Chapter 4
At the same time that Tina and John were saying good-night and Nico and Helen Carlisle were finishing their coffee in London, the twin-engine Sikorsky 108 was landing on the floodlit roof of the Vassilikos mansion.
As the two huge rotary propellers whined to a stop Pericles Vassilikos eagerly approached the huge black Hellenic Airways craft and urged his ground crew to hurry with the portable stairway. He looked up as they rolled it into place and the door of the helicopter swung open.
Claire Clayborn had graced the covers of every fashion magazine in the world, and most of the news and fan magazines as well. She had been a successful New York fashion model when she met the handsome California senator during a location trip to Washington. After a subtle but thorough investigation of her background by his patrician family and a whirlwind courtship which made the front pages despite every effort to keep it private, they eloped and were married by a sleepy Justice of the Peace near Bakersfield, California, on the day Roger Clayborn began his campaign for a second term in the U.S. Senate. He obviously had his eye on the Presidency and the strikingly beautiful and graceful blonde woman he adored so much would be an invaluable asset to him as well as a loving and affectionate wife.
The marriage had its problems from the beginning, but was strong because Roger and Claire Clayborn loved each other. Claire soon rebelled against the strict control Roger's dowager mother and businessman father tried to exercise over all their family, including their sons' wives, and Roger backed her up. The illusion of unity and harmony was preserved for the public, but it was Claire to whom Roger turned for support and comfort during the long and careful preparation he was making for his political future. His parents were hurt but they remained silently in the background, or as much in the background as people as rich and powerful as they were could. Roger's mother resented Claire's fetching mini-skirts and thought she should use stronger discipline on her son, Timothy, and disapproved of the magazine covers, but as the years went on Roger Clayborn's career thrived and he got closer and closer to his cherished goal.
The marriage was ten years old, and Timothy nearly nine, that day in the Hilton Hotel lobby in Minneapolis. Roger Clayborn was not officially a candidate for the Democratic Presidential nomination and so he was assigned no Secret Service guards. He had just finished addressing a German-American Club luncheon and during his talk he had strongly hinted that he was on the verge of throwing his hat into the Presidential ring while at the same time assuring his audience that a responsible leader would work more vigorously for German reunification that the present office-holder was doing.
The lobby of the hotel was a chaos with reporters fighting for phones and people of all ages crowding around the dynamic young senator and his beautiful wife. No one seemed to notice the wild-eyed young man in the shabby coat and the long, tangled hair. No one noticed him until he drew a pistol from his pocket and fired five times at Roger Clayborn from a point blank range, shouting in a middle-European accent:
"The Germans must never be reunited! Death to all tyrants!"
He was quickly wrestled to the ground and disarmed. Roger Clayborn had been hurled backwards by the force of shells entering his body and now he lay on the thick carpet of the hotel lobby with blood pumping quickly and fatally from the gaping wounds in his chest and stomach.
Claire Clayborn was kneeling beside him, holding his head in her hands screaming for a doctor, but it was five minutes before the only one in the lobby of the hotel could make his way through the mass of people crowding around the dying man. The doctor was a pediatrician and had never treated anyone with bullet wounds. By the time the ambulance arrived in front of the hotel and the team of surgeons had rushed into the lobby, Roger Clayborn was dead.
Clair Clayborn's period of mourning lasted for a year and a half. She made half-hearted trips to California to see the Clayborns, but these became more and more infrequent. For the most part she stayed in her Washington apartment and saw only old friends such as John McCandless and the effeminate playwright Clarence Parkington.
Reluctantly she allowed McCandless to persuade her to go with him to New York one afternoon to attend a literary cocktail party, a benefit for one of the Clayborn charities. It was at that party she met Pericles Vassilikos. At first she paid no attention to him, regarding him as a loud, squat rather vulgar man but soon he had her laughing uncontrollably as he told story after story about the pompous and posturing members of international society he knew so well and who spent so much time currying his favors while he laughed and poked fun at them. He acted out every part and his imitation of the very proper, very stuffy English Lord who could only make love to a woman while he was wearing a fur hat and coat actually brought tears to Claire Clayborn's eyes.
