Harrys App

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of incest or incest content.

*****

"Mum!"

I sigh. It's the third time he's called. "What is it?" I demand, marching through to the living room. It's all very well for him to be stuck at home with me instead of at university, but I'm the one who has to do all the shopping and cleaning and cooking. I can't wait for the lockdown to end.

Harry's on the sofa, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and Y-fronts, and I don't know what he's been watching on his tablet but there's a definite tent in the elastic material. He holds it up as if he's filming me - I hate when people do that - but before I can yell at him to put it down and get dressed, he taps the screen and -

I stop, suddenly confused about what I'm doing, but sure that Harry will remind me. "I found this great new app," he says. "There are some interesting in-app purchases we can try later, but the free stuff looks fun. For example..."

He swipes up, and a wave of arousal washes through me. My thoughts drift to the vibrator in my drawer upstairs. As soon as I'm finished here, I'm going to lock myself in my room and get some relief. That's the cursed thing about this lockdown. Not enough sex! No husband, no boyfriend, just my son.

I still have no idea what I'm doing here though. "You were going to take off your clothes?" Harry says, half-prompt, half-question.

"Oh, right." I feel relief as the cloud of confusion lifts from my thoughts. I strip out of my trousers and top, and I'm about to go further when it occurs to me that I shouldn't be undressing in front of my son. In the privacy of my bedroom, yes, my trusty vibrator at hand. "I, ah," I say. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Wait." Harry swipes the screen again. I have a sudden memory of his father sitting where Harry is now, and me kneeling on the floor. That had been the first time I gave him a blowjob, and nearly the last too. He had come in my mouth without warning, and I had knelt there coughing and spitting, cum dripping onto the carpet. It was the same carpet. Probably there is still dried cum sticking the fibres together.

I miss the taste of cum. I mean, I don't normally miss the taste of cum, but right now I would give anything to have a hard cock in my mouth, and to feel it pulsing wildly as it erupts with virile cum... and the only way that's going to happen now is if I get down on my knees in front of my -

No! I shake my head. I'm not even going to think that. With a whine of frustration, I turn to go. I need to lock myself in my room where I can make myself come, and maybe even watch some porn where women get covered in cum from a hundred waiting cocks. Fuck, I'm so fucking horny!

And then he takes it out. His cock. Harry's stroking his erect member, and it's almost hypnotic. "Your clothes," he reminds me. I'd forgotten I was taking them off. I unclasp my bra, letting it fall. It's embarrassing just how obviously hard my nipples are. If I were alone... but I'm not. Even more embarrassing is that my knickers are visibly soaked. I can't remember the last time I was this wet.

It feels wrong being naked and visibly aroused in front of Harry. I know I need to get to my room, but I can't tear my eyes away from his cock. It's years since I last sucked on one, and to have one right in front of me... I can almost feel it between my lips. I can almost taste it - the tip is glistening with precum.

But I can't! It's wrong! He's my son! "I should go," I say, though even I'm unconvinced by the plaintive note in my voice.

"Suck it, Mum," he says, spreading his legs and inching his hips forward, his hands now resting at his sides. It has the effect of making his cock seem twice as big, and as hungry for my mouth as my mouth is for it.

With a whimper of need, I fall to my knees before him, as I once did before his father, and I wrap my lips about the soft, thick head. I no longer care that this is wrong. Incestuous. Illegal. I care only about making him come in my mouth. With my lips tight about his shaft, I bob up and down, my tongue swirling about the head.

With my hands I massage and squeeze my breasts, my fingers rubbing and pinching my nipples in a desperate attempt to alleviate their aching need to be sucked on. Whenever I reach down to touch my similarly needful clit, the demanding itching of my nipples intensifies. Never have I needed a third hand more.

"Come for me," I beg, catching my breath for a moment.

Harry pushes my head down onto his cock, as if trying to force it into my throat. This is something I've never succeeded in doing, and as always I just end up coughing and choking. Harry sighs irritably and lets me return to how I was doing it before.

The taste of his precum is sweetness itself, but I'm so hungry for the real cream. "Come for me, Harry," I say, not daring this time to halt more than a fraction of a second. I can feel that he's close. I double my efforts, sucking and licking with determination, my fingers tugging so fiercely on my nipples there are tears in my eyes from the pain.

