Chapter 63 - MY SON SLEEPWALKER

The doctors had never seen anything like it before. We'd gone to several of them over the years, but none had ever seen a case of sleepwalking that was as chronic and debilitating as the one that afflicted Tom, my son of nineteen years.

His father, Donald, and I had spent his entire childhood trying to find a reason to explain his situation. We could not let him stay the night at a friend's house, or go to sleepaway camp. Things that a normal boy should have been able to do had been out of the question for Tom, and even as an adult his illness was too severe to allow him to lead a normal life.

The only solution, beyond the therapy and medicine, was to keep Tom strapped down at night. A third party was required to fasten the buckles, so without me or Donald, he was completely helpless to manage his own condition. Tom would have to live with us until someone else was willing to take over that nightly ritual.

It sounded harsh, but it was absolutely imperative that he not be allowed to escape. As a child, his 'jailbreaks' had occasionally ended with a call to the fire department. Even his less destructive ones had still caused us no end of headaches.

As he'd aged, his outbursts and his 'missions,' as we called them, had become increasingly severe. The dark turn had occurred when Tom was seventeen, on a night where Donald had mistakenly left a buckle undone that had facilitated his escape.

The events of that night were difficult to talk about as a family. Tom did not remember anything of the trauma he had inflicted on his father and me, but for me and Donald, it was a vivid memory.

On the night in question, Donald had caught Tom trying to climb out of his bedroom window. By the time he'd gotten to our son, Tom already had one foot outside of the window. There'd been nothing below to catch his fall, so whatever 'mission' he'd been on would have led to injury, and possibly even his death. My husband had heroically tackled Tom to the ground just moments before he leapt out, but being unable to complete his 'mission' had put Tom in a fit of rage.

I had never seen Tom hit someone before, but that night I'd watched helplessly as he'd gone on a violent rampage against my husband. He was at least a foot taller than Donald, and had easily had forty pounds over him by then, leading to a one-sided bludgeoning that had not at all represented a fair fight. The beating had ended with Donald in a pool of blood with several of his teeth missing.

When it had run its course, Tom had climbed back into bed like nothing had happened. He'd only awoken when the ambulances had arrived, with no idea who had beaten his father into a pulp.

With that incident fresh in our minds, it had become painfully obvious that Tom's condition was getting worse. We could not afford to take risks any more.

One evening, while seated around the dinner table, Tom mentioned that he was going to make a profile on a popular dating app. Perhaps it was an unusual thing to tell ones parents, but due to Tom's illness there was an atmosphere of vulnerability and openness amongst us that few other families could replicate.

Though he had some loose acquaintances, he did not have many close friends through which to meet women. Despite taking the initiative to create an account, he was not optimistic.

"What kind of woman would want to be with a guy that she has to tie down every night? I'm screwed!" He was half joking, but the way his smile quickly faded told me that it was not a laughing matter.

"That's total— I'm sorry, honey, but - bullshit!" I said defiantly.

Donald pointed his fork at me. "Your Mother is right. That's nothing compared to the baggage most guys your age come with."

Tom snorted. "What do you know about guys my age, Dad?"

Donald folded his hands like a wise guru. "I remember being one, for a start."

"Please, Father, please teach me the ways of your eternal wisdom," Tom pleaded sarcastically.

I hated the idea that Tom saw himself as unmarketable due to his sleepwalking. He was a fantastic person, with a heart of gold and a face that anyone could love.

If I was twenty years younger... was a phrase I had caught myself thinking on more than one occasion, but I always felt guilty for it. What kind of mother thinks of her son that way, even for the briefest flash? I could not help myself. He was a catch, and I wished that there was some way I could make him believe that himself.

Later that night, the three of us watched a movie. I'd made a huge bowl of popcorn, but found myself in the kitchen making a second one before the opening credits were finished.

About forty minutes into the movie, there was an unexpected sex scene. It was not overly explicit, but I could tell that Tom was on edge from the subject matter alone. I thought that he was simply uncomfortable with watching such a scene with his parents, but a thought crossed my mind that was as alluring as it was terrifying.

My son is horny.

I wanted to ignore the idea, but the more I tried to brush it off, the louder it became inside of my mind.

I reflected back on the desire he had expressed over dinner. Tom wanted a girlfriend for the obvious reasons: partnership, growing close with someone, and all the innocent stuff that moms think about when they picture their baby boys entering the dating world. Seeing how the sex scene had made him squirm on the couch, however, made it crystal clear in my mind that he was deeply troubled by the hormonal urges that had once pestered us all.

When the movie ended, Tom quickly retreated to his room, leaving me in the family room with two things: my husband, and the sobering realization that, in the wake of mulling so intensely over Tom's horniness, I had contracted a case of those same urges myself. I could not admit to Donald the source of the lust that suddenly drove me up the wall, and he was too excited to ask questions.

I pleaded with Donald to sequester Tom into bed as soon as he could, promising that he could have whatever he wanted from me when he returned. Without that step in place - without the knowledge that Tom was secured in bad until the morning - nothing could move forward. Thankfully, Tom did not seem interested in staying up late.

When my husband returned to our bedroom, there was sheer, unabashed glee written across his face.

I giggled at his palpable elation. "I hope you didn't look like that when you tucked in Tom."

"Is it that obvious?" Donald asked, cringing.

"Only to me, honey." I spread my legs for him and, in the absence of any underwear, exposed my naked pussy.

Donald swallowed dryly. "Oh, wow. Lily, you look fucking beautiful."

"Then come make me feel beautiful, my big, strong man," I cooed, adding a wink.

It started out good. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't amazing; it was rarely the latter. There were some days where our sex was truly fantastic, but I had greater luck gambling on roulette than I did predicting whether or not Donald would be able to conjure up a memorable performance.

I loved my husband with every inch of my heart. He was the only man that I had ever been with, as is often the tale with high school sweethearts, so our sex was all I knew. I had never orgasmed with him, but I did not blame him for that fact. I could rarely bring myself to orgasm, even with the benefit of vibrators and whatever other tools one could imagine.

That night, like many before it, was not the passionate, lust-fueled romp that I was hoping for. I sucked Donald's dick for a minute or so, which always earned me exceptional praise.

When we'd started dating, I had convinced him that I did not have a gag reflex. It was a silly lie that I had concocted to explain why I could deepthroat him so effortlessly, but the truth was that he was simply small enough for me to swallow his whole cock without much struggle. I knew men could often be sensitive about that fact, so, for better or worse, I wanted him to think it had nothing to do with his size.

When I was done sucking Donald's dick, I got onto my hands and knees so he could fuck me from behind. It was our bread and butter, and he was absolutely thrilled with it. Since I had essentially given up on any hopes of achieving my own orgasm, I was simply content to give him a way to make himself feel good.

A few minutes passed, each one filled with Donald's laboured grunting. My face was buried in the sheets for most of it, but when I felt him getting close, I raised my head so that he could pull my hair. It was his favourite move, and I could see it coming a mile away.

When my eyes snapped open, they were aimed at the door. It was open, just a crack, but without any light it was difficult to see into the shadows that haunted the hallway.

Still, in that dark, looming blackness, my brain recognized something. It was not a conscious thought, but once I paid attention to it, the threat became undeniable. Alarm bells rang out. Panic seized my body and stiffened the hairs on the back of my neck into tiny, delicate razorblades. A tall, menacing figure, shrouded in darkness, shuffled side to side behind the door.

He was watching us.

"H-honey..." my voice trailed off, my throat spontaneously dry. "There's someone there."

Donald chortled. "What?"

"The door. Oh my god. The fucking door, Donald!" I wanted to run into the closet, hide under the bed, or jump out the window - anything to get myself out of this situation - but I could not move. I was frozen in fear, and stayed that way when the lumbering giant pushed open the door to our bedroom.

Tom was a redwood, towering and still, in the doorway. He blocked our only viable escape route, trapping us inside the room unless we broke a window. His eyes were shut tight, and he was as naked as the day I'd pushed him out of me. The pair of boxers in his right hand were clenched as tightly as his jaw, making him look like a barbarian proudly clutching a loincloth trophy from a fallen enemy whose dwelling he had just ransacked.

"How did he get out?" I squeaked.

Donald lowered his head. "I was in a rush to get back to you, so I guess I missed a buckle."

My voice was small and scared. "Let's just see where he goes. Maybe he won't do anything stupid this time."

Donald's eye twitched nervously, haunted by the trauma of his violent beating. "Whatever he does, we cannot wake him up."

Fight or flight: that's exactly what I felt, for the first time in my life, when Tom stepped further into the room. I gave a startled gasp, but stifled the end of it with my hand. I bit down on my palm to stop myself from whimpering like a frightened puppy while our son crept closer to the bed.

The door was on my side of the bed, placing me between Tom and my husband. I hated Donald for not throwing his body in front of me as a shield. The panic in my body demanded he protect me, yet he remained motionless. All we could do was watch in silent terror as Tom made his way to my bedside.

I had always been proud of the size of my breasts. I know it is not something one can control, but over the years Donald had drilled into my head the notion that they were "as big as they are beautiful." This led me to embrace the hubris that came with overtly flaunting such a floppy, oversized pair of tits.

