There it was, no more than an inch from the very centre of me -- from parting my labial lips, no less -- and I had the strongest feeling that no matter how hard either of us tried to stop it, we wouldn't be successful. It was the most alarming, scary, heart-racing moment of my life.
That was three months ago, though, and I think I'd better fill you in on the details leading up to that moment -- no matter that it still retains its status deep in my memories, and always, I feel sure, will.
Not that I can't get that particular moment out of my head, which is why I started out jotting down my recollections with it. But a little context is very much needed I guess, or you'll maybe never understand fully just why that particular moment is so deeply etched into my brain.
Introductions first, then. I'm Jenny, thirty-six, and for those with an interest in such things my age has just overtaken my bra size. I'm fit enough, pretty enough, and curvy enough to still turn heads when I put on my best clothes and more expensive make-up -- although that sort of thing only occurs occasionally these days. I'm a non-typical unmarried mum since I'm single by choice -- although in fact I was married for a little under five weeks back when I had just become seventeen.
It was a short-lived marriage of convenience.
Having a ring on my finger allowed my mother to overlook the fact that I was being so stupid as to get married when still -- technically, at least -- finishing my A-Level courses, and ensured that if I became pregnant quickly then my offspring wouldn't be a 'bastard' -- her term, not mine. I was still her virginal little girl, of course.
It was also convenient for my then boyfriend since it ensured that I would let him move into my parents' annexe with me, and give him unfettered access to my virginal little pussy. It also gave him access to a nice array of wedding presents, a product of the 'old money' that was such a feature of my parents' life and the lives of their many friends.
As I say, it was a short-lived affair. Five weeks and a day, to be precise. My fleeting -- and subsequently fleeing -- husband left me with nothing to show for the thirty-six days of wedded bliss except for an empty present cupboard and a not-so-empty womb. I never saw hair nor hide of the wedding gifts again, but on the other hand young Philip was born eight-and-a-half months later. All in all, he proved to be worth a lot more than a Royal Dalton dinner service and a couple of microwave ovens. The event also, somehow, lent my mother the ability to still see me as the virgin bride who had been wronged.
And believe me, I was never going to admit that my brief husband was not exactly the first male to 'have his way' with me. I wasn't quite as bad as 'slapper' Jane from down the lane, but I'd clocked up a cock or five by the time the nuptials took place, and if I didn't exactly know my way around a big, comfy bed, I had more than a passing acquaintance with the occasional Ford Transit van and a haystack or four.
Thinking now, it strikes me as rather amusing that this whole tale starts when baby Philip was a few weeks past being an eighteen-year old -- that was a full year older than I was when he was conceived... Strange, but true.
Anyway, that introduces the main players -- or at least the human ones. The non-human one, though, is Doris -- who might sound human but was, in fact, nothing more than a storm.
Here's what happened on the night that Doris came to town...
I've referred to 'her' already as 'nothing but a storm' but that's understating things really. She was the worst storm Britain had seen for more than twenty years -- torrential rains, heavy snow in some parts and worst of all by far were the gale force winds. I was by then living in a ramshackle cottage in the middle of dense woodland -- an 'idyllic' setting on paper and a 'great investment opportunity' according to the estate agents. Or in other words, very isolated and in desperate need of repairs and renovations.
Technically I was living there alone, which was just as well since most of the property was uninhabitable save for a kitchen, a sitting room, a bathroom and one-and-a-bit bedrooms. In actuality, though, Philip was camping out in the 'bit' of bedroom before the start of his university course so that he could help with the many repairs I was facing. In theory, at least. Despite the occasional bit of sawing or painting, his hands tended to spend their time down at the local pub full of either pint glasses or barmaids. Or both at the same time.
In truth, I didn't mind. Compared to the teenage me he appeared to be something of an angel and he was always well-behaved around the hovel -- if by 'well behaved' I mean 'asleep'. Seriously, though, he was helpful when conscious and didn't bring a succession of friends back to disturb my peace -- evidently even teenagers have some standards when it comes to party/sex venues.
But back to Doris.
As I said, the cottage was set in the middle of woods -- as in, at the end of a winding lane with nothing but trees for neighbours -- and although it was late February when the bitch... sorry, when the storm arrived, the trees still seemed thick with branches and the ground widely and deeply strewn with last year's leaves. The afternoon of her arrival saw the former snapping off of the trees and the latter swirling up in great clouds as the winds began to rise.
