West Chester, Pennsylvania two weeks before Halloween.
Joe crouched down on the upper steps of the old Courthouse in Darlington Street pleading with Moira on the phone. He could barely hear her over the late October gusts swirling leaves around the building's massive Greek revivalist columns. The night was dark and cold, like her words. After her brief, cruel farewell the phone went dead and he buried his head in his hands. In a little while someone gripped his arm so tight it hurt. He looked up, and a grim face stared down at him. Mr. Policeman. Joe knew the cops in this town were different. If they even were cops. He was instantly afraid.
"You don't belong here, sonny. Courthouse is closed. Don't make me take my shades off."
The cop wore sunglasses, even though it had been dark for hours. Joe stood up, nodded in obedience, and hurried back to his home three blocks away in Hemlock Alley. He wiped away tears as he went.
He arrived at the front porch and tried to compose himself. When he pushed open the door of his mother's tidy rowhouse the wind blew the junk mail off the entry hall table. He bent over to pick it all up. His mom and sister looked up at him as he made his clumsy entrance. Mom was on the sofa watching TV, while his sister was sitting next to her painting her nails. He sat down on the La-Z-Boy recliner opposite, in a state of shock at the loss of his girlfriend, unable to speak.
Tonight his sister Karen was wearing everything black: blouse, crepe miniskirt, thigh-high leggings. Joe considered his sister too old for the Gothic Lolita look - she was older than him and he was nineteen - but she was short, slender, and looked younger than her age. So it kinda worked. Her crepe miniskirt fluffed up like a tutu when she sat down and Joe could glimpse her black silky underwear. He held his breath, trying to keep his emotions to himself. Afraid to let his pain show.
His mother sat curled up in her house-coat, flashing occasional glimpses of her beautiful body under her nightie. She was in her early forties, slim, a former model, still attractive. Petite, dark and Italian-looking. They both glanced across the room at him. His sister saw the expression on his face, and smirked.
"What's up, Joe? Moira dump you?" Joe's eyes filled and he could not prevent tears from rolling down his cheek. "Ha! She did, didn't she? It was only a matter of time," she added, and went back to her nails. His mom looked at him closely. She arose, frowning with concern, and walked over to him. She bent down in front of him, her breasts inches in front of his face.
"Has Moira really dumped you?" Her face dipped down close to his and he could smell her fragrance as she took his hand and stroked it. She looked at the phone he was clutching.
"Yes, Mom."
He felt so ashamed. She sat down next to him on the side of the recliner and put her arm around him, her leg touching his side. He could feel the warmth from her body flowing into him. A long smooth expanse of thigh appeared as her house coat fell to the side. He could see the usual fiery warmth in his mother's eyes as she squeezed him affectionately. He was used to it, although his friends always remarked on the look his mother gave him. He ignored them. As his mother stroked his hair, his sister piped up from the sofa once more, mock encouragement in her voice.
"Hey Joe, go down to Party World. It's open for Halloween. Buy a love charm or a spell to make Moira come back. That's your best bet." She smiled sweetly at him.
"He'll do no such thing!" shot back his mother in anger. He saw his sister wilt. She had forgotten their mother's absolute ban on any talk of witchcraft in the home.
"I'm going to bed," his Mom said, trembling, as if startled by her own outburst. "You should go to bed, too. Coming, Joey?" She took his hand and pulled him up. Meekly he followed, watching his mother's body sway in front of him as she led him up the stairs to his room. She opened his bedroom door and ushered him inside, patting his behind as he passed her.
"Moira wasn't good enough for you, anyway. Goodnight, sweet boy of mine." She closed the door behind him.
Before he closed the drapes, Joe looked out of his window. He could see some figures hurrying home under the street lamps, maybe students from the university after a night out in the town. He kicked off his shoes, long pants, and unbuttoned his shirt. He lay back on his bed, the phone still in his hand. He thought about Moira.
He clicked on the pics she had sent him only a few weeks before. Moira was athletic and blonde with an attitude. He flicked through them slowly. Moira in a bikini. Moira in a bar. Moira holding his cock. Unconsciously his hand crept down inside his jockeys and grasped his dick. He held it, squeezed, and gently tugged, never intending to take it further. It got bigger. He thought about all the times he had put his fingers up Moira's pussy, making her so wet. Automatically, his hand picked up speed as he called up more images of Moira.
He was transported, thinking about their times together. Maybe these pictures were all he would ever have, now. He remembered cumming all over her swimsuit as she jacked him off when they were down on the Brandywine in the summer, and her laughter as she waded into the river to wash it off. That memory pulled the trigger. He never meant to cum. With a sob he let go of himself when he felt it rising up his stiff shaft. But it was too late. Now hands-free, his cock started to jerk up and down of its own accord and with every jerk a gout of cum sailed out and landed on his belly and chest. He tried to make sure his shirt wasn't getting soaked, tried not to get any on the clean comforter and sheets his mom had just washed. He was mostly successful. But he was covered in it. His own sticky cum. He reached across for the box of tissues on his bedside table. Empty. With a curse and another sob he got up carefully and headed to the bathroom.