The affection Donald had for my boobs was clearly genetic, because his son was possessed of the same hopeless infatuation. With his boxers still clutched in one hand, Tom extended his other towards me with an obvious intention. Horror gripped Donald and me like an iron claw, both of us too scared to intervene, lest we incur his wrath.

Tom mindlessly groped my naked flesh, pawing at the breasts before him with no concern for whom they belonged to. He was not gentle, so I remained thankful that he was only using one hand. Stretch lines appeared around fingers, which sank in so deep that his nails were completely submerged.

If there was one thing to be grateful for, it was the fact that Tom had his eyes closed. Having my breasts exposed to him was incredibly shameful. He had not touched my boobs since I'd breastfed him as an infant. Despite the fact that his hands were mauling the tender milk bags from which he had once suckled so greedily, I was at least thankful that he could not see the vulgar display of blubber oozing through his fingertips.

He urgently kneaded the pile of dough in his hand, making his approval known through a series of satisfied grunts. I could not help that the attention made my body react on an instinctive level, turning my once-lifeless nipple into a firm, pink gemstone that protruded from my body. My rubbery areola was much too wide to fit in his palm, and no matter how widely he stretched his fingers, he could not contain even half of my gigantic breast in one hand.

"Honey," I gulped anxiously. "He's hard."

"I know," Donald sighed.

"And he's huge." My heart raced a little faster.

Donald laughed, which took some of the tension out of the air. "I can see that. He should be thanking us!"

I joined in his laughter, happy to embrace anything that did not remind me that my son was lazily fondling my tits. Unfortunately, the moment of levity was short-lived. I sucked my teeth and turned to face my husband. "Should we tell him about this tomorrow?"

"I don't think so, he'll be too embarrassed. I guess it'll be our little secret. I'm sure he'll get bored soon and—" Donald stopped talking mid-sentence. His wide-eyed, nervous gaze was tracking something behind my head. I was scared to turn around.

Tom's hand, with fingers made of stone, took a fistful of my hair. He yanked my head backwards so that I was staring up at the ceiling. My eyes darted around, looking for something to focus on that would explain the source of my whiplash, but found only one thing to land on: Tom's face, with his eyes still closed, looming overhead.

I was a timid mouse, and he a fearsome lion, come to devour me in a single bite. Had my jaw not been tightly clenched, my chattering teeth would have been heard a block away.

"H-honey, what do I do?" I begged, with my racing heart punching holes in my ribcage.

"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know..." Donald chanted uselessly.

"Is he... oh God, he's going to make me..." I could not even bring myself to say the words.

Tom did not accept resistance. His grip on my hair tightened, and he dragged my face over to his crotch so that I was face to face with his enormous erection. The nine-inch monster jutted out from his body like a veiny, muscular flagpole. The bulging mushroom on the end flared angrily, engorged with blood and demanding satiation.

"Do... Do... Do I..." My heart was pounding in my ears, every beat reverberating through my skull. I could not think straight enough to form a single word, much less a whole sentence.

Donald sniffled and sucked in a wavering breath, admitting defeat. "Just open your month, honey. I don't want him to hurt you."

"N-no," I stuttered. "No, please. Please, this can't be real."

Tom emitted a low, furious grunt and shook my head like a toddler with a malfunctioning toy. He was out of patience.

"He could hurt us, Lily," Donald reminded me matter-of-factly. I don't know whose safety he was more concerned for - mine, or his - but he was right.

The head of Tom's cock nudged against my lips. It was hot — full of rage — rapping against my closed mouth in frustration. All I had to do was keep it shut and he would have no way to force himself inside, but the danger to Donald and me was too great. I had to open myself willingly and let him in, and that was the part that hurt most of all. I released the tension in my jaw, my lips trembling as I accepted the horrible nightmare that had become my reality.

I whimpered nervously, parting my lips so he could wedge the tip of his dick between them. The fleshy crowbar pried them open, pushing the rest of the fat, bulbous head inside. His manhood throbbed against my tongue, which was immediately flattened to the bottom of my mouth when he forced even more of his dick into my mouth.

My eyes were wide with fear and disbelief. I had never sucked a cock besides Donald's, so I was completely unprepared to feel the muscles in my jaw straining under the stress of their new, oversized guest. The head, lodged firmly against the roof of my mouth, was as smooth as glass, but soft and spongy like a marshmallow. His dick hugged every small bump and ridge along my upper palate as it ventured deeper, refusing to pause until the helmet nuzzled against the back of my throat.

I gagged instantly, my body lurching like I had just been punched in the stomach. A tear dribbled out of the corner of my eye. Warnings flashed through my brain, begging me to retreat, but I had to ignore them. I could not breathe properly with Tom so deeply embedded in my gullet, and what breath I could manage to draw was nothing more than a wet, gurgling mess.

The implications of gagging in front of Donald were not obvious to me, but they were to him. "I thought you didn't have a gag reflex?" he said.

When I did not answer, obviously preoccupied by a mouthful of our son, he clarified. "You never gag on my dick when you deepthroat me."

I could not believe that was what he was thinking about. I hated that, even with the unbridled panic coursing through my veins, my only thought was to comfort him in his moment of pain. I wanted to make his hurt disappear, no matter what I was going through.

Tom's grip relaxed on my head just for a second. It was not much, but it was enough. I channelled all my strength and pulled my head back, breaking free of his clutches. In that brief moment, I could not think of anything to say other than the truth.

"I'm sorry, honey. I lied, so you didn't feel so—" A small, wet belch escaped my lips, along with a glistening string of saliva that connected me to Tom's throbbing cock, dangling less than an inch from my face. "—So small."

The realization set in, and Donald's heart broke into a million tiny pieces.

Tom pumped his dick down my throat like I was a puppet. He drove himself against the soft wall at the back of my gullet, ignorant to the grotesque, wretched sputtering that he forced upon me. In between his long, drawn-out thrusts, there were only fractions of seconds when I could draw breath before he embedded himself again and cut off my air supply.

Only once his balls rested on my chin would he finally pull out so that I could take a breath. His persistent plunges ejected another resentful tear from the corner of my tightly clenched eye, forcing my cheeks to bear yet another salty badge of shame.

It was frighteningly easy to get used to Tom's routine thrusting, however rough it may have been, but I'd stopped feeling fear by then. I'd stopped feeling anything, emotionally, and only a distant recognition of my own physical discomfort.

I could handle the depth, despite what one might have inferred from my violent, full body convulsions each time Tom's helmet brushed against my uvulae. What still concerned me - all the semblance of emotion I could muster - was that he was going ever faster, gradually building speed over a series of thrusts before he found a pace that matched his enthusiasm. I, on the other hand, was not excited about the change.

GLUCK, GLUCK, GLUCK

My throat sounded like it was made of slime, into which somebody was furiously shoving their entire fist. Tom hammered relentlessly, ignorant to the gaze I cast up to him. It was like a soldier on the battlefield begging their conqueror for mercy. Sadly, there was none to be found. His eyes were still closed, and I knew that guilt wasn't keeping them that way. It was just sleep, and sickness.

sick to my stomach. I wanted to pull away again, but after my last escape, Tom had secured his nails in my hair too tightly, holding it like reins on a horse.

With his increased pace, I knew that we were nearing the dreadful end. Much like his father did, when he was about to cum, Tom pulsated with magnificent energy, like his dick was proudly announcing the impending reward for all my hard work.

He did not slow down, ramming his cock through the soggy tunnel until my throat was beaten soft like a tenderloin. Every gag only served to clench the muscles around him, smothering his dong in the process. My body was trying to eject the intruder, but it could not. Every failed attempt, every fierce spasm, made me heave around his cock, but my pathetic attempt to eject the hulking slab of meat from my esophagus equated to nothing more than a pleasant massage.

"Is he gonna..." Donald's voice was shaky as he contemplated the finale.

I nodded my head sadly, unable to comfort him as I had before. "Mmhmm."

"Jesus, honey," he whispered under his breath. "I'm so sorry."

I nodded again with a sad, somber whimper. I reached out blindly, searching for my husband's hand. His fingers pressed down on my knuckles and brought me a little bit of comfort.

I hoped that I could do the same for him. My fingers stumbled across his wedding band. I wondered how many of the promises represented by that ring would remain in place after the night was over. Donald gave my hand a reassuring squeeze, though we were both shaking with fright.

My husband gently kissed the gold ring on my finger. "I love you, so much."

"Ah hoph ou, oo!" I forced out the words in the small spaces between Tom's eager thrusts, trying to utter them all before his impending orgasm rendered speech impossible. I hoped Donald could understand me, but with our son's cock pounding my windpipe, I sounded like I was speaking gibberish.

I never swallowed for my husband. Early into our relationship, I confided that I hated the taste with a passion. It was not a big deal for him to forgo the act, so we never talked about it again. It simply became an unspoken rule that I do not swallow cum, but Tom did not know that rule. I'm not sure it would've mattered if he had.

Our son flattened his cock against the back of my throat, growling with a primal fury that echoed around our bedroom. His roar, such an intense display of aggression, struck me with a wave of panic whose arrival made beads of sweat form across my tightly furrowed brow. As it stood, however, he was also suffocating me with his enormous, pulsing cock.

I kept my mouth, and my eyes, shut as tightly as I could. I did so to avoid making a mess I would have to clean up, but that was not the only reason.

