The Apple Falls Near

I nodded my understanding and, as slowly as I could, pushed my hips forward. My mother's pussy begrudgingly accepted the intrusion of my thick head as I applied more pressure. Mom groaned throatily when the bulbous tip finally slipped past her entrance and began to slowly push deeper inside of her. The tightness, the wetness, the heat- all of it was making my head swim and my nervous system dance with electricity, but I kept my focus and continued to feed more of my hardness into my mother's sexy body.

When I had little over half of my length inside of her, Mother gasped aloud, "Jesus, son, how long IS that thing?"

Every man measures his penis, even virgins, and I was no exception. I measured it on a regular basis, ever since I learned that mine might actually be more exceptional than others. I let go of my shaft entirely and held onto each side of her hips now that I was firmly seated inside of her. At that point, I wouldn't withdraw until I was satisfied. Even if someone had a gun to my head, I'd have rather died than stop what I had started. "Ten inches," I answered promptly.

Mother swooned as I pushed still more of myself inside of her. "Oh! Dear God in Heaven! Your father was only eight inches long!"

I stopped pushing when I heard that. "Really?"

Mother turned to look at me, still impaled on over half of her son's cock. "Inbreeding will do that," she said with a smirk. "All of the men in our family are well-endowed, but they tend to get more so with each new generation."

I looked down to appreciate our coupling. I just could not believe that my cock was now buried inside my own mother's quim. I certainly hadn't expected this development, but now that we were doing it, I wondered why we hadn't done this sooner. And the answer to that question was simple: she hadn't told me. If she had told me sooner, this most likely would've happened sooner. Our coupling would have occurred a long time ago. And, strangely, I felt a bit resentful at that realization. Using that brief flash of resentment, I pushed myself deeper, this time with a bit of force, but not all the way because I'd hit some resistance.

"OH!" Mother cried out. "Careful! You're at my cervix!"

"Your what?" I asked.

She took a deep breath. "My cervix. It's the entrance to my womb. When our father was alive, he would occasionally get that deep, especially when we did it like this, from behind. If you'll wait a moment, I think I might be able to let you get deeper. When I nod my head, try to push in the rest of the way, okay?" She faced forward, took another deep breath and then let out a long, low moan of some sort while dipping her spine just the slightest bit. She nodded her head gently, and I slowly pushed against the resistance I felt at the tip of my cock. With steady force, I felt it suddenly give way and the head of my penis was suddenly in an even tighter grip, but it had eclipsed the entrance. As soon as it had, Mom let out the rest of her air in a whoosh.

"Hooo, boy, I haven't felt that in YEARS!" she exclaimed. Then she looked back at me. "Are you okay, son?"

I nodded back at her dumbly. "Mom... that's... what IS that?" I flexed my groin muscles just the tiniest bit and found that I couldn't move very easily. In an out, sure, but definitely not up and down.

"The head of your penis is inside the deepest part of me," she explained. "It's right inside the place where babies are made: my womb. The cervix is like a.. a second vagina, I guess. It's there to keep a baby safe while it grows inside of me."

My mouth dropped open in surprise. "Seriously?" I asked incredulously.

Mother simply nodded. "Son, I told you that I am most likely ovulating right now. If you cum inside me like your father did, you'd only PROBABLY get me pregnant. But with you so deep inside of me, the chances are astronomically better. If you cum inside me now, even just the tiniest bit, you WILL get me pregnant."

I looked at her with uncertainty. "Are you sure you want this?" I asked her. "I... I could still pull out... I think."

My mother reached back with one hand to stroke my arm lovingly. When she did, I felt her body shift just the slightest bit, but the tip of my penis felt it, too, and it was like a thousand feathery touches dancing across my glans, making me shiver. "Son," she said, "of all the men in all the world, I could think of no one I would like to bear a child for more than you. It would please me in ways you can't possibly know. So I mean it when I say: son, please... make me a mother again."

