1
Earlier, I described my first encounter with my Granduncle Ralph. and how, barely out of high school, I threw myself at him, resulting in a hot fuck, both of us getting off on the incest. Despite our four decade age difference, we were lovers on and off for years. The family's secret avocation, I later learned, wasn't limited to us. I discovered a diary that revealed my Grandmother Darleen had spent over a year getting violated and abused by her father in their remote mountain home, and that she soon acquired an appetite for it. Finally, Ralph confessed to a years-long, passionate, brother-sister affair with her as well. After dear Ralph passed, he left me some stunning nude photos of Darleen, a 1970's porn film he made that surprisingly included my own mother, and a digital archive of photos of me, before and after my first marriage, some normal and some otherwise, let's say.
As I stated at the end of the second part, I was then trying to perpetuate the family tradition and deviously get into my son's pants. It wasn't always the case. When he first moved in with me at twenty-one, we were just normal mother and son. Sure, having him fuck me crossed my mind, but I figured it would never happen in a million years. We weren't isolated in a mountain homestead. The urge to mate with family likely diminished with each generation. That possibility seemed more remote than sex with the myriad young men I encountered daily in retail settings, or even the sometimes attentive college-age sons of my acquaintances. Nevertheless, that million years was reduced to nil after a drunken confession Caleb made one night, even if the disclosure was not about me.
Caleb is my second child. He began living with me after being ejected from his father's home for some horrible, unmentionable deed. A little background is in order.
In 1996 as a spectator at the Atlanta Olympics, I met Caleb's dad, Nick, an Australian, and aspiring tennis pro. We rushed into a fairytale marriage and horny me had two sons fairly quickly The tennis career stalled and then failed, and the friction of his desire to move back to his homeland eventually drove us apart, and the fairytale was over. Problematic visits on long flights by me and our preschool-age sons to see him across the planet led to their permanent residence in Canberra by the time the oldest was six. Caleb was always an introverted, socially awkward boy. Agoraphobic and possibly 'on the spectrum', Caleb was home tutored and had begun to take University classes online when he was suddenly made to leave his father's household.
Disgusted by my ex, I flew out and retrieved my son. Naturally I offered Caleb asylum back here in Virginia, no matter his infraction. After a traumatic series of flights he joined me, by now a twice-divorced housewife.
This son had his father's blonde, tall, square-jawed good looks. He of course had the 'crocodile hunter' accent from down under as well. Getting reacquainted after only semi-annual visits, we resolved to make a habit of weekend dinners together, but he otherwise spent his time working out or in his room online gaming or studying, having resumed his classes and a part time tech support job for a medical equipment manufacturer. I maintained my own part time position as a collegiate foundation board member.
After a few weeks, one night after three or four glasses of wine, Caleb finally admitted why he was forced out of his father's home. I asked if he was violent or had drugs, as his offense was made to sound terrible. No. With tears in his eyes, he confessed to spying on his female cousins, visiting on a long university break. He had placed a webcam in the air vent in the bathroom they used for three weeks. The alarm company made the discovery and Nick's sister, a total bitch, insisted Caleb be disowned or at least kicked out of the house. I had to rescue my son from a hotel room because Nick lacked the backbone to stand up to his family. He couldn't excuse a challenged young man's stolen looks at his aunt and cousins. The women were allegedly traumatized, although I knew all three spent plenty of time on topless beaches, showing their tits to all of vacationing New South Wales.
After my son's confession to me that night, I advised him not to listen to his aunt's intolerant bullshit, and assured him it was natural to be curious about those in close proximity, relatives or not. I maintained a 'so what' attitude and advised him how 'sick and twisted' was a family tradition, and could be outright fun. He asked how I knew, but I just smiled. I didn't want to push the issue. That night, by the time I was tucking my drunk son into bed, he more or less admitted the family angle made things even more exciting for him. Ah, bless his little heart, he had enough of my genes after all. I saw him looking down my top at my tanned middle-aged cleavage as I leaned in to kiss him goodnight, lingering and right on the lips. Still the same devious slut I've always been, I began to formulate my strategy.
In the midst of my initial planning, we received the news of Ralph's passing. It was both ironic and karmic that the family curse had reached its next generation and I was going to try to cultivate it. .
I mourned the loss that week of my first true love, and, I believed, soul mate. But I also knew he would have agreed I should carry on with Caleb.
Friday was the reading of the will, with more relatives in attendance than the funeral. Descendents of Ralph's cousins came out of the woodwork for their share of the timber fortune. The next day I got my chance to visit the storage unit and find Ralph's special bequests to me, the horniest niece of them all.
At home, to ensnare Caleb, I began to dress for the day later, and undress for bed earlier, increasing my sloppy braless t-shirt 'pajama' time downstairs. I also started with a campaign of 'please zip me up's, abandoned panties on the floor dropped 'accidentally' with a sock or two on the stair landing. and bras draped on furniture or on the fitness equipment in our basement gym. all to subtly tempt him. I'd get dressed up just so he would zip me into an outfit, then I'd drive to a coffee bar and web surf long enough to have had 'drinks with the girls', and then request an unzip and bra unhook upon arriving home. I even made a few topless or naked dashes in the halls on occasion so he could 'catch' me, but had no luck.
Three weeks after the confession, at Friday bedtime tucking Caleb in, which I was doing after watching Netflix with him, I asked him if he felt better after our talk about 'the spying thing', we called it. He suddenly seemed uncomfortable.
"Sweetie, are you still worrying about that?" I sat on the edge of the bed and stroked the stubble on the side of his face.
"I feel like a pervert."
I sighed "Oh Caleb, Caleb, Caleb, I've got family histories that make your camera stunt seem like a peck on the cheek. How about a bedtime story?"
"Someone spying on their naked family? I doubt it."
"Yes, and also way worse," I countered.
"Worse? Within the family?"
"Yes,
very
within the family."
"Sure, right," he said skeptically. "Rumors, I'm sure someone made it up."
"I have a diary, in her handwriting." Caleb's eyes widened, but he tried to hide his enthusiasm. "
Whose
handwriting?"
"You'll see."
"Okay sure," he shrugged.
"Let me go down and get it, I'll be right back."
2
By down, I meant down to my second floor bedroom wall safe, location of the diary. My heart racing, I descended to the first floor library for some 'normal' family albums and was upstairs back in his third floor room winded, but in less than two minutes.
Caleb had the whole, large third floor of my ostentatious, oversized 'real housewife' home to himself, his work computers at one end and his bed and dressers at the other. In the center of the room was a mini-kitchen. giant leather sofa, coffee table in front of his two large TVs and different game consoles. I had the space renovated just for him, expecting nerdy girls he met online to be flocking up to see him, staining the couch's leather with bodily fluids. No girls had showed, and now I wanted to be the one to break in that sofa with him, but it was going to take some finesse.
When I returned he hadn't moved from where I left him, a good sign. His eyes seemed bright under the several rows of recessed halogen lights that shone from the ceiling. His shoulders were broad but pale as exposed by his plain white tank t-shirt. The blanket covered him up to his waist.
My son rolled his eyes as I arrived with an old photo album, as well as a plastic zip lock containing the diary. Of course the 'normal' albums were to show photos of a young Darleen, a visual aid for him, as it was.
