23 comments/ 161013 views/ 44 favorites Lighting The Blue Touch-Paper By: latimer This story is, of course, fictional, and is rather long. It describes an incestuous relationship between a mother and her son, and the effect this has on her husband. If stories of this nature offend you, you're probably best not reading it. The first three chapters are written from the different perspectives of the three characters. The final part concludes the story. The spelling and expressions are British English. And as it's my first effort, I'd be interested to hear any constructive criticism. Many thanks to BoysRToys42087 for her editing. © 2012 Latimer Chapter One: Clare's story Looking back, with the benefit of hindsight, I can see now that the seeds of my peculiar fascination with my son went back years. But I can date my epiphany to one particular moment, about three months ago. I'd just had a shower, before bed, and was sitting in front of the mirror at my dresser brushing my hair. It was quite a narcissistic moment, I'll admit. I was gazing into the mirror thinking that actually, for a forty year old woman, I didn't look too bad. My body is still quite firm, thanks to a long regime of running and eating to moderation, and my long chestnut coloured hair was looking sleek and glossy. My face is striking, some say pretty, and although there are a few lines now around my eyes I tell myself they add character. I opened my robe a little, and looked at my breasts. Though quite small, a thing of regret in my youth, they're now almost as firm as they'd ever been. So now I am reaping the rewards, at long last, unlike those of some of my other – bigger titted friends – for whom gravity has taken over. My nipples started to harden a little, as I gazed in my reverie. They've long been a thing of embarrassment, extending to half an inch or more when I am aroused, or just cold, and clearly visible even in the most matronly bra. My headlights, my husband Roger calls them. They were on high beam that night, I remember. Roger walked into the bedroom, interrupting my self-regarding thoughts. I closed my robe hurriedly, and went back to brushing my hair. I looked at him through the mirror. He had a strange look on his face. "What's the matter?" I asked. "Oh, nothing..." he said, taking his dressing gown off, reaching for his pyjamas. But it didn't look like nothing. "What?" I asked again. "Come on, I can see you want to tell me something." "Well, I don't know if I should..." he began, trailing off. "What do you mean?" "OK, you were in our bathroom, so I went to use the other one..." "Yes?" I was getting a bit impatient now. "And, well, the door was open a little, so I walked in. But Simon was in there..." "So?" Simon is our only son. He's nineteen, and will be heading off to college in a few months' time. "Well he'd just had a shower, I think, and was drying himself... well, have you seen him naked recently?" "Well No! Of course I haven't. Why do you think I might have?" "Well, you know, you two are very close. I just thought..." He looked flustered. "You just thought what?" I was getting cross, even though he was probably justified in his supposition. The subject of our "close" relationship had come up before, and I had felt what I thought was a growing sense of unease about it from Roger. I guess I was rather defensive, perhaps overly so, when he made the odd somewhat pointed remark. I rationalised that I was lucky to have a positive relationship with my son and that we were able to talk openly about anything. I'd worked as a busy journalist for almost twenty years and I felt I was open minded and always ready for new experiences. I'd encouraged Simon to be adventurous and relish taking challenges. I guess I told myself that my attitude to life was younger than that of most of the mothers I knew, and that we could relate to each other on a fairly equal level. Simon was very mature for his age. Friends had commented on it, so I felt justified in believing it to be true. Friends had often remarked positively on how relaxed and natural we seemed in each other's company. So I guess Simon and I were very close, probably more than most mothers and sons. We had been for years. Roger was frequently away from home, because of his business. He was a civil engineer, and had built up a successful company. He worked hard at it, which I admired him for, but he was often working overseas on big building contracts. I'd got used to his absences. So Simon was our only child. Only now our child was a man. As Simon had grown older I had sometimes, and this is something I'd certainly never admitted to my friends, fantasised that we were more like girlfriend and boyfriend. The little touches, the lingering looks, and the kisses secretly thrilled me. Usually, I should add though, we were pretty chaste. Simon had grown into a very handsome man. Sometimes, when I saw him swimming, or on the beach, or anywhere where he was less than fully clothed, I was just bowled over with his beauty – at least in my eyes. He must have seen me staring. But although I increasingly found myself experiencing the sort of symptoms I'd last felt when I was a teenager dating for the first time, I'd forced myself to hold back. After all I am his mother! He was constantly on my mind though. I felt butterflies when I thought he'd been looking at me in an appreciative way. I was getting overly concerned with my appearance. I found myself shopping and dressing with the thought of what he would find attractive. I felt pangs of jealousy when he was out with girls. Surely this wasn't normal behaviour? It was something I'd torn myself in two with guilt over. I'd spent a lot of time telling myself to get a grip over my ridiculous fantasies. But I have to confess that I'd occasionally allowed them to get the better of me. Usually late at night, on my own, with my trusty little buzzy friend I kept hidden in a drawer, and a head full of images of him. But I'd always hated myself the next morning. Even though he was away so much I think Roger had sensed something of this dilemma, but we'd certainly never talked about it. How do you raise a subject like that? "Darling, I think I'm falling in love with our son..." Ridiculous! Roger probably felt excluded, and perhaps even jealous. I forcibly composed myself; suddenly realising I probably have a far-away look in my eyes. "Look, never mind that now. What were you going to say anyway?" "Well, he was naked..." "Yes," "And... well... he's a very big boy..." "What do you mean – he's a very big boy?" I asked, and there was a sudden surge of adrenaline through my body. My heart began to thump in my chest. My nipples were hardening, again. I had started to realise where this is going. "His dick... well, his cock - I suppose I should say - is huge..." I tried to look nonchalant. It wasn't working. "What do you mean? Huge? Do you mean abnormal? – is there something wrong with it?" Now I was beginning to gabble. I felt hot and my cheeks were red. Suddenly I was the one that was flustered. "Well," Roger's voice sank to a whisper, and his face was bright red too. "I don't know about abnormal. It's certainly very big." My heart is beating so loud, I'm sure he can hear it. "How big?" "Oh, I don't know." He was staring at me intently. I looked away. Was he beginning