Viral Sensation

Another incest story! These are surprisingly popular. A semi-long read, includes elements of mental change, mother-son sex, body modifications and expansion, sundry other unrealistic stuff. If that's not your bag, kindly don't complain to me that you opened somebody else's bag.

*****

"...musculoædificatiarius facerefecund (colloq. "MF virus") virus," read the CDC report, "is a highly-contagious pathogen originating in the Eastern Seaboard; incubation period can last up to three weeks from first infection, followed by rapid onset of intense flu-like symptoms, including high fever, nausea..."

Daphne Ryerson skimmed downwards, flipping the page as her car idled.

"...attending physician reported that over 95% of patients with a high viral load experience overactive pituitary and high endorphin levels..."

She brushed a disobedient strand of silky brown hair out of her face; it had fallen out of her rather severe ponytail.

"...symptoms were most exaggerated in male patients, aged 18-25. Treatment options include..."

She glanced at the front door of the Faculty of Science building. Where was he?

Daphne's lips, painted a dramatic dark red, curled up in a sneer. She rolled up the photocopied pages into an untidy, ragged tube and tossed it into the backseat. If that boy thought he could just *call* and pull her out of a damn hospital board meeting on a *whim*, then he had another think coming; she was going to-

The passenger car door opened and her son, Jack, slid in. He was white as a sheet.

Before he even had his seatbelt on, Daphne dropped the clutch and roared out of the firelane in front of the building.

"And where were you, young man?" She snapped, speeding through a yellow light and onto the freeway. With a free hand, she tugged the hem of her skirt down; it rode up again as she shifted gears, climbing up her smooth, tanned thigh.

"I'm sorry mom," Jack said, in a shaky voice. "I swear, I was waiting right there by the door, and then I had to go and- and-" he burped, and his mother glanced over. His pallor was giving way to an unhealthy green, sweat breaking out across his brow. "I had to go get sick again." The college senior grimaced, then laid his head back against the headrest.

"I *sincerely* hope you did," she said, frowning as she dodged around a minivan that was only travelling five or ten above the speed limit. "In fact, you had better be dying of cholera; you can't just call me every time you get a tummy ache, Jack. You're not in grade school."

Daphne took a sharp right, exiting the freeway.

"You know you pulled me out of a hospital board meeting? There's some kind of a new bug going around and we need to make sure we have the protocol in order before-" gearing down, she reached over and pressed a wrist against her son's forehead. "Jesus, Jack. You're burning up. Did you go to school like this?"

"I felt a little queasy," her son said. He began to shiver. "But nothing like this. Is the AC on? I'm freezing."

"I bet," Daphne maneuvered herself out of her cardigan and handed it across the car. "Here. Wrap this around you." Jack did as he was told and closed his eyes while his mother told him off for spreading infection around and making the university sick, wheeling around another right hand turn so fast it set his head spinning.

"Mom," he said, "if you don't slow down, I'm going to-" the rest of his words were lost in a *basso* belch.

"Not in my car, you won't." She shot him a look. "Don't be a baby. We're almost home. Hold on."

Moments later, the car took a sharp left then came to a stop. Daphne's glossy nude pumps clacked loudly on the asphalt as she strode around the back of the car to retrieve her purse from the trunk.

As she reached inside, a querulous voice called out from across the road, "home for lunch, eh? A little afternoon delight?"

Old Man Crawley was leering from his usual perch, an ancient rattan chair on the front patio of his house. Daphne's white pencil dress was stretched taut across the broad, muscular globes of her ass, horizontal pinstripes clearly delineating her dramatic curves, measuring out a contour map of her body, sculpted from hours spent on the gym equipment installed in her basement when she wasn't at the hospital. She straightened up, shouldering her purse and putting one hand on her hip, just below a very trim waist, wheeled around to face the geezer on the other side of the street.

Without a word, she gave him one well-manicured finger, then strode over to the passenger side of the car, and opened it. Jack slumped in his seat, moaning in a low voice.

"Can you stand?" Daphne asked, watching her son struggle to undo his seatbelt. Leaning inside the car, Jack would have gotten a good eyeful of her fulsome bosom as it pressed against the clingy jersey of her dress, if he hadn't been semi-conscious. As it was, she undid his belt, and hooked his arm over her shoulders. Together, they half-walked, half-dragged themselves into the house. She could feel the heat radiating from his body; his clothes were damp with sweat.

