The Sweetest Sin Pt. 01

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First of four chapters

It began, as many of the best stories do, on a dark and stormy night.

The church meeting had overrun, mainly because the committee kept pestering me to take over as treasurer. This argument happened every year. “God gave us all talents, Susan, and he meant us to use them,” Mike, our minister, said primly.

I shot him daggers, then glanced at my watch. My shoulders and back were aching. I just wanted to be home. “Look, how about if I agree to audit the accounts at the end of the financial year?” By the smiles, I knew I had fallen into their trap. At this rate, I really would be treasurer next year.

By the time the meeting finally ended, it was pouring outside and I got drenched on the short walk to the car. Thanks Mike, I fumed, driving home in wet clothes in the growing storm. If you’d wrapped up two minutes earlier, instead of passive aggressively quoting Parables at me…

So I was not in the best of moods when I got inside.

“Hello! Anyone home?” I stood at the kitchen sink, tipping water out of my shoe, and tried to make myself heard above the rain and howling wind.

I walked down the corridor and knocked. The extension had been worth every penny. As Cassie’s behavior deteriorated and she grew ever more obnoxious as she stomped through her teens, it was useful to have her out here, away from the main arena of family life. I had hoped, by some chronological alchemy, that she would become a sensible, pleasant, good-humored adult when she turned 18. No such luck. I knocked again. “Cassie, dear?” I called in my most non-threatening Mom Voice. No response.

I retraced my steps through the kitchen and lounge room and stood at the foot of the stairs and shouted. “I’m baaack!” They must be out — maybe even overnighting at a friend’s, unable to get home in this weather. Kids. I always tell them: I don’t mind what you’re doing and where you are, so long as you let me know!

I’d phone them later. Right now, what I needed was a hot bath. Shoes squelching, I trudged upstairs and along the hall toward my room, when I heard a giggle and a thud. Oh, someone’s home.

“Jack?” I knocked on his door and turned the handle. “Honey, I’m … What the…”

I caught a flash of breast as Cassie frantically buttoned her blouse. Jack was scrambling to pull his pants on. I stared in shock.

“Mom, we didn’t hear you…”

Cassie pushed past me, trying to cover her chest. I picked her bra off the floor and threw it at her. “You forgot this.” She caught it and fled.

I pointed a finger at Jack: “I will deal with you later.”

I slammed the door and started down the stairs. Halfway down, I stopped.

What had I seen? It looked dreadful. But don’t all siblings play doctors and nurses, I asked myself. Maybe, but not when they are both 18! That sort of experimenting can have unintended consequences. And from the little I had seen, it looked as though they’d been planning to take it a lot further.

Still, that pause allowed me to cool down. No sense screaming and accusing. My heart was racing, but my mind was calm as I reached her room.

“Cassie. We need to talk.”

She opened the door a few inches. “Mom, I’m sorry. We were just fooling around. It looked a whole lot worse than it was.”

“Fooling around? With your twin brother, Cassie? How much worse would it have got?”

She hung her head. “I’m sorry, Mom. It won’t happen again.”

Her eyes were red. I was furious, but kept my anger in check. This was new for me: a meek, contrite daughter. She knew she had done something terrible, and for once she couldn’t dismiss it with a sarcastic retort. I should have played it for all it was worth, but I was tired and irritable. “It’s late. We will talk about this tomorrow.”

I knew it was her fault. Cassie had always been advanced for her age, physically and emotionally. A year younger than Jack, but much more worldly. I could imagine her drawing him into her little game.

Oh, look, I knew I favored Jack. Not because I loved him more, but because he had always been such a sunny, easy boy. Funny, kind, helpful. It was easy to love Jack. And he hadn’t gone off the rails when he hit puberty.

Outside his room, I gathered myself. I was upset more than angry with him. We needed a proper discussion in the morning, but now wasn’t the time for getting heavy.


“Mom, I’m going to bed.” His voice sounded high and strained.

“I just want a word.” I opened the door. He stood in the centre of the room in his bathrobe, looking as though he was about to burst into tears.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’m not here to punish you. We will have a talk in the morning, the three of us, and sort this out. Because this is serious. It’s not just a crime, Jack, it’s a sin.”

