In Praise of Incest

by Rex Antioch

        I lay the tray on the table next to Jane and placed a glass of iced 
orange at her elbow.
        "How's things?" I asked.
        Jane was my twin sister. We were not zygotic twins, born of the same 
egg, and so people who didn't know we were twins rarely guessed it for we were 
no more like each other than any random pair of dark-haired, brown-eyed 
reasonably slim women of thirty-five . Nevertheless our lives had followed 
remarkably similar paths so far; we had married very similar men - dull, solid 
and successful - had each born one male child, Jane's a year before mine, and 
lived safe, unexciting, middle-class lives. Although Jane was forty-five minutes 
older than me I was a couple of inches taller, she was perhaps the prettier but 
I, in my own estimation, was the more intelligent.
        "Oh.......," she shrugged, avoiding my gaze and I knew something was up.
        She, her husband and their son Martin lived close by and she visited me 
or I her on a weekly basis, our sons in tow if school was out as it was now. I 
settled on my own chair with a drink beneath the sunshade on our rear veranda 
and watched my son Peter, who was fourteen, with his older cousin Martin setting 
up Coke cans at the bottom of the garden for some target practice with the 
air-pistol I had had to buy him because Martin had one. They were clearly in 
view but well beyond hearing range which, in my view, was the best place for 
them.
        "Jane?"
        She shot me a glance and then returned to watching the boys, the Coke 
cans glinting in the bright sunshine on the wall beyond them.
        "How's Peter," my sister asked. "Got himself a girlfriend yet?"
        If she wanted to change the subject I wasn't going to press it.
        "Not that I know of," I laughed. "There's a couple of girls at school 
he's mentioned, but I don't think there's anything there to worry about, yet. 
Has Martin?" Was whatever was on her mind connected to Martin, I wondered? Since 
his accident it had crossed my mind that my sister had become very protective of 
him, which was hardly surprising even though he had, by all accounts almost 
completely recovered from it.
        "No. That is......" She tailed off into silence again.
        I wasn't going to play guessing games with her. If she wanted to tell 
me, she would - eventually. We were as close as any two people who have shared a 
womb can be, and we certainly knew much more about each other's sex-lives than 
our husbands would be happy to learn. Not that there was anything scandalous in 
it for either of us. I let the conversation lapse. Down the garden there was a 
phut and a Coke can dropped out of sight behind the wall, the ping of the 
contacting pellet arriving a moment later.
        "Jenny?" Jane asked quietly and slowly, clearly composing herself for 
something difficult. "Have you ever seen Peter's prick?"
        That was a startling and unexpected question, taking me aback for a 
moment. Then, "Well, I gave him a bath practically every night for five years," 
I said.
        "No. I mean recently," Jane said, not looking at me.
        "No," I admitted. "I can't say that I have." I'd seen the bulge like a 
little sausage in his swimming trunks and our doctor had reported that his 
testes had descended normally a couple of years before, so I was happy that all 
was well in that department.
        Jane dropped her voice even further. "Does he .... you know. Wank."
        That was a word I'd not heard for twenty years, since our early teens 
when Jane and I had had to keep boys at bay - not always whole-heartedly.
        I gave a sigh of exasperation. "I don't know. I guess so. All boys his 
age do, don't they? I found a girly magazine in his room a few weeks ago. Pretty 
harmless stuff. I suppose I've left that kind of thing to his father to sort 
out."
        My sister was silent and I waited. Six months ago Martin, doing 
something silly in a tree, had fallen out of it and across a fence. He had 
broken a leg and several ribs and for a time it had been feared that he had 
fractured his spine and was facing a life-time in a wheelchair but although 
badly bruised his spine had not been permanently damaged and after four months 
in bed, much of it in traction, he had been declared fit again. He was still 
limping slightly, I noticed as I watched him take pot-shots at the cans, but 
compared with what might have been he was a picture of health.
        Unless, I suddenly thought, the accident had affected him sexually - had 
rendered him impotent, perhaps. Yet while I could imagine that would deeply 
affect his mother I couldn't see why she should be having such difficulty 
talking about it.
        "Is it Martin?" I probed, trying to help my twin. "Is it that he can't 
wank, or something?"
        "No," said Jane quickly. Then she shot me a nervous glance. I had never 
before seen my usually confident, assured sister like this. Even during the 
worst days immediately after Martin's accident she had been positive and 
determined.
        "Jenny, I......." She tailed off and then looked around the garden and 
the sky as though for help. "About a month before the accident I caught Martin 
wanking," she said to the air. "Oh, it was stupid. Martin didn't know I was in 
the house and I didn't know he was. I just walked into his room to change his 
sheets and he was lying on his bed, no clothes on, prick in his hand, stupid 
smirk on his face. You remember how boys are when they're playing with their 
pricks."
        I did. Jane and I had been reasonably 'good' girls - virgins to 
seventeen in her case and eighteen in mine, and very careful even then - yet 
we'd also had a healthily normal curiosity, and interest, in boys and at 
fourteen, fifteen and sixteen had been perfectly willing to watch boys wank 
themselves off, and even to wank them off if we liked them enough as they groped 
at our breasts and down our nickers.
        "He, of course, didn't know what to do and I just said something stupid, 
like 'oops, sorry' and backed out of the room. I thought that would be it, but 
it wasn't. I wasn't mad at him or anything. Why should I be? I was just 
embarrassed that I'd burst in on him at that moment. I'd never thought of him 
wanking but you don't, do you. Not your own son. I suppose it's a bit like 
crapping. You know they do it, but you don't think about it and just keep the 
loo-roll holder full." 
        "Well, yes," I agreed, wondering where this was going. I'd never 
considered Peter, my own son, masturbating but it occurred to me that, at 
fourteen, there'd probably be more to worry about if he didn't than if he did.
        "But afterwards," my sister continued, "I couldn't be normal with 
Martin. Not like we were before. He couldn't look into my eyes and I couldn't 
look into his, and I realised he had begun trying to avoid me. My own son. That 
was awful. I didn't tell John (her husband). I'm sure he wouldn't worry about 
Martin masturbating, and might just have had a quiet word. But I knew it was 
between Martin and me. It was personal, and I had to do something."
        "Ok. Yeah. I can understand that," I reassured her.
        "So," Jane went on with a rather tired sigh, "A couple of days later, 
when I had him to myself, I cornered him in the kitchen, sat him down and told 
him I knew he wanked, that there was nothing wrong with him wanking, that I 
didn't mind at all that he wanked, and that I even wanted him to wank if he 
enjoyed it."