Philip even came back early from the pub as darkness fell -- a sure sign that more inclement weather was due -- and we ate a quick supper of gourmet proportions sitting together at the rickety table in the rickety kitchen. And by 'gourmet' I do, of course, mean frozen and thrown in the oven for twenty minutes.
Food was not a primary concern for either of us, though.
"Mum! Are you sure the trees around here won't come crashing through the roof?"
I made light of it while crossing my fingers under the table, "Oh, Philip! Stop fretting so much. These woods don't have a single fallen tree in them so I'm sure we'll be fine."
"Yeah, but this storm is massive. It could be like that one nan always goes on about back in the olden days."
"Eighty-seven is hardy the olden days! Even I remember that one." It was at least true but I was only seven, "And anyway, this is nothing like as bad, I promise."
I was going to add something about the local trees being much more mature than me but a sudden crunching crash from somewhere quite close snatched the thoughts out of my brain and the words out of my mouth.
"Mum! That was fu... really close!"
I stood up and patted my son's shoulder, "It was... fairly close, I will admit, but we're safe here, I'm sure!" It wasn't any such thing anymore but I tried not to let Philip see. "These woods have stood up to worse storms than this one."
Philip stood as well, "Yeah, but what if earlier storms weakened all the trees? What if they can't stand up to this one now?"
He had a point, "Well... I guess that could be true, but the cottage is a tough old thing."
"Old being the operative word, mum. This wreck of a place wouldn't take a hit from a sapling let alone a full-grown tree."
"Well... okay, maybe it is a bit fragile these days, but it's not like we dare go out there and drive somewhere else, is it?"
Philip shrugged, "I guess not, but sitting around here in the kitchen isn't much better."
I was convinced by then -- especially as a large branch chose that moment to clatter noisily across the roof before falling past the window in, I thought, an unnecessarily over-dramatic fashion. "I'm not sure the living room is much better. What do you suggest then? Crawling under a table like you're supposed to in earthquakes or something?"
"Under the stairs would be safer," he nodded towards a cupboard built below the old staircase.
It was a fair enough idea but then I remembered the mound of odds and ends cluttering that space, "It's full of junk in there and it would take an age to clear it. Where else is there?"
It seemed that all four of our eyes swivelled to the trapdoor set in the corner of the kitchen at the same moment.
"Oh, I'm not sure, Phil... there's no light down in the wine cellar and it's not exactly large, is it?"
"It makes sense though, mum. It's way safer than up here and it's not like we need much light anyway. Besides, we can use our phones if we need to see and there's plenty of room for two adults -- even if your latest diet didn't pan out."
Trust my son to try to make a joke of the situation. My latest diet hadn't panned out because firstly I was already trim enough and secondly because I had thumped the stupid bitch taking the weekly classes when she told me that my tits were still too big and couldn't I wear a bra sometimes so that I didn't keep distracting the men in attendance. "No way am I too porky, young man, and I'd appreciate less of your cheek!" I drew a deep breath. "And don't even go there," I added as I saw the comment about my butt rising in his mind.
"Who me?" he grinned, "What could you mean, anyway?"
Another tree falling close by interrupted any response I was forming, and also cleared any doubts I had about the wine-cellar. "Okay, let's do it -- but I go first and you can shut the trap. And your trap."
He made a gesture as if zipping his lips shut and we grabbed our phones before he opened the -- luckily -- thick trapdoor and motioned me down into the gloom.
We'd not used the cellar for wine -- other than one case of dodgy red that my mother had insisted we 'start our collection' with, less a bottle that I had sampled and now used to clean the sink -- and it was jammed with a clutter of cardboard boxes. Those mainly contained my collection of paperback books along with yet-to-be-used art supplies and clothing that wouldn't fit into the wardrobes and chests of drawers. Or which wouldn't fit me or my chest. I stepped gingerly down the rickety staircase and took up position leaning back against the nearest heap of boxes, ducking slightly thanks to the low ceiling beams, but leaving just enough space for Philip. He followed me down and awkwardly turned to face me, his back against the stairs, before pulling down on the door's old rope and encasing us in the dark.
