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A Family History

****A Long Time Ago****

My father was a good man, but a poor husband to my mother. Still, the year after he passed on was hard on her, and she took to drinking more and more. I didn't like seeing her drink, and would probably have turned out some kind of delinquent out of doors, but she seemed to want me with her all the time. I guess this was a pretty hard time for both of us. Anyway, she grew very possessive. She didn't have any sense for my privacy, and I was thirteen and had grown old enough to want it. We had no locks on any of the doors in our house; for some reason we never knew, the people who had moved out before us had taken all the keys with them. Pretty often, Mama would walk in on me as I changed or as I used the bathroom. And she wouldn't excuse herself and leave. It was like there was nothing strange in it. I didn't like it. It embarrassed me, and I was self-conscious. I must have said something sometimes. I remember she'd say, "What? You're ashamed before your mother?" like it was no big deal. She also became pretty negligent of her own modesty, especially when she was drinking. She would walk between her room and the bath in various states of undress; she would change in front of me; she took to going about the house in nothing more than a thin nightie with no robe or housecoat on over it. Very often, as I bathed or brushed my teeth or combed my hair, she would come into the bathroom and sit down and take a pee as I stood there.

One afternoon, I was in the bathtub and she did this and then just stood there talking to me like she would sometimes. She said she wanted to bathe when I was done. She stared at me with her smart black eyes and her strong-beaked aquiline face and made me feel pretty funny. I tried to cover myself with my hands. "Baby," she sighed, "you're almost grown." She leaned against the sink and sipped her drink. "If your daddy was still here, he'd tell you about things, things a boy as grown as you should know."

I was very embarrassed. "I know all about that, Mama," I said. I wanted to drop the subject. Her eyes narrowed, and she laughed. "What do you know?" Fact of the matter, I was about as ignorant as a boy can be. All I had was the vaguest of vague ideas picked up in smutty schoolyard talk. "Have you ever seen a girl," she pressed, "what a girl looks like?" She was the only woman I'd ever seen naked (and only in peeps and flashes), but I couldn't tell her that. I had to say that I had not. "Do you know where babies come from?" I was too embarrassed to hazard a guess. She just stood and stared at me and didn't seem much inclined to let it go, like I was praying she would.

She knocked back her highball and set the glass on the counter. There was a potted rubber-tree in the corner on a four-legged stool. She set the pot on the floor and moved the stool to the side of the tub. Then she sat facing me. Mama did that, and she didn't seem much different than she might at any time; only, rather than tuck her robe up between her knees as a woman will when she sits on a low stool, she just let it part at her waist and fall free of her legs, and she was naked underneath. Mama's legs were parted, and I could see the dark patch between them. She untied her belt and let the robe fall open, and I could see her belly and breasts. I was ashamed, and I wanted and I tried to look away, but my eyes would only dart between her suckling-thickened paps and the dark hair below.

"You should know about things, Harry. You should know what a woman looks like -- the facts of life, you know." My eyes were still all over her, and I had to drag them up to her face. "Its all right," she smiled, "I want you to look so you can see how a woman is made." She scooted toward me on the stool and drew her knees back so that I could see her better. Her skin was very white. We never went to the beach, you see, and she always went well covered in sweaters and long skirts, hats and scarves. The hair that clustered on her *mot* was very black and dense but not so thick where it spread down over her ruddy-showing sex. My mother had a rather large quim -- I know that now, anyway, because I've been with other women, and, of course, there are all the girls in the magazines -- but she must have been a little vain of it to have done what she did. I joke, though she did have a pretty quim -- I've always thought so, though maybe pretty isn't quite right -- it was well-formed, long and broad and thick in its outer parts and surpassingly delicate within the hairy rind. Mama had a fat and opulent quim, a great, pulpy half-fruit and she proceeded, in her strange and kindly way, to give me an unselfconscious demonstration of its design.

"This is my pubic hair," she said, starting with the obvious and combing it with her fingers. "Yours is called the same. And this is my vulva." She cupped it a moment proprietarily. Mama liked the naming of parts: "These, here and here," she traced the fleshy pads with her fingers, "these are the *labia majora*. Most just call them the outer lips, you see, the parts with the hair on them." She spread her thighs as wide as she could and pulled one side of her sex open with her hand. "And you see this bit, here and here? Those are the *nymphae*. Most people just say 'inner lips.' They're called *labia minora* in the doctors' books." (Her father had been a physician; that's how she knew.) "They can be much larger in some women; sometimes they stick way out."

I was very curious to look at her, but I had an irrational compulsion to glance toward the door, too, as if "they" would crash in and catch us doing what we were, at any moment. Frankly, I was at least as scared as I was excited. I could smell a smell coming from her, not a strong or a bad smell, but distinct like mushrooms. She showed me her clitoris, "There, beneath the little hood there, I don't know if you can see it," but I don't think she told me its pride of place in the female genitalia. Otherwise, I probably would have paid it better attention later. "... And you see the man puts his penis in here. This is my vagina. He puts his penis in here, and he spends his seed, and, if his seed fertilizes the tiny egg and a baby is made, it comes out of here when it comes to term." I laughed that a baby might come out of such a little hole, but she assured me that it was true, that I'd come out from there. "Let me have your finger," she said, and she put it into her vagina so that I could feel that it was soft and moist. I can't describe how incredibly strange it felt to be sitting there in the bathtub, in water growing tepid, with my finger in my mother's vagina. After that, she let me touch her all over between her legs. I was curious where she made water, and she showed me. "And look, this little fold of skin, its called the *fourchette*. Some women don't have it. Some women have it, and some women don't; isn't that funny?" The hairs grew sparse around her bum hole. It's odd to remember that I thought was it so strange that her anus was so near her vagina. I was curious to look at *it*, too, but that was incidental to Mama's show-and-tell.

My penis was up for all that it was worth by this time, and though I was so young, and it wasn't very big yet, it was sticking out of the water. Mama saw it lift its little head and enclosed it in her hand. She stroked it kind of soft and played with my scrotum. "Do you understand why it gets hard like this? It is very natural; when the man becomes aroused, his penis stiffens like this so that it will go into the vagina... It feels good, doesn't it?" It did feel good. I flinched from her hand when she first touched me, but after a moment I felt all hollow inside with that feeling deep in my stomach. "Do you ever do this to yourself when it gets like this?" she asked. I admitted that I had, and that concerned her. "You mustn't do that, its very bad for you." I'm sure that she believed that; many people did. She made me promise that I wouldn't masturbate.