The next week he had flown to Washington in a Hellenic Airways 707 which he had all to himself for the trip and from then on they began to see a great deal of each other. When she accepted an invitation to take a cruise around the Mediterranean Sea in his private yacht the Clayborn family intervened. Mr. and Mrs. Clayborn and three of Roger's brothers descended on her in her Washington apartment as she was packing and at first demanded and then begged that she cancel the trip. When they finally stormed out of her apartment en masse there were no fond good-byes said by anyone and the breach between Claire Clayborn and her inlaws was complete.
John McCandless quietly returned to Harvard and he and Claire saw little of each other after that. They both knew that the lovely 36-year-old blonde widow with the long, striking legs and the dazzling smile didn't really need his comfort and his sympathy and his gently witty conversation any more. She was attending parties regularly now with Pericles Vassilikos and they had been seen holding hands at an intimate dinner they had together in a small Greek restaurant in New York. Still, he was much older than she was and nearly a head shorter. And none of her friends could believe she had any serious feelings for the shipping tycoon. Then came the announcement of their engagement, spread across the world in banner headlines. Roger Clayborn's mother took to her bed and stayed there for nearly a week without seeing anyone but her doctors. In Rome a famous Italian actress known for the size of her breasts and the fury of her temper hit an English journalist over the head with a rolled-up copy of Paris Match which featured the engaged couple on its cover. The Englishman had made the mistake of asking her if the announcement meant that her fabled and long-standing romance with Pericles Vassilikos was over. Her only statement was something to the effect that Clair Clayborn bleached her hair and that if she ever laid eyes on that little Greek bastard again she would shoot him between the eyes.
Now the wedding was less than a week away and Clair Clayborn was arriving in Athens with her son, Timothy, now almost eleven and the image of his dead father. She originally had planned to come over the day before the wedding, but the time difference between Washington and Athens would have thrown her off for several days so she decided the let world opinion think what it wanted to and she came early to see her fianc‚ and let her son get used to his new home and to rest before the ceremony.
When the delighted Pericles Vassilikos learned of her change in plans he ordered all the scheduled passengers off of Hellenic's Atlantic non-stop flight 411 from Washington, had the plane quickly cleaned, and then put it at Claire's disposal so she could come when she pleased. She had arrived just a few minutes ago and had been immediately whisked away from the airport and the waiting reporters by the huge black Sikorsky. Timothy had immediately run to the pilot's cabin and stared in awe at the array of instruments spread out along the control panel. She practically had to drag him away when they landed and just had time to run her fingers affectionately and maternally through his unruly shock of shaggy brown hair before the door of the helicopter swung open and she saw her husband-to-be on the landing pad below, smiling up at her as the carpeted passenger stairway was rolled into place.
After a quiet dinner where Timothy's request for a hamburger instead of the superb roast duck a l'orange was immediately honored, Claire took the boy upstairs to his room to put him to bed and say goo-night to him. Her fianc‚ kissed her lightly on the cheek and said he would look in on Tina and then wait for her on the large terrace outside their adjoining bedrooms.
Claire Clayborn walked up the wide, curving staircase as though in a dream. She held Timothy's hand tightly and followed the silent maid who would show her the boy's quarters. She felt frightened and uncertain and wondered it she shouldn't cancel the whole affair and fly back to Washington in the morning. And yet her body ached for the special way that Pericles Vassilikos made love to her, the way he had first showed her on his yacht early one morning when they were anchored in the clear blue water off of Cyprus. Unconsciously she reached back and smoothed her skirt over her bottom, the bottom that had been photographed in countless bikinis and which, before her marriage, had made tight-fitting slacks the rage for three entire seasons. Roger had adored it and they spent hours together, lying in bed nude between sessions of lovemaking, while he stroked and caressed the round, silken cheeks and ran his fingers lightly between them, touching and teasing her sensitive anus but never penetrating it.
