I think Hermes was not terribly sure of himself when he said, "Dad will surely deal with it after I fuck you."

"Herman Sandwater, that is the most ridiculous, and rude thing I've ever heard you say!" I scolded my son. I was lying, but it was the first time he'd openly confronted me with his sick desire. I knew at the end of his pronouncement, it was the beginning of the shame I would feel. Before then, I had only felt threatened, threat that for the longest time had been easy to laugh off.

My husband, Alan, and I had conceived Hermes under a full sea of stars sharing an oversized sleeping bag. When we learned I was pregnant with a boy, we had already saved the names Hermes and Dionysus, but to save their schooling the record would show, "Herman" and "Diona".

Hermes had all the comforts of a lower middle-class income and two parents who took the time to learn how to raise children well. Our son's staunch optimism and confidence was a surprising and welcome result, at first. Alan and I easily loved our one child. We needed no more. Our family felt complete the day I returned with our son from the hospital.

I reminisce, wondering if my marriage's sex life hadn't begun to wane in those first years of parenting. Hermes was a fussy child in certain situations: going to bed, getting dressed and undressed, bathing, and feeding. At play, or exploring, and even learning he had the patience of a cat. But if I tried to buy a new pair of pajamas, he'd squirm and squeal, and tear them off. He wasn't strong enough to actually tear them, but he did pop a button once in his rush to disrobe. Then he would glare at us until we returned his favorite pair, until he'd grown so much he couldn't get his arms and legs into them. Then he peacefully accepted new ones that were similar in ever respect except size.

I can't say he was more or less fussy when feeding, but I should have been more careful about varying how and when I gave him my breasts. He came to demand a strict regimen of me holding him while sitting on Daddy's lounge chair. First he would suck on my left breast. Then he would suck on my right. If I tried to feed him in the kitchen or on the sofa, it was no good. He wouldn't feed. He'd pout. Even at six months, he had learned a daunting pout.

It's not like he controlled us. We'd often let him pout and I would close my nursing bra and button my blouse. Sometimes, in warm seasons, we'd let him stand naked and let him find his old, ratty (but always washed) PJs by himself. Rarely, Alan or I would bring up the topic of spanking, and the other would reason that idiot practice out of the conversation. We were actually very proud of our boy. Like we said, he was in the most important ways well adjusted and handled a child's many frustrations with aplomb.

Maybe I should have taken some stricter measures when, one day, Hermes was 11 at the time, he threw his last pair of pajamas into the trash and went to bed naked. Alan and I discussed his refusal to sleep clothed thereafter. We decided that it was fine as long as he kept himself warm and didn't go long out of his room naked. A trip to the bathroom in the middle of the night was no big deal. Lounging in front of the television, playing Nintendo was verboten. Alan and I had frequent guests, and our extended families preferred extended visits. At least, we used to. These days, only our parents visit, rarely and briefly.

After deciding to ignore a naked boy who kept to himself, we launched into a year-long discussion of how to go about explaining sexuality to him. We had actually introduced the concepts of sex and where babies came from years ago in the form of picture books and opportunistic question and answer sessions. He hadn't many questions, compared to my childhood. I wanted to know everything about every part and activity. It drove my conservative parents mad, and I even felt my father's belt when I used the wrong word. That may have stopped me from saying, "Fuck" and "Prick" and "Pussy" in front of my parents, but I would say it twice as often around my friends. And the belt didn't stop my questions, it made me want to know the answers even more.

Alan and I can count on one hand the number of 'naughty' words Hermes uttered in his preteen years. We refused to be moved by them, and we said them rarely ourselves.

"Mom, I read that mothers who nurse their children as long as you did, have sagging, flat tits a decade before moms who didn't nurse."

I responded with silent disbelief at Hermes' surprising outburst when he was thirteen.

"Gosh, mom, your tits are as full as ever." He seemed happy about that, simply happy. I couldn't help but feel the warmth of plain vanity. I returned to typing on my laptop, sitting there on the couch while my son watched a decade old sit-com that lazy afternoon. A few weeks later I felt that other emotion, shame.

"I know this may sound strange, but I'm going to feel your tits."

