Lighting The Blue Touch Paper

This story is, of course, fictional, and is rather long. It describes an incestuous relationship between a mother and her son, and the effect this has on her husband. If stories of this nature offend you, you're probably best not reading it. The first three chapters are written from the different perspectives of the three characters. The final part concludes the story. The spelling and expressions are British English. And as it's my first effort, I'd be interested to hear any constructive criticism. Many thanks to BoysRToys42087 for her editing.

© 2012 Latimer

Chapter One: Clare's story

Looking back, with the benefit of hindsight, I can see now that the seeds of my peculiar fascination with my son went back years. But I can date my epiphany to one particular moment, about three months ago.

I'd just had a shower, before bed, and was sitting in front of the mirror at my dresser brushing my hair. It was quite a narcissistic moment, I'll admit. I was gazing into the mirror thinking that actually, for a forty year old woman, I didn't look too bad.

My body is still quite firm, thanks to a long regime of running and eating to moderation, and my long chestnut coloured hair was looking sleek and glossy. My face is striking, some say pretty, and although there are a few lines now around my eyes I tell myself they add character.

I opened my robe a little, and looked at my breasts. Though quite small, a thing of regret in my youth, they're now almost as firm as they'd ever been. So now I am reaping the rewards, at long last, unlike those of some of my other – bigger titted friends – for whom gravity has taken over.

My nipples started to harden a little, as I gazed in my reverie. They've long been a thing of embarrassment, extending to half an inch or more when I am aroused, or just cold, and clearly visible even in the most matronly bra. My headlights, my husband Roger calls them. They were on high beam that night, I remember.

Roger walked into the bedroom, interrupting my self-regarding thoughts. I closed my robe hurriedly, and went back to brushing my hair.

I looked at him through the mirror. He had a strange look on his face. "What's the matter?" I asked.

"Oh, nothing..." he said, taking his dressing gown off, reaching for his pyjamas. But it didn't look like nothing.

"What?" I asked again. "Come on, I can see you want to tell me something."

"Well, I don't know if I should..." he began, trailing off.

"What do you mean?"

"OK, you were in our bathroom, so I went to use the other one..."

"Yes?"

I was getting a bit impatient now.

"And, well, the door was open a little, so I walked in. But Simon was in there..."

"So?"

Simon is our only son. He's nineteen, and will be heading off to college in a few months' time.

"Well he'd just had a shower, I think, and was drying himself... well, have you seen him naked recently?"

"Well No! Of course I haven't. Why do you think I might have?"

"Well, you know, you two are very close. I just thought..."

He looked flustered.

"You just thought what?" I was getting cross, even though he was probably justified in his supposition.

The subject of our "close" relationship had come up before, and I had felt what I thought was a growing sense of unease about it from Roger. I guess I was rather defensive, perhaps overly so, when he made the odd somewhat pointed remark.

I rationalised that I was lucky to have a positive relationship with my son and that we were able to talk openly about anything. I'd worked as a busy journalist for almost twenty years and I felt I was open minded and always ready for new experiences. I'd encouraged Simon to be adventurous and relish taking challenges.

I guess I told myself that my attitude to life was younger than that of most of the mothers I knew, and that we could relate to each other on a fairly equal level. Simon was very mature for his age. Friends had commented on it, so I felt justified in believing it to be true. Friends had often remarked positively on how relaxed and natural we seemed in each other's company.

So I guess Simon and I were very close, probably more than most mothers and sons. We had been for years. Roger was frequently away from home, because of his business. He was a civil engineer, and had built up a successful company. He worked hard at it, which I admired him for, but he was often working overseas on big building contracts. I'd got used to his absences.

So Simon was our only child. Only now our child was a man. As Simon had grown older I had sometimes, and this is something I'd certainly never admitted to my friends, fantasised that we were more like girlfriend and boyfriend. The little touches, the lingering looks, and the kisses secretly thrilled me. Usually, I should add though, we were pretty chaste.

Simon had grown into a very handsome man. Sometimes, when I saw him swimming, or on the beach, or anywhere where he was less than fully clothed, I was just bowled over with his beauty – at least in my eyes. He must have seen me staring.