“Mom, I don’t know what to say. I feel awful. I am so ashamed. I don’t know what happened. Cassie, she…”

“Don’t worry, I know it’s Cassie’s fault. You poor boy. london escorts How are you feeling?” I put my arms around him and held him to me.


“Tense? Tight?”

He nodded.

I guided him to his desk, sat him down in the chair and swivelled him round. “Come on, baby. One of Mom’s patented shoulder rubs, that’s what you need.”

I began kneading and squeezing him. “Goodness, you are tense.”

“Oh, Mom. That’s so good. That’s the spot. Your massages are the best.”

“We haven’t done this in such a long time,” I mused. “I guess you get older and you don’t want your mother’s shoulder rubs any more.”

“No, Mom, I’ll always want your magic fingers.” He turned his head and looked back up at me. “This feels amazing.”

I smiled back down at him. My heart stopped.

His bathrobe had accidentally parted, and it was jutting out. Blatantly, unmistakeably masculine.

My heart fluttered, my hands froze. Oh my God, oh my God. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t look away, couldn’t tear my eyes from my son’s penis, its beautiful head rearing on its erect stalk through the gap in his robe, the slit glistening.

He shrugged his shoulders and rubbed his neck. “You finished, Mom? Thanks, it’s been a real help. I feel so much looser.”

Every synapse in my brain seemed to have fused. I was in shock. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, could hardly breath.

“Mom? Are you okay?”

I couldn’t wrench my gaze from that fat cock-head, with its little drop of dew. Every nerve in my body was on red alert, and the hole between my legs was on fire. All I could think was: My son’s cock. It’s magnificent.


I’m his mother. What am I doing? I closed my eyes and removed my hands from his shoulders. Shaking uncontrollably, I staggered to the door. “G … good night, love you” was all I could manage. I tottered down the hall to my room and collapsed on the bed.

My son. I had seen my son’s cock, sticking up, young and proud, oozing juice.

And I had found it the most exciting thing in the world.

I sat up, trembling all over. “What the hell is wrong with me? What the hell is wrong with this family?”

This was not me. I had never had incest fantasies. Never.

Or had I? Maybe, I thought, the desire has always been there but I suppressed it.

I remembered emptying his wastepaper basket and finding the semen-soaked tissues that he had forgotten to flush down the toilet. I had smiled – my little boy was all growed up! But was there something else? Had I been subconsciously turned on, holding my son’s cum-wipes?

I shook my head — the thought of sex with Jack disgusted and frightened me. Yet, after what I had just seen, it also aroused me beyond all measure.

What I wouldn’t have given to have that damp fistful of tissues in my hand now, to smell and taste.

I needed to think. I ran a bath and climbed out of the damp clothes. As I lay back, my breasts floated in front of me, the only place where they could be free, buoyed by warm water. The nipples stood out like fat ripening raspberries, startlingly pink against the white of my body.

I tried to process things logically, tried to work out how I would talk to my children, firmly yet lovingly. “This must never happen again. It’s wrong in the eyes of God and the law.”

But how could I say those words when my body was in overdrive at the memory of what I had seen in the room next door. I closed my eyes, but I could still visualize him sitting there, penis pointing at me, the head shiny with pre-cum. Try as I might, my mind wouldn’t let me shut out the thoughts of what I could do to his cock. What it could do to me.

In front of the bedroom mirror, I let the towel fall to the floor.

I still had the tight ass of my teenage years. Unfashionably thick blonde bush. I examined my face close up. The face of a 42-year-old woman who has taken care of her skin. Smooth, not too many lines. That’s what comes from avoiding make-up, smoking, sunbathing, fun. I was the whitest person I knew. No shadow of a tan line. Alabaster, some might say. Pasty, others did say.

Honestly? I’m no beauty. I never had looks to drive men wild or give wives reason to feel jealous. Some men find me vaguely attractive. Most don’t. The old-fashioned word for it is plain.

I was never the long-legged, tanned, sexpot MILF of fuck-fiction fantasy (“Oh, Mom, you’re not old. Gee whiz, all my friends think you’re the hottest”). I was Mrs Average. Average height. Average age. Average name. Weight: a little over average. I wasn’t fat in any one place, but I was a little too thick everywhere.

