This story is about incest. It contains detailed descriptions of the sexual relationship between a 13-year-old boy and his mother. If you are not of legal age in your community, or if you find such material offensive, don't read it.

Sweet Grapes
Chapter 1
by parthenogenesis

The summer I was thirteen, Mom announced, one night at dinner, that she and I would be going to spend a week at her Aunt Nellie's in Dinuba. Dad scarcely batted an eyelash. Dad might not even have heard. It was one of the rare nights on which he had even been home to have dinner with Mom and me. Dad, at 36, had just been named vice president of engineering at the software company where he worked. He was young to have made the ranks of senior management, and it seemed that he was, at that point, more interested in succeeding in his new role and advancing his career than he was in the family or much of anything else. It might not have been an exaggeration to say that Dad was a workaholic. He left early, came home late, was often gone weekends, and had to be away on numerous business trips as well. For the most part, Mom and I were left to fend for ourselves.

Lest you think that I was thrilled by this news: Dinuba, I knew, was a town of about 10,000 located a little southeast of Fresno. Its sole claim to fame was that it produced more raisins per capita than any other city in the world. Aunt Nellie, I found out shortly after Mom's announcement, was in fact Mom's Great Aunt Nellie, Grandma's sister. Aunt Nellie, who was 78, lived by herself on a decaying vinyard about six miles outside of Dinuba. Mom had decided to visit Nellie because she was worried about her living all alone so far from any neighbors, and also concerned that Nellie's health might be deteriorating.

Mom worked at home as a landscape architect, usually designing custom yards for the more well-to-do denizens of Silicon Valley. Dad made good money, so Mom could pick and choose—who she worked for, how much she worked, and when she worked. And she charged outrageous fees. Her being at home gave me the freedom just to hang for the summer, playing Magic with my friends, going on bike rides, and cruising the malls, checking out the chicks. Puberty and I had run head-on into one another just about the time of my thirteenth birthday. In the eight months following, I'd grown four inches, from five foot five to five foot nine. Somewhat to the surprise of both of us, I was now an inch taller than Mom. My voice had mostly changed, except for an occasional honk, usually at the most embarrassing of moments, and I now spent most of my time thinking about my budding female classmates and what I'd like to do them, if I ever got the opportunity. I'd also discovered masturbation several months ago, and now found it necessary to jack off several times a day just to keep my head on straight. I think that if I didn't jack off frequently, I'd probably never stop thinking about pussy, and would go start raving mad for lack of any kind of relief at all. In any event, the idea of spending a week isolated on a grape farm in the company of my mother and her 78-year-old great aunt sounded like a week in hell. Purgatory, for sure.

We left at 10:00 on a Monday morning, after the commute traffic had cleared out. Mom really hauled ass, and we made it from Cupertino to Dinuba in just a little under three hours, which was ok with me. The drive through the valley was boring, too. When I popped the door on Mom's air-conditioned Saturn, I was almost knocked over by the heat. I mean, we have some warm days in the Santa Clara Valley, but going straight from the chilled comfort of the car into Dinuba's 100-degree dry heat felt like stepping into a furnace. For a few moments, I seriously wondered whether I was going to be able to breathe.

Aunt Nellie was waiting for us in the graveled driveway. "Land o' Goshen," she declared when she saw Mom, "I haven't seen you in a month of Sundays!" Aunt Nellie and Mom hugged. "And who's that handsome young'un you got with you?"

"This is my son Larry, Aunt Nellie," Mom said. "It's been so long, I don't think you two have ever met."

"Lordy, how time does fly," Aunt Nellie said.

Aunt Nellie stuck out her hand. "Right pleased to meet you." I took her hand cautiously and was surprised by a solidly firm grip. "And I'm pleased to meet you," I said. Nellie's look was direct and clear. She seemed solidly built, neither given to the pillowy fat of old age nor lanky to the point of fragility. She was wearing a light cotton dress, and both her lined face and her forearms were well tanned, indicating that she spent plenty of time outside. The darkness of her complexion made her shock of snow-white hair all the more striking. Aunt Nellie certainly seemed to me to be a picture of geriatric health.

"Come on inside and have some lemonade," she said. "It's hotter 'n' the hinges of hell today."

