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In View of Vesuvias

By: Catmoore



It started, well for me at least it did, when you were studying for your A levels, you were just over eighteen. You asked me to test you. I would spend hours in your room asking you questions on all the various subjects you were studying; perhaps doing the things a father should have done, but he had left us. When you had just become a teenager he had gone in search of perpetual youth. Abandoned us for his own ends, left us to search for his perfect life: being seen by others to still be young. He had gone to where the grass was greener, the skirts shorter, the stomachs flatter, and the legs longer and open wider. Yes, gone to the land where younger girls fell at his feet, because of his youthful looks or his turbocharged Bentley and platinum Amex? Who knows? It must have been a narrow choice for the Essex and London club land bimbos he fucked most nights.

We got used to being a couple. You still saw him and the one noble thing that remained of our mostly great marriage, was his and my intent to save you from the more extreme aspects of your parents divorcing. I never badmouthed him to you and I never stopped him seeing you, we totally ignored the court's access laws. 

So we were together a lot; more than most mothers and sons. Unlike many, the divorce brought us closer together; closer than most mothers and sons. At first I, certainly, thought nothing of it, were just mum and son, weren't they all close and friendly like us?

I can remember, as clear as crystal, my first thought along the lines that society so frowns upon. Well I think I remember it, but the enormity of it, at the time, was so great I may have imagined or dreamed about it.

I was in a bathrobe, a dressing gown, a silk one, no buttons, just a tie round the waist; with plunging, narrow lapels. I had just showered. You asked me to help you with some school work. I came into your room. It was an airless room because, for some reason I never quite fathomed, you kept the windows closed and the door was usually shut. It smelt of you, it smelt of a man, it smelt, I suddenly found myself thinking as I saw your gaze run up and down me, of sex.

As I sat next to you, leaning forward, both of us staring at the PC screen, I was aware that the front of my robe was gaping, that my tits were hanging loose and that most of them were on view. I was also aware, that under the desk the outsides of our knees were touching. But what I was most acutely aware of was that I felt aroused.

Peter

When dad left, I felt abandoned - very much alone. I saw him regularly, but it didn't change the fact that he had left me, left us. I wasn't too popular at school; not to say I was unpopular, no one bothered me, but no one paid attention to me either. I wasn't that into sports and I really enjoyed studying, aspects of school life that doesn't make foe popularity.

I had no one really, no one to turn to, no one to guide and teach and help me. No one that is other than you, my mother. But that was fine, I felt cool with that. You were always there for me, always willing to listen, always kind and loving, always helpful, caring and considerate. I loved you, and we were happy.

But age has a way of separating a boy from his dear old mum. And naturally, as I grew up, I started thinking about girls and sex, and forgot about my mother.

Or at least, I should've. But I didn't.

At first, it was a mild interest, you'd bend over to pick something up and I'd check you out; you'd be getting out of the shower and I'd be around, chatting normally; I'd bring you breakfast in bed so I could see you in your nightclothes. I'd find any excuse to be around you, and as I smiled and chatted normally I'd imagine you taking off your clothes and kissing me.

Like all guys my age, I'd masturbate at night and fantasise about beautiful celebrities, girls from school and the English teacher every guy in my year had a crush on, but somehow I'd always end up thinking about you as I brought myself to eruption point. I'd imagine my lips on your breasts, my kisses on your neck, your soft naked flesh pressed up against me. The woman of my dreams was in the next room and I was too scared to do anything about it. But that woman was my mother. If I told her, she would think I was a freak. I'd have to live with dad. Or maybe they'd lock me away.

Was I sick?

Then, there was that night. I heard you getting out of the shower and called you into my room for some trivial problem with schoolwork. You entered my room, a silk bathrobe hanging casually over your slender frame, rubbing a towel on your damp, blonde, near shoulder length hair. You looked up at me and smiled warmly, your bobs jiggling around inside the robe, reminding that under it you were likely to be naked.

"What's up love?" You asked, and I very nearly told you, 'My cock mum, its sticking straight up my stomach.' But instead, I directed you to the PC and shared my problem. You sat next to me and stared at the screen as I stared at you. You were magnificent. Your gown had fallen open slightly, giving me a tantalising view of your breasts, the soft, pink flesh right to the edge of the nipple. I fought the urge to reach out a hand and touch you. But I had to do something.

Under the desk, I let my knee touch yours. It sounds silly now, but it was all I could think of. I had to touch you, and I couldn't think of any other way. You didn't move away, and I took that as a positive sign.

All too soon you had solved my problem and I had no other reason to keep your attention. You turned to me and smiled. For a heartbeat we sat, face to face, smiling with mere inches between our lips. All I had to do was lean forward.

But I couldn't.

"Well," you said. "I'm off to bed." You leant in and placed a very hurried peck on my cheek. Any slower and I might have 'accidentally' turned and let our lips collide. It didn't occur to me at the time that you might have known, and that you were facing the same temptation.

You stood, and bade me goodnight. I smiled, and reciprocated, leaning forward casually and praying that the desk would hide my erection.

You left, and the atmosphere went with you - the tension, the lust, the heat. I turned my TV on to hide the noise and fell to my bed. My hand went to my boxers as I thought of the feeling of your knee against mine.

After I came, I had a moment of clarity. Our knees had touched, you hadn't pulled away; I was tempted to kiss you, and you had awkwardly pecked my cheek. For the first time I began to consider the possibility that you felt for me the same way I felt for you.

The thought alone was enough to make me rigid again.

Cat

Since becoming a grown woman, I don't think I have tried to pick up a man or, as more commonly said, I don't think I've tried pulling a bloke. Partly, because for a lot of that time I was happily married partly, because I haven't needed to, they have pulled me, and partly because I haven't wanted to; I find it rather distasteful.

So when I realised that I was nearly trying to pull my own son, I went into the most enormous depression, which lasted for weeks. I don't recall why I suddenly started looking at you differently; I can't remember why I began seeing in you a different light. Yes of course I still regarded you as my child, as my son, but also I looked at you as a man, as another person, oh God yes, I at last had to admit it, as a lover.

The trauma was enormous, the guilt was stupendous. What sort of person am I, what type of mother am I, and what sort of woman am I? Those questions were with me through those last few months of you being a schoolboy. I pondered them endlessly as you finished your exams, took the long summer holiday and then prepared yourself for Durham University with four straight As and A stars. I was so proud of you and so ashamed of myself.

I thought of hardly anything else as so many little things happened. Things I think I really made happen. Actions and gestures I took. Views and glances, exposures, little touches, innuendos and double entendres. Small at first, nothing too obvious. For fuck's sake how could I be obvious, I was doing them to you, my son? Why was I doing them? There was no way anything could ever happen. It was so wrong, you were well adjusted and I was normal. Wasn't I? And normal mothers didn't think such things let alone do them, do they? No, mothers don't fuck their own sons, well not from where we come from at least.

It wasn't every day or even each week that something happened, between us. But was it really between us? Surely it was only me, not you? Wasn't it? 

It was irregular, infrequent and usually mostly unplanned. A word, a glance, a touch, seeing you in your bedroom, in your bed or walking around scantily dressed, could trigger something in me. As could me being in a robe and it gaping so you could see my breasts. In a way that was nothing new. Since you were a baby I had always sunbathed topless on Spanish beaches or around Greek swimming pools. But that was different. Flashing parts of my tits at you at home was intimate; exposing all of them on a beach was impersonal.

There were other actions that would suddenly make those feelings of want and guilt well up in me. Seeing you glancing at my breasts in tight clothing, me sunbathing in a bikini when you came home from school, resting my hand on your shoulder, leaving the bathroom door open, calling you into my bedroom, perhaps when I was drying my hair with just a towel wrapped round me, our eyes locking and holding for just a tad too long and deliciously, now and then, our knees pressing together when we sat side by side at the PC.

I found myself doing such things more often. I found them happening, inadvertently I told myself, more frequently. I realised they were becoming more overt, more obvious, more extreme. It was almost as if I wanted to be found out, as I wanted you to catch me, expose me and, I guess, revile me. The serial killer syndrome I have read about, they go on killing and killing, taking more and more risks encouraging being caught, until they are and they can tell their story.

Often then, as we had neared Easter of your second year in the 6th form just after your eighteenth birthday, I would imagine what it would be like if I simply said to you. "Peter I want to have sex with you." What would you do, how would you react? I guessed you would hate me and probably leave and go and live with your father. I also wondered what would happen if you told anyone and the police found out. Is it an offence to say that? It's probably one to do it!

But I didn't say that. But I did imagine what it would be like. I imagined that often, very frequently, most days and usually most hours probably. I thought of what it would be like if you replied "And I want to have sex with you mum."

