NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This is one of those long-winded stories where it’s ninety percent build up and ten percent release, with the sex scene at the end.

My name is Ellen Ross and this story is my recount of how I came to slowly allow my son into my bed. Now, before all of you Bible thumpers bore me to tears, try reading that Good Book of yours sometime. For those of you who’d like to point out how incest is an abomination against God, I’d like to point you in the direction of Genesis 19:30-38 where Lot was unwittingly seduced by his daughters and God had no problem with it whatsoever—in fact, just read Genesis; there’s an INSANE amount of incest in that book alone…and God never smote ANY OF THEM. If you’re of the religious hate speech spewing kind, telling me all about how I’m going to go to Hell, you can shut up and love thy neighbor just like God told you to before you wind up joining me there, stone caster.

If, instead, you’re an objector for the birth defect reason, you can keep quiet as well, as my son and I have never had any interest in having children, nor have we or will we ever, now that I’ve passed menopause. As for you other buttinskis who want to stick your nose in my business and waste my time trying to run my life by your own morals, don’t bother; morality is an abstract concept and therefore the criteria differs from person to person. Unless you can prove that your moral code is more valid than mine (which, given its very nature, you can’t) you can keep your hate speech to yourself as well. Finally, to those who would dare suggest that my “unnatural” relationship with my son is abusive—whether physically, mentally, emotionally, or spiritually—you have no idea what you’re talking about; just because YOUR brain isn’t wired that way doesn’t mean everyone else’s is, too, nor is your wiring more valid than mine. I also find it very interesting that those who haven’t got a clue in any given situation are also the most eager to find faults in others. Oh, and don’t think that you can read my story and know everything about us in order to pass out your pedantic judgment, either; you won’t.

Now that I’ve covered most of the replies that I’m sure I’m about to receive, I can begin my little tale—it’s not a confession, as I see no reason for it. Even growing up as a Christian, confession has never interested me…but then, this isn’t about religious practices and how I don’t agree with how they’re handled, so that is a topic for another day. I put these words to print not out of fear of some invisible man who lives in the sky, but because I want to bring to light the fact that not all incestuous relationships are damaging. I can write a whole blog post dedicated to how the age of consent is stupid, but suffice it to say that, as long as the relationship is consensual and not manipulative, there are no negative repercussions to having such a bond. My son and I ALONE are proof of that, and I want everyone who has ever wanted to get it on with a close relative that, as long as your feelings are reciprocated, then don’t fear judgment. Instead, enjoy each other and don’t let the rest of the world interfere with your happiness.

With all of that said, I shall begin my account from the start: I was born to loving parents, both of which, of course, I obtained my attributes from. As of the time of seduction in question, I was 33 years old with wavy jet black hair which reached the bottoms of my shoulder blades, green eyes, olive skin, and an athletic figure that reached 5’9” in height. As for my sexy stats, I have a love/hate relationship with my traits. I have a juicy ass—no hate there! I also think my pussy is pretty gorgeous since I have a plump camel toe with lips naturally three times darker than the rest of me before arousal and five times darker during. I keep my pubic hair trim (and I trim a little more if I ever find myself in a one-piece swimsuit), but never shaved. You can throw all the money in the world at me—there’s no way I’ll ever take a razor to my precious nether region. From what I understand, my pussy is also slightly more sensitive than normal, though not nearly enough to turn me into a nymphomaniac, despite my best efforts.

As for my breasts, they are the bane of my existence! They stopped growing when I was thirteen (I began to blossom at eleven) and are just the tiniest things you’ve ever seen, keeping my chest nearly as flat as a board. Now, don’t get me wrong—I love my body to death and wouldn’t dare change any of it. As such, I never dye my hair, nor do I have any tattoos, I certainly don’t drink or smoke, and never in a million years would I ever subjugate myself to plastic surgery under the flag of vanity. This includes my breasts, which are the cutest fatty tissue deposits in the world to me. More on that later, though. Right now, allow me to tell you a bit about my life and how I grew up.

(As a quick aside, should you want to do some fast visual research into my appearance, imagine that I have the body of the porn model Penelope from Anilos, only with an athletic build, and the breasts of Lana Sands. That should give you a roundabout idea of how I appeared at the time.)

I started out as a rural child in a small town called Blue Ridge, Virginia. My life was pretty normal, save for having met my childhood sweetheart when we were both seven. His name was Markie Ross while I was Ellen Gardner. He had just moved into the neighborhood and I was out in the yard, climbing a tree, when we first met. He came over because he was curious to meet me and the moment our eyes met we shared an instant connection. I remember distinctly climbing immediately down (something I NEVER did because I loved climbing so much) and we just gawked at each other for what felt like days. When his mother called him back to the house, we muttered our names to one another before he took off.

We started out as friends, with barely a spoken word among us as we had an eerie mental sync that just allowed us to know what the other was thinking. Our parents noticed it, as well, and they gave each other knowing looks, as if they knew what the future held for us. They were right, of course, but before I get to that, I should say a little something about my parents.

My mother was a Latino, having hailed from Spain, and had the fiery passion and libido to back it up. I inherited some of her libido and all of her passion (that would include my temper, by the way). My father was American born and raised and had met my mother while in the military—he was stationed in Spain for a few years where they had met and fell in love. She followed him across the globe and, when he was ready to settle down, she did too (but not in the bed, naturally—the head- and footboards had to be fixed several times due to their voracious sexual appetites). I have no idea whose tits I inherited, as my mom and grandmother were both a good C-cup, but I’ve never cared. My father didn’t, either.

Dad had always been affectionate to me, being their only child, and when I had started to develop, he showed a little more affection that normal people would deem inappropriate. He always hugged me and held me tightly, and when my boobs started to grow he began to grope me every now and then. I loved having his hands on my tingling and itchy buds, despite not knowing what was going on, but he never took it any further, not even when I grew older. When I reached the age of enlightenment, I realized that my dad had shown several incremental hints that he was sexually attracted to me and, truth be told, I felt the same way, even when Mark and I began to date in my teen years. He would touch my thighs on occasion, sometimes making his way under my skirt or dress, but he never groped me down there. A few times his finger grazed my pussy, but he never continued the action, even though I sometimes humped it a little. Dad would also grab my ass when I jumped on him for a hug (when no one else was around, of course) but he never caressed my cheeks. Even though he wanted his little girl very much, it was up to me to take the next step.

