Mister Durrant's Fuck Photos

Amelia looked on, knelt alongside the couple on the settee, a hand still quick at her sex. She was awed by the sight of Elizabeth's climax, the thrill coming at her when the woman turned her slack-muscled face towards her and gurgled, "I'm coming, Amelia. Oh Jesus, my lovely ... I'm coming..."

The woman's expression would never fade from Amelia's mind's eye. It was a look of absolute submission, of Elizabeth surrendering to the orgasm that took her into a writhing, juddering place where coherent thought was impossible. Elizabeth moaned and mewled, thighs shivering nerveless while she clawed at Mister Durrant's back, her cries and sobs reverberating around the high ceiling.

"Suck it," Amelia heard, the voice vague and distant. She started at the touch on her shoulder, blinking at Mister Durrant as he sat on the sofa with his cock in one hand. "Lick her off it," he growled. "Taste her cunt on my cock."

His expression matched his dark tone and the filth of his words. Amelia shivered with a mix of trepidation and delight when she looked at her boss and saw the dangerous glint in his eyes.

"Suck it," he insisted, wanking its length for a few strokes. "Then I'm going to nail your twot to the seat. It's your turn again, Amelia, my dear."

*

The affair with Elizabeth and Mister Durrant went on for two years. Amelia quickly adapted to her new and unusual lifestyle, revelling in the debauchery and, later on, posing for pictures her son would one day find stashed at the back of a wardrobe.

There were more surprises in store for the girl: the occasional inclusion of more people into the mix, with Amelia eventually meeting the man who would become her husband, Ray Baxter, at one of the couple's sexy soirees.

Meeting Ray came after a shocking revelation, a secret Elizabeth set loose which would alter Amelia's perceptions for ever, one that would eventually influence her actions during the day after a Christmas long in the future, at a time when Amelia is fifty-seven years old and she catches her son at her wardrobe door.

Five:

Amelia's personal business

What were you doing sneaking about in my personal business?

It's a good question: to the point, direct, and succinct. As far as questions went, thinks Darren, they didn't come much tougher.

How does he feel in that moment? How does he feel there in the dark with her weight on the bed, her tone an accusation?

He goes back to that awful moment he sensed her behind him, the box and its contents on the floor in front of him. It had been a hideous shock to see her standing there looking at him, one of those times when an earthquake or some other natural disaster would have been welcome, anything other than being caught as he had been.

Mother and son had stared at each other, both too stunned by what they were seeing to do anything other than gawp in utter disbelief.

"Darren?" Amelia had said, breaking the spell, her voice triggering his flight.

Darren had pushed up off the floor and been past her before Amelia could even think to stop him, her son brushing past as he fled.

So now it's the moment of truth. With a sinking heart and the dread settling over him, Darren knows the confrontation is imminent.

Her voice makes him jump. "Well?" says his mother. "I'm waiting."

Darren is a few weeks shy of his thirtieth birthday, yet, with his mother's question filling the air between them -- the darkness exacerbating the effect -- he feels two decades younger. He's been caught doing something despicable (Thank God he'd only been looking at the pictures and not chugging his cock), invading his mother's privacy, snooping about in what she so rightly called her personal business.

With the retrograde feeling still on him, Darren replies with a halting and croaky-voiced, "I don't know ... I ... I was just hiding presents for the kids a few days ago...

"I-uh-I was in your room ... and I found the box in the wardrobe...

"Oh shit, Mum," Darren groans, so full of regret and remorse, "I didn't mean to pry, it wasn't intentional, buh-but, wuh-well, I found...

"...I found thuh-those photos in there."

Silence, until he couldn't stand any more. "Mum?"

More silence followed, long seconds of interminable quiet before she came back with an almost inaudible, "What do you think, Darren? About those pictures, I mean. I was very young, you know," his mother says in a rush. "Shit," Darren hears her say on a long sigh, the bed dipping as his mother shifts her position. "This is so awkward, but I have to clear the air; we have to talk about this..."

"It doesn't matter," he says, wishing her gone. "Like you said, you were young--"

"It was all before your father--"

"Mum, please, I don't want to know, really."

Something slides inside Darren when her voice comes out of the dark, some clandestine emotion -- a low snicker from a deep pool of depravity, something primal stirring within him.