to wonder about my incessant questions? "I was only in there for a moment. As soon as I saw him I started to back out. I didn't know he was there, and I certainly didn't have a ruler in my hand at the time..." I could feel my face burning. "Calm down," I told myself, "Calm down." "Look..." he continued, with a bit of a sigh. He was clearly regretting starting this conversation. "I guess it must have been six inches long or probably more. I only saw it for a second, but it looked like it was hanging half way to his knees..." "He was limp?" "Yes, he was limp..." "My God...." Simon was my pride and joy, I'll admit it. I'd taken a close interest as he grew through his teens. He had largely avoided the spotty, unkempt, sweaty stages of development which others seemed stricken with. I know every mother thinks her children are gorgeous. But in Simon's case I did get confirmation of this from friends; a couple had even commented about how "hot" he'd become, before I silenced them with a furious glare. He was tall, very slim, and muscular, although at school he seemed to take little interest in sport. He ran though to keep fit. At school he was more the bookish type, and was very intelligent, sailing through his exams with apparent ease, and always questioning, always curious, and always wanting to learn more. He didn't have a wild social life. He had a few close friends – mostly boys. He'd had a few girlfriends, but they didn't seem to last very long. About a year ago I did wonder once or twice about his sexuality... but then, mulling it over, he did not seem at all effeminate. And, as I had said, we had become very close. We'd often go out walking, just the two of us. And we ran together frequently. Running was an important part of my routine, and I believed it had helped to keep the ravages of time away. I loved these times we spent together. During Roger's frequent absences, we'd watch television together, and go out to see films. Or just curl up on the sofa side by side and talk for hours. I knew from conversations with my friends about their sons that this was a little unusual. I must admit that I had noticed he was "well built". There were the afore mentioned times on the beach etc. and there was often a noticeable bulge in his jeans, and a few times on the sofa, I thought I saw the outline of his penis hanging down the inside of one trouser leg. I thought about it a lot in bed, alone, at night. I knew I shouldn't, but sometimes I couldn't help it. But afterwards I always had terrible feelings of guilt, embarrassment, and regret. At times I wondered what was going on in my head. Was I sick? Did I need to see a psychiatrist? I knew that in the last six months or more my feelings for him had crossed a boundary. But something that actually encouraged me, in a perverse way, was the feeling that he felt something similar for me too. He was very affectionate, unusually so sometimes. On our walks, we'd sometimes stroll along hand in hand. He was frequently very tactile. He'd always kiss me when he came in, or first thing in the morning and last thing at night. There were frequent lingering hugs too, which I loved. Sometimes, in the kitchen while I was washing up or cooking, he'd sidle up and hug me from behind. Once or twice, with his arms wrapped around me from the back, he'd kissed me softly on the neck. On one occasion I turned to kiss him back, and our lips had met for a moment and held there. But then I'd pulled away, starting to panic, and we'd stared at each other, with unspoken thoughts and fears passing between us. He often complemented me, telling me how nice I looked in a particular dress, or how good my hair or skin was looking. When we'd have these intimate moments he'd taken to calling me Clare, not Mum. It thrilled me when he did so. I thought we had a great relationship, although in my heart I knew it was bordering on inappropriate. When Roger was around, it was different. There was sometimes an atmosphere. I think Simon was jealous of him, and as I said earlier, I think Roger was jealous of Simon. But Simon at least needn't have been too jealous. Our eighteen year marriage had settled into that classic rut. We'd known each other a long time, and we loved each other, and got on well, but the sexual spark had long been dwindling. Roger was six years older than me, and didn't take much care in his appearance. He'd gained weight and certainly wasn't a sexual dynamo. Our love-making was infrequent. And Roger's many absences contributed to the loss of our intimacy. I know I was at fault too. I could and should have made more effort when he was home. But I guess I'd stopped fancying him. We'd become more like good friends, or house-mates who shared a bed. Certainly we never rowed, but I've always been one for bottling up my feelings. And usually by the time I got home from work, I was dog tired. Or so I told myself, because I usually found time and energy for Simon. So maybe Roger's concerns were well placed, and more so than he realised. A couple of weeks after the "incident", as I started to think of it, Roger was away again, and Simon and I had been out for a meal. It was a lovely evening. Simon was looking as handsome as ever. His thick brown hair had been cut, and he had a new aftershave on. I was wearing a new dress, which was a little low cut and clingy. We'd both been out shopping together during the day. Earlier, getting ready, I'd put some sexy underwear on. We'd talked about going for a meal, and I'd booked a restaurant I'd wanted to go to for ages. It was a fairly short walk from our house in London. It was expensive, and I knew I was in for a treat. Brushing my hair in front of the mirror, it felt exactly like we were going on a date, even though we'd been out together before many times. I was feeling quite heady with excitement. Looking in the mirror, I could see that my "high beams" were on. My dress was pretty flimsy too. I thought about changing, but stopped, telling myself to relax. It's just a mother going out with her son, I reasoned. But I wasn't fooling anyone. In the restaurant though, over the delicious "tasting" menu, comprising of many tiny courses, the conversation had turned flirtatious, and from the tightening of my nipples I knew they were showing again. Simon was trying not to look at the swell of my breasts through the low cut dress, and he must have seen the bumps from my extended nipples, but he was trying to be a gentleman. He was shifting uncomfortably though under the table. I think I knew why. Rather mischievously, I'd been asking him about his love life, or lack of it. "Darling, why didn't you see any more of that girl, Sarah – was it?" "Oh I don't know... We saw each other a few times. But it didn't seem to work out." "Why? She was lovely," I asked, trying to appear motherly, even though I'd been consumed with jealousy at the time. "She was really pretty, and seemed very intelligent. And she was very, err well endowed, up top." "Ahem, yes," he said awkwardly. "Didn't you fancy her?" "Yes, as you said, she's very pretty..." "And she certainly seemed to like you, from what I saw." I'd caught them snogging on the sofa one evening when I'd come home earlier than expected. There'd been a frantic straightening of clothes. "How far did you go with her?" I asked, really upping