Chapter 1
Adele Davis looked out the kitchen window, across the sink crowded with dishes, at her fifteen-year-old son Martin as he poised on the diving board above the Davis swimming pool. Her eyes studied his hairless, lean, platinum blonde form. Martin was truly a beautiful boy of whom any mother could be proud. While he was only of medium height, he was perfectly well-proportioned in all respects and had no ungainly aspects of the sort usually associated with pubescent youth. He was exceptionally trim, from his well-formed feet to his long legs, slender hips, small waist, good chest and wide, square shoulders. Then there were the clean lines of his handsome young face, unbothered by teenage pimples, and the shock of platinum hair above, which he was always pushing out of his deep blue eyes.
He was poised now on the diving board, swinging his arms and limbering up. Adele never ceased to marvel at his litheness and muscularity, the ripples of washboard muscle in his stomach and around his ribs. It was as if she had given birth to a deity. There were slight rondures on his chest as well, his nicely formed pectorals. Other muscles filled out the squareness of his high shoulders, the long leanness of his legs. He had beautiful tanned calves and thighs. Martin was so beautiful, in fact, that he might have been made in a Swedish factory, just turned off the assembly line like any item of production. He was too perfect. It was impossible to think of him as a normal boy.
Adele lit a cigarette and brushed a curl of black hair out of her sultry eyes. Martin was bouncing on the board now, his lean, well-muscled arms flying, his legs muscles springing and balling on the downfall. Then suddenly he was spinning off into a double somersault and straight as a knife into the water.
Adele felt her nostrils flaring and sensed a bit of breathlessness. She could always watch her son Martin-he had always been beautiful-but lately there had been a faint fluttering in her chest whenever she spied him, and she was breathlessly unable to pinpoint its cause. She assumed that it was simply mother love at its most basic, but on the other hand she felt vaguely disturbed by it as well. She did not like mysteries, and this feeling was altogether too mysterious for her to be altogether satisfied with the most pat explanations for it.
He was swimming across the pool now, in long, lean strokes which had made him a champion in all-city competition for his high school. There was talk that he might even be Olympic material, Martin reached the end of the pool and pulled himself up. Adele's breath caught-for a moment she thought he spied her, and for some reason that made her feel uncomfortable and guilty. But he couldn't see her, of course. That was just-a trick of her imagination. She took another drag on the cigarette.
For some reason her mammoth breasts seemed to he heaving, even as her nostrils flared. She self-consciously arranged the long black pony tail that she usually wore her curly hair in. As a girl she had often been somewhat self-conscious about the ungainly hugeness of her breasts, which were altogether abnormal. Because they were so big she had had difficulty with athletics after the age of twelve, because they had bobbled so much and made running so difficult and self-conscious. But now, as a matron, they no longer seemed out of place. A woman of forty did not have to feel ungainly with enormous, pendant breasts. A huge bosom on a matron her. age was altogether in keeping.
The idle thought floated through her head. She wondered if Martin ever noticed the hugeness of her bust. No, of course not. She was just his "mommy" and that was all. Boys his age did not think about old women like her-they liked girls their own age....
But what was she thinking of? Adele suddenly flushed beet red and her cheeks puffed up. Disgusting thoughts for a respectable woman her age. Sex was something only husbands and wives thought about-and only as it concerned each other. How peculiar that such daydreaming had floated through her thoughts even for a moment.
She took a final drag on the cigarette and ground it out. Her eyes were dully lidded as she considered her son. Then her thoughts floated to the cigarette. For many years she had been opposed to smoking on purely moral grounds. Her parents had brought her up very strictly, and her Quaker background totally precluded the use of artificial stimulants and relaxants. She had moreover always taken a severe line with people who indulged in such things.
But then in the last year she had acquired an inexplainable nervousness, and Reverend Thorensen at her church had offered her a cigarette during one of their talks about church choir and other church social activities. Since then she had taken to smoking the irregular cigarette here and there.
It occurred to her now that she often reached for a cigarette when her son Martin was around.
But that was foolish! What did Martin have to do with it? He was the ideal son that any mother would be proud of, and never gave her any cause whatever for concern. She could remember even now how proud she and her husband Robert had been when Martin was born. Having children was in a sense a validation of one's self. It proved one's worth to the world. Then you were continued. Otherwise a person was a dead end. And that applied in particular where a woman was concerned. There was nothing less womanly than barrenness.
What a cute baby he had been, too. With his cute little penis and testicles, always shooting in his mother's eye or his own when he was being dressed. What a laugh they had had over that. And then how surprised she had been to note that even babies could develop a very hard penis. She could remember now how secretly she had played with his sex when Robert wasn't around, curious about it from every angle. Feeling it, stroking his balls with her fingers. In a sense, having a boy child had sufficed to satisfy her curiosity about such things.
