This story is about incest. It contains detailed descriptions of the sexual relationship between a 13-year-old boy and his mother. If you are not of legal age in your community, or if you find such material offensive, don't read it.

Sweet Grapes
Chapter 3
by parthenogenesis

When I awoke the next morning, it was as if I was coming out of a long, long dream, but there were no dream-threads in my mind. My body was relaxed as if a tension I hadn't even known was there had been relieved as I slept. I sensed a peace of mind I'd never known before. Then, as feeling began to return to my body, I realized that my pubic bone did seem to be bruised. I grasped my morning hard-on and found my pubic hair crusty and matted in spots. And then the memory of the night before came to mind with full force. Mom and I had fucked, made love, and it had been wonderful. I wanted to do it again. And again, and again, and again. I knew last night had been wonderful, and that Mom and I had shared something very, very special. I wondered how she felt. Would she want to do it again, too? Or was this a one-time thing, something that had seemed right at the time but that was never to be repeated? Was she going to be angry with me? Or angry with herself? How should I greet her this morning?

The smells of another of Aunt Nellie's breakfasts had drifted up the stairs and under my bedroom door. I realized that I was ravenously hungry. Whatever my fears or doubts, it was time to get going and get some food. Slipping into shorts and a tank top, I padded to the bathroom. My morning hard-on didn't want to go away. I sat down on the toilet and scooted back as far as I could, then bent my hard-on down until my cock was pointed inside the toilet. And then I waited. And waited, until the painful tension against my hard-on caused it to go down enough for me to pee. And then I pissed a gallon. I flushed the toilet and went to the basin to wash my face. As I washed my face, I decided it would be a good idea to wash my crotch, too, to get rid of some of the crustiness. As I soaped my cock, the memory of the night before came back to mind and my cock got hard again. I began to wonder whether I was going to have to live with a perpetual hard-on now. I dried myself off, tucked my hard-on up into the elastic of my shorts, and pulled my shirt down to cover the bulge. Checking in the mirror, I decided that I'd be okay for facing Mom and Aunt Nellie.

When I walked into the kitchen, Aunt Nellie was at the stove, with her back to the room. Mom was seated at the table, facing me, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. Mom looked more beautiful than I'd ever seen her. Her face was relaxed and she seemed to be just glowing. She looked at me with a broad smile—then winked, slowly and deliberately. "Good morning," she said, in a velvety voice. It was going to be ok. My cock throbbed.

I sat down across from her, and Mom's and my eyes locked. We just looked at each other, wordlessly. The next thing I knew, Aunt Nellie was elbowing my shoulder. "Hey! You! Boy! You want your breakfast?" she said, insisting a plate between my elbows. I snapped back from wherever I'd been as I looked up and registered Aunt Nellie's presence. "Uh, yeah," I said. "Thank you. I'm so hungry this morning I could eat a horse."

As I dug into my eggs and bacon, Mom gave me another wink and stood up. "I'd better get going," she said. "I have a lot of ground to cover this morning." She rinsed her coffee cup at the sink, then went out of the kitchen and upstairs.

What was happening this morning was just what we'd planned the night before. Mom was going into town to shop for groceries, and Aunt Nellie was going to teach me how to make bread. I knew all that. But I was still disappointed. Last night had changed something. Even though I knew that Mom and I couldn't just run upstairs and hop back into bed again, I didn't want to see her go. As I was sopping up egg yolk with a piece of toast, Mom came back into the kitchen. I was surprised to see that she was dressed in a conservative skirt and blouse, and that she had the tote bag she used for work slung over one shoulder.

"You got everything you want on the grocery list?" she asked Aunt Nellie.

"It's all set," Aunt Nellie replied.

Mom came over and kissed me on the forehead. "Well, then, I'll be on my way. I want to run a few errands while I'm in town, so I probably won't be back until after lunch. See you then!" And, with that, she breezed out the door.

While I was finishing my breakfast, Aunt Nellie left the kitchen, too. After a few minutes, I heard the sound of the bathtub in the downstairs bathroom filling. I took my time eating, then lapsed back into my reverie over a cup of hot cocoa. After some time—I really didn't know how long—Aunt Nellie came back into the kitchen, trailing a cloud of lilac behind her.