"But," his mother insists, "what do you think? How do you feel?"

Darren senses there's something more to follow when his mother goes quiet. He intuits she has more on her mind, holding his voice while knowing his silence will draw more out.

"Did you like what you saw in those pictures?" she eventually asks. "Did you think I was beautiful?"

The single word sounds inside his head. That sneaky voice snickers and croons Yes, while Darren's tongue melds to the roof of his mouth. There is no way he can tell her the truth.

Her next sentence sends a ripple of anxiety bubbling through Darren. A great lump of something close to fear -- not quite, but a cousin to the emotion at least -- ballooning inside him, a nugget of murky arousal lodged like a pit in a peach in his centre. "I think you liked your old mum when she was twenty," Amelia said. "You had this look on your face when I saw you looking at those pictures."

Amelia tells

Despite her son's protests, Amelia tells him. She condenses some elements and edits out others, but the bare bones remain, enough of the skeleton she's kept hidden in the cupboard.

He interrupts his mother on several occasions, appalled yet morbidly fascinated as the shocks keep on coming.

"I met your father through Mister Durrant and Elizabeth," Amelia tells Darren after she's told him the bare bones of the story. "We met and fell in love. It was a difficult situation for us at first, very complicated for reasons I don't have time for now, but I'm sure you can figure enough of it out. Anyway, we married and moved here from Yorkshire because of your father's career. It was a bit of an effort to keep going up to see them, Mister Durrant and Elizabeth, I mean. But, well, eventually your father and I continued the lifestyle with new friends of our own. Of course you know all about him trading me in for a younger model..." Amelia let out a brittle little laugh, pausing before saying, "...I think I got too old for him. He always did have an eye for girls in their twenties..."

Darren groans at the news his parents were swingers, the revelations coming in too fast for him to cope with. "Mum, you don't have to," he sighs.

Her reply is quick and a little vehement. "No, Darren, I want you to know. I understand it might be difficult for you to hear, and more than a little embarrassing, but I believe it's for the best in the long run."

It occurs to Darren to ask: "And Emma? Are you going to tell her?"

His mother shifts on the bed. "Good God no!" Amelia gasps. "What on earth for? I don't see the need. She didn't go snooping about. She doesn't know anything about it. You're the little sneak, Darren, that's why you and I are having this talk now. No, Emma doesn't need to know, and I think it should stay that way. This will have to be our little secret."

The illicit thrill shivers through Darren again when he hears his mother whisper, "Our dirty little secret, Darren."

"Mum, please," he gurgles, shocked by the power and strength of a sudden erection.

He hears her chuckle, the sound of it dragging his sense of morality into the depths.

"Darling," Amelia purrs, "there's something else I have to tell you."

Six:

Mister Durrant's dirty little secret

Darren hears what his mother tells him, but can't believe it at first. "His sister?" he gasps. "Elizabeth is Mister Durrant's sister?" There's a pause while Amelia remains silent; then Darren goes on with an incredulous, "But you said they were together ... You said she was his wife."

"That's what I thought. That's how they lived."

"But," Darren splutters."

"Yes," says his mother.

"That means..."

She finishes it for him: "Incest?"

The word affects Darren like a near physical blow. For the moment he's grateful it's so dark in his room. If it wasn't, his mother would see his face burning with shame: Wasn't he at least part guilty of exactly the same sin? Okay, nothing had physically happened between them, he'd never touched his mother with any carnal intent, but the thought had been there as he'd tugged his cock and gazed enraptured at her lush, youthful body in Mister Durrant's fuck photos.

"Mum, don't say that," he moans while squeezing his cock.

"It was Elizabeth who let the cat out of the bag," Amelia says in reply, apparently ignoring his plea. "We'd been on the wine, Mister Durrant was somewhere else in the house; it was just the two of us in bed."

"I don't want to know," Darren puts in, meaning exactly the opposite. Truth be told, he's enthralled, massaging his length while his mother continues, regardless.

Amelia says, "I asked Elizabeth about how she could bear to see her husband with other women; she just laughed and said, 'Bernie isn't my husband, you silly girl. He's my brother.'"

