I first joined and her posts are really fun. Most days I spend a good while in my room with a towel on the chair under me and my fingers working hard, the other hand on the scroll wheel of my mouse.

When I get going really hard I put a foot up on the desk, too, to kind of brace myself and open myself wide for some deep fingering or a toy. I don’t squirt – I wish I did – but I get really wet so the towel’s important.


I’ve gone this far through the story – well, the backstory, I guess – and I’ve only just realised I haven’t described myself. I bet you’re wondering. I’ll warn you, though – I’m going to be honest.

Once I had really long hair. It brushed the top of my backside it was so long. I had to braid it or risk sitting on it. That’s all gone, though. Not long after my divorce I went a bit… crazy, I guess. The stress of the situation, I suppose. So I shaved my head. No, really, I mean off completely. I even took my leg razor to it. Not even fuzz left, completely bald. Then I let it grow back and when it got to the right length I had it done in a cute pixie cut and I’ve kept it that way since. My hair’s a really rich red. Most people think I’ve dyed it but it’s all-natural. When I let my bush grow it’s like a tangle of brass wire but I usually keep that shaved as smooth as I can.

Don’t let anyone fool you, guys; it’s a pain in the arse for girls to keep ourselves this hairless and neat so if your girl’s hairless you’d better fucking appreciate it. And if she’s not hairless you’d better fucking appreciate that too.

I’ve got long legs. I used to be a model, actually, between my son’s and my twins’ births. Not a big flashy model, no runways or anything, just clothing catalogues. But I’ve got the legs still. I’m lucky that they’ve stayed shapely. They lead up to an arse that’s nice and rounded but, I don’t know, maybe a bit big? I’ve always struggled with my weight and I’ve got a few extra kilos on me. I’m not fat but I’m definitely curvy. No wire-thin girl, me. My twins have the same shape, too – rounded boobs, rounded arse, good waist, long legs. We’re hourglass ladies. Our waists aren’t wasp-thin or anything but we can turn heads and seriously, get us in corsets and we’ve got all the eyes on our curves.

I have a lot of freckles and really fine skin. It probably sounds lovely but it means I have to stay indoors a lot because I sunburn way too easily. Just a bit of sun makes me freckle all the more, too. My shoulders and back particularly. I got teased for it a lot when I was younger and then, surprise surprise, after my peers passed puberty I was suddenly getting attention of a different sort.

My face is pretty but it’d be prettier if I had green eyes. I don’t. I’ve got kind of steel blue eyes. My face would probably be a lovely heart shape if it weren’t round – that’s the extra weight talking, you see. I like my lips, though. Cupid’s bow lips, maybe a touch on the thin side, but when I gloss them up they still look luscious and young.

And I have really nice boobs, too, a lot like my twins do. Mine, however, aren’t entirely naturally so. I mean, I am in my forties and I have breastfed three kids. I started to sag after thirty, just like my mother did, and the extra weight didn’t help. Then when my marriage started getting really rocky I took some of my savings and got a boob job. You know, to try and keep his interest. Seems silly and co-dependent now but even though I still lost Luke I did get to keep a nice pair of tits so I figure – a bit spitefully, I admit – that it was a net gain. I only really got a breast lift, I didn’t get implants or anything, but it was enough. They’re the sort of breasts that people want to grab and hold. My best friend’s always got her hands on them when she’s a bit drunk. Her husband doesn’t seem to mind. Actually he seems to really like it.

Before you ask, no, I haven’t fucked either of them. She’s seen me naked but in different context; he hasn’t so much as seen a nipple. He gets all red when he’s watching the two of us flirt, though, and his pants get very… bulgy. So I know he’s interested. I guess it might even be a possibility. It’s just never really come up as a topic of serious conversation. Not even when we’re drunk.