Pericles adored it too, but in a different and exciting way and she felt her knees go weak as she realized that before the night was over she would feel him inside her in the way she had come to prefer over any other kind of intimacy.
The maid was standing in front of the open door giving her a puzzled look. She snapped out of her reverie and led Timothy into his spacious room.
"Of course I still love you, Papa," Tina said. "But we must never, ever do again what we did together that night last week."
"It's not the first time it has happened in the world, Tina," Pericles Vassilikos said. He was sitting on his daughter's bed saying good-night to her. She was under the covers with the sheets drawn primly to her chin. She had taken a shower and carefully washed her vagina and now wanted only to go to sleep and dream about John McCandless, and to imagine that he was beside her in bed and that during the night he would turn to her and she would feel his erect penis sliding once more between her young thighs.
"In a few days you'll have a new wife, Papa, and even if you weren't my father and even if the thing we did was right and natural, which it's not, you now belong to another woman," Tina said, her voice grave and solemn, like a child in Sunday school reading her lesson.
"All right, my sweet," he said. "But my marriage won't change anything between you and me. You're still the number one girl in my life and you always will be. What we did the other night was just another expression of my love for you and someday, when you're older, you'll realize that. There are certain social conventions which limit the ways people love each other. But they don't apply to people like us, Tina, people like the Vassilikos family. I'm one of the richest men in the world and I got that way by defying convention and society and even the law and governments when it was necessary."
"I know, Papa," Tina said admiringly. "I realize what a great man you are. But still I feel what we did was wrong, even though it was as much my fault as it was yours."
Tina hadn't spoken of the incident for several days, avoiding her father when he was alone and only talking to him when there were others around so that a serious discussion of their incest was impossible. She had felt guilty and yet there was no denying that she had enjoyed making love with her father. Terrified that she was abnormal, she didn't want to repeat their transgression until she had had a chance to think things through. She even considered going to a priest, or a doctor, but she was too shy and ashamed. But her erotic session with John McCandless in the sauna and the massage room had shown her just how normal and full of desire she was and it had given her the courage to talk to her father and straighten matters out between them. She could tell he still wanted her and would have made love to her again if she had permitted it. Perhaps some day she would, but at the moment all she could think of was McCandless and the marvelous things they had done together.
"Did Claire arrive?" she asked.
"Yes," her father said, realizing she was deliberately changing the subject. "She and Timothy got in just over an hour ago."
When John and I were kissing good-night, she thought to herself, reliving the moment and rubbing her firm young thighs together at the memory of his large hands around the cheeks of her bottom.
"Some of the other guests are here, too," he went on. "There's a very important friend of Claire's by the name of McCandless. He's one of the American President's closest friends and advisers and could be of great use to me in the future. When you meet him be sure you are very nice to him."
"I ... I've already met him," she said.
"Oh? Where?"
"We ... we met in the garden on the lower terrace ... just outside the steam room," she lied. "We ... we were both out for a walk."
"I hope you were pleasant to him," her father said.
"Oh I was very nice to him, Papa," Tina said, smiling inwardly at the memory of just how nice she had been to John McCandless. "I think I'd like to go to sleep now, if you don't mind."
"Of course not, darling," he said. "And I'm glad we had this discussion at last. Believe me, Tina, kings have the right to do things that are forbidden to common people, and we are the kings of the new world because we have money. Always remember that, and never be afraid to do what is unpopular or forbidden or unconventional just because of what other people may think."
Such as making love in a stream bath? Tina thought to herself as he leaned over to kiss her forehead.
She put her arms around his neck and squeezed to show him that she loved him very much, then suddenly his lips were no longer on her forehead but pressing against her mouth and she felt his weight on her breasts and almost unconsciously her own tongue was flicking into his mouth and his large hand was under the blankets moving downward over her stomach and caressing her between the legs.
She was bare under the sheets and she grabbed his wrist and tried to force it away from her crotch but he was too strong for her. She twisted and tried to roll over on her stomach but he was still kissing her and she couldn't move. Finally she got her lips free of his.
