Forbidden Fruit Venice Unmasked

WARNING: All characters are 18+ and should know better. This story contains explicit adult content involving taboo relationships. If that's not your cup of tea, best sod off elsewhere.

So I fucked my son, and my best friend and her son. There. Said it. Written down. Can't take it back now can I? Venice last week. Of all the places.

Shocked? Fair enough. I've gone from analysing Oedipus Rex to living it. Freud would have a bloody field day. Still reading though? Course you are. Want to know how it happened, don't you? It's quite the story.

---

[

that last glass of prosecco

]

'Found something', James holds up dusty wine bottle on our final night in Venice. 'Housekeeper says guests open it during transformations'.

Three glasses in and I'm soaked. We're all drunk now.

You can feel it building, can't you? The tension. That delicious anticipation before boundaries dissolve.

'To discovering what we want', Maggie raises her glass.

Four bodies in this ancient palazzo. Four days of tension ready to snap.

'Been thinking about tonight', Maggie twirls hair. 'Last night in this place'.

'Depends what we want', wine making me brave. 'We've paired off separately over the holiday. But there's another option'.

Danny leans forward. 'All four together?'

James chokes on his drink. 'Too far! Christ, Danny'.

'We're all thinking it', Danny shrugs.

'There's a line', James flushes. 'That's mental'.

'Is there?' Maggie touches his wrist. 'We crossed lines at Stansted check-in'.

Flashback to our first morning. Breakfast table. James avoiding my eyes after I'd heard him with Maggie the night before. Under the table, my stockinged foot brushed his ankle. He froze. My foot slid higher.

You're wondering how this started, aren't you? How we slipped so easily into depravity. It began with stockings. Always stockings. The way he looked at them. The way they all did.

Maggie missed nothing. 'That stocking fetish runs deep. Should've seen him with mine last night'.

Back to now. Masks on the table between us.

'Haven't you wondered?' Maggie behind James now, lips at his ear. Tan stockings catching light. 'Seeing you and your mum together?'

'Your body disagrees'. Her hand finding his lap. 'You have a stiffy just thinking about it'.

I watch my son's resistance crumbling. Should revolt me. Doesn't.

Don't pretend you wouldn't be curious. The forbidden has always been the most seductive.

'Maybe masks would help', I suggest. 'Venetian nobles knew what they were doing'.

Danny returns with four masks. James protests while Maggie strokes him through his trousers. 'Come feel how wet this makes me'. His hand trembles. 'Fuck', he breathes. 'Soaking'.

'Want to see your cock balls deep in her while she begs for more.'

Words hit hard. Face burning, but gosh I'm wet between my legs. Years since I've been this aroused.

The moment she said it aloud, something clicked into place. Like she'd named the thing we'd all been circling. You can feel it too, can't you? That thrill of the unspeakable finally spoken.

'More wine', Danny tops glasses. We drink deeply.

'Let's be clear', my lecturer voice fighting arousal. 'We're crossing lines most find appalling'.

'Want to stop?' Maggie asks.

Heavy silence. Church bells ring somewhere.

'No', I finally admit. 'Tired of English propriety'. James reaches for his mask. 'We'll regret this?'

'Probably', Danny slips his mask on. 'Regret not doing it more though'.

[

watching from the doorway

]

On our first night in Venice there had been midnight thunder. The rain soaking my nightie on the terrace, while I was wearing one of Danny's masks, before wandering the corridors and seeing through Maggie's door. My son with his hands gripping her stockings while she rode him. My hand between my legs later.

Should've been disgusted, shouldn't I? Instead, I watched for minutes. Memorized how he touched her. How he worshipped those tan stockings. Later, touching myself, I imagined it was my black ones he was stroking. Depraved? Perhaps. But you're still reading.

[

stockings and silk scarves

]

Now those same hands grip my black stockings, his fingers snagging slightly on a loose thread. I should have packed the nicer pair.

'Keep those on,' Maggie traces my stocking tops, her fingernail leaving a trail of goosebumps. 'James loves them, don't you?' She extends her tan-silk leg with exaggerated grace, nearly losing her balance against the antique chaise longue. Her thighs, softer than they'd been a decade ago, catch the candlelight in a way that somehow makes the dimples in her skin look appealing rather than embarrassing.

James turns bright red but says nothing. The mask sits awkwardly on his face, slightly too large and threatening to slip off with any sudden movement. His youthful stomach tenses as he shifts position, not an ounce of fat there. Not like mine, bearing the silvery marks of carrying him all those years ago.

