Movement III: Adagio Tranquillo

Ever a light sleeper, I was roused instantly into wakefulness when I felt my mother stirring against me. During our sleep, I had rolled onto my back; she had snuggled against me, curled beneath my right arm, her head on my chest as it rose and fell slowly. Remembering what we had done last night sped my heart, and I was sure she could hear- or at the very least feel it beating near her; one of her arms was folded between us, but the other lay across my chest, her hand on my left shoulder. It was as she moved it that I had awoken, and I caught her small, slim hand in my own, twining my fingers through hers and capturing it against me.

Her face turned up to meet my gaze. I saw confusion, fear, and not a little guilt in her eyes, and my heart broke for her. I did my best to smile reassuringly, and my right arm tightened around her, holding her close as if she were an ephemeral dream that threatened to escape before I could ensure it was real.

"Morning," I whispered softly, savouring the feel of her heated, naked body against mine, the soft swell of her breasts as they pressed against my side. "M-morning," she stammered back as my hand slid slowly up from her hip, then danced along her side, before I ran my palm along the curve of her spine and back to her hip, avoiding her erogenous zones but, I hoped, making plain my love and desire for her.

To my absolute horror, the dread in her eyes deepened. I stilled my hand, bringing it to a halt just above her trim waist, mid-way between the end of her bust and her hip, hoping that the seeming chasteness of the gesture would allay her fears somewhat. "About last night," I began, whispering in the cool dawn light.

At that, she broke down in tears, great wrenching sobs as she ground out "It was wrong, I'm such an awful mother..."

I unclasped her hand, put mine against her shoulder, rubbing her upper arm to reassure her, holding her tight against me. "No, no, no," I said, raising my voice for emphasis. "You're not an awful mother, and it wasn't wrong. Don't even think it. You are a wonderful mother, an amazing woman."

"But what I did was wrong," she wept. "So wrong- a mother should never do those things with her son..." She trailed off, no longer sobbing. But I could feel the wetness where her tears pooled on my chest, the heat of her breath as she strained for air. I relaxed my grasp, slipped my index finger beneath her proud, rounded chin, and lifted her eyes to mine once more.

She blinked, eyes still watering, as I ram my thumb down her cheek, wiping away her rivulet of salt tears. "What you did? I ... mom, I made love to you!"

Her face went pale, her lips trembled. "Oh, God," she whispered. "Oh, no, you mean I went that far with you? Oh, baby..." She broke down again. Inwardly I cursed, but outwardly I betrayed no sign of my tension, only my concern- and love- for this, the most beautiful of all women.

"No! No, don't cry, mom. It was- you were- amazing!"

"But I had sex with my son!" she agonised. "Mothers aren't supposed to do that!"

"Perhaps," I began slowly, "mothers shouldn't. But lovers are. And they do what we did. Can't you see it? I love you, mom. No matter what. And I always will."

She sniffled, wiping at her face herself. "I love you too, honey. But what I did ... I am so sorry, I shouldn't have used you like that. It was so wrong of me, so wrong..."

Her voice broke. Tears of sympathy, empathy, welled in my own eyes, and my voice softened, dropped to a whisper, as I attempted to caress her with the sound if not my fingers. "Mom, no. You didn't use me. It was just ... you were so beautiful, are so beautiful, so irresistible, and the way I feel about you, I just ... just..." I trailed off, as words failed me. "And mom, you were ... unbelievable. Indescribable. I loved it, loved you. The feel of you, the taste of you, the sight and sound of you when you came..."

She moaned low, blushed with shame, and ducked her head to escape my eyes. "What's the matter? Mom, it's OK, I swear. Amazing; I loved every second of it. And I want it- I want you again! But only if, only if..." Again, I let my voice fade to a whisper as I caught her chin, turned her face back to me, and bent my neck to kiss her, gentle and slow, with my lips and heart alone. Chaste, perhaps, but obviously the kiss of a would-be lover, not the perfunctory, forced peck of a son.

"Mom," I husked, throat raw with emotion and need. "I need you, I love you. Not just as my mother, but for who you are, the woman you are. I love you, I swear it. And I want to be with you in every way, be your lover, share this bed, bring you pleasure..."

Her breath seemed to catch at that, a little hope flaring in her deep, brown eyes. "But ... but I'm your mother..." she began, weakly. And before that line of thought had time to take hold in her mind, I interjected.

"Here and now, you're just a beautiful woman. The most beautiful woman, I mean. And I loved it, thrilled to it all. And I want to make love to you, bring you to bliss, to ecstasy." Her mouth swung open a little, surprised, and I took advantage, kissing her again. This time, I darted my tongue inside her mouth, trailing my hand up the curve of her side, careful to avoid her more sensitive places. I wanted to demonstrate the depth of my love for her, not my lust, to make sure she knew the boundless esteem in which I held her.

