In View of Vesuvias

It started, well for me at least it did, when you were studying for your A levels, you were just over eighteen. You asked me to test you. I would spend hours in your room asking you questions on all the various subjects you were studying; perhaps doing the things a father should have done, but he had left us. When you had just become a teenager he had gone in search of perpetual youth. Abandoned us for his own ends, left us to search for his perfect life: being seen by others to still be young. He had gone to where the grass was greener, the skirts shorter, the stomachs flatter, and the legs longer and open wider. Yes, gone to the land where younger girls fell at his feet, because of his youthful looks or his turbocharged Bentley and platinum Amex? Who knows? It must have been a narrow choice for the Essex and London club land bimbos he fucked most nights.

We got used to being a couple. You still saw him and the one noble thing that remained of our mostly great marriage, was his and my intent to save you from the more extreme aspects of your parents divorcing. I never badmouthed him to you and I never stopped him seeing you, we totally ignored the court's access laws.

So we were together a lot; more than most mothers and sons. Unlike many, the divorce brought us closer together; closer than most mothers and sons. At first I, certainly, thought nothing of it, were just mum and son, weren't they all close and friendly like us?

I can remember, as clear as crystal, my first thought along the lines that society so frowns upon. Well I think I remember it, but the enormity of it, at the time, was so great I may have imagined or dreamed about it.

I was in a bathrobe, a dressing gown, a silk one, no buttons, just a tie round the waist; with plunging, narrow lapels. I had just showered. You asked me to help you with some school work. I came into your room. It was an airless room because, for some reason I never quite fathomed, you kept the windows closed and the door was usually shut. It smelt of you, it smelt of a man, it smelt, I suddenly found myself thinking as I saw your gaze run up and down me, of sex.

As I sat next to you, leaning forward, both of us staring at the PC screen, I was aware that the front of my robe was gaping, that my tits were hanging loose and that most of them were on view. I was also aware, that under the desk the outsides of our knees were touching. But what I was most acutely aware of was that I felt aroused.

Peter

When dad left, I felt abandoned - very much alone. I saw him regularly, but it didn't change the fact that he had left me, left us. I wasn't too popular at school; not to say I was unpopular, no one bothered me, but no one paid attention to me either. I wasn't that into sports and I really enjoyed studying, aspects of school life that doesn't make foe popularity.

I had no one really, no one to turn to, no one to guide and teach and help me. No one that is other than you, my mother. But that was fine, I felt cool with that. You were always there for me, always willing to listen, always kind and loving, always helpful, caring and considerate. I loved you, and we were happy.

But age has a way of separating a boy from his dear old mum. And naturally, as I grew up, I started thinking about girls and sex, and forgot about my mother.

Or at least, I should've. But I didn't.

At first, it was a mild interest, you'd bend over to pick something up and I'd check you out; you'd be getting out of the shower and I'd be around, chatting normally; I'd bring you breakfast in bed so I could see you in your nightclothes. I'd find any excuse to be around you, and as I smiled and chatted normally I'd imagine you taking off your clothes and kissing me.

Like all guys my age, I'd masturbate at night and fantasise about beautiful celebrities, girls from school and the English teacher every guy in my year had a crush on, but somehow I'd always end up thinking about you as I brought myself to eruption point. I'd imagine my lips on your breasts, my kisses on your neck, your soft naked flesh pressed up against me. The woman of my dreams was in the next room and I was too scared to do anything about it. But that woman was my mother. If I told her, she would think I was a freak. I'd have to live with dad. Or maybe they'd lock me away.

Was I sick?

Then, there was that night. I heard you getting out of the shower and called you into my room for some trivial problem with schoolwork. You entered my room, a silk bathrobe hanging casually over your slender frame, rubbing a towel on your damp, blonde, near shoulder length hair. You looked up at me and smiled warmly, your bobs jiggling around inside the robe, reminding that under it you were likely to be naked.

