Incest/Taboo The Shrine

This was a lot of fun to write - the story came to me in an instant literally fully formed. I hope you like it. As always, this is a work of fiction, all characters exist only within the confines of the story and in my head. Let me hear from you - your opinions are important! Enjoy!

I looked out the window and saw the city of Chicago beneath me as the plane banked and began it's descent into O'Hare Airport. The lights of the city sparkled and glittered, enhanced by the rain that was coming down. I turned my attention back to the lifeless cell phone I cradled in my hands and gave a heavy sigh. It would only be a few minutes before I could turn it back on and see if I had any messages from my son. I hoped he'd gotten my messages, otherwise he was going to be surprised when I showed up at his door.

Once we'd landed and had the stewardess' blessing, I anxiously powered up my phone. My heart leapt as it told me I had four messages and then my heart sank as I saw they were all from my husband...soon to be ex-husband. "Asshole," I muttered as I deleted them unseen.

Once I collected my only bag, a duffel bag with a shoulder strap stuffed with what few clothes I had paused long enough to gather, I tried my son's cell phone again. Again, I was directed to leave a message. Resisting the urge to sigh, I took a deep breath and said, "John, it's Mom again. Like I said earlier, I've left Benny. I'm at O'Hare and hoping I can stay with you for a few days. I'm taking a cab to your place. Hope I see you soon." I paused and then added, "I love you!"

I sat back for the long taxi ride into the city, the driver a sullen young white man with a lot of metal in his face who was dually focused on his loud, bass driven hip-hop music and keeping us on the now slick roads as the rain was slowly changing to ice. I shivered, still dressed for the warmer Florida weather, forgetting how cold it could still get in late March in Chicago. As we moved down the highway, gradually sliding off onto the wet, gleaming streets of the city, I marveled at how my life had changed in less than a day.

Yesterday, I was Cassie Blaylock, wife to Benny, an often unemployed construction worker in Pensacola, Florida and prominent deacon in the city's most conservative church. Benny was lazy, but powerfully religious -- preferring to view his down-time from work as simply God's way of freeing him up to work the church's ministry to our community. Benny was my second husband, my son's father having passed away from cancer when John was only two. Two years later, I remarried, finding solace in religion and for a while, in my new husband.

John and Benny never got along -- fighting from the start with Benny always claiming that John "had the Devil in him." When John defied his wishes to enter a conservative religious college in Tallahassee, choosing instead Northwestern University in Illinois, Benny had all but disowned my son and I hadn't seen my son in nearly six years.

Oh, I'd stayed in touch with letters, phone calls and emails, but Benny had made clear that my son wasn't welcome at home anymore, not that John would have stepped across our threshold. I had been caught in the middle and had seen no other course than to stay with my husband. After all, my son was now a man and getting on with his life. While I was nowhere near as devoted to God and the church as Benny, I felt my place was with him. It didn't make me happy, but that was life.

Two years ago though, things had begun to really spiral out of control. Benny announced that he was devoting himself to being a lay preacher which meant he wasn't going to be working at construction anymore. Oh, he brought in pocket change, performing the occasional funeral or wedding, but it was my job as the cafeteria supervisor at a local junior high school that paid the bills...barely.

That was frustrating enough, but Benny also decided that being more "godly" meant he was to be more celibate, that with our child rearing days behind us, sex was something we didn't need anymore. Maybe at age forty-five, I didn't necessarily need sex anymore, but that didn't mean I wanted to give it up. Our sex life didn't exactly light me on fire, but I had enjoyed the once or twice a week vanilla lovemaking that we'd shared for years and now found myself growing more frustrated as time went on. I remained faithful, although the temptation was always there. I bought myself a short, vibrating friend in secret and kept the edge off with masturbation while Benny was out spreading the word of God.

The straw that broke the camel's back came this morning though, when Benny announced plans to basically sign over the house to the Church. "We can live here through our declining years," he explained to me at the kitchen table as calmly as if he'd bought a new toaster or shovel, "But it will be our tithe to God."

Now, over the years, I'd put up with a lot from Benny -- I knew he loved me and we'd had good times together, albeit less lately and while never as religious in my heart as he was, I'd been raised in an old fashioned Christian home and had been a good and obedient wife, but this had been too much."

"I don't think so," I'd snapped back. "I've worked myself near to death to pay off the mortgage for the last twenty years and now that we own this place free and clear, you're not giving it away!" I don't know what pissed me off more -- that he would try and give our house away or that he would give it away after I, pretty much by myself, had worked and paid for.

Benny's face grew red and he hissed at me, "Remember your place, wife. I'm not asking you -- I'm telling you. I'm the husband, your's is to obey, praise God!"