My marriage ended five years ago. There had been a couple of men since, but no one for three years. “Let herself go” is the expression. Which is fair enough. I had long since given up trying to attract a man, and it showed in the drab “don’t look at me” clothes, the sexless hair of indeterminate length dyed london escort a shade of camouflage brown, and the gradual accumulation of pounds.

The only thing that wasn’t average was my breasts.

I had been nothing out of the ordinary until Jack was born. They ballooned to comedy proportions during my pregnancy, and stayed that way. They are massive. The first thing (possibly the only thing) people notice when they meet mousy little me.

Please — I’m not boasting. I have hated them for years. I can’t count the number of times I’ve wished they were smaller. Not tiny, just normal. I’ve often considered a reduction, but with my horror of surgery, it’s easier just to put up with my embarrassing oversize breasts.

Sweat collects under them. I can’t run — I would look ridiculous, and besides, they hurt like hell being buffeted around. They weigh a ton. Only the best bras will support them. But even the best bras can’t stop the straps gouging my shoulders all day. My back aches under the strain. And when I undress, I am dragged down by their full weight. Sleeping is awkward.

Apart from the physical, I always imagine that people are sniggering about them, making jokes about their cartoon dimensions.

It’s why I take so many baths: it is the one place I can be truly free of their weight.

And, contrary to the perkiness of every breast in every sex story I’ve ever read, they sag. On some days I can convince myself they’re not too bad, but I can never avoid the truth for long: my enormous mammaries, with their tempting raspberries, went south for the winter after my second pregnancy and never came back.

On the other hand, they do attract men. They are a sign that, despite the baggy clothes and the mud-colored haircut, there’s a real woman under there somewhere.

And they are very sensitive. Not that men have known what to do with them, either pawing them randomly or pinching them way too hard. In some strange way that makes no scientific sense, there seems to be a line from my nipples to my clitoris, if handled right. Touch one, and other tingles.

But that was a moot matter these days. I hadn’t had any man-action for three years.

After graduation, I settled for a pleasant, handsome man, the original Good Provider. I fell pregnant, then we drifted apart – and realized we had never been close to begin with. In the end, I don’t know why we even called time on the marriage. We had reached a calm, tepid, sexless doldrums; we could have drifted on until death us did part. But he met someone else. We parted with no animosity and a generous divorce settlement.

Since then, the only man who was any good in bed had left for me a prettier model. Throughout history, women have had two currencies: their beauty and the hole between their legs. It’s true men will do anything for sex (“How many men does it take to replace a lightbulb? Only one — they’ll screw anything”) but, given the choice between two sets of genitals, they’ll take the young one with the pretty face every time.

Maybe if I’d made more of an effort with my appearance … but anyway, no one wants to hitch himself to a dowdy divorcee with two kids who has deliberately put on weight so everyone notices her boobs less.

So, there I was, in my 40s, alone, contemplating the long, depressing slide into the second half of life. And then this happens. My son’s cock happens.

I gathered my dressing gown around me, no closer to a decision about Jack. I knew how I felt — unbridled lust. But how did he feel?

Then I thought: his erection! While I was massaging him, he grew hard, fast. He was leaking within two minutes of me touching him.

But was I assuming too much? Maybe he was still stiff from that roll and fumble with his sister.

No! I recalled that he was standing in his bathrobe when I came back for our chat. There is no way he could have concealed that epic boner. So it must have been my shoulder rub that did it. It must have been me who did it.

So — had I already made carnal contact? If I had moved my hands on his penis and gotten him stiff, that was sexual, obviously. But moving my hands on his shoulders and getting him stiff … what did that mean? Was that sexual contact? Had I – we – crossed the line without knowing it?

This was giving me a headache. I tried to consider things clearly. My first-born child. I would be violating my own flesh and blood. Tainting his innocence. Defiling him.

But for several minutes, a question had been forming in my mind, and now it was flashing neon bright. “What if,” I said quietly to myself, “what if he wants to be violated and defiled?”

Just speaking the words out loud got my juices bubbling.

But what was I to do about it?

This would be the biggest gamble of my life. I am not a natural gambler. I have saved money all my life against a rainy day. I joined the most boring profession in the world. I’ve made a fetish of stability, london escort agency safety, and security. In financial terms, that has served me well. And it was the right thing for the children. But in the process, I had sacrificed my happiness, sublimated my needs. I had put myself last in every important decision I ever made.