"Come," she said at last, "you've been in there too long. Your hands and feet are wrinkled like a prune." I thought that she was going to get into the tub, but she pulled the plug from the drain. We both stood, and she helped me to dry. She wouldn't let me dress but led me into her room. "I'll teach you how to have intercourse," she said.

"Teach me?" My chest was frozen with a longing I'd never known and little understood, and all the fear just washed over me. I'd heard low-class Colored men say "motherfucker," and I had some idea that it was supposed to be a really bad thing -- like the worst thing that a guy could do. But I was excited, and I pretty much gave myself over to her. She seemed so poised and certain of what she was doing; I was used to trusting her.

I didn't know what she wanted from me. She let her robe fall off of her shoulders, and she took my hand. "It will be okay," she soothed. "You'll like it. The man always likes it. It feels very nice." Mama wasn't short or tall, fat or thin, young or old; she wasn't beautiful, though no one would have thought her very plain; but the sight of her loving form, stripped for my learning and my lust, and of her kind pale brow and her sharp jet eyes, set such a longing behind my lungs as I've never slaked. I lay down beside her on the bed. "Are we going to make a baby?" I asked. "No," she said, "but when we are through, you will know how it is done." She asked me to kiss her, and I did. "No, like this," and she gave me her tongue. I pulled back, a little startled and, for a moment, a little repulsed. I'd never seen nor heard of people kissing that way. She laughed and asked me to do it again. I tried it. Her mouth and breath tasted a little of gin and lime, but I was surprised to find it so pleasant to kiss like that, our tongues slicking together.

One of her breasts was pressed to my own, and she placed my hand on the other. I'd, of course, never felt a woman's naked breasts before now, and I thought them pretty remarkable. Mama was about thirty-five, and I suppose she looked her years -- not that that is very old, but, as is natural, her body was slowly settling toward middle age. Her nipples hung dark and a little heavy on her breasts. Her hips and bottom flared, her belly rolled out, and her limbs were soft and substantial. But she *was* shapely, her wrists and ankles finely turned, and her waist still narrow.

"Get on top of me," she said. She spread her legs wide on each side of me, and I lay with my penis pressed to her stomach. She had me raise myself, and she took my member in her fingers. I could feel it dragged down though the crisp hairs. She drew her legs back and back 'til her knees brushed the sides of her breasts and she touched my back with her feet. Her feet were soft. She went barefoot sometimes, but she kept them rubbed with a pumice and used baby oil on them. As her legs came back, her bottom rolled up, and I was inside her. We'd left the door open, and I could hear the water draining loud in the bathroom. I relaxed myself and felt her hairs crush to my belly and my pubic bone press into the rubbery pad of her sex. "Move it in and out," she said, and I did.

There's no need to tell you how wonderful it felt. We fucked a couple dozen strokes, then she had me roll back and crouch on my shanks without pulling free of her. She wanted me to see what it looked like going in and out. I spread her quim open with my fingers and gazed into the pinky groove as my penis slipped in and out of her vagina. Her belly shimmied with the jostling. As I started to spend, I laid myself back on her. Mama didn't say much when I was done. She didn't seem at all sorry. She just said that I'd done fine, she kissed me and said she loved me and went and took her bath.

A couple of days later, she asked me if I would like to have intercourse with her again. I told her yes, that I would, and we did it on her bed. This happened a few times over the next week or more. Early one evening, *I* asked *her* if we might have sex. It was about all I thought about, and I had begun to itch for it just about all of the time. I thought that I loved her different than I ever had before. I told her that, and she seemed very gratified. She hugged me, but, as she did, she told me that I mustn't stop loving her as my mother, that if I did, she would grow very sorry that she had taught me what she had. Mama stopped drinking just after that. Neither of us ever said anything about it, but it must have been pretty hard for her, without any help -- I think she was an alcoholic.

We began to lie together every day. One time -- this may have been two weeks or more after the first -- she spent. I knew something had happened to her, but I was still very ignorant. She cried out and got very tense and grasping. You all know how that is, but I didn't until then. I guess I'd thought of sex as nothing more than a gentle kindness on her part and a fantastic pleasure on mine. That is how she had treated it, though I'm certain it was pleasant for her -- I remember those first times so well, you know. But that was changed now. "You gave me an orgasm," she said. When I was made to understand what that meant, I was very pleased with what I had done. I was more inquisitive after that, and I worked toward her pleasure as much as my own when we did it. I soon found there was nothing hard in it. She was as passionately inclined as any woman in good health can be.

As we grew more assured, she began to teach me things, and we sometimes experimented so that we eventually became rather accomplished lovers. We played at all of the positions we could think of. She serviced me with her mouth, and I learned to do the same for her. We became quite attuned to one another's pleasures. This was easily the most intensely erotic relationship of my life. She never let me sleep in her bed, though, not until many years had passed and I was married. She said that I would never grow to be a proper man if I were to wed myself to my mother. She held to this even when, after about a year, she discovered that we had made a baby despite her precautions.

Mama's pregnancy really scared her. If abortion had been more easily available in those days, she would have done that. She thought that the baby might be born deformed. We also had to move. It had been almost two years since my father had died, and people would have looked down on her pretty bad if it had gotten out that she was pregnant. My sister, Jess, was born in California, three thousand miles from anyone we knew. It was all okay in the end; Jess turned out fine. She teaches grammar school now and is a very bright woman and very handsome. She is married and has teenage children of her own. I raised her from when she was ten, but she doesn't know that I am her father.

When the time came for me to go to college, I was fortunate enough to get into one of the best universities on the West Coast. Mama bought a house nearby. But, though we remained very passionate, she kind of pushed me out of the nest, and I lived on campus. It was difficult at first, but she really knew what was best. I met my wife, Clara, at school, a girl of whom my mother grew very fond, even to genuinely love, especially after the grandchildren came.

Well, Mama was killed in an automobile accident almost thirty years ago. We had last made love just two days before she died. She was good and loving and, to me, a very desirable woman -- I loved her very much. Sometimes, I get to missing her so bad, and it makes me so blue, that I settle into a funk that hangs about me for days. I had always found my best antidote for this in Jess. She looks very much like my mother did, and, as each year passes, I see more and more of my mother's ways in her daughter. I took after Mama myself, so I suppose it should be no wonder that the resemblance has grown so strong in Jess. Just being with her, watching her and hearing her voice, always had a way of dispelling these moods of mine and giving me some comfort.