"Papa!" she cried. "Stop it! Oh please stop it!"
She felt his body relax and could see that he was trembling as he hung his head in shame and withdrew his hand from under the covers.
But his sudden fondling of her didn't disturb her nearly as much as her own reactions. She had returned his kiss and his hand moving over her bare body had ignited an instant erotic heat in her loins. She could feel herself growing wet between the thighs and she knew that if he had persisted in his advances for just a few moments longer that she would have given in to him.
"I won't say I'm sorry, Tina. I'm not. But I won't insist if you don't want me. But I could feel the way your body responded to me and I can tell you that we'll make love again, you and me, many times before we die," he said, standing up, looming over her, thick and squat and powerful in the dim light from her bed-lamp. "You know it too, don't you my darling?"
She waited for a long time before answering him, looking up into his eyes, coal black like her own and knew that secretly she would want him again. She was confused and unhappy but far too honest a girl to lie to herself about her own feelings. She loved and wanted John McCandless and she loved and wanted her father and then she thought, almost comically, how insignificant and immature and silly Stavros Nomikos seemed when compared with these two strong, experienced, confident older men.
"You know it, don't you Tina?" her father repeated.
"Yes, Papa," she said meekly. "Only ... only not tonight."
"All right, my little love. Not tonight," he said, crossing to the door without kissing her again. "But soon. Very soon."
He closed the door and Tina reached up to shut off her lamp. She wanted to be in the dark so she could think.
She knew John had arrived earlier in the evening but she couldn't bring herself to telephone him. She was too confused, and she also felt herself tingling with desire for Pericles.
Timothy had taken a shower and brushed his teeth and was coming out of the bathroom now.
"All right, darling," Claire said gently. "In to bed. You have a big day tomorrow."
"But Mommy, I'm not tired," Timothy said, reluctant to let his mother leave.
"Come on now, young man," she said, a slight warning edge to her voice.
"No!" he said stubbornly.
"Am I going to have to give you a spanking on our first night here?" she said.
"I don't care if I get a spanking, Mommy," he pleaded. "I just want you to stay with me. Lie down next to me until I go to sleep."
"All right," she said, relenting. She knew he was nervous and unsure of things, just as she was herself. "I'll have to take my dress off. I don't want to get it wrinkled."
She stood up and took the hems of her skirt and drew it up over her head, draping it gently over a chair so as not to muss it. Underneath she had on a pair of sheer, flesh-colored panties, a matching bra, a simple garter belt and smooth, skin-colored nylons which clung tightly to her long, shapely legs.
"Oh boy," he said, secretly delighted to see his beautiful mother undressed.
"Now just calm down, young man," Claire warned, "or I will paddle you, do you understand?"
"Yes, ma'am, he said. Then: "Mommy, I'm sick to my stomach."
She sat down next to him on the bed and put her palm to his forehead to see if he felt hot.
The boy lowered his eyes and looked down at his mother's round, smooth white thighs just above the tantalizing tops of her stocking and the garters that were attached to them. He let his gaze wander upward, being careful not to let her notice, until he could see the crotch of her panties and the springy yellow mound underneath which pressed against the thin material. Tiny corn-colored strands of the curly pubic bush had edged out under the elastic hem of the brief bikini panties and he stared at this forbidden sight with a mixture of awe at his good luck and wonder at the strange feelings it aroused in his genitals. He felt his tiny penis begin to swell against the material of his pajama bottoms and he began to blush with embarrassment and hoped that his mother didn't notice. He wished fervently that she would decide to give him an enema so he could lie with his naked stomach across her lap and have her soft fingers touching his bottom. If he had to provoke her into spanking him with his pants down, he would, but it was more fun to have an enema because it didn't hurt like a spanking did. She could be very firm with him when she got angry, and he wanted to enjoy the delicious experience of being across her knees without the accompanying sting of the punishment.