I wasn't having sex with anyone at the time. But then after a brief mad spell when the divorce came through and I tried being a thoroughly modern 21st century woman and had sex with a number of men in a short period, I hadn't had sex much. So as usual, since I broke with your father I was frustrated. I always was and being around you made me even more so. So I masturbated a lot and at the time that had become daily and sometimes twice a day. And there was now only one masturbatory topic, one person, one act. You fucking me.

"How about I borrow, Peggy's house in Italy for a week before you go to Durham I asked one evening? "Could you stand a week in Sorrento with your old mum?"

"It would be great, I'd love it," you quickly replied. 

"You sure, there's not a lot to do for you out there."

"I've got a lot of studying so that'll be fine."

"Right, we'll fly the day you break up, ok?"

The idea of a week in romantic Italy, in the hills behind Sorrento in Peggy's, beautiful old rambling villa, with just you and me, thrilled me. Us, together, away from home, in a different setting. It made me think perhaps, maybe, possibly, hmmmmm!!!

Peter

I'm sat at my PC when she enters my room. She doesn't say anything; she just walks towards me, places her hands on my face and smiles. I begin to speak, but she places one slender finger on her lips and gently shushes me. She leans in and places her lips on mine. They're soft, warm and moist. I drink in her scent.

She comes up from the kiss and smiles again. I'm speechless. Again, she kisses me, and again I feel as if I'm in heaven. She breaks the kiss and moves back a little. Her eyes holding mine, she reaches down and with one fluid movement she lifts her sweater up, over her head and off. She drops it to the ground, puts her hands either side of my face and slowly presses her big, bare tits against my face. Now I know that I am in heaven as the soft, smooth, warm flesh engulfs my face.

It lasts longer than the kiss, and I boldly place a hand on her leg. Her skin is smooth. As she kisses me, I move my hand higher, gently lifting the thin, silky fabric of her skirt. She eases her breasts away from me and for a brief moment I feel I've gone too far but she's smiling and slips her arms behind and quickly undoes the clasp and zip of her knee-length skirt and pushes it down her long, slender legs. So quickly from the moment she had entered my room she's stood before me in no more than a black lace thong. For a split second a look of self-consciousness flashes across her eyes, for a moment I see that she's concerned that she's with someone so much younger, so I put an arm round her, pull her close and kiss her deeply, silently trying to let her know that she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Her mouth opens a little and for the first time our tongues meet. They playfully tease each other, gently probing and feeling as we press our bodies together.

I lay her back on the bed behind us, and kiss her again. Then I kiss her neck, and slowly move down towards her breasts. I lick and kiss them, sucking on them and gently teasing them with my teeth. As I suck at her nipple she cradles my head in her arms and for a moment she's my mother again, and I'm her son. Then I lift my face and continue kissing my way down, and she's my lover again.

I kiss over her stomach, running my tongue over the soft skin and continue down, and all too soon I'm between her legs. I'm sliding her knickers down her legs and she's totally naked, exposed right in front of me. I kiss the inside of her thigh, where her skin is softest. She can't suppress a tiny wriggle as I gently grind my teeth on her. And then there's the moment where I can't tease her any more and I have to do it and in one smooth, slow motion I run my tongue right over her most sensitive area. She moans softly, arches her back and grunts deeply as I lick her for the second time. She's already so moist. She tastes like heaven.

I run my tongue over her lips again and again, getting faster and more confident as she moans in response. My tongue feels her opening, begging for something inside, so I raise a finger and slide it in. She bucks slightly as I probe inside with my finger, while playing with the small pink button hidden in her pink lips with the tip of my tongue. I slip a second finger inside her, then a third and fourth. She's moaning softly as I lift my head. She catches my eye and beckons me with a finger.

I kiss my way back up to her face; she rests a hand on my shoulder as I do. Our hips are against each other, both superheated by passion. Gazing into each other's eyes she nods gently and I move my hips and in one swift movement I'm inside her and all barriers are broken. She closes her eyes as I slide in, all the way. As I reach the top she groans and grips my shoulder tight. I hold for a second, then slide back, only to come straight back in. I slide in and out of her until she's comfortable, then I slowly increase the pace. I'm suddenly aware again of how small and fragile she is, laying beneath me, completely dwarfed by my shoulders.

I build the pace again and she grips my head and draws me to her and I'm holding her body tight against mine and grinding in and out of her and she's holding me and the only sounds necessary are our breathing, our moans and our groans of pleasure. Those wondrous feelings of impending ejaculation start in my balls, they spread through my groins and stomach before consuming my mind and body. I'm ready to cum. I grip her tightly, she responds, one hand running up and down my back the nails on the other digging into the flesh of my arse. I push myself as far into her as I can go and then hold my cock rigid all the way up her cunt. She pushes back. Then, I explode inside her. All thoughts of this being wrong are totally thrust from my mind, so wonderful are the sensations and mental images I gain from fucking this high class whore, my father had taken me to lose my virginity as I imagine she is my mother.

I travel home from the West End experiencing a mix of self-pity and self-loathing, remorse and guilt. 

Mum isn't there when I get home and I go straight to my room. On the way I pass my suitcase, packed and ready for our trip. A week in a quiet, idyllic, romantic setting with the woman of my dreams. The hope of what could so easily happen is washed away by despair. She could never want me the way I want her.

Could she? Ever since the night with the PC there have been moments where I could swear she was flirting. But then, I'm young and hormonal and my ego tells me every woman that even looks at me is flirting with me.

God, I love her. I love her so much.

Cat

You had taken to calling me Cat and sometimes C. The latter always made us laugh with its connection to the spy books by Le Carre; both gave me a little shudder, a little shiver of excitement. It was the informal intimacy I suppose. It was you moving away from mum, but not going so far as to use my name; using my nickname and initials instead. I liked it. It was our little tradition.

The flight had been fine, although the mess at both Gatwick and then Naples had been tiresome. The cab ride from the airport, down the winding road past Mount Vesuvius and the ruins of Pompeii and Herculaneum was scary. Italian cab drivers all seem to think they are Ayrton Senna and they way they drive it's surprising they are not as dead as he unfortunately is.

It had been chilly in England so I was wearing pale blue jeans and a short, thin leather jacket, more of a blouson really, with mid-height heeled strappy shoes and no tights. Under the jacket I had on a scooped neck, short sleeved top in a silky material. 

It was warm in Naples airport and in the cab. I removed my jacket as we pulled out of the car park.

"Here let me Cat" You said taking hold of the jacket as I leaned forward. In the confines of the back seat of a smallish car, struggling out of a jacket is difficult. One has to wiggle and manoeuvre one's body. Stretch one's arms, arch one's back. Even when being helped. And all those movements stretch the material of the garments under the jacket. And it particularly stretches it when the material is covering an ample sized pair of boobs like mine. Yes, removing a jacket not only stretches the material, but also means that you have to push your chest forward. I felt a surge of excitement as I caught your eyes on my breasts. And my chest was pushed very forwards and the thin material was very stretched across them. Both actions emphasised and accentuated my breasts. I turned and smiled about to say thanks. But I stopped when I saw the look on your face and your eyes riveted on my chest. I felt a surge of, unwarranted I was sure, excitement as you continued staring. The surge became stronger as the backs of your hands ran across my shoulders as you slid my jacket off.

"Thanks Peter," I smiled as the cab picked up speed on the winding road taking us out of Naples. I was scared and twice I closed my eyes and gasped.


In View of Vesuvias



"It's ok," you whispered.

"I know, but you know what I am like?"

"Yes, I do," You said as we screamed round a bend almost on the wrong side of the road seemingly out of control. Involuntarily and without thinking, I gripped your hand, you squeezed back, it felt reassuring. My hand was on top of my leg mid-way between my knee and groin. You were gripping my hand, but the back of your fingers were pressed against my leg. Were you actually pressing harder? I wondered. It felt like it, but no, surely not? It couldn't be, could it? Could it?

The cab had now left the winding road and we were on the coastal autostrada. I wasn't scared any more and I moved my hand. You didn't let go though, so I left it there. It felt good, but it excited me and made me wonder whether I was imagining things. We held hands all the way to Sorrento.

I hadn't been to this Villa for ages, not since the divorce I realised as we carried our cases inside and dumped them in the marble floored hallway.

"Let's look round first, get our bearings shall we?" I suggested.

"Sure."

We walked into the lounge and then dining room and the kitchen. They were all large, beautifully furnished and decorated. Outside there was a veranda that ran round the back of the house with steps leading down into the extensive gardens. There were great views across the valley to Vesuvius in the distance. Back inside we went upstairs. There were four bedrooms.