But it's come to me, of late (something that has never before occurred to me), that there is, in what I feel for her, a strong tie of incestuous desire. The shock of this recognition stayed with me for many days when it first came upon me, and, like a fool, I let myself dwell upon it. So now, her every display of affection stirs my longing, then begs my shame. My experiences being what they are, I could never feel anything inherently loathsome if some closer connection were to occur between us -- indeed, there's nothing I would want better in the whole world -- but I can only imagine how she might react if she were to know how I want her. She has always been a rather modest woman, you see, so far as I know, perfectly conventional, perhaps even a little reserved, in all matters of sex. She would have to think this a horrible perversion, even believing me no more than her brother.

But I think of her in this light all of the time now. I am very much afraid that I shall do something stupid and irrevocable. I fear to lose her regard, but, as my mind sits, I can hardly bear to spend a day out of her company. I've become obsessed with my want for her, and I think of little else. I cannot say what will come, but I've no cause for hope. If I had any sense, I'd move a thousand miles away, but that won't happen. My ties to this place run too deep -- almost forty years -- my life has been here. I can't just up and run... And what could I say? to my Clara? to Jess? I don't know what will happen... No, nothing will happen. I can't let it... And yet...?

Oh God... How I miss my mother.

****An Addendum****

Several months ago, I posted an account, that I called "A Long Time Ago," of my sexual initiation with my mother, of our long-standing love, and of my current torn and guilty feelings toward my "sister" Jess. As you may recall, Jess was the fruit of our intimacy. My mother had been dead for thirty years, and Jess, who had now reached her own middle years, reminded me of her in every way. Jess was forty years old, a grammar school teacher, active in service to our community, and a happily married woman with two children, a son and a daughter, nearly grown. Her mother, and then I, had raised her as "regular people;" she had no idea that I was her father. We were very close, but I had no reason to believe that she would have been anything but horrified to have known who I really was to her and how I now desired her. I was half mad with despair, very much afraid that I might do something that would cause me to loose her love. Much has changed in the intervening months.

School let out last June like it does every year, and, as happens every year of late, Jess and I began spending our days together. My business has grown more or less self-sufficient. Most of my time is relatively free, and I've gone into a semi-retirement mode. My wife is an attorney -- she loves her work, but it keeps her pretty occupied -- so I have my days to myself. Jess' husband, Frank, is a district sales rep for a major electronics manufacturer, and his job keeps him living out of hotel rooms for much of the year. Because of this, it's natural that my sister and I should keep a lot of company, especially in the summer months when she isn't working.

I got up early one morning -- I'd promised it as a favor to Jess -- and drove over and took her kids to the train station. Their grandparents owned a share in a houseboat on Lake Shasta, and the children went up every year for two weeks. Bridgette and Jeffrey groused a little in the car that they were too old for these trips, but I think that they looked forward to their houseboat vacation as much as they ever did. Frank's folks are a good natured and active couple, and I know they show the kids a good time.

After I saw the train off, I saw some nice crimson peonies in a florist's window, and I took a lavish bouquet back to Jess. She'd promised me breakfast in exchange for taking the kids. The flowers earned me a loving kiss. I sat in her kitchen and drank her coffee as I watched her pattering around in her bathrobe. Her face was a little puffy with sleep, her hair was disheveled, she didn't have any make-up on. God, I thought she was beautiful. So much like Mama, with her large, black eyes and her pale, pale complexion, her long, thin nose and her lovely, narrow mouth. I studied the flare of her hips, the turn of her ankles, her pretty feet and the swell of her calves at the hem of her robe whenever she turned away from me. We ate, and I pretended to read the newspaper as she did the dishes.

Jess took the peonies off the table, cut the string that bound the butcher paper around their stems, and laid them on the counter; then she climbed up onto the step-ladder to fetch a vase out of a top cabinet. But, as she stretched toward the top shelf, she cringed suddenly and drew a breath through her teeth with a grimace.

"What's the matter?" I asked, standing up behind her.

"Oh," she said, "I've got this twinge in my back -- had it a couple weeks and it won't go away. I'm getting to be an old lady."

"Well, let me get that," I said, a little concerned, and helped her down off the ladder.

She put water in the vase and cut the stems and arranged the flowers carefully into it. Then she lifted the bouquet and placed it in the center of the table.

"Careful of your back," I said. "Where does it hurt?"

"Oh, it's not so bad. It's right here," and she reached behind her to touch a place beneath one of her shoulder blades.

I rubbed the spot sympathetically.

"See, there's a little knot there," she complained.

"Yeah, you've got a little muscle spasm. Let me rub it out for you."

"That'd be nice," she said. "I've been meaning to go to the club. I'm due for a massage."

"You're in for a treat," I smiled. "I give a famous rub-down."

"Been moonlighting?"

"Well, Clara likes them."

She laughed.

We went into her bedroom, and she sat on the edge of her bed as I went into the bathroom. I got a towel from the rack and a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a bottle of baby oil from the medicine chest and went back in to her. She wasn't wearing a bra under her robe, and she asked me to turn my head for a moment. When I looked back, she lay on her stomach, her breasts pressed into the counterpane so that I couldn't see them. Her robe was open and peeled down to the line of her panties.

Jess has a lovely back with clear, unblemished flesh, and my hands shook a little as I touched her. She gasped as I splashed some alcohol on her skin.

"Oh! That's cold!," she said.

I went at the knotted muscle in earnest, digging at it with my thumbs.

"Oh Harry! That hurts!," she protested.

I commiserated but dug all the harder with my thumbs until I felt the flesh beneath my fingers soften and watched her body relax as the discomfort passed off.

"There now," I said, "don't I know what's best for you?"

"Ummm," she sighed.

I poured some oil into the palm of my hand to warm it and smoothed it over her back. She brushed her dark hair out of the way, and I rubbed the nape of her neck, her shoulders and arms. I plied her vertebrae like a blind boy caressing the keys of a piano. I traced the line of every rib and ligament.

I was filled with an incredible tenderness for her, and I was extremely aroused. At the same time, there was a certain element of terror in what I was doing. I tried to keep my hands brisk and professional, but I caressed her all the same. She didn't seem to dislike my touch, though. She was very relaxed, her eyes were closed, and I slowly grew more self-assured. I applied more oil and worked the joints of her shoulders, and her arms, and down to her wrists and hands.

"Feel nice?" I asked.

"Mmmm yes," she sleepily murmured.

I kneaded my fingers into the hollows beneath her arms, and sweeping my hands again and again across her sides and under her shoulder blades, I touched the out-pressed swells of the sides of her breasts. Still she did not tense or complain or put an end to it.