the ante. "Mum!" he said, shocked. So now he was calling me Mum! "Well, look. You know I'm pretty open-minded. I wouldn't have been surprised if you'd wanted to sleep with her," I was trying to sound as reasonable as possible. "Well, OK... since you're asking about it..." he began, shifting uncomfortably again, "We did, err, try it once, but it didn't work out..." "What do you mean?" I was genuinely unsure of what he meant. "You know, we did try, to err, make love, but it didn't work very well." "What do you mean?" There was an awkward silence, and more shifting under the table. "Do you mean you couldn't manage it?" I knew I'm going too far, but I was enjoying the frisson between us. "Or – look I know what teenage boys are like, or at least I did once, they do go off like firecrackers." I was grinning wickedly now. "It wasn't that..." Another silence passed. "So what was it then?" I was smiling now. I felt unstoppable. He was red in the face, and embarrassed. But I couldn't help myself. My panties were soaked, my nipples right out there, and I was feeling dangerously out of control. "No, that wasn't it at all," he said, defensively. "We tried to do it, but let's just say we were incompatible." "Incompatible?" "OK, physically incompatible. We couldn't do it. She said it was hurting her. And we split up not long after that." He was looking so pained now, that I knew I'd pushed too far. I had to stop playing this game. I forced myself to stop, reluctantly. Later, as we left the restaurant, we realised that it had started to pour with rain. He seemed to have forgiven me for embarrassing him, and wrapped his arm around me. "Come on Clare, we'll have to run for it," he said. We hadn't brought coats. We ran home, as best as I could in my heels. It's not far, but by the time we got back we were soaked. We got into the house, and I rushed to the living room and turned on the gas fire. The coals burst into life, and although the house was warm, I was shivering. My hair was dripping. I knelt there, staring into the flames, thinking, anticipating, and worrying. "Here," Simon says quietly behind me, "Let me dry your hair." He must have been to get a towel, and he begins to rub my hair gently with it from behind. I'm beginning to tingle. I could easily take the towel from him, but I'm relishing the attention. My hands begin to shake, and I force them onto my knee, to keep them still. Simon moves my wet hair back off my shoulders and exposes my neck. Silently I can feel his breath, and he leans down and kisses my neck. "Oh," I groan, despite myself, "Simon...." He leans in and hugs me, his arms wrapped across my stomach, just below my breasts. I can see his hands are shaking too. "Simon," I say, "Are you cold? Here let me...." As I speak I twist and turn to look at him, but he silences me with a kiss, on the lips. Our lips hold together for what seems like ages, and then our mouths start to move. I groan, opening my mouth, cautiously licking at his lips. Through open mouths we kiss, our tongues tentatively touching each other. He holds me tightly, our embrace growing with intensity and desire. We slowly surface, peeling our lips apart. Our faces are inches from each other. I stare at him, blinking, taking deep breaths. "Simon, what are we doing?" I reach out, starting to push him away. "We're doing what we've wanted to do for ages," he says. Suddenly, as my bravado evaporates, he's the one taking control. "Come on Clare, you can't deny it. This has been going on too long. We shouldn't fight it anymore." "But Simon..." He silences me with another kiss. My hands are still on his chest, but slowly they began to relax, and I slip them around to stroke his back. As the kiss lasts longer and longer, his large hands are brushing down my back and began to stroke my bottom. Our bodies begin to grind together. I can feel a big lump between us. "Come on Clare, let's get this wet dress off you," he says gently, moving his hand to the zip. "That's not the only thing that's wet," I whisper, and instantly regret the quip. Even in these incredible circumstances, the comment seems too forward. But I think somewhere in the middle of the last kiss, I've made my decision, for better or for worse. He smiles though. He seems calm and confident. I'm shaking. He slides my zip down, I wriggle my shoulders, and he gently peels the wet dress off. I climb to my feet, on shaky legs, and let the dress fall to the floor. "Clare, you look so beautiful..." he says, gazing at me. Simon's on his knees, looking up. I look down at my chest. My thin lace bra does not hide much. My nipples are pointing through, fully extended. Below my flat stomach, my tiny little panties are damp. I could see the carefully trimmed hairs underneath. I can smell my sex. I look at Simon. He's still on his knees, like a worshiper. His eyes are bright, and he's staring into my eyes with something approaching glee. I reach down and touch his chin. Lighting The Blue Touch-Paper "Come on darling, stand up." He climbs to his feet, and I almost do a double-take when I see the front of his trousers. "Now you look incredible too." My hand is cautiously moving towards his bulge. Fortunately for him, his trousers are fairly loose because I think he would have collapsed if what was straining at the zip had been confined in tight jeans. "Clare is this alright?" he asks, as my hand begins to make contact with his trousers. An element of doubt and fear clouds his beautiful eyes. "Yes my love – it's what I've dreamed of." My voice is starting to break. I kiss him again, and begin to stroke his cock through his trousers. It feels like iron. And it feels enormous. Simon reaches behind me and unhooks my bra with surprising dexterity. I let go of his cock for a moment to let the bra slip to the floor, and then stroke him again, my hand edging along his thickness, which is stretching off towards his hip. Simon's hand is moving up my rib cage and gently cupping my left breast. His fingers pinch one of my long nipples, and suddenly a current seems to run through my body, and below I feel a surge of moisture. I shudder and gasp into his mouth. "Are you OK?" he asks anxiously, stepping back slightly. "Yes my darling," I reassure him, "When you touched me, it was like an electric shock. Oh I love you so much." "Oh Clare, I love you," he gasps, stepping forward and resuming the kiss. "Simon," I whisper, breathlessly. "My legs are shaking, I need to sit down. Come on, let's go the bedroom." We walk through the house hand in hand. I pass familiar objects, familiar paintings. I'm in a dream. I never thought this day would come. Not even in my dirtiest night time fantasies. In my bedroom I turn to face him. He switches on the bedside light and I slip off my soaking panties. I sit down on the edge of the bed. He's staring at the space between my legs. I trimmed myself neatly earlier that evening. Knowingly, I open my legs. "Come here Simon." He stepped forwards, and I began to address his bulge. "So, is this big thing what made you physically incompatible when you tried to make love to Sarah?" I ask, beginning to undo his belt, and then his button. "Yes," Simon says, his face darkening, "It was too big." "I thought so." "I don't want to hurt you Clare. I love you. I don't want to hurt you." "Don't worry, darling." My