*Mom's Secret*
Joe's mom stood up from the toilet bowl and fluffed her nightie down. She washed her hands and looked at herself in the mirror. Getting older. But considering the burden she had carried all her adult life, not bad. She looked at her breasts, barely hidden by the thin cotton nightie. She missed her husband so deeply, so painfully. Then there was Joey. She kissed the crucifix around her neck and said two prayers, one for her son and one for herself. She washed her face and dried it. Time for bed. She switched off the bathroom light, then remembered she needed some skin cream from the bathroom drawer. She fumbled around in the dim light from the window and found it. She stood up, pulled open the bathroom door and collided with her son as he almost fell through the doorway. She caught him before he fell and clasped him to her as he found his feet. She reached out and switched the light back on. Now the bright light shone on him as he stood there sheepishly. She took a step back, her breasts and belly wet with something.
"Sorry, mom. I didn't see a light on."
She looked him up and down. His eyes were downcast. He was wearing an unbuttoned long sleeve shirt and the clean white briefs she had put in his room that very morning. The briefs didn't look so clean any more. The bulge from his cock and balls was prominent, the center of a large wet patch spreading out, turning the dry white cotton grey and slimy. Her eyes gazed at his slick belly and chest, his open shirt flapping by his sides. She saw streaks of creamy wetness criss-crossing his body, some of it dripping down to his briefs. It was obvious what he had been doing. She pushed past him before he could say any more. She inhaled and could smell the semen on him. It was strong.
"It's all yours, Joey."
She heard him close the bathroom door behind her as she hurried to her own bedroom. She shut her door and stood in front of the full length mirror. Her nightie was stuck to her breasts and belly with wetness. The unmistakable scent of her son's sperm wafted up to her face as her body heat released its essence.
She took a deep breath and felt an erotic desire of such power she had never experienced before. Soaked in her son's cum. Wetting her nightie. Wetting her skin. She opened her palms and flattened her nightie against her body, making sure that her skin made maximum contact with the wet garment. Then she lifted her hands to her face and cupped her nose and mouth. The strong distinctive smell of her son's semen. She licked both palms and exulted in the familiar flavor, missing from her life since her husbands passing.
She flung herself on her bed and lay back straight, looking up at the ceiling as her hand crept down to her wet crotch, fingering and rubbing herself. She was already very wet. She hitched up her nightie above her waist and bunched it around her breasts, delighting in its forbidden contents.
She opened her bedside drawer and pulled out an old black picture album. Photos of her husband, her daughter, and of course Joey. Tonight she was only interested in Joey. She was on fire. She turned to the more recent ones of him, taken only last year as a freshman down at the Shore. He was in his swim shorts, dripping wet having just emerged from the water like a young Neptune. She marveled at his youthful chiseled body, his superb ass, the fascinating bulge in his crotch, and most of all the look of love he gave to the camera (she had taken the pics of course).
She thought about what she had just seen. Her son covered in his own sperm, which he had inadvertently gifted to her. She rubbed and wriggled and squeezed herself, pushing her fingers inside a little then slowly and softly back out over her slick labia in a lazy circle. Over and over, then a little faster, looking at her son. Soon she lay back panting as the orgasm swept over her, the photo album discarded next to her, the bed now wet with her juices.
How many times had she done this, looking at photos of him? Countless. But never, ever, had she touched her son in that way. She had never crossed that line. He had no idea that she craved his body day and night.
After a while she got up and peeked out the window at the town of West Chester. Her mind drifted back twenty two years. She opened her bedside drawer and pulled out another black book. She opened it and found the page she was looking for, scuffed and dog-eared. On it was a photo of an old boyfriend, Rab, taken while he was asleep and without his knowledge. The photo, secured by transparent adhesive tape, bowed out a little as if something was hidden underneath it. Rab, she had discovered, was a strange and powerful person. A man she now knew to be the essence of evil. She had kept the photo to remind herself of her hatred for him.
He was a black magician. She didn't know it then, but she knew it now. Turned out West Chester was infested with them. The town was a global crossroads of the occult where the forces of The Lord wrestled interminably with Satan's disciples and the Black Magi in a three cornered contest that had been going on for two centuries.
Rab had not taken well to being dumped. He had hurled terrible curses in Latin at her in an uncontainable fury. Then he told her what they meant. It was a subtle, but vicious curse. She was to be damned with an overwhelming sexual desire for her firstborn male. The curse could only be lifted by having full carnal relations with her son. Once she did that, all her desire for him would disappear. Leaving her to deal with the consequences of her incest. A gotcha curse of the worst kind.
Of course, she didn't believe it. She laughed it off, went her own way, found a nice man and married him. She had given birth to Karen first. No problem. Then Joseph came along. To her horror and shame as her son grew up she realized the curse was real. Her husband, whom of course she never told, had been a blessing. A tower of strength. She wanted to run as far away from West Chester as possible. But he had a good job at QVC Studios and refused to move. But when he had died five years ago, and Joseph approached manhood, it had taken every ounce of her willpower not to rip her son's clothes off every day. It still did.
The only acts she permitted herself were alone, in private. Thinking about Joey. She hoped God would forgive her for that. Her priest, Father Antony, was well aware of the real dangers existing in the town. But he knew nothing of this abomination. She shut her journal and put it back down on the bedside table. She got into bed and tried to sleep.