Then, of course, Martin had gotten older and she couldn't do that anymore. Although occasionally, when she was bathing him, she had noticed that his little sex would get hard when she was soaping it so gently with her hands. That, of course, would never do, and she was more careful as the years went by. She didn't want to make a pervert out of her own son.
She gazed out the window at him again. How pure and clean he was! She doubted that he had ever had a naughty thought in his entire life.
He was on the board again now, leaping high into the air and jackknifing cleanly into the transparent water. His muscles flashed dramatically in the warm spring sunshine. It had been like midsummer all May this year and in fact one day the mercury had hit 98. Ninety-eight, in May!
He was in the water again, swimming strongly. Adele felt what she assumed was a maternal surge. She glanced at the cigarette in the ashtray. Cigarettes did help her to relax. Still, she hoped that this year was just a fluke and that her peculiar nervousness would subside-it was, after all, so uncharacteristic of her-and eventually she would return to her normal self, whatever that was.
Giving a small sigh, she turned away from the window and went to the mop cupboard to begin tidying up the kitchen.
Upstairs, the Davis' twelve-year-old daughter Pamela withdrew her fingers from her exploding pussy with a fierce sucking noise.
She laid sprawled out on her little girl's white four-poster bed with its gauzy white lace hanging all around. Her legs were widely spread at a very obtuse angle, and her cuntal hair and upper thighs were totally soaked with sweat and cum. Her very long blonde curls fanned out in back of her on the white pillow, and the voluptuousness of her high, firm, young torpedo-like breasts heaved with sighs as she floated through the aftermath of her masturbatory orgasm. Her blue eyes were dully lidded and scarcely saw anything ahead of her. Her full, unformed pouty lips with their sexy lower jut panted hotly as she calmed. Her cheeks were flushed and pink. Her curvaceous belly heaved with emotion, and she slipped her fingers back in through the sex-slick lips of her pussy, just gently tickling, as she subsided ever so slowly from her peak. The voluptuous, meaty columns of her creamy thighs fell mindlessly open, then kneed upward. Her nostrils flared with the aftermath of passion.
A faint groan echoed from her throat. It was several minutes before she could open her eyes again. A pleasant sort of enervation washed through her magnificent young body. She had really cum like a house afire this time, thinking about both Daddy and her older brother Martin.
Then suddenly a terrible feeling of shame washed over her. What if her mother found out!
But no, that was silly. How could anybody possibly know what she was doing all these times alone in her room? Ever since she had begun idly playing with the end of the hairbrush the previous winter, she had daily grown more and more dependent on the fierce multiple orgasms she was able to engender while masturbating. She would hardly have been able to live without them now.
She brushed and blew a blonde wisp of hair from over her eyes. But it was really no good behaving like this because Daddy was, after all, Daddy, and her brother was still, after all, her brother. No possible form of completion could be envisaged.
Then why did she think of her father so often? What was she going to do with these terrible desires that threatened to consume her? Because she was so well-developed, it was easy to lure on older boys and get them to manhandle her in the dark back of the playground at school, but that was scarcely enough-Her needs were altogether too mature to be satisfied by a little petting. It was true that she loved it when they squeezed her growing young breasts so hard, and mashed her mouth open in a voracious French kiss, but then there was also the danger that she would get a reputation of being a "fast" girl. Boys always talked. They bragged to each other. And she didn't want to gain a bad reputation.
On the other hand, she did want sex. Almost ever since the blonde fleece had appeared around her tender sex slit, and her breasts blossomed out so hugely, she had been exceptionally concerned about the process which she had been told usually produced babies. She didn't want babies, of course, but then, on the other hand, she couldn't seem to help herself where sex was concerned. She fairly squirmed in her seat when a boy touched her. And her breasts were continually consumed by these terrible yearnings. It was as if they cried to be mauled and handled roughly by masculine hands. She also adored it when boys tried to suck on her tits, but then they couldn't go too far with that because none of the boys she knew had cars, and doing it in the back of school at night was risky. She longed to have her-nipples sucked, really sucked, just once, but thus far this had, been difficult to accomplish. Instead she had to content herself with merely feeling her breasts herself and pinching her nubbies with her fingers.
But that was scarcely sufficiently satisfying. She groaned and made a small motion with her fingers between her legs. Peter Grey had managed to suck on one of her tits the other night, and she could remember very well how she had gone "Mmmmmmmmm ... aaaahhhh ... mmmmmmmmm...." But that was all that had come of it, and it had scarcely been adequate.