"You might be the husband, Benny Blaylock, but I'm the one who worked her ass off while you sat on your lazy butt and prayed all day. I paid for this house and you're not giving it to the church!"

The argument got ugly from there, with screams and shouts and Benny quoting scripture until I told him he could take God and the church and shove them up his ass. So he slapped me...hard....hard enough to knock me down. When I picked myself up off the ground, I didn't say a word, but walked away, went upstairs, threw a few clothes and things into an old nylon duffel bag and grabbed my shoulder bag -- my big purse that weighs a ton and holds my wallet and makeup and other assorted things a woman needs.

As I tried to leave the house, Benny tried to stop me. When he growled, "Know you place, woman," and raised his hand to slap me again, I swung my purse hard and left my husband curled up on the ground, his hands cupping his busted balls and praying to God for relief.

I climbed in my old, rusting minivan -- the "Mom-mobile" my son had called it, and drove to the bank where I took out half of what we had in checking and in savings -- not that it was a lot. I called school and made arrangements for a leave. I called a lawyer -- a young man who remembered me from his junior high cafeteria days, who said he'd take care of things about the house and start the divorce proceedings and then I headed to the airport.

I sat in long-term parking for I'm not sure how long before I decided I needed to get away, at least for a few days. My son, John, came to my mind -- being literally all the family I had and I bought a ticket to Chicago and now I was in a taxi pulling up to a large high rise near the downtown area with the rain and ice coming down in buckets.

Paying off the cabbie, I was out the door with my bag just as a doorman in a ornate, yet threadbare uniform came rushing out with an umbrella. Despite his best efforts, I looked like a drowned rat before we both got inside the apartment building, after slipping and sliding across the sidewalk.

I'm sure I looked ridiculous wearing khaki capris and a short sleeved cotton blouse under a light nylon windbreaker in the middle of what appeared to be a late winter event. The doorman folded up his umbrella and eyed me with concern as I stood there, my long black-gray hair in tangles, dripping water on the nice marble floor of his lobby as I shivered with cold. Dark eyes wedged into a roughly hewed Mediterranean face studied me.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" he asked in a tone that indicated that he doubted it. Obviously, he knew all the tenants on sight and he was positive I wasn't amongst them.

"Um...I hope so. I'm uh, Cassandra Blaylock. My son lives here -- his name is John Harper. Could you let him..."

"Yes, Mrs Blaylock!" The doorman suddenly snapped to attention, his tone now filled with respect and deference. "Mr. Harper called, ma'am and asked us to let you into his apartment. He wishes you to know he's been detained in Billings...um, Billings, Montana on business and is having trouble with his cell phone. He will call you later this evening. If you need anything, Mrs. Blaylock, please just let us know."

The doorman went around a table covered in the same marble that was on the floor and retrieved a set of keys. He took my travel bag and gestured towards an elevator. "I'll show you up, ma'am."

A little overwhelmed by his sudden change in attitude, I rode up the elevator, not speaking as he managed to tell me at least three times what a fine young man, my son, Mr. Harper was. John apparently lived on one of the higher floors and the elevator, while very stately, moved slow. As we moved, I paused to consider the one good thing my life seemed to have produced, my son.

As I already said, John never got along with Benny and when given a chance to be adopted by him, refused, saying that even if he didn't really remember his father, it was wrong to change his name. On this, I had stood firm with Benny and supported John. My son never really bought into the whole church thing, preferring to do his praying before circuit boards and computers. He was on the whole, a proud computer nerd, although I preferred the word "whiz." Slightly stocky and plagued with acne all through junior high and high school, he never dated, preferring his ever more complex computers and the small circle of friends who shared his interests.

Oh, he liked girls, judging from the computer porn I would find running on his computer screen sometimes or the girlie magazines he had under the mattress of his bed and I recognized the signs of masturbation on his sheets quite often, but never thought anything of it. Even when he was first struggling with puberty and snuck a few peeks of me in the shower, I never really worried about it. He was a growing boy and that's what they did.

I had hoped that once he was at college, he'd meet some nice woman, but in our many phone conversations, he'd laugh and tell me, "No, Mom. There's no one here. That's okay, though. You're still my girl, aren't you?"

I would laugh and tell him yes, remembering the little boy I had raised who'd before his teenage years would snuggle with me and giggle before telling me he was my fella. I would hug and kiss on my son and tell him, "And I'm your girl."

I missed him something terrible, but took pride in hearing of his accomplishments, although at times, they seemed a bit surreal. He'd finished his degree in two and a half years and opted to not pursue higher degrees when a data systems company lured him into their employ with what sounded like an unbelievable amount of money for a twenty-year old to be making. All those years preoccupied with computers had paid off. By the time he was twenty-two, he'd developed a couple of patents that he'd sold to his company for a fortune plus future royalties.

