Author's note - For a better understanding of this second installment, check out the first installment of Scenes from the Amaranth Room. I hope you enjoy it.
*****
1.
In my mind's eye, I go to that room I've built for myself - a room where nobody can see or hear me without my permission. It's where the gentle stranger lives and waits for me. In dreams, the room is large, with a high ceiling, but dimly lit. In spite of the spatial aspect of the room, it remains warm and cozy, like the all-embracing arms of a sweet lover. Books line the north and west walls, adding a musty paper smell to the ancient wood and varnish baseboards and molding. The other walls are papered with a century-old floral design. Persian rugs position themselves beneath plush, comfortable chairs, and in the corner by the window is a big, soft, four-poster bed, flanked by two nightstands. A proper fireplace lurks off to the side.
I'm not sure why the walls are painted amaranth. The color is reddish-rose, and makes me think of fresh blood. Or, perhaps, amaranth is the color of my ardor and my soul's passion. Of the insatiable need that grows with each passing day - a need which might someday destroy me.
Everything I need or want lies there, waiting. I must be patient.
2.
Kurt, my son, is my life. My grown boy recently set off for college, leaving me alone in my tidy World War I-era bungalow. Although his dorm room is exactly 73 miles from my front door - I checked the odometer on my grey Buick on the trip home after dropping him off - he returns to me as often as possible.
I tell him he needs to find some girls his age to court. He nods, but there's no denying his mother is his first love. His heart and his body are still my domain, but I know that will change in time. For many years, I've prepared myself for this scenario, which has yet to play out.
At thirty-eight, I still have a nice figure. I'm of average height or less, with short-cropped brown hair and D-cup breasts. My tits barely sag, and are capped with large, reddish-pink areolas. My nipples, which Kurt had nursed on for many years as a child, and now suckles today during our incestuous escapades, become hard and pointed with the least provocation.
3.
In reverie, I drift back through the years, back to when I was a horny, young single mother. After forcing myself to wean Kurt from my breasts, fearing schoolmates or family would discover our naughty secret, a massive void opened in my daily routine.
My nipples. Oh, God, always my abused nipples. Not having Kurt to entertain me, I would tug on them mercilessly, imagining his hungry mouth. I would cry out, emitting a low, guttural noise as I dug my nails into the tortured buds. My pussy throbbed. My hips gyrated as I rubbed my ass on the now-ubiquitous beach towel I had spread out on the bed to absorb the wetness from my constantly aching pussy. Now I just needed my little vibrating friend.
Reaching into the nightstand, I brought out the now-seasoned tool. With the flick of a thumb, it came alive once again. Quickly, the noise became muffled as I slid it deeply into my box. Wetting it thoroughly with my juices, I began to work it around my clit. I had to be careful not to come immediately. My pussy had a hair-trigger. Careful...careful...
Oh, what the hell.
"Arrrghhh," I growled, humping gently into the air as my friend brought home the first hit. I imagined someone watching me with disapproval. Oh, God, another one!
"Ohhh...ahhggg," I gasped and panted, wetness covering my ass. Fresh, warm milk trickled down the side of my breast as I punished my poor nipple.
This game would go on for an hour or so until both my pussy and nipples burned from abuse. Dutifully, I licked my little friend clean and tossed it back into the nightstand. Then I would rub my hands all over my ass and crotch, bringing my wet hands to my mouth repeatedly to consume as much of my juice as possible.
Rolling off the bed, I would kneel on the green, short-pile carpet, covering my face with the wet, musky beach towel, inhaling the heady odor of fresh sex. Often, I wept. I longed for my son, and the closeness of his body. I needed my brother, and his ability to satisfy my cravings.
Glancing at the clock on the mantle, I realized it was time to pick up my son from school. I cleaned up and made myself proper. If only the outside world knew what a whorish slut I was.
4.
Regular interludes with a breast pump kept me from leaking all over my blouse, but did not provide the direct stimulation I craved so much, so I would find myself with my hands cupping my tits, pulling on my buds more and more brusquely.
A quest ensued for tactile pleasure. At home, I took to leaving off my bra entirely. The habit seemed quite unnecessary inside my abode, anyway. My breasts still had enough firmness not to sag like a pair of half-empty water balloons. The fabric of my tops became thinner. I took to wearing cheap, one-hundred-percent polyester tee-shirts with a deep vee-neck in the front. I opted for one size too small, so it would sheath my body like a sausage casing. Staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, I looked quite the whorish slob. Sensually, though, I was in heaven.
Taking care of the chores at home, I felt almost topless. The texture of the polyester fabric rubbed constantly against my nipples. When I stopped to touch them, I no longer had to reach underneath my top. On the occasion I would start to lactate, due to the stimulation, large wet spots would appear on the tips of my breasts. I ignored them, letting the milk stay, cold and wet, coating my nipples, keeping them painfully erect.
