Chapter 7

Breakfast that Sunday was strained. Each member of the Brillard family knew, at least in part, what the other members were thinking. John Jr. had been shocked to find Ann sleeping in his room. He had been even more shocked to learn that his parents had both returned unexpectedly. He rushed back to tell Sue, to urge her to help him make the big bed and to hide other clues to their pleasure of the previous day.

Brother and two sisters had showered separately, had hurried downstairs to collect their scattered clothing before their parents joined them. Johnny and Sue worked with guilty fury. Only Ann seemed casual and almost smug.

They were all sitting at the kitchen table when

John and Martha finally joined them

"Good mornings" were exchanged, and then a heavy, awkward silence seemed to drop over the room. Of all the people there, Ann and her mother seemed to be the only two completely at ease. The former wore an expression of smug sweetness on her face. The latter seemed strangely determined.

Mr. Brillard of all present seemed particularly ill at ease. His agitation increased when he glanced to Ann's sweetly smiling face, or when he looked to his wife. John Jr. ate silently, thinking only of escape from the house, waiting for the ax he was sure hung on the very ceiling above him to fall with crushing force on the back of his neck. Sue, sitting beside him, never let her eyes lift from the plate of cereal before her.

Mr. Brillard cleared his throat twice as if to speak, but the words never came out. His wife, confident, unhurried, and pleasantly calm, busied herself around the kitchen serving each member of the family, before pouring coffee into her cup and sitting at the foot of the table.

"Well," she said primly, as she replaced the cup in its saucer after her first sip. "Did you children have a good time while we were gone?"

Sue continued to look at her plate, John Jr. grunted. Only Ann looked to her mother, smiling sweetly. "Oh, it was all right," she said. "Only, it's good to have you back."

Mrs. Brillard looked from her eldest daughter to her husband. She in turn smiled. "Well, it's good to be back . . . one big happy family."

John Jr. almost leapt from his chair as he felt his mother's hand under the table drop lightly to his right thigh and rest there. He looked to her, saw the strange calm expression in her eyes and again devoted his attention to his food.

"Do anything interesting?" his mother asked. The hand moved slightly along his thigh until it was almost at his groin.

"Oh," he managed. "You know . . . "

"Just kiddie things?" his mother asked. Almost casually, she lifted her coffee cup again and looked at him over the rim.

"Yeah," he said. "Nothing much."

Mr. Brillard pushed his chair back from the table and lifted his half-finished plate of cereal. "Not too hungry this morning," he said. "Too many things on my mind. Think I'll run down to the office and see if everything's right for tomorrow."

Ann, too, pushed her chair back. "Can I go with you?"

"Well," he hesitated. "I don't."

"Go ahead," his wife purred. "Why not take both of the girls?" 'I-"

This time, Mrs. Brillard's voice held a hard, knowledgeable edge. "It's all right," she said. "Johnny and I will clean up."

Sue looked from her mother to her sister and then to her father. Something strange was happening, she knew, but she wasn't quite sure what it was. Slowly she pushed her own chair back and rose from the table. She didn't want to ride with her father to his office. She hated the idea of her parents returning. She had been hoping to have at least the morning with her brother to feel once again the surge of impossible pleasure he was able to send through her with each thrust of his virile organ. But, feeling awkward, unsure of herself under the veil of half knowledge that hung over the room, she obediently followed her mother's wishes and followed Ann and her father out the back door to the garage.

Johnny still sat awkwardly looking at his plate. His mother's hand still rested on his thigh.

"I suppose you think you're in for it," his mother said.

"Well, I-"

"You probably think I come right out of Salem or Victorian England."

"No, I-"

"Oh, I know what you've been up to. You left your clothes all over the living room. Your father even looked into our bedroom."

"He . . . oh, no."

"Oh yes, Johnny. Then do you know what he did?"

John shood his head.

"I don't know which yet, but I'm pretty sure it's Ann. He had his way with her."

"He didn't!"

"I hope she enjoyed it. He can be a brutal man at times. He's not like you, Johnny . . . " Her hand slid higher. Now it was resting directly on his groin, covering the soft lump of coiled genitalia there. "He's not considerate and gentle . . . " The fingers moved slowly, exploring the inert flesh, sending trickles of forbidden emotion running along his nerve endings.

John Brillard looked to his mother, saw the faint, teasing smile in her eyes, but was still unsure of what she was saying.

"Mom . . . you don't.. . I mean-"

"Is it so strange, really? Am I so different from your sisters."