Mom and I got our suitcases out of the car. The entrance to Aunt Nellie's house was through an arched arbor, over which grew, apparently, Thompson seedless grapes. Huge bunches of fat, green grapes hung in abundance all along its length. I'd never seen grapes growing like that before, and I was both impressed and unsure whether they were really real, I mean, whether somebody picked them, or whether you could eat them. Lagging behind Mom and Aunt Nellie, I picked one of the grapes and took a small bite of it. They were real, all right, juicier and sweeter than any grape I'd ever tasted. The other thing I noticed about the arbor was that it had about a jillion spiders in it, little white guys with feet that looked like suction cups. A number of them hung down from the top of the arbor, as if they were curious about the people passing through their domain.

Aunt Nellie's house was a huge old two-story thing, originally built in the 1920's, and added onto as the need arose. A health problem that did give Nellie trouble, I learned, was arthritis. Climbing stairs was uncomfortable for her, so she lived on the first floor, and rarely went upstairs. She did accompany us to our rooms, as much pulling herself up on the bannister as climbing, I think. Mom and I each had a large bedroom, with a bathroom in between. The bathroom was large, too, and featured an old four-legged tub, easily big enough to lie down in comfortably.

After Mom and I'd got settled, we all went back downstairs to the kitchen. Having lived in modern houses all my life, I was impressed by the size of the kitchen as well: in the middle of the floor was a table large enough for six to eat quite comfortably, without interfering with any of the meal preparation area. Although the sink, counters, and stove were spotless, the greyish linoleum floor looked a bit grubby. Aunt Nellie served ice cold lemonade—made fresh, with slices of lemon floating around in it—from a large glass pitcher. We did the usual stuff about how I was doing in school, what my interests were, and so forth. When Mom and Aunt Nellie started catching up on people I didn't know and things that had happened before I was born, I asked if I could be excused to go outside and walk around a little.

Before I went outside, I went up to my room and changed into light nylon jogging shorts and a tank top. Levi's just weren't the right kind of clothes for this weather. Once outside, not knowing what there was to see, I strolled aimlessly. I looked at the rows and rows of grapes, which appeared to be nearly ready for picking. The vines and fruit didn't seem to be suffering from neglect, but the vinyard in general looked like it may have missed a weeding or two. I walked past the chicken coop to the barn, and peeked inside. The barn was dark and cool, so I stepped in. When my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I felt like I'd walked into an antique shop. Much of the tools and equipment must have been at least fifty years old, and I assumed that the car was Aunt Nellie's: a 1953 Pontiac, looking like it had just left the showroom floor. I wiped away a circle of dust and squinted in at the speedometer. It read 28,972. The Pontiac must not have gone farther than to Dinuba and back, and not very often, at that.

Back outside, I started listening to the June bugs' whine, which was a mistake. I found out that if I could let that whine just be part of the background, I wouldn't notice it much. But if I started to listen, it drilled straight inside my head, and I couldn't get rid of it. I listened carefully, trying to get a sense of direction. When I thought I knew where the loudest whine was coming from, I moved a few steps toward it. And then it stopped. I listened again for the next loudest, and moved a few steps in that direction. And then it stopped. I tried several times to find a June bug, but I couldn't. I began to think that they somehow sensed when I was even thinking about moving in their direction, and stopped whining. If this was going to be the best entertainment I could find, it was going to be a long week indeed. I decided to go back to the house, where it was cooler. Maybe I'd listen to some CDs on my Discman and read a little.

I entered the house through the back door, which opened onto a porch that had coats hanging on pegs along one wall and several pairs of grubby boots on the floor. The porch led to the kitchen. When I stepped into the kitchen, I saw that Mom had changed into shorts, too, and had started scrubbing the floor. A bucket of water was between her and me. She had one knee on the floor and one up and out an angle, scrubbing at a particularly difficult spot. On my second step, I caught my foot in a throw rug that Mom had crumpled to one side to get it out of the way. When I attempted to recover, I caught my other foot, too, and went headlong toward Mom. When my chest hit the floor, my shoulder hit the bucket, knocking it over and sending a wave of water ahead of me. I surfed the wave into Mom, knocking her back onto her butt with her legs splayed wide. I slid to a stop with my nose mashed against Mom's crotch.

Did it again. It seemed like I was forever running into things and falling over things these days. I exhaled a sigh of resignation and embarrassment, then inhaled deeply. And smelled something I'd never smelled before. My God! It was Mom's pussy I was smelling! So that's what a pussy smells like. A little bit like urine and a lot like...like...pussy. I exhaled and then inhaled again. It was wonderful. I popped a hard-on, just like that. I could have stayed there and smelled Mom's pussy for the rest of the day.