        She gave a little laugh. "He took it like a man," she reminisced. "He 
smiled and said, 'Thanks, mum' Stood up and gave me a hug - do you know he's almost as 
tall as me, now? - and it was even better after than, 'cos we had our little 
secret and he'd wink at me and I'd tap the side of my nose and we could laugh 
about it."
        "But," she went on, looking anywhere than at me, "I couldn't get the 
sight of him lying on his bed, his prick in his hand, out of my mind. Like you," 
she shot me a shy glance and then away, "I hadn't seen his prick for years. When 
it was a little boy's prick." She lifted her hand and wiggled her little finger 
at me, and I remembered my son's tiny five-year-old prick drooping innocently off the base 
of his stomach like a twig on a tree-stump all those years ago.
        "And then there he was with this huge, man-sized prick in his hand. He 
could only just get his fingers around the shaft, and the great red bulb 
throbbing away. I just....." Jane lapsed into silence.
        Rather startled by this I watched Martin innocently reloading his 
pistol. He didn't exactly look like a satyr.
        "Oh," Jane was apologetic, catching my glance. "I'm not saying he's 
over-endowed or anything. I don't suppose his prick is any bigger than his 
father's, and he's almost as tall as John anyway, but - God, it's stupid - I 
just didn't expect it. He wasn't my little boy anymore. He was a man, and like a 
stranger."
        "Well, it happens," I said a little helplessly.
        "I suppose it's what Freud called 'penis envy'," Jane went on, rather 
vehemently. "Sisters are supposed to feel it towards their brothers but, hell, 
why can't mothers feel it towards their sons. We don't have pricks, those spikes 
with which men rule the world, but when we create our sons in our wombs we give 
them those pricks, so they're ours in a way. Perhaps mothers are jealous of 
their son's pricks. That's why they try to pretend they don't have them."
        I was taken aback by the angry passion in my sister's voice at this, 
which sounded rather like amateur psychology to me. "Might be an idea for an 
article for 'Cosmo," I observed, trying to lighten the mood. "But I can't say 
that I'm jealous of Peter's prick."
        "But you haven't seen it," Jane snapped. "And if you had the chance to 
you'd look away, wouldn't you."
        She'd scored a point and I shrugged, confused. "Yeh, well."
        Jane drank some of her orange juice to cool down.
        "Look," I said gently after a moment. "You're a woman, I'm a woman. I 
love having a prick in my cunt. It gives me orgasms and I love having orgasms, 
so I'm quite fond of pricks. Alan (my husband) probably doesn't have a 
particularly big prick but it does the job and it's all I need. If I fancy a man 
I might wonder what his prick is like and what it would feel like in me, but 
that doesn't mean I'm going to do anything about getting it there. It's true I 
haven't seen my son's prick, but if I did there's probably a part of me that 
would say, 'hey, that's a good looking prick', even if another part of me told 
me that wasn't the way a mother is supposed to look at her son's prick. I don't 
see it as anything to worry about."
        My twin nodded slowly, and I knew she had not yet reached the heart of 
it.
        "After the Accident," she said - Martin's fall from the tree had been 
the major incident in both our lives for a long time, and had become known just 
as 'The Accident' - "And he was lying there in bed all trussed up, it was awful 
for a while. He couldn't do a thing for himself. It was bed-baths, bed-pans, 
changing his pyjamas every other day. He hated the nurse doing it, and he hated 
me doing it. I had to hold his prick for him while he peed in a bottle. Boy, is 
that ever a bonding experience. I tried to tell him that I'd done it all before 
for him, when he was a baby, and he tried to believe it, but it's hard to 
imagine a more demeaning thing for a teenage boy."
        I remembered some of it. After the immediate crisis, once it had been 
determined that he wasn't going to be a cripple, Martin had been returned home 
with daily doctor and nurse visits. I'd spent hours around there just supporting 
Jane, cooking and cleaning the house to free her to do all the things she had 
just mentioned although I'd never been in on it, of course. I suppose I knew it 
was happening. I just hadn't thought about it. Peter had spent a lot of time at 
his cousin's bedside, too, chatting, doing schoolwork and, once Martin had the 
use of his hands again, playing computer games. Dealing with an invalid can be 
difficult and I'd been quite proud of my son.
        "In the last month," Jane continued. "When he was out of pain and 
recovering well, he had a couple of wet dreams and I had to clean up the mess in 
the morning. He would have died had the nurse found him with spunk all over his 
pyjamas and sheets. So....... So........."
        She fell silent and I waited. I had an inkling where this was leading, 
and couldn't see how I could help her.
        "So I offered to help him. I reminded him of our little secret and 
suggested that if he felt the need he let me know and I'd wank him off. It'd 
keep it nice and clean, and he wouldn't have his wet dreams. I mean - OK - 
wanking might be a thing for father and son to talk about man to man, but I 'm 
damn sure Martin would rather have his mother than his father actually doing it 
to him. I hope so, anyway."
        Jane fixed me with a gaze I couldn't look away from. "I thought it would 
be just like helping him pee into a bottle. Something he needed to do that he 
couldn't do himself. But it wasn't."
        She released me from her gaze and looked away. "Three days later he 
said, 'Mum, I feel a wet dream coming on.' So I folded back the sheets, took his 
prick in my hand and began wanking him off.
        "Jenny," she nailed me with her gaze again, willing me to understand. 
"I've wanked boys off before. So did you when we were girls. I've even wanked 
John off if he's got frisky in my periods. But when I started stroking my son's 
prick it was like nothing I'd done before. It was incredible. Feeling it grow in 
my hand, it was like feeling a tree grow ten years in as many seconds. Feeling 
it twitching, pulsing with life, with my son's need, and knowing I had created 
it, that it had come from me. God, Jenny, as I fondled and caressed my son's 
prick it was as if it was part of me. I felt that I was feeling what Martin was 
feeling as I stroked it, and that I knew exactly what to do, where and how to 
touch and stroke and squeeze it. When Martin came his spunk shot three feet 
straight up - it was like a fountain - and his prick throbbed as though I had 
his heart in my hands, and I had an incredible orgasm of my own just as if it 
had been buried in my cunt and shot its load into me."
        "Wow," I said, because I couldn't think of anything else.
        Jane sagged slightly in her chair and some of her despondency returned.
        "Martin didn't notice, 'cos I suppose he was too involved in his own 
orgasm. I got over it before he did, and he just said, 'Gee thanks, Mum. That 
was terrific.' I cleaned up his spunk and tucked him up but I was still tingling 
when I left the room. When John came to bed that night we had sex like we've not 
had it for years.