"But. . . I-"

She gave a final delicate squeeze to his genitals and rose from the table. "Come with me, Johnny," she half whispered as she extended her slender hand toward him.

Amazed, bewildered, his mind swirling in a confusion of wonder and doubt, John rose, took his mother's hand and allowed her to lead him out of the kitchen, through the living room, and up the stairs to the bed he and his sisters had shared the night before.

There she closed the door and stood for a long moment with her back resting against the wood. She let her eyes roll over his youthful form as he looked to her, seeing his own mother for the first time as a woman to be desired. She was still slender, still terribly beautiful, possessed of all the swelling and curving lines that separate a mature knowledgeable female from a mere girl-child.

"Don't you want to?" she taunted. "Don't you want to learn what it can be with a real woman?"

"Yes," he managed. "I guess so, but-"

"But, you're shy? Is that it?"

"Well-"

She crossed to him, gently lifted her hands and began to unbutton the front of his shirt. Her fingers moved with deliberate slowness, unbuttoning two buttons and then slipping beyond the opening to caress the hard flesh of his chest and side.

"Come," she purred. "I know you've done it before, but don't you want to learn? I can teach you Johnny-all about the secret places."

Now, for the first time, he fully realized that she wasn't just trying to humiliate or embarrass him. His mind reeled with the knowledge that his own mother-a woman he had always thought to be something of a Victorian prig-actually desired his body. It was almost too much to bear, but it was also too much to deny.

Eagerly now, he pulled at his belt and slipped out of his jeans and shorts to stand naked before her.

She remained still fully clothed, eyeing him with approval as she purred, "Not so fast, baby. We have all the time in the world." Her hand moved out to lift the weight of his scrotum, to balance it in her palm and test the heaviness of the testicles it held. The movement lifted his partially erect organ up, making it point toward her, and she again purred softly in obvious pleasure. She stood that way for a moment longer before releasing him, and then deliberately began to remove her own clothing.

As she did so, she spoke softly about the nerves of a woman's body, of how sensitive they were and how subtle a total arousal must be.

He watched the slender fullness of her naked body emerge from behind the confines of bra and panties and gasped aloud at the sheer sensuality of her form when it was finally revealed to him in all its mature glory.

Here was a woman un-like any he had seen before. Certainly she was older, but then age had not diminished her attractiveness. Instead it had added sensuality to her every feature. Her breasts were not primly erect like those of his sisters of the other girls whose young bodies he had savored while in high school and college. They were large, heavy, full of sweet maturity, yet not sagging or drooping with age. She was slender yet full-blown, her wide hips fairly screaming an unspoken welcome, her soft flesh inviting him to a passion more thorough, yet more subtle, than any he had ever known.

The mere vision of her lush, feminine form naked before him tingled his penis alive, so that it seemed to be growing out from him rather than merely engorging with pulsating blood that lifted it to turgid erection.

"Come," his mother said as she sat down on the huge bed and patted the coverlet beside her. "Come, sit here and be gentle with me." She stroked one hand along the inside of his left thigh as she spoke. "First, the breasts, baby . . . softly, now. Take them in your hand first, gently. That's it, move your fingers all around, underneath and above. That's right, slowly, like that. Then you can circle around the nipple. See how it's beginning to get bigger? Oh, Johnny, that feels good. That feels sooo good!"

As she watched his gently massaging hand barely touching her breasts with tentative fingers, her own hand snaked out to explore his upper thigh and then to grasp the turgid shaft of his manhood. She let it slide down the length of his penis, waited there as she gently tightened and released the pressure of her fingers and then moved up again so that she pulled his foreskin high over the head of the organ.

"You like that, Johnny? Do you like it when I play like that?"

"Yeah," he managed. "It's good. Real good."

"You're young," she whispered as her hand moved slowly down again. "Can you come lots and lots?"

"Sometimes." His fingers kneaded the soft, pliable flesh of her breasts.

"I'll make you come, then," she purred. "It makes me feel good. You just be gentle, just move like that, right there on my breasts and I'll make you come." Again her hand moved with maddening slowness up and down along the length of his shaft. The rhythm never increased, never varied. He half-wondered whether she was trying to give him pleasure or whether she merely delighted in denying him the speed and friction which would bring him to more speedy release. And yet she seemed to know the exact degree of sensation he was feeling.

Up and slowly down. Slowly up and slowly down, the hand traveled along the length of his organ. Each time she reached the base, she squeezed slightly; each time she traveled again to the tip, she pulled the foreskin out, almost but not quite to the point of pain, before she squeezed again and then began the slow downward journey.