Pamela made a little mewling noise of despondency and got up, carrying her enormous, firm young love-globes in her hands over to the long vanity mirror.
She was certainly beautiful, she had to give herself credit for that. She was blonde in a world that valued blondes, and she had very big "globbies", as the girls called them at school. Her long blonde curls fell thickly all the way down her back to the crack in her buttocks, and she knew that boys liked long hair.
She put her hands on her hips where they flared out so handsomely, and dug her fingers into her soft, creamy rounded belly. She was gorgeous by any standard, and she knew it. Her eyes narrowed and she palmed her breasts, cupping them upward. The huge strawberry aureoles were like secondary mounds, then topped by the carefully cut rubbery nipples. She felt their curves. Underneath, the weight of her youthful breasts defied gravity, and were very hard. Above, they were like ski slopes. Any boy should love to handle them-as well as a few men. She had noticed a great many of her parents' friends, and men in the neighborhood, looking at her very curiously ever since she had blossomed out the previous summer. She wondered if they could possibly be interested-
But no, that didn't make any sense. Grown men couldn't be interested in little girls. Or could they?
She tried to remember what her mother had told her about sex. She had never had a penis inside her, and she was very young, so her vagina was probably very snug. But men probably had larger penises than boys-and they were probably much too big for little girls like her. Or were they?
Anyway, grown men just didn't do things like that. That was "dirty." Or was it?
The more she thought about it, the more confused she became. Now she didn't know at all what was right or not.
She made a little sigh, shook out her hair, and picked up the hairbrush, carefully combing out her long blonde tresses. She knew that she was overdeveloped for her age and most of the time she was proud of it, but occasionally she was self-conscious. Then her desires tended to confuse her and she didn't know what she thought about half the time. Her emotions of the last year ran totally counter to everything she had been brought up to believe by her parents ... that it was sinful and should only be done in guilty secret between husband and wife. She knew that she could never accept that any longer, or explain to her mother her true feelings. Her mother would have been terribly shocked.
As for her father, he would give her the hairbrush for naughty thoughts. So she was really quite alone.
The hairbrush. She sighed and looked at it, then impulsively put it in her mouth and began gently sucking on the end of it. The hairbrush had shown her a wonderful time all winter. Then there had been the coke bottle. She wondered what sex would be like with a real penis rubbing at one!
And then she thought of her father again, despite her best intentions. Now, there was a man! But what good did it do her? Her father was as far away from her as the moon.
She put down the hairbrush and went to the window, heedless of anyone spying her total nudity and massive breasts.
Daddy's car was pulling into the driveway, and Martin was going off the diving board into one Of his triple somersaults, or whatever. She wondered. Daddy. She continued watching him for a long time after he got out of the car.
"Hello, dear." Bob Davis gave his wife a brief kiss on the cheek and settled down into a chair at the kitchen table, his briefcase on his knees. "Whew," he said, wiping his forehead, ""hot one today."
Adele shrugged. She knew she loved her husband, so why did she find his conversation so tedious sometimes? Or maybe it was just the heat. Outside on the diving board her beautiful son Martin, his platinum shock of hair waving in the wind, was taking another bounce into the air, his magnificent lithe form like that of a Greek god.
"Want some coffee?" she asked, her eyes still on her son.
"No, that's all right. I'm going upstairs to lay down. Heat's got to me. Can't concentrate on a single thing. Maybe I'm getting old." He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.
Maybe you are, she thought automatically and without malice, and her eyes went to Martin again, there in the pool. In another moment her husband Bob got up without another word and went upstairs to he down.
She continued watching her son for some time. Later, as he dried himself, she watched him as his tight young skin and muscles flashed in the spring sunshine.
After Martin went upstairs she had another cigarette and sat thoughtfully at the kitchen table for some time, not thinking of anything in particular, but her thoughts were largely a mass of confusion. The closeness of the season, the consideration that she was growing older, a great many things seemed to have combined recently to make her feel strangely disconsolate and uncomfortable. And worst of all was the fact that she could never possibly communicate any of this to Bob. He would only think that she was silly.
Upstairs she could hear the water going on in the shower. That was probably Bob, after a hard day's work. She wondered mildly if perhaps she should go upstairs and lie down before dinner.
Maybe that would be best indeed. She picked herself up and went through the dining room to the stairs, glancing at the buffet mirror as she went. Her hand went automatically to her hair. Maybe she should do something with it. Perhaps that would cheer her up. Her own father had never let her have it cut, on the grounds that short hair on girls was immoral and an attempt on the part of women to behave like men.
