2 comments/ 26712 views/ 14 favorites The Birthday Ch. 02 By: rikkitampa2014 "You feel so good in me," my mother kept saying. That and other breathless, soothing, trite things. I could not reply, however, because the nipple and surrounding silver dollar-sized aureole of her plump left tit were in my mouth—a tit I had not sucked, not this passionately anyway, in some twenty years. As I suckled her, mom rode me giddyup-style, her widespread knees flanking my hips, and I kept trying to think of other things. Work, for instance. My job. Some guys, as the joke goes, try to think about baseball; I was thinking about what it takes to launch a precision drone strike on a target 6,500 miles away from a bunker 50 feet below the ground while seated at a console viewing a drone-generated video screen sipping a diet Red Bull. "Target acquisition confirmed." "Authorization to proceed. Fire at will." Whoosh! Target obliterated. There is no audio. You just have to imagine it. "Target neutralized, sir." "Roger that. Good shot." "Thank you, sir." "Did you cum?" my mother's horsey rhythm slowing. "I..." "It's OK," she said, quickly dismounting me (God, she's limber!), and ripping from my lips her tit—the left one now—as well as her wide buttocks from my soft-squeezing hands. "That was an almost," she said, beautiful naked body kneeling to my side, her hands combing her hair back. She was sweating. She was smiling. "Hunh?" "Nothing." I raised up on elbows and looked, in horror, at the mess. My own semen, leaked from mom's vagina, coating—glistening on—my own spent genitals. While simultaneously, off to the side, more continued leaking from my kneeling mother's tight but yielding lips. She'd had a child—me. How could her hole be so ejaculation-inducing tight for christsake? I lunged at her. Wanted to continue—finish—sucking her silicon-filled left tit. But she pushed me away. "No! We gotta clean up this mess, change the sheets. Dad'll be home soon." "What time is it?" I asked, feeling disoriented suddenly. "Four p.m." "Christ!" Dad would be home in an hour! I exclaimed this like the process of wiping cum off one's flesh with a wet washcloth, and changing a bedsheet, was tantamount to performing minor surgery. Mom and I met, both standing now, mid-bedroom. I threw my arms around her naked body. What bliss! My hands slid down her sweaty back to the small of her waist and the swell of her hips. I squeezed her ass. What wide, firm, sweet-to-the hands flesh! How I longed to lick the trickle of sweat from her deep crack. How I longed to plunge my tongue up her sweet, fruity hole. The rear one. Oh, mommy! She tried to push me away. But I held firm—held on for life. I kissed her shoulder, her neck, her hair, her ear, her cheek... She pushed again. "Stop it. Dad'll be home soon. Get busy." "Yes ma'am," I replied reflexively, as if mom were Major Hillary Gestalt. Major Gestalt—Hillary—Hill, for short—was my direct superior on base. It was Hill who, standing over my shoulder at my console, and down the chain of command, often gave the order to fire. Given her short-cut hair and butch civilian clothes and rather deep voice—I'd always assumed Hill was a lesbian. And maybe she was. Half-lesbian, anyway. But after a few Jack Daniels on ice at the officers' club, Hill could turn very friendly. She was big on the touchy-feely thing. A hand to the elbow. To the forearm. Even to the knee. "I have to take a leak." "Hurry back," her large eyes turning expressive, her hand giving my thigh a parting squeeze. "Yes, dear," I would reply. "Major—excuse me." "You're excused." Our hands drifting apart only at the last second, as I headed off towards the smelly officers' john.. I feel certain Major Gestalt—regulations be damned!—wanted to have sex with me. But what if—as is my want—I came too soon? Disappointed her? Embarrassed myself? What would that filtered rumor do to my reputation as one of the wing's most patient, accurate and potent hunters? And killers? Besides, as I've said before, once you've had sex with your mother, is there any other substitute? Even a domineering lesbian who outranks you in command? One time I returned from the mens' room to find one of my cohorts, also a Second Lieutenant, seated on my stool at the bar playing patty-cake, so to speak, with Major Gestalt. She seemed, frankly, enraptured with him. Good for her. For them. I quietly absented myself, went back to the barracks, for once shoved aside my mother-son incest fantasies, and masturbated to images of Hill getting fucked by a surrogate Second Lieutenant. Starting out as a male, he/she morphed into a female wearing a strap-on. It was hot. Very hot. It made for quite a mess... "So what have you two kids been up to?" Dad asked, as if mom and I were mere siblings. "Oh...the mall," mom lied. "We picked out some clothes." "Taking it easy," I added, innocuously. Dad looked up from his over-cooked pork chop: "I can't tell you how proud your mom and I are of you." "Thank you, sir," I said, feeling a warm glow. "Protecting us from the bad guys," Dad beamed, with swollen chest. "Although...," Mom said, spitting out some gristle, "my friend Danielle said she watched in horror the other day from a sidewalk café as—what was it, a Johnny Jims delivery guy on his bicycle?