The look of love and desire and pleading in her eyes said all the rest. I was already at the tipping point, but to hear her actually ASK me to impregnate her, to hear those words from my own mother's lips, sent me flying over the edge. I shut my eyes tight, grabbed on to her hips and began to thrust inside her with short, rabbit-like jabs of my hips. It couldn't have been more than thirty seconds before my body stiffened. It was nothing like an orgasm that I had while jacking off. This, the sensation of filling my mother's womb with my seed, was beyond anything I could have imagined. There was an unmistakable bond between us already, which definitely helped me to feel emotionally freer than I ever had before, but the physical sensation of freedom was like none other.

When I masturbated to orgasm and my body seized up, my hand would still be wrapped around my cock and I would just freeze. But when I was buried inside my mother, it was other-worldly. My engorged penis throbbed as though it was about to explode, but what gripped it was her soft, rippling vaginal walls, pulsing along my shaft in syncopation. There was a roar in my ears, my nostrils flared, my eyes squeezed shut so hard that they almost ached. My hands, which were on each side of her hips, gripped her flanks with white-knuckled strength as I pulled her into my groin with as much force as I could, driving my swelling cockhead even deeper inside her. From deep in my lungs, I felt a whoosh of air filling up that would be let out in an agonized howl, the imminence of which could not be stopped for anything in the world. Even with my eyelids clamped shut, I saw stars, opened my mouth and let loose with an animalistic, guttural shout that came from the depths of my soul. My knees buckled and locked at the same time, my calves tightened up, my toes curled and my hips pushed forward, seeking out that last millimeter. When every muscle of my body was poised and ready for the release, my testicles surged up into my body like a spring being drawn in tight and, suddenly, everything let go. A massive gob of sperm-laden seed went screaming through my cock, hurtling out the tip of my penis like a cannon ball. A second seizure, my stomach muscles tightening as my hips jerked spastically, and another salvo of white fluid lanced out into my mother's womb. A third volley, this one longer and more drawn out, was added to the first two and I let out a loud, gasping grunt.

The whole while, my mother cried out sympathetically as I filled her deepest chamber with my life-making seed. Every time my penis throbbed inside her and belched out more sperm, her pussy clamped down tightly as though to draw more of it in. Her back muscles fluttered and her spine arched rhythmically with each spasm like it was a siphon that was pumping the babybatter from her own son's loins in desperate need. Each jerk of my hips was met by a slight hitch of hers, as though tilting her pelvis just so would increase the chances of conception.

A fourth, a fifth and a sixth shot of my semen raced into my mother's depths until my body mercifully stopped ejaculating and I slumped down over her back, gasping for air while my brain tried to reboot itself. Beneath my spent body, my mother was laughing softly and cooing at the same time while my penis continued to twitch and throb uselessly inside the soft, warm clutches of her over-filled pussy.

It took me a moment to catch my breath, but when I did, I began to laugh with my mother in joy. I'd never felt more complete in my entire life. She craned her neck to face me, even though I was still laying atop her back, and, for the first time ever, we kissed passionately as lovers. It was sloppy and wet and sweet and I was completely inexperienced at it, but it was the most amazing thing possible.

When our lips finally parted, with my half-hard cock still buried to the hilt inside her, I said the only thing I could think of at the time: "Where have you been all my life?"

Mother giggled gaily. "Right here, son. I've always been right here."

And that was the beginning for us. Mother and son, living in, by every measure possible in Society's standards, absolute sin. We had sex daily after that first time, often several times a day. Mother introduced me to all manner of lovemaking and sexual acts, but each and every sexual tryst ended the same way: with my sperm inside of her. It wasn't long before she started showing the signs- morning sickness, unexplained bouts of cleaning obsessively, mood swings... I'd gotten my mother pregnant.

The nature of our relationship, of course, changed. And, in some ways, it stayed very much the same. Mother continued her role as my guardian and mentor. She still enforced the same rules that I'd grown up with and her word was still sacrosanct in all things. We made love passionately and without reservation, we laughed more openly and discussed most things as equals, but she was still my mother and I was still her son. I was only 18 and I still had much to learn about the world and Life in general. I still needed her to guide me and teach me. So, in keeping with that, I still called her "Mother", never "Rose." Even while we had sex. I must confess: calling her "Mother" while we had sex was part of what made it so deliciously sexy. While I didn't share Society's discomfort about the incest taboo, I definitely understood that it WAS taboo and we BOTH relished in performing sexual acts so salacious and naughty.