The taboo of incest got me hot, but sadly I was too timid, even with my teen libido and rebellious personality, to ever take our relationship to the next level. Many years later, decades into my adult life, when I finally worked up the courage to ask him if he wanted my body, he burst into tears and confessed his physical love for me. Unfortunately by that point he was no longer able to get it up, so to speak, so I’ve never known the touch of his hot, throbbing manhood inside of me that would allow him to adequately express his true feelings (yes there was Viagra, but no, he was never going to take it—too many horror stories). However, I DID get naked for him often and let him touch me anywhere he wanted. He loved every aspect of my appearance, but he pined for my tits most of all.

As for Mark, we didn’t wait for propriety to catch up to us. When puberty hit me at eleven, I was asking Markie to touch me in all of the places I liked. We didn’t understand what was happening, but he loved the blissful looks I had on my face so Markie was more than happy to grope me in my most sensitive areas. When he reached puberty at thirteen, however, we were fucking like jackrabbits. We met up nearly every night in a storage shed we had in my backyard and we humped like crazy, achieving at least two to three orgasms a night. My father was unaware of our conduct (or so I believed; he later confessed to catching me taking a pounding while being bent over a table when I was sixteen and jerking off as he watched), but my mother was no fool. She knew perfectly well the blood that ran through my veins and immediately put me on the pill. I asked about condoms, but she laughed her head off, knowing that the substandard feeling of rubber running along my insides would never due. She was right, of course. I had Mark try one once out of curiosity and it was an awful experience. We never used them again.

Sex with my boyfriend—and Mark had become my boyfriend when we were fifteen—was out of this world fantastic. I was quite limber, given that I had taken ballet as a child and was then a cheerleader in both middle and high school, and my mother had surreptitiously slipped a copy of "The Kama Sutra" into the storage shed one day. You can just imagine the kinds of positions I was able to get myself into…especially since I was able to do the splits both ways (and I still can to this day!). It made giving birth to my son a breeze, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Despite all of the love we were making, the sex we were having, and the fucking we were doing, I somehow found time to not only be a cheerleader, as previously stated, but I also became the captain of the track team in high school. Physical fitness has always been an interest of mine, but I hardly wanted to turn myself into a bodybuilder, so I kept to feminine activities that would help to tone my body. The track team, in fact, was actually my substitute for the volleyball team I was on in middle school, as high school didn’t have that sport available to me. It was a real shame, too; as much as I loved showing off my legs as a cheerleader, I desired to show off my entire body even more, as the volleyball uniform allowed me to do with its skin tight shirt and bathing suit-like short shorts. Because my boobs have always been so small, I never bothered with a bra of any kind, and I knew everyone could see my nipples poking through my volleyball shirt after an especially vigorous round.

During high school, I was forced to deal with all of the girls who thought that having big boobs made you better somehow. I rolled my eyes so many times I’m surprised they never left my head. I had noticed that many of the women Olympic athletes had small breasts, so every time some idiot decided to bore me with boob shaming, I threw that little nugget right at them as justification for my tiny tits—not that I needed any; it was just to shut them up. When that didn’t work, I then told them to have fun with their shoulder and back pain and to enjoy all of that underboob sweat that they get. They never had a good reply for that, though they sometimes tried. When that happened, I said nice things about them in Spanish with an angry undertone and gave great big belly laughs when they took offense to something they didn’t understand a single word of.

Sports and other after school physical activities were very important to me as a teenager, not only for my love of being fit but also because it gave me the energy to keep up with Mark. Despite not really being into sports (his idea of participation was to live vicariously through me and hide his boner the whole time), he put some effort into doing a few body weight exercises on a regular basis, if only to share my interest. He was never really all that muscular, but neither I nor my pussy cared. We were one and we were going to be together forever one day.

As we grew up, my mother won the lottery. Instead of keeping the multimillion dollar lump sum that she had been rewarded, mom hired a stock broker to manage her fortune. By the time I had graduated, there was enough money to not only pay for my college tuition, but there was also a tidy enough sum left over to live off of for a few decades under middle class conditions. I never made it to college, though. The moment I turned eighteen, the morning after pill went right out the window and shortly thereafter I became pregnant with our son, Josh. When mom found out about my bun in the oven, she burst out into the most raucous laughter I had ever heard in my life. It turned out that the libido the women in our family had was matched one-for-one by our fertility, which she had neglected to tell me about. Regardless, I never regretted my pregnancy and looked forward to starting my family, even if it was going to be a bit early.

Mark was originally going to be a basketball coach (go figure) but as soon as he found out about my ever growing belly, he quickly changed course and took to college in order to become a dentist. We were married shortly before he started and we had a nice house off campus to raise our family. He earned his degree in record time—two years for a six year course!—and began his own orthodontic establishment, where he quickly rose up to become one of the highest-grossing dentists in the state. By that time our little boy was about three years old and I took to being Mark’s receptionist in order to give myself something to do. (Don’t look at me like that—I took my role as a mother seriously, but I was able to multitask.)

Now, before I go any further, I should probably mention the up-bringing of our child. Josh was born on my nineteenth birthday. Mark and I had a quick honeymoon shortly before his birth and oh! The pregnancy sex! You know what I mean, ladies! Anyway, I raised Josh practically on my own—I was able to afford a maid and cook with my inheritance, along with the house, naturally—with Mark stepping in every time he had a spare moment, which sadly wasn’t very often, due to his studies. He was a really bright man with the power to remember everything he read and had an innate ability to process the information and understand it within a matter of minutes. Up until his dying day (but again, I’m getting ahead of myself) he was able to recount memories from our childhood that I have no recollection of.

Had I not become pregnant, I would have continued my athleticism somehow—I didn’t really have a clue. I decided that I was going to figure out my career path during my first year of college. When our bundle of joy changed all of that, I settled for a while to partake in motherhood. I continued to be fit and spry, both during and after my pregnancy, and when Josh was born, I was surprised to discover that the stretch marks I had gained during my pregnancy weren’t going anywhere. My body had been ruined in more ways than one, but seeing that crying baby and holding him in my arms for the first time made me realize that there were more important things in life to focus on.