When I get up I have a shower. I usually play with myself just enough to get really hot – I can rarely cum when I’m not sitting or lying down – and then I put on my robe and go online in my room for a while to finish myself off. On a good day I’ve got my leg up, propped against the edge of the desk, and I’m going at it really hard with a dildo or my fingers, trying to cum as hard as I can but trying to keep my voice down. When I’m really close I start making little squeaking noises and I have to bite my lip hard, my nipples go very solid and I start sweating all over. My skin goes red, too, starting in the cheeks and going down until my whole chest is a bright rosy colour in a kind of bib between my breasts.

That’s the hot mess I was in when my son walked in one day.


Falling over backwards off your chair isn’t a fun thing to do and it’s really not conducive to a good hard orgasm. Watching your dildo bounce across the floor leaving a trail of your own juices, that can be fun, but not under those circumstances.

Poor Dane. He had no idea what to do. His mother had just hit the floor with a loud bang. Her head had just smacked against the floorboards with a worrying thump. His first instinct was to come forward and help.

I, of course, was mortified. I covered my face with one hand and yelled at him to get out; it took a second yell for him to actually go, blushing redder than my hair and stuttering apologies. I heard him go back downstairs at a pretty high speed. It was only then that I actually put a hand back to check how much damage I’d done the back of my head. It hurt. I’d have a lump for a while.

What? What were you expecting, “Oooh Dane, Mummy’s got a problem you can help her with”? Life doesn’t work that way.

I went downstairs some time later, after I’d dressed and felt like facing my son wouldn’t make me die of shame on the spot. No orgasm that morning.


Dane was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. He never drinks coffee unless he’s scared or stressed, otherwise it’s tea. He wouldn’t look at me as I went to the freezer and got a bag of frozen peas out to soothe the back of my head with. We were both red-cheeked. I sat down opposite him and we still didn’t look at each other for a while. I knew he’d gotten a prime look at me. I’d been right on the edge of orgasm when he came in. There’s no way I could pass off what I’d been doing as something else.

So I did the only thing I could think of.

“I’m sorry, honey,” I said.

The look he gave me was outright disbelieving. “What? I walked in on you, not the other way around.”

“Yes, but I should have… I don’t know. Locked the door.”

“There’s no lock on your door.”

“Well, I shouldn’t have been… Doing that.”

There was a long pause then. The door banged open and my twins came through, Sally and Sandy. Not their real names, any more than mine is Zinnia or Dane’s is Dane, but they’ll do. Sally and Sandy are identical twins and they look a hell of a lot like I did at their age. They barely paused to look at Dane’s coffee and my expression; the bag of peas confused them but they passed on into the living room giggling about something that young people giggle about.

“I’m calling bullshit, Mum,” Dane said quietly after the girls had left.

“Pardon?” My eyebrows rose; there’s no way he’d have spoken to me like that when his father was around but now that Luke was gone things had changed. I’d insisted that since Dane was contributing to the house financially that he could speak to me as an equal breadwinner, but it was still a bit surprising when he actually did.

“You were -” He cut off and looked toward the lounge room. The sound of the television was on (that’s something my daughters and I don’t share). “You were getting yourself off. You weren’t strangling puppies.”


He blushed. It’s not the sort of thing he’d say and he knew it. There was a long awkward pause.

That pause was broken by the lounge room door banging violently open. Sandy was storming through and she had Sally right on her heels.

“If you hit Mum I’ll cut your fucking dick off and feed it to you,” she warned in a low, dangerous voice that made it clear she wasn’t joking.

Dane and I stared at her.

“What?” he managed eventually.

Sandy looked uncomfortable, as if it weren’t the reaction she was expecting. “Her head. She’s got a hurt head. If you -”

“I fell out of bed, Sandy,” I said, sounding a lot more tired than I felt. Sandy has, I hate to admit it, my temper – she jumps to conclusions without really working out the steps in the middle. “I fell out of bed and bumped my head.”

“And couldn’t get up in the mooorning!” Sally sang cheerily.