But although I increasingly found myself experiencing the sort of symptoms I'd last felt when I was a teenager dating for the first time, I'd forced myself to hold back. After all I am his mother!

He was constantly on my mind though. I felt butterflies when I thought he'd been looking at me in an appreciative way. I was getting overly concerned with my appearance. I found myself shopping and dressing with the thought of what he would find attractive. I felt pangs of jealousy when he was out with girls. Surely this wasn't normal behaviour?

It was something I'd torn myself in two with guilt over. I'd spent a lot of time telling myself to get a grip over my ridiculous fantasies. But I have to confess that I'd occasionally allowed them to get the better of me. Usually late at night, on my own, with my trusty little buzzy friend I kept hidden in a drawer, and a head full of images of him.

But I'd always hated myself the next morning.

Even though he was away so much I think Roger had sensed something of this dilemma, but we'd certainly never talked about it. How do you raise a subject like that? "Darling, I think I'm falling in love with our son..." Ridiculous! Roger probably felt excluded, and perhaps even jealous.

I forcibly composed myself; suddenly realising I probably have a far-away look in my eyes.

"Look, never mind that now. What were you going to say anyway?"

"Well, he was naked..."

"Yes,"

"And... well... he's a very big boy..."

"What do you mean – he's a very big boy?" I asked, and there was a sudden surge of adrenaline through my body. My heart began to thump in my chest. My nipples were hardening, again. I had started to realise where this is going.

"His dick... well, his cock - I suppose I should say - is huge..."

I tried to look nonchalant. It wasn't working.

"What do you mean? Huge? Do you mean abnormal? – is there something wrong with it?" Now I was beginning to gabble. I felt hot and my cheeks were red. Suddenly I was the one that was flustered.

"Well," Roger's voice sank to a whisper, and his face was bright red too. "I don't know about abnormal. It's certainly very big."

My heart is beating so loud, I'm sure he can hear it.

"How big?"

"Oh, I don't know." He was staring at me intently. I looked away. Was he beginning to wonder about my incessant questions?

"I was only in there for a moment. As soon as I saw him I started to back out. I didn't know he was there, and I certainly didn't have a ruler in my hand at the time..."

I could feel my face burning. "Calm down," I told myself, "Calm down."

"Look..." he continued, with a bit of a sigh. He was clearly regretting starting this conversation. "I guess it must have been six inches long or probably more. I only saw it for a second, but it looked like it was hanging half way to his knees..."

"He was limp?"

"Yes, he was limp..."

"My God...."

Simon was my pride and joy, I'll admit it. I'd taken a close interest as he grew through his teens. He had largely avoided the spotty, unkempt, sweaty stages of development which others seemed stricken with.

I know every mother thinks her children are gorgeous. But in Simon's case I did get confirmation of this from friends; a couple had even commented about how "hot" he'd become, before I silenced them with a furious glare.

He was tall, very slim, and muscular, although at school he seemed to take little interest in sport. He ran though to keep fit. At school he was more the bookish type, and was very intelligent, sailing through his exams with apparent ease, and always questioning, always curious, and always wanting to learn more.

He didn't have a wild social life. He had a few close friends – mostly boys. He'd had a few girlfriends, but they didn't seem to last very long. About a year ago I did wonder once or twice about his sexuality... but then, mulling it over, he did not seem at all effeminate.

And, as I had said, we had become very close. We'd often go out walking, just the two of us. And we ran together frequently. Running was an important part of my routine, and I believed it had helped to keep the ravages of time away. I loved these times we spent together.

During Roger's frequent absences, we'd watch television together, and go out to see films. Or just curl up on the sofa side by side and talk for hours. I knew from conversations with my friends about their sons that this was a little unusual.

I must admit that I had noticed he was "well built". There were the afore mentioned times on the beach etc. and there was often a noticeable bulge in his jeans, and a few times on the sofa, I thought I saw the outline of his penis hanging down the inside of one trouser leg. I thought about it a lot in bed, alone, at night.

I knew I shouldn't, but sometimes I couldn't help it. But afterwards I always had terrible feelings of guilt, embarrassment, and regret. At times I wondered what was going on in my head. Was I sick? Did I need to see a psychiatrist? I knew that in the last six months or more my feelings for him had crossed a boundary.