"Well, boy, you ready to become a baker?"

"Uh, yeah," I said. "Aunt Nellie, your bread is so good. It's like magic. I guess I thought bread had to come from the supermarket or a bakery. I didn't even think that people could just make bread of their own."

"Where do you think bread came from before supermarkets were invented?" Aunt Nellie said. "Aw, never mind. C'mon over here, and let's get started. All you need is some milk, some water, some sugar, some yeast, a little butter, a touch of salt, and flour. The main secret to baking bread is that there ain't no secret. But there are a couple of tricks that make it easier. Now, let's get set up."

Aunt Nellie took a large glass mixing bowl out of one of the cupboards and laid it on the counter next to the breadboard. Into it she measured a tablespoon of sugar, two teaspoons of salt, and three tablespoons of butter. "Maybe you think salt don't belong in bread, boy," she said, "but don't you ever forget it, or the dough won't rise right. Now we gotta scald the milk."

Aunt Nellie poured a cup of milk into a saucepan and put it over medium heat on the stove, and immediately started stirring it. "You allus gotta stir milk when you're heating it, boy, or you'll scorch it and make a mess. Scalding milk means heating just to when it starts to boil—problem with milk is that it when it boils, it don't bubble like water. It just kinda swells up. Watch."

I stood in the cloud of lilac next to Aunt Nellie at the stove and fidgeted inwardly while she placidly stirred the milk. After a few minutes, she said, "There, see?" and pulled the spoon out of the milk. I looked, and, sure enough, there were no bubbles, but the level of the milk in the pan was starting to rise. Aunt Nellie turned the stove off, and poured the milk into the bowl with the salt, sugar, and butter. Then she ran a cup of hot water from the tap, and added it to the bowl, too. Aunt Nellie stirred the mixture around to start the salt and sugar dissolving.

"Now we gotta let that cool just a bit," she said, placing the palm of her hand against the bowl. "If it's too hot, it'll kill the yeast. While it cools, we'll proof the yeast."

"Proof the yeast?" I put my palm against the bowl, pulled it away quickly, then tried again. The bowl was almost, but not quite, too not to touch.

"Get it started. Yeast's a little critter that eats sugar and poops out alcohol and carbon dioxide," she said, chuckling at her joke. "The yeast we have is dry, so we have to wake it up."

She put another tablespoon of sugar into a measuring cup, then filled it to the half-cup mark with warm water from the tap and stirred it with a teaspoon until the sugar had dissolved completely. She took a jar of brown, grainy stuff from one of the cupboards, and sprinkled two tablespoons of it into the cup. "Allus put the yeast in last, boy," she said. "If you try to put water into the yeast, it won't dissolve. It'll just turn into a glob and sit there." As I watched, granules of the yeast began to sink to the bottom of the cup. After a few moments, Aunt Nellie poked the rest of the yeast beneath the surface of the water and stirred it around a bit. When she withdrew the spoon, a gob of yeast was stuck to it. She scraped that out with her finger, then scraped the gob off her finger and into the measuring cup, where it fell into the water with a small plop. "Now, let's take a little break."

We sat down at the kitchen table, and Aunt Nellie switched on her thousand-yard stare. I returned to my thoughts of the night before, and my cock, which had gone limp when I turned my attention to the bread, rose again. After about five minutes, Aunt Nellie started, and said, "Go take a look at the yeast now, boy."

I did. While Aunt Nellie and I had been sitting, a head of froth had risen almost to the top of the cup. "There, see?" Aunt Nellie said. "Now the yeast's doing its stuff." She checked the temperature of the bowl again, then poured the yeast mixture into it and stirred it around with the milk, water, and other ingredients. To make sure she'd got all the yeast out of the cup, she dipped the cup into the liquid and filled it about halfway. She stirred the liquid in the cup around a few times, then returned it to the bowl. "Now for the flour," she said, as she scooped about two cups of flour into the bowl. She stirred the flour around until it was a soupy mixture, then scooped in more.