"Larry!" Mom shouted. "Will you please get your nose out of my crotch! And then how about helping clean up the mess you made?"

Even more embarrassed now—Mom must have known that I could smell her—I rolled, sat, and stood so that my back was to Mom when I was fully upright. I didn't want her to see my hard-on poking out the front of my shorts. When I looked down, I saw, much to my horror, that the water had made my shorts effectively transparent. The wet cloth was clinging to my prick, and the shape of its head was as plain as if I were naked. As casually as possible, I crossed my hands over my crotch and began to step sideways toward the opposite door.

"Larry!" Mom called. "Where are you going? I want you to mop up the water you spilled. Now!"

"Uh, heh, heh, I, uh, heh, heh, got my clothes wet." I continued sidling toward the door. "I just want to put on some dry ones. I'll be right back." With that, I stepped into the dining room, then bolted up the stairs.

When I returned, with dry clothes, I mopped up the water, then helped Mom with the rest of the scrubbing. I couldn't get the smell of her pussy out of my mind. Every time I thought of it, I started to get hard again. While we were down on our hands and knees, I kept shooting glances at Mom, and if she caught me, I'd look away, embarrassed. When, at one point, I looked over at Mom, she was facing away from me. The cloth of her shorts was drawn tightly across her ass, and the swell of her pussy was clearly visible between her legs. The smell of her pussy came to mind, as clearly as if I had my nose in her crotch again. My cock went rock hard. I was trying real hard to imagine Christina, the eighth-grader I lusted after from afar, whose short skirts were always high on her thighs, to imagine that smell between her legs. But it was Mom's pussy I'd smelled, and Mom's ass and pussy I was looking at.

By and by, Mom and I finished scrubbing the floor and applied two coats of Step Saver. Turned out that the floor was yellow, not grey. And it shined like new, too.

As soon as the floor had dried and Mom and I had put the cleaning stuff away, Aunt Nellie came into the kitchen and started dinner. Mom and went upstairs to bathe. I read while Mom splashed around, then I took a long, cool bath, a real change from my usual hurried showers. That old bathtub was almost like a small swimming pool. Very refreshing.

Dinner was a stew, with boiled potatoes and biscuits. The meat in the stew was light, and had bones it it, so I assumed it was chicken. But the more I looked at the shapes of the pieces of meat and the bones, the more it didn't look right for chicken. Finally, I asked Aunt Nellie what it was.

"Rabbit, young 'un," she said. "Skinned it myself this afternoon while you and your ma were cleaning up my kitchen for me. How do you like it?"

Skinned it herself this afternoon? I thought of all the cute white bunny rabbits I'd ever seen and felt a bit unsettled. But it did taste awfully good.

"Maude Estermann down the road raises rabbits. Sometimes I swap her a couple of chickens for one," Aunt Nellie explained.

Rabbits raised as a food crop, just like chickens. Better, I decided, to understand that this wasn't life in the suburbs of Silicon Valley and just chalk it up as a new experience. For dessert, we had a home-made pineapple upside-down cake, another first.

After dinner, we took glasses of lemonade out to a screened side porch, where there was a bit of breeze. When the sun went down, the June bugs stopped and the crickets started. I tuned out while Mom and Aunt Nellie chatted, and my thoughts, naturally, drifted to Christina and the smell of pussy. Before I realized it, it was 10:00. Mom and Aunt Nellie were standing and stretching, declaring that it had been a long day. We all retired to our separate bedrooms.

I turned my bed back, then stripped naked. When I turned out the lights, it was dark. Really dark. I was suddenly aware of how light it is all the time at home, with streetlights virtually every few feet. Even in the middle of the night, the sky seems to have a pink glow from the reflection of all the sodium vapor lamps. As my eyes adjusted, I saw the dim glow of moonlight at the window, and went over and looked out. The sky was black, not pink, and there seemed to be a million stars. I couldn't hear any traffic, either, or sirens, or airplanes. Just crickets. The darkness and the crickets invited sleep.

I lay down on the bed, grabbed my cock, and began my nightly jack-off before sleep. I kept thinking the name Christina, but I kept smelling Mom, and seeing Mom's ass and pussy in her tight shorts. I stroked slowly and came quietly—into one of the socks I'd worn that day—and then lay back to drift off. Christina and pussy.