"You are going straight to bed," she said. "Then we'll get some Tylenol into you and fluids; if that doesn't bring your fever down, we'll try an ice bath. I am *not* hauling you back across town to the hospital today." Jack just nodded, then burped, then groaned.

They stumbled into the house and up the stairs, which took an agonizingly long time, as Daphne had to occasionally stop to nag her son back into the real world and out of his fevered fatigue. Eventually, she nudged his door open with one pointed-toe pump; a cat in a bow tie and round spectacles stared down at her from a poster on the door, making an H20 joke from behind a chemistry set. As she helped him onto the bed, another poster above the bed declared his allegiance to Tyson/Nye. A stack of library books balanced precariously on the edge of his desk, next to his opened laptop.

"Well," she said, standing up, surveying the room. "At least you cleaned up in here like I asked." Daphne tucked the errant strand of hair behind her ear, and stood over her son, arms akimbo. "Now, you get in the bed, and I'll be right back."

Jack looked back up at her with faraway eyes, but nodded. His mother wheeled about on one five-inch heel, and strode back down the stairs.

When she returned, several minutes later, bearing an electronic thermometer, a tall glass of water and some painkillers, he hadn't moved much, if at all, and he certainly hadn't gotten *in* the bed.

Daphne clucked her tongue.

"What did I tell you?" She said, laying her load down on his desk. "Get *in* the bed."

"Mom," Jack mumbled, "it's all so sore."

She rolled her eyes. "It's just a stomach bug. You're feeling the effects of dehydration if you threw up all over the university. Undress and get in the bed, and we'll get some water into you." Jack made some weak movements to do as she asked, but he wasn't moving fast enough for his mother.

Her phone, a five inch lozenge tucked into a pocket in the front of her dress, buzzed. Daphne pulled it out and tucked it between her shoulder and her ear as efficient, clinical fingers lifted her son's shirt out of his waistband.

"Ted?" She said, yanking Jack's sweat-damp polo off him. "Yes, I'm home now. How did the meeting go?" Daphne tossed it aside. Her son's skin was slick with moisture, and paper-white, but there was no stink of sweat. "They what?" She worked at Jack's belt. "How could they not accept *any* of the guidelines? That came straight from Atlanta!" His jeans came unbuttoned, and she hooked her sharp fingernails into his belt loops. "You're right. It's not particularly lethal. Yet." Jack lifted up his hips with a soft moan, and his mother worked the pants down over his legs, struggling against the dampness. "Well?" She dropped them next to his shirt. "I, for one, would like to get ahead of it before anyth-"

Daphne's breath caught in her throat. She stared down at her son, clad only in his black boxer briefs. An obscene, swollen lump pulsated beneath the cotton fabric, a thick black tube tucked to the left, some nine inches long at least. A damp spot the size of a quarter grew around the end of it.

"What?" She said, coming back to her senses. "T-Ted, I'll have to call you back shortly okay? I'm just looking at- after my son at the moment."

Standing again, Daphne peeled back the sheets with embarrassed haste, then covered the object of her attention with a flap of the bedcovers.

"Jack, I'll be- I'll be back in a bit to check in on you." She took a step back as he regarded her, nodding. "Try to- try to drink some water," she placed the glass next to his bed, "and take the Tylenol. That'll bring your fever down."

"Sure mom," he croaked, seeming more himself already.

"And try to get some sleep," Daphne instructed, backing away. "It'll probably do you a world of good."

"Sure mom, sure." Jack said, rolling over.

She exited, closing the door behind her and leaning against it, heart pounding. Where on earth had he gotten such an enormous co- penis?

"Certainly not from his father," Daphne said, heels clicking against the floor as she went back downstairs. The further she got from the door the less she felt like going back, peeling away the sheets, and looking, just to be sure that it was really what it looked like, and not some illusion borne of Jack's underwear.

Her phone began to ring again.

"Speaking of enormous dicks," she muttered, before answering. "Ted? Yes. Listen-"

It took at least an hour to properly wring her deputy out, ensure he felt correctly bad about letting the hospital board walk all over him, elicit promises to draw up a quick and dirty epidemiological projection for the MF virus, should it get out of hand, and collect apologies for his misbehaviour. When she was satisfied, Daphne hung up and headed back upstairs, towards her own bedroom, unfurling her hair from its confines, shaking it out into a silky brown fan across her back.