"Aren't you going to measure the flour?" I asked?

Aunt Nellie chuckled again. "No point in measuring it. The liquid will hold only so much, and when you've put in all it can hold, then you've put in the right amount." Aunt Nellie continued scooping in flour and stirring. When the mixture got so stiff that she couldn't stir it any more, she scraped the flour paste off the spoon into the bowl with her finger, scooped in more flour, and plunged both hands into it. "Only way to mix it now is with your hands," she said. "And here's where you can be a help, so's I don't get dough all over the scoop. When I tell you, you can scoop in more flour."

Aunt Nellie squished and squeezed the flour and dough through her fingers like a child playing in mud. From time to time, she'd ask me to add another scoop of flour. Then she asked for a half-scoop, then just a smidge more. "Now, here's the first trick, boy," she said. "If you want nice, moist bread, you want the dough to be as wet as possible, but if it's too wet, it'll just stick to the board when you go to knead it. When the dough quits sticking to your fingers, you've added the right amount of flour." She demonstrated by showing me her hand, which was no longer coated entirely with dough. From one hand, she peeled the chunks of dough that were remaining, and let them drop into the bowl, then cleaned the other hand in the same way. After sprinkling a bit of flour onto the breadboard, she gently tipped the bowl and let the dough roll out onto it. "All them recipes that tell you to sprinkle the breadboard lightly with flour?" she said, her voice rising, "Ever wonder how much is 'lightly?' I'll tell you: lightly is just enough flour to keep the dough from sticking. Now we gotta knead the dough for ten minutes." She put the mixing bowl in the sink and filled it with water.

Kneading the dough, I learned, consisted of folding the dough from back to front, then pressing the two edges together with the heels of your hands. Over and over Aunt Nellie repeated this process, establishing a heel-and-toe rocking motion that let her put the whole weight of her upper body onto the dough. After about five minutes, she said, "You want to give it a try, boy?"

"Sure," I said.

"Ok," she said, "but the first thing you gotta do is wash your hands till they're clean. Under your fingernails, too. The oil in that dough'll suck every bit of dirt and grease off your hands, and I don't want no dirt in my bread."

I dutifully scrubbed my hands until I couldn't see any traces of dirt, then took my first try at kneading. It wasn't as easy as it looked. At first, I couldn't even seem to press the dough down right, and I certainly wasn't able to set up the rhythm that Aunt Nellie had had going. But I kept after it, apparently to Aunt Nellie's satisfaction, because she didn't say anything. I was glad when she told me that my five minutes were up. My wrists and shoulders were getting awfully tired.

Aunt Nellie rolled the dough into a ball and placed a dishtowel over it. Then she went to the sink and washed out the mixing bowl. After she'd dried it, she put about a teaspoon of butter into it and rubbed it all around with a scrap of waxed paper until the entire inside of the bowl had butter on it. She dropped the ball of dough into the buttered bowl, rolled it around a bit, turned it over, and rolled it around a bit more. She took the dishtowel to the sink and wet it thoroughly, then, after wringing it as dry as she could, she draped it loosely over the bowl and put the bowl in a corner of the counter.

"Gotta let it rise now," Aunt Nellie said, "till that lump of dough's twice as big as it is now. Takes about an hour." We both washed the film of dried dough off our hands.

Aunt Nellie sat down at the kitchen table. "You know anything about old people, boy?" she asked.

"Uh, no," I said. "I don't really know any old people."

"Well, then, I'll tell you," she said. "Old people are just the same as young people, except that they've been alive a lot longer. You think old people are stupid?"

"No, of course not."

"You think all old folks are hard of hearing?"

"I don't know."

"Well, they ain't," Aunt Nellie said. "Last night it sounded like that old bed upstairs was about to come apart, and the only people upstairs was you and your ma. Then I got to thinking about seeing the two of you in the bathtub, with your naked ma sitting in your lap. And this morning your ma came down the stairs with a smile that could have been caused by only one thing. I ain't deef, and I ain't stupid. Seems to me like you and your ma have a little secret that'd best be kept in the immediate family, if you take my meaning."