"Hold on, I'll get the cases," you said running back down the stairs and fetching them.

"Tough guy ay?" I smiled.

"Yes C, you've bred a budding baggage handler you know. Which is your bedroom?"

"This one I think," I replied opening a door. "Woops no, that's the small one. Your's and mine must be over the other side of the house."

"Wow C, that bed be big enough for you? You won't get lost will you?"

The fair sized room was dominated by a huge four poster, which I had completely forgotten about.

"I'll manage."

"Well if you get lonely, woops no I didn't say that."

"Well I'm sure yours will be equally nice, although if you like, you can have the four-poster."

We had left that room and were opening the door to your bedroom; you were holding the door open for me and letting me pass by. Our bodies almost touched. I wanted them to, I almost reached out, I almost touched you. Gathering myself I said.

"See its lovely and a nice size."

"Well that doesn't matter as I won't be sharing it."

"I would hope not." I said assuming a mock tone. "You just forget about such things when you're with your mother."

Peggy had arranged for the fridge and larder to be stocked with the basics. So our first night in Italy we had frozen pizza, rocket salad and a light rose wine. It was plenty warm enough for us to eat outside so we laid the table on the veranda and lit the mosquito deterrent. In fact the climate was rather humid and sticky. Thunderstorm weather I thought recalling the quite violent storms that happened last time I was here.

I popped the pizza into the oven; of course in Italy they don't have microwaves, so it was going to be twenty minutes or so before it was ready.

"I'm going to have a quick shower while it heats up." I informed you.

"Good idea, I think I will as well. Maybe we could have a swim after?"

Hardly thinking, I quipped back.

"After. After what?"

"Dinner of course."

"Fuck" I thought, "I'll have to be careful with my silly remarks and double entendres, he's not a lover or even a potential one."

In the shower, I could think of hardly anything else than my hand in yours and your fingers pressed against my leg. My fingers found the very spot as the tepid water poured over me.

I stroked it wondering and wondering if it had meant anything. I you had any feelings like mine? If, I realised with a combination of serious guilt and enormous excitement, you sexually fancied your mother as she did her son?

"You look nice C" you said as I walked into the kitchen where you were seated at the big pine table sipping a beer. "This ok?" You asked pointing the bottle at me.

"Yes of course. You can pretend to be a grown up this holiday," I smiled looking over my shoulder from where I was checking the pizza in the oven. 

"I'll have one too, actually, if you'll get me one."

"What do you mean pretend? I am." You said going to the fridge, getting a beer and walking over to where I was making the salad. You stood close to me, perhaps too close, perhaps provocatively or intimately close?

I could smell your aftershave, see the slight stubble on your face and feel the heat radiating from your body. You were wearing a yellow singlet and blue shorts. You looked awesome.

You were holding the beer bottle at its base, pointing it towards me at an angle from your body, inviting me to take it by its neck. I suddenly felt that it looked so fucking phallic that I wanted to suck it.

I'm sure my hands were shaking as I took the bottle, holding it just beneath its neck, just where the "shoulders" flare out. I held your gaze as I brought the bottle to my lips, as I tipped my head back and as I let the liquid slew into my mouth. I looked at you, at my son as, in my mind, that bottle became your cock.

"Well thanks," I said feeling very confused as I served up the pizzas.

"What for?"

"Saying I look nice."

"That was ages ago."

"So, it was still nice of you."

"Well I meant it."

"As I did my thanks."

I had slipped into a thin, pale pink, sundress. It was made of voile and was fairly see-through and, in anticipation of the suggested swim after dinner, I had put on a bikini. That was white.

We sat across from each other at the candle-lit table on the veranda. It was very warm. Under the table our knees nearly touched. We both ate the slices of pizza with our hands, we sipped the wine and we looked right at each other and chatted. I can't remember what about, only that most of the time your gaze seemed to keep flittering back to my breasts.

"Bollocks," I said realising that the thin bikini and the voile dress would be insufficient; that they would not be thick enough; that they wouldn't provide the cover that the slithers of clothing covering my breasts needed to hide the womanly swelling that was, as you looked at me, taking place. 

"I'll clear these away" I said getting up quickly.

"I'll check the pool," you muttered also getting up and edging sideways towards the steps down from the veranda. 

I looked across at you. Can it be? Is that what it looks like it is? Is he really? Shit he is. My son has got an erection looking at his mother's tits.

Peter

I was on fire. My heart was beating faster than I had thought possible. My cheeks were burning. I was, as unattractive as this may sound, beginning to sweat.

The way you, presumably unconsciously, had handled the bottle had me thinking about sex. The intimate dinner had me feeling relaxed and intimate. The glances and the gestures and the way you leaned in as we spoke had me feeling like it was a sure thing. And the way I could see the outlines of your bikini, your breasts and your nipples through the thin dress had me feeling so horny.

In short, all I could think about was grinding my cock in and out of you, making you moan with every thrust.

But you were my mother, and you were not like that. I was a twisted pervert descending a spiral of delusion and lust over my own mother. I needed to clear my head, but all I could do was stare at your chest. I forced myself to catch your eye, smile sweetly or make some charming, witty remark, but every time my attention slipped, my eyes were drawn back to your breasts. Their soft skin, their curve, the small movement they made as you breathed, the hard outline of your nipples; it was all too much for me.

I think you realised where my eyes were, for suddenly the atmosphere changed. You made an excuse to get up and started clearing away. Embarrassed, I excused myself too, saying I'd go check the pool.

Of course, as I inched my way out, I was suddenly very aware that I had a massive hard on. My instinctive reaction was to hide it, but as you looked across at me I was suddenly filled with courage. Being a little drunk and miles from home made me feel invincible, and I stood proud, letting you notice the bulge in my trousers.

As soon as I was outside I began to wonder if I'd gone too far, but the recklessness didn't leave me.

Outside, I stripped down to my shorts and slid into the water. It wasn't long before you appeared, with a bottle of wine and two glasses. You handed me the bottle and I poured the glasses as you dropped your sundress. For a whole second you were stood over me, wearing only a white bikini. I saw all but the most intimate parts of you, and can still see them when I close my eyes now. You were truly a sight to behold.

You got into the water, coyly remarking that you didn't want to excite me too much.

You had seen my erection.

With your joke, you swam over and reached over me to get your glass. I boldly, but hiding behind a joke, put my arm around your waist and held you, asking "What if I want to be excited?"

You playfully pushed me off, innocently asking why I would want that.

"Excitement is the spice of life," I replied. I would NEVER have said that if I was sober, I swear. But you laughed and we swam around and drank wine and flirted gratuitously.

I was refilling your glass when it happened. I poured the wine in and turned round. We were both drunk and horny, that much was totally obvious. You came up out of the water and there were your breasts, dripping wet and cupped in a white bikini, the bra of which looked to be slightly too small for the fulsome, precious cargoes they were restraining . There was no use trying to look away. You had seen that I was looking, well more staring really. 

Thankfully you laughed, suggesting to me that you were as tipsy as me. "Perv," you teased, and reached for your wine. 

As you did, I put my arm around you again, pulling you close. For a moment your face was just above me. Neither of us spoke. It was clear that this was the moment, now or never.

Shifting my arm, I dropped you down a couple of inches and brought your face to my level. I held your gaze daringly, then leaned forward.

Our lips met. Though it was all me, you didn't move away. I put my hand on the back of your head. This may be the only chance I would ever get; I was going to make the most of it.

Your lips were soft and wet. As I moved mine over them there was no hiding that this was no ordinary kiss between a mother and a son. As if to cement that, I slid my tongue out and parted your lips with it. Your mouth opened and our tongues probed each other, feeling and tasting. It was the most intimate thing and sexually arousing thing that I had ever experienced.

Cat

My head was swimming; I was in a fog, a dream, maybe even a nightmare. I didn't know whether I was drunk, drugged, delirious or deranged. I did know though, that what we were doing was dangerous, maybe demeaning, possibly disgusting, could be disastrous, was certainly disturbing, but potentially delightful.

I was in your arms. You were holding me, you were pulling me to you, pressing your body against mine, squashing mine against yours. 

We were in our swimwear, me a white bikini, you thin shorts: we might just as well have been naked. I wished we were naked, I wanted to be naked for you, I wanted to see you naked, be in your arms naked, and have you naked for me. I could feel your body, so why couldn't I see all of it, feel all of it touch all of it have all of it? Why? Because I was your fucking mother that's why?

But that was ceasing to make a difference. Our family roles and our relationship were beginning to change, rapidly and significantly and for ever. Surely there could be no going back now? 