hand is on his zipper. "We'll go very slowly, and very gently. She's a young girl. You need someone with some experience." I pull down the zip, which is difficult because of the large distortion. He moves his hands down and pulls his trousers off his hips. I think I know what to expect, but even so I'm surprised, as his bulge is exposed. "God, it looks incredible," I gasp. In his tight white underpants a huge thick ridge runs off to his left and out past his hip. It's straining so much at the material it looks painful. I hook my thumbs under the waistband and begin to pull them down. It's not that easy. His cock lurches, and with a sudden spring, it's free. It sticks out, like a great shaking arm. It's very long, but what I notice first is its incredible thickness, and the ridges and veins running along its length. It pulses, as it surges with blood. I pull his pants down further and Simon steps back slightly to take his trousers and pants off. He bends down to pull off his socks, and I lean back on the bed on my arms, gazing at the God-like creature in front of me, as he straightens up. He looks worried, probably at the dumfounded expression on my face. "Is it OK?" he asks, "I know I look like some sort of freak..." "Oh no, Simon, no! Don't say that. It's amazing. It's superb. It's incredible." I was almost out of breath, my chest heaving. "I've never seen anything like it before. You're beautiful... perfection..." He smiles now, embarrassed, and I can see the beginnings of some pride in his eyes. He looks down at his body as if seeing it for the first time. He's tall and muscular, his chest is broad and his stomach is flat and defined. Christ, I'm thinking, you could sell tickets to see this. Thin dark hairs curl across his torso. His skin has a golden quality to it, and he seems to be studying his cock, which is now pointing right at me, filling, thickening and lengthening with steady jerking motions. At first it hangs down with the weight, but the great head swells more, and slowly it jerks up past the horizontal. It's like the erection of some great crane. I beckon him forwards with my finger. He takes a step, his cock bridging the gap between us. I reach forward and my hand touches its head, and slowly begins to stroke back towards its root. He moves closer still, groaning. I try to close my hand around it, but my fingers won't meet. Not even close. It is as thick as my wrist. I bend down and give it a little kiss on the head. Pre-cum is oozing from the end. "So huge..." I breathe as I nuzzle the head with my mouth and cheek. I can smell his wonderful aroma. He is dripping with pre-cum. "How big is it?" I ask, looking up at him, my eyes wide. I am shaking with lust and nervousness. "You really want to know?" "Yes, I really want to know." "Well, I'm not sure," he hesitates, playing for time. He seems at last to be appreciating his size. "Oh come on Simon, you must have measured this enormous thing." "OK. It's a little over nine inches long, although it might even be a bit bigger right now. I'm not sure I've ever been quite as turned on before as I am now." I shake my head in amazement. I've always thought measurements like that aren't possible, just the silly boasting of porn. But I'm seeing living proof. With both my hands on it now, it seems to be at its full extent, and is so hard, it's throbbing as I push it against his stomach. It points up to his rib cage, reaching way past his navel. His big balls, which were hanging low before, are now tight and tucked up and seem to be moving all on their own. I lean forward and began to kiss its head. Simon groans, louder now. Opening my mouth I try to take its head in, but he's so big my jaw quickly begins to ache. I kiss down its length, while rubbing both hands up and down. "Come on, my love, lie down here," I say, and we fall onto the bed. I roll on top, smothering him in kisses across his chest. "Clare," he groans, and I pull myself up and we kiss again, open mouthed, tongues duelling, saliva dripping. It's getting hot, and wet, and dirty. Our open mouths are crushed together. His hands begin to move across my body, slipping between us, rubbing down towards my cunt. "Oh Simon," I groan, as his finger enters my groove. I am thick with my juices and he traces his finger upwards until he finds my hard clit. With just one touch, I shudder and began to pant. I roll off him and lay on my back, my legs spread wantonly. "Do it again," I gasp, so he does, running his finger up and down to my clit. "Oh," I groan again, as his fingers began to move like a violinist's. He repeats the motion again and again, becoming more forceful. "Gently," I beg, mouth open, "Like a feather." And he eases off, teasingly running his finger in the most gentle of movements. As his finger reaches my clit, he circles it over and over again barely touching. "Oh, oh, oh, oh!" My legs are starting to shake. He grows a little bolder as my gasps began to intensify, and he slips one finger into me, and tickles my clit with the other. I go off like a rocket. "Ahhhh...." I shriek, and my liquid floods against his fingers. My gasps continue for a while. I lie writhing on my back beside him. He leans back on his side smiling, as I slowly recover. "My darling.... Where did you learn to do that?" "Right here," he smiles, "Right now. You just taught me..." "Incredible.... Your touch, it's like an angel..." "I can think of something else to do now," he replies, smiling again, starting to kiss his was down my stomach. He's certainly an eager student now. "Oh you wouldn't... would you?" "I would... and I will..." His mouth is reaching the closely trimmed hairs. Simon pauses at my entrance, and breathes deeply through his nose as if he's sniffing roses. My scent seems to be overwhelming for him. He gently kisses my clit, and then parting my lips, he slips his tongue inside. "Oh, Simon..." I cry, as he licks me, lapping up my copious juices. He moves his tongue back to my clit and repeats the circular motion from before, with the tip of his tongue barely touching. He brings a finger back and starts to stroke me down there, as his tongue thrums across my clit. I'm getting the shakes again. Not again, I'm thinking, not so soon. I've never orgasmed again so quickly before. I think I'm going to pass out. My body judders and jerks, like a fish out of water. I've lost control of my faculties. My eyes are screwed tight shut, and below I feel another wave of wetness build and build, and then splash across Simon's fingers and his tongue, as he laps furiously. Slowly my vision begins to return, and I look at him, lying on his side, head propped up on his hand, gazing at me. "I've just been staring at your nipples," he says, "They're amazing. Look at them. They're so long. And so sexy." With difficulty I lift my head up, and look. They are indeed at full extent, reaching for the ceiling. I've never seen them looking longer. "I've noticed them many times," he says, "It's one of the first things about you I started to notice when I began to see you differently, sexually I mean. They make you look really hot." I clear my throat, finding my voice again. "When did you first notice me, sexually?" I ask. I want to confirm my suspicions. "Oh, I guess about two years ago. Several of my friends kept going on about how you