With his new found fortune, John had offered to help me out many times, but I knew that whatever he'd send me would somehow be directed right into Benny's church and although I could have kept it secret, I tried to not be dishonest with my husband and so had always told my son no.

My reverie was broken as the elevator came to a halt and the doorman led me into a hallway with only four doors -- two on each side. We paused before one and using the keys, he opened the door, stepped in to set down my bag and then stepped out. "Mr. Harper asked us to make you a set of keys, so you can come and go as you like, Mrs. Blaylock." He dropped them into my open palm and tipped his cap.

As he moved away, I suddenly remembered where I was and reached into my shoulder bag for my wallet, but the doorman shook his head and said, "Mr. Harper takes care of me, ma'am." He tipped his hat again and added, "You need anything, Mrs. Blaylock, call downstairs to the lobby. Ask for Anthony." He smiled, great white teeth splitting his craggy features as he said, "Anything you need, just call, ma'am." Then he was gone and I closed the door behind me, finally after a crazy day, safe in my son's home.

I slowly took in a large living room -- definitely the home of a bachelor with lots of leather and chrome furniture -- Star Wars and Lord of the Rings movie posters adorning two walls -- a big screen television adorning another and a cluttered pile of equipment which I assumed comprised game systems and DVD player. On a glass-topped coffee table were several remote controls lined up in perfect order, flanked by empty soda cans and a pizza box, empty except for a few dried up crusts. A tie was flung over the arm of a leather sofa and I counted at least three pairs of socks scattered about.

I began walking towards the kitchen, spying it past a pony wall, but paused as on one wall was a large framed photograph and I had to smile and warmness washed over me. It was a picture of John and me -- taken the night he graduated from high school, his arm around my shoulders and both of us smiling from ear to ear. It suddenly occurred to me that that might have been the last really happy moment for us as Benny had soon banished my son from our lives. I suddenly ached to see my John and hug him. Talking weekly on the phone didn't take the place of actually being around my only child. How much I had missed him over the last several years washed over me in a wave that was almost staggering.

Eyes tearing up, I tried to divert my thoughts by exploring my son's home. The kitchen was very up to date -- all shining stainless steel appliances, although beyond some canned soups in the cupboard, cokes and the remnants of take out Chinese food in the refrigerator along with some frozen dinners in the freezer, there wasn't much in the way of sustenance.

My tour led me next to the bedroom -- a king size bed centered the room, clothes scattered all about and a slightly messy bathroom beyond it. At least there weren't mushrooms growing behind the toilet or in the bathtub. My John wasn't the best housekeeper but he wasn't a total slob either. I found another bathroom further along the hallway and a second bedroom that John had turned into a small and very functional office.

For work, it appeared that my son kept a very ordered house. I didn't know much about John's work, but I knew he was very talented at setting up and data tracking systems for insurance companies and corporations and keeping them running smoothly -- working out of his employer's offices in downtown Chicago or from home or on the road. Several computer screens and towers were arranged about a massive work desk. I nodded approvingly -- when it came to work, my son was not careless.

I found the last door on the bedroom hallway to be locked and was wondering why when I was startled by the shrill ringing of a phone in both the living room and bedroom. I hurried back to the living room and picked up the receiver. "Hello?" I said tentatively, suddenly realizing that while I hoped it was John, it might well be my asshole husband.

"Mom! Thank God, you made it. Are you all right?" It was my son, his voice warm and filled with concern.

"I managed to reply, "Yes," and then broke into tears.

My son let me cry myself out, offering gentle words of comfort until I was done telling him what had happened and then he said in an understanding, yet firm voice, "Don't worry about anything, Mom. You can stay with me as long as you like. Forever, if you want!" His voice quavered a little at the last, but he continued. "I wish I was there right now, Mom, but we had this big glitch in Billings. I should be back in a few days. Until then, just make yourself at home -- use my bedroom. There are clean sheets and blankets in the bedroom closet."

"Well, I don't want to be a bother -- if you have a spare bedroom, I could use it. The door was locked and..."

John interrupted me, saying, "It's not a bedroom, Mom -- uh, just a bunch of stuff stored in there. Use my bed. It's comfortable. When I get back, we'll -- um, we'll figure out something. Shoot, I usually fall asleep on the sofa anyway." My son voice sounded a bit odd, but it wasn't anything I could put my finger on.

My son and I finished our conversation, John letting me know where he kept a backup debit card and its pin number, insisting I use it for any needs -- "Food, clothes -- anything you need, Mom. Go out shopping and have some fun for a change."

"Oh, that's sweet of you, son," I replied. "But, I've got a few dollars -- you save your money."