"Would you like me to do your legs?" I asked, very much afraid that she wouldn't.


I lifted the robe off of her and tossed it to the side. She tensed at that, and raised her head to glance back at me. What was that look on her face? A little startled? Uncertain? Bemused? Yielding? Each in turn seemed to flit across her face, then she nestled her head back into her arms with a self-conscious giggle.

Her plain, white cotton panties were rid high and stretched tight over her wide woman's bottom, and the creases where her thighs met her buttocks showed naked where the elastic of the leg bands had pulled up.

I began massaging her feet.

"Mama bought this brand of oil," I said, smelling my fingers. "She always smelled like this."

Jess didn't answer.

I rolled her ankle in my hands and worked the arch and center of her foot and gently popped each of the joints and rubbed the oil between her toes until they no longer glistened. I turned up her legs a little, each and each at the knee, placing her foot on my thigh, and kneaded her large, round calves. Her thighs were no longer so smooth and toned as a girl's, but for me there is another, maybe better, pleasure in the more supple flesh of a well formed and mature woman. She was very lovely.

As I finished with her calves, I parted her legs as I laid her foot off of my lap. I could see where her white-clad sex protruded from the crux. She lay still with her eyes closed, but something had now subtly changed. She was no longer relaxed, and I realized, from the gentle tension that had come over her, that she had grown sexually excited, that she held herself in abeyance, not wanting me to see it. I felt myself now in a kind of fog that numbed my senses so that I was able to act with a certain assurance. But it was more than a numbing of my senses, for I felt a certain affinity for my sister like I was certain of all she thought and felt to an extent that I grew certain of all I should do and at what pace I should do it. Where ten minutes before it would have seemed an impossibility that she would ever lie here aroused and allow me to continue touching her in the ways that had caused the arousal, now it seemed the most natural thing. I knew that if she would let me I would consummate my desire upon her.

I let drip a drop of oil on the back of each of her thighs and began to caress and massage her soft flesh. I took each of her legs in the clasp of my two joined hands, and, as I rubbed them, I spread them further apart. I made as though I took no notice of her panties or the proximity of her sex, and I touched her freely and with an expert hand.

There was a willfulness now that kept her head cradled in her arms and kept her eyes closed. She was quiet, but her breathing was up and I could feel that her heart raced as mine.

I reached down and touched the very inmost part of her thighs and cupped her sex through the thin cotton material. She lay strained and unprotesting -- it had come.

I opened my pants and freed my member. I took her by the shoulder and hip and gently rolled her upon her back. Her eyes flew open, and she gazed, frightened, into mine.

"No, Harry! Don't. Stop... We can't," she whispered.

I lay myself on top of her and between her legs. I slipped my fingers into the leg of her panties and pulled the crotch to the side, careful not to pull or tear her hair in the elastic.

"No, don't. Don't," she said, and tried to push me away, her hands on my shoulders.

I guided myself down. She squirmed beneath me and I had a little trouble finding her opening, but at last I slid inside her. She was very moist.

"Oh stop, Harry. Stop. We mustn't."

Jess remonstrated, and she tried to avoid me -- and I ignored her remonstrations and overcame her slight resistance -- but it was not a rape. It was like something understood but not spoken between us that this was a thing that she could not consent to. So I had to consent for the both of us.

After a moment, she stopped her complaints having done what she needed to protect her superego. After a minute she joined me in my movements, and we made love upon her bed. We kissed tenderly and spent together. When we had finished, she began to cry.

"Shhh, shhh, shhh," I tried to console her. I felt bad that she seemed to feel bad. I was a little frightened that she might decide that she was angry at me, but she wasn't.

"I can't believe that we did that," she said.

"Don't be sorry," I said. "You're beautiful and I love you."

She didn't say anything.

"You know that? that I love you very much?"

She gave me an ironic, almost peevish look. "You're very gallant, but I would have stopped us if you'd let me."

She lay there, still part under me, and she made no effort to cover her nakedness. What had happened between us seemed now a fact, just a fact. And if she had not quite reconciled herself to the fact, at least she didn't act as if it were the horror that I had feared that she might.

I looked on her, nearly naked as she was. I hadn't seen her unclothed since she was a young girl. She looked very much like Mama had. Her breasts were smaller, but had held their shape a little better for that. I was quickly hard again.

"Let's do it again," I pled.

Jess just looked at me for a few moments, and then she laughed through her tears.

"At least I have the good grace to be ashamed of what we did," she said.

She didn't say "yes," but she didn't say "no," either. I quickly stripped naked, and she let me peel her panties off her legs. She had a dense, dark brown bush that looked very nice against her white thighs and belly.

This time we took much longer. It was a wonderful coupling, tender and passionate. Both of us were very much aware of the other, and I stared into her face as she stared into mine the entire time we were at it. I took inexpressible pleasure in her every expression, her every little gasp and sound, her every strain and movement, her every gentle touch. When she came beneath me, I wanted to flow out of myself and into her, to inhabit her womb and experience the world through her eyes and ears, through her fingers and toes, to pump through her heart and visit her every extremity, to be at one with her brain and her belly and her bowels. I felt such an incredible love for her, and I kept on as best I could until she quivered a second time and I could hold out no longer and I collapsed upon her.

I lay beside her, softly caressing her chest. "You're not sorry for it now?" I asked.

"No," she answered, seeming quite collected -- more collected than I felt just then. "I'd never want to hurt Frank or Clara, but I can't be sorry for this." She was quiet a moment. "And for the other... Well, that's between you and me as long as no one else finds out." She laughed and shook her head as if it were all just incomprehensible. "We've broken a doozy of a taboo."

"I'd say we shattered the commandments," I chuckled along with her, and I thought, "If you only knew, my sister-daughter-love."

She showered after that, and I jumped in after her. We spent the rest of the day together and made love again later that afternoon. I performed cunnilingus on her. It embarrassed her at first, but she finally took great pleasure in it. I felt like some kind of poor sick miser pouring and counting over his treasure, never quite convinced in his heart of hearts that this bounty is really his. Every part and element of her body had its fascination for me. We were both very happy. I told her how badly I had wanted her and for how long. Jess seemed a little surprised at this, and said that I'd always seemed a very proper kind of older brother. She said that she'd always loved me very much and that she'd always thought I was a handsome man, but that she'd never really dwelt on me in that way. I think that she was really surprised to find that she could respond to me at all sexually. We were both really blown away that these feelings were so intense.