"What's up love?" You asked, and I very nearly told you, 'My cock mum, its sticking straight up my stomach.' But instead, I directed you to the PC and shared my problem. You sat next to me and stared at the screen as I stared at you. You were magnificent. Your gown had fallen open slightly, giving me a tantalising view of your breasts, the soft, pink flesh right to the edge of the nipple. I fought the urge to reach out a hand and touch you. But I had to do something.

Under the desk, I let my knee touch yours. It sounds silly now, but it was all I could think of. I had to touch you, and I couldn't think of any other way. You didn't move away, and I took that as a positive sign.

All too soon you had solved my problem and I had no other reason to keep your attention. You turned to me and smiled. For a heartbeat we sat, face to face, smiling with mere inches between our lips. All I had to do was lean forward.

But I couldn't.

"Well," you said. "I'm off to bed." You leant in and placed a very hurried peck on my cheek. Any slower and I might have 'accidentally' turned and let our lips collide. It didn't occur to me at the time that you might have known, and that you were facing the same temptation.

You stood, and bade me goodnight. I smiled, and reciprocated, leaning forward casually and praying that the desk would hide my erection.

You left, and the atmosphere went with you - the tension, the lust, the heat. I turned my TV on to hide the noise and fell to my bed. My hand went to my boxers as I thought of the feeling of your knee against mine.

After I came, I had a moment of clarity. Our knees had touched, you hadn't pulled away; I was tempted to kiss you, and you had awkwardly pecked my cheek. For the first time I began to consider the possibility that you felt for me the same way I felt for you.

The thought alone was enough to make me rigid again.

Cat

Since becoming a grown woman, I don't think I have tried to pick up a man or, as more commonly said, I don't think I've tried pulling a bloke. Partly, because for a lot of that time I was happily married partly, because I haven't needed to, they have pulled me, and partly because I haven't wanted to; I find it rather distasteful.

So when I realised that I was nearly trying to pull my own son, I went into the most enormous depression, which lasted for weeks. I don't recall why I suddenly started looking at you differently; I can't remember why I began seeing in you a different light. Yes of course I still regarded you as my child, as my son, but also I looked at you as a man, as another person, oh God yes, I at last had to admit it, as a lover.

The trauma was enormous, the guilt was stupendous. What sort of person am I, what type of mother am I, and what sort of woman am I? Those questions were with me through those last few months of you being a schoolboy. I pondered them endlessly as you finished your exams, took the long summer holiday and then prepared yourself for Durham University with four straight As and A stars. I was so proud of you and so ashamed of myself.

I thought of hardly anything else as so many little things happened. Things I think I really made happen. Actions and gestures I took. Views and glances, exposures, little touches, innuendos and double entendres. Small at first, nothing too obvious. For fuck's sake how could I be obvious, I was doing them to you, my son? Why was I doing them? There was no way anything could ever happen. It was so wrong, you were well adjusted and I was normal. Wasn't I? And normal mothers didn't think such things let alone do them, do they? No, mothers don't fuck their own sons, well not from where we come from at least.

It wasn't every day or even each week that something happened, between us. But was it really between us? Surely it was only me, not you? Wasn't it?

It was irregular, infrequent and usually mostly unplanned. A word, a glance, a touch, seeing you in your bedroom, in your bed or walking around scantily dressed, could trigger something in me. As could me being in a robe and it gaping so you could see my breasts. In a way that was nothing new. Since you were a baby I had always sunbathed topless on Spanish beaches or around Greek swimming pools. But that was different. Flashing parts of my tits at you at home was intimate; exposing all of them on a beach was impersonal.

There were other actions that would suddenly make those feelings of want and guilt well up in me. Seeing you glancing at my breasts in tight clothing, me sunbathing in a bikini when you came home from school, resting my hand on your shoulder, leaving the bathroom door open, calling you into my bedroom, perhaps when I was drying my hair with just a towel wrapped round me, our eyes locking and holding for just a tad too long and deliciously, now and then, our knees pressing together when we sat side by side at the PC.

I found myself doing such things more often. I found them happening, inadvertently I told myself, more frequently. I realised they were becoming more overt, more obvious, more extreme. It was almost as if I wanted to be found out, as I wanted you to catch me, expose me and, I guess, revile me. The serial killer syndrome I have read about, they go on killing and killing, taking more and more risks encouraging being caught, until they are and they can tell their story.