"You've had your years of feeling them." I replied with finality, but I silently chided myself for saying it. Reminding him of how he used to suck at my nipples with precocious precision and procedure was not the best retort a mother tells her son!

At dinner, the following weekend, Hermes asked his father, "Do mom's tits feel the same as they did when you married her?"

"Son that's a private matter." My husband answered. "Are you favoring any sports at school?" He changed the subject, and it stayed changed.

Although the reader might think I found my husband's words reassuring, but I caught myself glancing at my chest. When I looked back at Hermes, his lips carried a faint upwards curl. My husband was looking at his finger, "It's okay if you don't favor any sport, but physical health is important for happiness. That's why your mom and I take a brisk walk most evenings."

About every month, Hermes spoke to me about my "tits". Less often he mentioned them to his father. There can be no doubt, our son was masturbating frequently at this age. Every time I found that he hadn't emptied the wastebasket in his room, I wondered if those clumps of stained tissues were an expression of Hermes imagining how my breasts would feel. He did grow out of talking about my tits after months of bald questions and reactions no more rewarding than a blush.

"Mom is your clitoris abnormally long when erect?" That was the day I knew he had breached the porn filters on the family computer. Our attempt to substitute porn with websites that held sex to a higher standard of equality and factuality was a good attempt. He may be surfing through sleaze today, but he should certainly understand the difference.

I snapped, "Are you going to bother me with questions about my genitals for as long as you kept asking about my tits?"

He smiled for a second, and I felt a little fear. "I-I just wanted to know." He stuttered. I'm still not sure that he wasn't faking it.

"I meant breasts."

"I know, mom." He left me then. The next day I found his wastebasket full of wadded, stinking tissues. He had emptied it just two days prior.

"Dad, how often do you and mom have sex?"

"Son that's a private matter. Are you researching something for health class?"

I couldn't believe that Alan would give a horny young man such an opening.

"Nah, I'm just wondering."

"Hey, mom, how often do you masturbate? I bet I do it more."

He did it more often than a gambler asks for cards. "I don't know. I don't count." Was not what I should have said.

"I'd be happy to count for you. How many times have you done it today?"

"Are you finished with your homework?" I tried changing the subject.

He snickered, "Yeah, what you mean, and the work I like doing at home instead." He actually pumped his fist once in front of me.

"You're disgusting." I knew better than to say that. Not that I was worried one disapproving outburst would give him a complex about masturbating. I worried that I was letting my fears get to me.

He didn't' pursue the topic further. Hermes simply wandered off, patience wafting where he had stood.

"Masturbation should be allowed in school." Our son piped up ad dinner that night.

"I agree." Alan remarked.

No more was said, but I couldn't eat my slice of Boston cream pie for dessert later. I cried myself to sleep.

"Do you like the taste of cum, mom?" He asked asked the next day, after his father had left for work.

"Do you like the taste of soap?" I threatened. We had never put soap in his mouth.

"It doesn't taste like soap to me."

"Your mother has better taste than you." I tried a bit of snark. It definitely bit into my growing apprehensions when alone with my son.

"You haven't tasted mine, yet."

"Oh, for PETE'S SAKE!" I yelled.

And then it was forgotten, but not for long.

In the afternoon, after school, a few day's later, he was waiting for me when I next found his wastebasket full of tissues. He appeared in his room's doorway, blocking me in. "Have you ever though about smelling them?"

"Out of my way!" I hissed. He cleared out. "And empty that."

Every time I got mad, I felt more and more helpless. I confessed our son's sins to Alan. He laughed. "Sorry, hon, it is a serious matter. Let's talk with him." We knocked on our son's door, united.

"Come in. I'm just finishing this."

We opened the door and saw Hermes wiping his erect cock with a handful of tissues. "We need bigger tissues." He complained.

Alan and I were at a loss for words. I finally sputtered, "When you've cleaned up, come to the living room. Your father and I have something important to talk with you about."

Ten minutes later, we three sat in silence.

"You've been troubling your mother with questions you know upset her." Alan finally began.

"I know, Dad." He looked and sounded genuinely remorseful.

"Is there something lacking in your education about human sexuality?"

"Yeah, Dad, there is. I want to know what sex is like."