—was vaporized in broad daylight by an enemy drone." My dad looked on fiercely. He rarely swore at the dinner table. "That's petty domestic shit," he declared. "Our son is hunting the international bad guys. Isn't that right, son?" "Pretty much," I conceded. "You see?" "I'm just saying," mom said, baring to my eyes, and dad's, with each dip toward her plate, her ample, artificial cleavage in a very droopy, braless blouse. I admit: with each bite of tough pork my 23 year-old cock got harder. "It's not his...province," dad concluded. Meaning, I think, provenance. "Right son?" "Yes sir. I think, sir." A little past midnight my sexy mother sneaked into my bedroom. I was wide awake—still reliving, and masturbating to, the incestuous sex from earlier in the day and mom's bouncing tits at the dinner table. Did she always dress this provocatively? At mealtime? She slid the door to behind her and, at the side of my bed, lifted her nightgown over her head and dropped it to the floor. "Jesus, mom!" I cried, in whisper, pulling the covers up over my erection. "It's OK," she said, climbing into bed with me. "I slipped dad an Sandman. He has a terrible time sleeping. It's affecting his work. He won't know a thing until seven a.m." And with that mom, acrobatically again for a woman in her 40's, managed to lift the covers, slip underneath, land her head on my left shoulder, drape her left leg across my thighs and grasp, all in one coordinated motion, my curving cock. "Oh, baby," she said. "Mommy." I kissed her head. She began stroking me. "Fuck me again," mom said, rotating her body above me. "Are you sure this is...?" "He's asleep. I promise." My hands rose to her pendant tits. Mom's left hand lifted my hard cock and guided it into her slippery vagina, as she sat. It was this morning all over again. Only this time, my balls already ached. As she rose and fell on me I lifted up, onto my elbows again, and once again took her left nipple into my mouth. It was shower-fresh now, and sweet. Oh, god! If only I could taste her milk—as I had twenty years before. My hands revolved from her hips to her undulating ass. I spread her crack. Worked my finger up her hole. When it was in to the knuckle I felt a deep, pliant obstruction against my fingertip. If only I could taste it. If only she'd shit it into my mouth! While she let loose and peed all over my chest. Oh, mommy! Mommy! But she continued riding me. I moved to her right tit. Inhaled virtually the whole C-cup silicone thing into my greedy mouth. Mom screamed. Hunh? She rode above me, her repeated screams rattling the windows (at least in my paranoid mind they rattled). What had been the elusive trigger? My finger up her dirty ass? The constricting force of her orgasm now pushed it out. And as her hands ran up her own toned belly to her tits, which she squeezed, head arching back, I brought my middle finger to my nose. Mom's fruity shit. I wanted to lick it. Suck it. Oh! There was a guttural rumbling. Across the hall. With equal dexterity Mom launched herself off my body into a standing position by the bed. Thank god I hadn't cum yet. The door slid open. Dad appeared, rubbing his eyes. "What?..." "What's the matter?" mom asked, taking the offensive. "I...I don't know. Thought I heard a scream." "Our son had a dream," mom said, having deftly collected her nightgown off the floor and pressed it against her pubes. "A dream?" Dad sounded out of it. Totally. "A dream. Right baby?" looking over her shoulder at me in the squalid bed of incestuous sex. "Yes," I said (what else could I say?). "A dream." Dad was still rubbing his prescription Sandman eyes. "A drone dream?" "A drone, yes," I said, trying to get rid of him. Trying to get rid of both of them. "He's fine now," mom said brightly, in the semi-darkness. Advancing, she put an arm around dad's pajamaed waist. "Why're you naked?" he frowned. Mom was verbally acrobatic as well. "I took off my nightgown when I came to bed. I was hoping you would...Then I heard the screams..." Dad shook his bowed head. "Sorry. Don't know what's got into me lately..." "It's OK," mom said, with a pat. Her knowing smile flying over her naked right shoulder as my bedroom door slid closed. Mom had cum; I hadn't. I was pleased for her. In the renewed darkness I licked my middle finger. Tasted mom's rich chocolate. What a sweet dessert!