Copyright© 2000-2003

There was a young man from Dallas
Who had an exceptional phallus.
He couldn't find room
In any girl's womb
Without rubbing it first with Vitalis.

I silently thanked whatever god looked out for teenage boys - thanking that higher power from taking my son in that accident that stole half a dozen other parents children. A school skiing trip - four days of fun away from parents, with friends and only two teachers as chaperons - it had turned into a nightmare. Dozens had been hurt, half of the teens that had went on the trip had been of the fourteen found dead at the scene. Their car having taken the brunt of the train crash.

Over a month ago and it still stunned me how close we had all come to loosing my oldest child.

Greg, my husband had responded with rage - his lawyer filling suits against every company involved in the trip and more specifically the accident.

I couldn't care - my son was alive. That's all that matters!

Though I had to admit that he was certainly not the 'old' Steve that I had sent on that fateful trip. More introspective... quiet, his eyes missing nothing... somber - he had always been an emotional boy. Yet he claimed he remembered nothing of the crash - I hoped it was true. The pictures of the rescue workers pulling bodies out of that wreck froze my heart and prayed, indeed, that my only son would never remember that tragic time.

In the initial weeks after the accident at night I would hear him call out in fear and would quickly come to his bedside - as any caring parent should - I would lay in his bed stroking his brow till the sweat and tremors subsided, his arms holding me fiercely with his face against my bosom.

Then there was Carol, my daughter, two years younger than her brother Steve. And at first she seemed as sympathetic toward her older siblings anguish as I had hoped she would - but lately the young girl had to practically be forced to do anything for her brother. It troubled me - but I had enough to worry about with Steve to attempt to help the young woman with her problems. Whatever it was, she would have to work it out on her own, it could not possibly be as enormous a burden as my oldest child was going through?

The doctor had said he should stay home for the rest of this semester, and the summer session following, so I resolved myself to care for Steve during the next several months. I am his mother, the woman that gave birth to him, I am the best chance he has for a full recovery. It was not the scratches and mild concussion which were healed in a matter of weeks but he seemed to have a darkness within him and he was distant from everyone.

Everyone, that is, except me. He was different with me than with anyone else - not the same little boy I had helped develop into a young man though.

Steven wanted to be near me most of the day; helping me in the kitchen, reading as I watched television, sitting and simply watching me as I tidied the house. I took it as a great compliment actually, that my mothering skills could somehow draw him out of whatever black hole his mind had fallen into.

I knew I was the key to saving my son's soul - his black mood and sullen heart was mine to save. Contrary to how much work and patience was involved, I savoured our time together - reminiscent when my boy was but a toddler and still he looked at me as the most important person in his world. That's was it felt like - and in truth I enjoyed it.

But Steve wasn't a little boy any more - I am embarrassed to admit that my son often sported a bulge within his pants, especially when we cuddled at night or when he watched me about the house.

Teenage boys will be boys right?

Hell - he hasn't even left the house for nearly two months, there was only Carol and I that were the only female species in his life. Don't think I haven't tried to get him out of the house - at first tiny requests to go to the store with me, to having some of his friends call and ask him out. Nothing got him out of the house. The closest he got was going to the room above our garage - accessible only through a tiny flight of stairs from our kitchen - and I gave him his privacy there. Thankful that he was able to find some respite in his troubled life.

Since the accident Steve rarely spoke - it came to the point that when he did we all became quiet and hung upon his words. And he never wasted phrases on mundane or irrelevant conversation. Rather, when he spoke, it was for a purpose - even if that purpose was as simple as, "pass the salt". Greg and I never even tried to correct his manners or his almost-ordering phrase of speech - so thankful that he spoke at all.

I'm a good mother - never doubt that!

I do, I'm embarrassed to say. Two months and my son would not even talk on the phone yet. I try with all my heart, doing everything my son ordered/asks - knowing my patience and love will triumph.