I could not - I would not - willingly bear witness to the pleasure stricken across my son's face when my mouth brought him to orgasm. Deep in the recesses of my psyche, I buried the sick, perverted voice of curiosity that told me to take a peek. I convinced myself that it was normal to want to look - like a car accident you cannot help but watch - but that I still shouldn't. The reason was largely the same - a sense of decency - though I was more like the car getting wrecked than a mere onlooker. Somehow, my maternal instincts managed to convince me that Tom was the other car. He'd fallen asleep at the wheel, through no fault of his own.

As morbidly curious as I was, I clung to the idea that I - we - might still recover from everything Tom had done. I hoped that, if I did not acknowledge the obviously excited voices whispering in the back of my mind, they would go away on their own. I had never wanted anything, in a sexual sense, from Tom, but having it insisted upon me had removed the burden of taboo.

I don't have a choice, so I might as well try to enjoy myself. Whether the thought manifested as a matter of self-defence or perverse pleasure, I was not sure.

My throat convulsed around his pulsating cock, its velour embrace smothering every inch. He perceived the spasms as a challenge, and, in response, clenched his ass cheeks to intentionally drive his fat, bulging helmet against my supple throat meat just as his orgasm reached its peak.

Tom growled triumphantly and spewed rope, after rope, after rope, of hot, greasy liquid into my open gullet. The saline syrup flooded my mouth, saturating my tongue with a flood of dense, white cream that sizzled like battery acid on my taste buds.

Another helping was ejected from the tip, pressed directly against the back wall, which sprayed in every direction. It was like, when washing dishes, I would accidentally aim the stream of water directly into the concave part of a spoon, sending a tidal wave over the countertops. Thankfully, Tom's mess - a much warmer, stickier kind - was contained entirely in my mouth.

Tom flexed threateningly, sending another thick stream into the pool of salty, pearlescent slime. He was ignorant to the bruises that his bloated cock head beat into my throat with every thrust.

Donald had not relinquished his grip on my hand for a single second. He was whispering words of encouragement in my ear while our son's dick, at last, began to slowly soften. My husband's vocal support was silenced, along with my hopes of escaping with an empty stomach, when Tom shook my head like a piñata. I did not want to swallow, but the choice was not up to me.

The cum stored within my cheeks sloshed around wildly when Tom shook my head, coating every inch of my mouth. The few corners that did not already have a thick layer of glue pasted on them were drenched instantly, making it impossible to escape the taste, feel, or smell of my son's semen bathing my tongue.

I tried to pull away, but Tom grunted angrily. I knew what he wanted, and he was not going to remove his dick from my mouth until he got it.

I could not bring myself to look at Donald, but I could feel his pathetic, whimpering gaze. I hated that I was allowing our son to break a rule that I had forced him to obey so strictly, and could not imagine how jealous he must have been to watch me succumb to the will of another man. My husband never once asked me to change my mind about swallowing, yet Tom was gifted the pleasure of having me gulp his cum into my gut without even asking.

I gathered the mouthful of goo into one large mass. I buckled down, sucking in a deep breath to steady my focus. There was such a devastating amount of semen that one of my eyes actually twitched involuntarily when I forced the condensed ball of cum past my tonsils and into my stomach. I might have been imagining it, but I swear I felt my throat expand like a snake after swallowing a mouse just so that it could down the entire bulk in one gulp.

Tom, satisfied with my performance, finally withdrew. Strands of saliva still connected my lips to his dick like long, glistening cables. They snapped once he pulled too far away from my mouth, leaving the sticky, broken strands to fall and stain my heaving breasts with their syrupy residue.

I was panting like a tired, old dog with drool leaking from my trembling lips, too enthralled with the return of fresh air to my lungs to care that I sounded like an ugly, sputtering mess of a woman.

Tom stood still for a while. I felt tension building between Donald and I, yet again, as we both wondered what he would do next. I thought it was over, but could not deny the pieces of me that wished it had not ended so soon. Yes, I prayed that it would be over, yet longed to see what would happen if the situation was allowed to play out.

Against my will and better judgement, my brain was sending me very confusing messages, each of which made me question why exactly my pussy had become so disturbingly wet.

Am I enjoying this? I could not help but wonder, but there was no time to truly consider that fact.

With an affirmative grunt, Tom grabbed the back of my head and pushed me, face first, into the mattress. His grip was unrelenting, forcing me to comply until he had maneuvered me onto my hands and knees with my cheek scraping the sheets.

I squealed, fearfully. "W-what is he doing?"

"Honey..." Donald could not bring himself to confirm my horrific suspicions. My husband was a shell of himself, refusing to acknowledge out loud what was about to happen to me.

"What is he doing?" I repeated, with far more urgency. I did, in fact, know the answer.

All that Donald, the man who had sworn to protect me, could do was watch. Like a broken record, and likely for his own comfort more than mine, he repeated, "It's okay, it'll be okay, we're okay."

Tom gripped one of my bum cheeks with one hand, ensuring that his other one stayed firmly rooted in my hair so I could not escape. He pulled my ass open, like he was parting a pudgy, white curtain to expose my vagina, and my wrinkly, puckered butthole. I was thankful that his eyes were closed. I could not have lived with myself knowing that my son knew the intricate details of what my private parts looked like.

Tom lifted his hand into the air, then brought it down with a thunderous smack on my backside, making fat ripples reverberate through the loose, meaty globe. I yelped in pain, biting down on the duvet to stifle any further exclamations. He was not going to be gentle with me, so that high-pitched squeal would surely not be the last.

The surface of my plump bottom - usually a pure, even cream colour - burned with red-hot intensity when Tom's brand tarnished my backside. He'd seared me with his handprint, solidifying my transformation into his personal property for the rest of the night.

Donald sat against the headboard next to me, less than a foot away from where my face was submerged in the sheets. He was completely removed from the situation, with a look of shock on his face like an artillery shell had exploded beside his head.

Tom let go of my hair, finally, and clutched my waist with both hands. I could not see him, but predicted that he was lining his cock up with the mouth of my vagina. My fears were confirmed a couple of seconds later when his dick nudged against my opening. I was so thoroughly soaked with juices that it felt foreign. I could not remember a time when I had been so profoundly wet, and cursed my body for responding to a touch I knew I should despise.

Being manhandled was thrilling me in ways I did not expect, and I hated my brain for betraying me. It should have made me sick to my stomach that my son, of all people, was the one controlling me, but even with so much of his thick, salty, sticky cum down in there, all I felt were butterflies. My body was responding to automatically, on a primal level, to the hulking behemoth readying himself to mount me with unrepentant lust.

The head of Tom's cock, inflated to its full potential, lodged between my pussy lips. He was so big that simply wedging the fat crown into my tiny entrance made me seize up. I knew right away that it was not going to be like any sex I had ever experienced with Donald and his comparably small penis.

My son aimed his weapon into the center of my creamy, pink tunnel and pushed forward, sinking the enormous knob into me with one even motion. My pussy was so profusely wet that it welcomed his cock inside with no hesitation. It made room to fit the throbbing bulb, which was nearly twice the size of my husband's on a good day, and eagerly asked for more.

Tom obliged it, trudging through the densely packed pocket of succulent pussy meat one garishly thick, veiny inch at a time. Places inside of me where I had never felt so much as a poke, shifted to make room for my son. They graciously accepted him into the untouched confines of my vagina, where no man had explored before.

The journey was long, but the destination was what truly shook me to my core. After what felt like an hour - though, in hindsight, it was only a few seconds - Tom reached the bottom. His bloated cock head sank into my depths like a heavy stone, pushing aside the walls of his wet, fleshy prison no matter how tightly they hugged him. He was determined to go as deep as he could, and I -for no reason other than sheer curiosity - wanted to let him. I had never experienced the sensations that my son was giving me, and feeling them in that moment made me crave him like he was the last source of dopamine in the world.

"Oh, oh my G-God," I squealed. "He's so fucking big!" I kicked my feet against the mattress, as though it would alleviate the sensation of having a baby's arm plunged into my guts.

Donald said nothing.

Tom's spongy helmet flattened against my cervix, disappointed that there was nowhere left for it to explore. I cursed myself for sharing in his frustration, wishing as he did that I had more to give him. It was just one more feeling that should have sickened me, but didn't.

My son clenched, flexing his muscular cock against the bottom of my well, which also served to pull his balls tightly against his body— making me keenly aware of the position they held between either of my soft, chubby ass cheeks.

"Is he... did you..." Donald was desperate for information, yet horrified of what would be revealed if he asked.

I tried to lift my head to speak to him, but it weighed a thousand pounds. I left my face smothered in the covers and croaked out, "He's in. I did it."

"All of it, honey?" Donald almost sounded proud of me.

"All of him," I corrected my husband, unwilling to use such impersonal terms for my own child.

Donald gave a deep, somber sigh. "I didn't think you could do it."

"Barely! It— ugh, fuck! It h-hurts a little. He's too fucking b-big!" I struggled to come to terms with what an understatement that was, my insides groaning as they sculpted themselves around the massive invader.

Tom was abundantly blessed in the dick department. Had he not been my son, his was a cock that I would have been extremely pleased to see on a computer screen, from the safety of my office chair, with nobody around to see me salivate over the grotesque baton of muscle being stuffed into a girl that was far too tiny to fit it all.