His breathing began to become heavier. He dropped his hand from her breast and stared fascinated at his own organ and her nimble fingers circling it. "Oh, Mom," he gasped at length, "you're gonna make me come."

"Slowly, baby," she purred as she eased him on his back so that he now lay on the bed, his knees over the side and his feet stretched before him on the bedroom floor. "Hold it as long as you can, baby . . . as long as you can." The rhythm of her hand never varied as she slid down so that she was between his spread legs. Her huge soft breasts now dangled over his thighs, barely touching their ruby nipples to his flesh.

"Oh, Mom . . . I can't hold it."

"That's all right, baby. Let it go, now," she whispered. "Let it all go."

As her hand again descended to the base of his organ, she felt the first throb of his coming ejaculation. This time she did not squeeze as before. She released her gentle grip and leaned farther forward. With both hands, she lifted her great breasts and pushed them tight against the turgid, almost exploding organ, and with the soft roundness of them pressed securely there rocked gently back and forth, now letting her body maintain the rhythm which her hand had formerly played.

"Let it go," she whispered again. "Gently, baby. Let me feel it all over me." She rocked back and forth, her breasts tight to his throbbing organ, and then he felt the break, the crash of semen surf erupting from the very depths of his body, careening through the tube of his manhood and spurting high and hot between her tightly clasped breasts.

She continued her slow rocking movements long after the scalding flow had stopped and he lay exhausted on the bed. "Ummm, baby," she kept purring. "That's so hot and good. Was it good for you?"

"Oh, Mom . . . "

"Oh, don't worry now. We'll do it again. Don't stop. I want to feel you, too."

"But I'm-"

"No. Gently, baby. Everything in its own time. I'll show you how to do that to me. How to really make a woman tingle. Here . . . "

She climbed onto the bed with the grace of a stalking cat and sat Indian-style with her back resting against the headboard. "See," she said, and she gently pulled the crimson folds of her vagina apart to reveal the convolutions of the treasure within. "This is where it starts, but you have to know it, understand it. You can touch here all day and nothing would happen."

She ran one finger along the sweet dew damp folds of her outer labia.

"Here," she said, reaching out for his hand. "You try it."

He turned on the bed so that his head now rested on her full thigh-so that he could look directly at her treasure of love and explore every contour, every fold with his fingers.

As she whispered instructions to him, he dipped his finger into the hot dampness, sliding this way, pressing that way, and finally resting his touch against the base of her long clitoris.

"Gently, now," she kept saying. "Remember, be slow. If it comes all at once it's not that good. Tease me, baby. Make me wait and hold back, then when it comes it's better than anything."

He followed her instructions, mimicked the rhythm she had used with him before, and caressed and fondled each separate part as she indicated. Then, when after almost twenty minutes he heard the change in her breathing, the slight hesitation between each softly gasped word, he realized that she was trying desperately to prolong the pleasure of her expectations.

Her clitoris was high and erect now. It seemed to be twitching of its own accord under the gentle massage of his finger. The excitation of her breathing and softly sighed words was acting on him.

The vision of her gaping vagina was like a lure hypnotizing him.

He felt her shudder slightly, saw her hips tic for the first time, and then, forgetting all that she had been saying about slowness and gentleness, rolled forward so that he could plunge his eager tongue into the scalding mass of ruby-red wet flesh.

"Oh, no!" she gasped and gave a futile, feeble push to remove him from her womb.

But then he felt her fingers twitching over his ears, pushing away one moment, and then the next twining through his hair, pulling him tight to her cavern of desire as her hips pressed hard and tight to his mouth.

Under his hungry lips he felt her shudder again and again, heard her sigh and gasp several times before the pressure against him released and he was able to pull free from her demands.

He looked up to see her still leaning against the headboard, but now with her head thrown back, her chin lifted and her eyes tightly closed.

She swallowed once, then opened her eyes to look down on him. "You know," she said at length. "I've never . . . I mean, that's never happened to me."

He only stared at her in amazement, only half-wondering what kind of sex life she had experienced.

"Know something else."

"What?"

"I had a dream," she said. "I dreamed I did it to you. Took you in me and then in my mouth. Would you like that, baby? Would you like me to kiss and lick you like you just did to me?"

"Sure . . . I-"

She eased him onto his back, and with the same determined slowness she had shown before, lowered her mouth to his still-limp organ. As her wet lips slid over the tip and then down and down almost to the very base, she began to hum softly so that he could feel the vibrating of her inner mouth moving against him.