I was back again the next day, and after, and after, and after. Her home, alone as we were, was like our refuge, her bedroom, our cave and den, her bed, our nest. I had to pretend illness with Clara several times, and after that I had to be careful not to fuck myself out too entirely.

When Bridgette and Jeffrey returned home, we lost our utter privacy and had to change our habits. But, still, we had all of our days to spend together and plenty of opportunity to make love.

The incestuous nature of our love excited me, and it came to excite Jess, too. Over the months that followed, we would sometimes talk of it, and we took to calling one another "sister" and "brother" much more often than had been our habit. It was a special thrill to do this when we were not alone. We were careful in all other particulars, but every time Jess would say something like, "Brother, would you pass the salt?" we communicated something between us that no one else could know. It might have sounded completely innocuous, and there would have been nothing out of the ordinary in her glance, but the simple word, dropped in the company of our spouses or others, said everything between us.

We were really tearing up the sheets for a while. We'd always been pretty intimate, always talked pretty well, but when we became lovers -- well, you know how free lovers can be with one another. One afternoon, I mentioned to her that Jeffrey was growing into a good-looking young man. She agreed, and I asked her if she'd ever thought of taking her son to bed -- half joking, but not entirely. She laughed and said she hadn't.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Don't be silly," she said. "He's my son, I just don't think of him that way."

"Maybe you should start. It might be a nice thing."

"You trying to give me away?"

"No, but I'd share in this case."

She gave me a funny look. "Well, I haven't," she said like she was talking to a recalcitrant child.

"You should do it," I said. "It'd be good for him. You too."

"I think you're kidding me."

"I'm not."

"Come on, tell me you're joking." She jabbed me in the ribs.

"I'm not."

"So what is it? You think that, because of what we do, I shouldn't have any qualms about seducing Jeffrey?"


"It's not the same. It's not the same at all. We're grown-ups -- my son isn't. We're grown-ups, and we're brother and sister. A boy's relationship with his mother is more complicated. It'd screw him up for life."

"No," I scoffed.

"Well, it might."

"Mama and I did it together."



"You are giving me a hard time, now. Don't fib."

"I'm not fibbing. Mama taught me all about sex when I was considerably younger than Jeffrey is now. We did it many many times. Hundreds. I don't know -- maybe thousands -- like married people."

Jess took my head in her hands and brought her face close to mine. "You are serious, now?" she asked.

I said that I was, and she could see that I was.

"Wow." She sat up and leaned against the headboard of the bed. She was quiet a long while.

"Does it bother you?" I asked.

"No, I guess not," she said. "It's just a strange thing to find out."

She wanted to know how it had happened. I told her, and the story struck her really funny. She laughed and laughed. "Mama did that?" she asked. I assured her that she had.

We talked a little about what my feelings for Mama had been and what it had been like between us.

"So you were thirteen the first time?"


"Where was Daddy?"

"Daddy was dead."

"But... when..." Her mouth hung open a little, her jaw just working over her perplexity. Mama and I had always led her to believe that Daddy had lived almost two years longer than he had.

"Daddy had been dead for a year," I said. Then I told her that I was her father.

She seemed a little shocked. Her face colored. "Y... you got Mama pregnant," she said, "... with me?" She was quiet a little while -- she took it pretty well.

"You're my father."

"And your brother," I said.

"Oh, what the hell," she shrugged after a while, "I've always had daughterly feelings toward you -- you're the man who raised me."

"That's a girl," I said, and I stroked her thigh.

Jess bent toward me and breathed in my ear, "You've had sex with your daughter many times, but I've never done it with my daddy!"

I tell you, I was in the saddle in nothing flat. Jess wrapped her legs around me and just whispered, "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy," over and over and over as I screwed it to her. It was fantastic. We had a lot to talk about when it was over, but I got it up and performed twice more before I had to go home.

"So, what about Jeffrey?" I asked her before I left.

"I don't think so," she laughed, seeing me out the door and closing it behind me.

"Maybe not," I chuckled to myself as I skipped down the steps.

****A Surprise Addendum to an Addendum****

When last I wrote, I told you how I was able to seduce my sister, Jess, how things were between us, and how I was finally able to tell her that I am her father and how I had sired her on our mother so many years ago when I was a young boy. I left a teaser at the end of the post, but I really didn't think that I would have reason to write again of my own experiences, at least not along the lines of incestuous discovery. Things just keep happening, however, so I find that I am at it again.

I've gotten quite a few positive responses on these postings, via e-mail. Among these, a fair number of people have written and asked for a better physical description of my sister. More than one person has actually written and asked for pictures! (Sorry, won't happen.) I thought I'd given a fairly decent portrait, but there seem to be a lot of *numbers* men out there. I guess there's no reason I can't comply to that.

She says that she stands five feet, five inches and weighs a hundred and thirty-six pounds. That seems about right to my eye. The tags on her brassieres read, "36C." With a little persistence on my part, she's said that her waist measures twenty-eight inches and her hips, thirty-seven. She's fretful about her weight and those last two measurements, but it's without cause as far as I'm concerned. I tell her that I might like her better with another ten pounds on her bones to shush her up. It's getting to be kind of an old joke between us, but it's not an entire lie. She distributes her weight very nicely. That's just the thing about these quantifications -- I say, "36-28-37," and you say, "Ahhh!," and a general body-type comes to mind. But that tells you nothing of the color and texture of her flesh, the line of her throat, the sinews of her back, her ribs' corrugations, the turn of her ankles, the beauty of her hands, the black depth of her eyes, the weight and luster of her hair, her woman's smell and the scent of her perfume, or a thousand other things. I say, "36-28-37," and you say, "Ahhh!," but you're not likely to see the little brown mole behind her left ear, the scar on her right shin from a bicycle mishap when she was twelve, the several, faint stretch marks on her belly, the shallow dimples on the backs of her thighs that she works so hard to keep in check and can't quite make go away. It doesn't tell you of her tummy roll, of the shape of her breasts, or the way that the hair grows on her sex. It doesn't tell you of her laugh or the timbre of her voice or the way that she plays with her hair when she's bored or nervous. I love her, you see, and, as even this little panegyric seems grossly inadequate to me, how can "36-28-37" ever do?

Summer came, school started, and Jess had to go back to work. We could only get together one or two afternoons a week after that. We couldn't nap together anymore, but Jess would call me and let me know on those afternoons she was going to be able to go straight home. I'd meet her there at about 3:30. We'd have at least until 4:30. The kids usually did things after school, so we often had more time than that. It was more hectic than either of us preferred, but we were still very happy.

