A Mother's Lust Ch. 01

That shameless thought is interrupted by a deep groan from my son's mouth as he pushes his hips forward and buries his penis as deep into me as he can go. Then I feel the white-hot spurt of his semen shooting into my vagina like a jet from a pump. The sticky warmth of his seed filling my cunt sends sexual shivers rippling through my body.

It's not quite an orgasm, but that's ok.

My son holds himself inside for a while, allowing himself to collapse on top of me as we try to catch our breath. I stroke his hair like the loving mother I am, hoping that he doesn't feel too guilty about crossing yet another red line with me.

Eventually, he rolls off of me and flops onto his back, leaving me lying with my legs splayed and my own son's semen oozing out of my pussy. Even after catching our breath, we remain silent for a little while longer, waiting for the other to say something.

This time, he breaks the ice first. "Sorry I didn't last very long."

"You've got nothing to be sorry about," I reassure him, placing my hand on his bare chest.

He really doesn't. It's not fair to compare father and son -- the very fact that I'm in a position to do that is messed up enough. They're both about six inches when aroused, and after nearly two decades of marriage, my husband still knows how to hit the right spots.

But there's something viscerally exciting about sensual sex with a younger man. The vigor, the energy, the earnest desire to please, and the irrepressible horniness of a teenaged lover. On top of the shameful pleasure of seducing my own son, if anyone should be sorry, it's me.

"You're even better than dad." That isn't strictly true. His father has had a lot more practice in pacing himself to make sure that I reach climax, but I can see my son's confidence rise.

"Let me make it up to you for not lasting long enough."

Before I can answer, he's already rolled back onto his stomach and his face is between my open thighs. I have no objection as his nose brushes up against my clitoris and his wet tongue slides experimentally across my cum-filled entrance.

"How do I taste?" I can't help but feel a little self-conscious.

"A little bit salty," my son responds, and he continues to lick me. "Like fresh cum."

For some reason, we both laugh at that, and we have to suppress the noise for fear of waking the rest of the family. I dig my fingers into his hair and push his face down into my crotch as he licks and slurps more vigorously.

My husband does sometimes go down on me -- usually in exchange for me doing one of his assigned chores -- but I don't think he's ever done it after ejaculating inside me. This line isn't quite as taboo as sex between mother and son, but it's an exciting line to cross all the same.

I think most men would be disgusted at the thought of eating a woman's pussy after sex, as if there's something gross about their own semen, but my son has no such shame. He plants his hands on my inner thighs to hold me still while his tongue flicks across my clit. The urge to squeeze his head between my thighs is almost as hard to suppress as the moans of pleasure.

After several minutes of this, I just can't hold it down anymore. My son eats my pussy until I reach an orgasm, and I arch my back and curl my toes as the pleasure washes through me. My hands clench into fists as I grip the bed sheets, and I bite my tongue and clench my jaw to hold down the vocalized ecstasy that so desperately wants to escape my throat.

When the orgasm finally fades, I'm left with a warm afterglow of satisfaction, and I pull my son in close for another passionate tangling of tongues. He's right, I do taste a little bit salty. We're both worn out, so I reach over to the bedside table, pausing for a moment to give my husband in the framed family photo a guilty look before turning out the light.

* * *

My son and I were both quietly ashamed of what we'd done; but not so ashamed that we didn't make love again a few hours later, and then again as the sun rose. I did shoo him out after that for fear that his sisters might walk in on us, but although we kept a chaste distance between ourselves in the day, we did the same thing again on Saturday and Sunday nights.

I spent all morning on Monday hastily cleaning away the evidence of my incestuous affair. I changed the sheets, scoured the bedroom for signs that my son had set foot inside, did the laundry, gave myself an extra thorough scrubbing down in the shower, and made sure that the house was ready by the time my husband's taxi arrived.

My husband was exhausted but happy from his trip, and I greeted him like the good wife I've nearly always been. When he asked for sex that night, I told him I was tired -- which was true -- and so we didn't have sex again until Tuesday night.

All of which is to say that I'm probably nine months pregnant with my own grandchild.