        "The next night I actually asked Martin if he wanted me to wank him off, 
and I know I wanted to. He grinned and said yes, so I did. I got his prick in my 
hands and it responded to me and I responded to it. Shit, it was like getting a 
wild stallion that lets you climb onto its back and asks you where you want to 
go. All that strength, all that power, and it's at your command. As my son's 
prick came to life to my hands I suddenly knew what it would be like, how 
incredible it would feel, to be in a woman's mouth being sucked. So I went down 
on my own son. I sucked and licked my son's prick until he came in my mouth and 
I had another orgasm just at the taste of it.
        "Christ, Jenny, you know I've never sucked a man off before. I couldn't. 
Even the thought of having a prick in my mouth made me feel sick. But I sucked 
my son's prick like a pro and loved it. And hey, it was a hell of a lot cleaner. 
No mess to clean up afterwards."
        My sister gave a little laugh. "Martin was speechless, but I just said 
it was something grown-ups did and he'd have to get used to it. That night I 
went down on John, too, and it blew his mind as well, tho' it wasn't as good for 
me as it was with my son. It was good, tho', and I wish I'd had the guts to do 
it years ago."
        She gave me a challenging stare and I set my lips and stared defiantly 
back. I'd never wanted a man's prick in my mouth either, tho' I knew Alan wanted 
me to take him there, and we'd even had some rows and sulks about in the early 
days of our marriage. Sucking a boy, or man's, prick was something only 
prostitutes and sluts did, and I was neither. I was annoyed at Jane's sudden 
about-face on this point, and she was clearly aware I was going to be shocked by 
her admission of such sluttish behaviour, but for heaven's sake I suddenly knew 
she was going to tell me that she was having sex with her son, it was the only 
thing that would explain her awkward reluctance to talk, and compared to that 
sucking cock was surely Sunday-school stuff.
        "Yeah," she said defiantly, seeing my thoughts in my eyes. "I eventually 
fucked Martin. I screwed my own son. Wasn't all that long after that first wank, 
either. No good pretending that I was just a loving mother doing the noble thing 
for my poor, sick child. Martin's prick, which means Martin's heart, mind and 
soul like any man's prick, wanted to fuck me and I could feel it wanting my cunt 
when I had it in my hands. And I wanted it to fuck me with all my heart, mind 
and soul. One day when we were alone in the house...... I didn't ask him, I just 
pulled down the sheets and the damn, wonderful thing jumped to attention like it 
was so pleased to see me. I still hadn't decided to then. I knew I wanted to but 
I thought just holding it in my hands, and having it in my mouth wasn't so bad. 
You know, not real sex - like Clinton. But I could feel Martin wanting to fuck 
me so much and I knew he wasn't going to say, "Oh, fuck me Mum," 'cos he still 
thought I was just doing it for his benefit, and thought that mothers don't fuck 
their sons. And I thought, 'if it's what my son wants and what I want, why the 
hell not?' So I stripped off, climbed on the bed and straddled him, and lowered 
myself onto his prick. My son's prick."
        She was white-faced and had closed her eyes to make the confession. "And 
it was out of this word. Incredible. I could feel my son's prick in my cunt, yet 
it seemed like I could also feel what Martin was feeling, having his prick in my 
cunt. God, I almost passed out. It was like ten orgasms simultaneously. Talk 
about mind-blowing. It was like your first ever fuck when you find out that 
fucking is much, much better than you'd ever dreamed, but without the pain and 
the worry about getting caught, and getting pregnant, and getting clap, and 
hearing all about it in the canteen the next day. Oh God, it was like going to 
heaven."
        Jane gave a big sigh, her eyes still closed as she avoided seeing my 
response to this confession. 
        "And when he came in me.... My son's prick exploding in my cunt and 
pumping his cum in me...... I could feel it hitting my cervix in great hard 
squirts, and my womb was drinking it in like I'd drunk it in my mouth and it was 
like champagne, fizzing and bubbling, and feeling cool 'cos the inside of my 
cunt was so hot.... And I thought, my baby's trying to give me a baby. That 
tiny, slimy, blood-streaked, helpless little man that slid out of my vagina 
fifteen years ago is back in there trying to make another baby in his mother. 
And I was so happy that I cried even while I was having orgasm after orgasm 
exploding in my cunt."
        She was crying again, I noticed with amazement - tears streaming over a 
soppy grin on her face even as I saw her hips revolving in tiny circles on the 
chair as if she was grinding and squeezing something in her cunt. My heart was 
pounding and if I was sweating it wasn't just because it was a hot summer day. I 
watched my sister orgasm at merely the memory she was experiencing, her body 
stiffen and quiver in the chair, her mouth make a silent O and the muscles of 
her thighs in spasm under her slacks. That'll wet your nickers, I thought 
unsympathetically and, yes, a bit jealously.
        Jane came-to slowly, shook her head, cleared her throat and laughed in 
dismay. "Oh boy!" she said in a small voice. "Auto-eroticism."
        "No. It's called incest," I told her brutally.
        "Stuff you," she snarled back at me instantly with a viciousness I'd 
never known in my sister before. Then in the next moment she looked horrified. 
"Oh, Jenny, I'm sorry. I know you're right. It is incest - but to me it's the 
most beautiful thing that's ever happened to me in my life, and there's no way I 
can make you understand. Since that first time Martin and I have been fucking 
like teenagers who think they're the first to discover sex. You know what 
teenage boys are like. They can fuck like rabbits. Even now he's well we fuck 
almost every day when he gets home from school, before John comes home. Yet John 
and I are having sex that's better than anything we've had before, even when we 
first met. And it's not because I feel guilty and need to make it up to him in 
some way. It's,... well.... it's like I have just discovered sex for the first 
time. And it's not some poor, feeble thing crushed and half dead under the 
weight of great chains of things you shouldn't do, things 'nice' girls shouldn't 
even want to do, and trying to ignore the slime and the smell and the mess and 
the sweat and the farty noises a prick makes in your cunt sometimes. Sex is 
about feeling good and making someone else feel good and jumping feet first into 
the great river of life that boils and roars over a sheer, terrifying, 
exhilarating waterfall called orgasm. If you care for someone you should have 
sex with them 'cos it's the best thing you can share with them even if it is 
with your son. Christ, Jane, if I saw a strange man on a train looking glum and 
depressed, and having sex with me would make him get off the train feeling 
happier even for a few hours, why shouldn't I have sex with him. He'd gain, I'd 
gain, the world would gain."
        I could easily think of a dozen reasons why having sex with a stranger 
on a train wasn't a good idea, but I'd never before heard Jane make a speech 
like it and I was too bemused to argue.
        "Would you?" I asked helplessly.
        "Would I what?"
        "Fuck a stranger on a train?" To me it was inconceivable, and I would 
have said it would be inconceivable for Jane, too, a few minutes before.