Regardless, as I said before, I kept fit in order to reduce the damage my body had sustained in childbirth, and for the most part the results were really quite envious. I still have those stretch marks to this day, and now they’re quite a bit more obvious than they used to be, but I never once regretted ever having them. I popped out a baby! Pushed him out on the third try! I was even only in labor for an hour! I’d say permanent stretch marks are a fair trade for all of that, wouldn’t you?

As I raised my little man, I noticed that he always gave me a special smile whenever he saw me; my husband never got it. I chalked it up to a child recognizing their mother, but as time went on, I realized all of the small stuff was pointing to something big. As I breastfed him, he always grabbed my free boob with one hand…always. Not once did he ever grab one tit with both hands. He even played with it as he nursed—not that I minded, as it helped keep the swelling down despite the number of towels I soaked. I didn’t know what to make of it at the time since I was too busy enjoying the trials and tribulations of nurturing a new life into this world, but later on it all began to add up. Getting him to stop breastfeeding was a monstrous hassle and when he became big enough to walk and talk, he would often come at me from behind to give me a hug…with his hands landing right on my breasts. He was even bold enough to squeeze them a few times! I wasn’t bothered by it any. After all, he was a prepubescent child, so there couldn’t be anything sexual about his actions. Plus, I really liked it. Often my nipples would get hard under his touch and he would even manipulate them whenever he was feeling explorative.

Understand, now, that it was the physical contact itself coupled with the love we felt for each other that caused my breasts to react as they did—I’m not a pedophile, my brain abhors the idea despite what I said about relationships needing to be consensual earlier (I just won’t judge others, is all, even though I personally believe that consent can only be given after puberty has set in), so my breasts’ reactions were purely physical; neither my pussy nor my brain ever responded. Mark was also never around for Josh copping his feels, so I never felt pressured to stop his childish wanderings. As for the servants, I don’t believe we had ever been caught in such a compromising position, but if we had, they’ve kept their mouths shut all this time.

Groping me is something Josh did up until he was ten, when he reached the magical age of being too old to do everything you’ve been doing all of your life but also being too young to do anything you want to do for the rest of it. I missed his touch, but I didn’t give it much thought as he was otherwise still the same affectionate little man he had always been. It was just a really long phase and he was finally out of it. Besides, my husband worshipped my tiny twins on nearly a nightly basis (and during the day whenever he could sneak in a touch or two) so I really had nothing to complain about. The practice was booming, I was still in my twenties, and everything was looking up up up!

Despite never being foolish enough to ask what could possibly go wrong, it happened anyway. We had just returned home after work to find that we were out of a few refrigerator items. The cook was going to take care of it himself, but Mark, being ever generous, grabbed the grocery list and took off. (I know I’m building my husband up as being a purely good saint, but believe me when I say that he DID have his flaws; they’re just not pertinent to anything that I’m telling you.) A few seconds later we heard a car crash outside and I immediately shot out of the front door fearing the worst, which my eyes promptly feasted upon. We found out later that the other person was a drunk driver, but that didn’t take away from us seeing what had happened: the other person drove head on into Mark’s car at high speed like two rams butting heads, Mark having just pulled out of the driveway, and he died in the hospital about two and a half weeks later.

Moving on was hard after that. My husband’s death was the first loss I had ever experienced—even all four of my grandparents and their siblings were still alive at the time. Eventually, however, I was able to trudge on. Work and home remained otherwise the same and Mark’s practice was taken over by someone nearly as good as he himself had been. I stayed on as the receptionist to keep the business going as per my husband’s personal guidelines, and mom continued to funnel money into my bank account. She had hired a very good stock broker and his daughter eventually followed in his footsteps; to this day, I never want for money.

At a mere twenty-three I was a widow and my son, at five, had lost his daddy. Shortly thereafter, within a few years, I sent the servants to other employers and they went on their way; with Josh in school there was no real need to keep them around and this was something they saw coming anyway, regardless of my husband’s outcome. Life went on with the house emptier than it had ever been during our stay there. I told mom and dad about how lonely it was, so on my next birthday—OUR next birthday—they gifted me the family home. I was in shock. Surely they would want to live out the rest of their lives in there! But no, dad wanted to travel again while he was still young and able enough to and mom was up for more adventures herself. Shortly thereafter my son and I moved into the house I grew up in.

It wasn’t the first time he had been there; we often visited my parents on Saturday and Mark’s on Sunday, but now things were different. I was now sleeping in my parents’ bed while Josh slept in my old bed; it was surreal. That feeling wasn’t helped at all since everything around me reminded me of my husband: the tree in the yard, his old childhood house across the way, and the woods in the back that we used to play in…not to mention all of the romps that we had in the back shed.

I re-entered that shed for the first time in six years and wouldn’t you know it, it still reeked of sex. When Mark died, so did my sex drive, but our intermingled scents wafting in the stale air of the shed revved up my motor again. I waited a while to start dating again, biding my time with all of the latest sex toys, but they weren’t very useful. They did their job, sure, but they were incapable of performing Mark’s job, no matter how expertly I manipulated myself with them.

I had no idea how to begin dating, so I started off with those online dating sites without success. There may be a million fish in the sea, but none of them were biting; those that did were scam artists. I gave up and tried spending my weekend nights at some bars in the nearby city of Roanoke, but even when I was lucky enough to catch someone’s eye, even for just one night, something always drove them all away. Beats me what was wrong with those people; I knew I was pretty hot stuff, so their funny reactions were a complete mystery to me. I thought my chest may have been the issue a few times, but I never got a straight answer out of any of them. Still, as I said before, I never turned to plastic surgery; breast augmentation was for the insecure and no one had my permission to make me feel that way, especially when the love of my life (eventually joined by my father and son) thoroughly enjoyed what I had to offer.

So I continued to suffer. After a few years of being shot down, I found myself at a point of desperation. I needed sex. At the very least, I needed a good pounding, so I began to walk down some avenues I had otherwise kept closed. I tried dating around the office, but no one would go near me since they all saw me as the owner, even the guy whose name was on the sign outside. (I inherited the practice, of course, so legally speaking I DID own the place.) I next tried women. Even though I’m perfectly straight, I was weak enough to consider girls a viable option. I had never been with someone of the same gender before—the closest I ever came was with a middle school friend of mine, whom I practiced kissing with and we even felt each other’s boobs a few times out of curiosity. But it turned out that not very many women showed much interest in me either, so outside of a few dollars lost on drinks, nothing ever happened.