That night, Tom made me into that girl. He would be forever ignorant, I hoped, to the claim he was laying to my body. I was supposed to be defended against such vile intrusions, but Tom's went unchallenged, despite my life partner sitting right next to us, watching in horror.

My body shook when Tom finally dragged his dick from the furthest reaches of my pussy. The hole that had been promised solely to my husband had experienced its first taste of a foreign cock since I'd made that solemn vow. The pillar of meat sliding out of me left a vacuous space in its absence, and I craved to have it filled again.

Tom could read my thoughts, it seemed, since he obediently plunged his cock back into me all at once so that he was flush against my cervix once again. He used that thrust to gauge how far he could pull back without falling out, and somehow he stored it immediately in his muscle memory.

Tom's thrusts started slow, but once he found the rhythm there was no way to halt the rapidly advancing pace. Soon, the air became rich with the sounds of his hips slapping against my ass. Thanks to my overly plump derrière, the noise we made sounded fiendishly similar to a lonely audience member giving a rambunctious round of applause. There was only one pair of hands clapping, but they were making an awful lot of noise.

Every thrust jostled around my internal organs, like he was hastily redecorating the interior of my bedroom to fit his tastes now that he was moving in. He was moulding my pussy - the very shape of it - into a pocket built to smother his dick in warm, buttery hugs.

"Does it hurt still?" Donald whimpered, lamely.

"N-no, honey," I answered. "I think I'm okay." It was the truth, but it was not the whole truth. It took a minute to get used to his absurd size, but once I had, the pain was quickly eroded, allowing pleasure to take its place.

Tom was at the bottom of my pussy, and I was at the base of his cock. He had nothing more to feed me, and I had no more room to store it. It was a union so perfect that it must have been crafted in some dark, perverted fairy-tale. If bigger coincidences existed, I was unaware of them.

My son's cock had been handcrafted to perfectly fit inside of me, like some divine fate had gifted him with the unique measurements suited to perfectly fill out his mother's pussy. I did not recognize that until the pain subsided, but once it had, it became obvious that our connection was meant to be. I had made him from scratch inside that safe, sacred place, and he was returning to it with no knowledge of the sinful act that he had committed in doing so.

Once I had grown accustomed to Tom's particularly strong thrusts, I was ashamed to find myself enjoying it. To half-truths, I added lies of omission. Though it was all against my will, I was feeling pleasure that rivaled anything we had ever experienced together.

Tom pumped into me one more time, then withdrew his dick from my sweltering oven all at once. It clenched angrily, its raw, honey-soaked lips gawking aimlessly without anything for it to squeeze.

Donald perked up, hope rising in his voice. "Is it over?"

I shook my head, painfully aware that the situation was just beginning. "I don't think so. He still has to... you know. I mean, he hasn't finished."

"He didn't, er, c-cum?" Donald choked on the last word, like he was fighting the urge to utter it up until the moment it left his lips.

"I'm so sorry, honey. Not yet." I could offer nothing more.

Tom picked me up and flipped me onto my back like a sack of potatoes. He tossed me further onto the bed, which inadvertently landed me directly onto Donald, so that he could climb on and kneel on the mattress. My husband sat against the headboard at a ninety degree angle, making the perfect bed for me to lounge on while awaiting my suitor to restart our breeding session.

I was tucked in the crook of Donald's elbow. My head was on his chest, like it often was when he cuddling me while watching a movie. I looped my right arm around his thigh and held on for dear life, clinging to him while our son crawled towards me— a ravenous beast with an appetite for only one thing.

I craned my neck back so I could look my husband in the eye. We did not need to further lament the circumstances we found ourselves in. All that was left to do was to be there for each other. Donald bent his head down so he could touch his forehead to mine. We closed our eyes together, jointly existing in a brief, blissful moment before reality came crashing down around us.

Tom lifted my legs as though they weighed nothing and spread them apart. My gooey pussy lips parted their creamy, pink gates, wafting the aroma of my nectar towards him like a welcome mat. He swiftly inserted himself into my pussy again, plugging the hole that longed for him, so dearly, after just a few seconds apart.

Every thrust from our son made me bounce on Donald's chest. I was grief-stricken that the love of my life who, despite being weaker than his son in the realm of sex, was everything I had ever wanted out of a man.

Donald was compassionate, funny in the right moments, and made everyone around him feel special. He made me feel special; that was why I married him. After two decades of wonderful matrimony, it broke my heart to see him used as a glorified support pillow for me to lay on while another man mounted me. Looking into his eyes, plagued with dismay, I knew that he felt the same— but that was far from the only thing I saw.

I was confused to discover that, when I looked away - too ashamed to face him any longer - my eyes wandered to the staggering erection between his legs. I had never seen such an impressively virile display from my husband, but something about that night had clearly flipped a very confusing switch in his brain.

"Honey?" I asked, my mind racing with possible answers as to why he was hard in a moment that should have devastated us both. I, too, was feeling strange pleasures that I did not expect, and could not explain. Perhaps he was stricken with the same curiosity I did.

"I don't fucking know what is happening to me," Donald admitted.

"Do you... I don't know how to ask this." I could not take my eyes off of his throbbing cock. "Do you like watching him have sex with me?"

"I don't know! It's fucking confusing!" Donald was shouting, but no volume would have been great enough to wake Tom from his sleepwalk.

"I'm not judging you." I meant that promise with all my heart. "Do you... do you want me to help you?" The question didn't come from a place of guilt, though I was still feeling some for having ingested so much of our son's cum. It came from a place of love, and also curiosity - that morbid feeling that Tom had stirred up in me against my will, but had quickly become undeniable.

Donald gulped dryly. "Help, meaning?"

"Uh-huh. Maybe it will take my mind off of... well, him." I nodded my head towards the young man writhing between my legs, stuffing himself into my pussy like the secret to eternal life was at the bottom.

I enclosed my fingers around Donald's cock, fitting the swollen head into my palm and treating it to a flurry of light squeezes with my fingers. I used the powerful, body-lurching thrusts from our son to accent the strokes of my hand, channeling the momentum into a handjob fueled by our son's own rampant fucking. Every time Tom pushed into my vagina, he succeeded in helping me jerk off his father.

Donald never lasted long, so I knew as soon as I felt him pulsating with excitement that he was about to pop. Once I allowed myself - on some level - to embrace the pleasure that Tom gave me, I could not stand him being the only conscious person who was not enjoying themselves. It did not seem fair.

"Honey?" My tiny voice broke the melody of skin slapping against wet, slippery skin.

"Y-yeah?" Donald choked out.

"Can we be honest with each other?" I asked, and Donald's feverish nod was all I needed.. "Okay... uh, yeah. Yeah, I-I think he's going to make me cum."

"What? But you said you can't." Whether or not he was ready for another harsh truth, he was about to get one.

My brain was overloaded with dopamine, and, as such, it let my thoughts spill out of me unchecked. "I lied! I lied! I've done it a couple times by myself. But it's hard, and... I don't know. I think that's what I'm feeling now? I don't— I don't— fuckkkk! Oh, honey, I'm sorry, but he feels so fucking good!"

I came on my son's cock like a dishevelled whore, succumbing without remorse to the pleasure he was bringing me. My cunt squeezed like a python around Tom's dick, thanking him for the serotonin raining over my brain like the first thunderstorm across an arid desert, awakening receptors that had been dormant for far too long.

For Donald, the sight of me cumming in front of him for the first time was too much for him to handle. With my legs looped around the sharply arched spine of our own son, who was laying into me like I was a human punching bag, I embraced the first orgasm that a man had ever given me. The two of us, in greater harmony than we had ever displayed in the bedroom, came in unison to the sight of Tom dominating me.

Donald fired cum onto his belly, seeping into his stomach hair while he throbbed in my firm grip. Moral conventions did not exist, giving us a fraction of time where we accepted the situation for what it was and allowed our bodies to follow the flow of pleasure that came so naturally.

He quickly began to soften, drawing deep, bated breaths, and by the time his erection was gone it had been replaced by abject terror plastered over his face. It took me an extra couple of seconds to catch on, but I soon realized the terrifying truth that had both of us had been too distracted to pay heed.

Many years ago, Donald had gotten a vasectomy, so condoms and birth control pills were a thing of our past. Going without them for so long had made us forgetful of their importance, and since I'd never planned on sleeping with another man besides my husband, we did not take any other precautions.

It was too late then to do anything about it. My son was moments away from implanting his fertile seed in my womb. There was nothing standing in the way - nothing to stop him from breeding me and making me into a grandmother on the very same night that he lost his virginity.

Donald's voice cracked, his entire body shuddering when he promised me, "Whatever happens, we will deal with it."

"What if he gets me—"

"Whatever happens," he reassured me. "Don't worry about that right now. Just stay calm. Don't panic."

That was not an option. My pulse skyrocketed, my heartbeat taking off like a runaway freight train as mind-numbing fear overtook me. I ranted incessantly. "What the fuck do we do? No, no I can't. I can't let our son impregnate me! Those are supposed to be our fucking grandbabies in there!"

"Breathe, breathe." Donald kissed the top of my head and fit his hand around mine, cradling my shaking hand with a steady grip that reminded me why I had fallen in love with him in the first place.

I dug my nails into his hand, focusing on the feel of his knuckles popping under my fingers, so that I could be distracted from the incestual breeding ritual that we were about to complete.