I imagined myself as some bored-out white trash divorcee, tramping around her trailer, waiting for her children to come home from school and fuck her, or to watch her get fucked by her brothers. As I bent over to remove laundry from the dryer, the fabric would rise above my ass, leaving it exposed and vulnerable. I imagined some neighborhood beast sneaking up behind me and raping me. He was black; dark, shiny black. In my middle-class, Caucasian world, he was the epitome of raw, virile manhood, and the personification of the inner fire that I desperately fought to tame.
All of this kept my pussy constantly wet. Frequently, I would dip my finger in and taste myself. Sometimes, I would spread the juice thickly under my nose so I could sniff my aroma constantly. Nights in which I would be awakened by vivid, erotic dreams became frequent. My daily vibrator sessions relieved my needs for only a short while. Many nights, while Kurt and I watched television, I would circle my clit with my index finger, teetering on the edge of climax for hours, before quietly erupting with my son none the wiser, that is, with the exception of one careless evening.
I had taken to skipping a day when washing my pussy. The scent didn't escape my panties, but a quick dip of my finger revealed a scent more powerful and erotic than I had ever dreamed. Like any addict, with time, I required an increasingly stronger dose of the drug for it to have the needed effect. One time, I foolishly skipped two days.
"Mom," Kurt remarked, sniffing the air. "I think the cat peed on the carpet."
I had been busy making a porridge in my panties as Kurt and I watched television. Blissfully lost in my personal aromatherapy, I was unaware of the strong pussy odor filling the room. The moment Kurt spoke, I snapped out of my masturbatory dream, wiping my hand on my thigh.
"Let me check," I said, jumping up and fleeing to the bathroom. I quickly hosed out my cavity, then returned to the living room with a bottle of cleaner, a bucket of hot water, and a sponge. After pretending to look for the imaginary spot, sniffing around the living room on my hands and knees, careful not to expose my bare ass, I stopped. "Here it is," I said, and proceeded to clean up cat pee that wasn't there. Kurt didn't have any reason to be suspicious and, shit, I never did that again.
But damn, I needed a man! My dreams/nightmares all had the same theme: fucking, or, more accurately, incest. What a nasty name for something I enjoyed so much. My brothers would fuck me and, perhaps a remnant of my secret adolescent wishes, my mother watched. In all the years I fucked at home, I never had the impression my mother knew what was happening under her roof. Dad was never around to care. Maybe I sought her approval? It was a perfectly logical desire. During my sessions with my siblings, other relatives and some friends, I always kept an ear open and an eye on the door. My worst fear, and my biggest wish, was that my mother would witness the depravity to which her babies had sunk and approve. And perhaps join in the debauchery.
One vivid dream visited me early one morning. As my youngest brother Billy pumped away between my open thighs, I felt a gentle hand on my bare shoulder. Gazing up, I saw my mother's soft face and beautiful eyes. She wore that ancient silk nightgown, the cream-colored one which had worn to threads countless years ago, but now glowed as if new. The gown was open at the top, and I could see the outline of her breasts, capped by the pointed, succulent nipples I had nursed on those many years ago. Her smile, barely visible in the dim light, showed approval and her hand squeezed reassuringly.
"Go ahead," her voice murmured in my brain. "Let me watch my children fuck. You need to come for Mama."
Now exposed, her breast nearly touched my face. Time had jumped forward a few minutes. My brother and I had both orgasmed as my mother watched, and now his naked body adhered to mine. With a mixture of shame and arousal, I knew mother had concentrated on my face as I came. She must have needed some, too. Without hesitating, I took her nipple in my mouth and sucked powerfully. She groaned and I could feel the magic silk of the nightgown touch my hot skin. I knew I was a young girl, filled with my brother's seed, staring at my mother's nipples caressed and accented by the fine, pink silk of her nightgown, unable to comprehend the messages my body and mind were screaming at me.
Now, I knew. Now, I could do to her what I wanted to do so many years ago, but did not know how. I rubbed my face between her breasts, inhaling the scent of her skin and that cheap, intoxicating dime-store perfume she always wore. I speared the other nipple, making her hiss with joy as her daughter stoked the fires of her body.
"Ohhh, honey," she whispered blissfully in the night, "you love Mama's tits, huh?"
I merely moaned affirmatively, my mouth filled with her breast. Mother's hands stroked my naked body. My brother disappeared into the night as my mother stretched out beside me. Our bodies touched as I became bolder, and hornier. Impatiently, I began to kiss her body. Wet, sloppy, licking kisses that wet her flesh as I tasted it. I had never been so bold with my mother, not even in a dream, but, fuck it, now was the time. Half-crazed with the taste and scent of my mother's body, I had to have more. Devouring the soft flesh of her smooth belly like a lioness gorging on fresh prey, I licked my way down to her dark, thick forest.