The dinner had started it. It was romantic, impossibly so. The open air, Italy, the hills behind Sorrento, candles and moonlight, the smell of jasmine and honeysuckle. Us, just us, just a mother and her son, her eighteen year old son. We were away, out of normal habitat. We had drunk too much at dinner. We had flirted; I had become alarmed that I was going too far, encouraging you, priming you, yes, I had to admit, seducing you. It became erotic, impossibly so for a mother and her son.

I pulled myself away, but not before I saw that you were erect. God did that thrill me? The realisation that you had become hard because of me, because of me as a woman, because of me, your mother, as a female, was excruciatingly arousing to me. I felt pangs of such intensity rush through me as I had gone into the house to collect myself, gather my wits, and get myself together. That couldn't have been happening, I had thought, as I fluffed around putting the plates into the dishwasher and getting another bottle of Frascati. Surely he hasn't got a hard on because of me? But you had, for I had glanced over my shoulder at you, expecting to see your back as you went towards the pool, but no, I saw your profile. You were standing up straight, you were looking towards me and yes, I had not been mistaken, you were erect. But not, as at other times when I had suspected you may have been hard, hiding it. It was as if you were exhibiting it, displaying it to me, showing me your hardness. As if you were pleased and proud that you had it.

I was panting, it was hard to breath, my breasts pounded and my clit was throbbing, my legs felt weak and I was sure my womanly juices were seeping. It was such an amalgam of emotions. Guilt and fear with lust and desire is such a powerful cocktail that I feared I might faint.

I had thought of going to bed and leaving you. Of not having the swim, of calling it a day. Yes my mind had said do that, take the conservative course, the safe option, and stay away from temptation. My body, though, told me quite the opposite. Mind versus body. Common sense versus go for it. Safety versus risk. I had tried to resist, to stop my wicked self, to make myself stay away from you. How could I do this? How could a mother have such thoughts, such feelings, such desires for her child, her son, her baby? How indeed? Fucking easily, for as well as all of those things you were also a magnificently built, beautiful and so appealing young man! I smiled as I thought, 'I would fancy him even if he wasn't my son' not that that made me feel any less guilty.

But I was undecided; I had enormous conflicts, considerable traumas. I was pulled both ways. Mind versus body, body versus mind. 

My sundress flittering to the floor like an autumn leaf, indicated the winner. Standing before you in that white bikini clearly declared that; my body was the clear winner!

I was lost now. There seemed to be inevitability about the proceedings, almost as if it was scripted and we were actors in a play similar to if it had been ordained. I was almost salivating at watching your eyes roam over my body. I shivered as I had got into the pool with you, although the water was gloriously warm.

You poured me wine, we drank in the pool. Things were becoming very heady indeed. The warmth, the smells, the moonlight, our solitude and all the other things that had made dinner, firstly, so romantic and then, so erotic merged with our closeness and near nudity, the water and the wine. 

You seemed to be taking over; my baby was starting to direct proceedings with his mother, my son was beginning to seduce me. Could that be possible? Was I sure? Could there be a mistake; might I be misinterpreting the signals and the mood? It had become more exciting, more thrilling, more disturbing and, of course, more worrying. It had also become more unreal, or more real, who knows?

I was in even more of a conflict. Sexually aroused beyond any level I could recall. I was scared. Scared that I was incorrect with my interpretation of events. Scared that I was letting my hopes and desires overcome my sensibilities. Scared that I was wrong about your actions. Scared that you would rebuff me and scared, maybe most of all, about where, what I was doing, would lead us.

I said no, to myself, I willed my body not to. I summoned up all my resistance, my resolve and determination. I did everything I could not to give in. Despite that, I found my mouth opening, my lips parting and my tongue finding yours as we kissed. The relief that you had, I think, initiated the kiss was enormous.

We kissed. Not the kiss of relatives, not the kiss of mother and son, not the kiss of friends, but the kiss of lovers. "Where the hell had you learned to kiss like this," I wondered, as your opened lips squirmed against mine and your tongue plundered my mouth, teeth, lips, gums and throat? 

His tongue is fucking my mouth, I thought, responding far more eagerly than perhaps I should. But I could not stop, I could not hold back, I could not resist my female feelings, I could not stop my body responding to my son's sexual advances.

Involuntarily, without thinking or planning, almost without even knowing, my arms went round you. One just above your waist, the other over your shoulder and round your neck. I hugged you, as I had many men before. I pressed myself against you in the traditional way that two people who are moving towards some form of sex do; we moulded our bodies together and we kissed, and we kissed and we kissed and kissed and kissed.

I felt as though I had been transported somewhere, but all that had happened was that we had moved to the side of the pool. I was pressed back against the marble wall of the pool. Both my arms were round your neck, yours were round my body. One of your hands was in the middle of my back; on my bra strap the other was lower, on the waist band of my bikini panties. Our bodies were touching from our mouths to our feet, under the water. My breasts were squashed against your chest, our legs were intertwined, our toes and ankles touched and rubbed together and our hands roamed the others back. But most significantly; most marvellously; most enticingly; most excitingly and most scaringly was where we met in the middle of our bodies.

Nothing was hidden now for there were no hiding places. Equally, there was no shame or guilt, no ducking the issue or hiding the evidence. There was no pretence, no pretending it wasn't happening and no acting like mother and son. No, your bloated, rock hard cock was planted firmly in the middle of my stomach. Your lovely, beautifully hard erection was sunk into the softness of my tummy. Yes, the base of your massively aroused manhood was forced against my most feminine of places, my pussy and clit.

"Oh God." I sighed, breaking the kiss

"Yes," was all you could reply.

I couldn't think of anything to say, so I kissed you again, this time letting both my arms wrap round your waist. I pulled on your hips forcing you even more firmly against me. Our lips were squirming, our mouths were grinding together and our tongues were delving into the others throat.

My hands slid down, they found your bum, I squeezed it. It felt lovely, I knew what it looked like already, but of course I had not touched it since your sexual awakening. Yours found mine; they also squeezed the two cheeks and that felt lovely as well. You, of course, had not touched that in a sexual way, but on several occasions you had given it a smack in what I had thought the first few time was just a playful way. Recently, I had not been so sure that they had just been playful, particularly when a few weeks ago, I had glanced in the mirror in my room, and saw you looking in. You didn't know I had seen you looking at me when I was just wearing a blouse that ended at my waist and nothing else. So you knew too what the goods looked like that you were now testing.

I wanted to say things, so many things, tell you stuff, explain, discuss and examine, but I couldn't. I couldn't speak, couldn't think of what to say or how to say it. All I could do was make sounds; little sighs, groans and moans whimpers and intakes of breath. You were the same. You were making the same sorts of noises, but in more masculine, gruff tones.




In View of Vesuvias



But then, what could words do at a time like this? What good was explaining or discussing? What part had our minds to play in this? We were indulging our bodies, gratifying our physical need not our emotions. Weren't we? Or were we really venting our emotional needs? Or both I began to realise. But explaining that even to myself let alone to you, as I felt my fingers sliding inside the waist-band at the back of your shorts, was more complicated than my limited eloquence could handle. The bare skin of your arse on my fingers sent yet another massive shudder of want through me. I groaned, deeply, it was such a gorgeous sensation. I groaned even deeper, though, as I slid my hands right up to my wrists into your shorts and felt all of your wonderfully pert arse cheeks. If that was a fantastic feeling, when I then felt your hands following mine and doing the same to me, that was simply indescribable!

You were now following my lead. You squeezed my cheeks when I squeezed yours. You ran your fingers and hands over them, you pinched my bum flesh as I pinched yours and together, still kissing, we cupped each others cheeks. We pulled on them and we squirmed my belly, pubic mound and clit against your stunningly hard, despite the water that was now starting to feel cool, cock.

You followed me as I pushed on the waist band, you followed as I rolled it down, you followed as I slid the top of your shorts over your hips and down your outer thighs. You did to my panties, precisely what I did to your shorts and both were now dangling on our legs near to our knees. Our arms couldn't reach, they had done their job, they had uncovered what we both desperately wanted to reveal, to expose, to see touch and feel; your naked cock and my bared pussy. Our own feet fiddled the interfering garments off and cast them into the pool; my panties floating on the surface, your shorts sinking to the bottom

Your bare erection against me was one of the most exciting sensations I had ever experienced; it was right up there with losing my erection, shagging your dad for the first time and my first dalliance with another woman. Yes having my young son's naked, erect cock up against was simply sensational. I almost had a convulsion when I tried momentarily to imagine what it would be like inside me, but failed. If it was this exciting to have it pressed against me, the feelings to have it in me, were clearly indescribable.