“Something like that,” I admitted.

“I wouldn’t hit Mum,” Dane said softly. “I wouldn’t ever hit her.”

Dane is a big man. Luke isn’t as big, he had the same sort of height – a little over six feet – but where Dane has filled his frame in with wiry muscle Luke’s is softer due to years of office work. The way he said that, though, I thought he might burst into tears. He sounded so hurt. Sandy heard the tone too. She didn’t apologise but she did retreat back into the lounge room, shame-faced. Sally shrugged at us and headed after her sister.

I stretched out and put my hand over Dane’s. It was a carefully-washed hand. The fact is that if I hadn’t washed it then it would have smelled like, well, me. That fact didn’t escape me but I made sure not to take my hand away.

“It’s not your fault, Mum,” he insisted. “It’s his fault for leaving you alone. And it’s mine for barging in on you.”

“Maybe,” I began hesitantly, “maybe I should start looking at dating.” It was a suggestion I wasn’t overly excited about and I’d been cautious about voicing it around my children.

Dane’s hand tensed up under mine. His eyes grew dark and troubled; he drank more of his coffee. But eventually he nodded.

“Yeah.” He had his be-strong-for-Mum voice on. “Maybe.”


Dane works as a courier. It’s good money, really, and it’s only local for the most part so he’s usually home. I had him when I was twenty so he’s twenty-two now. My girls, on the other hand, don’t work at all. They go to university and often aren’t home for days at a time. They’re both nineteen. I have no idea what Luke does and I don’t care either, but I hope it involves bleeding. I, on the other hand, work at home.

I’m an editor and I work primarily online both freelance and for a pretty major publishing house. As long as I get my work done the day is pretty much mine so I wasn’t overly concerned about not having gotten off that morning. That my son had seen me in all my pre-orgasmic glory (and I have to say that thinking on it there are far worse things to see) was far more of a concern. So I got in contact with my best friend and she was around as soon as my son was gone for the day.

Linda is a cutie. She’s short, she’s blonde and she has the sexiest curves ever. She’s sort of like a modern-day Marilyn Monroe. What she’s not, however, is a prude. Or, for that matter, particularly subtle.

“So what did you do?” she asked when I told her about it. “Did you keep going?”

“No!” I was shocked. “I fell off my chair and yelled at him to get out. What the fuck, Linda? He’s my son!”

Linda shrugged without concern and drank some of the tea I’d given her. It’s very hard to tell when Linda is being serious because while she is possibly one of the broadest-minded people I know she also often says things just to get a reaction.

“I bet he’d have loved the show,” she mused as if considering whether it was going to rain later in the week. “I bet he would. I would.” She didn’t seem to notice that I’d gone crimson and continued unabated. “You could always find out, I guess.”


“Okay, okay,” she said, holding her hands up. “You know me, always shooting off at the mouth.” She grinned, then. “Mind if I tell Nate about this?”

“Yes,” I said hotly, “I mind a great deal.” Nate is Linda’s husband. “This is strictly between you and me.”

In the end it was decided, mostly by Linda, that this wasn’t the end of the world and that what I really needed was a night out on the town. No dates, no stress, no work. A night out with the girls (in which ‘the girls’ meant Linda) and a few drinks to merry the evening on. I agreed to that. Mostly to shut her up about my son watching me paddle my pussy.

To tell you the truth Linda’s always been good at talking me into a heat and it was working. That, more than anything, scared me. Maybe if she weren’t so good at talking it up I’d have put the whole thing behind me.

Or maybe not.


The night out was a shambles. In fact I’ll go to far as to call it a fucking shambles. I mean that literally.

The city I live in is huge. It’s a major metropolitan area and there are lots of night spots about. My house is actually in a suburban area but it’s only a short taxi ride to the CBD. That’s where we went, with Linda at the helm and me pulled along for the ride.