When he told me to wear skirts 'only', it troubled me and I told him a firm 'no' - what I wore was none of his business. For one, it was still winter - I would rather wear long underwear beneath cotton pants than skirts or dresses. Though I told him that I could not comply to this request, I wore a long wool skirt with black leggings and a huge hand knit sweater the next day. Nothing was said and he just looked me up and down slowly and returned to his breakfast - that was three weeks ago and I haven't worn pants since.

Its a small price to pay isn't it?

I mean my son is very disturbed, and for whatever reason he wanted his mother to only wear skirts. Big deal right? I wore the skirts, having to go out and purchase more leggings so I don't freeze, trying not to wonder why he asked me to do this for him. I knew though, I saw it in his eyes - you see, I have shapely firm legs that I was quite proud of. Evidently Steven enjoyed them as well. What else could it be?

Then, a few days after I started to wear skirts and dresses for my son, he told me to stop wearing a bra!

Just like that, as we stood next to each other drying the dishes from lunch. I was so stunned I didn't say anything - I could have ignored the reasoning behind him telling me to wear skirts but how could I ignore this request? After we finished our chore, I sat in the bathroom and just stared at the floor not knowing what to do - I had felt so guilty at being stern with his last request, something I had ended up doing anyway. Yet when I came back down stairs that afternoon my 'C' cup breasts swayed beneath my sweater as my son's eyes were glued to my chest.

I ignored his undecipherable gaze for the rest of that day. And do you want to know something else, I haven't worn a bra since.

Its unhealthy for a teenage boy to be couped up in the house with only his mother and sister to look at. Yet, how could I deny him such a small request - after all I'm a middle-aged woman... as soon as Steve starts getting out of the house, there are much perkier breasts to gaze at to be sure. I know the more frequent hugs I got from him now were mostly selfishness on his part to feel my unbound boobs pressed against his strong chest, but I gave them freely and willingly.

I loved my son and would do anything to help him.

Correction, I was doing 'anything'.

Wasn't I?

Over time Carol was becoming very introverted and irritable - I guessed it to be jealously at my attention toward her brother. She even started to get into trouble at school - but I let Greg discipline her, my attention focused upon Steve. That girl was grounded more than not these last weeks!

When Steve and I were alone I would attend to his every need; waiting on him like some servant of old. Yet I was a devoted and loving servant that understood that my patience and closeness would bring my son back to us.

I actually was pleased when I discovered my son was masturbating. His sheets and underwear would be infrequently crusty with old dried spots that could only be his erotic emissions. That stopped after the accident. A week after I stopped wearing a bra, I started to find the familiar spots again. Perhaps I'm the crazy one - as I held up the sheet with the tell-tale spot and laughed with happiness. My patience was being rewarded, slowly my son was returning to a normal fifteen year old.

But it wasn't like before - when I overheard him masturbating in his room one afternoon, only a couple days after finding the sheet, it took forever I'm embarrassed to admit. Yes, I stood outside his closed door and listened, at first pleased and then worried when it had to have been twenty minutes since I discovered him.

Then it was daily - and he was none too private about it either. He would watch me with those brown wide eyes - my shapely legs revealed and my swaying breasts beneath my clothing adding to his viewing pleasure - he would then give me a long firm hug and finally simply walk away. If I followed I would hear those tell-tale sounds from his room.

When he was finished, and would again descend to the main floor of our home, he would order me to clean his bed. I kid you not - "Mom, my bed needs cleaning." He would follow me up the stairs and I would bundle up his soiled bed sheets and take them to the basement to wash. You know what they were soiled with don't you? I was always non-chalant with the whole thing though - a pleasant smile plastered to my face. I did not want to startle him with my embarrassment or my uneasy with the familiarity with my son's sexuality.

"Mom, clean that." I stole away from my thoughts and looked down to see that he had dropped several spoonfuls of baked beans upon the floor. Steve had done it purposely I knew, but I smiled that pleasant patient smile and retrieved a towel, then got on hands and knees.

