We Kiss On The Lips

All fictional characters are above the age of eighteen and therefore as legally qualified to commit illegal sexual acts as one can fictionally be. I know, smart-arse, aren't I?!

*****

1

"We kiss on the lips," I tell our wretched critics, those suddenly offended by my son and I. There's always that one village hag and her bitter little clique, outraged by the silliest things. Lord knows who these people are, or how they manage to make any friends at all. Somebody took exception to my friend's photograph, kissing her boy on the lips.

Yes, it happened over social media, the place of all places for glad-handing hypocrites with their skewed realities. They want equality for all races and religions and orientations, but god forbid that a mother define love by her own standards.

"I think it's sick," says Gaynor Mercer, who works at Full-Time Housewife UK. "It's wrong, it isn't motherly, you should be ashamed of yourselves," and then the echoes as her friends file into sheep formation.

Poor Anne doesn't deserve this, and she's clearly beside herself as she courageously charges to the fore to defend her innocence. "If you're so ashamed to love your children, then I pity them," she replies.

Now, Ann could leave it at that. Not that it will end at that. Nothing is ever so simple in the face of simple-minded angry timewasters. So I dig my trench to join the fight and watch from the edge of the fray as Anne switches from defensive to offensive position.

"In fact I can't imagine how sad your kids must be, if you have any. If you did they're probably scared of your fat angry purple face, ranting at everything you disagree with or don't understand. Fuck knows how you got into this conversation..."

'Yeah, you go, girl!' I think to myself, itching to jump down this bitch's throat, though I might not have to.

"Speaking of which, who the fuck are you anyway?" Anne lands another beauty.

I'm in hysterics, nearly crying, which I express with an emoji, or maybe a hundred or so. I call out to the strapping young man making tea in the kitchen, with my phone camera on at the ready. 'Michael, do us a favour. Come here a second,' I say as I spring up from the couch. My dinky five feet, I'm fifteen inches too short. So I climb to stand tall on the seat.

Arms wide and welcoming, 'giz a kiss,' I insist and pucker my lips. Seeing the camera he smiles uncertainly...

And then coyly, 'what's going on?'

'Just give us a kiss, and right on the lips, it's for argument's sake,' I explain all I have to. And here he comes, his arms around my waist, we kiss, we hold it for 3... 2... 1...

Perfect if I say so, but WAIT... not quite...

To fuck with our critics we could change a few details. 'Again,' I insist, 'and this time close your eyes; just trust me.' Eyes closed, we kiss for 3... 2... 1...

Licking my lips, I observe our portrait with an underlying mischievous satisfaction. Mother and son both enjoying a cheeky afternoon snog, can you think of a better way to spend the day?

Come to think of it, it does look a little risqué. And I absolutely can't wait to see what happens.

2

"Oh my god, you're sick, that's so wrong," the tirade goes on and on and on. But Anne is loving it, and before long we've got ourselves a growing fan-base. Who'd have seen that coming?

"Oh Trish that's beautiful," comes the next reply. "Fuckin' too right," the guys are hollering. And as Gaynor gets twisted in her own granny knickers, there's another photo response the same.

Now Michael is crying with laughter from his own corner, because he's been wondering what all the fuss is about. Anne's friend Janine and her son also kiss on the lips, grinning sardonically and flipping the bird.

"Well all I see is inappropriate behaviour," one of Gaynor's sad friends argues lamely before falling back into obscurity, shot down by her own friend of all people. Another adds, "if not abuse," before she too fades away. Abuse...

Can you imagine? What rock do these people live under? But before long there's a hundred comments and about twenty of them are photos of mothers kissing their sons. 'What have we started?' I ask our Michael.

'What do you mean "we"? I merely obliged...

"Dirty fuckin bitches all over this thred. I bet there doin more den just kissin their kids," some total fucking moron adds. Michael and I scrunch up our faces and stick our tongues together. That photo goes up with the caption, "I suppose this would be Frenching!"

3

So yeah, so what, we kiss on the lips. We always have. There's nothing wrong. You can't fake your love with a kiss on the lips. Friends kiss on the cheek. TV personalities kiss on the cheek. The corporate world kisses on the arse. And politicians; well, there's no telling what!

It's not inappropriate to kiss on the lips, unless to love your own family is inappropriate. What kind of world was Michael born to where love is inappropriate, or where it's wrong to love your own family?