"You don't seem to have a temperature," she said, "But it was a long trip. I guess I'd better give you an enema before you go to bed. And no arguments."
She stood up, unaware that he was beside himself with pleasure and excitement at the prospect.
"Yes ma'am," he said, feigning disappointment. "I mean no ma'am, no arguments."
"Into the bathroom," she said, going ahead of him. He watched her smooth, pear-shaped buttocks bounce and quiver as she walked, barely contained by the gossamer material of the bikini panties which were pulled up high back, well into the lush valley between her cheeks.
He stood beside her as she took the enema bay syringe and thin rubber hose from his valise and bent over to look for the jar of vaseline at the bottom. As he looked at her taut, spread buttock cheeks he peered closely at the diaphanous material of the panties and could make out the shape of her anus and thought how exciting it would be to give her an enema.
"Mommy, did you get enemas from your mother?" he said.
"Oh yes, darling, until I was much older than you are," she answered, finding the vaseline and putting it on the sink while she filled the bowl with warm water and sloshed a bar of soap around in it. "In fact I give myself enemas even now if I don't feel good."
"Can I watch you take one some time?" he said daringly.
"Why what an impertinent question that is. Of course you can't and I want you to apologize immediately, young man," she said angrily. "And tomorrow when I unpack I'm going to look for my special strap and you're going to get a taste of it, do you hear me?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said. "Now apologize!"
"I'm sorry," he said. He knew he had gone too far and cursed himself for inviting a spanking with her belt which hurt much more than her hand did.
"All right, come here," she said, sitting on the toilet seat after hooking the enema bag upside down over the sink. She held the black nozzle in her hand.
He began to rub his hands in his eyes, pretending to cry while instead he was actually stalling to get another peek at her long, shapely, stocking-covered legs and her panties before getting over her lap.
"Now why are you crying?" she said.
" 'Cause you're mad at me," he sobbed.
"No I'm not, Tim," she said. "Now come on, get across my knees for your enema."
"But you're going to spank me with your strap tomorrow," he wailed, "and it'll hurt."
"All right," she smiled. "If you promise not to be bold like that again, I'll let you off this time."
"I promise," he said, rubbing his eyes and gazing once more at the way the tops of her nylons hugged the lush roundness of her thighs.
"But I still think you're a little faker who can turn tears on and off faster than Sarah Bernhardt," she laughed, taking his pajama bottoms down and drawing him to her right side and down across her lap.
"Who's Sarah Bernhardt?" he demanded.
"Never mind," she said. "I'll tell you later. Now you have to get this enema and get to bed."
His head hung down over her left side and as he felt her fingers spread the cheeks of his bottom and he drank in the sight and fragrance of her from this unique and intimate point of view. He could see the way the fleshy undersides of her thighs rolled slightly over the constriction of the tops of her nylons and from the corner of his eye he could just catch a glimpse of the way the crotch of her panties disappeared upwards between her legs.
Turning the other way he could see her firm, shapely calves, and the way the nylon hugged them as it extended down past her slim ankles and into her black, high-heel, patent-leather pumps.
He smelled the delicate perfume she always wore, but there was another fragrance mixed in, one which he dimly recognized. It seemed to be the odor of her body but it wasn't like the smell of sweat she sometimes had after a long, hot afternoon of tennis. He was puzzled and excited by it but after the unfortunate question he had asked about watching her take an enema he knew another slip meant a strapping for sure.
As her free hand held his buttocks apart he could feel her fingers spreading the thick vaseline around his tiny brown anus, making sure it was completely covered so the enema nozzle would slip in easily. Finally, she stuck one finger into the small opening, sliding it through the clenched muscles and lubricating his anal walls. His slender, muscular body went stiff with pleasure and he could feel his penis hardening against her thigh as the round tip of it rubbed against the soft, smooth material of her stocking top.
Now she rested her open palm lightly on the cheeks, of his behind, caressing them affectionately.
"You have such a sweet little bottom," she said gently. "I must say I love to give you an enema because it gives me an excuse to fondle it the way I did when you were a baby."