were the hottest mum, much to my embarrassment. I think they've all ogled your nipples." I'm blushing now. "I started to realise then that you weren't just my Mum, but you were also a beautiful mature woman, who was so graceful, and so kind and loving." "But you were also drop dead gorgeous!" he adds, with a laugh. "It was a pretty confusing time for me. I had a lot of mixed up thoughts." "But I never thought this would happen." "Neither did I." "I dreamed about it, many times, in my room, you know while doing my thing," he nods down to his huge cock, lying like a bat across the bed. "Doing your thing?" I smile, leaning towards him, stroking it again. I'm starting to recover for the next round. "Your thing is a marvel of nature. It must be some sort of world record. Has it always been this big?" "Well, I don't think it was when you used to bath me as a baby," he laughs. "No, although, come to think of it, I think I did wonder even back then." I'm laughing too. "It was a bit bigger than those of other boy babies I saw. One of my friends even made a remark about it one day." "You're kidding," he says with a laugh. "When did it start to get so big?" "About two or three years ago, I suppose," he says, "I realised I was bigger than other boys I saw, and I started to get self-conscious. It got pretty awkward in the changing rooms. That's when I stopped swimming, and playing sports. I didn't want to be the butt of jokes." "And I was worried about what girls might think. And then that experience with Sarah, and one or two others, confirmed my worst fears." "You know I've read a fair amount of porn, and I was thinking that these people who write this stuff about massive cocks don't have a clue what it's really like. I thought I might have to live a life of abstinence." "Oh darling you shouldn't worry about that," I reassure him, "Believe me, it's a gift. I think it's the most beautiful cock I've ever seen, certainly the most impressive." "Oh, seen a lot, have you?" he teases. "I've seen enough. I did have a life before your dad, you know." I stroke him back and forth. "Simon, your size is an enormous turn on, if you excuse the pun. But it's you that I love." "But I can't imagine what you are going to do to me with it." "Talking of which..." he says, and starts to move towards me, his eyebrows raised, with a questioning look. "Yes, I want you... I want you to make love to me," I say, all doubts long gone from my mind, "But let's take it really slow. Be as gentle as you were before." "I will," he says, as he climbs between my legs. I reach down and grasp it, pulling him up towards me. I am once again struck by its heaviness. I lie it down on top of my cunt. Its broad length lies across my stomach reaching towards my breasts. "God, look at it," I gasp, "Where is at all going to go?" He moves back, positioning the big head at the entrance to my womb, rubbing it up and down, covering it with my juices and his own. Fortunately I'm dripping wet. He pauses, looking at me intently. "Are you sure you want this Clare? I love you whether we do this or not." I push myself up and kiss him deeply, in love with his thoughtfulness. "I want it more than anything." "Me too..." "Push... gently... my love...." He pushes, and I reach down and open my lips wide with my hands. I am very wet, and the head begins to slip inside slowly. But I can feel the resistance. I can feel myself opening wider, ever wider, stretching inexorably. He pushes on, and the hard ridge of the head edges inside. He pauses. I breathe deeply, forcing myself to relax. I have to admit, it is painful. It feels like I'm being split in two. But I try not to show it on my face. "God, it feels amazing," I gasp, "It's so big, so wide. How much is in there?" I look down, and groan when I see it's almost all still poised outside. "God it already feels like you're in about six inches!" I say. "OK, let me breathe, let me concentrate..." He waits a few moments. I can feel the head throbbing. I nod him on. He pushes again, and more of his great wide shaft begins to edge inside. I gasp again, and my legs start to shake again, as I feel the huge thickness of him part my inner walls. "Wait," I gasp, as I begin to convulse again. I've never experienced anything like it. "Are you OK?" he asks, starting to look worried. I nod and smile, forcing myself to look calm. I don't want him to think he's hurting me. "Go on, my love... gently..." Despite the tight fit though, my juices are gushing inside. It feels incredible, as he moves again, slowly sinking into me, pushing on, deeper and deeper, wider and wider. God, will it never end? Eyes screwed shut, I make myself relax, and start to feel the benefit. It's no longer this odd sensation of pain and pleasure. Now it's just the most intense feeling of fullness, and I experience waves of emotion as I realise that this is my son, returning to the place where he was born. "Oh my love," I cry, and desperately kiss his face. Our lips lock. And we kiss again, open mouthed, spit drooling, eyes tight shut, and still I feel the great relentless invader advance in little in-out movements. He stops. I feel his pelvis against mine. His cock head is lodged firmly against my cervix. "Is that it?" He nods. "God... you feel so huge... never felt anything like it." He smiles, not so worried now, and we kiss again, as he lies there lodged so deep inside me. His bulk is gloriously heavy on top of me and his cock is throbbing and pulsing inside. "I love you Clare. I love you." He's kissing me again and again. I open my mouth. "Can you see it coming out of my throat?" He begins to move his hips back. I feel his grooves and the ridges all over again. He pulls ever further back and then reverses his course again. "We're doing it," he grins, "We're really doing it..." He's relentless, endless, but gentle. We start to achieve a rhythm. On his outward retreats I can feel my insides clinging to his thick shaft, pulling, then pushing, pulling, then pushing. I'm kissing his open mouth, eyes mostly shut, but glimpsing him now and then, his face inches from me, sweat beading his brow. I'm smelling his warm heat, his rapid breath washing across me. I don't know where I am being transported to, but it's not of this world. I'm getting increasingly light headed. I can feel my juices flowing. Time stops. I'm becoming completely out of control. I can feel his great cock ploughing in an out, his rhythm becoming faster. I'm jabbering wordless noises. I feel like I'm starting to float. I can hear cries, shouts, gasps, groans, shrieks. Is that really me, making all that noise? I feel like I'm somewhere near the ceiling, looking down at the scene below. I can see his broad back glistening with sweat, his muscular buttocks rising and falling, his huge cock being absorbed, impossibly, into her body. Her head is flailing, her hair trailing. Her arms are thrashing across his back, across the bed. The noises she's making. I begin to descend again, back into the hot cauldron of pleasure. My whole body seems to be liquid, and I feel like I'm about to pour out of my cunt in a wave. I'm building. I'm building. I'm almost there. "Aaaghhhhhh," the flood begins. And Simon is groaning and gasping now too. I've almost forgotten him in my delirium. "Clare," he gasps, thrusting so deeply inside and