I pushed you back. I looked into your eyes, I smiled, I reached behind me and I undid my bra. I took it off and let that float away on the water as I got my tits out for you.

We were naked together.

Your hands found my breasts and you fondled them nicely. Nicely? What a fucking understatement that is.

But this was not the place. No, it was not the location for a mother and son to make love. A swimming pool was not where my baby should fuck me.

I took your hand and led you from the pool. We picked up the large towels, wrapped them round us and we stood and kissed. I took your hand again and led you into the house, through the dining room, past the kitchen, by your bedroom towards mine. As we approached my room, you leaned round me and opened the door for me. I walked through it as you stood to one side. As I squeezed past you my towel fell to the floor and I walked towards my bed completely naked. I turned, looked at you and held my arms out and said.

"Come to mummy, my baby."

Peter

At first I was scared. We had shared a perfect kiss, full of power and passion. It was the sort of kiss I'd had with a number of girls and with Cassia, my dad's hooker, who had taught me how to kiss. It was the mouth open, lips squirming, tongues plundering type of kiss I had always fantasised about with you. But I wasn't getting just the excitement I had visualised; no other feelings were intruding too.

You had helped me out of my shorts, indicating that it was ok for me to help you out of your panties. And that I did, with a seriously pounding heart and shaking hands. Other than your bra, which amazingly erotically you removed for me, god the confidence that must take and the way that differentiates an older woman from the kids I had been with, we were naked. And then without a word you pulled away. All the old feelings flooded back: shame, confusion, fear. But the look in your eyes washed those doubts away. The love, the acceptance, the warmth and the tenderness replaced them. You took my hand and led me out of the pool. Without the water, I suddenly realised how exposed we were, how vulnerable we were making ourselves to each other, and was amazed that it didn't matter. There was no fear now, there was little apprehension and looking from my totally stiffened cock to your awesomely hardened nipples, I realised there were also no inhibitions.

I didn't question anything as you wrapped a towel around yourself; you were cold and wet, this was no rejection. I simply picked up a towel and did likewise.

You lifted your face to mine and kissed me tenderly, not wildly passionately as we had in the pool, but a quick kiss and then took my hand and led me through the house. You were suddenly so small. You had to reach up when you kissed me, and your hand was small and dainty.

When we reached the bedroom and the towel dropped you made no effort to hide your nudity. In fact I think you let the towel drop on purpose, what assurance, what confidence and what a simply amazingly horny action that was. I was amazed. So much had changed. We were now lovers. You were a beautiful, shapely woman and I was a man.

I took in the whole of you, head to toe. Long curves, large breasts, soft skin and hair that seemed to surround your face like the frame of a masterpiece.

"Come to mummy, my baby," you said, holding out your arms, and once again we changed - I was your son, you cradled and loved me, you were my mother, I loved you.

I dropped my towel, took your hands and you lay back on the bed. You took me with you, and I was lying on top of you, your arms around my shoulders and my arms were around you and we were kissing. Our bodies were pressed against each other, your hips were moving against me and my erection was pressed into the womanly softness of your stomach. I was so tinglingly aroused, that my entire body was acutely sensitive. Unconsciously, as all my male, as opposed to your son, instincts kicked in, I began moving my hips naturally and easy. Your hands were massaging my shoulders, running all over my back and stroking my bum and I was running mine down the side of your body and legs. I fumbled at where our chests were pressed together and wonderfully I was able to get my hand between us. You grunted as I cupped your nice, full breast and squeezed it. To get my hand between us, I had to lift up a little and I took my head away from where it had been beside yours. Our eyes met for the first time since we had come to bed. You smiled; I smiled back as probably we both thought 'Is this really happening?'

With our eyes locked you placed a single kiss on my lips and, still smiling, you opened your legs and drew your knees up.

And suddenly my erection was pressing right against your lips. I could feel the warmth and the moisture. You nodded, as if to say that it was ok, and let me go just enough to put one hand down between your legs and take hold of my penis. 

"We can't have any accidents can we," you whispered expertly, or so it seemed to me, rolling a condom on me.

That was enough to make me shudder. With a small laugh you guided me towards your soft, pink opening. The tip of my penis was against the flesh of your pussy. All that was left to do was thrust.

Cat

Somehow God, or some other superbeing, only knows how, I came to my senses. At really the very, very eleventh hour, it all hit home; the enormity, the taboo, the no going back, the guilt. They combined in one crashing crescendo of comprehension, concern and consideration: I came to my senses. I think it was slipping the condom on you that was the final straw

I started to cry. The sobs wracked my body as I rolled away from you onto my side, my bum inadvertently pressing against you erection.

"No darling, we can't we mustn't," I sobbed. "It's so wrong, we have to stop."

"Oh shit," you grunted, understandably probably hugely frustrated and highly pissed off.

You rolled onto your back, I turned towards you.

"You do understand don't you Peter?"

In the dim light coming in through the open windows and French doors, I could see that you were almost crying. You ran the back of your hand across your eyes.

"Oh yes, yes I do, but I don't know," you whispered huskily.

I felt awful. Partly for being, what in my day was called, a prick tease, but mainly for having let things get so out of hand. Yet part of me felt good. My alter ego, my better self was saying smugly 'You have done the right thing, sex between a mother and son is wrong and sinful.'

I moved a little closer intending to try to console you and make you understand. My breasts touched your arm. It was like an electric shock, your flesh on mine. I looked down and saw that you were still hugely erect. It took all of my will power to stop me reaching out and stroking it. You really did have a gorgeous dick. Smiling, almost, I thought to myself 'Well then a mother would say that wouldn't she?' In my mind I replied' Not about her son's aroused cock she shouldn't'

"I'm sorry mum," you groaned not looking at me I noticed. I wondered whether that was from embarrassment at what we had done or because my nudity might arouse you more, just as yours did to me. I rolled onto my back and thought about the enormity of what we had done and the even greater enormity of what might have happened.

"No Peter, it's my fault, I am your mother. I should have not let this happen."

"I guess you're right M, but I er."

"No going back Peter, it's behind us now. You go to your room and we'll talk in the morning. Things are always better in the cold light of day."

I watched you get out of bed and walk naked, not bothering to pick up your towel, messy sod, from the floor. God your arse was awesome. It was so pert and firm, yet rounded and as you strode away from me it wobbled a little from the sway of your hips and the wiggle of your torso. Even as the door was still closing my hands found my breasts and I knew that it would only be a matter of time before they found the other intimate parts of my body. 

As, in my mind, you fucked me superbly I thought to myself 

'How the hell can we spend the next six days together and not give into the almighty temptations that took us right to the brink of incest this evening, our first night away?'

Peter

I was angry, frustrated to the point of pain. Under the guise of understanding I went back to my own room and grabbed my cock. I was not gentle with myself as I pounded away, fantasising about walking back into your room and forcing you to satisfy me. Jets of sperm erupted from me. I didn't care where they landed.

In the moment of clarity following an orgasm a wave of guilt washed over me. You were my mum, and I loved you. I still do. I shouldn't be fantasising about raping you. I stared at my still-hard cock. It twitched.

I fell asleep sobbing with the pain of a frustration that masturbation could not cure and the guilt of a man who wanted to hurt someone he loved.

The next morning I was expecting awkwardness, but in fact the opposite occurred. It was as if nothing had ever happened. We laughed and joked over breakfast and decided what we were going to do for the day. It was as if we had each separated into two separate beings, and it had been our 'others' that had got into bed last night.

That is not to say I was any less attracted to you. As you brushed against me in the kitchen I still felt a pang of desire, but we acted as if nothing had happened. Denial is indeed a powerful tool.

Cat

I'm not sure that I slept at all that night. I probably did doze off, but it didn't seem like it. With the windows open, the villa didn't have such mod cons as air conditioning, there were frequent noises, windows rattling a little, doors creaking and all the sounds you get with an old sprawling pile like this. Each time I heard something I imagined it was you; you getting out of bed, you opening your door, you crossing the landing towards my room and you outside my room. I could almost feel your presence, but of course it wasn't you, you didn't come to me. I am sure that had you have done so I would not have the resistance I had shown earlier.

I was so nervous as I showered and dressed for the next day. I didn't wear much, but I was careful and I avoided anything tight or revealing. I chose a simple yellow, mid-calf, nearly ankle length, yellow dress with buttons right down the front. It was fairly loose so I guessed I could get away without a bra, something I can well do without during the heat of a Southern Italian day and so under it I just wore a little white thong. 

Looking in the mirror just to check that everything was ok, I was a little worried that when I stretched the material might frame and emphasise my breasts and accentuate my nipples so, smiling, I resolved not to stretch in front of you.