Over the ensuing years, no matter how hard I tried, everyone always had some excuse for never hooking up with or dating me, to the point where ten years had passed and my toys were still my only reliable means of release. It was maddening. Over the course of that time, my sexual frustration had slowly built up into this massive ball of fire that refused to be extinguished. Even though my toys worked as advertised and were able to bring me to multiple orgasms, they were only successful at scratching the surface and were never able to tackle the underlying smoldering urges that resided deep within me. I was hot, I was horny, and I was desperate for cock! That was when I turned to dad and asked him about his attraction to me. Unfortunately, since my parents had me late in life, he was already in his seventies, but I worked with it however I could. It wasn’t enough (nothing ever was anymore) but at least it was finally something!

I was thirty-one and Josh was thirteen when the ten year mark hit. That’s when things between us slowly started to change. After hitting puberty, my loving boy was becoming distant. We still had an open dialogue, but there was no doubt that a rift had started to form between us. I didn’t know why at the time and I didn’t care; Josh was the only stable element left in my life and I was slowly losing him. Thankfully he never became rebellious, but that was pretty much the only thing he never inherited from me. He had my looks—pure Latino; you never would have guessed Mark was his father—and he had the same passion and fire that ran though my end of the family. However, he also had his father’s kindness and patience and was able to temper himself.

Another thing that changed, for the better as far as I’m concerned, was that he was starting to give me massages after I came home form work every evening. His hands were quite skillful and he always rubbed my feet and legs. I would lie down on the couch while he worked his magic and we spent the time together bonding and catching up. It only ever took place when he was touching me, though. The moment the massage was over he went back to being the distant boy that he was starting to turn into. It bothered me to no end and when I asked him about his behavior, he never gave me a satisfactory answer. It took his computer to shed light on what exactly was going on, and it wasn’t just puberty that was affecting him.

Being rich enough, everyone had their own computer. Josh was allowed to keep his password protected, but only under the stipulation that I knew what it was. Josh didn’t like that when his hormones kicked in, accusing me of spying on his activities, but I stalwartly admitted that I wouldn’t be a good mother if I didn’t. This was how the rift between us began, but there was clearly more going on than I was aware of. Yes he was of the age where I needed to start respecting his privacy, but on the opposite side of the coin…well, you know.

One day about a year later, after apparently having enough of my meddling, he changed his computer password without telling me what the new one was. Can you imagine how thrilled I was? I got home from work at 5:30 and Josh was usually home around seven due to extra curricular activities like the school choir or drama club. I was fully ready to throw all of my Spanish rage at him the moment he got home and after I had verified all of his homework had been completed. I didn’t, though. It turned out that I had noticed on the inside cover of his math notebook an odd arrangement of letters: ilmtt. Well, the last time I checked, math problems didn’t look like that and it seemed like it COULD be a computer password. Instead of chewing him out, therefore, I pretended like nothing was wrong and he went about giving me my massage as per usual.

The next evening, however, I immediately kicked off my heels and my pantyhose-covered feet padded away as I went straight to his room to try out what I thought could be his new password. It was, and I dove right in to see what he was trying to keep from me. Everything looked normal, however, so I had to dig deeper to see what my little man was hiding. I found his dirty little secret when opening a folder called Stories. Josh had shown some interest in writing on top of acting and singing, so having a folder dedicated to his scribbles was hardly surprising. Within that folder, though, was where things got interesting. It contained a sub-folder called Sex Stories which had its own sub-folders called 13 and 14. We had had the talk back when he was sporting his first few erections, so Josh exploring his sexuality wasn’t what shook me. Rather, it was the nature of the stories themselves that took me aback. I read through the list of story titles the documents were saved as in the folder labeled 13:

Flat Chested Mom
Josh Loves His Horny Mom
Mom’s Tiny Tits
Sexy Mom and Her Sexy Boobs
The Massage

The list of names went on. According to the computer, there were 32 stories he had written over the course of those two years, and most of them seemed to be dedicated to my fourteen-year-old son finding me sexually attractive! These weren’t vague stories about a mother and son, either; he explicitly named us in them and used our homestead as the backdrop. My pussy lurched at the thought, but I knew I had to read over a few of them just to be sure they contained what I thought they contained, and oh, did they ever! Clearly written with the inexperience of youth, most of them were only a paragraph or two long, as well as being straight and to the point. The vast majority of the tales started off with me showing off my naked body to him, his erection springing to immediate attention, and then ended with him groping my breasts until we both came. I found them to be quite funny, in the cute way, but my body was responding to his stories with great enthusiasm.

I opened the folder labeled 14 and found even more stories, this time a little more refined, pretty much dedicated to the same subject matter. The only major difference was that it also contained more stories like "The Massage": stories that dealt with him massaging just my legs (never any mention of my feet) in multiple attempts to seduce me. The stories were focused on one more item: they always went into great detail about how I was always wearing pantyhose when he touched me and how wet I got during his seduction and him being able to see the dark spot between my legs. When it came time for us to fuck, I kept my pantyhose on the entire time. So not only was my boy attracted to me, he was also starting to develop a pantyhose fetish…just like his father.

I thought back. He had always been pawing my tits for most of his life and I always wore pantyhose to work, in keeping with my late husband’s wishes since he saw the garment as more professional looking than bare skin (Yeah, right!). Was Josh using the massage to try and seduce me over the course of the past year? God knows I had no qualms with jumping on that dick of his, no matter how small it may be. He never described it in any of his stories (I was always the focus—how adorable!) so I had no idea what he looked like down there anymore.

But then, I couldn’t take this matter too seriously, either. What if his interest in incest was purely mental? I failed to see how that could be, but the possibility was still there. I had to be sure. I kept the façade going that nothing was wrong for another night and then the next evening I read over his stories again. I never wore underwear or a bra (no duh there!) in his fantasies and now he was almost always the instigator. Obviously that was never going to happen in real life, since he believed that I was unaware of his secret based on his actions, so I took it upon myself to test the waters and see if I couldn’t get the ball rolling.