I flipped my phone onto the 'torch' setting and shone it to the side so as not to blind either of us in the enclosed -- very enclosed -- space, "How long will it last do you think?"
I felt, rather than saw, my son shrug, "Who knows? But your phone's battery won't last long if you keep shining it like that."
"If I don't turn it off we can use yours when it dies."
"Mum, it's just darkness. If we do that and then I use mine until that one dies, then the storm could well outlast both of them and we'd be both in darkness and not able to call anyone if we need to."
He had a good point there but I hated darkness, "It would be so dark though!"
"You're a big girl now -- and no, I wasn't referring to the diet -- so are you telling me you're scared of the dark still?"
"No, of course not!" I was really, "But it's just so... unfriendly when it's dark." I searched for any other reason I could think of -- hopefully more reasonable than that one, "And... and... well we're not exactly dressed for the occasion, are we?" We were both already in nightwear -- me a nightie, panties and robe, and Philip in a robe and, hopefully, boxers.
"Mum! What difference does light make to that?"
"Well, I suppose not much."
He laughed, "No difference at all -- unless you want to eye me up."
"Philip!"
"Or show off in your oh-so elegant attire."
"Stop it!" I added a curse and then flicked off the phone, "There! Happy now?"
My son's voice came from close in front of me, "It's better. Now try to get comfortable, okay? We might be here for ages yet."
Standing half-bent just a few inches apart made that next to impossible but at least he'd had the decency to say 'try'. I mumbled something along the lines of consent and tried to lean back as much as I could in the dark and, I now noticed, damp cellar. This was not going to be comfortable, but from the sounds crashing around above us, we were at least in a sensible place in that respect.
After much discussion -- ending with something like 'who's the parent around here?' -- I was granted permission to flick the phone on occasionally to check the passing of time, but gave that up when dark hours and hours proved to be no more than a couple of minute. Finally, we filled the dragging time with discussions about Philip's future plans -- local MP indeed! -- his motorcycling, his girlfriends, my painting (I dabble), his dwindling savings, my much faster dwindling savings, changing weather patterns, global warming, my carbon footprint, his motorcycling again -- do you blame me? -- the lack of decent television, a certain old (ancient according to my son) Bruce Springsteen song, irrational fears, and--
The dull conversation was abruptly curtailed by the most thunderous crash yet, and the little cellar quite literally shook violently. There was no need to say what we thought had happened. But we both did, now cuddling each other for comfort.
"See, mum? I told you!"
I sighed and nodded, "That tree at the end of the drive?"
"At the end of our kitchen now, but yes."
"Well I almost hate to say it, but it was a good idea to come down here then. You can let go now, though, I'll be fine."
My son gave a soft snort, "I'm glad you finally approve but as for letting go... that won't be so easy."
"Why? Are you ok?"
"I'm fine," I felt him nod, "It's just the stairs have been shunted a few inches. Sorry..."
I was about to tell him not to be so silly as to apologise -- but then realised we were more-or-less in a somewhat compromising position, and understood just what he meant. "Oh, don't be silly," I managed, "You're my son!" The words suddenly felt rather hollow. Especially when I fully gathered just how we were pressed together. There was a moment or three of panic when I appreciated that there was nowhere to go -- but that was quelled by the realisation of our positions. That was not exactly helped by his next words.
"Yeah, 'son' is right, but... sorry, mum, I'm also male, if you get my drift?"
It was then when I fully understood what he meant. Or rather, could feel what he fully meant. I tried to make light of things -- well, one hardening thing in particular, "I guess that's natural and normal... possible end of days and all that. Even mothers can be attractive when you're that desperate." I think I managed a laugh.
"You're not... I mean you are but not to me!"
"Attractive?" I don't know why I said it.
Philip struggled sideways a little, but it only served to let my hip know about things, "Well, yeah... but it's not right to... be so obvious about it!"
"So... not obvious is ok?" I don't know why I said that, either.
"Yes... I mean no... look, mum, it's just... well..."
He was my son, erection or not, and I had to comfort him somehow. "It's ok, Philip, I get it. Just relax and know I'm not angry or anything. These things are always happening to boys -- guys -- your age and.... well, let's face it, this is rather extreme. The storm will be over soon anyway, right?"