"You're popular enough at school. I know you've had some crushes on girls. You know we approve of safe sex between consenting minors."

"I don't want a girl." He paused. "I don't want a boy either." His eyes rolled. "I want a man, I mean a woman, I mean an adult."

Alan pursed his lips. "Hmmm." After two full minutes of pondering, he eyed me.

"No, we're not hiring a prostitute." I was adamant. "Honey, you're not an adult, at least the age of adult that I think you mean. And if you try, you'll get that adult in horrific trouble with the law."

Alan continued. "It's an unfair fact of our society. No matter how responsible and conscientious you act, you are legally a minor. My first time, I wasn't much older than you. My second time wasn't for a few years later, but my first time was good and with a girl near your age. When you have options that are more rewarding than masturbation, hurrying into adulthood must be easier to resist."

"I dunno. I really, really like masturbating and thinking about fucking mom." So much for our responsible, conscientious son.

That night, in bed with Alan, I reprimanded him, "You said your first time wasn't a time. You didn't even penetrate the girl."

"True, but like I'm going to tell that to my son." We slept as far apart as we could from that night on.

Our son kept his comments out of our lives for another few days.

"Dad will surely deal with it after I fuck you."

"Herman Sandwater, that is the most ridiculous, and rude thing I've ever heard you say!" I burst.

Collecting myself, "You don't know what you're saying. You're a hormone addled teenager desperate to get off, controlled by a ridiculous fantasy. And you know it."

"I don't care if I know what I'm saying or not." Hermes stepped into my personal space and he clasp my shoulders.

I felt a lightning bolt strike, and then his fingers caressed my arms. He pulled me close to kiss.

"St-stop it, Herman." I sputtered.

His pucker deflated. His pluck didn't. "Afraid you might like it?"

"Oh, I might have, until I stopped you. Is that what you're thinking? What kind of lame porno is going through your head?" I shouted. "Don't answer that!"

Instead of kissing me, my son drew me into a hug. My face flushed. Alan hadn't hugged me as warmly in months. The bit of shame I felt was merely a herald.

Hermes released me, smiled as warmly as he had hugged me and went to his room.

I stood there until I realized the sun was setting. Alan would be driving into the garage. I assumed my role as food preparer.

When Alan arrived, I glided up to my husband and hugged him, but my attempt at warmth was driven by fear. He didn't know the difference. He hugged me back, firmly. That night we had pretty good sex.

Another day. "Mom, come masturbate with me." Hermes stood naked in his doorway. His cock, while not upwardly erect, was long with blood. I was carrying our vacuum cleaner to my room.

I turned my face away. A week had passed since Alan and I had fornicated. "I don't have the time that you have." It wasn't a no, and I bit my lip while scurrying away.

An hour later, I knocked on my son's door.

"Come in."

"Are you finished?"

"I could start over again."

"I mean, is your wastebasket full?"

"Oh," He looked down. "Yeah, it is. Mom, could you empty it this time?"

"You just implied you weren't tired."

"I'm not, but I don't feel like put on clothes just to empty it." He continued to lay naked on his bed.

I had to approach him. I leaned down to grasp the basket.

"Mom, if you were wearing a sexier top, I could see what I imagine is pure gorgeous tit cleavage."

I took the basket of freshly soaked tissues out of my son's room. I cried when I dumped it into the house can. "How can he keep doing this to me?"

That night I masturbated in bed, next to Alan. He seemed happy enough to watch me. It took me much longer than usual to cum.

The next day I was brushing mushrooms at the sink. Hermes' hands reached around my waist. He pressed his face into my back.

"You smell so sexy."

"Let me go."

He released me. I turned around. His face lit up before he could quash his surprise. "Um, I didn't know you had a shirt cut that low."

"It's new." I turned back to my mushrooms. My face was hot enough to make them sweat.

He kissed the back of my neck. "Come empty my wastebasket, later." He left quickly.

The stuffed shrooms had been baking for half an hour before I entered his room, without knocking. He sat on the side of his bed. He penis was flaccid, but the tip glistened. Without comment, I reached for his wastebasket. He had filled it higher than ever before.

"I left a little on top."