        "Shut your mouth. You look like you're catching flies," my sister 
snapped and I obeyed, not realising it had fallen open. "Don't worry," she 
added. "I'm not about to start fucking strangers on trains. I'm not that brave, 
and never use trains anyway. What I'm saying is that I love my son, I'm fucking 
my son, I love fucking my son and I don't see why I shouldn't if that's what we 
want, and I don't care what you think about it."
        I stared at my sister. In her slacks and top she looked like a million 
other well-off, well-groomed, reasonably pretty, reasonably content 35-year-old 
wives and mothers you'd find waiting for their kids outside schoolyard gates 
right across the westernised world. There was absolutely nothing remarkable 
about her at all. Yet she'd just confessed to fucking with her own teenage son. 
Christ, how many other of those mothers waiting at the school gates were fucking 
their sons? I realised that as far as anybody knew most of them could be but it 
was all hidden away beneath this great conspiracy of silence. Maybe they all 
thought that because we all believe mothers don't fuck their sons they were the 
only ones doing it, and therefore weren't going to go around bragging about it. 
It was one of those thoughts that creeps in and subtly alters your universe 
around you, and I didn't like it.
        And Jane? We'd never had any secrets from each other but that was 
because we'd never had any secrets worth keeping, yet now it was as if she's 
suddenly declared that she was from Mars and I was from Venus.
        "If you don't care what I think, why tell me?" I asked slightly sourly. 
"Frankly, I don't think I want to know."
        "'I'm telling you 'cos you're my twin sister, and you know all there is 
about me to know." she replied bitterly, and then her voice softened into an 
appeal. "And 'cos I've got a problem," she added.
        'I think you've got a whole lot of problems,' I thought uncharitably, 
but said nothing as I knew she'd reached the point of asking for my help.
        "A couple of days ago," Jane went on, tiredly, "Martin and I were lying 
on his bed in a state of what I believe is known in polite society as 
'post-coital bliss', just sort of snuggling and sharing our thoughts, and he 
asked me if I'd let Peter fuck me."
        "What?" I nearly bit my tongue, fearing that my exclamation had been 
loud enough for the boys to hear. But they continued playing some sort of 
complicated game with the cans piled in a pyramid on the wall, which seemed to 
involve shooting cans out of the patten without bringing the whole thing down.
        "What?" I said again, quietly.
        "Yes. Well. I was a bit startled, too. But it seems Peter decided last 
Friday, the last day of term, to cycle round to see Martin rather than come 
straight back here, and it also seems the boys are in the habit of letting 
themselves in and out of Martin's bedroom window by climbing onto the garage 
roof and over the porch. I hadn't know that, and I'm sure Martin wasn't 
expecting him. It seems Peter got onto the porch roof where he could see in 
Martin's window, and saw us on the bed banging away.
        "He was good enough to creep away again, but asked Martin about it on 
Sunday and Martin had to come clean. You know Martin's always been a bit of a 
big brother to Peter anyway, and of course Peter's dead keen to find out all 
about sex so Martin gave him all the details. I even think Martin's proud of me 
and enjoyed telling Peter he had a mum who'd let him fuck her. Peter then 
decided that if I was fucking my son I wouldn't have any problem about fucking 
my nephew, and so asked Martin if he thought I would."
        "Jesus," I said with feeling. "And would you?" I asked dryly, and more 
than a little bemused.
        "Don't be silly," my sister snapped. Then she gave a little nervous 
laugh. "'Course I would," she said. "I like Peter. He's a great kid. And I've 
already told you that I've come to realise that sex is the nicest thing you can 
share with someone you like. I think it'd be fun. But don't worry," she added, 
seeing the look on my face. "I'm not about to seduce your son. Not without your 
permission, anyway." I felt - I certainly hoped - that she was kidding me and 
that this new, startlingly promiscuous sister of mine was not seriously 
considering letting my son, her nephew, have sex with her.
        "But my problem is that Peter now knows about Martin and me, and that 
scares me shitless. Your problem is that Peter knows Martin is screwing his 
mother, and is almost certainly wondering if his mother will do the same for 
him."
        I could sympathise with her on the first point, and knew she would be 
dead right about the second.
        "Thanks," I said bitterly.
        "I think you should, of course," she said softly, looking at me 
pointedly. "Take it from me, it's the most wonderful thing. And if you think you 
know and love your son now, imagine how close you'd be, and what that love would 
be like, after you'd shared sex with him. But of course," she shrugged and 
turned away. "That's up to you and your inhibitions. I just felt you ought to 
know what Peter was thinking. And be forewarned about what he might do about 
it."
        I suppose I had to be grateful for that. I watched my fourteen-year-old 
son play with his airgun, caught in that no-man's-land between boyhood and 
manhood. Had he the guts to arrange things so that I 'accidentally' caught him 
wanking, his prick like a gun in his hand? I had a powerful feeling that he had. 
With a sudden, hot pang in my stomach I suddenly realised that my own son was 
now almost certainly tall enough, old enough and strong enough to rape me, if he 
set his mind on it - given that even in that situation I wouldn't defend myself 
with anything that might hurt him, my own son. And I certainly wouldn't tell 
anyone about it afterwards.
        "And if you can impress on him," my sister went on savagely, "That I'll 
kill him if he breaths a word to anyone else about what Martin and I are doing, 
I'd be grateful."
        I knew it was an empty threat. If rumours started to gather around her 
at school, or around the neighbourhood, that she was having sex with her son, I 
knew Jane wouldn't seek revenge or retaliate. She would accept the disaster her 
life had become with iron determination to see Martin through it. However, Peter 
would not know that.
        But to deliver the threat to Peter I had to let him know that I knew 
what he knew. I groaned.
        "OK," I said unwillingly. "I'll do what I can."
        "Thanks." Jane looked relieved.
        She'd achieved what she wanted and seemed happy to drop the subject, and 
I certainly couldn't start asking the questions on the detail of her having sex 
with her son, that I had asked so avidly - and she had answered in detail - with 
regard to her having sex with her husband. Yet it was hard to pretend that 
nothing deep and fundamental had occurred as we called in the boys for the usual 
lunch that preceded the end of such visits. I was, too, acutely aware of an 
extraordinary, invisible electricity that seemed to envelop Jane and her son 
whenever they were together. Outwardly they were a perfectly normal mother and 
son, but with knowing eyes I saw deep in Martin's face a kind of serene, loving 
joy as he watched his mother over the table, and sensed in my sister a hidden 
but palpable excitement in her body as it responded to the proximity of her son. 