Passing by the stare of the scientist cat posted to Jack's door, she stopped a moment, and opened it a crack. Immediately, she was struck by the smell; the room was rank with a musky, animal scent that made her nostrils flare, and brought a flush to her cheeks.

"Jack?" She called softly. "How are you feeling?" No response. His breathing was heavy but steady. His glass was empty, and the painkillers were gone.

Daphne stepped inside. Approaching his bed, she saw that he was sleeping, as she'd suggested. His hair, the same colour as hers, was plastered to his forehead; gently, she bent low to kiss him. His skin was warmer than usual, but the fire that had burned below it was gone. She breathed a sigh of relief at that. If it had gone on much longer, they'd have ended up at the ER that evening.

Maybe she was a little hard on him, but you only got anywhere in life by being driven there, even if someone was doing the driving from behind. But look at the results! Head of his class in highschool, fast-tracked to graduate school: one of his professors was advising him to skip his Master's entirely and go straight for a PhD.

Daphne glowed with pride and kissed his brow again. And such a good boy, to boot! Polite, well-mannered, never a rebellious phase or making trouble with his nerdy friends.

Here, close to Jack, the aroma was stronger still, and Daphne breathed deep of it. It felt good to be so near to him, feeling the heat radiating from his body; one of her hands slid along his arm, caressing it through the sheet. It was warm, and...thicker, somehow?

A dizzying wave of warmth spread through her body, and she was struck by the urge to peel away the bedsheets, and slip into the bed behind him. Maybe in front of him, curl into his warmth. Was he still hard, she wondered, thinking of that thick black tube, straining against her son's underwear-

Daphne stood, the flush in her face giving way to a ghastly pallor; she backed away, into the hall, and shut the door behind her. Her legs were unsteady in the tall heels as she stumbled into her own room. She kicked them off and into the closet while fumbling fingers worked to release the clasp at the nape of her neck. The zipper at the back came undone with a rasp and she shrugged the dress off her shoulders, wriggling her hips to work the tight jersey down over her curvaceous rear end.

Her nipples, thick and brown and standing proud from heavily cantilevered breast flesh, were highly visible beneath the creamy lace meshwork of her bra.

"Oh fuck," Daphne breathed as she scooped one tit free of its cup and pulled hard on the nub. The scent of aroused pussy wafted up from between thick, sculpted thighs, and she didn't have to reach down to know that the gusset of her matching thong was probably soaked through.

"Fuck," she said again. Had it really been so long since she'd seen a truly impressive cock that even her own son's had this effect on her? Not even seen, just inferred, *suggested* by the obscene distortion in his underwear.

Daphne was no size queen. Charles' own average equipment had been perfectly adequate back when she was just an older man's trophy wife, and it still was when they managed to coax some life into it, an increasingly rare occurrence as he slid into his sixties. Even as their sex lives waned, she hadn't developed any particular hankering for cock, not even big cock, pouring herself instead into her job, rising through the ranks of the hospital's internists until she became the top dog last year at the hitherto unprecedented age of 42.

But she had to admit, in the dark evenings as Charles snored gently beside her, or as she worked some Tuesday overnight shift, she'd often thought about what it would be like to have a truly fat cock up inside of her. Some thick young ramrod available at her beck and call, accommodating her weird schedule and odd hours. Not a boyfriend to cheat with, but a boy toy to use for her pleasure. A risky proposition.

"Fuck," she said, fingers sliding into her panties. Why couldn't she stop thinking about Jack? Was it just because she hadn't seen an erection, a real erection, for almost a year now? She was a fucking discipline chief, she didn't need cock.

A whimper escaped her lips as wet, squishy noises emanated from between her legs and a bead of fluid dribbled down her thigh.

It was just stress. All she needed was a little relief and everything would go back to normal. Her forearm worked in and out as she tried to forget the lump in her son's briefs, refocusing instead on one of the handsome young interns who was a little too familiar.