Now, before I continue, I can already tell what some of you are going to say: that my sexual interest in my son at this point in time was due purely to not having been laid in ten years. It was actually eleven, but who’s counting? I don’t pretend that I’ll be able to convince you to the contrary, so instead I’ll merely say that while that outlook is possible, even probable, it’s also completely wrong. My motherly love was as strong as ever and no amount of lust could ever override that. I genuinely loved my son and I could very easily see myself expressing that love sexually, as I had fantasized about my father during my teenage years at times when I was fucking my boyfriend. I can very easily see using sex as an extension of my feelings for Josh without connecting the act to romance in any way as, in the end, sex is nothing more than another expression of love…that also leads to babies, but that part comes later.

Back to what I was saying: I needed to see if Josh was as serious about me in real life as he was in fiction, so I started to do things a little differently. I continued to accept his massages and I paid his hands keen attention this time. Not only was he working my muscles, but there were also plenty of times where he would very quickly run his hands along my calf or thigh. He never dared to go past the hem of my skirt or dress in reality, but in fantasy he went all the way up and played with my pussy (still in his own inexperienced way). I began to wear shorter hems, eventually getting them to about three inches below my ass (I never worse these to work; I changed into them), and just as I had hoped, he continued to follow the hem up. I was able to feel his fingers touching me in places he had only typed about and as I pretended to merely enjoy his finger work, I made multiple glances at his crotch to see if he was getting any erections. Sadly I didn’t see any, but perhaps he was too nervous to get one.

I tried other tactics as well over the course of the next year. I would frequently fail to fully close the bathroom door and then peek at the mirror to see if he was ever at the crack, spying away at me as I bathed. He did. I decided to try showering a few times and noticed him though my peripheral vision as I ran my hands all over my body, giving my pussy—and especially my tits!—extra attention. He concentrated on me every time. I also started to undo a few buttons on my blouse after getting home and then look for excuses to bend down to allow him a look at my chest. He looked, all right! From there I became even bolder. I would masturbate in the shower every now and then; since none of my orgasms were anything to write home about, remaining standing was sadly pretty easy. Other times I would stand naked in my room with the door ajar and allow him to watch me dress of a morning.

I periodically checked in on the sex stories he wrote. As the next year went on his tales were becoming even more explicit and refined. He would help me to put on my pantyhose and then kiss my pussy though the nylon—no longer did I have a cotton crotch in his fiction, unlike in real life, so one day I went out to a fancy clothing store in Roanoke and bought a number of pairs of seamless pantyhose. When he saw me wearing them for the first time as he gave me my massage (I parted my legs slightly so he could get a good look) his eyes bugged out before swiftly regaining his composure.

From there, his tales began to more accurately detail my body, from my pubic hair to my nipple piercings. Oh yes, I have those; two small dumbbell piercings. They were Mark’s idea since he knew they’d make my nipples more sensitive. I cursed his name a lot over the years since his passing, but thankfully I drew the line at having my clit pierced—if I was being tortured NOW, I don’t know if I would have otherwise committed suicide by this point. Besides, noooooooo to the clit! That thing is too sensitive to my state of mind as it is! I may have been drunk at the time of my nipples getting done, but no amount of alcohol would EVER make me go lower!

(As an aside, yes, we drank back then, shortly before I was found to be pregnant, and no I’m not being hypocritical from what I said at the beginning; I came to that particular realization later on in life.)

His stories were becoming better with each new one he created, as if he already had some experience under his belt. Even at fifteen, however, the prose wasn’t much better, but he still had plenty of time to learn. I was being driven even more mad by his tales and my seductions. I continued to gauge him, to see if he would ever have sex with me if I moved to truly seduced him, but after that one year of testing it became abundantly clear that the only way to be sure was to take the plunge. Therefore, I made myself a promise: where I failed with my father, I wouldn’t with my son. If it turned out that he would reject me after all this time, so be it, but I needed to be sure! My pussy was on constant alert for months and GOD DAMN DID I NEED A FUCKING DICK INSIDE OF ME IMMEDIATELY! Josh loved me, so I’m sure he’d do it with me at least once, just because of that. If he didn’t want me to take him again afterward, I would respect his wishes and go beck to only being his mom. But if what I suspected was right, not only would I still have my son, but I would gain a new lover!

I’m sorry. Before I continue once more, I want to clarify something else. I don’t pretend to see my son as my husband. I know you’re probably thinking that it’s simple transference—that because Josh is half Mark, that I would probably begin to see him like that, but I didn’t. He’s half me, as well, which puts three people in Josh’s body. That’s too many people for one body to hold! No, I never have deluded myself into pretending that Josh was someone other than who he himself was: his own person and my son. I’ve already otherwise adequately explained how I viewed him.

Anyway, I decided to do one more thing before making the ultimate leap: I “accidentally” walked into the bathroom as he had finished drying himself off from his bath. I looked down and got the briefest glimpse of his cock, and what a cock it was! It was hanging straight down at full length and he must have been seven inches long! (I measured him later; he was six and a half inches, but that doesn’t really matter too much.) I briefly wondered who he inherited it from, as Mark’s cock shriveled up after we were done fucking.

“Mom!” he screamed as he tried to cover his dick with his hands.

“Wow!” I reacted. “Looks like my little man is a big boy now!”

“Oh my God!” he replied with a shocked look on his face.

I waved him off. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t realize you were still in here.” We keep the bathroom door closed regardless of its occupancy, so the lie was plausible. “I’ll leave now.” I turned away and smiled.

“Please do!”

I opened the door, but before I stepped through it, I turned back to him and said, “In all seriousness, though, you should never be ashamed of what you have there; it’s gorgeous!”

“Mom!” he shouted again. I took a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it momentary glance at his crotch and noticed to my happiness that his emerging boner was beginning to fight against his makeshift modesty. I left the room without further incident.

Now that I knew my son really did have the hots for me, it was time for me to make my most risqué moves yet! For the rest of the week, I kept my legs spread as he massaged them and I continued to wear the seamless pantyhose for his viewing pleasure. I also put myself back on the pill, for if he was as potent as I was fertile, then they were going to be a definite necessity! I can’t tell you how much I feared and dreaded that getting myself back into that habit was going to be pointless, that my son wouldn’t want me in that way after all, making my pill popping a fruitless endeavor. Regardless, I held steadfast to the cause and prayed for the first time in a long time that my foresight would be rewarded in spades.