If Her Royal Anus, Gaynor, wanted to debate, which she isn't capable of, I might have pointed out that a world where honesty is criminal would be a world where there's no telling the difference between ordinary people and abusers. But that thought might cause her an embolism.

So as the social media war rages on into dinner time, we ask ourselves what kind of life this Gaynor is living - and does she kiss the back of her hand when she's lonely at night? Does she draw a cartoon face between her thumb and forefinger?

What's his name and do they do tongue?

'We should have done proper tongue, mum, and just nommed each other's faces off,' he says, and maybe a little sarcastically judging by how his eyes shift so lazily. I giggle uncontrollably, like a squirrel in heat. Do squirrels giggle? I think about it while we eat.

Consciously I think a little too much of it, and not the squirrels, but about kissing my son on the lips, with tongue. Nobody ever "nommed" my face off!

4

The barrage of idiocy doesn't stop, though. Now it's getting to the level of harassment. Who'd have thought it? I'm lying in bed when my phone pings - that's the message tone!

"I think you're sick, what you do with your son. It's not funny. You shouldn't joke about abuse. Maybe I'll just report the evidence to the police and see what they have to say about it."

My heart actually sinks. Can she do that? I don't mean is she capable of communicating with authority in a formal capacity. I mean have I committed a crime?

This woman needs medication, and preferably two smoking brass pills fired from a 357. Magnum. I call out to Michael and explain the situation, uncertain not of whether she's for real, but worried that she can cause serious trouble. That thread did get pretty heated, but surely the police have actual crimes to attend to. I wouldn't want to be charged with wasting their time or something.

'Nah, fuck that shit,' Michael says so elegantly as he swaggers around in his briefs, his imagination ticking over. I can see by the bulge in the front of those tight briefs, which I can't quite ignore, that this same imagination was hard at play, or at least warming up, before he came through the door. I probably shouldn't, but I let him have my phone.

After some frantic typing, Michael does the unexpected and free-calls this woman, I imagine to save his fingers the effort. 'Hiya love, I'm Michael, Trish's son. Did you like our pictures?'

Even when he switches audio output so I can listen in, Gaynor's voice is confused, muffled, and too loud to be intelligible at all. Somehow Michael can hear her just fine. Either that or he's just winging it.

'Oh why what was wrong with them? We had a lot of fun making them just for you,' Michael swaggers and sneers. More gobbledegook follows. 'So, Gay, what about you, babe? Do you have any children? Are you allowed children?'

The shit hits the fan and Gaynor starts screaming. 'Fuckin' 'ell, Gay, control yourself, woman!' But she hangs up. Michael looks at me, feigning confusion and shrugs. 'I must have struck a nerve.'

And either Gaynor is a professional troll or this is her life, fighting everyone she can with the eagerness of a fat kid on an Easter egg hunt. Again, Michael types frantically, but I'm not prepared for what comes next.

Soon I am shrieking, eyes glued, but I'm laughing, as he whips off his undies and starts taking photos with reckless abandon of his junk, which swings free and proud.

"Me and my mum are both naked now, sexytimes commencing!" he types, letting me know only when he's actually sent it across. My cheeks are burning. He's going to ruin my life.

I can't help admire his gifted form, though. However I also notice how he's getting excited, down there; or maybe the correct term is cocksure. His dad's wasn't that nice. How the hell did he get it from me?

'She won't tell the police. She's clearly harassing,' is all I catch him saying. My mind was elsewhere all of a sudden. Come to think of it, it's been quite a while since I've seen...

'For god's sake, Michael, will you please cover yourself now?'

He jumps into the bed and snuggles up close, but arranges the duvet so that my chest is on show. And resting his head there, snuggling right up close and personal, he takes another photo with a cheeky smile.

"Oh my god, well the truth's out now..." and Michael is quick to mimic the deluded bitch for every cliché she repeats. He's too good at it, even the facial expressions as he rubbernecks like one of the bobble-head dog toys you put on the dash of your car.

'She wants to see us kiss again, mum, but she wants to see frenching and groping.'

Why is it all of a sudden that I can feel my life ending?

'You're fucking joking!'

'No I'm not. She says she wouldn't put it past us, so we might as well.'