My hand stopped just short of the soft swell of her breast, and I kissed her slowly, sweetly, drawing my tongue back into my mouth. "Nobody could ever compare to you, to this," I promised her, my fingers still.

"But I'm your mother," she repeated, weakly.

"And you're beautiful," I swiftly countered. "How could any man resist you?" I moved my hand slowly, insistently, brushing against the sensitive underside of her breast. "I don't think you understand how much you mean to me. How much I enjoy being with you. You saw, didn't you, how even being allowed to massage you effected me?"

She still lay there, silent. And in her presence, I had of course grown erect. I caught her hand, which now lay over my heart, up in my own strong grip, slid it down over my remaining ribs, across my belly where my hair began, inexorably downwards, under the waistband of my green silk boxers, until the flat of her hand butted against my hardened shaft, her palm and fingers in my thick patch of pubic hair. And now, I hoped, she might take it further herself of her own volition, convinced of my love, my desire for her both as a woman and as my mother.

Her eyes widened as she looked up at me. "I love you," I breathed as my hand moved more surely still, now cupping and caressing one pert, perfect breast. I could feel her nipples hardening against me, heard her gasp in what I hoped was arousal and not fear. Taking a risk, I disentangled my hand from hers, left it lying there on my groin and against my maleness, and used it to brush beneath her chin, stroke her neck and shoulder even as I kissed her again and again. I opened my mouth, waiting, wanting...

And as she moaned, this time in physical pleasure and not emotional pain, I slid my hand lower, down from her neck to her chest, where my other hand stroked at her, cupping her weighty orb, lifting it up so I could tease the dark brown skin of her nipple and aureole. As I made contact with the tip of her breast, her tongue slipped slowly inside me, and I met it with my own. We lashed, wetly, against each other. Though I would have spun this moment out into eternity were I able, I at last pulled back, gazing at her as a lover might rather than as a son should.

But her own eyes betrayed her confusion, and again she ducked her head, seeking to hide from me. Abandoning her teat, I again turned her face up to me. "We should stop," she said in a tremulous voice. But I knew how to make an argument with my hands, and I used the arm that curled around her side to slide along the curve of her ribs, waist, and hips before arching around and over, curling my fingers against her pert and perfect buttocks, giving her a gentle little squeeze. I knew that I must overcome this last hurdle, arouse her, use what I had learned from her, about her last night.

She shook her head slightly, moved her face down and back up, opening her mouth to say something. But I leaned back in, captured her lips in mine with now-practised ease, and groaned my desire into her, setting her cheeks and mine to soft vibration as I did so. Hesitantly at first, but with increasing vigour, she responded to the kiss. I slid my left hand down to hers, took it in my fingers once more, and re-settled it, this time around my shaft.

I broke the kiss, murmuring that she was beautiful and I loved her before leaning back in to nuzzle at her again, rubbing our noses together and snatching short, passionate kisses. My hand left hers, came back up to her breast, tweaking it briefly before I slid it down, down across her pale, supple skin, through her tangled patch of pubic hair, and to her mons. My other hand began to move again as her thighs slowly parted, granting me access to my mother's fantastic folds of flesh.

But she was dry, still, though heated and growing ready. So I moved my hand back up to her bust, fastened my mouth around hers once more ... and felt her hand twitch on my pole before slowly, cautiously stroking up, holding my glans, and then descending to my base once more.

Her grip on me was heavenly, unimaginable. I broke from the kiss, found her pale and panting even as she continued to pleasure me. And such sensations she brought about ... it was all I could do to keep myself from climaxing then and there. But if I did, it would be a terrible waste, for I yearned to fill her completely.

I wanted to see more of her, for her to see more of me, and so with great care and slow speed, I folded back the covers, raised my hips slightly, drew off my boxers and kicked them away beneath the sheets. I watched, enthralled, as my mother's closed fist moved up and down my shaft, slick and glistening with my pre-come. Much as I desired to see her own sex as she flowered open under my gentle ministrations, our positions precluded that, and I again sought out her cleft. She was moistening, her clitoris gently popping out of its hood.

I was aflame with passion. I needed her more than air, more than life itself. It was the work of moments to gently roll her onto her back; as we moved, she abandoned my shaft. And not a moment too soon, for my climax was fast approaching. She ran her hands across my back, and I could feel where the wetness she had gathered from my seeping penis was smeared on me, though caught up in the moment I cared not a whit.

I kept working at her cleft, though the position was awkward and my left wrist cramping with the position. Her hips trembled slightly, and she began to trace her nails across my back. Desperate to see her orgasm, I leaned back, pushed away slightly, and curled my middle finger into my mother's heated slit, pressing it firmly against the pebbled nub of her clitoris. She shuddered once, twice, and then went still, mewling slightly as waves of pleasure washed through her.