The Sweetest Sin

Fifth-part of a four-part story - there was just so much to fit in!

It occurred to me, as I sipped champagne while Jack brought me to my pre-breakfast orgasm with his tongue, that I must be the first woman in history to honeymoon in Paris with her teenage son.

Don't expect me to tell you anything about Paris. I wish I could say that, like any other honeymooners, we walked the streets of the city, visiting museums and galleries and monuments and restaurants, drinking in the history and the culture.

The truth is, we barely got out of bed all week. We lived off champagne, room service meals and our delight in each other.

Freed from any imperative except our pleasure, we spent all day doing the things we loved. Kissing for hours. Him at my breast, bathing my nipples in his tender wetness. Licking and stroking and sucking each other. And fucking. So much fucking. Not fucking to cum -- we could do that any time -- but just fucking. Fucking the way people make music -- purely for its own sake. He fitted me so magically, our tempos perfectly synched, and we could do this for hours.

We had nearly always gone missionary or doggy before. He accused me of being too lazy to go on top, and he was right. Well, when you cum so easily when being railed on your back or on your knees, why not?

But he had finally figured out that he got the best view of my huge boobs, and unlimited access to them, from underneath. And God, it was fun riding his cock while he sucked on my sensitive teats as they hung over him.

And as I sat on him, grinding my clitoris while he worshipped me with his mouth, a memory from 19 years ago came back to me.

He's been in this position before.

This is how I often used to feed them, on all fours, with my milkers, full to bursting, hanging down as my twin babies lay on the bed. It eased the post-natal back pain and helped the milk draw down.

As I rode on Jack's dick and suckled him again, I found myself fantasising about feeding him from my breasts once more while he fed his seed into my womb. I was grinding and sliding to the most fantastic orgasm, regretting only that I had no milk for him. "Oh baby, baby, baby, oh my darling baby..."

We were like gods disporting ourselves in the clouds, remote from all cares. It amazed me how he could fuck me for so long, metronomic in his groove. The power of teen cock. (And how I love saying that.

Teen cock. My 19-year-old son's cock. Fucking my teenage son. 19-year-old-teenage-son-fuck.

Ah, a part of me will die when he turns 20.)

When finally we could no longer postpone our orgasms, they seemed almost incidental to the great act of love we had been performing. And then, after picking at leftovers and drinking champagne, we went back at it.

We even invented our own position - well, it was the first time

we

had tried it. I bent at the waist and reached for my toes. Jack used his neck ties to bind my wrists firmly to my ankles, running the fabric under my stilettoes so that my hands were held in place. I couldn't have moved if I had wanted to. I didn't want to.

He positioned me so that I could look between my legs at my gash, dark pink and stretched tight, in the wardrobe mirror. His fingers parted my hairy lips and he shone his phone torch so I could see inside myself. I was helpless and exposed, tottering high up on my heels, in stockings and suspenders, trussed up like something in a masochistic butcher's shop. It was unbelievably exciting. In this position, all the blood in my body seemed to have gone to my nipples and my clitoris.

Then he moved the mirror so that I had a perfect side-on view. From here, his erection looked alarmingly large. I will admit, as I stood there, bent over and stretched to my limit, to a frisson of fear. In this position, could I accommodate him?

"Any last words, Mom?" he joked, hands on my hips to steady me.

"I'm just your receptacle, a living vessel to be filled. You do what you like to me, Jack." And I meant it. I trusted him completely.

I yelped with pain/pleasure as he entered me. I felt that if Jack went at it aggressively, he would split me in two. But he knew what he was doing; he always does. He let me relax and take the giant tip of him, then he gently opened me up, half an inch at a time, while I watched in the mirror, transfixed by the sight of my son entering me from an angle I had never seen before.

Head down, ass up, breasts hanging heavy and low, nipples aching as they filled with blood, I was skewered on his cock. My clitoris was on DEFCON 1. I couldn't take my eyes off the place in the mirror where his genitals joined mine. He had gotten only four or five inches in when he began a gentle back and forth. The angle, the tightness and the view in the mirror of his rigid tool forming a bridge of flesh between our bodies was overwhelming. The sensation was amazing. I had never felt so vulnerable, so completely at a man's mercy.

