Life Is but a Dream

*** This is another incest story that should have a sub-category of "Reluctance."

These are not love stories, they are about acceptance and sex. For the people who think that mother-son stories should be Hallmark cards and that I should not make them so crass, just skip to another writer and maybe call a psychiatrist. These are simply dirty tales of sexual lust. Get over it. ***

The lovely dream that lulled me into a deep sleep quickly transformed into an erotic, frightening nightmare that I couldn't fight my way out of and back to a restful awakening. A lovely, enveloping slumber was just falling over me. The ethereal journey began with me floating in a tiny boat on calm waters. It's funny and a bit eerie, how dreams can take-on a life of their own and fool you into believing that all is well. Things that seem normal in dreams would be terrifying while we often accept the ridiculous as mundane.

I have an inordinate fear of open water and had never even been by myself in a small vessel. But my subconscious brainwaves were leading the way. This late evening excursion with me in a shimmery, gossamer, white gown and sipping champagne from a chilled flute while soft music trilled from some unseen symphony ashore, was soothing my fatigued frame and ushering me into blissful repose. Sometimes the boat was a canoe and at other times it was quite large. I was alone but then I could hear people. The scene changed many times but always seemed to make sense.

A scenario filled with foreboding that should have alerted my senses if I had been in a sound mind. And yet, the startling fact that I was scantily dressed in a small boat, drinking while lazing on the unfamiliar waters as night fell, seemed perfectly routine in my fantastical haze.

I had been drifting aimlessly on my solitary voyage, lounging on pillowy cushions of chiffon and letting my slumbering form relax and renew its spent energy as the late night's coolness settled over the dark waters. My mind was hovering gently along to the ephemeral emotions that come from fleeting glimpses of episodes that may or may not be real and pass through the senses as the body slowly gives-in to the delicate fingers of Hypnos. In this peaceful state, I wasn't aware that a brutal storm was brewing.

My friends call me Toni but my given name is Antoinette. My body began the subtle conversion from childhood to adult woman at a young age and my more formal name became prevalent. By eighteen, I was an entirely different being. My long, gangly legs gained shape and form, with taut sinewy muscle-tone that has been further accented by my preference for high heels. The calf muscles snapped into shape with each purposeful stride and my firm thighs held me proudly as I descended stairs with the hem of my short skirts waving in the breeze. I always preferred mesh stockings to frame my solid thighs or tight jeans and heels, giving me the appearance of more height. But in summer, I would often dress casually in open-toed sandals and my tanned bare legs.

My waistline tightened and thinned, forming a roughly hourglass shape to my torso, cinching at the crest of my hips without the bother of belts or straps. It wasn't "Runway Model" perfect, but the slinky, swishing motion of my tight butt caught the eyes of most men. In cropped-top knit sweaters or bikini bras my slim waist formed a slinky "V" shape that tapered up towards my healthy bosom.

This was complimented by the emerging swell of my bustline, that after the prepubescent humiliation of having a concave chest, gradually enlarged and filled-out, and finally by college-age it tipped the tape measure at 36 inches and a rounded, bouncy C-cup to each hefty breast. I generally required a bra due to my well-developed breasts but I often chose the sheerest materials that still offered support, to allow enough of a bounce to catch available eyes. I was mature enough upon entering my eighteenth year, to use these enticing assets to my advantage but still too young to realize the impression that I was leaving.

I have sun-dappled blonde hair that I wear full and draped to the curve of my bosom. My blue eyes are an icy shade that I'm told, sparkle when I smile. I am only 37 years old and yet, I've had the misfortune to bury two husbands. The first died suddenly of an abnormal heart condition and the second was taken only last year by a lingering illness. This last calamity devastated me and affected my psyche. My smile and the sparkle of my eyes have been absent for many months. The only lasting possession from either marriage, other than a few yellowing letters and some silly knickknacks that trigger fond memories, is my nineteen-year-old son Scott.

He is tall and dark like his late father- my first husband. He has broad shoulders and a barrel chest from his passion for exercise and a healthy diet. And recently, his devotion and almost suffocating attachment to me has become nearly manic. He noticed about that time, that my sunny mood had soured and my desire to be flirty or sensual in any way had diminished. I didn't tell him that my hunger for sexual activity had also taken a stunning nosedive.