My son chuckled and answered, "I do save my money, Mom. You know I make a good living, but most of my expenses are picked up and what little I spend, I spend on games and stuff. I want to spoil you -- you deserve, no, you need to be spoiled. After all, you're still my girl, aren't you?"

John's words almost choked me up, but I managed a weak, but happy, "Yes, I am, son." We finished our call and I felt happier than I had in a long time. Then exhaustion crashed over me. I staggered into my son's bedroom and didn't even bother changing the sheets, simply shrugging off my clothes and falling naked into my son's bed, pulling the deliciously heavy and soft comforter over me. I drifted off to sleep, my son's strongly male scent surrounding me, my last thoughts of how good he smelled and that oddly, there was a faint hint of White Diamonds -- the fragrance I'd used since John was in middle school. I don't remember much about my dreams, but rather I remember just feeling very safe and happy.

I didn't wake up till late morning, feeling better than I thought I would, considering that my marriage was in ashes. As I lay there, I stretched like a big cat, groaning pleasurably as muscles strained -- spreading wide my arms and legs, my son's sheets feeling wonderful. I took a deep breath as I stretched, again taking in the scent of my son and then again detecting the hint of perfume mixed in with it.

Sudden realization struck. I was both elated and a little jealous as I comprehended that there had been a woman in this bed. "That little devil," I murmured as I scrambled out of bed. "He's gone and found himself a girlfriend!" As I made my way to the bathroom to pee and then shower, I made a cursory inspection for other evidence of my son's friend, but found none. No make-up, no left behind pantyhose. I was impressed and very curious. My son had never brought a girl home when he was in high school and I was very curious as to what his type was.

After a long, long hot shower, I toweled off and paused to consider myself in a full length mirror in his master bathroom. "Are you ready to hit the single scene again, after all these years?" I asked my reflection. Then a terrible realization hit me. I might have to start dating again! I turned and tried to look at myself in the mirror.

I pretty much liked what I saw. I wasn't half bad for a forty-five year old woman. Standing five foot, five and one hundred-fifty pounds, I was a tad plump but it was all in my breasts and my ass. My 38DD tits sagged a little and my butt cheeks jiggled a bit, but my stomach still looked good with just a slight round pot and my skin was clear and just a few crow lines around my eyes. My face was framed by my longish black hair, shot through with threads of gray, which most of the time I wore up in a bun. Now it was tangled from the previous day's travails and a night's sleep, but it kind of looked good. I suspected if I got it cut a bit shorter and more stylish, I could still turn a man's head.

I ran a hand over my breasts, pausing to briefly tease my nipples, watching them stiffen up, resembling the tips of spark plugs when they swelled up. I ran my hands downwards over my stomach and studied my legs, still lean and shapely thanks to staying on my feet day in and day out and slid fingers into the thick forest of black hair nestled between my legs. It had been so long since a man had lusted for my body, I wasn't sure if the really hairy look was "in" anymore.

I quivered a bit as I slipped fingers through my black pelt, finding my labia and spreading myself a little -- recalling John's father as a fan of hairy muffs -- often showing me photo spreads from some of the cheaper girly magazines where the girls spread their legs to show off muffs of wild, unruly hair. Benny had never commented one way or the other and had refused to consider orally pleasing me.

"Well, I've got plenty of time to decide," I told myself, taking one last look at myself in the mirror before trying to get my day in order. A quick assessment of the clothes I'd brought helped me decide to take my son up on his offer of a shopping trip. I got myself presentable in a clean pair of khakis and one of John's sweatshirts and allowed the dayshift doorman to call me a cab.

As I was getting ready to leave, the locked bedroom door caught my eye and I wondered if I should maybe buy some new bedding and fix up his extra bedroom so John wouldn't have to act valiant and sleep on the couch. I let the thought slip from my mind as I went downstairs and climbed into a cab.

It had been a long time since I'd let myself get carried away shopping, but by late that afternoon, I returned laden down with shopping bags and sporting a new 'do, having chopped off several inches of hair and looking a little more stylish, letting a hairdresser add a little curl to my usually straight locks to hint at that "freshly tumbled out of bed" look. Anthony opened the lobby doors at me, tipping his hat as he gave the new me a frank appraisal and felt my face flush slightly as he seemed to nod his approval as he said, "Good afternoon, Mrs. Blaylock."

It was all I could do to not giggle, I felt both embarrassed and flattered. As I rode up the elevator, I considered how good a day it had been. I'd bought a couple of dresses, some jeans and blouses and a jacket that I thought would see me into warmer weather. While at lunch, I'd called my lawyer who happily informed me he'd filed an injunction to halt any action regarding the house and that Benny would be served with papers before the next day was over. "I can't promise you the moon, Cassie," he said. "But, I promise the least you'll walk away with is 50% of everything." Later in the early evening, I went out and shopped for food, buying fresh fruit and vegetables and meat so I could fix my son some good home cooked meals.