At first I was uncomfortable. A couple of women in their forties can get some negative attention both from the younger, firmer women about and from the men. A couple of vodka-and-Cokes cured that, though, and while the first bar we hit was a bust the second was far more promising. We sat there watching people eye us off, flashing some leg and slowly getting ourselves well past tipsy. Now and then a guy would come up to try and chat us up – to chat Linda up, rather – but she’d invariably flash her wedding ring and chase them away.

It wasn’t until we went to a nightclub that things got really heated.

We’ll call the place Avenue 8. That’s not its name but it strikes me as a good name for a nightclub so that’s what we’ll go with. The cover charge was low and we got into the throng of dancers pretty quickly.

My best friend, as I’ve mentioned before, has a tendency to let her hands wander when she’s drunk. There was plenty of touching as we danced, Linda’s hands wandering over my curves, which were snuggled into a somewhat stereotypical little black dress. I didn’t expect the kisses she laid across my neck but I wasn’t complaining. I wasn’t quite ready to kiss back but I certainly let my hands do a bit of wandering of their own.

As a matter of fact my hands had been squeezing and kneading Linda’s beautiful rear for, oh, a good couple of minutes when I spotted Sally watching we from across the room with eyes so wide I thought they’d fall out of her head.

I froze and Linda half-stumbled against me. I watched as Sandy came up to her sister, passed her a drink and sat down to watch as well. They’d both clearly been keeping an eye on the action for some time.

Linda didn’t help. She looked up at me (I’m a bit taller than her), turned and let out a laugh. Then she snuggled up against me and moved my hands up to her breasts – much, I might add, to the delight of a couple of guys dancing nearby.

“We didn’t need to leave,” Linda complained as I dragged her out of the club.

“We fucking did,” I snapped. “You were giving a girl-on-girl feel-show to my daughters. Doesn’t that strike you as being a bit weird?”

She just shrugged. “Ten minutes more and I was probably going to drag one of those cute guys out and suck him off anyway,” she admitted.

“Is Nate okay with that?”

“Yeah,” Linda said in an offhand kind of manner. I wondered if she’d care even if he weren’t that permissive.


When I got home – without Linda – I couldn’t help but admit I was all but dripping. I couldn’t even tell you why, to this very day, but the night had wound me up like a top.

So, what’s the smartest thing to do when you’re half-drunk and horny with no safe release? Stop drinking, of course.

I kept drinking.

My head wasn’t hurting any more but it also wasn’t clear. And I was drunk, sure, but I can’t say I was plastered. I sort of wish that I could. It’d be nice to have someone other than myself to blame for how the night ended.

Dane came in very late. He’d been working hard and he was angry. I heard the slam of his keys on the kitchen bench as I sat in the lounge room with a shot glass and a bottle of wine. Having shots of wine, if you’re wondering, doesn’t make you get drunk quicker. It’s just a bit of silly fun. Dane let out a laugh when he came in and he pulled a seat up to sit next to me.

My head lolled a bit and I knew for a fact that I looked more drunk than I was. I’d learnt to do that in university and it was a skill that hasn’t failed me yet. People forgive a lot more honesty when they think you’re rat-arsed drunk.

“You’re drunk, Mum,” he observed, accurately.

“Yeah, bit,” I admitted. I stared at him. Then I stared at my glass. I was tense and worried. There was a lot that I wanted to say to him but I didn’t want to hurt him. “‘Bout this morning,” I began, but he cut me off.

“I’m going to need a drink as well if we’re going to talk about this,” he admitted. There was a pause as he fetched both a shot glass and an unopened bottle of very good vodka. He doesn’t look anything like me but he has my tastes in drinks.

We shared a drink or three and didn’t talk about much – his work, his bastard of a boss, the two very arrogant companies he’d had to run courier jobs for. I could see him getting relaxed and when I leaned a little against his arm he didn’t pull away.

“Dane,” I tried again, “this morning…”

“I’m sorry, Mum. I wouldn’t have come in if I’d known.”