It seemed to be exactly like the kind of love you read about in those appalling 
romantic fiction paperbacks but, I had to admit, if you add the joy of 
uninhibited sex to the deep love any mother has for her first-born son, what you 
have is exactly what the authors of that kind of rubbish were trying to 
describe.
        So it seemed that it wasn't rubbish after all!
        After lunch they left, leaving me alone with my son.
        I was aware of the change. I'd seen him talking with Martin and he'd 
seen me talking with Jane, and you didn't need to be a prophet to guess what 
we'd all been talking about. My view of my son had been irrevocably changed by 
that talk, as well. A half hour after my sister and her son had left it was 
impossible for me not to begin imagining them as they probably were by that time 
- my naked, thirty-five-year-old sister on her back on Martin's bed, her naked 
fifteen-year-old son between her knees, buttocks rising and falling as he fucked 
his mother. And as I saw my nephew like that, no longer the little boy I had 
always seen him as before, it was extraordinarily hard not to see my own son as 
the man he was becoming rather than the boy he had been.
        He helped me wash up, which was a rare event, and while I tried to treat 
him like the boy he had been I could not help noticing the bulge in the front of 
his jeans. He was sporting an erection, and it was being provoked by me. The 
realisation that I was causing an erection on my own son suddenly made a hot, 
hard bar of my own form in my stomach.
        We finished putting things away, Peter being unusually willing to do 
this as well, and I realised that he was going to shadow me, lusting after me, 
until something was done.
        "Sit down," I said softly, indicating a chair at the kitchen table. He 
sat, watching me like a puppy. I sat at the table opposite him.
        "Martin and your Aunt Jane," I said.
        He watched me and I had absolutely no idea what I was going to say. He 
was still my son, who had kicked me in the stomach before he was born, yet he 
had become also a stranger that I loved with every iota of my being, a stranger 
with his own thoughts, fears and desires in a world that was no longer mine.
        "You want to go to bed with me." I said. It wasn't a question. I knew he 
did. It was in his soul, bright in his eyes. His blood burned with it, tingling 
in his body. I could feel it.
        "Come on, then," I heard myself say, holding out my hand to him. He rose 
and took it, and I led him upstairs.
        I wondered what I thought I was doing even as I knew I had thrown myself 
into the river of life my sister had talked about, and was being carried 
helplessly towards that awesome Niagara of orgasms, the one most people feared 
and didn't talk about, pretending it didn't even exist - the one a woman gets 
when it is triggered by the man she cares about more than any husband, cares 
about more, even, than her own life. The one that is given to her by her son.
        At the door to his bedroom I pulled myself together and stopped, taking 
Peter by the shoulders. God, I didn't have to look down into his face any more.
        "What we're about to do," I said, triggering a memory of a prayer from 
long ago - "For what we are about to receive," - "What we're about to do," I 
repeated firmly, "Is not allowed. If you breath a word about what Martin and 
Aunt Jane are doing to anyone else, anyone at all, you will quite probably 
destroy your Aunt Jane, her marriage and Martin's home. And if Aunt Jane doesn't 
kill you for it Martin will, and if they don't I will. Do you understand?"
        Peter nodded, and I hoped he did.
        "And if you breath a word of what we're about to do to anyone, anyone at 
all, you will probably destroy me, my life, my marriage, my happiness, your 
father's life, his happiness and your home. Do you understand?"
        Peter nodded again, his face white.
        "That includes Martin," I added. "I'll speak to your Aunt Jane and 
she'll speak to Martin, and then you two will be free to compare notes. But 
until I say you can, you will not even give Martin a hint. Understand?"
        He nodded again.
        "And understand this. If I ever get so much of a hint that anyone other 
than Martin or your Aunt Jane know of this, that will be it. You will never, 
ever, get the chance to do it again. Understand?"
        Peter breathed, "Yes".
        "Do you still want to do it, knowing what it could do to us?"
        Peter nodded. "Yes."
        I swallowed. "OK, then. I'm going to trust you like I've never trusted 
you before." Like I've never trusted anyone before, I added to myself. What was 
at stake terrified me, and I understood why knowing that Peter was aware of her 
secret had scared my sister shitless.
        "Stay there." I left him outside his bedroom and went into it, crossing 
the room to close the drapes. Peter's bedroom was not overlooked, but I was 
taking no chances. Then I returned to the door and beckoned him into the 
shadows. Just right for what we're going to do, I thought. My husband, his 
father, wasn't due home for hours, and anyway we'd hear his car turn into the 
drive. I felt terrified, like a thirteen-year-old girl with a boy in her bedroom 
for the first time and her parents out shopping.
        My son and I stood facing each other. Of course he didn't know what to 
do, and he certainly wasn't going to do with his mother anything he might do 
with a girlfriend in the same situation. He was waiting for me, and I was 
exactly two-and-a-half times his age which gave me an advantage. I reached out, 
took him by the shoulders and drew him to me, kissing him lightly on the lips. I 
still couldn't kiss him like a lover. It didn't seem right, for heaven's sake.
        "I take your clothes off and you take mine off," I suggested gently. 
"It's hard to do at the same time, but it's the best way- so we'll practice it." 
I ran my hands to his waist, pulled his sweat-shirt out of his jeans and then 
slid it up his torso. His body felt firm and young and hard and I enjoyed it. He 
lifted his arms and I pulled it right off him, threw it onto his chair and 
returned to gently stroking his back and sides.
        "Your turn," I suggested after a moment, aware that while I had probably 
taken my son's shirt off his back a great many times in his life, he had never 
removed one article of clothing from me before - except perhaps a raincoat.
        I could feel his nervousness as he began unbuttoning my shirt, and found 
it rather sweet. This was new ground for him, very new, and I was glad he wasn't 
just ripping my clothes off in his eagerness to get to the main event as most 
men would. I was gently stoking his marvellous skin with my fingertips, 
listening to his breathing, short and tense through his nose like a stallion, 
and then freezing completely as my opened shirt fell away from my breasts in 
their bra right under his nose.
        I waited patently as, with unsteady fingers, he undid the final buttons 
and pulled the tails out of my jeans. Then I let him slip the shirt off my arms 
and noted with appreciation that he folded it carefully and lay it across his 
chair. When he turned back to me I noted with sad delight that he didn't know 
where to put his hands - that he was longing to touch me, but afraid to.
        "I'm a bra behind you," I hinted, for without that we'd both be bare 
above the waist.
        It unclasped between the cups and he fumbled lightly at the catch, 
trying hard not to touch my breasts - which was silly.
        "Peter," I said gently. "You're going to have to learn to get a bra off 
a girl before she knows it's gone, and that takes a bit of practice. So have a 
good look at the catch and then open it firmly."