"Mmm, yes," he says, breathing heavily. "Close, so close." His cock is suddenly very stiff, and he's holding my head firmly in place. "Swallow it all, Mum," he says, his voice strained.

And then that powerful shaft is jerking between my lips, thick wonderful cum bursting into my mouth, filling it faster than I can swallow. I do my best, but it's running down my chin, and still there is more and I just can't get enough of it. I lick him clean of every trace of it, sucking in a desperate attempt to get even one more delicious drop.

When he releases his grip on me, I scoop what I can from my chin into my mouth, and wonder how quickly I can make him come again.

Harry taps the screen on his tablet, and my mind goes fuzzy. "That was great, Mum," he says, "but you need a few upgrades, and I need your credit card to get them."

I have no idea what he's talking about. I have a sense that something is very wrong, not least because my nipples feel both bruised and neglected and I can't quite bring myself to do anything about it.

There's also that sense again that I have forgotten what I was supposed to be doing. "You were going to fill this in for me," Harry says, handing me the tablet. I nod, grateful for the reminder, and take it through to the hallway where my handbag is with my credit card and stuff.

I'm momentarily distracted by how wet my thighs are, and indeed how wet my pussy is. I touch my clit out of curiosity, and the pleasure is so intense I nearly come there and then. "Fill it in," Harry reminds me, and I return my attention reluctantly to the tablet. It's a struggle to understand, despite it being something I know I've done before, but I figure it out eventually and hand the tablet back to Harry.

"Excellent," he says. "Hmm... Weren't you going to bed?"

"Oh yes! I'm quite exhausted." I don't tell the real reason - I have a date with my trusty vibrator. "Night, Harry."

"Sleep tight," he calls after me.

*

My breasts are the first thing I notice on awaking. Because they're huge. They've inexplicably doubled in size overnight.

In something of a panic, I rush to the mirror, and scream from the shock of seeing myself transformed in multiple ways. My breasts for one thing, huge but also perky. Bouncy, even, with dark, wide areolae and thick nipples. My lips look swollen too, bee-stung and pouting, and my chestnut hair is bimbo-blonde. Everywhere. Even my pubes. "What the fuck?" I say; the reflected bimbo mirrors me perfectly.

For one brief, stupid moment, I wonder if this is a side-effect of the virus. Of course it isn't, but I'm at a loss for what I would actually say to a doctor if I managed to reach one. "Uh, Doctor, I turned into a Pamela Anderson lookalike while I slept."

To be fair, it's a pretty hot look. It's just not mine. "Fuck." I don't even know where to start.

Okay. Step 1. Get dressed. Except that's not so easy. None of my bras fit anymore, and in fact none of my tops fit very well. And although my waist seems to have narrowed - I really can't complain about that - I think my hips are a little wider, so it's a struggle to work myself into trousers.

"No, Mum." I look up, startled. Harry is watching me from the doorway.

A confused memory of me on my knees sucking his cock, even swallowing his cum, leaves me feeling suddenly very sick. Did that really happen? "Oh God," I whisper. I need to sit - except I'm already sitting.

Harry opens my lingerie drawer and extracts my garter belt and a pair of stockings. "This is all you will wear, unless I tell you otherwise. Oh, and these." He chooses a shoe box from a high shelf and takes out the high-heeled stilettos that I only ever wear on a night out. "Here."

I take the shoes and garments from him, a little surprised that he was able to find them so easily. More surprised that he's said nothing about the obvious. "Um, Harry," I say, and I can feel tears welling up inside. "Something happened to me." I make a sweeping gesture to indicate all the weird changes to my body.

"Don't worry about it, Mum. I think you're perfect this way." He's right, of course. I am. But it's a relief to hear him say it, and there's really no need to bother the doctors. "I'm off to bed," he says with a yawn. "I've been up all night."

And then I'm alone - but better for Harry's intrusion. I feel so much calmer now.

Wearing nothing but stockings and heels is an odd thing to do about the house. I mean, it would make sense if I were expecting a lover and wanted to tease him, but it seems an unwise choice around my son. (Did I really suck his cock? The smell of his cum makes it such a vivid memory, but I can't remember how it happened. If it happened.)

And yet, the clothes I am wearing fit so badly I look and feel stupid and overdressed. And it's not like I have to worry about visitors, what with the lockdown. I only really need to get dressed when I'm going outside - to go shopping, or to look after the garden. But indoors?