I'm naked as I extend my leg over the edge of the seldom-used bathtub, thoroughly cleaned out and filled with enough warm water to cover the bottom half of my shin. My dear husband helps me as I plant my other foot inside the tub before turning around and squatting down, and then leaning back and laying my head against the headrest.

My belly has swollen to the size of a basketball, my breasts have grown another cup size, and are already producing milk. My back is aching from carrying my fourth baby, and the space it takes up inside me has sent me to the bathroom at least twenty times today.

But despite the many discomforts of being pregnant, I've loved every moment, just as I loved being pregnant with my previous three children. I'm almost sad that it'll be over soon.

Another wave of contractions roils my gut, and I wince at the reminder that it won't be over too soon. I start my breathing exercises, inhaling sharply and taking five seconds to exhale as my husband plants a comforting hand on my shoulder.

I close my eyes and imagine my son kneeling next to me. As soon as I do that, I'm reminded of the fateful three nights we spent together -- in the marital bed, no less. That surreal weekend was back in June of last year, and now that March has arrived and the baby is soon to follow, it feels like a lifetime ago.

By lucky coincidence, he's come home for Spring Break, just in time to witness the birth of his own son -- who's also his half-brother.

There's simply no getting around the messed-up nature of our three-night stand, but despite the awkwardness of it all, my son and I have stayed close, and I ask my husband to bring him in. He nods and plants a kiss on my lips before hurrying to fetch our son. He doesn't want to leave me alone any longer than necessary.

While he's gone, another contraction arrives, squeezing my innards downwards as the baby descends into my birth canal. I breathe through the contractions, allowing the air to escape my lungs in the form of a sonorous moan.

The pressure down below is almost as strong as the urge to bear down, but I know better than to fight my own body. The baby will descend in due course, and I can start pushing once I'm sufficiently dilated. For now, I squat down in the tub and take deep breaths.

The bathroom door opens, and my husband returns with my son in tow. He came home for the Christmas holidays, and before that for Thanksgiving, but it still feels like years since I caught this same eighteen-year-old masturbating while watching me in the bathroom.

He's had a haircut, and his body looks thicker and even more toned than last time, even under his shirt. He looks at me with the same earnest blue eyes that his father and I gave him, and I meet his gaze with a silent acknowledgment of the secret between us -- the secret that's about to pass between my legs.

"Where are the girls?" I ask in between breaths.

"Waiting in their bedroom," my husband replies. "I don't think they want to watch this."

"That's alright," I agree, "they're probably too young to watch this, anyway."

I love my daughters, but I don't need them to watch me give birth. I only need my son.

As another contraction boils up in my belly, I squeeze the sides of the tub and allow the roiling pain to flow through my gravid body. My husband is quick to kneel down by my side and take my hand in his while my son kneels down next to him.

I can see his eyes wandering up and down my pregnant body, the reality and magnitude of what he caused to happen to me dawning on him. That's good. I want him to watch me give birth. I want him to see me like this. I want my son to witness what a woman is capable of.

It isn't long before I'm sufficiently dilated, and the grueling pain of pushing in sync with the contractions begins to take its toll on me. It's my husband who shuttles back and forth with fruit juice to keep me hydrated and energized while my darling son stays by my side.

"I think you're crowning." His voice is wavering. "I can see the top of the baby's head."

My husband leans over to check. "I see it, too. There's a little tuft of hair on top, too."

I moan with premature relief that this ordeal will soon be over, but it's short lived as I endure yet another contraction pushing the baby another half an inch closer to the outside world. My labia have been stretched wide for some time now; the dreaded ring of fire has been burning my vaginal opening since long before either of them noticed what's already obvious to me.

"Do you want to catch it?" My gaze meets my son's as I ask the question.

"Huh?"

"D'you wanna be the one to catch your baby? Brother?"

The verbal slip makes my heart skip a beat and makes my son flinch, but thankfully it doesn't elicit so much as a batted eyelid from the grandfather-to-be.