It was so long since I had raked my nails down a muscular back while a tongue invaded my mouth. So long since I had tasted a man’s essence while he gripped me by the hair. So long since I had been held down, helpless, by stronger hands.

Above all, it was too long since I had been mounted. Mounted and ridden. It is the most natural thing in the world, yet the weirdest at the same time. Millions of people do it every day. But having the engorged appendage of another human pushed into you, and then thrust again and again – how did our Creator come up with that idea to make pleasure and babies? It hadn’t always been fun for me, and it always hadn’t made me cum, but now I realized how much I missed it.

And I wanted my son to do all that to me and more. I wanted to corrupt him, use him for my own pleasure. My dear, sweet son. It was wrong, but God, it excited me.

Any other woman would probably have masturbated herself to sleep and woken up as normal next day, the episode in his bedroom just a fond, wistful memory to fantasize about for the rest of her life. But I’ve always found masturbating a bit like trying to tickling yourself, or faking a sneeze. Or scratching an itch that returns as soon as you stop scratching. It wasn’t going to help.

My mind was overwhelmed. I couldn’t think. So this time, for once, I was going to listen to my body. I stood at the threshold of the forbidden and listened to the jungle drums inside me, luring me on into the darkness. That slow, deep throbbing between my legs was telling me: “I have never wanted anything so much in my life.”


I set the alarm super-early to avoid the kids, brought my bowl of porridge and pot of coffee up to the study and worked like a demon all day. It was the only way to take my mind off what I was going to do that evening. Every time I stopped, my stomach pitched and my body shivered and I had to drive myself back to the computer screen.

At 5pm I texted the kids: “Frantically busy. Working on major account. Order takeaway.”

At 8pm I sat back, having done three days’ worth of work in a day.

I shut down the computer and opened the closet. My old blue dressing gown hung side by side with the white bathrobe the children had bought for my birthday years ago. I had worn it a couple of times out of duty, then put it away. It was a thigh-skimmer, a pussy pelmet, riding too high up my leg for my modest comfort. I had to wear pyjamas under it, so as not to reveal too much.

But tonight was different. I put the robe on and began experimenting. The angles had to be just right. I needed to go far enough to get a reaction, but not so far that I wouldn’t be able to deny it if anything went wrong. I was gambling – cautiously.

I carefully watched myself in the mirror as I crouched and bent and posed. I sat on the bed, my breathing fast and shallow, my legs like jelly. I heard Jack turn off the shower and I counted five minutes before knocking. “It’s Mom, can I come in?”

He opened the door. I had timed it right. He too was in his robe. He sat down in his chair at the desk, nervousness written all over his face. I perched on the bed.

“Jack, darling, it’s time for our little talk. I’m not angry, Jack. Last night — I understand what teenagers get up to. I’m sure it was no more than harmless tomfoolery that got out of hand. But you are brother and sister. If anyone found out, think of the trouble you would be in. A, er …” my mind raced. “A federal felony, yes, that’s what they call it. You would go to jail.”

I didn’t know if this was true, but I needed him to believe it. He wrung his hands and looked desperate.

“Jack, I understand this is a difficult age for you. I know you have sexual thoughts and feelings — I’m not naive. After all, I am a mother of two children – a beautiful girl and a fine, upstanding young man, and I would do anything for you, Jack, darling. Anything, do you hear me.

“Now don’t worry. As I say, nothing happened. But the lesson is: don’t experiment sexually with a child, Jack. You need a woman. Someone who knows what she is doing and, most importantly, someone who will never, ever tell. Never betray you. It will be your secret, just you and her. You can have your fun – both of you – and nobody will ever know. Do you understand what I mean?”

He nodded blankly.

I stood and walked over to his bookcase, re-enacting the little performance I had rehearsed in front of the mirror. “Gosh,” I said casually. “I remember when we gave you these books. This one for your fifth birthday. This one — what, three Christmases ago? I don’t suppose you read them any more. It’s all videos and cell phones these days. You’ve grown up so much. My little boy has become a man.”

I squatted down, facing away from him, and pretended to inspect a book on the bottom shelf. “Here’s one I haven’t seen for a while.”

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