We were completely uninhibited around each other and it was completely freeing. For so long she had hidden her body away from me, never wanting to push me in one direction or another. But now that we were lovers, the nudity taboo disappeared from our minds just as easily as the incest taboo. If anything, seeing my mother in her naked glory made her even more beautiful in my eyes. I found myself appreciating her in completely new and wonderful ways, giving her my total and absolute attention, even when we were doing normal things like cleaning or cooking or just sitting around to read books or watch television. Her nakedness and her beauty were entirely engrossing to me. Perhaps it was only because she was my first lover- there's plenty to support that theory- but I prefer to believe that it was simply because the love I had for her all of my life was expanded to greater horizons, because I was able to love more of her than ever before.

So it didn't take long for me to notice when the signs of pregnancy appeared. And I didn't waste a moment in asking her about it. I brought her into the living room and sat down in the arm chair while I asked her to sit on the sofa, telling her that I had an important question to ask. When I did ask, however, she just smiled lovingly, brightly, and said, "I was wondering when you'd notice. I've known for a few weeks now."

"Why didn't you say anything?" I asked, feeling somewhat hurt that she'd hide such an important fact from me.

She smiled at me softly and answered, "Because I wanted to see the look on your face when you figured it out yourself. And you know what? You looked exactly like our father did when he learned that I was pregnant with you."

"I... did? I mean, I do?"

Mother nodded lovingly. "The look of concern and worry and openness and willingness... our faces tell stories, Conrad. And yours just told me the sweetest story I'd ever want to hear. The look on your face tells me that I made the right choice. And I love you even more for it." She got up and sat down beside me on the arm chair, squeezing our naked hips together as she swung her soft, supple legs atop mine. "Are you okay with this?" she asked seriously.

All I could do was stare at her beautiful blue eyes, completely lost in them. I felt the smile slowly blossom on my face and my eyebrows raise up totally on their own. "Are you kidding me?" I asked. "I'm MORE than okay with this! I'm just... I'm... I..."

She gently placed her warm, soft hand on my cheek and returned my gaze. "Conrad... son... you're going to be a father. I'm pregnant with our child. And we're going to be a family." She kissed me deeply and it lasted for several long minutes until we both had to come up for air. I could feel hot tears of joy streaming down both our faces. When our lips parted, she said the words that seared my soul: "I love you, son."

I didn't have to think about it. "Mother, I love you more than life itself." Then my gaze drifted downward, past her bountiful breasts, sure to become even larger as they filled with milk in the coming months, and came to rest on her tummy. I carefully, gently placed my hand over her womb, now growing with her son's child, and held it there. "You, too, Little One."

Just about nine months later, on May 1^st 1992, Amity Rose Atwood, daughter of Conrad and Cynthia Atwood, was born into the world. There was much that my mother had taught me during her pregnancy. Things of a practical nature, regarding our family secrets and how to keep us hidden from the world right out in the open, but away from prying eyes. I finally learned how my grandfather, not a brilliant inventor but a brilliant businessman, had figured out how to set up corporate proxies, little more than shell corporations, which had ties to our home town. These tiny corporations were responsible for ensuring all manner of interaction for the Atwood family- mail, groceries, security, investment banking, financial asset control and accounting and all manner of other services that most people use on a regular basis- were kept running on a pretty much automated level. We had an estate manager, whom we had never met face to face, who kept the world at large away from us and us away from it. We could always interact with the outside world to our heart's content, but we never had to worry about doing so on anyone else's terms but our own. We could travel the globe for years on end and never be met with so much as a single bill. If we needed anything, and I literally do mean anything, all we had to do was dial a certain number and give our instructions. Very few questions were ever asked, and none of them were of a personal nature. From that point onward, everything else would be taken care of and we could simply do as we pleased without another thought.