My son was taking deep breaths but I wasn't sure his chest expanding against my breasts was helping him too much. He finally managed to speak. "Not long I hope. And see what I meant about the phones? If that tree is covering the hatch, then we'll need to call someone to free us from here."
His pressing erection disappeared from my mind, "We could be stuck here, you mean? Can't you tell from the rope?"
"It only closes it. I'd need to climb back up to see for sure and that ain't gonna happen so easily, is it?"
Given our positions I could see what he meant, "Well, I suppose you could try but you'd be bent double on the stairs... and you'd have to go up backwards."
"I know, mum, I know. I'd rather leave that until the winds stop quite so much howling."
"I get that," I said, very sincerely, "Just stay here then and... try not to worry about... anything."
His shoulders seemed to slump. Hard to tell in that light, but he said, "If you're sure this is not too... much?"
"It's fine," I told him, meaning it -- but not in any naughty way. I'd never truly seen my 'little boy' as a man and never thought of him as anything other than my son and heir. Even with the evidence being so obvious, it wasn't changing things in the slightest -- honestly.
"Thanks, mum," he was still hesitant but obviously trying to be the good son he had always been, "Let's try to, er, get comfortable, ok?"
"Sure," I said, meaning that as well.
There followed some awkward wriggles and twists until we were just as uncomfortable but now bent at even weirder angles. Eventually I sighed and pulled both of us into straighter positions, a certain straightness being more evident -- to my belly, at least -- but the stances were definitely easier. "This is better," I said, as kindly as I could manage, "Just relax and don't... don't worry about... well, about that."
Philip muttered more apologies before we relaxed as best we could and started to talk about more pressing -- ahem -- things like the storm above us. I was more than happy with that and even more so when a certain part of my son seemed to start relaxing as well.
Another loud crash from on high put paid to the mental relaxation part, though.
"Fuck!" I squealed as Philip was pressed even more tightly against me.
"Shit, mum! I'm sorry but I think that was the other tree down the drive."
"Don't worry about the greenery. Are you ok there?"
Above us, a worrying chink of light had appeared around one edge of the trapdoor and I could see my son trying to look up, "The stairs have shifted again," he managed, "I really think I should try to get up them while they're still in one piece."
"Do you honestly think you could?" Claustrophobia was starting to make its presence felt and I was beginning to experience the first stirrings of panic.
"I gotta try at least," Philip muttered, "This is getting too tight."
I couldn't disagree with that, "I'm with you. How can I help?"
He tried to straighten and, I guessed, was feeling behind him for the ancient timbers of the steps. "I think I can feel where I need to step but it's gonna be awkward. Can you kinda boost me under my arms?"
"I'll try!" Even getting my hands up to his armpits was a nightmare of wriggles and twists, but eventually I was in position. "Ready?"
"As I'll ever be. I'll try to take as much of my weight as I can but sorry in advance if I knee you in the belly or something."
"Don't you worry about that. This is getting too tight down here to worry about a bruise or two. Here goes!"
I pushed upwards as hard as I could for a few seconds, and could feel my son straining to drag himself up onto the steps above him. One of his arms twisted behind him and a knee dragged up my left thigh. I heard a distinct 'clunk' which I presumed was his head connecting with the trapdoor itself and then there were a variety of grunts and curses as he evidently pushed on its closed beams, trying to force it open. After what seemed an age I felt him go limp and his panting form slipped back down to press fully against me once more.
"Mum, I'm sorry," he was panting hard, "but I think something's on top of the hatch now. I can't get it open."
"No need for apologies," I was more-or-less hugging him, and already feeling so sorry for him -- and me, "It's probably one of the trees or the fucking wall or something."
"Language!" he muttered a laugh.
"I think under the circumstances we can suspend the language rules, yeah?"
"Thank fucking fuck for fucking that."
I swatted his upper arm as best I could, snorting my own laugh, "There's no need to take things too far."
"Well this is kinda horrible, isn't it?"
"True," I sighed, "And I guess I should be thanking you for making me switch off the phone. Seems like we're going to be needing them when this storm finally clears." The wind was still howling up above us.
"Let's hope it's not too long, though, it's getting pretty cramped down here."
I nodded, not quite pointlessly since he must have been able to feel my head move, "I second that. Are you okay there, though? You feel even closer to me now."
