The whole while, my mother cried out sympathetically as I filled her deepest chamber with my life-making seed. Every time my penis throbbed inside her and belched out more sperm, her pussy clamped down tightly as though to draw more of it in. Her back muscles fluttered and her spine arched rhythmically with each spasm like it was a siphon that was pumping the babybatter from her own son’s loins in desperate need. Each jerk of my hips was met by a slight hitch of hers, as though tilting her pelvis just so would increase the chances of conception.
A fourth, a fifth and a sixth shot of my semen raced into my mother’s depths until my body mercifully stopped ejaculating and I slumped down over her back, gasping for air while my brain tried to reboot itself. Beneath my spent body, my mother was laughing softly and cooing at the same time while my penis continued to twitch and throb uselessly inside the soft, warm clutches of her over-filled pussy.
It took me a moment to catch my breath, but when I did, I began to laugh with my mother in joy. I’d never felt more complete in my entire life. She craned her neck to face me, even though I was still laying atop her back, and, for the first time ever, we kissed passionately as lovers. It was sloppy and wet and sweet and I was completely inexperienced at it, but it was the most amazing thing possible.
When our lips finally parted, with my half-hard cock still buried to the hilt inside her, I said the only thing I could think of at the time: “Where have you been all my life?”
Mother giggled gaily. “Right here, son. I’ve always been right here.”
And that was the beginning for us. Mother and son, living in, by every measure possible in Society’s standards, absolute sin. We had sex daily after that first time, often several times a day. Mother introduced me to all manner of lovemaking and sexual acts, but each and every sexual tryst ended the same way: with my sperm inside of her. It wasn’t long before she started showing the signs- morning sickness, unexplained bouts of cleaning obsessively, mood swings… I’d gotten my mother pregnant.
The nature of our relationship, of course, changed. And, in some ways, it stayed very much the same. Mother continued her role as my guardian and mentor. She still enforced the same rules that I’d grown up with and her word was still sacrosanct in all things. We made love passionately and without reservation, we laughed more openly and discussed most things as equals, but she was still my mother and I was still her son. I was only 18 and I still had much to learn about the world and Life in general. I still needed her to guide me and teach me. So, in keeping with that, I still called her “Mother”, never “Rose.” Even while we had sex. I must confess: calling her “Mother” while we had sex was part of what made it so deliciously sexy. While I didn’t share Society’s discomfort about the incest taboo, I definitely understood that it WAS taboo and we BOTH relished in performing sexual acts so salacious and naughty.
wpDiscuz