        He obeyed, having to look close in the dim light of the room. I felt the 
elastic tension ease and the cups fell away from me. My son gasped and stepped 
back as though I'd kept a snake in my bra but he was only fourteen, I told 
myself, and the only women's breasts he'd seen before had been on glossy paper 
so I waited and let him feast his eyes on them.
        In truth I was proud of my breasts; they were pert and not overlarge, 
still with neat nipples despite having had this same boy sucking on them for 
over a year, and I was pleased that he still found them so fascinating. After a 
couple of minutes, though, I said softly, "Want to finish the job?" and he 
obediently slid the bra straps down my arms to carefully place the garment on 
top of my shirt on the chair. When he turned back to me I stepped up to him and 
began lightly stroking his side and back again, occasionally caressing his front 
and even his chest in the hope he might get the idea, but although he 
tentatively placed his hands on my waist just above the belt of my jeans and 
gently stroked me there I began to realise they were never going to go to my 
breasts of their own volition, although his eyes were glued to them.
        I listened to the birds singing in the sunshine outside, the occasional 
car passing up the street, the leaves ticking over on my son's bedside clock.
        "Peter," I said softly. "I'm giving you my body. All of it. That is what 
this is all about. There are no parts of me out of bounds. Nothing you cannot 
touch.
        "Oh," he breathed and, softly and with incredible caution, he slid his 
hands up my sides and onto my breasts.
        'Oh', I very nearly echoed him, for after fifteen years of marriage my 
breasts had lost a lot of the interest they had once held for my husband. Yet 
now they were being handled, gentled, by a boy with the young man's awe, 
fascination and wonder for a woman's breasts - a delight for both of us as my 
son explored the shape and texture of my breasts, toyed with my nipples and 
traced the outline of my pale rose aureoles.
        "If you want to kiss them......" 
        After a break of almost thirteen years my son took my nipples in his 
mouth again and the thrill of it tingled from my scalp to my toes along the 
length of my spine.
        I was holding him gently to me, my hands on his back, shoulders and 
sides. At the back of my mind a small voice was piping, over and over in 
disbelief, "You're going to have intercourse with your son. You can't have 
intercourse with your son," and I knew both were right although that was 
impossible. I was on a steepening slope which, if nothing or no-one intervened, 
would result in me having intercourse with my own son, and yet I knew I couldn't 
have intercourse with my own son. It just wasn't possible. It couldn't happen. 
        But unless the 'phone rang or someone came to the door only I could stop 
it, and I was being carried helplessly on Jane's river of life with the mighty 
waterfall of incestuous orgasm a growing thunder of sound in my mind.
        I gave my son my breasts again for five minutes and then eased my fingers 
around the waistband of his jeans to the front, released the stud and unzipped 
his fly. His lips on my nipple were still, frozen, and I could feel the tension 
in his body as his mother prepared to release his sex from its socially accepted 
cage of cloth - it was a small enough movement, just sliding his jeans and 
underpants over his buttocks and down his legs, but the implications were 
enormous like releasing a caged lion in a crowded circus tent. I could still 
back off, with no more harm done than a frustration my son would get over and a 
memory of his mother's breasts a lot more vivid than most young men have, but 
once I had unclothed his sex a genii would be released from a bottle, and I 
wasn't sure I'd be able to put it back.
        I wasn't excited. I wasn't afraid. I was beyond both. I was being swept 
along in a mighty river towards a vast waterfall, yet as I was moving with the 
water all appeared still, even peaceful. Only hours earlier, before my sister's 
arrival, the idea that I might have sexual intercourse with my son was just not 
in my universe. Of course I had the information that it was technically possible 
- I had a vagina and he had a penis capable of erection, the basic necessities 
for intercourse - but it seemed no more likely to happen than that the 
technically possible comet collision that would destroy all life on earth would 
happen that day. Now I was on the verge of releasing my son's penis from its 
social confinement, freeing it to take me, and the inconceivable was on the 
verge of becoming inevitable. 
        I slid my fingers beneath waist-band of jeans and underpants and eased 
them down. The elastic of his underpants caught on the jutting peg of his prick 
and I slipped my hand inside them to release it. My hand closed around the shaft 
of my son's penis, and the life and the power of the thing it held coursed up my 
arm and siezed me by the throat. 
        My sister had described her first impression of her son's prick as 
feeling a tree grow ten years in ten seconds, and I knew what she meant. As my 
hand encircled it my son's prick responded by pulsing and swelling, and it had 
been my son's prick doing it, not my son. It thrilled me to the core as I felt 
the power in it, far more so than ever my husband's or any other prick had ever 
done, and it was because, as Jane had tried to explain, my son's penis was also 
my penis in a way no other man's could be. It was as though I had taken a great 
hound as a puppy and trained it to rend and kill before loosing it on the world, 
and then later, naked and defenceless, meeting that great, savage hound in the 
wild forest and seeing it bow its huge head at my feet. Jesus, it was precisely 
the legend of the unicorn, laying its long, sharp, killing horn carefully, 
harmlessly, in the lap of the maiden. 
        Comprehension exploded in me as I held my son's penis. In turning onto 
the path of sex with my own son, a path kept carefully and deliberately hidden 
by the mundane world, I had taken a path out of suburbia and TV trivia, out of 
polite society and the conformity preached by women's magazines, into a rarified 
world of myth and mountain-tops - for incest is the preserve of the heros and 
Gods who dwell there; Osiris fucking his sister Isis, Zeus fucking his sister 
Hera, Siegmund fucking his sister Sieglinde, Oedipus fucking his mother Jocasta, 
the Goddess Ishtar fucked by her son/husband Tammuz. Mere mortals, it seemed, 
were to be denied the exquisite joys of incest unless they were prepared to 
brave the tangled thorns of social convention and risk the condemnation and fury 
of the drab, frustrated, cowardly herd.
        Suddenly I understood my sister's shamelessness and vehemence, for she 
had already trodden the path of incest and found the dire warnings of sin and 
shame to be lies, propaganda of the social manipulators. The path of incest had 
not taken her down into a disgusting mire of debauchery but up into to clear and 
pure heights where gods and heros dwelt, and she had been prepared to risk my 
disgust and revulsion in order to point it out to me as well. As I understood I 
felt a huge surge of love and gratitude to her. It was no wonder that she would 
have regarded sex with her nephew, my son, as a joy to have.
        I freed my son's penis from his clothes and slipped the clothes down his 
legs, kneeling in order to get them to his ankles, and he stepped out of them. 