If he could see the "men" of today, she thought, thinking of some of Martin's school friends who had hair almost down to their boyish shoulders, he'd turn in his grave.
But no, she couldn't cut her hair, because she really thought even now that long hair was beautiful on women and best left alone, clean and well combed. Although nowadays she was catching the stray gray hair.
She also studied her bust as she passed the mirror. Still very full and protuberant. But her housedress was so terribly dowdy. What must Martin and Pamela think of her, always going around like that? She really should get some new things.
The shower was still going as she arrived at the top of the stairs. She needed to go to the toilet, so she tried the door. It was unlocked, so she stepped inside and locked it, then lifted her dress and pushed down her panties, sitting down on the toilet.
Suddenly there was a sharp cry or moan-she wasn't sure exactly which-from the shower. She jumped up and went to the side of the curtain, afraid Bob might have been scalded or something.
But, pushing the curtain aside, she saw that the tenant of the shower was not her husband at all-but her handsome young son!
Adele's heart froze in her tracks. There was Martin, stark naked, his gorgeous handsome head thrown back, his neck muscles straining, everything in his lithe, muscular young body straining for some impossible something, his pelvis thrust forward, and his hand-filled with soapy lather-rapidly moving up and down on his immense, hard young penis!
Adele thought she gasped, but she wasn't sure. Fortunately Martin's eyes were still closed. He was groaning softly in an agony of lust, his soapy had moving back and forth along his bloated organ. Underneath there was the soft sway of his dripping testicles. Adele's breath caught. Bob's genitals were also well-developed, but Martin must have inherited his equipment from his own father, they were so magnificently formed. Much larger than anything one would have expected from a fifteen-year-old like her handsome son. She found herself transfixed as his hand moved up and back over the heavily veined stem.
She was breathing heavily and there was a small ball of fire expanding in her groin. This was probably the most obscene act she'd ever witnessed in her life. Ordinarily she and Bob would make love only in the dark, and very conservatively. She had heard about masturbation, but never actually witnessed it. Wasn't it supposed to stunt one's growth, or give youngsters pimples? In any case, it was certainly the work of the devil and irreconcilable in any degree with respectability.
So what she should have done immediately was to snap heatedly at her son and give him a harsh dressing-down.
Yet she couldn't. She was transfixed in her tracks as if her legs were cemented into the soft mosaic tiles of the bathroom floor. Something caught in her chest, a fierce fluttering feeling. If she was going to say something, she had to do it now-but she couldn't. Her breath labored harshly. She felt as if she were running a race. Her mouth open, her chest heaving madly, she couldn't take her eyes off her handsome blonde son as he groaned in the throes of his masturbatory excitement.
And then the moment in which she might have preserved moral superiority was lost. How could she explain her own fascination, that she was merely standing there?
Martin groaned and began uttering obscene words, his head straining backward, his platinum hair plastered with water, and water dripping down his face. She watched his pelvis jerk forward, and then suddenly there seemed to be a terrible shuddering in his loins which shivered quickly outward over his entire body. He groaned and his head dropped down onto his chest. Every muscle in his body seemed to be contorted with terrible suffering, and then his healthy, hard young penis began squirting juice all over the shower curtain. She caught a spot of it on her dress and quickly pulled the curtain shut.
Trembling and unreasonably terrified of something she-knew-not-what, Adele opened the bathroom door hurriedly and stepped jerkily out into the hall. A terrible shiver convulsed her, then she looked around to see if anyone was there.
There was no one in the corridor. She could feel her breath coming wildly, and she was disgusted with herself.
But what had so terrified her?
Suddenly she looked down at the large milky spot of Martin's cum on her plain housedress.
And then all of a sudden the most irrational curiosity attacked her-she wondered what it would taste like....
She looked around. There was still no one in the corridor. She looked down at the spot on her dress, which was gradually soaking in. It had become dark at the edges, and she wondered if it was very sticky, or salty, or sweet....
Adele was still breathing heavily. Suddenly she tensed herself. Her fists knotted into steel balls. What on earth was she thinking of? she wondered. What on earth had come over her?
And then she managed to regain control. The flow of blood increased throughout her body, and her firmness and determination strengthened. She shut her eyes and a fierce shudder broke through her matronly flesh, making her huge breasts wrinkle all over and her nipples come up hard and pointy.
She must have lost control over herself for a moment. It was the weather. It had to be the weather. Or something else.
In any case, she was a woman, so there would be nothing abnormal about it if she encouraged her husband to make love to her that night.
Because that tiny ball of flame was still lodged firmly in her loins, and growing with each passing moment.
Breathing hotly, she made her way down the corridor to her own bedroom.