He squirmed with pleasure across her soft lap, feeling his bare stomach rubbing over the top of her other stocking.
"In fact, young man, I even secretly enjoy it when I have to take your pants down and spank you," she said. "Your little cheeks are gorgeous when they're all red and rosy, like ripe tomatoes. But I'd better get this enema over with."
Again she spread his buttocks open and he felt the round, hard tip of the nozzle slide into his anus and up his rectum and then the warm, soapy water began to flow into him. His erection was completely stiff now and he could feel it quivering between her thighs as she shifted position and drew her knees together under him.
"You little devil," she smiled. "You're hard as a rock, aren't you? Shame on you."
He could tell she wasn't serious and he was secretly proud of the stiffness of his penis. He was showing his mother that he was a man instead of just a little boy.
"I'm going to be so jealous of your wife when you grow up and finally get married," she sighed, keeping the hard-rubber nozzle in his rectum and letting the soothing water flow into him. "And you'll probably be as good in bed as your father was."
"What do you mean, mommy?" he said.
"Oh you'll find out soon enough, sweetheart," she laughed. "How does that feel? Are you all full of water?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said.
She cut off the flow of soapy water and pulled the nozzle out of his anus. The feel of the narrow shaft between his anal walls had been a pleasant experience and the sucking sensation of its withdrawal made him shiver with sexual tension. She gave his bottom a light, loving smack and set him on his feet.
"All right, darling," she said, "now sit on the toilet and let all the water out of your sweet little behind."
She got up and lifted the cover and he sat on the seat and expelled the soapy water in a rushing stream.
"How does that feel, Timmy?" she said, stroking the side of his face and running her fingers through his hair. The crotch of her panties was at eye-level to him and he could see her sunshine yellow triangle pushing delectably against the gossamer material of the bikini panties. He wanted to reach out and touch the springy mound or kiss it or rub his cheek against it, but he didn't dare, remembering how close he had come to a spanking earlier.
"I feel a lot better, mommy," he said. "Thank you for giving me the enema. It felt real good."
"You see, darling? Mommy always knows what's best for her precious little boy," she said. "And I see you're not so little any more. Your penis is getting very long, just like a man's, and it's all cute and hard and wet at the end. I suppose I shouldn't let you see me in just my panties and bra any more, you're getting too old for that."
"Oh no, mommy," he said. "I love to see you dressed like that. And you don't have to worry about me getting married to some dumb old girl. When I grow up I want to marry you and take care of you. I'll be real rich when I get big.
Grandma Clayborn said so. And I'm going to be President some day. And then I'll take care of you and buy you anything you want."
"You're such a sweet boy," she said caressing his cheek. "But in a few days I'll have a man to take care of me. Pericles will be my husband and he'll be your stepfather and he'll take care of both of us."
"I don't want him to," Timmy said. "I want to be your husband and look after you."
How sweet that would be, if only you could, Claire thought. Or if only your father had lived. Oh Roger, how I miss you, how much I still love you. Pericles is sweet but he's not the man you were, despite the lovely, naughty things he's taught me to do in bed.
"We'll see, Tim," she said. "Are you all through?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said.
"All right. Wipe your bottom and come in and get into bed," she ordered. "And no more nonsense."
"Yes'm," he said. "Will you still stay with me for a little while?"
"All right," she said as he stood up and wiped himself, then pulled up his pajama bottoms and flushed the toilet. "But I want you to go right to sleep or it will mean a good spanking."
"Yes, mommy," he said, going in the bedroom and lying on the bed on top of the bedspread.
"Get under the covers," she said.
"I'm too hot," he said. "I want to stay like this. With you beside me."
"All right," she laughed, lying beside him and putting her arms around him.
"Oh mommy," he said. "I hurt between my legs."
"Where?" she said suspiciously.
"Right here, under my thing."
Oh dear, she thought, he's had a hard-on for quite a long time and his little balls are aching. I guess I'd better help him.