"I think that'd be great!" my husband agrees enthusiastically. "I caught you when you came out, so why don't you be the one to do it this time? It'll be good practice for when you have kids of your own one day."

"You'd better strip down quickly," I urge him breathlessly.

My son nods and strips off his shirt to reveal his impressively muscular physique. Then he removes his shoes and socks and strips off his pants and underwear in one go, taking away my breath at the sight of the beautiful, naked body I want to embrace again.

"Um, I don't think you need--"

My husband doesn't get to finish expressing his bewilderment at our son getting naked as the next contraction arrives and elicits a long squeal of pain from my lips. The ring of fire is well and truly here, and after one more push, we'll be a family of six.

My son steps into the bathtub with me -- something he hasn't done since I used to wash him as a baby. He's unashamed of his nakedness as he kneels down with his hands ready to catch his firstborn child. My husband looks suddenly conflicted, as if he hadn't really thought through the visual implications of his adult son naked in a tub with his laboring mother.

I'm too busy breathing deeply and slowly to care about my husband squirming. A few more pushes are left. I just have to endure the stinging pain of my labia being stretched to their limit a little bit longer, and the next wave of pain will finally make me a mother of four. Sure enough, I feel the familiar rumble brewing in my belly, and I take a deep breath...and PUSH!

The scream that escapes my lips drains my lungs of air as my ordeal finally reaches its climax. The baby slides another inch downwards until its head pops out, its neck wrapped snuggly in between my still painfully stretched labia.

My husband gasps in silent anticipation, barely suppressing the emotions I can see welling up in his eyes while my son does the same but with his hands ready to catch the baby. One more push, and the baby slides out of my vagina into his father's waiting hands.

The sheer physical relief of that huge fleshy mass finally gliding out of my pussy is exquisite, and I release a moan of exhausted relief as the birthing high kicks in. My son is holding the wriggling little creature that just slithered out of me, and the tears are welling up in his eyes.

"It's a boy!" My husband exclaims, even though we knew that from an ultrasound scan a few months ago. "We've got another boy!"

I reach forward and take the baby away from my older son, bringing the precious little thing close to my chest and giving his back a few gentle taps. He coughs up a little bit of mucus, clearing his airways enough to start crying.

All four of us are in tears as the emotions boil over for all of us. My son slides over next to me and wraps his arm around me as if he were my husband while my real husband grabs a towel and uses it to help me swaddle the newborn in it. If he thinks it's bizarre for our naked adult son to snuggle up close with his mother with her newborn baby, he doesn't comment.

"Shall I fetch the girls?" My husband suggests.

"Give it a few moments." I say it softly as if it's a request for privacy, but really, I'm worried what they'll think if they see their grownup brother naked in the bathtub with their mother. "there'll be plenty of time for them to meet the baby."

My husband nods and assents to my wishes. I raise the baby to my breast and encourage him to latch onto my nipple. Before long, he's suckling contentedly. My husband looks down at the baby and his joyful smile is crinkled by a furrowed brow.

"He's got blond hair," he observes curiously. "That's recessive in my family."

"And yet our firstborn came out with blond hair," I point out to him.

"Kind of." He doesn't seem convinced, and he looks at the exotic mixture of dark and blond strands on our older son's head. "But neither of the girls came out with blonde hair."

"They didn't have any hair at all when they were born." Since I'm still basking in the glow of the birthing high, and my baby is nursing peacefully at my breast, my discomfort at this topic is easy to suppress, but only for the time being. "Relax, he looks exactly like our son."

That was a poor choice of words, but once again the verbal slip and the dark truth it contains pass right over my clueless husband's head. Even so, I need to be more careful about what I say, unless I want to end up on the cover of some gossip magazine.

"Could you at least get out of the tub already?" My husband turns to our son. "You're too old to be getting naked with your own mother."

"Sure thing, dad." My son steps out of the tub and starts drying himself off with a towel.

While my son puts his clothes back on, my husband leaves to fetch the girls to welcome their new younger sibling. I look down at my precious little baby and smile with joy, all the while quietly hoping that he doesn't develop webbed feet.

TO BE CONTINUED...