Slowly down and up she moved as she hummed softly against the ever hardening flesh within her mouth. When it was completely erect she pulled away and stroked it softly with her hand.

"Umm . . . " she moaned. "That's good. Come in me like this, baby."

Something about her slowness, something about her very desire suddenly struck him as monstrous-depraved beyond all imagination. He liked what was happening, but he didn't want another half-ejaculation this time in her mouth. He wanted to bury himself in the hot cauldron of her groin that he had felt before.

"I want it in your snatch," he said. "You will, baby." She sighed heavily as she again let her lips slide down the length of his organ. She began humming again, her tongue rolling around his shaft as she moved her cheeks rapidly in and out to squeeze and release his tingling flesh.

He stood it as long as he could before the fury consumed him utterly. He pushed her brutally away from him, and before she had a chance to realize what had happened he rolled her roughly on her back, spread her legs, and thrust his erect member deep into the folds of her vagina.

"No!" she gasped as he thrust and pounded into her hot flesh with the force of brutal demand. "Not this way, Johnny . . . please, dear God, not this way . . . gentle . . . be gentle . . . "

But there was no gentleness in him now, he was consumed totally by an overwhelming desire which had to be satisfied and had to be satisfied this way and this way alone. He could not move; any less rapidly, could not forego the hot surging demands that sledge-hammered his mind and made him, in turn, sledge-hammer her hips.

He slammed into her, pulled away, and slammed into her again, rocking the huge bed with the terrible force of his slapping impacts.

"No . . . please . . . " she kept gasping, but he hardly heard her.

Her opening was wider than those of his sisters, but hotter and wetter too. He seemed to be pounding into hot honey that stuck to him and slid over him to run out of the bottom of her opening, drenching his scrotum, wetting the sheet in a great flood of sweet fluid.

And then it happened as he knew it would, with one great soundless roar as his back was pulled into him, sucked through his body and driven through his penis. Everything was his penis now, and all of him seemed to be in it and spurting through it.

"Come!" he gasped as his own fluid shot high and hot within her, but she did not reply.

When he finally realized that she had not responded to him, that her own breathing had not mounted to gasps and pants, it was an eternity later. He opened his eyes to look up to his mother's face.

She seemed much older than a moment before, and far sadder. Her eyes were glistening, not with desire but with tears of deep soul-searing sorrow. At first he was mystified, then embarrassed, and finally humiliated beyond all words.

"Mom . . . I.. . I thought you wanted-" She stroked his head gently with the palm of one hand, as a slow, sad smile flitted across her lips. "So did I," she said, "But it was a dream. I wanted something gentle, something . . . Oh, what's the use? It's done now. You wouldn't understand."

He looked to her desperately sad face, saw the lines of age there for the first time along with the gallant little smile that hid so little and revealed so much. "I'm sorry, Mom. I really am."

Again she stroked his head. "Now you know," she whispered. "And now you know why it can't happen again."

He rose from where she lay, looked again to her sensuously mature body and realized what she was saying. The crime, the horror of it since the beginning, swept over him. It was done, he knew and no freak of fate could ever turn back the hands of time. There could be no specter like the past if he let it haunt him, but he had learned something, too. He had learned the impossible joys of forbidden passion along with the destructive seed which it carried.

Had it been the heat, he wondered, the beer and frustration that first night so long ago? Or just the undisciplined wildness of youth trying to prove itself by flying headlong against the most ancient of taboos?

A slight breeze whispered through the room's open window and stirred the thin curtains. It mingled with the soft sobs of his mother, as he bent to retrieve his clothes and put them on.

After he had slipped his legs into his jeans and rebuttoned his shirt, he looked again to his mother. She still lay on the bed, but she had stopped crying. Her eyes were dry. One hand covered her pubic hair in scant modesty.

He swallowed. He could find no words to express the depth of his feelings. Yet she seemed to understand, as she had always understood, even from the time he had been an infant.

"It's all right, Johnny," she said as she reached out to squeeze his hand in maternal affection. "We all make mistakes."

He nodded dumbly and opened the door. Without speaking, he closed it behind him and walked slowly down the hall to his own room. "Yes," her words seemed to echo in his mind, "we all make mistakes."

But the trick was to avoid making the same mistakes over and over again until they destroyed you.

It was done and over, he knew, and it would never happen again. But he determined not to let his guilt gnaw at him like a cancer.

The weekend was over. Tomorrow would be Monday. He would never have another weekend like it again-

And in his heart of hearts, he didn't really want to.