Brushing the clothing aside I remained on my knees and pressed my face to my 
son's prick, feeling it throb against my cheek and forehead as I kissed his 
balls in the writhing bag that hung beneath it. I knew I was worshipping my 
son's penis just as the ancients worshipped the penis, as the bringer of life, 
yet this particular penis I had brought into the world, it was created by and of 
my flesh, and this made me a goddess - as the ancients well knew when they 
feared and revered the female. I kissed my son's penis, forgetting that only 
hours before I would have found even the thought of kissing any man's penis 
disgusting, and although I kissed it as an act of love and worship rather than 
out of any desire to stimulate it or wake sensation in my son, I felt it respond 
with an urgent throbbing to my lips on his balls, the pulsing shaft and its 
eager, blind, bulbous head, and kissed it again for the sheer joy of it.
        I felt it shudder beneath my lips and heard my son groan. Then his prick 
struck at me like a snake and spat his white seed at me, creaming my forehead 
and cheek and dripping onto my breasts. Another gout and another into my face 
and I received it like a parched woman welcomes rain, catching it in my mouth 
and savouring it. Hours before I would have thought it sickening, now it was the 
nectar of the Gods themselves.
        "Oh God, I'm sorry, Mum," I heard my son say. "I couldn't help it." Of 
course he couldn't. He, like me, was in the grip of the river and had no choice. 
His penis still reared quivering before my face, a white pearl of semen at its 
tip, and I leaned forward, took it in my mouth and sucked it off. Peter's prick 
pulsed again, shooting another pearl into my mouth and I swallowed it.
        "Don't worry about it," I said, releasing him. "I loved it."
        I stood up, saw him gape at the sight of his mother with his cum all 
over her face and breasts and guessed that at fourteen he was not sufficiently 
sophisticated to appreciate the connotations. A box of tissues lay on his 
bedside table and as I grabbed a handful to wipe myself down it occurred to me 
to wonder if they had been there just for him to blow his nose on. Then I 
dismissed the thought. My son's lonely wanking days were over.
        I cleaned myself up and turned back to him. He was still standing naked 
beside his bed, looking a bit forlorn but with his prick still standing like a 
spike and throbbing to his heart beat. I crossed to him, took his penis in my 
hands and felt it leap in response. I kissed him softly again and asked quietly, 
"How's my little soldier?" as I had after a thousand little mishaps during his 
years as a child.
        "Oh, it's fantastic," he breathed in reply. I wasn't quite sure what he 
was referring to in particular but I gently fondled his prick, feeling the life 
return to it, as he fondled and kissed my breasts.
        "Want to finish the job today?" I asked after a little, "Or postpone it 
to another day?"
        "Oh, Mum," he said, which was no answer in itself. But the answer was in 
his eyes.
        I let go of his prick, undid my skirt and slid it and nickers down my 
legs to step out of them and stand naked before my son. I saw him trying hard 
not to stare at the triangle of dark hair at the join of my legs, and the 
beginning of the cleft that ran between them. 
        "Peter," I said chidingly, taking his hand and placing it there. "It's 
all yours. Don't be embarrassed or ashamed. I'm not. Explore. Get to know your 
way about. Get close and have a look. All women are basically the same, so you 
might as well use me as your beginner's guide. The girls you meet in the years 
to come will like it a whole lot better if you know where you're going, and what 
you're doing when you get there, believe me." I spoke from experience.
        He brushed my brush with his fingers, frowning down at it, and then I 
felt a finger tentatively glide into my crack and test its depth. I was, despite 
everything, still dry but he was gentle, probing rather than rubbing. After a 
moment I took his penis in my hands again and gently fondled it, feeling the 
life that had been exhausted by his earlier orgasm into my face, returning to it 
like the flooding tide as he explored between my legs, which I parted to allow 
him access.
        "Those are my labia, my vaginal lips," I explained softly as he probed 
deeper. "Now you're at the entrance of my vagina, known popularly as my cunt." I 
felt his finger slip an inch into me. "You're in my vagina. Don't worry about 
hurting me with your finger. My cunt's plenty big enough for it. In fact it's 
big enough for a two-litre Coke bottle I'm told, tho' I've never tried it." I 
felt his knuckles press into my crotch and his finger waggle in the soft 
recesses of my vagina, provoking a warm flush.
        "If you just felt something, my cunt suddenly becoming hot and slippery, 
it's because it's lubricating itself, getting ready for your prick to enter it."
        I felt his finger twitch and his breath catch, and felt a mild surprise. 
Surely he couldn't have doubted that I was going to let him have full 
intercourse with me, although I guessed that for many fourteen-year-old boys 
fucking anything, and especially their mums, was a dream of the impossible. He 
withdrew his finger from my vagina and returned to exploring my cleft, and as it 
was now coated with my sex-dew it slid along it very easily.
        "And that thing like a worm there is my clitoris, my equivalent of your 
prick. The tip of a woman's clit is as sensitive as the head of your prick, so 
if you tickle it, or stroke it gently, it's like me doing this." I demonstrated 
with my hand on the head of his penis and felt him melt into it just as I was 
melting into the sensations my son's finger was waking in me as teased my clit.
        I had an arm around his shoulders and our foreheads were pressed 
together as we both looked down past my breasts to his hand between my legs, 
fingers probing and stroking, and my hand gently fondling his stiffened prick. 
This is true togetherness, I thought.
        His fingers were lighting fires in my fanny, which was wet with hot 
flushes. My son's penis in my hand was rock-hard and trembling with desire, and 
I knew it was time. 
        We were rushing towards the Waterfall and the current carrying us was smooth and accelerating towards the abyss. I stepped backwards, feeling the edge of my son's bed against 
my calves, and pulled him after me by his penis. Without letting go of it I sat 
on the bed, lay back and then swung my legs onto it to lay along it. I wriggled 
into a comfortable position, head on his pillows, spread my legs wide and pulled 
my son between them, although he came easily enough. He took up the inevitable 
position, hands on the bed either side of my breasts with straight arms 
supporting his weight, his back arched like a bow towards my body with his knees 
on the bed, and his penis aimed like an arrow towards its home in my body. I 
fine-tuned his aim, felt the head of his penis part my vaginal lips, and could 
do no more.
        My sister had straddled her son and impaled herself on his penis, giving 
him little choice, so their incest was her sin, her responsibility. I could not 
raise my hips to stab myself with my son's prick. Without intending to I had 
passed that responsibility, the choice to commit the sin or not, to my son and 
was totally in his power. I could not force him to penetrate me, not prevent him 
from doing so if he chose. I was the maid and he the unicorn with his horn in my 
lap.
        We were poised on the lip of the waterfall over which there was no 
return. If the phone rang, the doorbell pinged or my husband's car suddenly turn 
into the drive it was my son's choice to whether to withdraw or plunge on over 
the fall. If I chickened out, changing my mind, I could no longer prevent him 
from entering me. I, his mother, was helpless under my son's horn.