I grinned a cheeky grin. “Should I leave the door open a bit so you know next time?” His blushing face made me laugh and I bumped his shoulder with mine. “I’m kidding,” I said, “don’t have a heart attack.”

“So… You’re not mad at me?”

‘No, I’m not mad at you.’ That’s what I wanted to say. That’s what I should have said. ‘No, I’m not mad, let’s just put it all behind us.’ But that’s not what I said. That’s not even close to what I really said.

“I was so close,” I said in a dreamy kind of voice, both flushed and horrified to hear my own voice. “If I’d kept going for just a moment I’d have cum all over my fingers.”

There was a long pause.

“Er,” Dane tried, but words failed him.

I burst into tears. The shame of it, the stupid shame, telling my own son how horny I’d been and feeling like I couldn’t stop. It was wrong, I knew it was wrong and I wanted so much to be a good mother, but I wanted him and I couldn’t get past that one basic, carnal fact. I covered my face in my hands and he, probably automatically, put his arms around me.

My head turned and my lips caught a kiss meant for my temple. It was a chaste kiss, one that I knew was coming. I can’t even say it was an accident. It really wasn’t. As soon as I felt his lips touch mine I wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and kissed him hard.

Dane didn’t pull away but he also didn’t respond. He was frozen there, completely out of his depth, no idea how to react. I could have apologised then, backed off, and things would have been… Well, they would have been fucking weird between us, but it would have been a relatively normal weird. Instead I pressed on, buoyed not by courage or even really alcohol, but instead by a rush of lust that had my free hand snaking down to clutch at the – yes, I wasn’t imagining it – growing bulge in my son’s pants.

“Mum,” he said softly as our lips finally parted, but I cut him off.

“Fuck me,” I said in my smokiest, most seductive voice. I felt him shiver and leaned in for the kill, so to speak. I kissed the lobe of his ear, nibbled and sucked it, whispered in it. “I need it, you saw how wet my pussy was.” Dirty talk is something I love doing and I was using it like a weapon that night. “I need my pussy fucked by a nice hard cock. You’ll fuck me, won’t you, honey?” My voice twisted into a gentle, butterfly-light plea. My eyes, big and wide, looked up at him. Vulnerable. Begging.

And all of it a ruse. I wasn’t begging. I wasn’t vulnerable. I was a half-drunk, horny woman determined to break a three-year-long drought on the end of her own son’s cock.

Speaking of, Dane didn’t stop me when my deft fingers pulled that selfsame rod from his pants. God he was hard!

“Mum, we shouldn’t -”

“Oooh,” I breathed, pumping him with my hand while I leaned up to block his objection with another kiss. I pulled one of his hands to my boobs and, after a moment’s hesitation, felt his fingers close around one of them in a gentle squeeze. When I felt his resistance slip I moved down and kissed the very tip of his lovely cock before slipping down it, my lips a perfect ‘O’.

My son isn’t circumcised. I find the practice to be barbaric. Luke was and while I never minded I swore early on that my son wouldn’t have a perfectly healthy strip of skin clipped off his willy for no good reason. If it became medically important then absolutely, but it never did.

It was mostly retracted – they do that when the penis they’re on is hard but I nonetheless took immense pleasure in rolling that foreskin all the way back with my lips. He sat stock-still, probably a bit scared, but I reached for one of his hands and put it on the back of my head. Brief pain flared up from the bump but then I lowered my head and my son’s magnificent cock slip into my waiting, hungry mouth.

Dane’s cock isn’t a monstrous thing. I could exaggerate and say he has a huge snake dangling between his legs but he doesn’t. It’s around six inches (which is actually slightly above average, don’t let anyone tell you it’s not) and it curves upward slightly. In fact I found the angle to be hard to work with – my teeth got in the way – so I slipped off my seat to kneel in front of him.