When I awoke the next morning, about 8:30, I mentally crossed off a day. Only six more days of boredom to go. Heavenly smells of breakfast were wafting up the stairs, so I pulled on my nylon jogging shorts and a tank top and went down to see what I could find. Aunt Nellie must have been up since the crack of dawn. She offered me eggs, bacon, biscuits, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. Two loaves of bread were rising on one of the counters. Apparently Aunt Nellie hadn't caught on to the current fad of low fat and no cholesterol yet, but I didn't care. The kitchen was saturated with the aromas of solid farm fare, and the effect was nearly sensuous. After I'd polished off my eggs and bacon, I ate biscuits with home-made raspberry jam until I nearly popped.

When I went outside, I found Mom high on a ladder, hacking at some wisteria that had taken off up the chimney and onto the house. She was wearing an old, ratty pair of cutoff jeans, so short that her ass cheeks were hanging out, and a light blue chambray blouse, knotted under her breasts so that her midriff was bare. For a woman of 33, Mom was in good shape. Hell, for a woman of 23, Mom was in good shape. Great shape. She had a full Nautilus set at home, and she always arranged her work schedule so that she could work out every day. She was trim and firm, nearly to the point of washboard abs.

It was obvious that Mom had been hard at work for some time: the back of her shirt was dark blue, stuck to her skin across her shoulderblades, there were dark circles under the arms, and rivulets of sweat were running down her spine. Mom's feet were above my head, and the ladder was planted none to solidly at either end. When Mom reached out to the side, the ladder wobbled precariously.

"Mom! Be careful!" I shouted. "You're going to fall off that ladder and break your neck!"

"Brace it for me, will you?" she shouted back.

I put my toes against the ladder and grabbed both rails firmly. Mom seemed to take the steadiness I added as license to reach even further. She swung her left leg off the ladder and placed it against the wisteria. As her legs spread, I saw, up the scant leg of her shorts, darkness instead of a light band of panties, and, after a moment of confusion, I understood that what I was seeing was her bush. Mom wasn't wearing any panties. Transfixed, I watched her pussy open and close, open and close as she worked her left leg back and forth. The smell of her crotch leapt back into my mind. My cock went straight up. I realized then that I was wondering what it would feel like to put my hard cock into that pussy, not Christina's. Mom's pussy. Then I thought to myself, I really shouldn't be thinking about my mother like this. My brain locked up in a loop, first thinking really nasty thoughts about Mom, then thinking that I shouldn't be thinking nasty thoughts about Mom. I snapped out of it only when the ladder gave a wrench that caused me to double my grip.

"Mom! Come down from there and let's move the ladder now," I called.

"Ok," Mom said, "just one more cut from here."

She gave one more lurch to the left, and the ladder twisted so hard that I couldn't hold on to it. It flew from my hands and fell off to the right. The pruning shears whizzed past my face and stuck in the ground just in front of my toes. Mom had her left hand wrapped around a spray of wisteria like a horse's mane. Her left foot was slipping down, her right leg was flailing as she tried to regain some sense of balance. Almost blindly, I reached up and grabbed her right thigh with both hands.

Mom had put lotion on her legs as a hedge against the drying heat, and she was perspiring heavily. I couldn't get a grip, and her leg was sliding through my hands. I splayed my fingers in an attempt to increase my purchase. Her rate of descent slowed, but she was still coming down. Time went into slow motion. I squeezed as hard as I could, but her thigh continued to slip between my hands. I watched with horror as her crotch got nearer and nearer to my left hand. If I maintained my grip, my hand was going to go right into her bush. But if I let go, or even relaxed to move my hand, she'd come down hard. I held on—and saw with astonished disbelief that my fingers were slipping right past the crotch of her cutoffs. I shut my eyes. Finally Mom stopped falling. But when she did, my middle and index fingers were buried as deep as they could go into her pussy, my ring finger was in her slit and pressing on her clitoris, and the pad of my thumb was resting squarely against her asshole. I smelled Mom's body lotion and sweat, and my cock was poking straight out the front of my shorts.

But once Mom had stopped sliding down, she relaxed her grip on the wisteria, and I lowered her the rest of the way. As soon as her left foot was on the ground, I yanked my hand out of her crotch, as quickly as if I'd been touching a hot stove.

"Ouch!" Mom yelped. "Easy, there."

"Uh, muh, uh, muh," I started. I was petrified with fear, six different kinds of embarrassed, and my mouth was so dry that I couldn't get a sound out. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Uh, Mom, I'm, um, really sorry, I, uh, I mean, uh..."