"L-love you, honey. I love you. I love you, Donald." I sniffled, chanting the words to myself like a comforting mantra while watching, powerless to stop it, as my son picked up speed in a way that could only mean one thing.

I reached up with my other hand - the one that was not secured in my husband's iron grip - to gingerly stroke the side of his face, calmly reassuring him that our love would survive.

I accepted my fate. We had come too far; it was not worth trying to fight him off if it meant he might go ballistic and hurt one of us. We would have to let him finish, then deal with the fallout later.

To this day, I remember exactly what it felt like: every long, gluey rope of cum splattering against my cervix like paint. Hot, frothy bubbles churned in my gut from his chaotic thrusting. Tom added another dose of liquid love into the cauldron of slimy, white goo, then displaced it with yet another forceful drive to the bottom of my pussy.

My son's children - perhaps, soon to be our children - swam eagerly into their grandmother's open womb, seeking out my eggs once they had found a home inside of the cozy pocket.

Donald had cum inside me many times before, but it had never felt like that. Tom had bred me, in the most feral sense of the word. Once a dominant jungle cat, I was reduced to a pathetic, mewing kitten at the undeniable behest of my hormonal hunger.

We bucked and writhed together, grinding our bodies to coax out as many healthy volleys of semen as we could. We were a team, my son and I, working urgently to wring the cum from his balls while he was still throbbing. I was in no rush to climb out from under him, and so allowed his full body weight to rest on me while the remnants of his load trickled out.

Tom pulled out, his dick slapping against his belly. Considering how quickly Donald returned to normal after an orgasm, it was astounding that Tom was still so menacingly erect even though he'd spent two full minutes marinating inside me after he was done.

I was afraid that, since he was still so hard, he might want to have another go at me. Thankfully, for the sake of my pussy and my husband's sanity, Tom slid out of me without so much as a final thrust. He climbed off of the bed and stood at attention with his arms flat by his sides, like a statue, with the exception of the massive dong swinging between his legs. It still glistened with the leftover concoction of pussy juice and baby butter that we had created together, visually confirming just how thorough our bout of lovemaking had been.

His cum seeped out of my pussy, which I could tell without using my fingers had been completely blown out from his rough abuse. Much like earlier, I felt positively empty. There was a gaping void in my belly that wanted to be filled again, and due to the savage beating that Tom had inflicted on my poor, unsuspecting pussy, I feared that nothing else would satisfy me.

Donald stroked my hair, saying nothing. We lay in silence, pondering what the next day would look like, wondering how we'd gotten to where we were, and mulling over the way everything was going to change going forward.

I thought for a few long moments - all while feeling Tom's cum seep out of my ravaged hole - until I heard my husband speak.

"What do we do now?"

What is there left to do? I thought, but knew there was no easy answer.

There were a million things to consider, and none of them would become any clearer while I lay there with my unprotected womb being assaulted by a deluge of cum.

All we could do that night was wait and see what the new day would bring.

Donald confirmed to me that he had triple checked the locks. After the previous night, of which Tom had absolutely no memory, we were not going to take any risks.

Things were weird between my husband and me, but that was to be expected. It would take a lot of time to recover, or build something new.

"I want to go check on him," I declared.

I trusted Donald, but could not rest easy until I had rid my mind of the burden weighing on it.

"He's been asleep for an hour," Donald said. "Just let him rest."

My mind, however, was already made up. I crept into Tom's bedroom, greeted by his faint snoring. I tugged on one of the buckles and found it was tightly secured.

"Shit," I muttered.

I knew I would not get away with undoing the buckles myself - not after Donald had triple checked them. No, I would have to be patient.

I leaned in close to my son's ear and whispered, hoping that my words would float their way into his dreams. "One day, maybe tomorrow, maybe a year from now, your father is going to get lazy again. When he does, I'll be waiting for you. When he does, I'm all yours."

From deep in the trenches of sleep, Tom mumbled, "Love you, Mommy."

My heart beamed with pride and, more despicably, lust. "Mommy loves you too, baby boy - very, very much." sat on the back porch alongside Donald, my husband, with the muggy afternoon sun beating down on our heads. We had just finished lunch and, with the crusts of our turkey sandwiches still on our plates, were procrastinating the dreaded act of cleaning up.

Donald had come home from work for lunch, but sandwiches were not the main reason he had come home. We needed to have a conversation while our son, Tom, was out of the house about the events that had transpired the previous night.

Tom, in the middle of a terrifically powerful sleepwalk, had forced himself on me. The marital bed my husband and I had shared -- the very one upon which Tom had been conceived nineteen years earlier -- had been permanently sullied by his unconscious actions. He remained oblivious.

Donald and I feared that the knowledge of what he had done, regardless of his culpability, would have overwhelmed him. We had decided to spare him from the truth. That left us with a massive secret to keep, and Donald had come home that day to discuss exactly what to do about it. It was not a secret to either of us, however, that watching our adult son mount and inseminate me had turned both of us on enormously.

Donald admitted that, like me, he'd been unaware that he was interested in cuckolding. He had never mentioned it to me, and I had never thought seriously about it. As farfetched as it sounds, I believed that our son was the one who unintentionally awoke the kink in us both. One thing was for certain— we both wanted it to happen again.

I had my feet resting in Donald's lap so he could massage them while we chatted. "I don't want to do it with a stranger. It feels too gross."

He dug a knuckle into the ball of my foot. "I get that. For some reason, it give me anxiety to imagine you doing it with another man."

I bit my lower lip and scrunched my nose. "Unless that man is our son?"

He shrugged. "I mean, it still makes my stomach flip -- but in a good way, if that makes sense."

"Lots of people are into cucking. It's not that weird, honey."

He chuckled. "Not with their own kids, Lily."

"I know," I admitted. "It should feel weirder to do it with him. But..."

"But you already have." Donald knew exactly what I was getting at. "Against your will, no less!"

I joined him in creating coping strategies that would help us avoid feeling like bad parents. "Exactly! It's not like we wanted it, right?"

My husband took a sip of his iced tea and swallowed hastily, rushing to get his words out. "Yeah! We're just making the best of a bad situation. When life gives you lemons, you know?"

I giggled. "When life gives you lemons, use it as an excuse to have sex with your son. Is that how the saying goes?"

He blushed. "Okay, fair point. We may be going out of our way for more of those lemons at this point."

I wanted him to know we were both on the same page, so I reached out and stroked his forearm reassuringly. "I don't care how many mental gymnastics it takes. At the end of the day, you liked it. Right?"

Donald tuned a richer shade of rouge. "I really did."

I patted his arm. "Me, too."

"So what do we do, then?"

I waved my hands in the air erratically, gesturing to the invisible taboo that, as members of a non-degenerate society, we could not escape. "Forget all of this, okay? What do you want?"

He twiddled his thumbs. "I want to do it again. I want him to do it again."

I nodded enthusiastically. "So do I. Are we crazy?"

Donald seemed surprised that I even felt the need to ask. "Of course we are... but at least we'll be crazy together."

"God, honey. My heart is racing and he isn't even home yet!" My ribcage was being hammered from the inside a thousand times a minute. I could not imagine how much more excited I would have been if Tom had been home.

Donald playfully pinched my pinky toe. "What about tonight?"

It did not take me more than a second to consider. "Yes! Oh, honey. I'm so happy you're not jealous of him."

He took a deep sigh to steady himself. "I am jealous. It made me sick to my stomach to watch him thrusting on top of you. But..."

I raised an eyebrow. "But?"

He pursed his lips with a defeated shrug. "The jealousy is hot, I guess. I don't really understand it."

"What are you jealous of?"

Donald rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and first finger. He had stopped massaging my feet, so I knew he was deep in thought.

I had a guess as to what might be bothering him, but I wanted to be sure. "Are you upset that he made me cum?"

He cringed, then nodded solemnly. I could not tell if the rouge blossoming on his cheeks was that of shame, or excitement. "Not upset. I mean, I'm happy you got to feel good... for once."

"Honey, don't—"

He held up a hand to silence me. "No, no. I know, Lily. I didn't mean it like that."

"Then how did you mean it?"

He chewed on the inside of his cheek. "I believed you when you said you couldn't orgasm. I thought it was true."

"It was, technically. No man has ever made me cum."

Donald's hands quivered. "No man besides our son, you mean."

My pulse quickened. "I— uh, yeah. Yes."

"I just..." He hung his head in defeat. "... wish I could do that for you."

The alarm on Donald's phone rang out, informing us that lunch time had come to an end. I shooed him away, insisting that he get back to work while I cleaned up. Truthfully, I was happy to have avoided prolonging the awkwardness that had come from my husband realizing that his sleepwalking son had undeniably outperformed him. It was a bit of a "be careful what you wish for" moment - though I supposed the entire conversation could have been that, so in my view it hadn't gone all that badly.

I could practically see his heart pounding against the inside of his chest when he stood up from the table, but it was only half as noticeable as the modest bulge forming a tent in his trousers.

It was hard for him to come - no pun intended - to terms with the fact that the only man who had ever made me orgasm was the boy that we had raised together, but based on his undeniable erection, it excited us in equal measure.

I imagined that Donald was feeling incredibly inadequate over his decades of failure to do something that our son had achieved in just one night. For me, it had instantly become a core memory. Whenever I recalled the sensations that Tom had given me, my pussy would immediately clench up.