'I want to try something,' the wine making me brave, the sweet Venetian Prosecco still tickling the back of my throat. 'I've always wanted to be tied up.' I admit, fumbling over the words. 'Not in control. I want to be used.'

'Bloody hell,' James shifts, hiding his obvious arousal, but his elbow catches the side table, nearly toppling an ornate lamp. We all freeze for a moment before nervous laughter breaks the tension.

'Oh yes, your mum has needs you never imagined,' Maggie smirks, her voice slightly slurred. She's had more to drink than any of us. Her breasts hang lower without a bra, nipples pointing slightly downward, nothing like the perky ones in porn, but somehow more arousing for being real.

My face is burning. I nod once, unable to meet anyone's eyes.

Forty-eight years of propriety. Decades of missionary sex with lights off. And now, asking to be tied up and used by my own son. Venice changes people. Or perhaps just reveals what was always there.

They tie me to the divan, stockinged legs spread obscenely wide. The silk scarves cutting into wrists aren't actually silk but some synthetic blend that feels rough against my skin. Ankles bound tight to wooden legs, my thighs trembling with the strain of being held apart. My right hip already starting to ache from the unnatural position, a little reminder of age I try to ignore. The ancient divan creaks ominously beneath me, and I briefly wonder if we'll break this priceless antique.

'Christ,' James breathes, cock visibly throbbing as he sees me displayed. Not his mother but a horny middle-aged woman in a mask, desperate for his young hard cock. The mask slips slightly, and he pushes it back up awkwardly, the gesture oddly endearing. His chest smooth and taut in the lamplight, all lean muscle where my ex-husband had gone soft decades ago.

Maggie slaps my inner thigh, leaving a red mark that stings more than I expected. 'She's dripping already. Look at that wet cunt. Taste her,' she commands James, then adds in a stage whisper, 'I saw this in a film once.' Her breasts swing freely as she moves, the weight of them settling naturally to her sides as she leans over me.

He hesitates, then bends. His first approach is too eager and his nose bumps painfully against my pubic bone. 'Sorry,' he mutters, repositioning himself. The second attempt is better, first touch of his tongue electric, but uncoordinated. He finds his rhythm eventually, and it's wrong and perfect all at once. I'm crying out, my back arching against restraints, one of which is already coming loose. My stomach crinkles unattractively as I twist, but no one seems to care or even notice.

His tongue. My God. Where did he learn that? Certainly not from his father. David never went down on me like that. Like he was starving and I was a feast. Like he'd been waiting his whole life. Though the beard stubble is starting to chafe uncomfortably.

'That's it. Deeper. Make her squirm', Maggie instructs, pinching my nipples hard, twisting them between her fingers. 'She likes pain with her pleasure'.

Maggie straddles my face, grinding her wet cunt against my mouth. Tan silk thighs smothering me. 'Lick me while your son tongue-fucks you. Always wanted to sit on your face'.

Danny is watching, stroking his thick hard cock. 'Fuck me, she's taking it like a mummy fuck toy'.

'Call her that', Maggie orders. 'She gets wetter when you degrade her. Don't you, professor?'

Moaning agreement into Maggie's cunt as James pushes two fingers inside me alongside his tongue.

'Look at her slutty holes, all ready for cock', Maggie announces. 'Which one first, boys?'

'Flip her over', Danny suggests, voice thick. 'Want to see her arse up, face down'.

They untie me only to flip me onto my stomach, re-securing wrists to headboard. Bum raised high, face pressed into pillows.

So exposed. So vulnerable. In that moment, I wasn't Dr Matthews, respected academic. Just flesh and need. Strange how liberating complete surrender can be. Have you ever experienced that?

Maggie spreads my bum cheeks wide. 'Look at this tight hole. Ever had anything in here, Sarah?'

I shake my head, face burning with shame and arousal. The humulation is real, but sensual and empowering in a kinky fuckery fashion.

'Mmm a tight virgin arse', Maggie announces. 'Who wants it?'

'Me', James and Danny say simultaneously.

'Son gets first go', Maggie decides, reaching for oil on nightstand. 'Get her ready. Start with fingers'.

Cold oil dripping between my arse cheeks. James's fingers circling, then pressing inside. Burning stretch. I'm gasping into the pillow.

'Relax,' Maggie whispers, stroking my hair. 'Breathe. Good girl. Taking your son's fingers in your arse.'