What did he wear under his scrubs, she wondered, collapsing back onto the bed, index finger strumming her clit. Briefs? Boxers? Boxer briefs? Did his cock stand out like a taboo fuck-obelisk, drawing the eye like a magnet? With her free hand, Daphne fed her freed nipple into her mouth and slurped noisily at it; $200-manicured nails flashed as she whipped her fingertips up and down the slippery valley between her labia, travelling between the dripping orifice between her legs and her clit in a hasty blur. What would it even feel like? Would it hurt? Would it stretch her wide open as it was slammed home into her needy, under appreciated pussy? What did it look like? Was it smooth and straight or veiny and curved? Would he fucking flip her over and take her from behind like some kind of animal and just start pounding away at her clasping cunt?

Daphne gasped and grunted and arched her back, lifting her ass up off the mattress. Her index and middle fingers pistoned in and out of her squelching, leaking pussy, palm slapping hard against the angry nub of her clit.

"Fuck," she grunted around her own nipple. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!" A low, animal growl started in the pit of her stomach, growing in volume and intensity as her hand slammed harder, harder into herself. "Make me cum, motherfucker! Make. Me. Cum!" Daphne's toes curled, and her heels dug into the duvet as her body went rigid, arched in ecstasy as her orgasm washed through her. She squeezed her eyes tight and ground the heel of her hand into herself, desperately wanting to ignore the image of Jack's covered cock, even as it persisted in her mind's eye.

Suddenly, it was over, and she collapsed back into the bed, grunting as she did.

"Fuck," Daphne said with a sigh. "I fucking needed that."

--

Later that afternoon, Daphne was using the kitchen counter as an office, reading email on her laptop while refreshing a different account on her phone as the kettle boiled. The cardboard tag of an herbal tea bag dangled from the side of an oversized mug.

She'd dressed down - into a pair of cropped yoga pants with a pink-washed static pattern and a white racer back tank - but there was no taking off her work hat. A steady stream of advisories and updates washed into her inbox as clusters of MF infections cropped up, usually in post-secondary campuses; though no fatalities had yet been recorded, CDC was recommending quarantine procedures for certain sites without really stating why, except as a "precautionary measure."

That made it a hard sell to the senior hospital execs, particularly since the disease this far had confined itself to otherwise healthy young men, not a traditionally vulnerable population, or one likely to succumb to secondary complications.

Daphne frowned and stood up on her tiptoes, stretching the aching muscles in her calves; the hour or so she'd spent on the elliptical downstairs had only let the shitheads in the board fossilize their opinion about whether this was even a crisis.

"Never should have left that meeting," she muttered, as the kettle sang its song. Behind her, Daphne heard the soft pad of bare feet on the tile.

"So you've arisen from the dead, have you?" She said without turning around. "How are you feeling?"

Jack spoke in a low rumble as he opened the fridge. "Sore. Tired. Still kinda dizzy. Not hungry but I need...something?"

"Well," Daphne said, dumping some spam into a junk folder, "I just boiled the kettle if you want to get yourself some chamomile tea. It'll help settle your stomach."

"Gd' idea," Jack said, and a lean, obviously masculine arm reached around her, all smooth skin and corded muscle rippling beneath. Daphne was a little shocked to see how muscular her bookworm son's arm appeared to be as his hand wrapped around her mug.

"Hey, that's my-" she began, but the rest was lost in a gasp when his other hand dropped to her hip and he pressed himself into her from behind. Jack's hips were of a level with her own as she stood on her toes, and she could feel a searing-hot lump burning a brand into the deep cleft of her buttocks. The elevated heat from his body radiated through hers and she was suddenly enveloped by the musky, animal smell that had perfumed his room. Daphne's nipples crinkled up, poking faintly through her heavy sports bra and tank top.

"Mom," Jack mumbled in her ear, "what's wrong with me?" His cock pressed harder against her plush buttocks. "Why do I feel all..." He groped for the words.

"Y-you're sick," Daphne's voice was shaky. "Just weak from a bout of gastro." His fingers slid around her hip, gliding over her stomach. "You'll be fine in a couple of days." Hands against the granite countertop, she pushed back against him, but he was surprisingly heavy, and all she accomplished was pressing the insistent bulge deeper.

"It's hard," he said. "Hard to stay up. Hard to think." His hand was splayed out over her navel, steadying himself.

"Maybe you should go back to bed," Daphne suggested, trying not to move, trying not to agitate the hard on digging into her. Did he even know? "I'll bring some tea up to you, okay?"

"Yeah," Jack said, vaguely. "Yeah. Good idea. I should go back." His body relaxed, and suddenly separated from his mother's, both hands slipping away. He stepped back.