Mom reached between her legs gingerly, as if she were rearranging something. "Sweetie-pie," she said, "you only did what you had to do. If you hadn't grabbed me, I would have fallen and probably broken my arm. I was doing just fine until you yanked your hand away. There are some parts of a woman you have to be gentle with, no matter what the circumstances."

I must have turned red enough to make a beet look anemic by comparison. Mom smiled widely, raising up on her toes to kiss me on the cheek, bumping her stomach against my hard-on in the process. She didn't give any indication that there was anything wrong. "Thank you," she said. "Now, let's get back to work. And you're right, let's be sure the ladder's solid this time."

"You're going back up there?" I said, incredulous.

"Gotta get back on that horse," she said.

I picked up the ladder and put it back against the house, being very sure that its feet were on solid, level ground and that the top was flat against the wall. Up Mom went. And then I did it. I couldn't help it. It was almost automatic. When I was sure that Mom's attention was fully on the wisteria, I smelled the fingers that had been in her pussy. Oh, my God, what an aroma. I was tempted never to wash that hand again.

Nothing else had changed, so as soon as she was up the ladder, I was looking right at her ass again. And, wouldn't you know it, before long, she had her left leg swinging again, and I was watching her pussy open and close, open and close. I was confused. Either Mom was completely unaware of what she was doing, which seemed pretty unlikely to me, after the result of her fall, or she didn't care that she was exposing herself to me. She knew that she was putting her ass and pussy on display. Didn't she? And surely Mom had been aware of my hard-on. Hadn't she? I enjoyed the view in any case.

Mom and I finished pruning the wisteria just about lunch time. When we went into the kitchen, we found that Aunt Nellie had prepared ham sandwiches on thick slices of the just-baked bread, and potato salad. The bread was still warm and moist, nearly steamy, and its aroma was nothing short of heady. I did actually press my nose against the warm bread so that it was all I could smell. I'd never had fresh-baked bread before. After my first bite, I didn't think that I'd ever look at any store-bought bread the same way again.

When we finished eating, we made a loose plan for what we were going to do next. Mom decided to tackle the woodwork in the kitchen and to get started washing windows. We'd both noticed by now that there were any number of loose hooks and hinges, dripping faucets, windows that needed reputtying, loose sideboards and cracked steps, and things like that. My assignment was to inspect the house carefully for those sorts of small items that needed fixing, and to make a list of any materials or tools I might need to make the repairs. Mom would make a run into town the next morning to buy anything I needed, and to stock up on food.

An odd thought occurred to me, one that wouldn't have crossed my nascent macho mind only a day ago. "Aunt Nellie, would you show me how to make bread?"

"Well, sure, boy," she replied with a grin, "you and I can do that tomorrow morning while your ma's in town."

Mom got out the bucket (the bucket) and the Spic 'n' Span, and I started my rounds of the house. I wound up spending most of the afternoon at it, between being as thorough as I could and checking the barn more closely to see how many tools were available.

When I came back into the house, the kitchen was once again filled with a mouth-watering aroma. It was some kind of chicken—really chicken this time—stew, with a thick gravy and funny white lumps of bread. When I asked what it was, Aunt Nellie explained that it was chicken and dumplings—chicken fricassee. The name made me giggle. The dumplings were biscuit dough placed right on top of the boiling stew and steamed done, and what made the gravy so thick was part of the biscuit dough that got dissolved into the stewing broth. It was absolutely delicious and very filling. I thought for a while about our typical fare at home, ranging from pizza and Chinese fast food to frozen dinners and the faddish weird stuff, and I began to suspect that we had gone astray somewhere.

After dinner, Mom and I decided to take much-needed baths. With gentlemanly courtesy, I offered Mom first shot at the tub. I went to my room and tried to read the week's issue of Time, which I'd brought along, but I couldn't keep my mind on world affairs. I kept sniffing my fingers and thinking I smelled Mom, even though I'd washed my hands several times by now. I kept seeing Mom's ass and pussy a few feet above my head on the ladder, and over and over again I thought about the feel of having two fingers up inside Mom's pussy, one finger on her clitoris, and my thumb on her asshole. Finally, unable to think of anything else, I stripped off all my clothes, lay back on my bed nude, and began jacking off. I was dimly aware of the sound of bath water running, then being shut off. I was lost in my fantasy,. beating off on Mom's pussy.