It was late September or early October when something completely unexpected happened. Jess and I were together one afternoon. It was one of those last scorching hot days we get in California before the autumn really sets in, and it felt good to be naked in the air-conditioned house. We lounged and talked a while on her bed. I idly teased her nipples, drawn up dark and hard from the cool air. (I think I've mentioned that she has pretty breasts -- it's especially so when they're like this, with her paps like raspberries.) She said at last that it was getting late. Bridgette would not be home 'til late -- choir practice, or something -- but Jeffrey might be in half an hour. We began to make love, and it was a lovely fuck. Our flesh was tacky with part-dried and refrigeration-cooled sweat. Our arms and breasts and bellies and legs pasted sticky where they touched, but it was the kind of agreeable sensation you get when you lie with someone whose flesh is so completely agreeable to you that even their funk is sweet.

We were both getting pretty far gone when all of a sudden there was a horrible crash and thump that stopped us cold. I remember Jess' look of terror -- it was probably reflected back in my own face.

There was only one place the sound could have come from, and that was the closet. I jumped off of the bed, ran across the room, grabbed the doorknob, and yanked it wide, half expecting to find Frank with a pistol leveled in my face. What I found instead was no less disturbing, though a little more comic.

Jeffrey lay spilled on the closet floor amidst golf clubs, softball bats, and croquet mallets, his shorts about his ankles. I was stunned dumb for several moments. What can one say? Looking at the door, I saw that one of the louvers was broken -- had been broken a long while, I judged, as it had been painted over. The boy had semen all over his hand and shirt.

"J... Jeffrey!," I finally managed to sputter.

"Uncle Harry," was all he seemed able to moan.

"Oh my God!," I could hear Jess gasp from behind me.

She climbed off of the bed, dragging a pillow with her, and stepped to my side.

"What were you doing?!" Her voice was high and strained.

I pointed to the broken louver, and she could see the semen that glistened on his hand, his thigh, and from the tip of his half-softened penis into his pubic hair. Jeffrey tried to stand, covering himself with his one cummy hand, but he couldn't get the leverage amidst the closet's clutter. I helped him up.

"You got it all over," his mother said. "Wipe yourself off."

The boy looked around a little helplessly.

"Use your T-shirt," I told him. I finally had the presence of mind to feel embarrassed that I was standing there naked before him. To make it worse, I suppose my dick was still shiny. I pulled my trousers on.

"You were spying on us... You got it on the door, too. Clean it off!" Jess's voice sounded near hysteria. She looked like she was trying to keep from crying.

Jeffrey had been trying to hide his nakedness behind the hem of his shirt, but he took it off, wiped himself clean, doubled it over and wiped the door. He was deeply shamed and wouldn't look either of us in the face. He covered his lap with the soiled blue shirt. He tried to stare down the whole while, but his eyes were as big as saucers and he kept making these self-conscious and furtive glances that were not so furtive in his mother's direction. I looked at Jess. She held the pillow before her but it wasn't doing a very good job of covering her nakedness.

"Pull up your shorts, Jeff," I said.

He later told his mother what had happened: He'd come home early three days before and entered the house through the garage. My car was parked out front, as was his mother's, so he'd known that we were there. He hadn't thought anything of it, really -- why should he? -- but went in and sat on the toilet. From there he heard us making love through the wall. He was shocked, and he snuck out of the house without flushing the toilet. When he returned a half-hour later, we were drinking coffee in the kitchen. He was hurt and angry and distressed, and, evidently, at least a little titillated at his discovery, and I suppose it was that latter element that put him in the closet this particular afternoon.

Jess pulled on a light robe she'd had draped over the end-board. There was a divan at the end of the bed, and she had the boy sit on this. She stood, staring down on him with a worried look on her face.

I was pretty worried, myself. "This is it," I was thinking. "Now everything comes apart. Everything goes to hell." I was angry. I was angry at the boy. I'm glad I didn't say anything to him. I guess I held myself in check because I knew he was just an easy object to focus on. We'd been so stupid. What on earth made us think that we could do it in her bedroom every other afternoon for any length of time and not get caught? Well, if there's anything I've learned of human nature, it's that, all logic aside, people will somehow find a way to think whatever's convenient to them. Knowing this, you'd think I'd be and exception... Not yet, I'm not.

"Why did you spy on us? What were you doing?" Jess' voice was calmer now -- a little too calm -- she spoke in a monotone.

Jeffrey was quiet a long time. He was crying.

"Don't you love Dad anymore?" he asked, demonstrating, yet again, that the best defense is a good offense. His mother's weakness was so blatant that I can't imagine it took any calculation to light on it. It was more like a flinch -- you know, when you flinch to protect yourself.

Jess fairly crumpled. She sat by his side. "Oh darling, of course I love your daddy. He's a good man."

"Then why do you do it with Uncle Harry?"

"I love Uncle Harry, too."

"Does Daddy know?"

"No he doesn't."

"You do this behind his back."

Now Jess was quiet a good while, looking down at her hands. "... I wish you could understand. I don't want to hurt your daddy, but I love Uncle Harry, too."

"But Uncle Harry's your brother!"

"Yes," Jess sighed, looking up, a mingling of timidity and resolution in her eyes. "Jeffrey, honey..." She caressed his head. "Not long ago, I would have thought this was a very bad thing, but I won't apologize for it now. You will just have to decide for yourself if you want to tell your daddy what you have seen. You're old enough to know what that might mean."

This was about the most unpleasant situation you could imagine. I had no idea what to do. I just stood there in the middle of the floor, my arms folded close before me, shifting my weight uneasily from one foot to the other.

The boy wouldn't look at his mother or at me, but sat with his chin on his chest. I'd been looking at him for a while when, all of a sudden it occured to me that Jeff wasn't staring at his hands. He was staring at his mother's legs! The robe Jess wore was one of those thin, short wraps that women wear at their vanities. I don't know if she'd bought it small or if it'd just shrunk with washing (it was faded with age), but there didn't seem to be enough material to comfortably wrap around her. It kept opening over her legs, and she wasn't paying the most attention to it.

The boy had an erection. I hadn't noticed it before because he was sitting hunched over and the front of his shorts folded up over his lap. But that fold had a cock in it, and that cock was hard.

When I saw that, I had to sit to keep from tenting my pants and drawing attention to myself. There was a big blue stuffed armchair in the room, near a table and lamp. I suddenly had this incredible case of butterflies in the stomach. I guess that I'd been pretty distracted with the startlement, fear, and anger of the past few minutes, because it was only then that it really registered with me what had happened to Jeffrey... what was happening to him now.