I was amazed at you. You were wearing just a white vest and faded blue shorts. Your muscular, sturdy arms were as bare as mine and your long, toned legs looked awesome. You had a slight tan that I knew from yesterday was nearly all over, presumably from the week in Florida you had spent with your father not long ago. But although the look of you, as it often did, slightly took my breath away, it wasn't that which especially amazed me. It was how relaxed you were and how that reacted on me being able to conduct myself almost as if nothing had happened.

We had breakfast, cleared up and then you asked if I would like to go and see Pompeii. I said that I would, but that I had been several time so you suggested you would go by yourself.

"It's dead easy, I'll run you to the station and then it's only a few stops and it drops you right by the gates."

You left at just after nine.

After dropping you at the station I did some shopping, just the basics for food in the villa. I went back, stored them away and made a call.

"I thought you were arriving last night?" The female voice at the end of the phone asked.

"I did."

"Why didn't you call?"

"It was awkward, I'm with my son."

"I thought you were coming alone?" She asked.

"I was, but things changed right at the last minute."

"I see, how old is he?"

"Just eighteen."

"Well, if he's as good looking as his mother and father he should be lovely."

"Oh he is," I replied.

"Look Caty, I have to got to Roma for a couple of days.

"Oh really?"

"Yes I was going to ask you to come with me, but with your son you presumably can't."

"No Bella I can't, I am sorry."

"That's such a shame, it's a business trip, all expenses paid and I have a suite in the Grassi overlooking the Spanish Steps, very romantic."

"When will you be back?"

"Late Thursday, ciao bambino."

"Bye Bell," I said feeling a little disappointed.

"Oh Caty, also if your son gets bored, you can always give him my number," she laughed, probably more than half serious; Isobella was a notorious man as well as woman eater.

You also called.

"It's fantastic M, you should have come," you said, presumably unintentionally using that unfortunate double entendre.

"Oh I have many times," I smiled back hoping you weren't aware of the way the conversation was going.

"Yes but not on this holiday have you?" You asked rather implying that you were very aware. I decided to be neutral about it.

"What time do you think you'll be home?"

"About one thirty to two."

"That late?"

"Yes there's loads to see."

"Oh ok, you could always go again."

"No I like to just come somewhere once and get the whole job done."

Fuck he knows exactly what we are saying, or rather not saying I thought to myself as I felt a heat building up in my breasts.

I changed the subject.

"Would you like to have lunch in or shall we go out."

"Actually, I saw a really nice little trat right by the station, Troles, I think it was called, we could go there and walk home, save you driving when over the limit."

"How come you're so considerate all of a sudden?"

"Well I don't want to lose my driver do I?"

We chatted on for a bit and then agreed to meet in the restaurant at about two.

I was surprised to see that it was after twelve thirty so I wouldn't have time for any sunbathing. Instead I tidied up the bedrooms, finding myself looking closely at the sheets on your bed. You were generally pretty clean like that, but the occasional stain wasn't unusual. I actually felt a little disappointed when I found none and wondered what had happened after you left me last night. It occurred to me that if your self-induced climax was anywhere as strong as mine it was a wonder that I didn't hear you. It was I walked across the marble that my foot slipped on something and I realised that you hadn't been at all careful at where you let your load shoot.

I didn't need to shower or change so I was ready quite quickly and I set up on the fifteen minute or so walk down the hillside to Trules as it was called. The nearer I got. The more my heart was pounding. I would liked to have put that down to the exertion of walking, but I knew that I would be kidding myself, it was excitement. 

I felt as if I was going on a date. A lunchtime assignation of the sort I'd had during my affair with Charles. But I wasn't meeting a lover was I? I was meeting my son. 

I wasn't going on a date; I was having lunch with my child. It wasn't an assignation, purely a meal with my boy.

Yes my brain reminded me of all those things, but my body wasn't listening. That believed I was going on a date, that this was an assignation and that you might well be my lover. 

As I held the door of the small restaurant open and saw you sitting at a table in the corner my mind played the most terrible trick on me. I saw symbolism everywhere. My arm became a cock, your cock. The door and frame became the folds of a pussy, my pussy. My mind was engulfed by the vision of you lying on top of me last night, between my legs your awesome erection pushed against my lips. 

As I pushed the door open I had that wonderful sensation of a cock surging right up my cunt. I almost climaxed on the spot.

Pater

A day of walking round Pompeii alone did not clear my thoughts as I had intended. I had made my peace with the fact that you would not succumb to me. You could not bring yourself to cross the forbidden boundary, and I was ok with that. I made myself believe that it would not, it could not, happen.

But instead of clearing my mind and moving on, I was preoccupied with thoughts of your naked body. Your lips on mine, your tongue playfully toying with mine, your naked breasts pressed against my chest, your legs wrapped around my waist, and your soft, warm, wet pussy lovingly accepting my cock. Although the tip of my cock pressed right against your lips was a powerfully erotic memory it was the recall of us undressing in the pool that kept coming into my mind. Taking my mother's panties off was without doubt the most sexually exciting thing that had ever happened to me.

Pompeii may or may not exist. I don't remember any of it.

We spoke on the phone. I wanted to scream. We flirted. I wanted to explode. We arranged to meet. I wanted to cum. I had a date with you. The woman of my dreams; a woman so sexy she managed to occupy my every thought.

It was a strange feeling I had in the pit of my stomach approaching two o' clock. I had butterflies in my stomach, a feeling I hadn't experienced since I asked Nicola Spotswood to go out with me in year 9. She had dumped me two days later. I prayed you would never leave me. I would never leave you.




In View of Vesuvias



I arrived first, and got a table on the corner. I was deliberately early, there was no way I wanted you to see me stumbling across a restaurant unable to control my limbs. I sat facing the door; I wanted to see you arrive.

I did not wait long. You arrived in your gorgeous flowing yellow dress, the fabric swaying around you as you walked, like some Disney princess from a cartoon. Only as you approached did I see that every time the fabric swished in one direction it clung momentarily to your body revealing the outline of your curves and a secret only the closest observer would notice: you weren't wearing a bra. I also saw firsthand just how transparent the material could be, though unfortunately not in the vital areas. Still, all that semi-naked flesh concealed only by a thin layer of yellow fabric was enough to make me erect.

"Not going to stand and greet me?" You called me up on my manners.

"Oh mum," I groaned. "You're so old-fashioned." Did my cover work? Did you buy my excuse for not standing up? Young and enthusiastic I may be, but impolite I was not; surely you knew that I would normally stand to greet my date? Your quick glance in the direction of my crouch and the evil smile that accompanied it shocked me into realisation: you had guessed. You were teasing me. But that worked. It broke the ice, it made me feel easier with you and I could see in your eyes the tension diminishing.

"Old fashioned am I?" You said, still standing there.

"No of course just joking," I muttered.

"Well when a son meets his mum in a restaurant it's like a date really isn't it?" You asked an alluringly impish glint in your eye. 'She feels the same,' I thought to myself relieved that we might well be on exactly the same wave length

As you sat, I half stood and leaned over the table and kissed your cheek. You blushed. You weren't the only one with power.

We puzzled over the menu for restaurants in Italy as opposed to Italian restaurants in the UK, present their fare in a completely different order. We worked out though and ordered a light meal. We chatted away with me telling you about how great Pompeii was, but in truth I didn't recall too much for my mind had been so occupied with you and what had happened last night. 'My nearly mumfuck' as I was beginning to think of it.

The food was served quite quickly, but then it was only a small trattorria. We had an amazing seafood pasta with a rocket salad, crispy fresh bread and a jug of the house red. Fabulous.

We chatted so easily as we ate and drank. A second jug turned up and we ordered a bottle of San Pellegrino as well. Most of our conversation was about us, of course. It was part as if last night hadn't happened, but part as if it had, that we had gone on and that we were now lovers. As a lot of what we were saying was hugely intimate we had to whisper and lean close to each other. God knows what the other diners thought, but then this was Italy. We smiled a lot and as the wine got to us we giggled; we were at ease with each other, just as I imagined real, proper lovers are.

We finished the food and ordered espressos; we still had the second jug of wine to finish, not realising that they only charge for what you drink. We were both leaning forward; my chin was resting in my hand. Our faces were close; our knees kept touching under the small table. We were, I suppose flirting again, but then we had been earlier with the double entendres. I couldn't work out whether all this was a sign that now our desires were 'on the table' you could relax because we wouldn't do anything or, whether it was because we would. Back to square one really, but at least now we could talk about it, although I had no idea where we were going as, I suspected you didn't either.