holding there. I can feel his cock expanding, pulsing, and flooding. I let the wave carry me away. I'm gone. I'm in heaven. I'm dead. Minutes pass. I begin to come round. There's the heady smell of our sex, the wetness of our fluids and the weight of his body. Simon is stirring. He rolls off me and we lie on our sides facing each other. Some of his cock has slipped out of me, but some of it is still inside, thick and turgid, pulsing occasionally. I wipe his plastered hair from his face. "Are we going to Hell?" I ask quietly, I think to myself. Have I ruined my son? Screwed him up mentally? God I must be a terrible mother. "For me it was heaven," he says. I must have said something out loud. "How can love be wrong?" We're silent. Conflicting feelings are running through my mind. But one thing I'm sure of. "I've never felt anything like it before," I say, "It was the most incredible experience of my life. I love you so much Simon." "I love you," he whispers back. "God I was helpless back then. What did you do to me? It feels like I'm lying in a puddle. I think I might have squirted. I've never done that before." "Did you? Wow," he says. "Go and get a towel. I think there's going to be even more of a flood," I say, with a laugh. He pulls away and rolls off the bed. I reach down and plug the dam with my hands. I feel tender. He stands there for a moment, looking down at me. His cock is semi hard, glistening, still flushed with blood, and standing at almost ninety degrees to his body. It's still absolutely enormous. His pubic hairs are wet, really wet. I roll over and sit on the edge of the bed, clutching myself. There's a large wet stain on the sheets. "Go on," I urge, smiling back at him and laughing to myself. He returns from the bathroom with a towel, his thick cock swinging between his legs. It is softer now. Roger was right. It did hang way down between his legs. I stand up on wobbly legs and holding the towel to me, start to walk to the bathroom. The fluid is dripping out of me into the towel. "God, there's so much of it. What were you trying to do, drown me?" I laugh again, incredulously. "I could say the same of you," he fires back, nodding back at the dishevelled, soaked bed. I turn my head and flash him a devilish smile. I sit on the toilet, watching our co-mingled fluids drip into the bowl. He follows me in and sits on the edge of the bath. "Was it really your first time?" Lighting The Blue Touch-Paper "Yes," he says, looking down, "I've never managed to do it properly before." "Well, let me tell you, my love, you are a natural. I don't want to swell your head, but you were incredible. I can't believe you lasted as long as you did. I've never had better sex. And you are just beginning..." "Will there be another time?" he asks, slightly plaintively. "Do you want it? Because you know we are heading into very dangerous territory." "I think we're well and truly in it now Clare..." "But I want it more than anything," he adds. "I've dreamed about it for ever. I just never thought it would happen." "Well, I'll admit it now, I've been dreaming of this too. But I've been fighting with my conscience. Mothers just don't do this with their sons." "I think you might be surprised at what mothers and sons get up to sometimes," he mumbles. I stare at him. "I've read about it on the internet!" "Oh well it must be true then." I let out a sarcastic laugh. I'm quiet for a moment, thinking, sitting there on the toilet seat; my son's copious cum dripping from me, and his beautiful body sitting opposite me. Should I be feeling guilty? God knows, I'd just been unfaithful for the first time in our seventeen year marriage. And with whom? With our son of all people. Most people would say it doesn't get more depraved than that. But in all honesty I don't feel guilty anymore. There's been no blinding light, no clap of thunder. The world goes on, regardless. I just have an aching, slightly burning sensation between my legs, a funny feeling in my stomach, and the deepest, deepest love in my heart. But I stand up, and lean on the sink facing him, clutching the towel to me. I have to play Devil's Advocate, one last time. "Look, Simon, where is this going to go?" He stands up, and steps towards me, shrugging. "I'm twenty two years older than you. I know I look OK at the moment, but that won't last forever. And what about you? You've got university to go to. I can't have you ruining your life for me. And then of course there's Dad..." "Clare, can we just take this one step at a time. All I know is that I love you, desperately. I always will, no matter what happens between us." His serious face lightens for a moment. "And besides – look at you, you're a stunner. I can't believe you're forty!" "Thanks, don't remind me," I say and step towards the shower. "I don't know about you, but I'm more of a stinker than a stunner, right now. Would you like to join me?" "Yeah," he answers eagerly. I drop the towel and get in, opening the door for him. His cock is already starting to lengthen again. He's clearly a willing participant. We kiss, the warm water pouring over our bodies. I reach down, and grab for his cock, which within seconds has reached the horizontal. "You naughty, naughty boy," I laugh, stroking it back and forth. "Look at you. Haven't you had enough? Its only minutes since you came," "You turn me on like no-one I've ever known." "My God, you're turning me into some sort of size queen. I can't get over you. Here am I worrying that I've ruined you. I think I've been ruined for other men, more like." "Am I bigger than Dad?" he asks. I suspect he is fishing for more compliments. "Bigger?" I laugh, wanting to indulge him. "Well let's see," I say, gripping his shaft, which by now is almost erect. I start to measure from the end with my fingers. "Hmmm, one inch, two inches, three inches." At this point I hold my thumb and finger around the girth. "There, you're probably that much bigger than him." He grins. "There that's pleased you hasn't it?" I laugh, "I don't know, boys and their obsession with cock-size. I've never had any complaints before." "But I must admit I'm starting to see the attraction of a big one..." We kiss long and noisily, my hand rubbing him up and down. "But Darling, please don't get cocky. It's one of the many things I love about you. You're not arrogant, or conceited." I kneel down in front of him. His cock is magnificently, stonkingly, erect. Am I becoming obsessed? "How do you manage to lift something so big right up?" I'm stroking him, and kissing the head, rubbing him against his stomach. "Now let me see if I can do this..." I open my mouth as wide as I can, and take the head inside, careful not to scrape him with my teeth. "Oh Clare," he begins to groan. With two hands I stroke him back and forth, sucking what I can of the big head. I keep it up for a couple of minutes, but to be honest it's not that successful. I love the feeling of his fullness in my mouth. But my jaw is aching. There are disadvantages in being so well endowed. I stand up, and we cling together. "I might have to practice a bit more at that." "Anytime!" We wash each other. I pay particular attention to his special places, as he does to mine. We kiss frequently. I shut the water off, and step out passing him a towel. "Come on my darling, you look like