The pace of my rapidly beating heart picked up, and I had to manually remind my brain that we were not in immediate danger. It was incredibly exciting to plan something so wickedly sinful, and, given that Donald had come aboard, I was not about to spend the rest of that week passively waiting for something to maybe happen. I wanted to strike while the iron was hot, which meant we needed to devise a way to get our son into bed with me before he got home.

That said, we could not risk him overhearing what we had in store. If it went well, he would wake up the next morning none the wiser. Donald and I, on the other hand, would be in for one of the wildest nights of our lives— again!

We planned to leave the buckle undone again. As long as there was a way to escape, I knew that Tom would find it. He had before, though that had been an accident on our parts. If we intentionally gave him the means to break out, we were confident that he would do so. The only difference was that we would be ready and waiting.

Donald returned to work while I took to finishing chores around the house. I paid no more than half attention to my surroundings while I folded laundry, vacuumed our bedrooms, and prepped for dinner. The entire time, my impending encounter with Tom was all I could focus on.

Before I knew it, several hours had passed. I knew Tom would return home sooner than his father, but my heart still leapt into my throat when I heard his familiar footsteps trudging in from the garage.

"Mom! I'm home!"

My heart pumped equal doses of fear and excitement into my bloodstream. The cloth under my armpits became damp with nervous sweat. Despite the shaking in my legs, I forced them to carry me to the foyer to greet him as I usually did. Even though I felt anything but normal, I felt as though if I didn't put on a perfect front for Tom, everything would fall apart.

It was not wholly inaccurate to say that I was secluded indoors with my rapist— one that had already proven how easily he could overpower me. That worry lingered in the back of my mind, even though Tom - when awake - was the sweetest boy that a mother could ever hope to have raised.

Perhaps other women would have felt greater trepidation to approach him, knowing what he was capable of. I doubted any of them would have felt greater arousal than me when I laid eyes upon him -- the man who had dominated me so forcefully. My pussy was soaked.

"Hi, sweetheart," I said with a weak smile.

My pulse was racing so quickly that I could not draw a full breath, forcing me to adopt a staccato method of sucking in air. It was a half-hearted attempt at hyperventilating, as I would have needed some serious sedatives to truly quash my nerves.

Tom kicked off his boots. "Didja miss me?"

I gave a nervous giggle that did not sound anything like my regular laugh. "So much, Tommy. How was the job hunt?"

His demeanour soured. "Predictable."

I knew what that meant, and I entered "mother mode" in response to the sadness on his face. I strode over, hardly even noticing that my maternal instincts had calmed my nerves and given me the courage to approach him.

I wrapped my arms around his midsection and pressed my face into his remarkably firm pectoral muscles. "Oh, sweetheart. I'm so sorry. I know how hard you've been looking."

Tom pursed his lips. "Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to matter to the people interviewing me!"

"They don't know what they're missing!"

He stopped moping and returned my embrace, looping his arms around my neck with his nose in my hair. "I'm just happy I'm home."

A tiny, yet noticeable, rush of adrenaline struck me. "Me, too. You wanna watch some TV with me? Dad won't be home for about an hour."

He agreed to keep me company on the couch while we watched cable. He asked a couple of times - some would say pleaded - to switch to Netflix, lamenting the lengthy commercials that kept us from enjoying a rerun of Cheers.

I scowled at him. "Netflix doesn't have Cheers, sweetheart."

Tom released an exasperated groan. "Then we can watch Brooklyn Nine-Nine, or something! You love that show!"

He was right, but the commercials were exactly what I liked about watching television the old school way. They gave me a chance to talk to him without worrying that I would miss another zinger from Carla, though by that point I had heard all of them a dozen times.

The commercial bumper came and went, subjecting us to a series of informative claims from some forgettable brand of detergent.

I wanted to use the break productively, so I lifted my feet onto the couch and scooted closer to my son. "Does spaghetti sound okay for dinner?"

He shifted his body so his chest was facing me. "That depends. Did you already start making it?"

I nodded.

He gave a coy smile. "In that case, spaghetti sounds great, Mom."

I swatted his shoulder. "You love my spaghetti, you meatball."

Tom exhaled sharply through his nose with a goofy smile. "Nice pun. That was so cheesy."

"Well, I guess you've got one saucy mama on your hands!" Pasta based puns did not make for productive conversation, but they sure were fun.

Tom stood up with a chuckle. "I'm gonna get a drink from the fridge. Do you want anything?"

I shook my head and turned my attention back to the TV, where a familiar song was playing in the background of the latest commercial. Tom also recognized the tune, and began humming it while he made his exit. I heard him crack a fizzy water, still humming along, as he headed back to me.

When he reappeared, he had a big smile on his face. "I love that song!"

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine," The television sang. "You make me happy, when skies are gray."

I acted naive. "Oh, do you?"

He took the bait, giving me a look of utter confusion. "Of course I do! You used to sing that for me when I was sick, or sad, or like... whatever! It always made me feel a little more like myself, I guess."

"I remember, sweetheart. When you were a kid, the big, happy smile it used to put on your face was the cutest thing in the world."

He flashed me that trademark smile, and I pointed to the single deep dimple in his right cheek. "That smile! You haven't changed a bit, Tommy."

He scurried off to pour a glass of iced tea, and returned shortly thereafter. "Any plans for tonight?"

My pulse quickened. "Um, nope! Not that I can think of!"

Tom gave me quizzical look, but did not press further.

I hurried to change the subject. "What about you, sweetheart? Any hot Tinder dates that you're gonna hook up with?"

Tom gave a hearty scoff. "Fat chance!"

"But I thought you were still looking?"

He shrugged, his face a portrait of dejection. "I am, but that doesn't mean it's working. I can't even get past the talking phase."

I rubbed his shoulder. "If it's meant to be, it'll happen -- but if it doesn't, would that be such a bad thing?"

Tom pursed his lips and chewed on the inside of his cheek— like father, like son. "Kind of, yeah. I'm tired of feeling, like, lonely."

"You know your dad and I are here if you ever feel that way."

He chuckled, and I could swear I saw a thought just about to escape his lips before he held it back with a shake of his head. "I know, Mom. I appreciate that, but it's not just about being lonely."

I did not insist further, but I knew exactly what he was complaining about. As far as he was aware, he was still a virgin. It was strangely titillating to know the truth, and a part of me longed to share it with him. My little boy had become a man overnight without even knowing it.

Losing one's virginity is a rite of passage, and I had no doubts that Tom expected to have passed it by his age. He had still never kissed a woman, or had a girlfriend, and thus lacked the confidence that one gains from reaching those milestones.

Perhaps if he knew that he had already lost his virginity, I thought to myself, and in spectacular fashion, too, he would feel more confident.

Cheers ended right around the time that Donald arrived home. I ran to kiss him, and the two of us shared a moment of private excitement. I imagined that he had been as preoccupied with our plans for that night as I had been, and that stepping into the house was one of the last milestones he needed to put behind him before the sun set. Only dinner and a few hours of our usual winding-down separated us from another unforgettable evening.

My husband twirled pasta around his fork. "How was the job search, Tom?"

Our son pushed a meatball aimlessly around his plate. "Not great, but I'll keep looking."

Donald smirked proudly. "That's my boy. Gotta have perseverance if you want to succeed in life."

I saw Tom roll his eyes; his father did not. He caught my disappointed stare afterwards and hastily averted his gaze down to his plate. "I— uh. I think I'm gonna go to bed early tonight, if that's okay."

I recoiled a little bit. "Sure, sweetheart. Is everything okay?"

I was no expert in body language, but the way his shoulders were slumped forward told me that the burdensome failure of his job search was weighing on him heavily.

He shook his head, trying to escape the fog. "Nothing, nothing. I'm fine, really. Just a bit tired."

I knew that something was up. Normally, I would have pushed to have him watch a movie with us as a family. That night, however, I wanted him to go to bed as soon as possible.

I was practically vibrating with excitement, and continued buzzing whilst Donald and I dashed to our bedroom to get ready for him.

I slipped into a sexy piece of lingerie that I knew my husband liked. It was nothing fancy, but I wanted to put on a show for him. I wore the skimpiest red thong that I owned, and pulled it tight against my pussy. Donald had always loved how plump my bottom was, and seeing the string disappearing between my cheeks always drove him crazy.

Thanks to the sheer material at the front of my underwear, the prominent bulge of my chubby mound was clearly visible. Atop the hill, my darkly coloured pubic hair - which was usually much bushier - was flattened against my skin, pressed down by the see-through garment. At Donald's request, I had shaped the fur into a landing strip that was roughly three fingers wide. The long, brown runway began at the top of my slit and ended just below my belly -- a style that I had never tried before.

I added blush to my cheeks and a painted a luscious, rosy sheen to my lips - an identical hue to the one already on my nails, fingers, and toes that made them glisten like brilliant rubies. I painted mascara on my lashes for a look that screamed "fuck me!," and blew out my hair into a voluminous style that shouted the same - doubled the volume, you might say.

It felt profoundly strange. I was doing all of that work to look sexy for my husband's sake, but, in a less direct way, I was doing it for my son. He would not be awake to witness it, but for all intents and purposes I was getting dressed up in anticipation of a man who was not my husband fucking me. It was the first time I had done so in my entire life, and I would my lying if I said that my hands were steady while I finished colouring my lips.