'I'm not giving her reason to report us to the police. They'll arrest us!'

But once again there we are, mum and son, lips together, 3... 2... 1...

1...

1...

When it's over, I clear my throat with a sigh that really doesn't hide my awkwardness. I lick my lips clean and take a moment to process the photo, swallowing dryly. Michael really made this one look a little too convincing.

And underneath he has left another lovely note; "You must be envious. Couldn't convince a blind dog to kiss the zit in between your shoulders."

But let's revise this photo a little longer, while the silence between us is growing ever heavier, because I'm frankly speechless now.

First there's the fact that we're kissing, in my bed, and that he's naked as the day that he emerged from between my legs. His mouth pressed to mine and ever so slightly open, the cheeky swine's tongue bulging against his cheek could easily be misconstrued as mine. It actually looks like we're getting up to more than just a cheeky kiss.

'Jesus Christ, Michael, I'll never hear the end of this,' I say, unaware that I'm flushed and fanning myself. 'How would you even explain this?'

And like clockwork comes the reply that will prove me right:

"YOU PEAR OF IN BREAD SHITES"

But yeah, her grasp of English is too tragic for me to really worry. I show Michael, who just sighs and shakes his head. He's apparently more disappointed that Gaynor doesn't appreciate the effort.

"Dear Mrs Swamp Dweller," Michael takes control again, "The closest you ever got to a hard dick, other than the STI-riddled one you shot out of, is the shit falling out of your arse. So do us a favour, if you're so fucking serious about anything. Glue your fanny shut, your arsehole, and your fat fucking face, and leave my mother alone!"

I'm laughing so hard I can see black dots, and my face is burning a furious red. In the moment I can forgive my son's erection pressed not so covertly against my upper leg. I can see the response coming, but she's taking her time typing. She doesn't know what to say and I hope this is the end of it. Meanwhile Michael lies there patiently, one arm curled around me. I can't help but adore him, at least where the only other choice is to murder him.

'You should just whip your kit off and mess up your hair,' he suggests with mirth. I'm sure she'd love that. So would he. But I have to wonder where all of this is going, and what will come of it tomorrow.

"Why dont u just go fuck each udder an get it over and done wiv?"

'We should fuck, then,' I tell Michael. Finally, it's his turn to hit me with a worried double-take, as if to say, "WHAT? ARE YOU SHITTING ME?" I snort, just pursing my lips as I hold his gaze to see if I can finally put an end to his smart-arsery. No I can't do it. The squirrel giggles with a vengeance. 'Her words, not mine!'

5

It's quarter past midnight and still my phone is pinging. I'm sick to death of this woman, I'm so tired that my eyes are stinging, but I can't rest for wanting to throw her under a bus. Michael lying beside me makes no sign of moving. I ask if he's asleep, but no, he's just daydreaming.

Well fuck it, I think, and take his previous advice. I might as well make a night of it. I wiggle out of my pyjama top and let the bitch have it. My proud D-cup tits, still pert enough to stand up for their own bragging rights, spill out a little, but being that this is just about the craziest thing I've done so far and that I'm nervous as hell, my thick pink nipples poke out prominently.

And I'm fully aware of my son's sudden movement and eager glare, his eyes transfixed on his mum's fine old boobies. They're a proud pair, so this once I will let him stare.

'Do you wanna take a photo as well?' I ask. 'You can save them for later. Pretend they're someone else's.' Finally he's speechless.

"Omg stop msging me you sick freak. I don't need this."

"No, you need a frontal lobotomy. Go away!"

Seconds go by. Minutes go by. Many minutes go by. Shit, have I finally seen the end of her? I don't say anything. I don't want to curse myself. I could easily block the bitch. I could have done that all along, but it's become a matter of pride now. If I topple this hag now, the message goes out to all her subordinate keyboard warrior mates.

What I really need, to make sure she goes and stays gone - on the off-chance that she comes back out of boredom or renewed defiance - is something to stun her into complete silence. If photos of kissing my own son, him naked and pretending to French me or of our unsolicited dick and tit pics, don't do the trick, what will?

Okay, I'm tired. I'm really tired, and I'm trying to reason with myself what's too far and what isn't. Oddly I don't feel like we've gone too far already, which we have. I'm wary of the peoples' collective definition of the word Normality at the best of times, but at the same time I didn't think Michael and I could have gone this far without freaking out.