I reach a decision and strip off. It's so long since I last wore stockings that it's a struggle for me to attach all the straps, but at last it's all straightened out. And once I'm in the heels too, I look sexy as hell.

Again it bothers me that my son will see me like this, my breasts and pussy on open display, but I suppose it's okay while he's asleep. I can put a dressing gown or something on later.

*

It's late afternoon when Harry finally puts in an appearance - and he's naked, his cock swinging semi-erect in front of him. "Go put something on," I say irritably.

I'm in the middle of chopping onions for dinner. This is just one of many activities that is made frustratingly harder by having huge breasts. They bounce when I walk. They really bounce when I go up and down stairs. And they generally just get in the way. "Harry," I say warningly as he comes up behind me - but then he presses up against my back, his hands on my breasts, his thumbs teasing my nipples, and suddenly I can't think of anything except how much I need him to continue.

And his cock is fully erect now, and I know he's my son and it's so very wrong but I want that cock inside me. "Don't, Harry," I say, fighting against my own desire for him.

But his hands are exciting me so much, and I can't resist pressing back against him, as if to invite him to penetrate me. And of course there's nothing to stop him doing so. Just as my breasts are still bare, so is my pussy. This is why it's stupid to wear only stockings and heels. "No, don't," I plead as he guides his cock towards that target. "This is wrong."

"Then why are you so wet, Mum?"

I gasp as he thrusts into me. Despite my mental struggle to resist him, my body has already surrendered. The feel of him inside me, filling me, stretching me, is like the answer to a prayer. "Because I'm a whore," I say, thrusting back to meet him, to drive his hard length deeper into me. "A dirty fucking whore."

I can't believe I'm saying these words! I never say things like this!

"Yes, Mum, you are," Harry says. "You're my dirty fucking whore."

Hearing him say it makes me want him even more. "Fuck me, Harry," I beg. "Fuck me like the whore I am!"

And he does. He takes me hard and fast, so that I have to abandon the knife I was using for the onions and just hold onto the counter for dear life. My breasts shiver and sway in time with his ramming of my cunt. His thick beautiful cock is the best thing I've ever had in me, and I can't get enough of it. "Harder!" I plead. "Harder!"

Despite his obvious enjoyment, he lasts a good long time too. It's the best, most satisfying sex I've ever had without actually climaxing. I'm so close too, when I sense him thickening inside me, his breathing laboured. "Come for me, whore," he orders.

As if his words unlock the orgasm that has eluded me, I am thrown over the precipice into ecstatic pleasure. The pulsing of his victorious cock is matched by my own helpless convulsions, my cunt contracting about him as cum erupts deep inside me. "Yes!" I cry. "Yes! Fill my whorish cunt with your cum!" (Did I really just say that?)

It's so good. It's just so fucking good.

I'm still recovering when he pulls out of me and saunters off, perhaps to get dressed, I don't know, and right now I don't care. Gradually I regain some equilibrium, and with it the shameful understanding that my son has just treated me like his personal whore - and that I encouraged it.

And this time it is no confused memory. I remember every moment of it clearly, and the conclusive evidence is dripping onto the tiles between my parted feet.

*

Feeling dirty both inside and out, I abandon the cooking for a long bath. It doesn't solve the problem that I'm a bad person and a terrible mother - and certainly the last person who should be left alone with my son during an extended self-isolation - but I do at least emerge feeling cleaner and therefore calmer, a little more prepared to face the rest of the day.

Harry has been in my room. Placed neatly on the bed are my garter belt and heels, and a clean pair of stockings. I frown at these in irritation. It is wearing so little that caused the problem earlier, and I made up my mind, while in the bath, to wear something more sensible.

And yet, nothing in my wardrobe or in my drawers seems quite suitable. Everything either doesn't fit my new figure or just doesn't appeal, and after rifling through it all for five minutes maybe more, I slump onto my bed with a sigh, resigned to the inevitable. My son wants me to dress like a whore for him, and I have no idea how not to.

I don't see Harry again until I call him for dinner. The memory of what we did, the knowledge that I'm dressed as if in invitation for more, has me so embarrassed I can't bear to look at him. Instead, staring down at my food, I'm reminded again of how even mundane tasks like eating are made more complicated by having huge breasts. In retrospect, it was a bad idea to make bolognese, because the sauce keeps dripping onto my bare breasts, and I can feel Harry watching me whenever I have to wipe them clean.