That night as I sipped at my first Scotch on the rocks in many years, I recounted my day to my son when he called, feeling slightly sheepish as I told him how much I'd spent on clothes and on a new hairdo. John seemed delighted. "I can't wait to see it, Mom. I bet you look beautiful!"

I felt myself blushing again as I murmured, "Well, I don't know. I guess I'm not so bad for a middle-aged broad.

"That's my girl," John chortled. "Don't you realize what a gorgeous woman you are -- that you've always been a beautiful woman? I can't wait to get home and see you, Mom. I'll be home two nights from now, by the way."

"Well, I can't wait to see you, son. What say I have a nice home-cooked meal waiting for you?"

"I have a kitchen?" John deadpanned. "Like a stove and everything?"

"Yes, you do, sweetheart and you also have your girl waiting for you."

There was a long pause and then John said, "I can't wait to see you, Mom," with a funny tone to his voice. "I love you, Mom."

I felt my heart melting as I said, "I love you too, son."

That night I slept soundly again and even though I wasn't exhausted as I'd been the day before, I again passed on changing the sheets, preferring the comforting scent of my son -- somehow associating that with my newly discovered sense of happiness.

In the morning, I set out to make myself useful -- earn my keep, so to speak. I gathered up John's dirty clothes and discovered washer/dryer units down in the basement of the apartment building. I cleaned up the detritus of my son's existence and made his kitchen and bathrooms sparkle. I started to change his bed, but something seemed to hold me back and by the afternoon, I began considering again the locked bedroom. I knew I couldn't impose on my son's good graces forever, but I could foresee the divorce and all taking a few months to get done and it wouldn't be fair to my son to give up his comfortable bed.

I retrieved the set of keys that Anthony the doorman had given me and on the third key, felt the deadbolt slide back. A strange shiver went through me along with an idle thought of that old story about Bluebeard's closet, but I didn't imagine I'd find anything shocking in the spare bedroom -- no caged women or collection of serial killer trophies. More than likely it was filled with all John's now antiquated computer junk he was too sentimental to throw away. But what I found was beyond my imagination...shocking was too mild a word.

I fumbled for a light switch and flicked it on, brilliant overhead lights flooding the windowless room. In the center of the carpeted room sat a leather recliner, a plush blanket thrown over it and a small end table beside the left arm. My attention was quickly drawn away as beyond it was a huge, framed photograph of a woman in a cheesecake pose in a red bandana halter top and blue bikini swimsuit bottoms. She was sitting on a rock -- a lovely blue lake behind her. The photograph was at least five feet by four feet and crystal clear. For a moment, I felt a tug of recognition and then I realized that this was a massive blowup of a picture of me taken over ten years ago, during a camping trip up into Georgia before Benny had lost interest in me.

Blown up with excruciatingly clear detail, I had not realized how much of me seemed to be exposed with my upper breasts overflowing the halter top. As stunned as I was to see myself, a little part of me wanted to sigh wistfully over the much firmer figure and toner legs of my youth. I shook off those odd, silly thoughts and stepped into the room, wondering what John was doing with a picture like that of me on his wall.

I'd scarcely taken a few more steps before I was stopped in my tracks again and to the right of the photograph and above a big screen television was a large framed painting. I immediately recognized it as similar to the picture of John and me after his graduation, but here he wasn't wearing his graduation gown and I wasn't wearing my favorite green dress. In truth, we weren't wearing anything. The painting had us both nude, John's arm still around me, but now cupping a meaty breast, a thick nipple jutting out between to fingers. I had one arm slipped around my son's waist, but the other reached down so my hand could wrap itself around an erect penis...a very thick and long penis! Whoever had painted the obscene portrait had nailed my thick pubic hair down perfectly, painting a thick, wild thicket of black hair, split apart by glistening labia.

I couldn't help but look at amazement at my son. Still a bit stocky, but if the painting was accurate, he'd muscled up some, losing the baby fat that had plagued him throughout high school. I felt both mortified and a little shocked and a strange feeling begin to build in the pit of my stomach, growing warm and spreading downward between my legs.

The room seemed to tilt just a little. I felt lightheaded and I moved to the recliner and sat down, fearing I might faint. As I plopped into the chair, I discovered that it swiveled and it spun me around -- going from the pornographic portrait of my son, back to my left, past my photograph to pause at the wall to its left and I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach, all the air going out of me as I moaned, "Oh my God!"