For a moment I actually think about convincing him to pretend in a photo that we're fucking. He might be naked and I might be topless, but I'm wearing pyjama bottoms. It would just be a photo. But I come back to reality with a sober shake of the head, blinking the sting of sleepiness away with my heavy eyelids. It would still be way too far to send a photo like that. What was I thinking?

So what's the fine line between kissing and faking sex? I ask myself, in my head, so Michael doesn't hear me. 'I want to make a video,' I say.

6

Ten minutes later after reasoning with my son, I've spent most of that time reasoning with myself. It's just another prank, isn't it? 'I'll do anything to shut her up once and for all!'

'Yeah but, mum, come to think of it we'd probably have a hard time explaining that the other stuff was just to troll her back. She won't report you. She's probably too small-minded. She just wants to be in charge of her own argument,' Michael says.

I don't tell him that she's stopped messaging me. I don't tell him that I just want to do this for the hell of it. But there it is now, the little seed planted and growing in my mind. I'm trying to get my son to enact a play with his mother, in a video that I don't plan on sending at all. And then he obliges.

Now the duvet is appropriately up around our necks and the camera is facing us from the bedside table. We begin laughing like adolescents, nervous but mischievous, backing down at every last moment.

It's a hell of a dare. I tell him before hitting the record button what I want. Is he man enough to snog his mum for real, to pretend that we're actually like that?

We kiss on the lips, just a peck and then a giggle, neither believing we could be fooled into doing anything like this. We kiss on the lips, again, a little longer, naked flesh pressed warmly together. And again, we kiss on the lips...

'That's nice,' I sigh my approval. 'But you know what mother really wants...'

Michael looks me squarely in the eyes and tells me to close them. We kiss on the lips, parted more invitingly of one another, and what began as a joke has just become a mock-seductive make-out session.

I'm supposed to be timing this in my mind. At first it's like measuring the distance of thunder and lightning. It's only supposed to be about thirty seconds long. In all of that time, he's only going to kiss me about four times before we indulge in one long and overly-passionate movie star kiss.

So we kiss on the lips and count to five, and we kiss on the lips and count to ten, and we kiss a little more convincingly, count to fifteen...

This is so inappropriate already, and then there's one kiss that's nothing short of sexual. Open mouthed, our tongues greet, wet and warm and silky soft. He's hard down there and I know it. I know it all too well because my clit is so stiff and throbbing and we're pressed together in the most suggestive way.

Were Michael anyone else right now, I'd tear a hole in the crotch of my pyjama bottoms and let him sink right into me. I can't think like this. I can't.

Are we at twenty seconds yet? Since that last kiss we've both gotten a little heated and forgotten ourselves. My breathing has become so deep and hard that my breasts are heaving up into his bare chest, our nipples tickling each other.

His hand caresses my cheek, our tongues swirl, lashing around hot saliva. And then I feel the spearhead of his stiffness push up against me where my excitement is blooming like the wet petals of a flower in spring.

I'm slimy wet and hot. My pyjamas stick to me. We both gasp in shock, coming back around. I stifle a sudden moan and then-

'Stop,' I plead, coming to my senses. 'Please!

My heart is frantic in my bare chest. Guiltily I look to the running camera and five minutes have passed since we began this charade. I don't know how we got here but I know where this is going.

I tell him we must stop this, but in his mind we're still playing. 'Just a little while longer, mum,' he whispers against my lips. And he nudges me playfully with a hot little smooch. 'We have to show her how it's done...'

'Okay,' I say breathlessly, and settle back against the pillows, pulling his hot flesh onto mine with a nervous breath of excitement. We kiss on the lips again and this time I take control. I've a duty to teach my son the difference between a mother's kiss and a lover's.

Now we're writhing together and heating up, his hard body complimentary to my softness. The duvet slowly slips away as our kissing becomes animated and restless.

It's still a prank, right? We're not serious. Though our mouths are making love together, I can't help but wonder when the other shoe will drop. His cock is hard as a rock. Oh my god I want him. I want this.

The room is filled with the sounds of lip-smacking; wet, sticky and intimate. He pulls away to catch his breath, both of us groan satisfaction and relief. For a moment I forget that Michael is my son, until we lock eyes once again, and then...

Then drops the reality bomb!