At first, he prodded me to resume my social activities and to not submit to the tragedies that lingered on my mind. He urged me to continue dating and keeping to a schedule of lunches or parties that had been such a vibrant part of my life. to please him, I made the effort but I was simply going through the motions. Step-by-step, I mostly withdrew from my social circle because I felt that my depression was like a heavy blanket that I carried around and left an oppressive pall on everyone that it touched. The sunshine was fading from my life.

In the intervening weeks and months, I was confining myself to an ever-encircling pattern of lulling on the couch and watching television. The insurance accrued through death benefits, allowed me the luxury of taking time away from the daily grind of work and though we didn't live high, we lived well. But the crazy thoughts that maybe I was a "Black Widow," or that I was unfit for any further relationships, was wearing me down. Instead of the heels and tight outfits that I favored and that flattered my build, I took to dressing in shabby sweats or lounging all day in my pajamas. The hard and firm curves softened and sagged. For a while, Scotty supported my need for solitude and allowed me to express the sadness and melancholy that attached itself to my speech and mood.

After a few months spent gaining weight and laying about in darkened rooms, my son tried to tempt me with newer fashions and spontaneous trips. These heartfelt attempts at my virtual re-emergence fell flat, but he kept trying. One thing that did occur was that I began clinging closer to my son and at the age of nineteen, he became my gatekeeper to the scary world outside. I actually grew dependent on his physical presence. I needed to see him in the morning when I woke and I chose to sit beside him at night on the sofa when we watched TV. He would lay-out sexy clothes for me to wear on excursions and draw a warm, bubbly bath in the evenings. There were many nights when I fell asleep in his strong arms and I came to seek reassurance from him for many decisions.

Scott's encouragement subtly morphed over time, to an awkward illicit pattern of sheltering me, if not actually imprisoning me in some sexually-seductive cage that he controlled. I didn't see it then but now I understand that he was forming an ominous, hyper-possessive lusting for my body. He fixated on me for some hidden, semi-psychotic sexual gratification that could only be satisfied by dominating and plundering my physical and sexual being. I didn't understand what I was witnessing because his seduction was so gradual and sly. Not only had my own sex-life ebbed but I began to observe that he was not venturing out as much and though he had been a quite successful "lady's man," he now spent most of his time, (innocently, I'd supposed,) with me.

As I mentioned, my pitiful sexual identity was now reduced to masturbatory sessions mingled with foggy images of strangers who brought me neither pleasure nor relief. I had foolishly determined that the men in my life were probably better-off without me and that any new paramours would see right through my charade and leave me lonely and miserable. And even as the nights never seemed to end and my hands had explored and manipulated every fold and mound on my squirming form, it just wasn't a man's touch and there was never any surprise or real emotion to the resulting climax. I was usually left to lay on damp sheets with my hungry body twitching from a relatively numb orgasm and fantasizing about some elusive, beguiling outsider who could swoop in and ravish my horny anatomy, claiming me as his own and making me a slave to his sexual conquest.

In the months of sensual inactivity, it was often a shock and a true disappointment to feel the flabby rolls and heavy swells that had overtaken the taut, sensuous flesh that had once marked my sexy frame. I was only 37, this wasn't the body that I remembered... or that many men desired. Looking back on things, I was probably being too self-critical, but depression and anguish tempered my feelings. But this was certainly not the body that I imagined and the years could not be blamed for all of the problems. I also didn't realize that Scotty and I were like two freight trains hauling the same load of libidinous and illicit cargo, steaming down the line from opposite ends of the same track.

In my dream sequence, the night air grew cooler and approaching storm winds swept across the face of the roiling lake. I laid back intoxicated by more than alcohol and failed to notice the gathering tempest. The surface of the water became choppy and the very platform that held my dozing, limp body was shifting beneath me. I struggled to regain my awareness and reached for something solid to hold onto. But there was no light and my lifeless arms seemed to be frozen in place. I was kicking-out with my bare legs but not contacting anything. It felt as if a weight had been placed on my chest and I was being held down by the wind-swept torrent.