My eyes involuntarily glanced at it. In front of me, my son's prick re-inflated. Quickly or slowly, I could not tell. My sense of time was lost to me. The first thing I realized was, I was still leaning over. My son looked as content as a monk before the Buddha.

"Bring it back, quickly, Mom." He reached for his hard-on.

I fled, spilling one or two tissues behind me. When I returned, he had thrown a dozen more wads onto the carpet.

"You should pick those up, the ones you dropped, I mean."

I kneeled down and collected every soggy clump, careful to touch only dry corners. They covered the bottom of the basket. I had bought him an extra large a year ago.

"Thank you, Mother." He patted his bed. "Come sit with me."

I stood. "The mushrooms-"

"This won't take you long." He held up the box of tissues.

I was wearing shorts that reached my knees. Hermes sank to the floor when I stood, and he unbuttoned my pants. I shucked them myself and sat on my son's bed. Reaching into my plain white panties, I pressed my turgid clit and rubbed it.

Hermes surprised me by looking away. He sat beside me, though, and put his arm around me.

I stared at his drained cock. It had had enough for one day. I was far behind my son's capacity, but when orgasm shook me, multiple times, I knew I had equaled his pleasure.

My tissues were added to his.

Alan waxed enthusiastically about the mushrooms. He even fucked me that night. I smiled back at him. It was the last sex we had that week.

Two days passed. We were watching television, after Alan and I had taken a brisk after dinner walk. Hermes entered the living room, walked over to me and lay down on the couch. He put his head in my lap and looked at my tits.

Alan blinked and stared at us. "Mother, is he bothering you."

"Yes."

"Hermes."

"Yes, Father?"

"You're bothering your mother."

"Yes, Father."

When neither of us acted, he blinked again, stared for a while longer, and looked back at the TV screen.

When the show ended, Alan stood. "Let's go to bed, Sweetheart."

I followed my husband into our room and I rode his prick until I came nearly as hard as the the previous week. His juices shot into me with more fervor than usual.

"Thanks, Honey." I got off of him. He rolled over.

Just as I was falling asleep, he asked, "Do I need to have another talk with our son?"

"I'll talk to him."

We slept.

"Hermes, I won't let you fuck me. In fact, I probably won't even empty your basket again."

"Probably?"

I looked at it.

"There's still room there. Next time you fill it, you empty it."

"Wait there, Mom. I promise I will."

I was standing in the doorway. He was sitting at his desk. He stood and unsnapped his jeans. I watched him pull down his trousers and tug them off his feet. He sat on his bed and reached for the box of tissues. His erection pushed out the front of his briefs. He fingered the elastic band and lifted his legs. Then he slipped off his underwear with the deftness of a magician.

I watched him grasp his manhood and stroke it. "Mom, toss your shirt over here."

For that I would have to remove it. It landed on the bed right next to him.

He picked it up with his other hand and sniffed it. "Mom." He said.

A jet of sperm flew into the air and landed on the carpet.

I opened my mouth at the sight. I was having trouble breathing. I drew in deeply.

He caught the rest of his cum with my blouse. He sighed intensely. I could see his eyes dilate. He dropped my blouse on the carpet where his sperm was soaking in. I dove to retrieve it. My breasts bounced heavily in their wire bra. For a moment, I could decide whether to clean up his stain or let him. What I heard broke my thoughts.

He was masturbating again. His hand flew over his prick, using its flesh to stroke its core. I was low before him on my hands and knees. He looked at me with the most beautiful eyes. Then his cum arced between us and splattered against my shoulder. He reached for tissues and handed them to me, before pulling more to clean his hand and cock.

I wiped carpet and shoulder with my blouse. I took it and the fresh tissues back to my room.

My resolve lasted a week. I refused Hermes' continued invitations, until I thought of a different way.

"Why haven't you worn that shirt again?"

"You know why."

"I know why, but I imagine that you hung it in your closet without cleaning it."

"Come with me."

I led him into my bedroom. I opened my closet and pointed. "There. Cleaned and pressed."

"Great!" He took the hanger and released the blouse into his hands. He re-hooked the hanger and draped the garment over his shoulder. That freed his hands to pull at the full blouse tucked into my shirt. He lifted it up my naked torso, reaching the peaks of my bra until my arms prevented further revelations.

We stared.