I didn't realize my bottom was facing him until after the floor was clean - when I returned to the table to find him stroking his cock above the bulge in his jeans. He wasn't wearing a smile, he hasn't smiled since before the accident. As I sat stunned, he lifted up his half eaten bun and dropped it on the floor and just glared at me.

Daring me.

I squatted down to get the bun, thankful that my son wouldn't get the view had had earlier. Then he ordered, "Do it on your knees mom." Never harshly said, never firm or threatening - his orders always calmly spoken, but always strangely forceful.

He was my son - and I would do anything to help him. If giving himself a thrill by looking at his mothers wide bottom - then so be it.

I got down on my hands and knees and searched out the crumbs, really just something to do so as to say in that kneeling position longer, knowing why I was really down here, and then stood back up to throw away the refuse.

"Come here." I did, standing between his spread knees, my heart pounding hard and fast - fear really. Bending over to give my son a thrill was one thing but what if he... ? Steve pressed his head between my breasts and wrapped his arms about me in a firm hug. I knew what was coming - and he simply released me and retreated to his room. I cleaned up the kitchen anticipating his voice from behind me, "Mom, go clean my bed."

This all sounds incredible to you doesn't it?

Well it does to me - I'm not so clueless that I didn't see it all in a very sober light. Its only that I had no idea how to stop it without harming my son's chances for rehabilitation - not knowing where to draw the line with his requests. I do know that things were on the threshold of going out of my control... yet isn't it worth it to save your child?

Today, when I came out of my rooms private bathroom wearing my old ratty cloth robe and fuzzy slippers, I found Steven going through my underwear drawer. He didn't even acknowledge that I had discovered him, as he seemed to be sorting through my panties. I watched open mouthed surprised as I realized my son was retrieving most of my undergarments and throwing them on the top of the dresser. When my drawer was mostly empty, he bundled the large pile up and turned to me saying, "Only buy more of what I have left", he calmly walked out of my room.

When I looked into my open drawer I found all of the bras had disappeared and only the panties that were cut not for style but for some erotic purpose. Mostly that meant high in the thigh lace panties, and one thong. Not even enough for a weeks worth of wearing - no wonder he told me I would need to go shopping.

I almost cried right then - not knowing what to do. The snowball was rolling down that mountain and I knew it would soon be an avalanche.

Want to know something else? I didn't cry... and I did wear the panties that my son had picked out for me. Most of which I haven't worn in years and were at least two sizes too smile for my older wider hips and ass.

When I came down stairs that same morning, I saw that there was a new garbage bag near the back door with what could only be assumed to be my undergarments. Steven ignored my questioning look and strode the few feet to me and stuck both his hands behind me - and on my ass.

It wasn't an erotic touch, at least I don't think so, but a firm exploration as my son confirmed that I wore what he had ordered. I had. Even when he pulled his hands from me I could still feel them against my body - the first hands to touch me like that since before I married Greg. My son returned to the family room and ordered me to make him a hot chocolate - I was thankful for the change of the thick mood that had prevailed since I had found him going through my drawers and so, rushed to comply.

That very night I noticed something in Carol; the change in her appearance. Sluttier I was stunned to realize! Though don't imagine that this just happened today - as she has been dressing like this for weeks, only her mother was too preoccupied to notice. After supper when Steve went to his room to read and Greg was watching the news I followed my daughter to her room.

That's when the shouting started. You know, how mothers and their teenage daughters scrape - loud and vicious. When Greg came to half-drag me from the room and then going into Carol's room and slamming the door - it wasn't shouts I heard but crying as he spanked her. The first time in years I assume.

I went to my room and cried.

In only a few days things were becoming even more serious; you see Steve stopped closing his door when he masturbated each afternoon. The first couple of times, after I realized he had left it open and the obvious sounds drifted to the kitchen, I would steal down to the basement to hide. Yet he soon was calling me to his room before he even started, "Come here mother", or "Follow me mom".

Yes, I stood in his doorway and watched as my soon slowly masturbated.