But something that actually encouraged me, in a perverse way, was the feeling that he felt something similar for me too. He was very affectionate, unusually so sometimes. On our walks, we'd sometimes stroll along hand in hand. He was frequently very tactile.

He'd always kiss me when he came in, or first thing in the morning and last thing at night. There were frequent lingering hugs too, which I loved. Sometimes, in the kitchen while I was washing up or cooking, he'd sidle up and hug me from behind. Once or twice, with his arms wrapped around me from the back, he'd kissed me softly on the neck.

On one occasion I turned to kiss him back, and our lips had met for a moment and held there. But then I'd pulled away, starting to panic, and we'd stared at each other, with unspoken thoughts and fears passing between us.

He often complemented me, telling me how nice I looked in a particular dress, or how good my hair or skin was looking. When we'd have these intimate moments he'd taken to calling me Clare, not Mum. It thrilled me when he did so. I thought we had a great relationship, although in my heart I knew it was bordering on inappropriate.

When Roger was around, it was different. There was sometimes an atmosphere. I think Simon was jealous of him, and as I said earlier, I think Roger was jealous of Simon.

But Simon at least needn't have been too jealous. Our eighteen year marriage had settled into that classic rut. We'd known each other a long time, and we loved each other, and got on well, but the sexual spark had long been dwindling.

Roger was six years older than me, and didn't take much care in his appearance. He'd gained weight and certainly wasn't a sexual dynamo. Our love-making was infrequent. And Roger's many absences contributed to the loss of our intimacy.

I know I was at fault too. I could and should have made more effort when he was home. But I guess I'd stopped fancying him. We'd become more like good friends, or house-mates who shared a bed. Certainly we never rowed, but I've always been one for bottling up my feelings. And usually by the time I got home from work, I was dog tired. Or so I told myself, because I usually found time and energy for Simon.

So maybe Roger's concerns were well placed, and more so than he realised.

A couple of weeks after the "incident", as I started to think of it, Roger was away again, and Simon and I had been out for a meal. It was a lovely evening. Simon was looking as handsome as ever. His thick brown hair had been cut, and he had a new aftershave on. I was wearing a new dress, which was a little low cut and clingy. We'd both been out shopping together during the day.

Earlier, getting ready, I'd put some sexy underwear on. We'd talked about going for a meal, and I'd booked a restaurant I'd wanted to go to for ages. It was a fairly short walk from our house in London. It was expensive, and I knew I was in for a treat.

Brushing my hair in front of the mirror, it felt exactly like we were going on a date, even though we'd been out together before many times. I was feeling quite heady with excitement. Looking in the mirror, I could see that my "high beams" were on. My dress was pretty flimsy too. I thought about changing, but stopped, telling myself to relax. It's just a mother going out with her son, I reasoned. But I wasn't fooling anyone.

In the restaurant though, over the delicious "tasting" menu, comprising of many tiny courses, the conversation had turned flirtatious, and from the tightening of my nipples I knew they were showing again. Simon was trying not to look at the swell of my breasts through the low cut dress, and he must have seen the bumps from my extended nipples, but he was trying to be a gentleman. He was shifting uncomfortably though under the table. I think I knew why.

Rather mischievously, I'd been asking him about his love life, or lack of it.

"Darling, why didn't you see any more of that girl, Sarah – was it?"

"Oh I don't know... We saw each other a few times. But it didn't seem to work out."

"Why? She was lovely," I asked, trying to appear motherly, even though I'd been consumed with jealousy at the time.

"She was really pretty, and seemed very intelligent. And she was very, err well endowed, up top."

"Ahem, yes," he said awkwardly.

"Didn't you fancy her?"

"Yes, as you said, she's very pretty..."

"And she certainly seemed to like you, from what I saw."

I'd caught them snogging on the sofa one evening when I'd come home earlier than expected. There'd been a frantic straightening of clothes.

"How far did you go with her?" I asked, really upping the ante.

"Mum!" he said, shocked. So now he was calling me Mum!

"Well, look. You know I'm pretty open-minded. I wouldn't have been surprised if you'd wanted to sleep with her," I was trying to sound as reasonable as possible.