"Raise your arms, Mom."

I almost did. I didn't want to, but my arms would have.

"Leave my room, Hermes. Give me a minute alone."

I met him in the hall. His eyes smiled at my extra cleavage. Then his eyes popped wide. "You're not wearing-"

"Dad will be home, shortly." I brushed past him, careful not to bump him with my breasts.

Alan was chatty at dinner. Hermes and I, I'm afraid to admit, gave him canned responses. He'd rented an action movie. He watched from his lounge. Hermes and I watched from the couch. His head was in my lap, but he never once looked at my tits.

When the movie ended, Alan licked his lips and looked at me expectantly.

Hermes reached up my blouse and cradled my unconfined breasts. "It's okay, Dad."

I was consumed by shame. "Honey, I'll be with you in a minute."

My husband gulped and walked out of the room.

"For the next sixty seconds, my son fondled my tits, exposed them, pinched my nipples, bit them, and sucked on them.

I stood, pulled my top back in order, and left Hermes.

"Alan, I need you to fuck me as hard as you can."

He did. We both came twice. I mean, I told him I came twice. It was more times than that.

The next morning, Alan vented. "Hermes, I'll not have you molesting your mother while you live in our house."

"Yes, Father. Should I move out? I don't know where I'll live, but I'll try to find work."

"Don't be insulting. That's just more of your childishness."

"Your father's right."

"I'm sorry, Dad."

"Maybe I should quit my job, to keep an eye on both of you!" Alan had anger issues. He didn't have real anger in him. If he had, he might have won me back.

I know that I lack the kind of discipline it takes to prevent my son's advances. I needed Alan to make up for my lack.

"Dad, if I told mom to suck your dick, right now, what would you do?"

His father turned bright red. "That's a shameful thing to say!"

"I can't help myself. I can go to school, get excellent grades, do all my chores at home, hang out with my friends, and masturbate every few hours, but I can't keep this lust out of my head."

"I could send you to military school."

"Please!"

"No, Father!" I exclaimed. "That would be heartless and unjust."

"Mother, I claim my right as a husband for you to be faithful to me."

"That's sweet, Honey." I wrapped my arms around Alan. I didn't know what else to do.

Hermes hung his head until breakfast was eaten and Alan had driven away.

"I'm going to go jack-off." He left the table. I hadn't seen my boy sulk for many a year.

I went to my son's door when I heard it shut. I knocked.

"Mom?"

"I'm coming in." I opened the door to find Hermes in the middle of disrobing. I shut the door behind me and pulled my top over my head. As my son drew down cotton boxers, I unfettered my breasts and hung top and bra over his chair.

I hugged him, myself naked above, him below. I sat him down on his bed and sat beside him. "You'll get tired of your mom's tits, if this is all we do." I surprised my son by grasping his iron hard prick and jacking it for him.

"Mother!" He rasped.

His first explosion shot off in a minute. His second took two. Five minutes after that he had cum on my hand and over the carpet three times.

"More?" I asked sweetly.

"What about you?"

"That's not something you ask a lady who jacks off her son."

"That's not the regular meaning of lady."

"It is, in our house."

He reached for my breasts. I had to change hands. The first was exhausted. He took two minutes to cum a fourth time. I was getting pretty hot myself. As much as I loved hands on my tits, my whole body yearned to be massaged. This I did not tell my son.

I cleaned my hands as best I could, with my son's seemingly endless supply of tissue boxes. I had never bought him any. I made him clean himself up and the floor. When all those tissues were wadded and tossed into his wastebasket, I moved to get up.

He stopped me. His hand reached into my skirt, under my panties. I felt the first finger enter me.

"N-no, Honey."

He didn't say anything, but he looked very serious. I felt shame again. My son was fucking my pussy with his fingers. He wasn't very good at it, compared to me, but having another person jacking their hand in and out of my cunt felt far more wonderful.

"Please, stop it."

His hand trembled inside me. It picked up the pace. I was getting close.

"Mom, I could fuck you right now."

He couldn't. His dick was still shrinking. I didn't care. My head convulsed with pleasure surging up from my loins. My son's hand was freeing my last resistance. He could have fucked me in the ass right then, and I would have let him.