"Lar-REE!" I heard Mom shriek. "Larry! Please come into the bathroom right now! This instant!"

I shook my head and snapped to. Shit, I thought. "Just a sec Mom, I don't have any clothes on," I called back. "Give me a minute to slip into my shorts."

"No!" Mom hollered back. "You get in here right now!"

"But Mom, I'm naked!"

"I don't care. So am I. Just get in here, NOW!"

I could hardly go stand in front of Mom with a hard-on pointing at the ceiling. In desperation, I grabbed the Time. I walked into the bathroom holding the magazine in front of my crotch.

Mom was standing in the corner of the suds-filled bath tub at the faucet end. She was in something of a classical nude pose, with her back about three-fourths toward me, her knees bent slightly and her torso twisted. One arm loosely covered her breasts and the other angled across her crotch. Gobs of soap bubbles were running around her ass and down her legs.

"Get it out of here!" she commanded, tossing her head toward the opposite end of the tub.

I looked in the direction she indicated and saw, on the wall, up near the ceiling, a tarantula. "Mom," I said, "it's only a tarantula. It won't hurt you."

"I don't care! I don't want that thing in here while I'm taking a bath! Get it out!"

"Aw, Mo-om."

"NOW!"

"Oh, all right, but you have to keep your head turned to the corner."

I dropped the Time magazine and stepped into the tub, right where the sloping back flattened out into the bottom. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mom turn her head and look at my face, then I saw her eyes drop to my crotch.

"Larry!" she said.

Even though the tub was about four inches off the floor, I still couldn't quite reach the spider. I pressed my left hand against the wall, raised up on my toes, and reached for the tarantula with my right hand. I'd just curled my fingers around its hairy body when my feet slipped. Time went into slow motion again.

My feet started sliding toward the faucet end of the tub. I flung my right hand out and let go of the spider, which made an astonishingly tidy eight-point landing on the edge of the washbasin. Just as my butt hit the water with a loud ker-sploosh, my feet hit Mom's feet, and she started to fall backward, arms windmilling against nothing. By reflex, I raised my arms and caught Mom just at the top of her hips. I succeeded in breaking her fall, but only sightly, as my hands slipped along her wet, soapy skin, and she landed with a loud ker-sploosh, right in my lap—neatly impaling herself on my hard-on.

"Gaah!" Mom and I both cried.

It took maybe a second and a half for us to understand the full impact of what had just happened. Mom started trying to stand up, but her hands kept slipping on the now wet and soapy edge of the tub. She succeeded only in raising herself a few inches, then falling back again. I realized that the effect was that Mom and I were fucking. My mind took off on a trip of its own. Since puberty, I'd been wondering when I'd have sex for the first time, who I'd have it with, and what it would be like. I had never, in my wildest dreams, thought that it would be in a bath tub, with my own mother. The situation was both horribly wrong, according to all notions of proper behavior, and completely absurd by any notion. I was concerned with neither propriety nor absurdity. I was just praying that Mom would never get a grip on the edge of the tub.

"What in tarnation's all the racket up here," Aunt Nellie shouted, suddenly bursting into the bathroom.

Mom and I both froze. "Don't move. Don't say a word," Mom said to me out the corner of her mouth, gangster-style.

Mom grabbed the edge of the bath tub and twisted her upper body so that she was looking at Aunt Nellie. The sensation of Mom's rotating on my prick was out of this world. "There was a tarantula on the wall. I asked Larry to come in and take it away, and he slipped in the tub, that's all." Thank God for the bubble bath. Aunt Nellie couldn't see what was going on. She didn't even know that I was completely naked. The tarantula stood on the edge of the wash basin, placidly watching the human drama.

"For Pete's sake, Mary, you know these critters are harmless," Aunt Nellie said. She picked up the tarantula and casually dropped it out the window. "What a bunch of ruckus over nothing. I swear." Shaking head, she left.

Mom twisted back around, and that was all it took. I spurted, right into Mom's pussy. I'd never tried not to come before, and I'd never tried to come casually, so that nobody would notice. The effect was to heighten the sensation way beyond anything I'd ever felt. Whenever I jacked off, I was in control of the whole works, how long it lasted and when I came. But now, I wasn't in control of my orgasm, my orgasm was in control of me. I didn't make a sound, and I didn't move any part of my body. All that happened was that my prick started to pulse. Mom's spine stiffened, and she clenched her ass, tight. But she didn't move, either.