"Well, OK... since you're asking about it..." he began, shifting uncomfortably again, "We did, err, try it once, but it didn't work out..."

"What do you mean?" I was genuinely unsure of what he meant.

"You know, we did try, to err, make love, but it didn't work very well."

"What do you mean?"

There was an awkward silence, and more shifting under the table.

"Do you mean you couldn't manage it?"

I knew I'm going too far, but I was enjoying the frisson between us.

"Or – look I know what teenage boys are like, or at least I did once, they do go off like firecrackers."

I was grinning wickedly now.

"It wasn't that..."

Another silence passed.

"So what was it then?"

I was smiling now. I felt unstoppable. He was red in the face, and embarrassed. But I couldn't help myself. My panties were soaked, my nipples right out there, and I was feeling dangerously out of control.

"No, that wasn't it at all," he said, defensively. "We tried to do it, but let's just say we were incompatible."

"Incompatible?"

"OK, physically incompatible. We couldn't do it. She said it was hurting her. And we split up not long after that."

He was looking so pained now, that I knew I'd pushed too far. I had to stop playing this game. I forced myself to stop, reluctantly.

Later, as we left the restaurant, we realised that it had started to pour with rain. He seemed to have forgiven me for embarrassing him, and wrapped his arm around me.

"Come on Clare, we'll have to run for it," he said. We hadn't brought coats.

We ran home, as best as I could in my heels. It's not far, but by the time we got back we were soaked. We got into the house, and I rushed to the living room and turned on the gas fire. The coals burst into life, and although the house was warm, I was shivering. My hair was dripping.

I knelt there, staring into the flames, thinking, anticipating, and worrying.

"Here," Simon says quietly behind me, "Let me dry your hair."

He must have been to get a towel, and he begins to rub my hair gently with it from behind. I'm beginning to tingle. I could easily take the towel from him, but I'm relishing the attention. My hands begin to shake, and I force them onto my knee, to keep them still.

Simon moves my wet hair back off my shoulders and exposes my neck. Silently I can feel his breath, and he leans down and kisses my neck.

"Oh," I groan, despite myself, "Simon...."

He leans in and hugs me, his arms wrapped across my stomach, just below my breasts. I can see his hands are shaking too.

"Simon," I say, "Are you cold? Here let me...."

As I speak I twist and turn to look at him, but he silences me with a kiss, on the lips.

Our lips hold together for what seems like ages, and then our mouths start to move. I groan, opening my mouth, cautiously licking at his lips. Through open mouths we kiss, our tongues tentatively touching each other. He holds me tightly, our embrace growing with intensity and desire.

We slowly surface, peeling our lips apart. Our faces are inches from each other. I stare at him, blinking, taking deep breaths.

"Simon, what are we doing?"

I reach out, starting to push him away.

"We're doing what we've wanted to do for ages," he says. Suddenly, as my bravado evaporates, he's the one taking control. "Come on Clare, you can't deny it. This has been going on too long. We shouldn't fight it anymore."

"But Simon..."

He silences me with another kiss. My hands are still on his chest, but slowly they began to relax, and I slip them around to stroke his back.

As the kiss lasts longer and longer, his large hands are brushing down my back and began to stroke my bottom. Our bodies begin to grind together. I can feel a big lump between us.

"Come on Clare, let's get this wet dress off you," he says gently, moving his hand to the zip.

"That's not the only thing that's wet," I whisper, and instantly regret the quip. Even in these incredible circumstances, the comment seems too forward. But I think somewhere in the middle of the last kiss, I've made my decision, for better or for worse.

He smiles though. He seems calm and confident. I'm shaking. He slides my zip down, I wriggle my shoulders, and he gently peels the wet dress off. I climb to my feet, on shaky legs, and let the dress fall to the floor.

"Clare, you look so beautiful..." he says, gazing at me. Simon's on his knees, looking up.

I look down at my chest. My thin lace bra does not hide much. My nipples are pointing through, fully extended. Below my flat stomach, my tiny little panties are damp. I could see the carefully trimmed hairs underneath.

I can smell my sex.

I look at Simon. He's still on his knees, like a worshiper. His eyes are bright, and he's staring into my eyes with something approaching glee. I reach down and touch his chin.