His hand stroked my ass, then went lower. "Oh God!" I heard him say.

"What is it? What's wrong?" I said, panicking. Had he torn me?

"Nothing's wrong. It's beautiful. It's just... where my cock enters you, at the entrance of your cunt-hole, it's so tight. I can't feel where I end and you begin. Your flesh and mine - we're completely merged."

That's exactly what it felt like to me, but to hear him confirm it sent me over the edge.

"Say it again, Jack! Tell Mommy how completely you fill her up."

"Your cunt is sealed, Mom. Totally plugged. We are one living, fucking organism. Nothing but my dick can get in or out of your cunt. You're watertight, Mom."

"That's not good enough. I need to be sperm-tight for my new husband."

I was moaning wordlessly as I came, unable even to say his name, so high on watching myself being shafted carefully, not too deep to fear I was being ripped in two, but deep enough to feel every movement. Every atom of my body seemed to join in my orgasm. Usually, in a way a man wouldn't understand, a woman has to tense, to clench, to direct blood or hormones or energy or prayers or good vibes or letters to Santa or whatever toward her sexual core as she concentrates on getting to an orgasm. In this position, that was unnecessary. I couldn't have not cum if I had tried.

He was getting there too. I knew he wanted to plunge hard and full-length into me in his usual ejaculatory frenzy, but he was still taking it slowly, almost tenderly, knowing how vulnerable I was. "I love you so much, Mrs Quentin," he said. "I am blessed to be married to you. Mother. Lover. Receiver of my seed. Thank you."

My eyes still fixed on our reflection, I panted: "Jack, darling, you have made life worth the living. The only way you need to thank me is with the gift of your essence. Make me the receiver of your seed."

He whimpered, and although his movements were still controlled, a harder edge came into his voice: "I can't last any longer. Your hot hairy pussy is taking me there. You're so goddamn tight, you're going to skin me alive. I'm going to cum in you so hard, Mom."

"Give it me, Jack. Cum so fucking hard you blow my brains out. Give me your son-seed."

"Brace for the motherload," he growled. "Mrs Quentin, take your son's sperm. Mrs Quentin, take your husband's sperm." He kept on thrusting carefully (still just those four or five inches, so as not to hurt me) and I was being flooded. Finally all movement ceased, and we found that I was indeed plugged tight - not a drop dribbled out of me.

We stayed there for long minutes, joined at the groin, while my cunt ripples subsided and he throbbed gently inside me. Then slowly he withdrew. I whined as his dick left my still-sensitive hole and his cum gushed out of me under pressure and squirted over the carpet. By now my legs and arms and back - not to mention the obvious place - were painful. It was a deeply satisfying fuck, but I couldn't do it every day. We could make it our annual treat when we return here on honeymoon.

By now, I could speak, but could barely string a sentence together. "Never felt so... utterly used... so deep, so tight... such a strong cum... God, your fucking 19-year-old cock... No other cock, ever... so big, so deep, so damn tight... I've never hurt so good..."

He untied me, carried me to the bed and fed me champagne and strawberries while my wrists and legs recovered and my body (and cunt) return to their normal shapes. Then he fucked me again.

On our final day, we made an effort. We had to do something to tell Jack's sister Cassie about when we got home, had to have a few touristy photos to show her (the ones we had taken so far were definitely NC-17). We left the room and dragged our bodies downstairs. Arm in arm, we emulated all those other non-mom-son honeymooners that Paris has seen down the centuries, and strolled through the streets.

I would have loved to walk with his hand in mine, or sat on a bench and kissed, but even we, two mad fools steeped in bliss, knew it wasn't wise to draw attention to ourselves.

When you're trying to keep a secret, it's difficult to know how to behave normally. To remember how to act like an ordinary mother and son. So we kept our hands in our pockets, except when we were doing things like enthusiastically pointing to an old building, or pretending to examine a guidebook in what must have been a comically exaggerated way, trying to be typical tourists. It seems funny in hindsight, but at the time we were deadly serious about not raising suspicion.

"Jack, darling, there are no words. I cannot tell you what these days have meant to me," I said.

"It's like a space away from all the world. Just us," he said. "It's like no one, nothing else, exists outside our bed."

"I don't want to leave. I don't want to go back to clients and accounts and bills and housework and all those unimportant things," I said.