As the damp wind lashed my face, the small space seemed to have its own gravitational pull. I could barely move any part of my torso and felt as if I had been tied down. My head twisted to all sides but I could see nothing though it felt like my face was pressed against a wall. I tried to scream-out in terror but my pitiful cries were swallowed-up by the rushing winds. The moonlight was hidden behind the dark clouds and the only sound was from the swiftness of the water pounding me and things on the tiny boat getting blown from side to side.

From a distance, I could hear a faint voice yelling for me not to struggle and to simply lay still. The little boat was being tossed all around and I was helpless to right the ship. The waves rushed over me with such force that I was thrown to the wooden deck and my flimsy gown was torn and tattered. My quivering body was at the mercy of powers beyond my abilities and again, I heard a low voice through the fog of chaos. It was asserting that my struggles would only make matters worse and that I should relax my vigorous resistance. I felt that to give-in would result in my drowning but from somewhere just out of sight, I was hearing that I just needed to stop fighting and everything would be better for me.

I was anxious and out of breath, my frame was held steadily in a submissive position and the strangest feeling began to dance through my nervous system. Warmer water was rushing inside of me which both confused and excited me, and I felt that a swirl of motion was pushing and pulling my limbs in all directions. I was still unable to move, saddled by an unseen burden cementing me in this supine position. But still, at times I could feel various parts of my tingling body being buffeted by the stiff breeze. My chest would be suddenly exposed and handled roughly, then covered just as quickly. The sleek material of my gown was torn away in the violent rush of water and my supple legs were spread wide apart allowing me to experience a hot gush of fluid funneled into my gaping pussy. My arms were glued in place, permitting no resistance or escape from this illicit torment. My legs were wedged wide apart or sometimes thrown over my head but instead of feeling pain or thinking about danger, there was an exhilarating tingle of bliss like I hadn't known for years.

All the while, I felt a tremor building deep inside of me as if the water was being boiled and my nerve endings were on fire. It felt as if a firehose had been forcibly inserted into my aching cunt and gallons of steamy, rich liquid was flooding me from inside-out. Icy fingers sent ripples of extreme urgency racing up and down my spine. There was an unaccustomed convulsion in my underused pussy and sharp spasms of energy that rippled my quivering belly. I was held down but my entire body was electrified. The total feeling was one of sublimely erotic appeal. As if a spectral intruder was taking sexual advantage of my horny but wary form.

There was something strangely thrilling about my aching body struggling to be free and yet orgasmically seductive in being forced to submit to overpowering force. I could feel the sparks of pleasure rapidly building between my thighs. A feeling that I've missed for so long. The drowning sensation didn't seem so all-encompassing since my loins were on fire with a sudden demanding, debauched desire for sexual gratification. It wasn't a life-preserver that I was wishing for, I wanted seven inches of rock-hard cock. The crippling hunger was so close.

I could feel the tingle in my aching pussy. I couldn't fight it even if I had wanted to. My arms were like lead, I couldn't use them. My snatch was a volcano, seconds away from eruption. In my muddled state, the waters now were warm and soothing but a tide of boiling passion was converging on my uterus and I was helpless to stop it. A total loss of control followed by a bewildering and rapacious invasion of my hungry cunt. The winds had died away and a sudden stillness descended on my thrashing torso. I had never had a sensation like this. Was I drowning and having a last, vivid gasp at the remnants of my life? Was I one step from heaven? Is this the first taste of ecstasy, beginning with an overall feeling of stimulation that then centers in your snatch?

This whole ordeal was terrifyingly exciting as only dreams can be. It was rapacious and seductive. Dramatic and romantic. For harrowing moments, I was fighting to keep my head above the water as the furious waves washed over my face, choking me and making me feel the awesome power that could suddenly erupt out of my control. Then it was like the rocking platform that cradled my submissive form, acted as a waterbed to cushion my willing anatomy as a bewitching, bawdy phantom took possession of me and fulfilled my most decadent desires.