"I'm good, but I think the staircase shifted another inch or two when I tried to get up it. Maybe my back was keeping it in place before. Is it too much for you though?"
"If we could breathe in turns it might be easier, but seriously I'm fine if you are."
Close in front of me, my son sighed deeply, "I'm good, but I'm sorry about... well, about ruffling the clothes."
I stopped thinking about darkness and sardine impressions and took stock of what Philip meant. It didn't take long. Somehow during his aborted ascent of the short staircase, both his and my robes had come open and it was now my nightie pressed against his bare chest. And maybe of more concern, said nightie wasn't exactly long -- meaning that Philips boxer's were now tightly pressed against my night-time panties. Very brief ones, at that. I could also feel a stirring inside the boxers and if I was being honest -- and let's face it, I wasn't exactly in a position not to be -- I knew that it was all normal and natural for the young man, but also that it was horrendously close to being extremely awkward.
I tried to make the situation less embarrassing -- for both of us, "It's hardly the time and place to worry about such things. It's not like it's a deliberate thing, is it? Like I said earlier, these things pop up... I mean, these things just happen by chance and it can't be helped, ok?"
"I guess."
"I mean it," I told him.
"Even though... it's getting sorta... firmer?"
"Yes, even though it is. Like I said, it's just proximity and maybe it'll even take your mind off the storm and stuff."
He sighed, "Jeez, mum!"
I shrugged, "I'm not saying enjoy it, but it happens and under the circumstances it's hardly a crime, is it?"
"Well..."
"Just try to relax, and think pretty thoughts." I was impressed with my own ability to ease my son's mind, even if it did feel like the weirdest situation ever. "Think about what's-her-name, Lynne or Lynette, your latest girl."
"Lydia," he sighed, "But it's hard to think about her with you up against me. You're way cuter."
"That's ok then... what?" The situation suddenly felt a lot weirder. A ton weirder.
"I just meant Lyds is cute, sure, but I'm trapped here with you and you're the one with all the right curves and stuff."
"Philip! I'm your mum for fuck's sake!"
He was clearly embarrassed, "Sorry! I just meant... Your curves are right here, right now, and it's not like I can't think of them... of it. I don't mean I fancy you or anything like that!"
I was a little confused but those last words seemed sincere and acted as some sort of palliative -- no matter the rather hard evidence to what might have been the contrary pressing firmly into the middle of my belly, "Well... I guess it's still ok then... but just... try not to think too much, ok? About me?"
"I'll try," he promised, slightly unconvincingly, "But do you want to call for help now? From the storm, I mean."
"There's no point, is there? It's still raging up there," I took a deep breath, "Just try to relax here... and don't worry about... things." I'm not sure who I was trying to comfort the most.
Philip seemed to settle then, though, and even if his hands rested more firmly on my shoulders -- both bared by then -- he didn't move against me or press any harder than was already necessary and caused by our cramped conditions. For a while there was an awkward silence with us both frozen in our overly intimate postures, but my son finally found his voice.
"Sorry about teasing you earlier. The diet stuff, I mean,"
It eased my mind, "Don't be. I really should find another plan or whatever."
"You don't need one anyway, mum."
Those words had a disquieting effect, "You think not?" I asked the question without much thought but with a sudden, worried, pile of other thoughts crashing down on me.
Philip went to shrug, I think, but must have thought better of it, "I just meant you're okay for your age, especially compared to some of the other mums. Not that you're fit and cute or anything."
It was a relief, "Not fit and cute, then?" Oh, come on -- I wasn't suddenly fishing for compliments but what woman of my age doesn't like to be told they're still at least a little bit attractive?
My son sighed, "I just meant I wasn't thinking about how fit and cute you are... but that doesn't mean I don't think you are. If you see what I mean?"
I did, and appreciated the effort he was putting in to not think about the curves that were pressed against him. It was what I wanted to hear, I guessed, in any case. My fault, my bad. "Well, that's very nice. But get your mind back to Lynette."
"Lydia. And like I said earlier, that's hardly easy under these circumstance, is it?"
It was my turn to sigh. He was a teenager and I figured he had a point -- and I don't mean the one pressed so firmly into my belly. "I guess." I allowed, "But don't--"
Whatever warning I was about to deliver was cut off by yet another crash. Another tree had bit the dust and the cellar rocked. And I mean that quite literally.