The feeling of a man’s shaft gliding down my throat… I’d missed it so much. I love giving head. Dane’s taste is similar to Luke’s, I found, but also uniquely different.

When Dane pulled me off his rod I let out a small, pitiful whine. Now I was begging. No more pretence, I needed to get fucked and I didn’t care that it was Dane, not any more.

“Not here,” was all he said, putting his cock back into his pants and slipping off his seat. Those were the last words he said to me all night.


I followed him upstairs. The lack of cock was unsettling to me and in my tipsy state I wasn’t sure if he was going to just put me in my bed and leave me. I thought I’d pop if he did.

He didn’t.

He didn’t take me to my room. He took me to his. That was the first sign that I was about to get what I wanted. The second was that he locked the door behind us. His door did have a lock. I wasn’t the first girl to see the inside of his room, either, and it belatedly occurred to me that even if his sisters came home and heard thumps and whimpers they’d assume Dane had brought some new girlfriend home.

I stood very close to him as he turned around, brushing my hands over his body. His own touched me, very gently, as if I’d suddenly change my mind. A hand came close to my bosom, hesitated, and I leaned against it, kissing his collarbone as I did so. His hand wrapped itself around my breast and I pulled his head down.

“Please,” I whimpered, almost crippled with need. “Fuck me. Now. I’m not kidding and I’m not running away.”

I grabbed his belt and walked backward to his bed, pulling him with me. Looking up at him I sat down, my face level with his crotch, a hand running over the cloth-covered bulge.

He groaned and put a hand over his face as I undid his belt but he didn’t back off. When his cock bobbed out of its confines I could see and smell a bead of precum on the end.

No more preamble, I decided, and I showed Dane how good his mother is at giving head.

Hand and mouth worked in unison, spreading saliva up and down his length, bobbing hard as I fucked my mouth with him. When my hands started pulling his pants down he let them fall, stepping out of both them and his underwear obligingly as they struck the floor. My tongue swirled around the head as it slid between my lips and I worked my way down to the very base of him (after a couple of uncomfortable false starts), deep-throating my big boy. When my hands weren’t flat on his thighs they were massaging my breasts, pinching my nipples through the dress, or frigging my increasingly hungry pussy right through my already sodden panties.

My fingers spread my juices around. When I said that I get wet I mean really wet. The back of my little black dress had a wet patch on it from where my cunt had hungrily leaked on it. Now I spread my legs and rubbed the rough fabric of my underwear hard against my swelling clit before letting my fingers slip beneath to glide in my sodden folds. I’ve been told I have a gloriously sexy pussy and it was running like a tap. I made sure to get the tight ring of my arse glistening and damp from my spilt juices, not sure where my son’s tastes would take him but wanting to be ready for anything.

I whined again when he pulled his rod free from my mouth but I could tell from the tight way he gripped the base that he was close. He didn’t want to finish yet – such a considerate boy! – and I didn’t want him to either. He kissed me hard on the lips, as if exploring the taste of his own dick, tongue gliding over mine. Then he leaned me back on the bed until I was lying.

The skirt of my dress rolled up for him very easily. I’d forgotten how easy it was to make myself ready for sex in that dress, which is odd because that’s one of the reasons I originally bought it. I ran my fingers through Dane’s hair as he nudged around my pussy, taking up position between my legs. His breath was a thrill of pleasure over my cunt. Tears ran down my cheeks, guilty tears of shame, but I didn’t stop him. I rocked my hips. I wanted more.

The first touch of his tongue on my clit almost made me cum then and there. I know that sounds made-up but it’s true. I was so wound up and what we were doing was so naughty, so thrilling, that it almost overtook me. It didn’t take too many long, enthusiastic laps to set me off, either, and I heard a noise of surprise as my already damp sex became much more so, my thighs shaking in orgasm.