I'd always felt an odd kind of schizophrenia in my feelings and comportment toward Jess and her children. I mean, in every outward manifestation of my regard, this was my *sister*, my *niece*, and my *nephew*. We live with habits of mind like these, and seldom question them. But deep in myself I'd always known Jess, in part, for my child, and these were her children.

So here was Jeffrey: He had squirreled himself to watch his mother copulate. After a fashion, he had participated from his hiding. Now he sat by her side, trembling with a want he may not even have acknowledged.

I don't suppose there was anything in the world I wanted so much at that moment as to relive my own past through Jess and the boy. I had teased her about this -- I'd done it a number of times -- but she'd grown a little short on the subject, so I'd let it go weeks before. I almost stopped breathing with the tension. The potentialities of the moment pressed like a flagstone on my chest.

Jess looked at me, and I directed her eyes to her son with my own glance. She tilted her head to the side and saw how her boy stared at her. She saw the state he was in. She saw how his heart pounded so violently that you could see it shake his frame as he drew breath. When her face was turned from me, I could see the color rise on the back of her neck, and when she looked up her face was suffused with blood.

I wanted... I wanted... Oh, how I wanted! Our eyes met, and hers went wide when she sensed what I pled. It was like a dream you've had a hundred nights. Time would have seemed eerily suspended, except that time will have its way. We stared across the little space between us, and Jeffrey seemed far away. I don't recall the look on her face; was it love, fear, resentment, disgust, pity, lust, stupor? It might have been any or all of these... or more, or less. I just suddenly knew as I looked into her eyes. She would do it. The room came back into focus to me. Jeffrey was there again, hunched over as he'd been. Jess turned her eyes away, and she was with the boy, and I sat far, far away, all by myself on the blue stuffed chair. She blanched and swallowed hard and timidly, timidly unclasped her hands and stretched out her fingers and touched her son's thigh.

"Jeffrey," she softly said, "I know that you were excited by watching me... that... that you are now, son."

He'd gotten his tears under control, but, with that, he let out a sob and fairly shook with crying.

"It's ok, sweetheart. It's all right," she told him, pulling him to her and cupping his head to her chest, nuzzling his hair with her chin. "There isn't a thing wrong with it," she said. "I love you very, very much."

She caressed his cheek with her own and whispered something into his ear.

The boy suddenly pulled back from her, a look of terrible dismay in his face.

"Oh... Oh no... I couldn't." His glance darted at me and back to his mother. "I just couldn't."

Jess reached for and took his penis in her hand through his shorts. She smiled. "Yes you can... It's such a beautiful thing between people who love."

He glanced again at me, and his mother chuckled, "Don't worry about your Uncle Harry. Besides, turn about's fair play -- you watched him."

"I'll even let you finish, Jeff," I said. My voice sounded hollow and foolish in my ears.

Jeffrey took no part in this playfulness. He seemed completely overwhelmed. His mother bid him stand and hooked her fingers in the elastic of his shorts and peeled them down off his legs. Jeff is a good-looking boy, dark-eyed, dark-haired, and white-skinned like his mother. His erection was perfectly respectable for a growing boy of sixteen -- perhaps five inches. His mother traced her fingers through the boy's pubic hair and caressed his cock and bullocks. "You're beautiful," she murmured. She kissed his belly and stood.

Jess untied her robe and drew her son toward the bed. She lay on her back and bid him to climb on top of her. Jeffrey trembled with apprehension. His face was wet with tears. His penis, though, poked stiff from his lap and never fell a jot. He climbed on the bed and his mother parted her legs to make a place for him upon her belly, but he seemed afraid to touch her. He braced himself on arms and knees, shying from her naked flesh.

"Let's just cuddle a while," she soothed. She pulled him prone, turned on her side, and held him close. The boy at first lay rigid but slowly relaxed under his mother's kisses and caresses and whispered sweet things. Jess molded his pink-tinged bottom with her hand, and his back and his leg. She took his hand in hers and placed it on her breast. When he had begun to feel that breast with some relish, she drew her belly back from him and drew his hand down to between her legs. The boy lay for quite a while, his hand buried in that dense and ragged bush of black, a look of profound wonder and concentration on his face. Jess lay calm and smiling, though her cheeks slowly suffused with red. She gasped at last -- still short of spending -- and told her son that that was enough.

She rolled upon her back, taking the boy with her in her embrace. He seemed more willing now to do what had frightened him so before. She guided him down, had him brace himself on his elbows and draw back his hips, and took his penis in her fingers and placed it in the entrance of her vagina. "Ugh...," he sighed as he sank his weight upon her.

"Have you ever done this before?" she asked.


"Well it's as easy as one, two, three," she assured him. "Just relax, and Mommy will show you."

"Ok." His voice cracked.

Jess smiled. "Move it back and forth, out and in again... There. There... Oops! too far. Try again. There... That's it. That's it, sweetheart."

"What do I do?"

"You're doing fine -- just keep moving... Doesn't that feel nice?... Kiss me... I love you."

They were a gorgeous sight: the thin, handsome boy, cradled so in his mother's thighs -- and Jess, in all her maternal tenderness and solicitation, rolling softly beneath him, stroking his face and shoulders with her hands and his legs with her calves and feet. At last, his breathing came more labored, his face grew ruddy red, and the veins stood on his neck.

"Oh Mommy!... I'm... I'm..."

"Oh, that's fine," she whispered. "That's good... Go ahead. Go ahead."

He bunched over her and shuddered out his seed. Jess wrapped her arms and legs around him and constricted him close, murmuring all the while, "That's good... That's fine... Oh my darling!... That's good... That's fine..."

When he'd done and she'd given him a minute to laze in his pleasure, she said to him, "That was nice, wasn't it?" He told her that it was, and she rolled over again and turned him out. "We'll do it again," she said, and she sat up. Jeffrey tried to sit up with her, but she pressed him back with a hand in the middle of his chest. "No, no. Lie back."

She turned away from him and lay part across his belly, brought her face to his lap, and took the whole of his shrunken penis into her mouth. Her son gasped, "Oh, Mommy!" He tried to hold his head up to see what it was that she did, but I don't think that there was anything to view past her back and shoulders. The boy dropped his head back to the mattress. He lay staring at the ceiling for a while and then seemed to notice her bottom, pointed, more or less, in his direction. He touched it shyly, at first, and then began to stroke and kneed the broad and fleshy white globes. Jess drew her knees up so that her sex poked out plain between the backs of her thighs. Jeffrey accepted the invitation and began to rub his mother's quim, feeling the outer hairy texture, then sliding his fingers along the now-slickened crease.