you might be up for something else." He grins. Dropping the towel on the floor, I saunter out, coquettishly looking back over my shoulder, swinging my hips: "Come on then big boy...." Now I'm feeling naughty, and a shudder runs through me. I kneel on the bed on all fours, waving my bottom in the air, and adopt a girly, sing-song voice: "Oh Simon, there is something you could do for me..." He's in the bedroom in a flash, his huge cock waving from side to side. He gets behind me, resting it on my buttocks. His arms wrap around my back, and his big hands fondle my hanging breasts, tweaking my lengthening nipples. "Come on, you great big stud," I gasp, my voice now low and hoarse: "Fuck me..." He gasps too. Perhaps he's never heard his mother saying "fuck". But his hands grip my hips and he lines up his cock at my entrance. I'm wet, and ready. It thrusts in more easily this time. Slowly, but steadily, he slides inside. "Ohhhhhhh..." I groan.... "Are you OK?" he asks, pausing, leaning down and kissing my neck. "I don't know if I'll ever get used to this... you feel like you're splitting me in two." He leans up and shifts a bit, flexing himself inside me. "Ohhhh..." I groan again. "I love your shape," he whispers, both hands stroking my hips, as he kneels there buried deep inside me. "I love your slim waist, but I really love the way your hips flare out at your bottom. You're incredible Clare..." He flexes himself again, swelling his mighty head, sending spasms of joy throughout me. "Oh you can keep that up," I gasp. Now I'm feeling really naughty. "What, the compliments?" he asks, "Or this?" He tenses his cock to make it swell again deep inside me. "Call me Mum," I say, wickedness coursing through me. I am going for broke. "Just for now..." "Oh Mum, is this what you want?" He is slowly sawing himself in and out, in great long steady strokes. "Mum... my love.... Mum... you want your son to fuck you?" The taboo, illicit pleasure, is driving me wild. What is going on inside my head? "Yes... Yes... Yes," I cry in time with his steady thrusts... "Fuck me, my beautiful son..." I feel my insides dissolving again. I can hear the sloshing noises, the urgent slapping of his big balls on my backside. He's leaning down over me now, reaching round pinching my aching nipples, cupping my breasts, kissing my neck. His urgent breath is hot on the side of my face. "Mum... I love you... Mum..." he's grunting, groaning. As my pleasure heightens still further, he picks up his pace accordingly. We're moving as one, pistons perfectly timed. Can he get any better? I am reaching the point of no return, and my legs begin to shake. He senses it, and without breaking pace, reaches down from my breasts to my clit, just above his sawing cock, and gently rubs its shiny surface. That's it, I'm gone. My eyes are tight closed, my mouth wide open, I can see stars, flashes of light and an out of control feeling deep inside my body. I'm making wailing, keening, gasping noises. My fluids are gushing. My shaking legs support my weight no longer and my body collapses on the bed. He's across me, now still. But inside me he's throbbing. "Have you come?" I gasp, breathlessly. "No, not yet... nearly there..." "I'm not sure I can take any more... take it out, turn me over, I want to see you..." He does as I ask, and I slump back, my head on the pillows, drained. He's on his knees between my legs, holding his towering cock. It's glistening with our juices. Its head is bigger than I've ever seen it, angry, red, and swollen. I wipe my damp sweaty hairs from my eyes. "You look so close... go on... stroke it for me. Let me see you cum..." His right hand starts to stroke back and forth. He holds the base with his other hand. My heart is slowly returning to normal, and I note as his hand flies back and forth that even his long fingers didn't seem to meet around his girth. It takes only moments, and then he's gasping. "Oh Mum...." I stare, fascinated. The head is spitting gouts of cum. They fly about two feet to splatter across my stomach, again and again. There must be five or six lines of it. One patch is between my breasts. More is oozing down his shaft, coating his hand. It is thick, sticky, heady, smelly white stuff. He collapses by my side on his back, his hand still gripping his cock. It lies throbbing over his stomach. I roll over onto my side, my leg slipping between his splayed legs. I lay my head on his broad chest, and listen as his heart pounds. We lie conjoined for a long time. I glance at the clock. It's late – almost one o'clock in the morning. I realise how exhausted I am. I nudge him. His breathing is long and steady. His cum, now smeared across my stomach and his side, is cold. "Simon... get me a towel... and we need to get some sleep." He groans, and slides across the bed, and pads to the bathroom and comes back with another towel, wiping himself, rubbing his cock, which was again swinging between his legs. "That's what it means to be well hung," I think idly, as I take the towel, wipe myself clean, and then slip on a pair of panties. "Come on... you've almost killed me. Get in bed, let's snuggle together." He climbs in and we pull the duvet over our bodies. I put my head on his chest again, and we lie there in silence. I've never felt so content, so warm, and so in love. I've also never felt so utterly shagged out. *** Chapter Two: Roger's story I was kicking myself big time after telling Clare what I saw when I disturbed Simon in the bathroom. I lay next to her in bed, asking myself why I'd told her about it. She'd been shocked, and it was clear from her reaction that she had no idea how well-endowed he was. But I could see the effect it had on her. She was clearly turned on. I lay there in the dark, replaying the scene in the bathroom. Barging in there was a complete accident, but I was so surprised at what I saw, I guess I hadn't been thinking straight. I've seen my fair share of cocks in locker rooms etc. but I'd never seen anything like Simon's. Despite myself, I could feel my dick hardening. Clare was lying on her side, her back towards me. "You awake?" "Yes..." she replied. "This is probably pretty sick..." I said cautiously, "But I'm a bit turned on right now..." She was silent. "You?" There was more silence. I stroked her hip tentatively. "Yes..." her voice was so quiet, I could hardly hear it. I pulled up the bottom of her nightie and began to stroke her bottom. I slipped my hand underneath her panties. She groaned, and rolled over onto her back. Her eyes were tightly closed. I pulled her panties down, and slipped my hand down to her cunt. My finger slipped inside, and I could feel her wetness. She was soaking. We made love for the first time in weeks. It was warm, familiar, and loving. But I couldn't help wondering what was going on in her mind. Afterwards we lay side by side. I was agonising about what to say. "Clare..." I began. "Roger..." She cut me off. "I'm tired - I don't want to talk right now." She rolled over with her back towards me. I felt crushed, defeated. "I do love you, you know..." I whispered. "I love you too," she said again, in the same small voice. She was up before me in the morning, and when I went downstairs for breakfast, she was already heading out to the supermarket, earlier than usual. I think she was finding