I can't say it didn't affect me - never actually seeing a man jerk off before - but I was scared more than excited. Or so I thought.

Steve would hold his dick in one hand and pour his sperm out into a handful of a sheet before rolling off the bed and ordering, "Clean my bed mom."

Don't think that lasted long though - within a week of that he was jerking off in any room in the house, always with me standing watching him. As there was rarely something to deposit his sperm into I had to retrieve a towel to wash off his come wherever that life-giving liquid ended up.

His eyes watching me the whole time.

"You forgot something mom." He nodded at the head of his dick and after swallowing loudly I leaned over and brushed the towel over it until his circumcised penis was again clean and dry. His hand groping my ass above my clothing the whole time.

I was going crazy - both at these intimate demands upon me and by the lack of release. What I mean is that Greg barely came to bed at night, working long hours in his study - and when he did, would not even touch me. While daily, I watched our son masturbate, cleaning his ejaculate, and when I got to my own room I found I had to do something I haven't done in years. I masturbated.

Steve knew this somehow - as one day, after I finished cleaning up his come off the leather couch, he went to the kitchen and returned to hand me a big fat carrot. I gave him a questioning look, too afraid to breath since I could guess the answer. "Use this instead of your fingers."

I took it between thumb and forefinger like it was dirty, looking up at him my smile long gone replaced with astonishment. I masturbated at night, every night now, when Greg worked in the study.

My son wanted me to use the carrot? He saw my confusion, maybe my fear. Did he care? "Go to your room and use it now." Steve picked up the remote for the television and ignored me standing comically above him.

Like a robot I strode to my room, disrobed, lay spread on my bed and started to fuck myself with that long fat carrot. I orgasmed in less than a minute.

When I returned to the room he sat in, he didn't even look up but simply stated, "I'd like steak with mash potatoes and a big carrot for supper tonight mom."

I did it - I did it all.

I was being humiliated. Somehow my motherly intentions were being warped and the passion to help my son away from his troubles was clouded by the fear of his next request. I have never acted this way before - submitting silently to acts that I do not even do for my husband - yet I found myself powerless to alter the course Steve directed.

The next day he handed me a long fat cucumber after I finished cleaning his sperm off the dining room table. "Return with it when you are done." Less then ten minutes later I did and held it embarrassed between us. He didn't even look up from reading the paper but ordered, "Now lick it clean."

Do you know what is more troubling that realizing your being humiliated - the knowledge that your enjoying it.

Each day he picked out some item for me to use as a phallus - always after I watch him jerk off, and always having to clean it with my tongue after I was done - till there were few long detachable objects in the house that hadn't been inside my vagina. It rarely took three minutes for me to orgasm - and god help me, I loved it. I was orgasming more often than any other time in my life. My cunt was getting stuffed by a different sized and shaped object every day - as I pretended it was a different faceless man that my son had ordered me to fuck as I frantically moved that object in and out of my body.

You read correctly, in a matter of weeks I had gone from a prim and proper middle-aged mother of two to a submissive orgasm-hungry slut.

Then one day he handed me two small green bananas and never said a word, but I stood over him a few minutes later and licked my cunt juices from one and the light anal grease from the other. That was the first time I ever used my ass hole for pleasure - it would not be the last.

The hugs between us continued - his wanting to be around me, or did I now what to be around him - and his constant demands. His hands found their way to my bottom whenever we were alone and near him.

The three feet of snow melted slowly and we found ourselves in a early spring - Steven told me not to wear more leggings. Nervously, in case Greg should notice, I was bare legged and wearing skirts each and every day. Steven seemed pleased at my shapely firm legs but a package arrived in the mail and my son simply handed it to me. It was an exercise video - and each mid-morning after that I spent fifty minutes bouncing and shaking and moving. Steven watched soberly every time, surely admiring me in the outfit he had chosen, a skin-tight leotard top and bottom and hid nothing to his eye.