My knees suddenly felt wobbly, and I got that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that comes from being in real trouble. Mom and I had been found out! But Aunt Nellie wasn't telling me that Mom and I shouldn't have done what we did or that we were going to go to hell for doing it or anything. If I took her meaning right, she was trying to blackmail me. But for what? Who was she going tell? Dad? Even if she did, would Dad believe her? Was she going to call the cops or social services or something? What could she possibly want that I could give her, or that Mom could give her?

When I tried to speak, all that came out of my mouth was a hoarse croak. I swallowed hard and tried to find some saliva to run around my mouth, then tried again. "I think I understand what you mean, Aunt Nellie."

"Well, then, c'mere, boy," Aunt Nellie said.

I walked a few steps closer to the table.

"Closer, boy! Here! Right up close to me," Aunt Nellie said, pointing at a spot on the floor just in front of her toes.

I stepped forward to the designated spot. Aunt Nellie reached out and pulled my shorts down to the middle of my thighs. My cock drooped at a little less than half-mast. Then Aunt Nellie reached out and took my cock, very gently, in the palm of one hand and began to stroke it with the other, as if she were petting a small animal. "Aw," she murmured, "ain't that purty...all smooth and straight." Aunt Nellie's hands were incredibly soft and smooth, and she was stroking my cock very lightly. It began to rise. Aunt Nellie watched my cock harden with rapt attention. After petting it for a maybe thirty seconds more, she moved her upper hand to her mouth, and, with a slight squirching sound, removed her false teeth and put them on the kitchen table. Then she put her mouth over my cock. Aunt Nellie was giving me a blowjob. Aunt Nellie? Giving a blowjob? Aunt Nellie?

Aunt Nellie's lips were soft and her mouth was soft and hot. No one had ever sucked my cock before, so I didn't know quite what to expect. And suck it she did, as if it were a popsicle or something. She moved her head back as she sucked and rolled her tongue all around my cock. She licked the head of it, then she sucked it some more, applying just slight pressure with her toothless gums. It was like fucking, but different. In a way, not as good; in a way, better. After two or three minutes, I could feel the come starting to build, and I knew it wouldn't take much more for me to shoot.

"Uh, Aunt Nellie," I croaked, "uh, I'm going to...uh, I mean, maybe you should..."

And then I came, shooting my come into Aunt Nellie's mouth with all the force of not just the blowjob but also all the thoughts of last night with Mom that had been going through my mind since I woke up. Aunt Nellie didn't flinch or change her sucking. She just sucked every drop out of me and swallowed it down. When I was drained dry, Aunt Nellie removed her mouth and grasped my cock in her hand again. I started to back away, but when I did, Aunt Nellie squeezed my cock a little harder and pulled me back to her, as if she had me on a leash.

"Stay right there, boy," she said hoarsely.

Aunt Nellie looked off at nothing on the other side of the kitchen. Unconsciously, it seemed, she squeezed my cock gently, then relaxed her grip, squeezed and relaxed.. After a minute or two, she dropped her other hand to her lap and began rubbing herself between her legs. For several minutes there was utter silence in the kitchen, with Aunt Nellie wherever she was when she drifted off like that, squeezing my cock and rubbing her crotch. My cock began to harden again. Then Aunt Nellie snapped back to the present, let go of my cock, and stood up. I pulled my shorts up again.

"Come with me, boy," she said.

I followed her out of the kitchen and into her bedroom. Her bed was an old four-poster, and the bureaus and tables were covered with faded pictures and bric-a-brac accumulated over a long lifetime. She sat down on the edge of the bed and motioned for me to stand in front of her again. When I drew near, she reached out and pulled my shorts down again, this time to my ankles, then once again took my cock into her mouth.

When my cock was fully hard, she drew her head away and pushed gently on my stomach to indicate that I should move back a step. She stood and unbuttoned her dress. I was surprised to see that she wasn't wearing any underwear. She removed her dress, laid it over the back of a chair then lay down on the bed and spread her legs. She drew a finger up her pussy. "There, boy," she whispered, "put it there."