The orgasm continued to build, release, and rebuild. Waves crashed inside my head. I lost my senses. "Ohhhhh!!!" I gripped my boy's arm and pulled on it and pushed on it. My cum didn't stop until I fell back on my son's bed.

"Thank you, Mother."

I left the room to empty his wastebasket.

Over the weekend, Alan took the family camping. We all shared a tent. He and I shared a sleeping bag. He even helped with the cooking. Mostly we took hikes along mountain trails. "This is what our family needs, a change of air. Fresh air, fresh experiences, fresh perspectives." We'd been hiking up a valley for three hours. When we looked back, the view was stunning.

"That's pretty cool, Dad. What's it like from the top?"

"Let's find out." We resumed out ascent.

We didn't find out. Alan pulled a muscle and it took us four hours to hobble back down the trail. We were exhausted, thirsty, starving, and the park ranger said Alan should rest for the next day. I tried to sleep with Alan, but kept bumping his swollen calf.

He sighed, "Nobody's going to sleep tonight, if I keep yelping. Hermes, let's switch."

"Yes, Father."

Alan was none too happy to give the camping bed he shared with his wife, to his sexual rival. "Just get some sleep."

I wasn't thrilled, either. I kept my distance, which was about two inches. I made Hermes turn away from me. I kept my eyes locked on Alan's. He soon passed into unconsciousness. I couldn't tell if my son was snoring, but his breathing was low and relaxed. I eventually drifted off to sleep.

"Mom." The whisper woke me.

There was movement in the sleeping bag. My eyes blinked open. It was very dark, but I could tell that my son had turned around to face me.

"I'm going to cum, mom."

"Stop that! I whispered.

"My tissues are next to Dad."

"Don't you dare make a mess in this bag. We have to sleep in it tomorrow too."

He used his boxers. "Huuuh, Unnnghh." I imagined the sound of him cumming was like one of those big, pump water guns. Sploosh! "Ahh, I needed that." He finished wiping himself, but then held his underwear in front of my face.

"Hey!" I turned my head.

"Sorry, Mom. What do I do with this?"

My son was now fully naked in the same sleeping bag with his slightly horny mother. I was the one wearing pajamas, flannel, dark blue.

"Toss it to the far corner. Whatever. Get it out of my face."

He threw it gently, but it was dark and he missed his mark. It landed near Alan's head. Hermes giggled. I mostly stopped myself from joining, but one snort cleared my nose. Hermes wrapped his arms around me. He hugged me and kissed my lips. I shook my head, but he didn't quit. His warm lips massaged my cheeks. His tongue flicked out and swiped my lips. I wasn't having it.

"You've already gone too far."

"Yes, Mother." He stopped trying to tongue me, but he continued his strong hug. I went limp, hoping to bore him. He released me, but his hand pressed my belly and stroked down, trying to invade my bottoms.

"No." I pushed at his hand.

He took mine and placed it on his cock. It jutted full sized.

"If I do this, you'll stop?"

"I'll stop."

I jacked my son's healthy erection. Very soon, I realized my mistake. He was grunting. We'd run out of things to catch his spunk. Hell if I was going to use my PJs.

"Uhh, ooohhh." He cooed. I couldn't see the glimmer of laughter in his eyes.

Damnit!

I curled down into the bag. I felt his hand on the back of my head. He hadn't planned this, but he instantly understood that his mom was going to suck his juices right out of him. I opened my mouth and received his plum. My mind yelled, squirt, damnit!

"Don't just put your mouth on it, Mom. Suck or lick, but doing nothing ain't gonna make me cum again."

I wanted to get it over as fast as possible. I sucked. I licked his dong like honey running down my arm. He bucked the length of his cock far down my face hole. His crotch was still sweaty from our hike. I gagged in multiple ways.

"Yeah. Sucking it good." He held my head in place. "Uuuuuhhhh!" He grunted. I needed air, but what I got was a mouthful of spunk. Sperm shot into my throat, and I swallowed quick to keep up with my son's load. It was thick and warm, and I was instantly grateful it hadn't shot into my uterus.

After a minute I struggled to escape the bonds of our sleeping bag, but his hand kept holding me down. His dick never softened. I bit it, not to draw blood.