When the weekend hit, it was time for Phase One of my plant to go into effect. Saturday night, after bedtime, I kept my bedroom door open. Inside, all I wore was a pair of cotton-crotched pantyhose, the cotton having been removed earlier with a pair of scissors. I then retrieved a vibrator, lied down on the bed, and proceeded to masturbate, not doing anything to cover up my actions. Josh eventually made his way to my door, crouching as if the darkness would hide his hot, sexy body from me. I moaned, I whimpered, I groaned and twisted my body into all sorts of shapes and positions, until my orgasm finally washed over my body. It was a typical surface pleaser, but as it started, I made sure to cry out, “Oh fuck! Yes, Josh! Fuck me! Mommy wants your cock!”

I saw him out of the corner of my eye. He looked spooked, like he wasn’t sure if he had heard what he thought he had heard. Josh had been jacking off to me as I masturbated, but when I called his name, he stopped dead in his tracks. Even after that night, however, my beautiful baby boy remained deterred. I wish I could say I was surprised, but being rejected by everyone over the course of twelve years leaves you a little jaded. Suffice it to say, I still wasn’t done with him yet.

We proceeded through the next week as if nothing had happened again. He continued to touch my legs and I continued to let him view everything, including my masturbation. The next weekend, however, he was going into the woods with some friends for a little camping trip that he usually took about two or three times a month and would be gone from Friday night (after my massage, of course) until Sunday afternoon. I put Phase Two into motion during this time.

I had hired a professional porn photographer to take all kinds of sexy pictures of me, using my house as his studio. He knew what he was doing, but I have to admit that my reality was a bit shattered when my sexy photo shoot turned out to be the least sexy thing in the world to experience. I told him my ideas and he gave me various poses to pull off and he just snapped away as if he was a homosexual. I knew he wasn’t, though. When it came time to heat things up, I took on my own poses and whatnot and he was definitely getting a hard-on in his jeans. When it was over, I offered to take care of him, but he said, “I wish I could say yes to that, but its company policy that we’re not allowed to have any kind of sexual contact with our clients.” Of course it was.

After he left, I propped up a camcorder and made a steaming video. I continued where I left off with the photo shoot and made a pretty hot accompanying video, if I do say so myself! I showed the camera exactly where I liked to be touched and finished off with some finger fucking. When the video was over, I did some quick editing and then I waited some more.

My pussy was in agony! I’ve been slutting it up for my son for a week now after having gone twelve years without any satisfying sex and now I was going to wait until the following Friday to put my ultimate plan into effect! The week progressed as per usual, with my son at least getting slightly bolder with his massages (he made it two inches up my skirt one time!) and when Friday night hit, it was show time! I kicked my heels off, made my way to his computer, and went to work transferring all of the pictures to a folder on his desktop. When that was done, I selected one of those pictures as his wallpaper and left both the folder and the video file as close to the middle of the screen as possible, which placed them slightly above my navel in the picture I had selected. Then I returned his computer to its normal off position and did my last bit of waiting.

God this was going to be so fucking hot! When Josh returned home and I verified his homework, it was over to the couch for my massage. When he went up my nylon-covered legs as far as he dared to go, I grabbed his hand and brought it up all the way, so that he could feel my exposed smoking pussy hair against his fingers. “Could you work your magic here, too, if you don’t mind?” I asked.

Josh didn’t say anything. Instead he immediately retreated into his hole like a frightened groundhog. I quickly got undressed and made my way to his door to watch the action unfold. Having oiled the hinges earlier, I was able to peek in with the door wide open without him noticing, and I looked on as he logged on to his computer, no doubt to look at some porn sites dedicated to small cheated women that he had bookmarked. What a surprise he felt, then, when his wallpaper pulled up and it was a picture of me, naked except for a pair of suntan pantyhose, sitting on the floor with my legs spread wide open, one hand behind me for support, and my other hand clutching at my inner thigh, where right beside of it was my pantyhose-covered pussy hidden behind a giant wet spot of pure arousal. To top it off, I had given my face the most aroused look I could muster—half closed eyes, mouth opened in a moan, and best of all, minimal make-up. His jaw dropped at the sight, but he soon noticed the folder and video I left on his desktop.

My son perused the photos quickly, kicking off his pants and jerking off through his underwear like there was no tomorrow, and when he was finished he took a shaking hand to his computer mouse and moved the cursor over to the video, entitled “Mommy Loves You.” He had never called me mommy in his entire life, but given the circumstances, I’m sure he would forgive me. When he opened the video and resized it to full screen, he watched intently as I ran my hands all over myself and my nylon-covered legs in much the same way as his slowly-refined sex stories told me how he liked it. Fifteen minutes in, he was still yanking on his shaft and the video switched focus from what he liked to what I liked. My video self played with her tits and other sensitive areas, causing another wet spot to appear and make the first one darker, until she finished off with plunging her pantyhose into her snatch with her fingers and forcing herself to have three separate squirting orgasms. The pantyhose were drenched in her juices and my son mimed lapping up my pussy. This was my cue to enter.

“Why lap at a computer screen when you have the real thing right here?” He jerked in his chair toward me in surprise to see me completely naked, except for wearing the exact same pair of pantyhose I had worn for the pornography earlier in the week. I didn’t even have them washed, so they were heavily perfumed with my thick scent. The only alteration I made was in ripping a small enough hole for my hairy pussy to get through. It was a good thing, too, because I didn’t want my musk to be contained by the crotch. As I observed my son’s arousal, my pussy became the hottest, most fiery object in the room. It throbbed the hardest I’d ever felt, the lips were genuinely hot to the touch, and the swamp between my legs leaked out onto my limbs and down the pantyhose. If I didn’t get laid right now, I was going to die from twelve years worth of sexual frustration! It was time for me and my son to take our familial relationship to the next level.