He's stunned, slack-jawed and boggling at the vague shadow he dimly perceives as his mother. Darren feels the cold water shock at her words. He struggles to make sense of it all and then gasps, "Oh God, Mum ... What did you do?"

There's a low sigh before she replies with, "I was shocked, absolutely rocked to my core. It's all a bit vague -- what with all the time that's passed and how I was feeling at the time. But, basically, I got dressed and ran away."

Unable to stop himself from doing so, Darren asks, "What happened next? You said you met Dad because of them ... You must have gone back."

"I did. I stayed away a week, or something like it, then went to see Mister Durrant at the office."

Darren's fingers are still wrapped round his cock, yet his fist remains unmoving while he blurts out a decidedly over eager, "And what did he say?"

"He was relieved to see me. He said he hoped I could keep it to myself. Poor Mister Durrant was almost in tears, scared witless I'd bad-mouth him and Elizabeth all overt own. He was carrying on and winding himself into a right old state about his work and reputation ... and the legal implications...

"...Anyway, Darren, to cut a long story short, after I did a lot of thinking, well, we started it all up again."

"Thu-the sex?" Darren asks, almost choked with the need to tug at his cock in a more vigorous fashion. "You slept with them again?"

Her confession comes out as a whispered, "Yes. I couldn't help myself. I know it sounds wicked, but knowing the truth made me want to be with them more."

Lust boils inside Darren, his mind filling with images. Some of it he's seen in the photos while other lewd impressions sweep in on the raft of his fevered imagination. His hand starts to work, slowly at first, Darren isn't so far gone as to forget his mother's presence, he has enough mental capacity remaining to realise he's taking a risk, but his body won't be denied.

"Mum, that's so ... so..." Darren begins, his voice little more than a croak.

"Wicked, depraved, so utterly filthy?" his mother suggests with what seems to be an amused air.

Air hisses from Darren's nose as he stifles a groan. He's gritting his teeth and trying to hold it all in. "She's his sister," he mumbles.

"Darren?" she says in a murmur. "What are you doing?"

That stops him cold. His fist ceases its cranking. Darren gulps and shifts his rump against the bed, shoving himself away from his mother, dread a lump in the pit of his stomach.

"Nuh-nothing," squeaks Darren. "Nuh-nothing at all."

In the silence which follows, Darren feels his jack-hammer heart beating away. His brain works quickly, actions and outcomes flashing across his consciousness while he wonders what his mother's reaction might be if he simply told her the truth. He's torn between his body's desperate need for release, close to the recklessness that would alter his life forever. Part of him thinks that because she's experienced incest before -- albeit as a third party participant -- she might be just waiting for him to make a move or give some sort of signal at least.

But, equally, he's very aware of an alternative result: being engaged on the periphery of an incestuous liaison is quite some way from being physically intimate with her own son. Darren is desperately afraid any advances he makes will be vehemently rebuffed, that his mother would be appalled and subsequently lose any respect for her first-born.

The struggle continues inside him -- all it would take is to reach out a hand and find her in the dark. He could touch her skin and enjoy the silky smooth texture of his own mother's body while pulling her close for a kiss.

Desire flares in a white hot explosion, the urge to lunge in and grab her bubbles up from the darkest places inside him. He thinks about squeezing her tits while their tongues wriggle and slide, her hand finding his cock...

Darren imagines his mother wanking his length. He can almost hear her murmuring encouragement while she milks him of all the pent up emotion, ejaculate bursting out in an indiscriminate outpouring of cum.

"All over your tits," Darren growls as the urges overwhelm his reluctance.

He's just about to make a grab for his mother, just levering upright and twisting to one side so he can pull her body close when the bed shifts and the amorphous form of her rises up from the mattress.

"I think I've probably said too much," Darren hears as he finds nothing but space where his mother was sitting only a second before. "I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking telling you all that."

"No, Mum," Darren gurgles, sensing her turning away. "You don't have to go. Please," he calls into the darkness, throwing the quilt to one side.

But he's too late, the door is already opening. Then Darren sees her slip into the hall.

He stands there, wondering if he dare go after his mother. Darren gets as far the door before he remembers he's naked and his sister's family are asleep in the house. Yes, they might be on the floor below, but if there's any commotion Adam will no doubt be sent to investigate. Darren cools, the insanity lifting by the time he's fumbled around for the light switch and found his jeans. Darren's ardour fades quickly, the old and by now familiar confusion returning along with the guilt. He slumps onto the bed and curls forward with his elbows on his knees, forehead in his hands and despair in his heart.