things to do, to avoid me. It was a Saturday, and I picked around the house, unable to settle to any particular job. I had been wondering about their relationship. They seemed much closer than mothers and sons normally are. For a long time I thought it was very touching. Of late I'd wondered if I was being naive. Since Simon's younger years they'd been very much a unit, and sometimes it had felt like I was along for company. The first thing to explain is that I'm not biologically related to Simon. He was a small baby when Clare and I first got together. He was the product of a fleeting relationship Clare had had with a man called David. She was young back then, and fairly reckless. I think she'd led a pretty wild life until she met me. I brought up Simon as my son, and loved him as much as I would my own child. But in the back of my mind I guess I always thought that Clare and Simon had a special bond. I put it down to their genetic connection. Simon had always treated me as his father, and as far as I know had rarely asked about his biological father. When he was younger he called my Daddy, and it was only when he was about ten that Clare even told him something about his parentage. It didn't seem to affect his relationship with me. But as he grew older, and if anything the connection between Clare and Simon grew stronger, I sometimes sensed a tension from him. Did he resent me sometimes? Could he have been jealous of my relationship with Clare? I was certainly partly to blame for their every-day functioning as a unit. It must have had something to do with my frequent absences for work. I felt guilty at the amount of time I spent away, but Clare had always encouraged me in my career, and she'd rarely complained when I told her about the next foreign trip I was making. She was still a very beautiful woman. In fact, I often thought she'd grown in her beauty, and was even more attractive as a mature woman than she was when she was younger. She was slim, with long thick dark hair. Fantastic bone structure I always thought. And Simon had inherited her looks. He'd grown into a very handsome man. I think somewhere in the back of my mind there was a niggling sense of confusion and uncertainty when I thought about them both together. But doubts did not really begin to surface until about six months before the bathroom incident. I was actually on a work trip to Copenhagen at the time. It was a lovely autumn day and I'd been sitting in a park at lunchtime when I noticed a striking looking woman sitting on a nearby bench with a young man. They were holding hands, talking, and laughing. They were both very Nordic looking. She was blonde, blue eyed, and probably in her early forties, with an attractive face and body. She seemed smitten with her younger companion, who was also blonde and had a gymnast's body. She had a wedding ring on. He didn't. He was probably in his early twenties, or maybe even younger. I was idly looking at them, thinking what a good looking couple they made, despite what I first assumed was a May-September relationship. I was musing about how lucky he was. I thought back to my late teenage years, and the awkward fumbling I'd done with girls of my own age. Sexually I was pretty hopeless back then, and none of my girlfriends were any better. What would I have given to have been taken in hand by an attractive older woman and shown the ways of the world? I was thinking these thoughts and actually getting rather turned on. I looked at them again, and it suddenly struck me how alike they looked. It wasn't just their classic Nordic looks. They had the same nose, the same shape of face, and the same eyes. It suddenly hit me, as I sat there, probably staring rather obviously by now. What if they were mother and son? I couldn't get that couple out of my head for the rest of the day. I don't know why. I had no idea who they were and I'd probably never see them again. But that night, as I lay in bed in my hotel room, images of their beautiful bodies making love ran through my mind incessantly. I sat up in bed, got my laptop out, and for the first time in my life, I typed "incest" into Google and started reading. Hours later, I started to realise the time, and felt pretty disgusted at how turned-on I'd become at what I was reading. I'd wanked twice after one search led to another, and another, and eventually I found one incredible website with hundreds, if not thousands of stories about incestuous couples. I know it sounds ridiculous, but at this point I really didn't make the conscious connection with what my subconscious fears were telling me about Clare and Simon. As the months passed, in this hotel room or that, I returned to the website again and again. I was very confused about my feelings. At times I was appalled at my reactions to what I was reading. I felt like some sort of pervert. But something about this unknown taboo world kept drawing me in. A lot of the stories were patently absurd, but every now and then I came across one that had me spell-bound, and I wondered whether they could be true. These I returned to over and over again. But I couldn't work out why I was becoming fixated. Was it the sheer naughtiness, the depravity? It was actually quite a long time before my conscious mind allowed me to make the obvious connection. I couldn't think of anything in my own childhood that had sewn any kind of seed. However much I loved my mother, I'd never thought of her like that. And certainly not my sister either. I finally made the connection, as once again, I was fantasising about the couple from the park, who'd become a sort of fulcrum for this dark fantasy world I was concocting. As I "pleasured myself" in some hotel room somewhere, imagining their writhing bodies, I suddenly pictured their faces in the moment of mutual orgasm. It was Clare and Simon. This really threw me for a while, and I was so sickened by my thoughts that I stopped reading those stories, and told myself I was going way too far. I managed about two weeks of abstinence, but like a beautiful and deadly Siren on the rocks, I was being beckoned back, even if it would lead to disaster. I was becoming very distracted. My thoughts kept returning to Clare and Simon. I was veering from one emotion to another. I kept relaying incidents I'd seen at home – their hugs in the kitchen, their animated chats on the sofa sitting so close together, their long periods together when I was not there. I thought again about the unguarded comments from friends about what a great relationship they had. I thought about the lack of serious girl-friends Simon seemed to have despite how good looking he'd become. These thoughts left me torn and confused. I felt jealousy for the quality time they were spending together. I even felt threatened that he was with my wife. But the rational part of my mind kept telling me I was being ridiculous. This was all the product of my fevered disgusting mind. They were mother and son, not lovers. But plainly, my internet trawling had told me these taboo relationships sometimes happened, and did not exist only in the realm of fantasy. And then there was the bathroom incident. And I was left kicking myself that maybe I'd unwittingly lit a blue touch paper. But I have to admit it did also make some of those mind trips even more lurid.