"All right, Tim darling," she said gently, taking some kleenex from a box on the night table. "I'm going to do something I've never done before. You're quite a big boy now and you have a hard-on and it's hurting you. I'm going to massage your little penis until you have an orgasm and spurt your semen out of the hole in the end. Now when you're about to come I want you to tell me so I can catch your sperm in these kleenex."
"What's 'come', mommy?"
"Well, you just tell me when you feel very, very excited, when your body feels all trembling and shaky, all right?"
"Yes, mommy," he said obediently.
She took his throbbing erection in her hand, lying beside him, and began to manipulate it, running her palm up and down its length. It felt small and sweet in her hand and she had to resist the impulse to bend down and kiss it and take it in her mouth and bring him to a climax with her lips, the way she had done so often with Roger.
Tim felt himself go stiff with excitement as his mother massaged him. He could smell her delicate yet earthy fragrance and feel the softness of her hand massaging him and feel her presence on the bed next to him. Best of all he could see her, see the lovely, firm white breasts swelling over the top of her brassiere and the delicious way her panties clung to her, emphasizing the triangular, honey-colored mound of fur between her legs. His little white shaft was trembling and shuddering with pleasure as she worked her hand faster and faster over it and he felt himself pressing forward, arching his back, instinctively trying to get nearer to the gorgeous woman who was giving him so much pleasure, trying somehow to get his body between her legs where his basic, primal passion told him it should be.
Suddenly he felt an overpowering rush between his legs, as though he suddenly had to go to the bathroom, but it was infinitely stronger and more urgent and he felt tremors of heat shooting through him like electricity.
"Oh mommy," he gasped. "I ... I think ... I think it's happening ... Oooooohhhhhhh...."
Quickly Claire bunched the kleenex around the trembling little knob at the head of his erection and almost immediately a stream of white juice came coursing out of him.
"Uh ... uh ... uh ... oooooo ... ooohhhhhh..." he moaned as the spurting continued, soaking the kleenex and spilling over into his mother's hand. His bottom was flexed and his lean hips rotated with each fresh jet-like spash until finally there were only sticky white drops falling from the small opening and his penis softened and began to go limp.
Claire got a handful of fresh kleenex and wiped off the head of his diminishing shaft and cleaned her own hand and then threw the kleenex away. Unable to resist the soft, wet, flower-like little tendril between his legs she bent over and kissed, taking it for a moment or two in her mouth and licking it clean with her tongue.
"Oh mommy, it felt so good!" he enthused.
"Can we do it again sometime?"
"We'll see, sweetheart," she whispered. "But now you must go to sleep."
She stood up and he noticed that the tiny patch of nylon covering the area between her thighs was darker than the rest of the panty material, as though it were damp. She turned out the bed lamp and whispered goodnight to him.
"Mommy," he said softly, in the dark.
"Timothy, if I have to turn on that light again it will mean a very hard spanking for you and right now," she said.
"I ... I just wanted to ask you something," he said meekly.
"All right, what is it?"
"Since I have to sleep here all by myself could you ... could you leave your underpants with me, to keep under my pillow?"
Claire didn't know whether to be shocked at the request and to discipline her son, or to be touched. Following her tenderest maternal instinct she slipped the bikini panties down over her bottom and past her thighs and ankles, letting them drop to the floor and stepping out of them. She picked them up and handed them to him. She noticed that the crotch was moist with her vaginal juices and realized that she had been excited by what she had done to her son.
"Oh thank you, mommy," he said contentedly, slipping the wispy silk garment under his cheek and curling up in a peaceful little ball on the bed. "Good night. I love you."
"And I love you, Timmy, very much," she whispered, leaning down to kiss him, tears welling in her eyes. She was glad she hadn't spanked him.
He could barely make out the soft, round shape of his mother's buttocks as she turned her back to him and slipped into her dress.
He was half asleep, the strong, exciting scent of her filling his nostrils from the panties under his cheek, as she gently closed the bedroom door after her.