My life is now very confusing - as an example. When I discovered that my husband was having an affair I didn't even seem to care. Oh surely I cried that first moment I found out - but after that I returned to attending to my eldest child's every wish. I jerked off with a vegetable, candle, pencil or whatever each day thinking only of some invisible lover that my darling son had picked out for me. Steve loved me it was obvious, though I cared less if Greg did during that time, as he gave me more pleasure by allowing me to help him in the last weeks than my husband has in the last several years.

Another example was Carol - she had gotten expelled from school twice in the last couple of months and continued to wear revealing and slutty clothing but she had calmed down somewhat at home. I attribute the change to her and Steven spending private time together in the loft above the garage each weekend. I cared not why or what they were doing only what my son would order me next to do. Nothing else seemed to matter.

The mid night dreams had stopped, I lay awake at night, my husband snoring next to me, awaiting my child to cry out in the night in fear so as his mother I could comfort him. Yes, I missed that closeness with him. So I asked him one day and he just frowns at me and then ordered, "Come to me tonight." And I do - where I find my naked son waiting me. I curl up with him, his head upon my breast and one hand grasping low down on my hip and slept with him for hours.

A couple of times a week he would order me to come to him, always to lay in some position where I can feel his flaccid long penis pressing against the cotton fabric of my nightgown and against my sensitive skin.

Its about then I begin to wonder what I would do if my darling son ordered me to do some sexual act on one of my nightly visits - to date we have only cuddled and slept? What would I do if he orders me to lift my nightgown and spread my legs for him? And I have heard of people using their mouths - what if he wanted me to do that for him?

I was getting so obsessive that when I masturbated each afternoon I began to think of these things as I plunged some object in and out of my cunt. Imagining Steve ordering me to use my tongue to clean his cock and not a cloth - or perhaps him telling me to strip and instead of depositing a load of sperm on some object in our house, he using my face and body as his deposit.

I was becoming obsessive, all for my desire to help him.

When I lay at night, him often positioning me on my side so he could spoon our bodies behind me, I listened to his breathing knowing he had fallen asleep. Knowing that on this evening I wasn't asked to do some taboo object for my child - but in my deepest of hearts wondering... !

The summer came and our lives would never be the same.

I came down the black hall toward my son's room late one night, as ordered, and stopped when I heard a noise from Carol's room. The unmistakable sounds of sex - and I listened surprised at that sound from my thirteen year old daughters room. But the voice I heard next drove a stake into my soul, "Fucking slut... god yes... faster you little bitch... !" It was Greg, my loving caring husband.

My descent into hell had started - that snowball had become an avalanche.

Like a zombie I stroke to my sons room and let him position me away from him, his body spooning my own, in what I now knew to be his favourite position. But I couldn't stay quiet after discovering my husbands incest relationship with our young teenage daughter - "Your dad is in with Carol."

Steve didn't say anything so I continued, "I think they are having sex." It hit me then that the affair I had discovered some time ago was probably our daughter - I felt sick. How long has this been going on?

My son was pressed behind me, our bodies fitting perfectly together as we have done numerous times before. Then I felt his penis, it was hardening and pressing upwards into the crack of my ass until it wedged between my fleshy cheeks.

"They fuck at least once per day." Another twist of that stake in my soul at his somber words...

I began to sob while pressing my ass back against that half-hard cock - confused, hurt, scared and horny at all the same time. This piece of news didn't help - and it also showed that Steve knew about it.

Then it came - what I had imagined in my darkest of fantasies, what I feared, what I hoped for, "Lift your gown mom." His prick pressing rhythmically between my cheeks told me all I needed to know.

The tears stopped suddenly and my breathing did as well.

"Pardon honey?"

He didn't repeat it but began to gather up my skirt himself - roughly - till it was bundled above my waist. Now his hard cock pressed into the groove of bottom, the first intimate touch of his sex with my own I was startled to realize.

His hands pushed my knees together and higher, almost to my chest as I mumbled, "No Steven... no... ?" Though it did not sound very believable even to my ears.