Some might see that as grossly privileged- and they'd be right. But it was the only life we knew and it had been set up that way specifically because of how we, as a family, lived. We learned to guard our family's secrecy so very closely at an early age that we wouldn't imagine abusing the system that had been put in place for us. We never broke the law. We never lorded our wealth over anyone. We lived quietly and humbly. We did not, by any stretch of the imagination, do anything "weird." To do so would have garnered unwanted attention and prying eyes. To live outrageously or indulgently would have tongues wagging. So we rarely made use of The System (as we called it) in any way other than for our normal needs.

Except on rare and unique occasions, like an impending birth.

When mother admitted to me that she was pregnant, that began my education of how The System worked and how to use it. Together, we went through the steps we knew would be necessary to ensure that our child would be given the right kind of attention WITHOUT getting any kind of undue attention. Within days, county and court records of various types were slightly altered. Without ever having had an actual ceremony, Cynthia (my mother's middle name) and Conrad Atwood were a happily married couple who'd been gifted with the Atwood Estate Manor as a wedding present, where we could start a new family. The implication was that I was the heir of a sizeable estate but not yet entitled to a penny of it until I had a family of my own to look after. Meanwhile, "Cynthia" Atwood, an older woman who had won my affections quite by accident and without intent, had signed a pre-nuptial agreement which left her with only the clothes on her back should we divorce and a massive inheritance should I live past the age of 60. The thinking here was clear: it was assumed that, being an older woman, "Cynthia" Atwood would be too old to bear children and, should I die shortly after turning 60, she'd also be too advanced in years to enjoy any ill-gotten wealth, provided that she outlived me.

As a side note, I'd like to say that I railed against all of this inside. I didn't like the morbidity of it all, even while readily acknowledging its practicality. All that talk of death and inheritances and whatnot made me very unhappy. Mother, as always, kept calm and cool about the whole thing. She gently and lovingly instructed me on how Society liked to view things, specifically how it liked to see the worst in people, no matter what, as a default. So if we wanted to keep them off our backs and out of our business, we'd have to set up our fake marriage in such a way that no one could possibly see anything salacious about it. Just a younger man who fell in love with an older woman who couldn't possibly gain anything from the marriage to begin with except love for its own sake. Remote living accommodations in a small house with no staff, no way to "cash in" on the marriage, no direct ties to family fortunes of any sort... in all respects, our marriage was an engineered fiction of complete and utter banality. Two people fell in love, big whoop.

And that's pretty much how it was all received. The trick was that it was all done so quietly and subtly that no one hardly noticed, not even the county clerks. The mail, as they say, stayed right on time. Days before Mother was due to give birth to our daughter, we took a trip to Bethesda, Maryland, where Amity was born, again, far from prying eyes. Mother was given some time to recoup from the birth and, a few weeks later, the new Atwood family came back to roost in our Manor.

Coming back to our home, I must admit, was such a relief. We left it so infrequently that having to do so, even for a few weeks, was an odd mixture of thrilling and frightening. Everything was unfamiliar to us and we both longed for familiar stomping grounds. The sights and sounds of the big city, all the craziness of social activity in 1992, was somewhat deafening to us. We quickly learned that we didn't like the world outside. When I was younger I remember thinking that I felt, sometimes, a bit like a prisoner, being so cut off from the rest of the world, but in my maturity I found that I felt safer and more comfortable without it. Too much could go wrong out there. Too many things can happen without warning. Things were too complicated.

But I learned a lot in those few weeks. Namely, I learned that knowing about the world in intellectual terms was far, far different from knowing about it in terms of experience. Without really meaning to, my upbringing had sheltered me TOO much. I spent a lot of time in the hospital by my mother's side before, during and after the birth to our first and only daughter, but I did a lot of reading, too. And listening. I realized that I didn't want my daughter to be as sheltered as I was. I wanted Amity to be familiar with the world in a way that I hadn't been. Broaching the subject with my mother, I thought, would be difficult and painful. When we got home, when she noticed my brooding and she gently probed about it, I discovered that I couldn't have been more wrong.