I looked at Donald expectantly. "Did you—"

"Loosened, and ready to be unbuckled," he announced proudly. "All that's left to do is wait."

I must admit, I did feel a bit silly. To be sitting in bed with my husband, dolled up like a cheap prostitute that he would not touch, was a unique experience.

Part of me wanted to kiss him -- to initiate something that made me feel as sexy as I looked -- but a larger part of me wanted to save myself. That night, I belonged to Tom, and I did not want his father to taint me before he had taken his rightful turn.

I peered into the shadows in the hall, waiting to see him appear. My doubts started to grow. "He might not even come tonight."

"Well," Donald said, "last time he came in while we were having sex. Maybe he heard something that drew him in."

I grumbled. "Maybe."

Donald licked his lips. "Try calling out to him. You're the one he wants, right?"

My blood froze. "Yeah, I­­-I guess so."

I knew what my body wanted, but that did not make it any easier to take the leap. That apprehension is exactly why, when riding a rollercoaster, the rider is not in charge of deciding when the drop happens. My brain knew that it was technically safe, but I was still paralyzed by my primal instincts warning me of the danger.

Donald rubbed my shoulders, startling me out of my haze. "Honey?"

"I heard!" I spat out more sharply than I intended to. "Sorry. I'm sorry, honey. It's just a little nerve wracking."

"Do you want me to go get him, or—"

"No! You said it yourself, I'm--"An icy chill ran down my spine."--the one he wants."

"Okay, then. Whenever you're ready."

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "T-Tommy? Are you there?"

I thus summoned to my bedside the man that would fuck me harder than the one I had married— who was, at that moment, quaking with anticipation.

It was silent for a few seconds, but they passed with the pain of entire minutes. We waited anxiously, holding our breath. Then, finally, we heard the thud of a heavy footstep echoing down the hallway.

clenched my jaw, grinding my teeth together as I listened to the approaching giant lumber his way blindly towards our bedroom. The footsteps paused at the intersection between the stairs leading to the main floor, and our bedroom.

Donald and I exchanged a look, and he nodded at me. We had no way of knowing what he intended to do, but could not risk having him walk downstairs to make a mess of the kitchen, as he often had.

I cleared my throat. "It's Mommy, sweetheart. Come this way."

I knew he would not understand me, but as it turned out, he did not have to. Simply hearing my voice was enough to restart the engine that drove him forward, and his leaden feet resumed their march towards us.

Tom appeared in the doorway, his eyes closed as tightly as his balled up fists— one of which contained the underwear he had worn to bed that night.

I wondered at what point he had removed them, but it did not ultimately matter. What did matter what that he had come to me with a singular goal in mind, and it was one that we shared.

That goal was expressed clearly by the semi-hard dick swinging between his legs. It seemed as though each step he took served to send another rush of blood to it, making the fat, blue veins along the sides surge powerfully.

Oddly enough, his dick was not the sole factor that I found interesting. When Tom had taken me by force the previous night, there had been a palpable rage to him, one that I had felt the moment he walked into the room. That night, in response to hearing his name called from my bedroom, he had entered it with a smile in his face.

Does he know? I wondered. Why does he seem happier tonight? Was he expecting this? My mind raced with so many questions that I did not bother trying to answer a single one of them.

Remember what he's capable of. I reminded myself, but it was hard not to be complacent when he looked so happy to have been summoned to my bedside.

Donald's voice warbled when he tried to speak. "H-how do we... uh, start?"

My heartrate had already spiked as though I'd injected a dozen cups of coffee directly into my veins. The erratic fluctuations in my breathing made it difficult to speak. I reached over and held my husband's hand, tightly squeezing his fingers, but did not take my eyes off of Tom. "I think he gets to decide that."

I saw Donald nod out of the corner of my eye. "I'm kind of nervous, Lily."

I stroked his knuckles with my thumb. "Just stay back, and let him do what he wants. I don't want him to hurt you once he gets started."

Donald sat against the headboard. He kicked his boxers off, already sporting the largest erection he could muster. With a clearer mind than I possessed during the first night, I could accurately compare their sizes without being swept up in the moment.

Even though Tom had yet to reach his full size, he already dwarfed his father by three inches. I had never been particularly disappointed in my husband's penis, but after experiencing Tom's, I'd begun to wonder if that had been because Donald was all I had ever known.

The moment I laid eyes on my son's gigantic cock, the juice between my legs began to flow. Whether or not I would ever admit to my husband which of their dicks I preferred, I knew in my heart that it was no coincidence how obediently my body responded to Tom. The mere sight of such a hulking column of pulsating flesh dangling between his legs flipped switches in my brain that had it primed for baby making.

I got onto my hands and knees, a cat in heat, and crawled towards my son at the foot of the bed.

He stared forward -- not at me, but above me - which only encouraged me to seduce him further to attract his attention.

Though he could not see it, I forced a smile onto my face and made my tone as bubbly as I could. "Hi, sweetheart."

I did not know how much of his sleepy brain was functioning, but just in case, I did not want him to become aware of my tremendous anxiety. I suppose I should have remembered that my trepidation had not stopped him last time.

I sat up on my knees and braced my palms on Tom's upper chest for support. At his terrific height, even with the mattress giving me an extra six inches or so, the top of my head could only reach his chin.

He still did not look at me, but through me.

I chastised myself for craving his attention so desperately, but I knew just how to get it. I leaned forward and pressed my lips against his collarbone, where I flicked my tongue against his skin. I nipped softly with my teeth, then soothed the wound by flattening my tongue against it.

I looked up at my son with unblinking doe eyes. "Tommy, are you in there?"

He dropped his underwear with a grunt, and dropped his cheerful grin in exchange for a deadly serious stare. He looped his arms around my waist to pull me against him, which flattened my breasts against his chest so that they ballooned out of the sides of my bra. His fingers sunk into my doughy ass flesh, and dug deep enough that it stung a little bit.

I did not care that it hurt. The thrill of being manhandled, and the confirmation that he had come to play, made my pussy tighten with excitement. "Oh, yay! Good boy, sweetheart."

One squeeze of my plump rump was all that Tom's cock needed to finally inflate to its intimidating final form. I could not see it, but there was no mistaking its remarkable heat when it brushed against the inside of my thigh. It was trapped in a downward position, pointed to the floor. It strained desperately, longing to be released so it could slap against his tummy with full force.

I pulled back a little bit, giving his dick space enough to do exactly that. It made a dull, bassy thud when it collided with his skin. It was so loud that I imagined the head must have been inflated to the size of a golf ball.

I closed the space between us, sandwiching his rigid cock between both of our bellies. It pulsated with delight, happily encased in its tummy tomb. The tip reached beyond my belly button, causing me to marvel at the fact that its entire length had ever fit into my tiny body.

"Lily," Donald whimpered from behind me, "keep kissing him."

I turned my head, but could not rotate it far enough to see my husband. For a brief second, I had forgotten that he was even there. "You like when I give him kisses, honey?"

"Fuck, yes." His mouth was dry; I could hear his lips sticking to his teeth. "Do it again."

I kissed Tom's chin, straining my neck to reach up higher. He lowered his head, giving me an angle with which to reach him. I pressed my mouth against his, surrounding his lower lip with mine so I could gingerly nibble on him.

Tom did not kiss me back, but, by the insidious plapping sounds coming from behind me, I knew Donald was enjoying it regardless. I wanted to make him happy above all else. If he commanded me to sloppily make out with our son - a flesh and blood statue - I would do so until he ordered me to stop.

I wiggled my tongue into Tom's mouth, fishing for his while I suckled on his impassive lips. He did not need to move in order for me to fawn over him, and I did so freely. My hands groped his muscular shoulders, caressing his broad form before wandering up his neck. I cradled his head in my hands, and sprawled out my fingers to ensure he would not pull away while I hungrily devoured him.

Tom brought his open hand down on my naked ass, making my colossal caboose jiggle for a few uninterrupted seconds until the bouncing flesh eventually came to a rest.

Donald gasped. "How did you make him do that?" He had never seen me - watched me like entertainment - from such a voyeuristic perspective. I took perverse pleasure in being a spectacle for him to gawk at.

I chuckled. "I didn't! He just did it."

For added measure, I shook my bum side to side a few times, throwing around the marshmallow slabs so that they clapped when they collided with each other. My underwear was pulled as tightly as could be, morphing around my chubby pussy mound so close that the drawstring was tucked neatly between my swollen cheeks.

My backside stung from the impact of Tom's spanking, but it was a pain that made the context in which it was dispensed that much lewder. It was not just any old hand whose fiery imprint was burning its way into my white flesh; it was his. My own son had branded the outline of his fingers into my rump, claiming me as his personal plaything for the second night in a row.

He tightly gripped my ass with his fingers. The dense putty oozed through his digits, acting as makeshift stress balls for him to greedily grope. He pawed me incessantly, roaming my bottom with wandering hands that left their mark over every inch they travelled.

It was not long before he stumbled upon the waistband of my underwear, which was riding high up my lower back from how tightly I had pulled it between my cheeks. Based on his frustrated grunt, I supposed that he was expecting me to already be bottomless. That theory was quickly confirmed when he gripped the elastic band and tugged it upward with all his might.