When his sprig was stiff again, she spat it out and asked him if he would like to "make love" again. The boy nodded that he did, and he climbed on top of her a second time. They fucked a good while longer this time, but, while it grew evident that Jess became much excited, she never spent. Jeffrey raised himself over her on his arms and looked on her as they were at it. His face bore the expression of his passion, of course, but there was also something quizzical there, as though he couldn't believe where he was, he couldn't believe what he was doing.

Three days before, he'd been like most boys, with his studies, the girls at school and the women of his centerfold fantasies, and his friends and sports and computer games. And he'd been his mother's son. That latter was just what he was and nothing that he'd questioned. At that time in a boy's life, the *Mother* element in that person a boy calls Mother *is* that person. He does everything he can, in fact, to protect himself from the full consciousness that his mother is any more or any other than *Mother*. This self-absorbed cocoon was now shattered for Jeffrey. How couldn't it have been? Now there was just this slapping of their bellies and the wet slurping of their parts, his ethereal pleasure and her corporeal flesh. Who was this woman beneath him? What did she mean to him? If she was different or more than he had thought, who was he, himself? As I watched him, I wondered what the issue might be. When this had happened to me so many years before, it filled me with wonder. I also remember that it really scared me. But it eventually enriched my love for my mother beyond anything it could otherwise have been. I hoped that this would effect my grandson so. I loved them both -- my daughter and her boy -- and would have them share all the happiness they could.

Jess talked to him as they did it, and he slowly relaxed and looked less troubled under her soothing influence.

"That's it, baby. That's it," she murmured. "It's nice, isn't it? You do it nice." She caressed his face. "My sweet, sweet boy. That's it. That's it, baby. Mommy loves you..."

When he came and he laid himself down on her breast, and she asked him, "Do you love me?" he told her, "Yes," and lifted his head just enough that he could bestow a kiss beneath her nipple and then lay his cheek back where it had rested.

I had been in quite a state as I watched this. The memories and sensations of my youth rushed back over me in a crushing wave. As I watched them as first they coupled, my excitement rose to such a level that I could not stop my emission. I tore open my trousers and pressed with my fingers beneath my scrotum but spent on my stomach just the same. I wiped myself off and sat and watched them through the rest of it. They were beautiful together, but seeing them made me suddenly lonely in a way I hadn't been for months.

They lay quiet so long that I began to wonder if the boy slept. Jess was afraid. I could see it in her eyes when she looked at me and as they darted restlessly about the room.

"What are you thinking," she asked at last.

"I dunno," he answered after a while.

"Tell me, Jeffey. What are you thinking?... I have to know."

"I can't believe we did it." He may have been crying again. "There's a name for me now." He got off of her then and lay apart from her, not looking at her or at me.

Jess didn't say anything a long while. "Are you sorry?"

"I dunno. Are you?"

"I'm only sorry if you're sorry, honey," she softly told him. "... No one else will ever know, and, short of that, I don't care what they think." She touched his shoulder. "I only wanted to make you happy, baby. I didn't mean to make you sad."

Jeffrey turned to look at her when she said this. His face was sober. "I'm not sad, Mom." I think he lied.

"Will you kiss me?"

He gave her a filial kiss on the lips.

"You should go out, now," she told him. "We'll talk later. We have a lot to talk about."

The boy got up and pulled on his shorts. He stopped and looked at me as if he would ask something, and I nodded to him. I felt so overcome, and I felt ashamed for him to see it.

"How long have you loved my Mom?"

"All her life."

"No, I mean..."

"Not very long," I said.

He got his Berkinstock's from where he'd lost them in the closet and went out.

When he was gone, Jess sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She sat hunched over and pulled the light robe tight across her breasts and lap. "I think I made a horrible mistake," she sighed.

"Maybe not. Give it time," I said.

She started to cry piteously -- just these gut-wrenching, open-mouthed sobs -- and I moved to her side to hold her a little while.

When she had quieted, I said, "You should have let him make you come. I saw that you were close."

"I didn't do it for lust," she said.

"You might feel a little better now if you had."

She lifted her head from my shoulder and wiped her nose on her sleeve. "Oh, what a mess," she said. She sounded tired and worn. "He's going to hate me now. I've really done it... He's going to hate himself, and he's going to hate me for it."

"Don't talk rubbish. If there's any danger, he's going to develop an obsession and love you too much."

She looked doubtful.

"Listen," I continued, "I know how you love the boy, but, next time, don't weigh him so heavy. Take a little pleasure yourself. He knows that you love him. Let him know that this is for fun. This should be wonderful for both of you."

"I don't think there's going to be a next time," she said.

"If there isn't, you're going to have to be very stern with him."

She didn't say anything more for a while.

"He's a good-looking boy," I prompted her.

"He's beautiful."

"He wanted you."


"You didn't want him?"

She seemed uncertain. "I don't know... maybe." Then she shook her head and sighed heavily, "... Well, no, not really. I don't know why I did it... I don't think I did. "

"You will. You'll grow to."

"I imagine so."

"You did with me."

"I did with you."

"And you love him better. God knows he's better looking."

She smiled at last. "I don't know, Brother. You aren't so bad for an old man."

I sucked in my gut and puffed out my chest, and we both laughed.

"Poor Harry, you've been sadly neglected," she said and put her hand over my erection. I scooted up on the bed, and she opened my pants and gave me head. I lay back to enjoy it as she bobbed her face up and down over my lap. I thought of how, in the past half-hour, she had been fucked five to ten minutes by me then diddled and twice fucked by a virile teenager and that she hadn't orgasmed. It seemed that she'd been neglected, herself, so I reached for her and pulled her around so that I could cup her mucilaginously plastered pudendum in my hand. She sucked me, and I masturbated her until we both had our pleasure.

After that, I cleaned up and dressed. I tried what more I could to encourage her. She didn't seem so melancholy as she had. Perhaps our love-making had soothed and cheered her. Jeffrey was in his room when I left the house.

Things turned out pretty much like I thought they would. I don't really know what talk was necessary between them. I mean, Jess has told me some of it, but it isn't really talk that makes for understanding between people. Within three weeks, I was listening to Jess happily complain that the boy was too hungry, too persistent, too imprudent, too grabbing, too greedy. I've seen them fucking since, like monkeys, like rabbits -- no guilt apparent, no regret. Suffice it to say that much has changed in Jess' house.

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