On the wall was another large, framed painting that dwarfed the rest...a painting of me. I was naked save for a black bustier and black stiletto heels. I was sitting on a bed -- no, on John's bed. I recognized the distinctive ornate carved headboard. My legs were spread wide, my pussy wet and inviting -- the oils of the painting seeming to perfectly recreate the appearance of utter arousal of slick, glistening flesh surrounding by a wild, black bush. The bustier lifted up my breasts, giving them the real life look of my meaty tits. My hair was wild and tousled, reminding me of how I looked this morning and on my face was an expression that conveyed many things: love, lust, anticipation and invitation.

Tears rolled down my face as I tried to make this all make sense -- to connect my son to this obscene erotica. I tried to look away, but only came face to face with my younger self, looking so vibrant and alive and somehow, now that I was closer and in context with the pornographic paintings, seeming to be offering myself to whomever was taking the photograph.

Unable to look up at the walls, I looked down, my gaze falling on the small end table and I gasped again. A bottle of White Diamond sat there and beside the perfume bottle rested a pair of panties -- tiger stripped bikini panties, faded and worn and it hit me that they were mine as a dim memory of owning them came to mind. I hadn't worn them in ages and if I'd thought of them at all, I'd have assumed that they were buried deep in a dresser drawer of my bedroom.

With my hands shaking, I reached down and picked them up. They felt threadbare and fragile and yet, there were stiffened patches across the gusset and I dropped them in horror as I realized it was dried semen. "Oh, John," I sobbed as I realized my son had masturbated with my panties. A sudden vision of John, stroking that huge erection from the painting came into my mind, my son jerking off while staring at the wicked painting of me with my legs spread wide.

I had to get out of that room. I spun the chair around to face the door and as I came to my feet, I stopped again, gazing at the last wall. When I'd entered the room, my attention had been locked on my photograph, so I had walked right past the large bookcase and antique writing desk and chair situated there. DVDs and Video tapes sat on one shelf while books filled up most of the bookshelf.

As I cautiously approached, I was able to make out titles -- a long series of what I supposed were movies, all entitled Taboo -- most of which were followed by Roman numerals. The books were mostly paperbacks with lurid titles like "Mom Likes It Hard" or "Mommy's Favorite Son," although some were trade paperbacks or hardbacks like, "Garden of Sand" or "The Dreams of the Weeping Woman" and even one I recognized, an old novel called "Flesh and Blood" that I vaguely remembered had an incestuous subplot.

A laptop sat on one side of the writing desk, a few flash-drives scattered around it and lying open on the desk was a moleskin covered journal -- a lovely fountain pen resting below words written in what I recognized as my son's handwriting.

Shivering as if the room's temperature had suddenly plummeted, I slipped into the cushioned seat, casters creaking as I scooted forward and began to read...

March 7,

I talked to Mom tonight. I love her voice...her voice is like liquid velvet to me. I wish I could capture it and wrap myself up in it like a soft, warm blanket. Mom seemed down, but living with that dullard, how could she not be? I marvel at her ability to put up with him. I hate hearing her sound so blue. Mom's voice needs to be filled with joy -- to be hoarse with pleasure, screaming out in ecstasy from being pleasured...pleasured by me. I yearn to know the timbre of my mother's voice as she cries out while I sink my hardness deep inside her, making her shake and tremble and scream as I fill her sweet, motherly pussy with my cock. Maybe I'll dream of Mom tonight -- Lord knows that doesn't happen enough, just remembering a wisp of her begging me to fuck her, to fuck my mother hard until she cums...man, I am riding in the clouds for weeks after such dreams. Oh if there's a God in heaven, please let me dream of Mom asking me to fuck her tonight or even better, God, make it actually come true!

A violent tremor tore through me as I pushed my son's journal away, my mind reeling as I attempted to comprehend what was going on with my son. I tore my gaze away from the page of written incestuous fantasy and saw nestled here and there among the books and DVDs, framed photographs of me and of John and me, spanning all the years since he'd been born. There was a picture of me, holding my baby in my arms -- taken from above with my partly unbuttoned shirt showing off cleavage from my milk laden breasts. There was a Polaroid shot of me acting silly, my lips pursed in an exaggerated kiss on John's cheek -- he being maybe ten years old and a Christmas tree behind us.

Mixed amongst these pictures were shots of me I don't remember being taken. One was of me bent over in my flower garden, shorts bunched up tightly and showing off the imprint of my crotch. Another Polaroid showed me asleep in the bed, nightgown sweaty and pulled up, exposing my legs and thighs, white panties covering my pussy. I looked peaceful and below the picture was a handwritten caption, "My Sleeping Angel."

Then I noticed on a shelf on the crown of the writing desk, a series of books -- most with similar covers to the journal I'd just read from. There were maybe ten or twelve...the first wrapped in a brown faux-leather vinyl cover. A memory stirred within me. Hadn't my son asked for a journal for his birthday one year? He'd been what -- eleven or twelve? Was that the one I'd bought him?