I couldn’t see – it was too dark – but I felt his fingers exploring. They slid into me, examined the rough texture on my front wall, the silken depths further back, the puffy ring of my cervix. I heard his laugh as, so deep in me, his fingers made me arch and rock. Fingers prodded at and tempted my arse, the tight hole flexing and relaxing rhythmically.

Then he started moving up my body, pulling my dress as he went. It got caught about halfway up and there was an awkward, less-than-sexy moment when I was forced to stop him and unzip for fear of ripping the garment, but soon it was over my head and off.

I could see him kneeling over me, looking me over from neck to knee, barely hidden in my underwear. I saw his cock twitch in anticipation and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to hide myself and run in shame, or to spread myself and demand he finish what had been started.

He made the decision, in the end, by kissing my neck and working downward. He tried – and failed – to get my bra off single-handedly so I gave him some help with that and my breasts bounced free. I heard his breath catch and he stopped, staring, for a few moments. A huge grin crept across my lips as I pumped his rod with one hand.

My son’s a boob man, I noted gleefully.

Then I lifted my hips and slid my panties down my legs as he watched. I carelessly tossed them to one side where they made a lewd, soppy ‘splat’ noise as they hit his wardrobe. Finally I stretched my arms out to him, welcoming him.

He didn’t take the offer immediately. He pulled his shirt off first. Naked and glorious, a heated silhouette in the dark, the sight of him made my heart leap and melted the core of my sex.

That turned into apprehension and then, as he lay down, near panic. He suckled on my nipples, one at a time, and the every thrill made me wetter and more scared. As I felt his shaft rub up and down my painfully swollen clit I let out a terrified squeak.

“Please,” I begged, “gently.”

The absurdity of it didn’t seem to strike either of us. Here we were, about to commit incest in the most definite and undeniable way possible and I, his slutty, dirty-talking cock-sucking mother, was begging Dane to be careful with me. It felt like I was a virgin again, helplessly vulnerable in my man’s arms, quivering in delight and fear at his every touch.

Then a moment of hot squishy pleasure as the head of his cock teased my folds. Then a heated pressure and I felt him gliding into me.

It ripped a squeal from my lips. I couldn’t help it and it was out before either of us could stop it. My pussy walls were swollen and, gushy mess notwithstanding, I was tight. I felt every inch, every fraction of an inch, as he pushed into me for the first time. One of my hands grasped at his tight bum and the other at the back of his neck. I felt like he was crushing the air out of me with that one thrust. Then I felt his pubic hair tickling my clit and his heavy balls bump gently at my arse.

He was in. My boy was in. My own son was fucking me.

“D-dane,” I whimpered, “y-you’re fucking your mother.” I felt him stop. He could hear the panic in my voice. “And she f-fucking loves it.”

Then he kissed me. Hard. I felt him pull back and it was like having something impossibly valuable taken from me. I let out a ragged breath as he pushed back in and I knew, without a doubt, that this was really happening.

He glided into me over and over and, with the glorious motion, I began to let him in more easily. He grunted now and then as I clenched around him reflexively, my legs locking behind his back to keep him from pulling all the way out. I wasn’t concerned about pregnancy; I was on the pill just to keep the worst of my period symptoms down. My tits were squashed against his chest as he thrust and I kissed him, oh, how I kissed him. I was still crying, silent tears that I couldn’t really understand, but every time he tried to slow down I’d tighten my hands on his backside and urge him on.

I think I came before he did. Or it was at the same time, I’m not sure. I know it wasn’t the feeling of him tensing, pounding deep and twitching as his cock spurted his cream deep into me, nor the feeling of that sticky cum spilling out and down my skin, because when I felt those things it extended my orgasm. I came so hard and so long, biting the meaty flesh of his shoulder and muffling my scream as best I could (which wasn’t, on reflection, very well).

He collapsed against me, sweating. I kissed his shoulders, held him tight, kept him close as the final aftershocks of his orgasm drove the last of his cum into me. I could imagine that juicy cream coating my cervix, swirling in my cunt, and I wanted more. I needed more. I just needed to stop panting, needed to give him time to rest, perhaps give him a blowjob to get his cock hard again –

I fell asleep.