Just as suddenly as it began, it was gone. I clawed myself back to the reality of consciousness and was surprised to find that the troubling, struggling confrontation with powerful forces had not subsided. The moonlit disturbance of Mother Nature had transformed into a confrontation of taboo discord. It took a few frantic seconds for my eyes to fully comprehend the parameters of this conflict. As the shadows and surroundings of my familiar bedroom came into focus, a horrifying truth was taking shape. I was still being held down and my arms were pinioned in place. I felt that my nightgown was disheveled and that my naked body was being groped. My bare legs were thrown almost over my head and I was being buffeted and pounded, but in an oddly sexual pattern.

Then the illicit fact of the matter became all too real, that I was being attacked and ravaged. And to my utter devastation came the blunt fact that my marauder was my very own son, Scotty. The darkened room, lit only by thin beams of light coming through the curtains, at what must have been about four o'clock in the early morning, revealed only the hulking frame of my beloved son as his strong grip held me securely and with his obscene thrusts, he was pounding his turgid tool between my twisting thighs.

I could see through the ghastly silhouette of slanting light, his broad, sweaty shoulders and muscular chest. His dark, close-cropped hair stood bristly and dripping perspiration on me as he slammed his shimmering bulk into my weary pelvis. Ugly grunts of domineering passion littered his terrible pronouncements. He was making crude and obscene demands towards my submission and subjugation. The sheets, dampened with perspiration, had been tossed haphazardly around and with my helpless flailing, had entangled my arms above my head, torturously holding me tightly and permitting him free rein to explore and manhandle my delicate torso.

With me on my back and my arms raised, my floppy mounds teetered like upturned Jell-o molds on my chest. Wobbling and dancing wildly, they were crudely synchronized to the incessant pummeling being administered to my violated vagina. Angry-looking purple streaks and yellowish welts were rising and discoloring my pale flesh. My curvy, squirming anatomy was glistening with sweat and in the dim slanted rays of light, the pinkened, roughly handled nipples and the fiery red gash of my tormented cunt stood out brightly. Our bodies produced a slick, oily sheen as we grinded together, with my son sliding his firm erection ever deeper into my yawning cavern.

The sight of my painted toenails, as they hung over my son's shoulders and slapped against his ears, would have made me laugh in any other situation. But as my teary blue eyes focused on the erotic scene of debauchery playing out before me, my chest tightened and gasping, stuttering half-breaths choked the horrified words that I tried to summon from my lungs. Scott's face was mostly in shadows as his strong body continued to plow a furious furrow between my bruised thighs. Only his dark eyes, highlighted by the outsized whites, and the maniacal sneer of his curled lips were visible on his determined countenance.

He was slamming his sturdy cock like a piston engine, into my gaping pussy and my body was reacting internally, in a most unseemly manner. I could feel the roiling rumble of pussy juice lubricating his powerful thrusts and the warm oozing liquid sliding from the entrance of my convulsing cunt and seeping into the moistened pucker of my quivering asshole. There were erotic sounds filtering through the darkness such as slippery body parts slapping together and the suctioning sound of insertion and withdrawal of well-lubed objects as they heated the room.

His strong hands gripped my thighs and held my legs apart, making the tight orifice a bit more receptive to his potent jabs. He was able to skooch in close, to deliver his formidable thrusts. My jiggly breasts, a little flabbier and becoming chafed, were bouncing crazily on my chest. Each tit rocked back and forth in a dizzying figure-eight pattern as his cock unceasingly slammed into its volcanic target. It was as if he was trying to drive me through the wall as his ferocious shoves bounced me against the headboard.

I was bent backwards, nearly doubled over, as my incestuous assailant hovered above me. His hands held tight to my quads as his throbbing hammer banged back-and-forth into my foaming cunt. An assortment of fluid detritus flowed from my fiery pussy with each rapid shove. The silvery-blonde pubic curls that collared my taut passage, were matted down and crusted with the frothy residue of his ambitious attack. The sweat streamed freely from his brow and puddled in my bellybutton, slowly cascading into the deep cleavage caused by my awkward, upturned frame. Yet another odd twist that would have caused me to chuckle, if not for this unglamorous deflowering of my moral compass.