This is a work of fiction. All people in this story are over 18.
This is part 3.
8
My son is to have his way with me. That is, he will fuck me. I am sure of this, and unwilling to stop it. I'm so confused because what I want and what I need could not be farther from each other.
I walked out of the bedroom and into the kitchen where he was leaning against the stove; wearing only his underwear and a white t-shirt that draped over his frame. It hugged at his arms and chest. His hands were behind him and flat on the stove. His biceps weren't flexed but definitely stood out; he has very strong arms. I took two more steps to him. His pecs were firm, and his stomach was flat. I walked closer still. His underwear barely held his hardening manhood. It was lewdly displayed, the fabric pressing it down towards the ground with the veins and head pronounced and clearly visible. His legs were round and graceful ending in chiseled, masculine feet.
I stepped to him about a foot away and looked into his face. His face belonged to my son. "I can't do this," I thought, "I can't do this. I am his mother." I was about to tell him no. I was going to walk away from him and get my head straight before we did anything.
He didn't let me.
My son wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me to him. I began to shake, emotionally but looking back I can't tell if it was from anguish or lust. My lip quivered as he put his mouth to mine. I was scared for what was happening to me. I was scared for what I had done. I was scared for the feelings that are changing inside me as he kissed me hot and hard. Flesh to flesh we pressed. My hard nipples flat against him. The butterflies in my stomach put at ease against his hard sex. His legs in mine, pushing my thighs apart.