"Ah fuck," Darren groans, wishing he'd never thought to hide the presents in his mother's wardrobe in the first place. Why hadn't he just stashed them under his own bed, or even kept them in the boot of his car? In fact, just about anywhere else would have been good enough. So just why had he decided his mother's bedroom would be the best place?

There are no answers forthcoming when Darren asks himself: "And why did you have to look inside that fucking box? Why did you have to keep going back for more? Idiot," he snaps, wondering how he's going to find the wherewithal to get through Christmas with Emma and the others in the house.

How was he going to keep up appearances in front of his sister and Adam?

How was he meant to stay sane?

Seven:

The gift

It isn't easy, but Darren gets through it. He follows his mother's lead and does his utmost to behave as normal as possible, his eyes constantly watching Amelia for any outward sign she's concerned.

There are no more nocturnal visits, which paradoxically pleases and disappoints Darren in equal measure, his nights filled with surreal dreams and masturbatory fantasies featuring his mother while the days are consumed by guilt and anguish and repressed desire. He's surprised when Christmas Day arrives, the attendant fuss over exchanging gifts and excited children, along with the drama of preparing the dinner, offering at least a little by way of distraction.

Then, abruptly, although their departure was always planned that way, the house feels huge when Darren finds himself alone with his mother, Adam's job calling that branch of the family back to their own house down on the south coast.

"Mum, can we talk?" Darren asks after swallowing three cans of beer left over from the prolonged seasonal celebrations.

Her response surprises him. Darren is taken aback, almost hurt by his mother's cool and somewhat aloof reply of, "I don't think there anything much to discuss. If you're talking about the photographs, Darren, then I have nothing to say." After which she leaves him staring at the door through which she's just walked.

Darren sits in the kitchen for a couple of minutes, the beer forgotten on the table while he stares off at nothing, his mind a blank screen. He suddenly blinks and sits up, back straightening from where he's been hunched over, draining the can before posting it into the bin.

After pissing a long stream into the bowl in the downstairs cloakroom, Darren makes his way upstairs, a jolt of something strange hitching his chest when he sees the gift-wrapped box on the end of his bed.

A bubble of furtive emotion swells his insides when he reads the accompanying card: I thought you might want to keep these. You seemed to enjoy looking. Merry Christmas, my darling. With all my love, Mum. xxx

Darren spins round when he hears, "Aren't you going to open it?"

She's leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded beneath her breasts. Amelia grins and thrusts her chin towards the gaily wrapped bomb. "Well?" she adds, eyebrows arched in enquiry.

His eyes go from his mother to the box, a void opening up in his guts, excitement at the thought of its contents a yawing ache in Darren's core.

He stammers, "I-uh-I don't understand," his mother's smirk disturbing Darren on some vaguely visceral level.

Amelia shrugs away from the door. "I thought about burning them. I mean," she adds while lifting one shoulder, "what would I do with them?"

Darren has no answer. He just stares at his mother and silently questions her motives.

"Like I wrote in the card, you seemed to enjoy looking," Amelia continues.

It's like she's flirting with him, teasing her own son. Darren finds his voice, albeit creaky. He sucks in a deep breath and manages to croak, "But don't you think it's a bit weird?" He gestures towards the box with a weak flap of one hand. "You're my mum ... Those pictures..."

"And the man with me in those pictures was carrying on with his sister." Amelia points to the box and takes a pace into the room. She halts just inside, refolds her arms, and cants her head to one side, staring at Darren as though examining his thoughts.

Amelia says, "So you getting a thrill out of seeing them isn't too difficult for me to grasp."

"Mum, why are you saying that?" Darren replies, knowing the answer yet too afraid to act in case he's still got it wrong. He wants to go to his mother; he feels physically drawn to her in a way he can't admit to. The notion is there, dancing around at the edge of his psyche. He's more than half-way sure she wants him to act, that his mother is willing him to claim her as his, but years of social conditioning and innate morality keep his bottom stuck to the bed. Instead of swooping in to take his mother into his arms, Darren just sits there, immobile.