Danny moves underneath me, positioning his cock at my cunt. 'Let's make sure she feels full.' His young hands grip my hips, fingers pressing into flesh that's softer than it once was, but he doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he squeezes appreciatively, as if the extra give is exactly what he wants.

Maggie laughs darkly. 'Greedy slut, aren't you? Want to be stuffed full eh?' She catches my eye, a shared moment of feminine understanding -- both of us with bodies that have changed over decades, both of us being worshipped by men young enough to be our sons.

Nodding frantically, beyond shame now.

What would my colleagues say if they could see me now? Distinguished Dr Matthews, begging to be filled by her son and his friend. Filthy words I'd never spoken before pouring from my mouth. Amazing how quickly propriety falls away once the dam breaks.

'Say it,' Maggie demands, yanking my hair. 'Beg for it.'

'Please,' voice breaking. 'Fill me. Both of you. Use me.'

Danny pushes inside my cunt as James works a third finger into my arse. Sensation overwhelming. Stretched beyond imagining.

'Ready for cock now,' Maggie decides, examining my stretched hole. 'Fuck your mother's tight virgin arse, James. She's ready.'

James positions himself, cock head pressing against my back entrance. Slow, inexorable pressure. Burning pain becoming fullness. My lower back twinges in protest at the awkward position, but the pleasure eclipses it completely.

'Oh fuck,' he groans as he sinks in. 'So tight.'

Maggie beneath me now, licking my clit while both men thrust. 'Look at her take both cocks. Such a good mummy whore'.

The sensation defies description. Completely filled. Used. Every orifice taken. Both men establishing rhythm, thrusting alternately.

'Slap her arse', Maggie orders. 'She likes it'.

Sharp pain as James's hand cracks across my buttock. Again. Again. Each slap sending shockwaves through me.

Each slap felt like permission. Permission to want this. To be this person. Respectable professor by day, depraved slut by night. Both real. Both me. What hidden selves are you suppressing?

'Pull her hair', Maggie suggests, fingers working my clit faster.

James grabs a fistful, yanking my head back. 'You like that? Taking both your boys?'

'Yes', gasping, completely surrendered. 'Harder. Please'.

They increase pace, fucking me without restraint. Maggie crawls around to force my face between her legs again. 'Make me come while they use you'.

Tongue working desperately as both men pound into me. Maggie grinding against my face, Danny's fingers digging into hips.

'Going to come in your arse', James warns, thrusts becoming erratic. 'I'm going to fill you up mum'.

'Do it', Maggie orders. 'Pump your hot spunk into her arse while Danny fills her cunt'.

Both men climaxing almost simultaneously. Hot pulses inside both holes. Maggie grinding against my face, coming with a sharp cry.

My own orgasm tearing through me, vision going white. Screaming into Maggie's thigh as waves of pleasure crash through my body.

Nothing like it before or since. Filled completely. Used thoroughly. Owned. Marked. Claimed. By my son, my best friend, her son. All the forbidden lines crossed at once. And God help me, I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

Collapsing together, sweat-slick and panting. Spunk leaking. Wrists chafed raw from restraints.

Maggie unties my raw wrists. 'Look at you', she murmurs, admiring the marks on my body. 'Thoroughly fucked. Your arse and cunt leaking spunk. Beautiful'.

'What have we done?' Danny whispers, staring at his still-hard cock glistening with my juices.

'Exactly what we all wanted', Maggie answers, tracing the red handprints on my arse. 'Every filthy desire we've been suppressing'.

James silent, looking shell-shocked. Then: 'I came inside my mother's arse', almost wonderingly.

'And you'll do it again before we leave Venice', Maggie promises. 'Won't he, Sarah?'

Nodding, my throat raw from screaming. Body aching deliciously.

'Well boys, I think its my turn to get fucked', Maggie announces, jiggling her tits. 'Who's first?'

'Give them a minute to recover', I laugh. 'Besides, I want to watch'.

Strange how quickly you can adapt to the unthinkable. One moment, I'm experiencing the taboo of being fucked by my son. The next, I'm eager to watch him fuck my best friend. Something to do with Venice's magic, perhaps? Or just my true nature, finally unleashed.

'Dirty bitch', Maggie grins. 'You want to see your son fuck me while his spunk is still leaking from you?'

'Yes please', surprising myself with my honesty.

Within minutes, Maggie on all fours. James behind her, Danny feeding his cock into her mouth. 'Touch yourself', Maggie orders between sucks. 'Get yourself off watching us'.