We made confessions as we waited for dessert. We had both wanted what had happened last night for some time, it wasn't a sudden urge, and it had been with each of us probably since the marriage break up. It was hard not to talk about sex when it was all we could think about, all that was consuming and all that was hanging like a cloud over us.

Incest is such a big topic, a frightening one, a taboo, but that was what we nearly committed last night. I pondered for a moment what technically constitutes incest. Is it the actual fuck or is taking your mother's knickers off, playing with her tits and pressing your cock against her cunt lips just as incestuous as having a shag. Not surprisingly as aroused as I was and half pissed, I didn't have an answer to that.

Too much red wine at lunchtime is never a good idea, unless you're looking for an excuse to do something inhibitions forbid or if you want to loosen your tongue; maybe we wanted both.

"It really was the most amazing thing that's ever happened to me," I told you.

"What was?" you asked.

I giggled. "I shouldn't say this."

"Of course you shouldn't, but then we are saying lots of things we shouldn't say and doing things we shouldn't do aren't we?" You said as you scratched the back of my hand with your fingernails. "So what was?"

I leaned towards you and put my mouth to your ear. "Taking your panties off in the pool."

'Fuck I have just said that to my mother?"

You looked up at me out of the top of your eyes.

"It was a pretty amazing thing for me as well Peter," you said quietly and sincerely.

Our faces were almost touching, our knees were pressed together we were holding hands. No one seemed to care. The warmth from your body was intoxicating. My heart was pounding. I think yours was too.

"Peter," you whispered, brushing your cheek against mine.

"Yes," I whispered back.

"Do I really turn you on?" You whispered into my ear. You could see the answer in the way my body reacted, but I said it anyway.

"Yes."

"Let's go home," you said. It wasn't a request. You left money on the table as I tried to hide my erection under the bagginess of my shorts.

The stroll out of town was a pleasant affair. The weather was gorgeous and we walked like lovers, with my arm round your waist and yours around mine. Every so often I would move my hand, stroking your side and occasionally letting it slip down onto the swell of your bum, or you would nuzzle against my neck. It was bliss, but I was almost paralysed by the effects your heated presence was having on my body.

In no time at all, or a whole eternity depending on whether you ask my brain or my cock, we were near to the villa. The lane up to it winds round a field.

"Hang on," you said. "When I was here with your father we used to walk straight across the field not round it. Look there's the gat," you said pointing to a classic five bar gate. It was locked, but that didn't deter us.

"Give me a hand up," you said standing by the gate your hands on the top bar, your right foot in the sandal poised on the lowest one.

I moved up behind you and put my hands on your waist. "Ok at the count of three up we go," I said the sensation of holding you immediately getting to me. You looked right at me as my hands circled your surprisingly small waist. It felt good.

"One" I said, pausing rather drunkenly dramatically. "Two," I added purposefully squeezing you. "And three," I went on lifting you and pulling you against me instead as you had expected lifting you up onto the higher bars of the gate. I pulled you to me, the feel of your breasts on my chest rekindling all the passions of last night.

"Peter, this wasn't in the script," you admonished, but not I noticed struggling to0 get away.

"No but script changes are permissible aren't they?" I replied my face just inches from yours.

"Up to a point yes," you said placing a hand either side of my face and kissing me softly on the lips. "But not too far."

"How far?"

"About as far as the top of this bloody gate," you laughed struggling and forcing your way upwards and onto it. 

You clambered over it surprisingly quickly and elegantly and jumped down the other side. I easily climbed over and jumped down beside you into the field. It was presumably lying fallow for the grass was quite long, knee length in places and it was full of wild flowers and weeds.

We started strolling through the field, up the hill towards the villa. We were alone; it was as if nobody else existed. The sun was warm, there was a gentle breeze, the birds were singing and the countryside smells wafted over us. It was tranquil, almost heavenly and certainly dreamlike. 

You kept teasing me with your words for sure, but also I thought with your body. The yellow dress seemed to be almost permanently stretched tight across your upper body and it gaped beneath your waist pulling at the buttons kidding me into thinking they might pop open and your legs would be revealed. 

I still wonder if you were as in-control as you pretended to be. Could you resist me, or were you as driven by desire and lust as I was? Again I had that feeling of being right back at square one, not knowing where I stood with you and being totally confused over what was happening. But then impending sex with your mother was never supposed to be straightforward was it?

Either way, it was in that field that things came to a head. A little teasing became play-fighting. The sexual tension hang heavy in the air. The play-fight concluded, we continued walking but as you slid your arm back around my waist it slipped under my t-shirt. Your hand on my skin made me gasp. My cock twitched.

"Still erect?" You asked out of nowhere.

"You knew?" I shamefully confessed.

"Of course," you smiled acceptingly. "A mother can always tell," you added jokingly, but then with a more serious look on your face you said quietly "As can a woman."

Our eyes met. I didn't know what to say.

"It's ok," you whispered, running your free hand down the outside of the front of my shorts right across my dick. You gripped my erection and muttered.

"Yes Peter?"

I shoved my cock against the palm of your hand, grabbed your tit, squeezed that and groaned,

"Oh yes Cat, oh fucking hell yes, yes, yes."

I fumbled my hand inside your dress and found your breast. It felt so fantastic that for a moment I though it would make me cum, but I managed to hold if as I squeezed the gorgeous flesh and pinched the hard rubbery nipple.

You were now blatantly rubbing the palm of your hand up and down the bulging outline of my cock and, or so it seemed, pushing your tits against my hand. It was all wonderful.

I looked down. The head of my cock was already poking out of my shorts. You barely needed to move anything to cause the shorts to release it; I pushed at the waist moving my shorts down a bit so that my cock sprang out and was as free to the Italian air as it had been last night by the pool. A dozen strokes, perhaps less, and I couldn't contain myself any longer. With a guttural moan a long stream of white, sticky sperm spurted from my cock. I seemed to cum so much. It was all over your hand, on my shorts and tee shirt and, slightly embarrassingly, on your dress as well. I like to think you watched with delight as my cock twitched in your hand and spurt after spurt was discharged, but I have no idea. My eyes were firmly closed.

When I opened them you were staring straight at me. You replaced my shorts as I reached out with what little strength I had and pulled you to me, unthinkingly putting more of my sperm on your dress. As my breathing returned to normal I held you.

"I love you," I whispered.

"I love you too," you replied.

Cat

As often with elicit love there was an emotional down when we finished. There was also a physical awkwardness about our position. 

We were standing in the middle of field; shielded certainly, but by no means hidden from view should somebody pass by. I was fully dressed even though, the buttons on my dress above my waist had come undone so most of each boob was displayed; your shorts were round your knees. I was holding your softening penis that had some strands of sperm dripping from it looking like the strings from a spider's web. We were leaning against each other, but we were not looking into each other's eyes. Your arm was round my waist; your hand was gripping me just above my bum.

I meant in when I said that I loved you too. However, I meant it in a different way, than I had ever meant it or said it before. Of course I loved you; I loved you as my son as I would love a daughter or any blood relative. I had a caring, considerate and protective love, a guiding and educating love and a proud and expectant of the future love. A typical parental love, a mother's love. But now, and particularly since we had been in Italy, I had accepted and acknowledged the different love as well. It was not just that of a mother and parent, not the protective and caring love for a child, for it was now the love of woman for a man; it was now a sexual love. And I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that masturbating you in that field was taking us one step further towards the unthinkable, the forbidden and the taboo of a mother and her eighteen year old son fucking.

"I'm sorry" I said removing my hand from your still warm and sticky penis.

"Oh mum, Cat, please don't say that," you said looking rather embarrassed as men do after sex when their erection departs. You quickly pulled your shorts up.

"I should not have let that happen," I replied doing up the brass buttons on the chest of the yellow dress. I left the top one undone, but pondered doing that up as well to reduce the temptation; was that yours or mine I wondered?

"It was right, we both wanted it, we both needed it," you said showing an emotional understanding well beyond your years. "But you had nothing."

"Come on let's go," I said purposefully moving a metre or so away from you. "That's ok, Peter, a woman can resist her urges more than a man."

"Like last night," you said meaningfully as we again held hands.

We didn't talk much on the half mile or so stroll uphill to Peggy's villa. It actually was quite a climb and I was a little out of breath when we got home. 

The quite strong spring sunshine had pushed the temperature up to a pleasant sunbathing level in the high seventies, but that was too warm for long walks up hills. I was pleased that I had worn such a light dress and so few clothes, but regretted the second bottle of Chianti I had ordered in Trules, which turned out to be an excellent find and became 'our' restaurant during the holiday.

I felt hot, sticky and tired when we at last got to the imposing old villa. I also felt a little hungover. You had been quiet on the walk.