He sighed. "I want to stay here for eternity. It has been magical. Something to tell our children."

I stiffened and he sensed my irritation. The subject had come up increasingly often lately. He wanted babies. I was unsure. I mean...

his babies. God, yes. Of course

. In an ideal world, a kind world, that would be my greatest desire.

Sperm-tight.

It wasn't just a phrase dredged up from the depths of sexual euphoria. I loved his sperm. Loved swallowing it, loved spreading it across my breasts or through my hair. Even loved sleeping in the wet patch that we create. Most of all I loved it up inside me, where it rightfully belonged, where nature intended. I loved being a female taking her lover's seed, as God meant.

Pregnancy had been the horniest time of my life. My whole body was on fire, all day long, and for the first time ever, I had multiple orgasms.

But it was a source of bitter frustration that my husband refused to fuck me after the first trimester, no matter how much I pleaded. I even got him hard one night while he slept, and tried to back onto him, but he woke when it was half in. Instead of doing his duty, like any other man, he said he had never been more disgusted and stormed off to sleep in the spare bedroom. The more I came on to him, the more I begged and rubbed against him, the brighter the DESPERATE PREGNANT SLUT neon sign on my forehead seemed to glow. So I spent two totally chaste trimesters, falling asleep every night weeping with bottled-up desire.

In hindsight, it was the beginning of the end of our marriage. He was a good man. Kind and clever, a successful businessman. And the sex could be fun when it happened. It just didn't happen often, and when it did, it was me making all the effort.

Doug was a big, sporty-looking bear of a man - picture the hairiest dude you ever saw, then double it -- but a bit of a mouse in the bedroom. I half-wondered if he was gay. After the divorce, he told me what I had suspected for years: he liked me, we got on well, but the spark was never there. After the twins were born, when I'd put on weight to divert attention from my titanic breasts, he turned into Mr Once a Week, then gradually into Mr Once A Month.

I had hoped to fall pregnant again after the twins were born, but Doug put me back on the pill and that was that. I'm not complaining. No divorce, no teen cock.

So... Jack's babies. God, yes. Of course

. Carrying the child of my child in my belly would fulfill some primal need that I could not understand. It also bore a tremendous erotic charge, the idea of my own son fertilizing me, ploughing me, sowing new life inside me.

I often pictured myself, ecstatically pregnant, on all fours, my bulging stomach and breasts - now absolutely gargantuan - hanging below me, almost touching the floor, while his cock squirted yet more of his potent cum into the place where our babies (yes, I'd decided we were having twins!) were growing and kicking.

Or me grinding on top, his prick intruding uncomfortably deep into his mother's already crowded belly alongside the siblings that would also be his children.

Or me fat and helpless on my back on the kitchen table like some bloated beetle, breasts swollen beyond all measure, cradling my bump and thrilling to the little kicks inside as I climaxed over and over, while he stood at the end of the table, his son-stick thrusting into me like a perpetual-motion friction machine.

Jack's babies. God, yes. Of course

. But these were fantasies. We lived in the real world. What would people think? The hospital. The authorities. "Father: unknown." Neighbors, family, church. What would Cassie think? The gossip, the speculation, the amused whispers. I wasn't ready to face it. Not yet, perhaps never.

Whenever he mentioned it, I would beg him to give me more time to consider. Except, unspoken by both of us, was the knowledge that a 43-year-old woman - no matter how young her son makes her feel - hasn't got much time. How many more cycles did my ovaries have left?

There was also another factor that I swept away every time it came into my mind. Could a child change my relationship with Jack? Was I jealous of my own theoretical baby?

These were not trivial things.

I turned away. "Just a bit more time. I need to think."

He was pleading with me. "We would make such beautiful babies, you and me. Let people say what they like. Tell them you got knocked up by some one-night stand. Or say you've had IVF -- the Newmans had IVF. It's not unusual these days. There's another thing, Mom. I know it's not always easy for a woman to conceive quickly after she's been on the pill for a while, and I was thinking..."

"Look, can we just leave it until we get home?" I snapped. For the first time he had dropped a heavy hint that we might not have much longer to decide. I felt miserable. The sparkle had faded. The honeymoon was over, the spell broken.