The light went on. Finally, I understood what Aunt Nellie's meaning was: if I'd have sex with her, then she wouldn't let on to Mom that she knew what Mom and I had done. My head started to spin again. Being thirteen is hard enough as is, always bumping into things and falling over things, being horny all the time but having no outlet for it, trying to act and sound grown up but not really knowing what's going on half the time, and having your voice squeak at the worst times. On top of all that, I was trying to deal with the fact that my mother and I had just become lovers, enjoyed it, and wanted to continue to be lovers. Now I had to try to fit Aunt Nellie's request in among all the rest of the stuff in my head. If I had sex with Aunt Nellie, I'd be being unfaithful to Mom. And I wasn't too sure about having sex with a 78-year-old woman anyway. Old people weren't sexy. They didn't have sex. I mean, I'd never thought about old people and sex at the same time before. But if I didn't have sex with Aunt Nellie, then she'd tell Mom what she'd heard, and I wouldn't be having sex with Mom any more. Among all the uncertainties I was trying to deal with, I was sure of one thing: I wanted to keep having sex with Mom.

I knelt between Aunt Nellie's spread legs. The flesh of her thighs was wrinkled slightly and almost puddled on the bed. Her pussy looked ... looked ... looked tired. It looked like a pussy all right, surrounded by a wispy field of grey hairs, the lips nearly bald. But the lips just kind of lay there, drooping downward, looking tired. I leaned my weight forward. Aunt Nellie took my cock in her hand and guided it to her pussy, slid it up and down the folds a few times, and positioned it at the opening of her vagina. I leaned forward a bit more, rocked my hips, and slid into Aunt Nellie. Her pussy was soft and warm and wet, but it had almost no squeeze at all. It was just sort of there, surrounding my cock with warmth and wetness. I began to pump my hips and to move in and out of her. I wasn't lost in Aunt Nellie the way I'd been lost in Mom the night before. I was still centered in my head, not in my cock. I was aware of time passing, the furniture in the room, of my cock sliding in and out of Aunt Nellie's pussy.

"Slow down a little bit, boy," Aunt Nellie said.

I slowed my pace and began to pay more attention to what I was doing. Aunt Nellie's eyes closed and her mouth formed a small smile. She wasn't moving much, rocking her hips only slightly. She certainly wasn't putting the same kind of energy into it that Mom had last night. Slow and gentle seemed to be the right thing to do, so I took my time, only every once in a while pausing when I was almost all the way out, then sliding back in again; every once in a while pausing when I was all the way in, flexing my cock as my hips remained motionless. I forgot about time.

Eventually, I felt my orgasm starting to build. Aunt Nellie must have become aware of the growing tension in my body and the change in my rhythm. Her mouth tightened, and the corners of her lips drew back. When I came, I pressed all the way into her, gently but firmly, then, with a gasp, held still while my cock pulsed its load into her. Aunt Nellie reached up, grabbed my biceps, and squeezed as hard as she could. Aunt Nellie's pussy still didn't clench at my cock, and she didn't buck or twist. Only after I'd spurted my last drops did she let out a long, breathy sigh. I remained high on my elbows, being sure that Aunt Nellie had plenty of breathing room.

As I watched her face, several tears ran out of the corners of her closed eyes and into the white hair above her ears.

"Thank you, Larry," she said, in a soft, gentle tone. "Just thank you. I was afraid I was going to go to my grave without ever feeling that again."

In that instant, I felt love for Aunt Nellie. I suddenly understood that, although old people might not think about sex the same way young people did, they could still feel lonely and have a need to have someone close, and that sex was still a way of being close and feeling loved. I lowered my head and softly kissed Aunt Nellie's lips.

"No thanks are necessary. The pleasure was all mine," I said.

After a bit longer, I felt my cock deflate and shrink back toward the opening of Aunt Nellie's pussy. She must have felt it, too. Her eyes opened, she smiled warmly, and said, "I'll bet our bread's risen now."

That's all there is of Sweet Grapes. I got this far with it, then some things happened in my life that didn't leave time and energy for writing. I have a plan for where the story should go from here—and maybe I'll get around to writing it one of these days.