His strength was great enough to lift me off of the bed and into the air like a ragdoll. I was suspended only by the strained string of my underwear, which was then buried between my pussy lips. The thin fabric was like a tightrope, and I was straddling it with my feet kicking helplessly a few inches off of the ground.

I rapidly slapped my palms against Tom's chest. "Put me down! Put me down, Tommy!"

The tightly pulled garment had sunk so deep between my cheeks that most of the pressure rested directly against my asshole. My clitoris - the poor, sensitive little bead - bore the rest of my weight. Tom yanked my underwear, making the wet, cotton floss scrape against my pleasure switch.

My toes curled hard enough to touch the pads of my feet. "S-stop! StoooOOOP!" I pounded on his chest, wincing in pain.

By the grace of god, and the power of Tom's next mighty tug, I felt the underwear start to tear. When he pulled on them a third time, I pushed down with my butt to assist him in ripping them off of me.

I fell back onto the bed, my quivering knees barely supporting me on impact. They buckled and I fell onto Tom's chest, huffing through my nose.

Donald had gasped when I fell. "Are you alright, Lily?"

I nodded. "Uh-huh. That was just... gosh, he's really strong."

My disheveled state was of no concern to Tom. I was permitted only a few scant seconds to recover before he began thrusting his fully erect cock into my tummy. His brow was furrowed, a look of confusion plastered on his face, but he was not angry.

If anything, his petulant prodding was more akin to the tantrums he would throw as a child. He was annoyed, but I could tell that it was only due to his excitement to mate with me again.

Last night was different, I mused. He seems more like himself tonight.

I could not help but laugh at his childlike insistence. "Poor baby. He's trying so hard to fuck me."

"Help him," Donald insisted -- then added, seemingly as an afterthought, "Mommy."

I peered at him over my shoulder. "What's that, honey?"

"Can you... can you call yourself 'Mommy' when you're with him?"

I felt a rush of depraved excitement. Like a good mother, I reached back to unhook my bra, taking a step towards helping my son get what he wanted.

"Let Mommy help you, sweetheart." My breasts spilled forth, squashing against Tom's firm, unyielding chest. My nipples were so sharp that I imagined I could engrave my initials in his skin if I pressed hard enough.

Tom instantly latched his hands onto my breasts and began playing with the piles of putty with such enthusiasm that the smile returned to his face.

He was rough, and callous, sparing no mind to the pain he would inflict with his roughness. He squeezed my tits like they were toys, and not the sacred providers of nourishment that had helped him grow as a baby. His haphazard groping made me wince occasionally, but each pang of pain coaxed another flood of nectar from deep within my pussy.

It did not feel good to be treated so roughly, but carnal pleasure was not what I sought. I was far more desirous of having my body worshipped -- to have someone's undivided attention and keep them obsessing over what they saw -- or, in Tom's case, what they felt.

I wiggled out of my torn underwear and tossed them to my husband, figuring that he would appreciate the memento.

I heard him inhale deeply, then sigh. "Jesus Christ, Lilly. They're completely fucking soaked."

I knew I had been growing wetter by the second, but I had not fully comprehended just how gooey I had become until Donald had pointed it out. Once he had, I could not ignore the profuse wetness between my legs. By the feel of it, I was sure that the drawstring of my underwear would produce a tablespoon of liquid honey if it were to be wrung out.

"I don't think I've ever been this wet before." Just as I said that, a tiny bead of nectar rolled down the inside of my thigh until it reached my knees, where it soaked into the bed sheets I was kneeling on.

Tom was still lazily grabbing my tits, ignorant to how his parents were gushing over just how much he was making "Mommy" gush. Even on autopilot, the way he touched me made me so excited that I feared I would pass out from heart palpitations before we got to the main event.

I reached down and cupped his heavy balls in her hands. I tenderly squeezed the swollen eggs, rolling them around in my little fingers. Since I had been gifted with large breasts since I was a teenager, I was empathetic towards the burden of lugging around such gigantic testicles all day.

The realization that the release of those bloated orbs would come from me, and me alone, made me shiver with glee.

My palm was glued to the underside, keeping him resting in the center of my hand. My fingers wandered up, stumbling over the root of his cock and the very same bulging veins that my eyes had traced just minutes prior. I ascended towards the head, which was still bumping into my tummy as if knocking on the door to my womb from the outside.

Donald sucked in a deep breath, still patiently stroking his cock while I did the same for our son. "Is he, uh— big?"

I gently tugged on his impressive length, marveling at the way it appeared to have a mind of its own. "Do you want to come and see how big he looks in Mommy's hand?"

He gulped. "O-okay."

Donald scooted to the foot of the bed, carefully eyeing Tom to make sure that he was cleared to sit on the edge.

With my husband sitting right next to me, his modest erection plopped in his palm, I demonstrated just how enormous our son's cock looked in my small hands.

I nudged Donald with my shoulder. "Look, honey. He's too big to get my fingers around."

I circled my thumb and middle finger around the root, gently tugging on him while I tried in vain to get them to connect. I failed, leaving about half an inch of space between my fingers even at their closest point.

"See?" I chirped happily. "Tommy's so big that Mommy's fingers can't even touch."

Donald's eyes were the size of moons. "Whoa."

"Jealous yet, honey?" I teased, wrapping the rest of my fingers around Tom's monstrous dong to cover as much of it as I could.

Donald nodded with his mouth hanging open. "He's so much... yeah, wow."

"So much what?" I prompted.

I pinched hard, squeezing the vice to send a rush of blood to the mushroom cap at the end. The spongy dome inflated, turning a furious shade of dark red.

Donald shuddered, his teeth clattering. "He's so fucking big."

I shook my head and pointed Tom's cock towards his father like a weapon. "No, no. Say it. He's so much bigger than..."

My husband was frozen for a full second, processing the overwhelming series of events that had him pathetically admiring his own son's cock. "Bigger than me."

I smiled from ear to ear. "Good boy."

Donald looked up at me with the cowardice of a puppy who had accidentally gotten underfoot. "Do you... I mean, do you like it?"

I looked at my husband, regretfully tearing my eyes off of the magnificent, girthy cock in my hands. "I love it, honey. Is that wrong? It's just so... fuck, he's gigantic. I don't know how you made this thing!"

I had intended for my comment to be a lighthearted jab, but it knocked the wind out of my husband. "I can't believe you just said that."

"Oh, honey. I just meant—"

"Ugh," Donald grunted. "Holy shit, Lily. I'm gonna fucking cum."

If I'd been a cartoon, my head would have spun all the way around. "What? Already?"

"Uh-huh."

I was no fool. I knew how male orgasms worked, and I feared that if Donald finished too early, he might call everything off in the wake of post-nut clarity. He was too weak to overpower Tom, so regardless of his consent I would end up inseminated before the night was through, but I wanted my husband to enjoy it so that he would be encouraged to do it again.

I could not risk having our night come to a premature end, so I made my demands crystal clear. "Stop touching it."

Donald whimpered briefly. "What? You— are you talking to me?"

I snapped my fingers and pointed to his dick. "Take your hands off of it."

He obeyed, seemingly out of impulse rather than actual intention. "W-why am I stopping?"

I straightened my back and brought my free hand - the one not wrapped around the root of Tom's cock - up to my mouth, and dribbled a fat gob of spit into my palm. With the homemade lube, I wrapped my slippery fingers around Tom's fat sack and coated it with goo.

Our son roared mightily and doubled the strength used to squeeze my breasts. The sheer volume of his voice had startled me, but that was the extent of my fear. Tom was strangely at ease, and I laughed inwardly at the first reason that my brain concocted to explain why.

Maybe he fucked me hard enough last night to get all the rage out. Maybe my pussy fixed him! They were silly jokes, but there is often a hint of truth behind those types of thoughts.

Tom was quite subdued in comparison to the man who had forcibly mounted the night before, and a small part of me took credit for that change. With his balls resting in my palm, I felt a strange sense of power over him. He could have been capable of taking whatever he pleased, but seemed willing to let me lead him at my pace.

"You don't get to cum until your son does," I said to Donald. "Set a good example for our baby boy, sweetheart."

Donald's face turned cherry red. "So I just... watch you two?"

I nodded. "Until you can touch your penis without making a mess, yes. Just watch what we do, and try to learn something."

"Jesus Christ, Lily."

I turned to him, dropping the character to perform an honest check-in. "Was that too much? I'm just trying to have fun, so tell me if I say anything too mean."

He licked his lips. "You're doing fucking great."

I rolled my eyes, but conveyed my earnest appreciation through a lopsided grin. "Oh, gosh. Thank you, honey. I'm trying my best."

I released my son's ball sack and watched the heavy pendulum swing back and forth a few times. With the tip of my pointer finger, I pressed down on his cock head, bending the lever from its upright position until it was stabbing directly into my tummy. Then I removed my finger and watched in astonishment as the unwieldly baton sprung back into position.

"Will he fit between your thighs?" Donald asked.

I used my finger to push Tom's dick downward again. I stood on my tiptoes, placing the snug tunnel made by my plump thighs at the perfect height for it to slide between.

I grabbed the root of his cock, guiding his dick up and down the runway of soft, brown fur atop my mound. After a few passes, I pushed down a little further and wedged the bulging crown between my lips. They enveloped the entire head at once, drawing it into the drooling mouth of my cunt.