However twisted and bizarre this room was, whatever was wrong in my son's head, I knew I was violating his privacy, but it was so insane. This was my son, the person who I loved more than anything on Earth and I wanted to understand this madness. Half rising from the seat, I reached up and plucked down that first journal. With my heart pounding in my chest, I opened the first page to see a more primitive form of my son's handwriting in faded pen ink...

"I saw Mom naked!!!!!!!!!! I saw Mom's tits! I saw Mom's big bush! She's so hairy down there. It was awesome. Mom is so sexy and pretty and she's Mom! I got so hard I had to run to my room and jack off. It was the best yet! I may be a perv but Mom makes me hard just thinking about her. She left her bedroom door open and I saw her coming out of her bathroom after her shower and she was naked and wet. Her tits, man, I knew they were big but these were BIG! I think I'm in love!"

I trembled as I read my son's adolescent ramblings about me. Page after page followed, John detailing how much he loved my body and his efforts to see me naked. I'd though it was just once or twice, but if he wrote the truth -- he'd caught glimpses of me dozens of times in those early years. I'd been so ignorant. I'd had no idea how many times he'd masturbated after one of our cuddle sessions or after seeing my breasts when I'd inadvertently show them off while serving breakfast in a nightgown that gaped open more than I ever imagined. According to his words, just me walking by and smiling at him made my son hard!

I became lost in reading my son's private words, taking down journal after journal, immersed in the chronology of how I became my son's obsession. He became so adept at peeking at me -- becoming stealthy in his efforts to spy on me while I was showering or sunbathing or slipping into my bedroom to stare at me while I was still asleep when his father was already up and out of the house -- raging that the "lazy bastard" didn't work enough to support us, let alone give him enough opportunities to sneak more looks at me.

There were entire entries devoted to describing various parts of me, especially my breasts and nipples and my hairy bush which he adored and found provocative and sexy even though it meant he was unable to usually see much of my actual pussy. There were entries where he'd write incredibly graphic accounts of making love to me or simply as he put it, "Fucking me senseless!"

Other accounts examined his feelings for me, struggling to understand how he could feel this way about his own mother, but never able to convince himself that it wasn't love -- that the ache for the unfulfilled part of his life came from both being unable to share with me his love and desire for me and from not being able to achieve similar feelings for any other girl or woman. He spent pages describing all the things that he loved about me -- my loving ways as a mother, my "generous and gentle" spirit that he saw me demonstrating with others -- at school, at church, in the neighborhood -- every aspect of my life. He loved my sense of humor, my tastes in movies, food, and food. He loved my body, seeing it as natural beauty, unforced by diet or excessive exercise.

My mind boggled as I slowly began to comprehend the enormity of my son's love and/or obsession with me. My mind whirled in disbelief as I read his lusty thoughts -- his almost primal desire to know me sexually shocking me almost as much as the description of things he wanted us to do together...lengthy entries describing me giving my son a blow job or him parting my thick bush to lick, eat and suck my pussy. I could feel his hunger for me as he described fucking me in so many positions -- some which I'd never done myself -- anal sex, titty-fucking, showering my face with his seed, rimming and tying me down and teasing me until I screamed for release.

In his mind and heart, my John had been carrying on a love affair with his mother for over a decade, evolving from pure adolescent lust to love to something that was both love and lust and something beyond. He grappled with the incestuous aspect of it all, but time and time again, spoke as if it was the true cement that bound his love and desire for me together -- that made it into something holy to be quested for:

"I know that most would consider me a madman or a pervert or both if they knew of the great love that I have for my mother -- that I love her not only as a son, but as a man would love a woman -- his soul mate. It doesn't matter that she's my mother, indeed, I can only imagine that our joining together both body and soul would be that much more intimate because of our bond as son and mother.

Who upon all the earth could I be closer to than Mom -- she who carried me in her womb for nine months, who raised me, cared for me, whom I share more with in both blood and mind than anyone else? When I am near her, I feel an ache to be joined with her once again, joined cock and pussy -- my flesh buried in her most holy of places. I know that if the day ever comes that we are joined in love, our bodies clinging together as we near climax, our eyes locked together, I will see the truths of the universe unfolding."

A shiver went through me as I read those words, written when my son was scarcely eighteen years old. To know he had such yearnings, such terrible passions dwelling within him -- such intense and awful desires for me. As I reread John's words, the phone rang and I let out a terrified shriek. I had no idea how tensed up I had become and as I rose stiffly from the chair, I suddenly realized I'd been sitting there for hours -- the afternoon had come and gone and we were now in the midst of evening.

I left John's secret room and made my way towards the phone in the bedroom. As I moved, beyond the stiff muscles and shakiness from the stress of my discovery, I felt a warmth...a stickiness between my thighs as if I had been aroused. Not allowing myself to contemplate what this meant, I sat heavily on my son's bed and reached out with a trembling hand to pick up the phone. "Hello?"