Roughly his hand slipped down and he shoved two fingers into my, yes I'm embarrassed to admit, wet cunt. It had begun when I had slipped out of bed and was making my way to my sons - and really began to flow when I felt his familiar penis press against me. A long sigh as I breathed and gasped both with pleasure and fear.

He had used me for anything these last months, mostly as some type of servant, but in my heart I wondered what it would be like to be used sexually. Would this draw him out of his blackness? Would he return to being the same teenager that had happily pilled into that bus to go to the ski trip so many moons before if only I succumbed to this one more thing? Incest is a terrible thing right?

I was really wet, and his fingers made sloppy liquid sounds of my cunt as he frigged me. Then they disappeared and I felt him fumbling with his cock, moving it so it was aimed perfectly toward my hungry wet opening.

Now it was a strange time to think about it - but I felt extreme guilt. Years of marriage can not be eroded so quickly. Yes, my husband was the worst type of slim - fucking his own daughter - but I remembered how I honoured the vows I had taken with him so many years before. They were about to be shattered by a long hard cock in my very willing cunt - isn't that what Greg was doing to Carol a few feet away in the other room?

"No Steve... no! I can't do this to your dad!"

I felt the head of his penis at my quivering ready outer labia, I felt them press in till the head of his fat cock had to be inside me and god help me I forgot all the argument that I had mentally contested to myself. I wanted to be used like this for my son... to help him!

Yet Steve stopped... and then withdrew that lovely strong hard teenage prick from the entrance to my sexual valley. I sobbed loudly at the loss - hating my weakness and my earlier words. But I knew it was right - it was incest, it was cheating on my bastard husband... it was wrong.

I sobbed into a pillow, "Oh god... no! I want to help you so much darling... but I can' do this to your father, I can't cheat on him... !"

Then the two fingers returned to my sex and they began to pump in and out of me - my anguish was forgotten in seconds as my passion built. I came flooding my son's fingers with my spend - too exhausted and pleased with my release to care about anything else and fell fast asleep with my naked bottom pressed against my sons. Thankful that my caring son had the decency to help diminish his mothers erotic energy - I loved him so much then.

For some reason Steve wanted me to plant flowers beneath the northwest corner of our house - a place that got little light. I did of course. Just as the first stems broke the surface Steven found me in the kitchen after supper one night and told me to go check on those same flowers. He ignored my questions - it was night out, the sky nearly black, the neighbourhood quiet. And he told me to leave the outside lights off - for the same reason I followed everything else he ordered, I did this, as ludicrous as it seemed at the time.

When I got outside it was not so crazy sounding - when standing before my flower bed I could see perfectly into the lighted study where my husband and daughter were.

Yes, you read correctly. I stood there in the dark and watched the two of them in there. I've never witnessed two others in sexual contact - and this first time had to be my husband and daughter. I stood there watching Carol do something that I had never done for Greg, namely suck his penis, but the young teen seemed rather expert at doing it. They were both clothed, but she knelt before him on the hardwood floor, and her head bobbed up and down on his white long shaft. The glistening of her saliva bright in the room as I coldly watched this intimate incestuous affair that I'm humiliated to admit, was going on for months beneath my very eyes.

When I returned to the kitchen and Steve, I walked up to him and coldly stated, "My marriage is a lie - I'll do anything you want darling." I meant I was willing to fuck and suck for him - even before my prick of husband if Steve so wanted. I would have dropped right there and let my son fuck me in the kitchen if he wanted. Done any humiliating disgusting thing that he may desire. Hadn't I enjoyed everything I've had to do for Steve to date - I prayed I would enjoy any outrageous thing he asked forever more.

I could not have been more surprised - as Steve nodded negatively and left the room - nor more humiliated.

Twice more in that week I went out of the house to stand before my flower bed when my daughter went in my husbands study - once for her to suck him off yet again, and the last time she sat naked upon his lap and rode him for a long sweaty fuck. Bastard.