“Mom?” he simply asked. His eyes roamed my body and saw as my fluids stained my pantyhose with an odor so strong he MUST have smelt it from across the room. The look in my eyes told him everything he needed to know as I crossed the room. He scooted out his armless wooden chair to give me room and I saw his glorious manhood strain to get away from the body it was attached to in order to make its way to its new home. When I reached him, I slowly raised one leg over until it was on the other side, allowing me to straddle the chair as I faced my sexy little man. Without prompting, he reached down, freed his dick, held his penis out, and awaited my move. Did this mean that he wasn’t a virgin anymore since he already knew I couldn’t just sit on it? Probably, but I didn’t really care. Instead of dwelling on the matter, I lowered myself until my pussy hovered just above his cock head. Pre-cum was already drooling out of his hole while my own dripped onto his member. There was only one thing left to do.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, locking my wrists there, and giving him the most amorous look I’ve ever created in my life, I said, “So me how much you love me.” Without a pause, I immediately plunged onto his dick and instantly felt full. Josh’s eyes popped out of his head and I felt his heat within me mingle with mine in order to become molten. In nothing flat we synonymously moaned into each other’s mouths at the top of our lungs. I was so dazzled by finally being a recipient for desire after all of those years that it never registered in my brain that I was bouncing in his lap as hard and fast as I could like tomorrow would never arrive. I WAS vaguely aware, though, that my son’s hands had found my tits and were holding onto them for dear life with such heat and electricity that I had never felt before or since as we moaned like bitches in heat without a care in the world. When his first ejaculation shot into me, it barely registered and I didn’t slow down one bit; I kept on going at full speed for God knows how long. The build up within me was both excruciatingly painful and larger than my body could possibly contain. My eyes welled up with anticipation and I had to shut them because keeping them open was no longer an option. This was going to happen and not even God himself could stop it!

When my boy’s load shot out a second time, it hit me in all of the right spots and my body was torn asunder with pleasure and pain as my sweet release had finally been achieved. My guttural screams surely rocked the house’s very foundation as my pussy juice was forced out of me with the pressure from a fire hose. I grabbed my son and held him tightly with all of my strength as my muscles contracted infinitely and drenched our laps with what must have been a gallon of cum (and that’s no exaggeration, either!). By the end of it all, I was an uncontrollable twitching mess who couldn’t stop loudly panting with staggered breaths to save my soul. Josh held me tightly in his arms for what realistically must have been at least forty-five minutes to an hour as I rode the waves of pure ecstasy down from the culmination of my beleaguered state. At one point as he waited me out, he whispered, “I love you, mom. I love you so much. I’ve wanted this for so long. Thank you. Thank you for not thinking that I’m a freak for needing you like this.”

After finishing what may as well have been an epileptic seizure, I was able to open my eyes again and realized right then and there that my tears had run down my face and fell down into two small pools that had gathered into one. I slowly sat more straight and gazed into his loving eyes with my watery ones with what must have been the goofiest smile I had ever given someone. I cradled his head with my hands and gave him a lover’s kiss that rivaled any between Cupid and Psyche. When I broke it, I felt that his cock was still rock hard inside of me and said to him the only thing that could be said. “Take me to your bed and do with me whatever you will; my mind, my body, my very soul is yours.”

He stood up, the last of my fluids falling to the floor, and tried to extract himself from me, but my body refused to let him leave. He softly laughed and said, “You need to let go of me for a second, mom.”

“I’m trying,” I replied with a gentle giggle of my own. “I can’t.”

It took Josh a few seconds, but he was finally able to break free with my pussy bemoaning its loss. He then picked me up in his arms, moved me to the opposite side of the king sized bed (as his desk was on one side) as a husband carries his bride, and gently lied me down before climbing on top of me and straddling my waist. From there, Josh slowly ran his hands up my flanks and brought them around until my breasts rested just above the curvature between his thumbs and forefingers. He kept his gaze on my boobs the entire time and practically drooled as he watched my heaving chest begin to increase its undulations in anticipation. “I’ve needed you so badly and for so long, mom. Thank you for allowing me to express what I otherwise couldn’t.”

I smiled warmly up at him and replied, “I think you can start calling me Ellen now.”

But he shook his head. “No. You are the most beautiful and sexiest woman in the world. You also being my mother is the cherry on top.”

I grinned. “Speaking of cherries, I didn’t get yours, did I?” Josh blushed, never answering me. “All of those camping trips…there’s always more than on fire going at a time, isn’t there?” His hands dragged down my body as he moved himself onto his haunches. I raked my nails against his thighs and continued, “Oh don’t be like that.”

“I WANTED you to be my first, but I couldn’t wait any longer.”

I put a finger to his lips. “Don’t concern yourself with it; we’re here now…and there’s no reason why you can’t love both Rebecca and me. Now take control and do whatever you want.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, little man.”

He leaned down, placing MY head in HIS hands this time, and gave me the most passionate kiss he could. I wrapped my arms around him and held him close; had he not been resting above my hips, I would have enclosed him with my legs as well. When Josh broke the kiss, he moved down my body and began touching and kissing my legs from bottom to top, evidently enjoying the feel of my pantyhose the entire time. After touching me everywhere down there except where I needed him most, he moved upward and ravished my tits in every conceivable way with his hands and mouth. My body responded to his manipulations with the utmost aplomb, somehow, and when it came time I opened my legs to give him the necessary space and grant him access to my pulsing womanhood. He then positioned himself, entered me again, and returned to lying on top of me. As he slowly pistoned his dick, Josh also buried his face in my neck and kissed and licked me there with a lover’s skill of his age. He didn’t know that my ears were especially sexually sensitive, but there would be time for that later. For the moment, he took his time and made love to me like a man. He hardly moved, save to run his hands along my legs since I began hugging him with my entire body, so we held that position and retained those motions the entire time, causing our next orgasms to happen about an hour later. I never got tired of Josh blowing his load deep inside of me; it was the best feeling in the world! Knowing that my son was the cause of such pleasure only made it more fantastic.

My hot and sexy Josh tried to pull out, but I grabbed that beautiful ass of his and kept him in place; after not having a dick within me for so long, I wanted to experience it withering in my love tunnel.

“I need to rest,” he retorted.

“Just hold it here for a few minutes, honey.”

“I don’t want to crush you.”

“I believe in you.”

Just as I knew, he could do it. When I finally felt as much of the wonderful sensation I desired that I could (having momentarily forgotten that his dick didn’t shrivel), I gently pushed him off of me and he rolled to the free side of the bed, immediately collapsing and panting. I didn’t move at all. Given how much sex we just had, I didn’t trust my legs to support my weight. I gave a deep, heavy sigh of satisfaction instead. As pent up as I had been, I knew I could go a few more rounds, but what I had at the moment was more than adequate. My son could probably keep going as well, given how long it took for him to go soft, but I wasn’t going to push the matter. Instead, I said, “Thank you, Josh. You’ve made me feel like a woman again.”