When I woke up it was in my own bed. My head was pounding and there was zero chance of thinking straight. So I lay there in my dark room, watching a curtain twitch as a gentle breeze tugged at it, ran my fingers over my slick cunt as I thought.

Obviously it was a dream. A weird, horny, shameful, wrong dream. It hadn’t really happened and while I shouldn’t be playing with myself thinking about it there was no harm in a little fantasy, right? It was Linda, that’s what it was, talking about such naughty stuff and then feeling me up on the dance floor. My cheeks burned as I remembered my daughters watching but they hadn’t seen anything too bad, right? Just a pair of friends mucking around. And that night with Dane certainly hadn’t happened.

I lifted my hand to my lips and licked my juice from them. I licked a stronger taste off them, too, a saltier and more masculine taste. Closing my eyes, then, I sighed heavily and let my hand slip down again.

No denying it, then. I’d fucked my own son.

And he’d been good. Not the best I’d had but then we were both drunk. The next time would –

Shaking my head so hard it hurt I sat up, angry with myself, furious. No next time! There’d be no next time! Once was forgivable, perhaps, but a second time? No way, no how! There was no chance of him pushing his thick rod into me, maybe from behind, bent over the kitchen table perhaps. No possibility of his manhood breaking the seal of my arse and invading the hot depths of my rear, splashing white cum into me, definitely no option of having him decorate my freckled face with his scented goo…

That’s when my fingers, working hard between my legs without really asking for input from my brain, drove me right through the first orgasm of the day. I didn’t need Tumblr that morning and that climax definitely wasn’t my last – or my wettest – before I went down to breakfast.


Dane was there with a cup of coffee in front of him. He swallowed hard when he saw me. I was still wearing my robe and rubbing my head. Bad headache. Without speaking I went straight over to the kettle. There was silence in the kitchen – not a comfortable silence – as I made a cup of fresh tea.

Stepping over to Dane I took the coffee from him and put the tea in its place. He opened his mouth to object and I put my finger in it. I’d washed my hands – had a whole shower – but the implication was very clear.

“No,” I said firmly. “No stressing about this, you hear?” My mouth was a firm line. “Last night… no regrets. Don’t you have any either.”

Dane pulled back from my finger. Then he screwed his face up into a cynical, doubtful expression and nodded slowly. I nodded back and sat opposite him, finishing his coffee. God how I needed coffee.

“It’s just,” he began, and then stopped.

“What?” I asked. He flushed deeply but couldn’t bring himself to speak. “You want it to happen again?”

Dane coughed on his tea. I waited until he’d recovered. My expression made it clear that he wasn’t going to dodge the question. He thought long and hard and then, ruddy-cheeked, he nodded.

“So do I,” I admitted.

I still can’t work out if he looked more relieved or dismayed. If I’d told him ‘no’ it’d be an easy out – for both of us.

“Next time the girls are going to be out for the day,” I said gently, “we’ll discuss it more. Okay?”

“Okay.” He nodded. That wasn’t too confronting.

We went the rest of the breakfast talking about normal things. Finances, my computer, his car, the weather. It was… odd. Like this strange and special part of our life had just been put aside for a while. It felt, somehow, very right – and that made me wonder all the more if it were very wrong. We ate bacon and eggs with toast, had a second cup of tea each, I complained about my headache and giggled to watch him blush.

Before he went off to work, though, I leaned up and kissed him. It seemed completely natural. After a second he kissed back – not a demand, more of a recognition. Yes, that kiss seemed to say, things are different now. And we don’t know how much different but we’ll see them through.

Then he left for work and the day, somehow, seemed both normal and impossibly strange.

I didn’t get much work done but I did dream a lot.


And the next time the twins were out… That’s another story.

— The End… For Now.

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