"Mom! Just checking in. Is everything okay? Did you have a good day?"

My mouth opened, but nothing came out. I could hear my son's voice, but now there seemed to be even more to it -- the very timbre and enthusiasm in his voice giving his words meaning beyond simple sounds. Finally, I managed to speak, "Um, Hi, John. I...um, yeah, I guess so."

There was a pause at the other end before John replied, concern evident in his voice. "You sure you're okay, Mom? You sound funny."

Part of me wanted to blurt out, "You'd sound funny too if you discovered your son's greatest dream was to fuck you!" but I took a deep breath and said, "Just tired and all. I guess what I've done -- what I'm doing is finally -- really sinking in."

"Well, don't worry about anything, Mom," John replied. "I've got your back. Anything you need, I'll give you, Mom. As far as I'm concerned, you never have to go back. I've got plenty of room in Chicago, you can stay with me forever!"

I could hear his words making me shiver -- "anything I needed," indeed. I was pretty sure I knew what my son thought I needed and he was just dying to deliver it to me. I felt a tear run down my cheek as I said with my voice quavering, "Thank you, sweetheart."

There was an awful silence that followed. I know what I was supposed to say and I knew he was waiting for it. Finally, he said it first. "Mom, I love you." My god, he said it with so much honesty and need and love and although a day ago I would have seen his remark as the innocent response of my beloved son, it was now freighted with so much more meaning. I knew he meant it, but he meant it in a way that was so much more than simply a son's love for his mother. I could almost feels his hands on me as he said it, hungry for me in a way that I had never realized before.

I struggled to keep my voice under control, but could hear the strain in my voice as I murmured, "I...I love you too, John."

Tears were flooding my eyes so I could barely see. I struggled to not break down into a sobbing mess as after another uncomfortable pause, my son said in a soft, caring tone, "It's going to be alright, Mom. I'll be back tomorrow night and I promise I'll take care of you. You're my girl, after all, right?"

"Yes," I whispered. "I'm your girl, son." Part of me was horrified that I would even play along with this madness after my shocking discovery. The sane part of me scolded the rest of me, insisting that I shouldn't be adding fuel to the fire of my son's madness.

John chuckled as he usually did after this exchange, but now I could hear something underneath the humor in his voice. Something hungry...something lustful, a sexual undertone I had never perceived before! After we disconnected, I began to shake so badly I could barely put the phone back into its cradle. Suddenly, I was sobbing hysterically and I fell onto the bed, curling up into ball.

I had no idea what to do. Who do you go to for help in a situation like this? Call your priest or minister? Your best friend? How the hell do you tell someone, "Hey, my son wants to fuck me, what do you think I should do?"

I think I laid there for maybe an hour before I cried myself out. I crawled a bit unsteadily from the bed and noticed through the doorway that I'd left the light on in that other room...that shrine my son had created. I couldn't face the prospect of going back in there to turn off the light and instead retreated to the bathroom, deciding to take a shower.

I peeled off my clothes and was astounded when as I peeled off my panties to discover how sticky they were. I ran a hand down between my legs, feeling the dampness in my thick bush and then further to discover how slick and swollen my labia were. I looked at myself in the mirror, still gently, awkwardly fluttering fingers through my pussy and was astounded to see my nipples absolutely swollen to the point that they ached. I watched as my expression changed from one of puzzlement to one of horror. Did I -- had I gotten a bit aroused by all of my son's fantasies. WAS I ACTUALLY TURNED ON BY THIS MADNESS?

I jumped into the shower, not letting the water heat up and cried out as the cold water hit me as I tried to wake myself up out of this nightmare. I shivered until the water warmed and grew hot and then tried to lose myself in the pulsating torrents. It didn't work as I soaped my body up -- suddenly aware of my own voluptuousness. My hands caressed my large tits, teasing my still swollen nipples before sliding downwards over my round tummy and between my legs. The tensions of the afternoon's shocks came to a head as I spread my labia and jammed several fingers into my suddenly horny pussy.

I found myself leaning against the shower wall and positioning the nozzle to massage my clitoris as I began plunging three fingers in and out of my sodden cunt. No foreplay desired, I sought release, wanting pure pleasure to wash away my stress. Without warning, the image of my son's naked body as portrayed in the painting in the other room snuck into my thoughts, the image of that immense cock dominating my mind's eye as I wondered if it was really that big.

I tried to focus solely on my fingers, trying to bring myself off quickly, but suddenly I had a vision of my son in the shower with me -- between my legs, feeding me that tremendous cock and I cried out as my orgasm washed over me while I wondered how a cock that big would feel inside me.​