His eyes were closed as he recuperated. “We’re not done yet.”

My pussy tingled. “Oh? What do you have in mind?”

With his eyes still closed, he replied, “I’m going to do one more thing to you; just give me a few more minutes.”

“OK, sweetie.”

What was it going to be? Frankly, I didn’t care; I was too excited about having more sex! In the end, I’m glad I’m not the one who popped my son’s cherry because as stressed as I was, having to teach him while going through all of those motions would probably have killed me!

After a few more minutes, Josh finally got up and once again placed himself between my legs. This time, however, he moved my rubbery limbs onto his shoulders and got his face very close to my hole. Immediately knowing what he was about to do, I tried to warn him, “Sweetie, your spunk—”

But he stopped me. “I don’t care. I need your pussy in my mouth now! I was going to do it a few minutes ago, but you stopped me.”

Well if that was the way he was going to be, who was I to deny him? Without another word, he buried his face in my snatch and went to town. My nether region was sore and throbbing, but it reacted willingly to his tongue nonetheless. He stopped after a minute, though, to briefly complain about how awful he tasted, before going back in to finish cleaning up in there. Once he had completely drained me, he started sucking on my lips and slurping away at my juices. The sexy noises coming from down there were enough for me to prop my head up with a second pillow so I could watch him comfortably as he feasted upon my nectar. He locked eyes with me with a soft glare, his eyes glazed over as he performed his oral ministrations. A fog soon clouded my mind and I joined him.

As his playing became more intense, my body reacted by scrunching up. My hands grabbed his head, my legs clamped around them, and my upper body lifted up to hold my muscles in contraction. I gritted my teeth, squeezed my eyes shut again, and let out guttural gasps as the feelings he was giving me intensified. I held on tightly as the well within me began to fill up for what must have been the millionth time that day and I even stopped breathing all together as my sexy little man brought me to the precipice. Eventually my waves crashed upon the rocks, pulling from deep inside my desperate desires, trying to erode the rock in matter of minutes instead of millennia. Finally, I let out a scream as my body shook uncontrollably again, bathing Josh’s face in my euphoria.

He continued eating me out as I came down from my high until I pushed him away from me, but not even then was he done. I saw that his gorgeous shaft was rock hard again and aiming right for my genitals. I tried to protest, but I was too weak at that point to so much as squeak, so I had no choice but to feel my loving son flip me over onto my chest and knees and enter me once more. He clutched my nylon-covered ass and fucked me hard and deep, reaching spots that hadn’t been touched in years. It was all I could do to remove the pillow I had grabbed so I wouldn’t suffocate, but once I was good I just took the pounding like a woman and allowed him to do whatever he wanted to me. I closed my eyes and listened to his grunts as he fucked me with wanton abandon and spurted out hot things every once in a while like, “God, mom! I can’t stop loving you with my cock! You feel too damn good!”

Knowing that my son loved me in this way was mental ambrosia. I couldn’t get enough of his cock any more than he could get enough of my pussy. When he came inside of me again, we were both finally tuckered out and retired to lying face up upon the bed, the one place I never had the opportunity to fuck Mark. Eventually, I turned to Josh and said, “Thank you so much for that, honey. You have no idea how badly I needed that…how badly I needed YOU.” I gently ran my fingers down his sweaty chest, which already had a number of hairs growing out of it. “Tell me something: how do you love me?” I gave him a mother’s patient look as he returned it with one of worry. “Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear; just be honest. I promise I won’t be upset.”

“Mom…I DO love you…but not as…you know…”

I smiled warmly over at him. “I understand. You love me as a son loves his mother and you were expressing that. I feel the same way about you. You don’t need to leave Rebecca for me; as I said before, you can have us both.” Relief washed over his face and he relaxed completely. “I DO want to know something else, though. As you know by now, I figured out your computer password, but what does ilmtt stand for? I assume it’s an abbreviation for something.”

My loving boy smiled. “I love mom’s tiny tits.”

We spent the rest of the night and all of the weekend fucking each other’s brains out, with only annoying things like sleep, food, and bathroom breaks getting in our way. When Monday arrived, our lives returned as if nothing had happened. As much as I would love to believe that it was just my imagination, everyone at the office kept giving me curious glances. I suppose my demeanor had changed after a dozen years of frustration being partially taken away over the course of the weekend, but if anyone was suspicious or anything, the never said it aloud. (In fact, it took over a year before my sex levels were back to normal.) When the work day was over, I made a quick stop to a lingerie store to buy a few items and I changed into one once I got home.

Josh arrived at his usual time, but his behavior wasn’t his typical shy eroticism. Instead, immediately after closing the door, he dropped his backpack, opened up his jeans, tugged his lower garments down to just past his cheeks, and said, “Mom, I need to fill you up with my love again!”

Even though his boner was pointing right at me, I reminded him that my legs still needed his magical touch, so he reluctantly pulled his clothing back long enough for me to check his homework and get to business on the couch. As he massaged my legs as he had many times before, he no longer tried to hide was he was doing, openly copping his feels and kissing them as he catered to my needs. As a look of blissful joy crossed my face, I gave him a big surprise by opening my blouse to reveal that my upper body was covered in nylon. He gawked at my tiny tits being veiled in it sheer material and I said, “Since you love pantyhose so much, let’s see how much you enjoy body stockings.” He continued to stare dumbfounded at me as I stood up and removed my clothes to expose my body practically encased in its sheer jumpsuit. Needless to say, Josh loved running his hands all over my body even more after that. As always, he worshiped my tits like his father before him.

To this day we both have an active sexual relationship despite himself being married and with a child and me being remarried. We have never told our spouses about our special relationship since we’re not stupid, but we’re very careful and so have been able to otherwise freely express our love as we were always meant to. As with my mom, my libido never slowed down, even after menopause, which my husband gleefully enjoys. Josh does too, since he no longer has to fear getting me pregnant, and I enjoy it most of all since I know I’ll be able to have sex until the day I die!

As you can imagine, my tale has now ended and I hope I have liberated a few of you to taking a chance at being able to have the relationship with the family member of your sexual desire. I took it, I’m glad, and I’ve never looked back. Thank you for reading my story and, at the very least, I hope I have provided you with enough entertainment so you can fondle those genitals of yours into a hot mess.