Often then, as we had neared Easter of your second year in the 6th form just after your eighteenth birthday, I would imagine what it would be like if I simply said to you. "Peter I want to have sex with you." What would you do, how would you react? I guessed you would hate me and probably leave and go and live with your father. I also wondered what would happen if you told anyone and the police found out. Is it an offence to say that? It's probably one to do it!

But I didn't say that. But I did imagine what it would be like. I imagined that often, very frequently, most days and usually most hours probably. I thought of what it would be like if you replied "And I want to have sex with you mum."

I wasn't having sex with anyone at the time. But then after a brief mad spell when the divorce came through and I tried being a thoroughly modern 21st century woman and had sex with a number of men in a short period, I hadn't had sex much. So as usual, since I broke with your father I was frustrated. I always was and being around you made me even more so. So I masturbated a lot and at the time that had become daily and sometimes twice a day. And there was now only one masturbatory topic, one person, one act. You fucking me.

"How about I borrow, Peggy's house in Italy for a week before you go to Durham I asked one evening? "Could you stand a week in Sorrento with your old mum?"

"It would be great, I'd love it," you quickly replied.

"You sure, there's not a lot to do for you out there."

"I've got a lot of studying so that'll be fine."

"Right, we'll fly the day you break up, ok?"

The idea of a week in romantic Italy, in the hills behind Sorrento in Peggy's, beautiful old rambling villa, with just you and me, thrilled me. Us, together, away from home, in a different setting. It made me think perhaps, maybe, possibly, hmmmmm!!!

Peter

I'm sat at my PC when she enters my room. She doesn't say anything; she just walks towards me, places her hands on my face and smiles. I begin to speak, but she places one slender finger on her lips and gently shushes me. She leans in and places her lips on mine. They're soft, warm and moist. I drink in her scent.

She comes up from the kiss and smiles again. I'm speechless. Again, she kisses me, and again I feel as if I'm in heaven. She breaks the kiss and moves back a little. Her eyes holding mine, she reaches down and with one fluid movement she lifts her sweater up, over her head and off. She drops it to the ground, puts her hands either side of my face and slowly presses her big, bare tits against my face. Now I know that I am in heaven as the soft, smooth, warm flesh engulfs my face.

It lasts longer than the kiss, and I boldly place a hand on her leg. Her skin is smooth. As she kisses me, I move my hand higher, gently lifting the thin, silky fabric of her skirt. She eases her breasts away from me and for a brief moment I feel I've gone too far but she's smiling and slips her arms behind and quickly undoes the clasp and zip of her knee-length skirt and pushes it down her long, slender legs. So quickly from the moment she had entered my room she's stood before me in no more than a black lace thong. For a split second a look of self-consciousness flashes across her eyes, for a moment I see that she's concerned that she's with someone so much younger, so I put an arm round her, pull her close and kiss her deeply, silently trying to let her know that she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Her mouth opens a little and for the first time our tongues meet. They playfully tease each other, gently probing and feeling as we press our bodies together.

I lay her back on the bed behind us, and kiss her again. Then I kiss her neck, and slowly move down towards her breasts. I lick and kiss them, sucking on them and gently teasing them with my teeth. As I suck at her nipple she cradles my head in her arms and for a moment she's my mother again, and I'm her son. Then I lift my face and continue kissing my way down, and she's my lover again.

I kiss over her stomach, running my tongue over the soft skin and continue down, and all too soon I'm between her legs. I'm sliding her knickers down her legs and she's totally naked, exposed right in front of me. I kiss the inside of her thigh, where her skin is softest. She can't suppress a tiny wriggle as I gently grind my teeth on her. And then there's the moment where I can't tease her any more and I have to do it and in one smooth, slow motion I run my tongue right over her most sensitive area. She moans softly, arches her back and grunts deeply as I lick her for the second time. She's already so moist. She tastes like heaven.