        My son eased himself into me, the soft velvet bulb of his glans penis 
parting my body and burrowing into the soft cushions of my vagina, and we tipped 
over the edge into the thundering void of the waterfall.
        I orgasmed as never before as the soft, wet, slippery walls of my cunt 
tried to seize my son's prick and suck it into my body, deeper and deeper. I was 
falling into the roaring chasm into which poured the river I had chosen, the 
river of incest, and was spinning helpless in a world of stinging spray that 
glittered about me in the light of a white-hot sun and flashing rainbows. My 
body dissolved into light and drifting spray, formless and weightless apart from 
the rock-like rod of my own son's penis in the tunnel of my vagina. It reached 
into me and withdrew, and my soul was sucked in its wake crying for it to come 
back. It was almost gone, my vaginal lips clinging desperately to its slippery 
tip, and I knew the desolation which the emptiness of my vagina would bring 
would be unbearable. Then it plunged back into me and my relief as it filled me 
again ignited the excruciatingly sweet sensation of its friction into orgasm 
after orgasm that mingled with the light and the spray and the thunder of the 
waterfall and I was aware of nothing else but my son's prick sliding backwards 
and forwards in my cunt.
        I felt my son climax, his penis buried utterly in my vagina and throbbing 
like a heart as it pumped his seed into me, his mother, and as I felt it gush into 
my womb I felt as if the whole river of life had found its way between my legs, 
flooded into my vagina and was filling my body with an orgasm that was more than 
any mere woman could bear.
        I came to with my son lying on me, his panting weight on my beasts and 
his arms around me. He was still inside me, his penis twitching and pulsing 
irregularly as it pumped the dregs of his orgasm into me, and my body was 
shuddering and quivering as the echoes and aftershocks of that incredible orgasm 
swept through me in waves, although I doubt my son was aware of them. My arms 
were around him, holding him as they had when he was a baby, and his head was on 
my shoulder. Despite his exhaustion he was laughing quietly, little waves of 
soft laughter such as a man makes when a great weight has been lifted from his 
soul or a terrible dread had proved groundless, and I felt hot tears pricking my 
eyes as, oddly, I wanted to cry with joy that I could have given him such 
relief.
        Now I understood my sister's reference to the stranger on the train. 
Just for a little while, in the aftermath of his orgasm, my son was a baby again 
in my arms - free of all worry and care - and I knew I could do the same for any 
man. I did it for my husband, I'd done it for my son, and maybe I would do it 
for the anguished, heart-heavy stranger if I could find the courage to which 
Jane had referred, which was to give myself utterly for no return.
        I gently stroked my son's head on my shoulder, as I'd done to the baby 
so long ago. "How was that?" I asked.
        "Oh Mum," he breathed. "That was fantastic. Unbelievable. I can't 
believe you'd let me do it with you. You're a mum in a million."
        Was I, I wondered? If I was, the other nine hundred and ninety-nine 
thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine didn't know what they were missing.
        My son lifted his upper body clear of mine and grinned down at me. 
"Thanks," he said. "A million times."
        My son had just given me the best orgasm of my life and he was thanking me! 
"'s'all right," I growled. "After all, what else are mums for?"
        His grin became a wide smile. In the world back behind the waterfall we 
had just been swept over mums were not for fucking and my son knew it, but while 
he might not be thinking of it in terms of myth, gods and heros I knew he was 
aware that something very special had happened between us, and that we were 
special as a result. I suddenly knew that the secret of our relationship, and 
the one between my sister and her son, was perfectly safe with him for he 
realised now that it was just too special to be shared. I also realised, as my 
sister had, that we should be sharing sex with our nephews as well with nothing 
but joy and love.
        Unbelievably, for I had forgotten how resilient teenage boys were, my 
son began fucking me again and I relaxed into it, knowing I was beyond orgasm 
for the moment but just quietly enjoying the feel of his prick moving in my 
cunt. It was hard work for him but he was determined and, with sweat dripping 
off his nose onto my breasts, he eventually ejaculated into me again. It was his 
third climax in forty-five minutes, I noticed. I allowed him five minutes on my 
breasts to recover and then told him to go have a shower, as I had some potatoes 
to peel and a dinner to start.
        Wearily he lifted himself off me and his shrinking, content penis slid 
out of me with a slurp. He rolled over my leg and onto all fours on the floor 
and crawled away, groaning pitifully as I giggled like a girl. Then he was gone 
and I dredged up enough strength to grab some tissues from the box and wad them 
to my crotch, for I did not want my son's bedspread to become any more stained 
than it already was with the damp patch under my bottom. I knew it would dry and 
become almost invisible, and the chances of my husband noticing it were remote. 
If he should, tho', I could imagine his little, secret thrill of pride as 
he registered the fact that his son had obviously had full sex with a girl on 
his bed. He might even whisper a little, proud, 'well done, son' under his 
breath. But if he were to discover that the damp patch had been the sex-dew of 
his own wife mixed with the semen of his son and hers......... My mind fled from 
the thought. I knew I still had to have a long talk with Peter about what had 
happened, and what the consequences were.
        I lay recovering until Peter came into the room, patting his wet hair 
with a towel and with his beautiful young body still glowing and damp from the 
shower. I noticed with pleasure that he was already comfortable with being naked 
in his mother's presence and, indeed, his gaze sought out my face rather than my 
own nakedness. 
        With a groan I forced myself off the bed, for the potatoes wouldn't peel 
themselves, and I saw my son notice the wad of tissues between my legs, soaked 
with his semen.
        "Oh gosh, Mum. I.... I mean..... I'm sorry."
        "Can't be helped, Peter. It goes with the territory," I assured him.
        "Yes. But.... Could you get pregnant or something?"
        "'Something' isn't an option," I told him, assuming he wasn't talking 
about AIDS or any of the venereal diseases. "Could I get pregnant? In theory, 
yes. Despite what you think, I'm not all that old. And my eggs and your sperm 
don't recognise that we're mother and son, so they'd make a baby if they could. 
But I'm not going to get pregnant for the same reason that you don't have any 
brothers or sisters, and that is because I don't want to get pregnant." 
        I crossed to him, took him by the shoulders and gently kissed him on the 
lips, my nipples brushing his chest. Then I let him see the serious look on my 
face.
        "You understand, Peter, that it didn't happen."
        He was serious himself. "I understand. Will it not happen again?"
        I could not hide a smile. "I think it very likely it won't happen again 
tomorrow."
        His face lit up with joy.
        "Oh, wow. I love you, Mum," he crowed.
        "And I love you, son," I told him.
        And what more could a mother want?