I escape at last into the kitchen, to do the dishes and generally tidy up, free from the heat of my son's too lustful gaze. I'm tempted to linger in the kitchen rather than confront him at all, but also I know the sooner I have a responsible, adult talk with him the better.

Taking a deep breath for courage, I head into the living room where Harry is watching some Netflix reality TV series about semi-naked people. Harry is likewise semi-naked, being fully on display from the waist down, his cock semi-hard but nonetheless distracting for that. "Harry," I say firmly, my hands on my hips, "we need to talk."

With an expression of wholly inappropriate amusement, he sits up and faces me. "Okay, Mum," he says, "but sit on me while we talk."

That really wasn't what I intended, but it is, I guess, a form of progress? It's better, at least, than me standing and him lying. I straddle him, but keep my distance from his cock that is now standing at attention. It's Harry's attention that I want, not his cock's. "Now, listen," I say. "I am your mother, not your whore. What we did earlier was a mistake. It was wrong, and we can't do it again."

But then his hands are on my breasts, his thumbs teasing my nipples, and the rest of my prepared speech is lost in a haze of lust. "Don't you like being my whore, Mum?"

"I do," I whisper. "I love being my son's dirty whore." Dear gods, what is wrong with me!

I shift position, intending to guide his hard, beautiful cock into my cunt, but Harry stops me. "Turn around," he says, and I have to stand up to do it, before sitting again in his lap, my back against his chest, his hands reaching round to grab my breasts again.

His cock presses against my pussy, and by rolling my hips I can use it to excite my clit. I lift up, wanting him in me. Harry surprises me, though, guiding his cock not into my cunt but to that other. "Wait, no!" I cry, alarmed at the sudden pressure against my ass. I've never done anal before! I certainly don't want my own son fucking me there. "Don't!"

I'm balanced poorly, however, and Harry's hands on my hips prevent any hope of evasion. I feel myself opening to accept him. The intensity of it is mind-blowing, and it has me panting so heavily my breasts are bouncing noticeably.

With an abruptness that provokes a cry of astonishment, he is in me properly. I can't believe how thick he feels, and how hard... And how good! "Fuck me, you whore," Harry growls. "Make me come in your ass."

Despite how wrong and how unnatural this is, I can't help myself. All that matters right now is proving to my son what a dirty whore his mother is. I push down on his cock, determined to take more of him into me - indeed, to take all of him, in time. The friction between his cock and my ass is exquisite, sending shivers of delight racing through me, and for the first time in my life I understand that it is actually possible for women to enjoy anal sex.

It takes a few attempts, but at last I find a way to sit that lets me ride him effectively. I have to hold my breasts because their bouncing is almost painful, but it's also an excuse (not that one is needed) to pinch and tug at my nipples as I gradually take his cock deeper and deeper.

Harry is doing nothing to help either of us. He's just there, relaxed on the sofa, providing his cock for me to fuck myself on. I love his cock. It feels so good in my ass. I want to feel it exploding with cum deep inside me. "Come in me, Harry," I beg. "I want your cum in my ass."

He chuckles. "If you really want to be my whore, Mum, then make me."

"Yes, Harry," I say, and try to both fuck my ass with him even harder, and faster too. This is hard work. It would definitely count as my daily exercise. "Come in my ass," I plead quietly, over and over, almost a mantra. "Come in my ass."

And at last he does, holding me tight and still against him, his cock buried as deep in my ass as it can go, pulsing ecstatically, his cum tickling me deep inside, and I can't help but feel pride at what I have done, at what I have become.

With my fingers against my clit, I try to bring myself to a climax while is cock is still hard and in my ass, but although I am close, so very close, I can't quite achieve the orgasm I so desperately need. Out of sheer desperation, I shout at myself, "Come for me, whore!"

And it works! "Yes! Come, you dirty whore!" I hiss as I climax at last, my ass contracting blissfully about the hard cock in my cum-filled ass, waves of ecstatic pleasure rolling through my convulsing body. On and on.

Until at last I'm done.

*

In the space of twenty-four hours, my life has changed completely. Not only am I mysteriously transformed, physically, into a huge-breasted blonde bimbo, but also my own son is treating me like his personal whore. Indeed, it seems increasingly futile to deny that I like it, and that the prospect of a long lockdown is made less bleak by the anticipation of regular sex. Fantastic sex.