In fact, although I didn't want to tell Jack, I had already gone off the pill. Not because I'd made up my mind about a baby, but because he was right. It can take a long time to fall pregnant again after contraception. Nothing would be more tragic than for me to wait to overcome all my doubts, only to find I had left it too late to conceive.

Mind you

, I thought wryly,

given the industrial quantities of sperm that my son has been hosing into me, nothing is impossible.

We boarded the ship at Calais, both of us tense and tetchy. This was not just our first argument, it was the first time we had disagreed about anything, the first time we had caused each other hurt. He was terse, I was weepy. He felt bad about bringing the subject up. I was guilty about denying him something that was so important to him. But I needed to consider it carefully.

It would be nice to report that we sexed each other happy on the return voyage. But we had screwed ourselves to a standstill. My pussy lips were rubbed raw -- I couldn't even get a finger in there without it stinging. My nipples hurt worse than breastfeeding. Way up inside me, my cervix ached from the loving battering it had taken for the past two weeks. My lips were cracked and sore from kissing. His penis had been scraped and chafed, and his helmet, usually a pleasant purplish color, was one big aching bruise, from the pounding he had given my poor cervix. He could barely walk, his balls hurt so much from all that bouncing against my bottom.

I felt so empty - literally - during those days on the ship and after we got home. He slept in my bed - anything else would have been unimaginable, even though we were so miserable. We moped around the house, unable to talk about this subject that had come to dominate our lives, unable to express our feelings for each other sexually.

Solace came from an unexpected source.

Cassie's attitude toward me had improved immeasurably over the past months. Part of that, I guess, was the expensive New York trip I had bought her while Jack and I were in France. But most of it was that my 19-year-old daughter had just grown up, sailed through that raging storm of hormones and emerged into calm waters.

For the first time since she started senior school, I was not The Enemy. We were watching TV, just a couple of girls curled on the couch, we went for coffee, baked cakes together. She was even coming to church again - I'd forgotten what a beautiful singing voice she had.

Wonder of wonders, she also invited me fashion shopping with her. I honestly think she valued my opinion: after years of seeing me close myself off from the world with a frumpy haircut and sex-free clothes, she was impressed by the transformation that Jack had wrought.

She was trying on tops in the change rooms. We had taken 10 blouses in, and she had tried them all before settling on the last one.

She gathered her hair and lifted it into an up-do. "Should I wear my hair up or down with that top, Mom?"

Her breasts were so perfect, they seemed unreal. Large, round and symmetrical, with gorgeous pink tips like mine, the tips of a natural strawberry blonde. (The blonde will fade, the pink won't.)

I laughed: "Well it would help if you were actually wearing the outfit. Or even a bra."

She laughed too and let her hair fall in twin waterfalls over her breasts, just the pink points sticking through the gold. I had to admit, she was spectacular. Not that I was in the least envious. I had the body of a mature woman, but Jack loved it. That was all that mattered.

"Oh, I never wear a bra when I try on clothes," Cassie said. "My nipples are super-sensitive and I like how they feel against the fabric."

Like mother, like daughter - but still: too much information.

She handed me the lucky blouse and began tying her hair in a ponytail, boobs bouncing. Was she playing a game with me? Showing off? Rubbing it in that she had a better body than her ancient ma? It's the sort of thing a teenager will do with a parent. Well, I didn't care. We were getting on better than we had in years, so I didn't want to spoil it.

Then I noticed: she was wearing exactly the same nail polish color as me. That might have been an uninteresting coincidence. Except my fingernails matched my nipples.

Her

fingernails matched

her

nipples. No, it must be coincidence. Jack had wanted my nipples to match my nail polish, just for a bit of fun, and Cassie had obviously come to the same decision. Yes, just a coincidence...

She was dressed now, thank goodness. I wouldn't have cavorted like that in front of anyone at her age, least of all my mother.

But then she certainly has body confidence, and plenty to be confident about. I bet she's a massive prick tease around the boys!

"So which one do you want to buy?" I asked.

"This one, the one that matches my...

fingernails

," she giggled wickedly.

I rolled my eyes. She sure was acting funny. I bet there was a boy involved somewhere. I brought up the subject as we waited at the counter to pay. "So, these clothes -- looks like you're dressing with someone special in mind."