I run my tongue over her lips again and again, getting faster and more confident as she moans in response. My tongue feels her opening, begging for something inside, so I raise a finger and slide it in. She bucks slightly as I probe inside with my finger, while playing with the small pink button hidden in her pink lips with the tip of my tongue. I slip a second finger inside her, then a third and fourth. She's moaning softly as I lift my head. She catches my eye and beckons me with a finger.

I kiss my way back up to her face; she rests a hand on my shoulder as I do. Our hips are against each other, both superheated by passion. Gazing into each other's eyes she nods gently and I move my hips and in one swift movement I'm inside her and all barriers are broken. She closes her eyes as I slide in, all the way. As I reach the top she groans and grips my shoulder tight. I hold for a second, then slide back, only to come straight back in. I slide in and out of her until she's comfortable, then I slowly increase the pace. I'm suddenly aware again of how small and fragile she is, laying beneath me, completely dwarfed by my shoulders.

I build the pace again and she grips my head and draws me to her and I'm holding her body tight against mine and grinding in and out of her and she's holding me and the only sounds necessary are our breathing, our moans and our groans of pleasure. Those wondrous feelings of impending ejaculation start in my balls, they spread through my groins and stomach before consuming my mind and body. I'm ready to cum. I grip her tightly, she responds, one hand running up and down my back the nails on the other digging into the flesh of my arse. I push myself as far into her as I can go and then hold my cock rigid all the way up her cunt. She pushes back. Then, I explode inside her. All thoughts of this being wrong are totally thrust from my mind, so wonderful are the sensations and mental images I gain from fucking this high class whore, my father had taken me to lose my virginity as I imagine she is my mother.

I travel home from the West End experiencing a mix of self-pity and self-loathing, remorse and guilt.

Mum isn't there when I get home and I go straight to my room. On the way I pass my suitcase, packed and ready for our trip. A week in a quiet, idyllic, romantic setting with the woman of my dreams. The hope of what could so easily happen is washed away by despair. She could never want me the way I want her.

Could she? Ever since the night with the PC there have been moments where I could swear she was flirting. But then, I'm young and hormonal and my ego tells me every woman that even looks at me is flirting with me.

God, I love her. I love her so much.

Cat

You had taken to calling me Cat and sometimes C. The latter always made us laugh with its connection to the spy books by Le Carre; both gave me a little shudder, a little shiver of excitement. It was the informal intimacy I suppose. It was you moving away from mum, but not going so far as to use my name; using my nickname and initials instead. I liked it. It was our little tradition.

The flight had been fine, although the mess at both Gatwick and then Naples had been tiresome. The cab ride from the airport, down the winding road past Mount Vesuvius and the ruins of Pompeii and Herculaneum was scary. Italian cab drivers all seem to think they are Ayrton Senna and they way they drive it's surprising they are not as dead as he unfortunately is.

It had been chilly in England so I was wearing pale blue jeans and a short, thin leather jacket, more of a blouson really, with mid-height heeled strappy shoes and no tights. Under the jacket I had on a scooped neck, short sleeved top in a silky material.

It was warm in Naples airport and in the cab. I removed my jacket as we pulled out of the car park.

"Here let me Cat" You said taking hold of the jacket as I leaned forward. In the confines of the back seat of a smallish car, struggling out of a jacket is difficult. One has to wiggle and manoeuvre one's body. Stretch one's arms, arch one's back. Even when being helped. And all those movements stretch the material of the garments under the jacket. And it particularly stretches it when the material is covering an ample sized pair of boobs like mine. Yes, removing a jacket not only stretches the material, but also means that you have to push your chest forward. I felt a surge of excitement as I caught your eyes on my breasts. And my chest was pushed very forwards and the thin material was very stretched across them. Both actions emphasised and accentuated my breasts. I turned and smiled about to say thanks. But I stopped when I saw the look on your face and your eyes riveted on my chest. I felt a surge of, unwarranted I was sure, excitement as you continued staring. The surge became stronger as the backs of your hands ran across my shoulders as you slid my jacket off.

"Thanks Peter," I smiled as the cab picked up speed on the winding road taking us out of Naples. I was scared and twice I closed my eyes and gasped.