Me watching, fingers idly playing with my tender, used cunt, finding myself aroused again despite everything. The sight of my son fucking my best friend, his hands gripping her tan stockings, is unexpectedly erotic.

The image sends me over edge again, coming weakly on my fingers.

Later, all collapsed in sweaty heap. Limbs tangled. The smell of sex heavy in the air.

'Fucking hell', Danny mumbles. 'Never thought... Jesus'.

'Never mentioning this again?' James asks, voice uncertain.

'Like hell', I counter. 'Didn't wait forever to find myself just to lose her again'.

---

[

steam and secrets

]

I wake first, the sheets damp from humidity and last night's activities. The distinctive sound of water lapping against the palazzo's foundations rises from below, a gentle percussion that's become the soundtrack to our stay. A distant church bell tolls from across the lagoon, San Giorgio Maggiore marking six, the bronze notes reverberating across the water, seeming to make the air itself vibrate. Beyond the windows, I can smell the peculiar morning scent of Venice, slightly briny, with hints of diesel from the early morning vendors' boats motoring through narrow canals.

I slip from bed, careful not to wake my son. The word still catches in my throat. Last night we'd... Christ. I glance back at his sleeping form, sheets tangled around his waist, the flat plane of his stomach rising and falling steadily. So different from my own body, the softness at my middle that no amount of Pilates has managed to firm. Maggie and Danny still asleep in the adjoining room.

I walk to the bathroom, wincing at unexpected soreness between my legs and the protest of my lower back. Ancient marble cool beneath my feet, slightly uneven from centuries of wear, each depression telling its own story of previous occupants. The shower is surprisingly modern, one renovation the palazzo's owner had splurged on. I turn the water on, steam rising as hot water hits cool Venetian air, bringing out that distinctive mineral smell of the ancient plumbing.

The glass door slides open behind me. James enters, already hard. 'Buongiorno.' His accent terrible. The single Italian word we've all learned to use properly during our stay. His hands find my waist. I should push him away. I don't.

'We shouldn't. Not again,' I whisper.

'We already have. Several times,' he reminds me.

Water cascades between us. From somewhere outside, a gondolier's call echoes off stone walls that have witnessed centuries of Venetian indiscretions.

As if the water will cleanse us both of our sins. Isn't that what I'm thinking? That somehow the Venetian water - the same water that's been flowing through these canals since before concepts like incest even existed - will wash away what we've done? But I don't want cleansing. Not really. I want him inside me again. What does that make me?

He turns me to face the wall. Venetian marble, cold against my breasts. His hand slides between my legs from behind.

'Still wet from last night,' he murmurs.

'From the shower, obviously,' I lie.

'Liar.'

I am. We both know it. His fingers prove it.

He enters me slowly, the shower's rhythm matching the water slapping against the palazzo's water entrance below. Through the bathroom's small window, early morning light catches on the rippling surface of the canal. A water taxi passes, its wake disturbing a pair of moorhens. Venice awakening while mother and son continue their taboo coupling.

'Someone will hear,' I gasp.

'Thick walls. They've kept Venetian secrets for centuries,' he whispers against my neck.

He turns me to face him, still deep inside me. Backs me against the tile wall, lifting one of my legs to wrap around his waist. The angle changes, pushing him impossibly deeper. His mouth finds mine.

The kiss is slow, wet, deliberate. Nothing rushed like our first frantic couplings. His tongue slides against mine, mimicking the rhythm of his cock inside me. Water streams between our joined mouths, our mingled breath creating steam that has nothing to do with the shower's heat. I taste faintly of the Prosecco from last night and something uniquely me. My fingers tangle in his wet hair, pulling him closer, deeper into the kiss.

'Fuck, you feel incredible,' he murmurs against my lips, breath hot compared to the water streaming over us. Our mouths stay connected, tongues exploring, sharing air, sharing everything that should be forbidden. I bite his lower lip, harder than I mean to. He groans into my mouth, pressing me harder against the ancient Venetian marble.

Venice does this to people, doesn't it? Something about the decay, the sinking, the knowledge that this beautiful aberration of a city shouldn't exist but does anyway. Rules dissolve here like the foundations slowly surrendering to the lagoon. I've given a lecture on Venetian moral ambiguity in Renaissance literature, for God's sake. Now I'm living it, with my son's cock buried inside me as morning light turns the Grand Canal to liquid gold beyond our window.

His pace increases. Still kissing me, swallowing my moans. The sound of our breathing mixing with shower spray and distant calls of "Ooooeeeee!" as gondoliers navigate tight turns in the labyrinth of waterways.