"How do feel Peter?" I asked as we walked into the coolness of the kitchen

"In what way?" You replied catching my eye and smiling.

"Not that way," I smiled back as I immediately got your drift.

"Oh, ok. Tired then I suppose, it's quite a walk round Pompeii and I only did about half of it."

I was pleased that we seemed to have got off the subject that was starting, inevitably I suppose, to dominate us.

"So what do you want to do this afternoon?" I asked.

"Well that's pretty much gone, it's almost five."

"Oh yes," I said looking at my watch.

The atmosphere was very heavy, it was electric. There were so many things that needed to be discussed and worked out. But then that's probably inevitable when a mother has just jacked off her son. It's probably even more inevitable when just the previous night he had laid between her spreaded thighs the tip of his hugely erect cock pressing right against the lips of his mother's cunt.

"A swim perhaps?" Peter said.

The thought of being in my bikini in the pool with you thrilled and scared me. It had been just that situation last night that had triggered off our desires for each other.

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea."

"Why not?"

"You know perfectly well why not?"

"Cat we can't go on like that," Peter said as I made some tea using a teapot not tea bags as the Italians do on the odd occasions they drink tea.

"I know."

"We're her for another ten days; we are going to be close together, in the same villa, alone for all that time."

The bugger didn't need to remind me of that. He didn't need to flag up the facts, the situation, the temptation and the awful possibilities, or were they likelihoods, I wondered? As I made the tea I was very aware of my son's eyes looking at me from the side and slightly to my rear. I knew that he would see the jiggle of my unfettered breasts as I moved, the swell of the tops of them as I turned and the outline of the little white thong as I reached for things and stretched the yellow material over my buttocks. I also realised he would see the stains of his cum on my dress. How sordidly stirring, I thought.

Was I fucking mad or simply perverted I asked myself? Why go without a bra. Why wear a dress with buttons right up the front? Why wear material that was nearly see-through? Why dress so provocatively?

I knew half the answer and told that to my alter ego. 'Because I want to pull my son then fuck him,' I heard in my mind. I also heard the other view, the balanced one, the cautious one, the conservative and probably correct one. It was telling me how wrong it was, how it was incest, how it could affect both of us for the rest of our lives, how we may never recover from it and how once done, it could never be reversed.

"We have to talk Peter, we need to discuss this, it's so important," I told him as we took our tea outside and sat under the bougainvillea covered gazebo.

Peter

So often, the female solution to a problem is to talk about it. So we talked. I sat down knowing that you were going to tell me that this couldn't go on, that you couldn't enter into a sexual relationship like this... And you did. 

But you listened to me as I countered your arguments. You slowly nodded as I pointed out that we were away from home, no-one would know, we were consenting adults, etc etc.

You wanted me to convince you. You countered my counter arguments weakly. Your desires were winning. You knew as I did that there was no way we'd get through the rest of this holiday without giving into our desires and you wanted me to be the one to take the lead. Perhaps you were scared. Perhaps you didn't want the guilt. Perhaps you were just trying to encourage me to be a man.

Either way, the conversation reached a pause and you decided to get a drink. I stood as you did, offering to get one for you. For a second we were face to face, close enough to feel each others breath. You smiled nervously, declining my offer. You turned to go, and I put out my hand to stop you. It slid around your waist so easily. You stopped. The male solution to every problem is action; I stepped closer, and placed a kiss on your neck. You melted.

"N.." you started, but didn't finish it as my kisses reached the top of your neck and you turned your head so I could kiss your lips. Another deep, wet kiss. You turned around to face me, reaching up around my neck to kiss me again, with passion and love. My hands were round your waist, pulling your hips towards me, only our clothes stopping us from embracing as lovers. The inevitable had begun.

"Come inside," you whispered, and turned towards the door. I followed.

Cat

In some ways kissing you, or to be more accurate us kissing, was even more erotic than what had happened last night and this afternoon. Could a kiss really be more erotic than having a man lie between your legs his cock pressed against your lips? Was it possible that a simple kiss was more erotic than masturbating a man in a field? As our lips parted and I turned towards the house saying for you to come inside, every aspect of my mind and every element of my body said that yes it could.

"Go and have a shower," I said once we were inside.

"Why?"

"Because I am going to as well."

"And then?"




In View of Vesuvias



"And then, nothing. Well at least we will both be clean and rid of the perspiration. It was very hot walking up the hill"

"Nothing. Nothing else C?" You said taking hold of my arm.

We looked directly into each other's eyes. I saw the desire and want in yours and wondered what you would see in mine. Caring, sensitivity, love, guilt maybe?

"Peter, we've been over this."

"I know we have, but that makes no difference mum, er Cat. I can't help it. I can't help how I feel."

"Well darling you will have to try."

"How can you do this, how can you say that?"

"Because I have to, because I am your mother, because it's right. Oh Peter this is all old ground."

"So?"

"We can't keep having the same debate. You know as well as I do that incest is wrong."

"C that's a load of bollocks in this day and age. That was all to do with genetic deformities, before birth control."

"It's more than that," I said sitting on one of the high stools in the kitchen, the skirt of my dress parting and revealing my legs to half way up my thighs. I pulled it together and covered them, looking down and brushing at the drying cum stain on the front.

"You know as well as I do that it's all social conditioning, just like being bi-sexual. That's a perfectly natural tendency, we are all prone to it, but society and especially religion prevents us giving vent to our innate desires."

I wished for a moment we hadn't educated you so well for your arguing skills were persuasive.

"It's more than that with incest."

"Don't call it that."

"Why not? What should I call it?"

"It's just the same as any relationship."

"It's not; you're my son for God's sake. Look we are getting nowhere; I'm going to have my shower." I walked out.

Deep down I had a lot of sympathy for your viewpoint. Since having these immensely strong feelings for you I had researched incest quite a bit. I was amazed to learn that numerous countries in Northern Europe had in the past few years decriminalised it and many States in the USA had never made it illegal. There were parts of the world where it was seen as the mother's duty to prepare her sons for their husbandly duties either, by teaching him herself or, by selecting someone, often a sister of hers to do that.

Of course the other area where I had strong sympathy was in the simple fact that I fancied you so much. It was that more than anything that scared me. If we started, how could I cope with finishing, as inevitably we would, I pondered? How would I be able to handle you introducing a girl friend or your future wife to me?

The other facts that kept rattling round my mind were that we were going to be here together for another ten days. We had been here just one day and so far you had as good as fucked me and I had wanked you. How the hell could we resist for the remainder of the holiday? 

Ok, I rationalised, we, or I, had overcome one big problem. I now knew that it was not just one way and that my feelings for you over and above what is considered as 'normal' mother and son affection were fully reciprocated. There was no longer the need for the pretence; I didn't have to wonder what you would think, how you felt about me and what you would do if I made an advance. You had made it very clear that given half a chance you would fuck me; yes you most obviously wanted to fuck your mother.

As I stood naked before the mirror about to dress the realisation hit me so strongly. Simple and obvious really. It was inevitable. We wouldn't be able to resist each other in the confines of this villa for another ten days. So why fight it?

I slightly smiled when I thought, 'We have gone so far, going the rest of the way is hardly any worse.'

Faulty logic yes, but some say thinking about and wanting an affair is just the same as having one. Again not really straight line, joined up thinking, but in my now, totally confused state; it was good enough for me. 

I made my decision.

Peter

'Where the fuck is she?' I was thinking as I sat on the terrace a good twenty minutes later. 

All my life, you had seemed unlike other women and had always got ready quickly; it was rarely you we had to wait for you when I was a kid. 'Shit, stop thinking like that,' I told myself. I didn't want to think of our life we before we fell into sexual love with each other that made me feel a bit edgy and rather guilty.

I looked at my watch; it was now over half an hour. 'What the hell's going on?" I wondered. I got up and walked into the villa. There were no sounds, well no unusual ones. You weren't to be seen. 'Probably still in the shower' I assumed walking towards your bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. I didn't know what to do, so I coughed. 'Jesus wept how fucking corny is that' I was thinking as my heart pounded.

"Peter," I heard you say from inside the room.

"Yes," I replied.

"Come in," I heard you say quietly and rather croakily.

I pushed the door open and walked slowly into the room where I had come so close to making love to you the night before. It was dim; you had clearly not opened the shutters the maid had closed earlier. I saw the big four poster, but at first could make out little more. I moved closer. You were in the bed, under a sheet. I could see the outline of your body, the swell of your breasts and the length of your legs.

"Come closer," you whispered.

And then my chest almost exploded and my cock roared to an erection as I watched you slowly peel the sheet back and heard you say so erotically huskily.

"Come to bed with me Peter, come and make love to me."