Behind me the boxes seemed to fold down into themselves and before I could so much as try to keep myself upright I was tumbling backwards, Philip collapsing forward on top of me, a grinding, wrenching sound coming from somewhere behind and above him. All around us, bits of wood and earth tumbled from the ceiling and walls and I buried my head in my son's hair to keep them from my gaping, gasping mouth.
After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably no more than ten seconds, everything down in the cellar -- including me and my son -- was still, and only Doris howled into the darkness. I tried to take stock of what had happened.
Clearly the back wall of the cellar -- or maybe the floor -- had caved in. I had tipped back and was now laying horizontal on the boxes with my son trying to brace himself above me, although he was now further down my body. Thankfully he was finding purchase enough so that I wasn't being crushed, and I figured he would soon stand back in the space that must have been created.
"Can you move back yet?" I asked.
He grunted and I could feel him trying to squirm back, "Fuck, no! I think the stairs must have collapsed. They're on my back and I don't think..." More grunting, "No, I can't shift them. Maybe the roof caved too."
I took my head from his hair and looked up as best I could. The darkness was all around us but I could see some light from the hatch-way above what must be where Philip's feet were laying. Most worryingly I couldn't actually see his feet because they were evidently covered by the staircase and rubble from walls or ceiling. The light I could see was patchy and not in any way well-defined. We really were badly trapped now.
"I think you're right, Phil... storm or not, can we phone out?"
Above me he nodded, sending dust and debris cascading into my face, "I'll try to get mine. It's in my robe pocket." His arms left my sides and he mumbled an apology for resting harder against me. Then swore. "Fuck I think it's come out as we fell."
That was scary, "Mine's in my pocket too -- can you get that one?"
"I'll try. Or maybe find mine beside me. Which pocket is yours in?"
"My right." There was a scrabbling at my side, then another loud curse.
"Fuck! That pocket's empty too. It must have... oh shit!"
"What? What is it?"
I felt my son brace his weight again, "It's nothing too bad but... well... "
"Oh, come on! What?"
"Er... my boxers..."
"Your... oh," In the fall they must have either slipped down some or torn. To say that I could feel the evidence was understating things. Something hard, smooth, and very warm was laying against my left thigh. And by 'something' I'm sure you can guess what. I tried to think fast, "It's... ok... nothing deliberate... and I have panties on..." I'm not sure to this day why I said that last thing, "Accidents happen. Just try to find one of the phones and we'll soon be out of this mess." He was laying much lower against me thanks to the fall, and our positions now were all too forcibly intimate for his liking -- or mine. But it had happened and, as I'd said to Philip, I was at least still wearing things. I realised then that the short nightie was now well above my waist and I hated to think how that might look to anyone. But when push came to shove, we needed to get out regardless of who saw what. "Keep searching!"
Every move and wriggle my son made in search of the phones became a small nightmare for me as I felt his member move from side to side, rolling on my bare thigh, his intimate flesh against mine, and I prayed hard and fervently for his success.
I should have known as a confirmed atheist such supplications would be useless and when my son slumped back down after a few minutes it was confirmed.
"I can't find either of them, mum!"
My maternal instincts kicked back in and I cuddled him closer, "Don't panic, angel, the storm will be over soon and when it's all calm we might be able to wriggle down to the hatchway."
"Can I try now?"
I shook my head in the dark, "If anything else caves in we might be separated or worse -- and like this there's more chance we'll be safe, ok?" He squeezed me harder. And that's not all that became harder -- but I couldn't blame his body's natural reactions, especially as that gave me an idea. "Look, Philip? Phil? I know this is horrible down here, but I can feel your body isn't too bothered by things."
"Mum, I'm sorry but--"
"Shush now," I interrupted the apologies and took a deep breath, "Maybe you can concentrate on that. Let your mind wander on such things and maybe that'll stop the panic a little." I knew what I was saying and apparently so did my son.
"You mean try to enjoy my hardness?"
"It might help," I nodded again, really meaning it by then. After all, he did it enough when he was alone in his room and when all was said and done, was it that big a deal? I thought for a moment, "No hands anywhere though, ok? And no words."
He gave a tiny nod, "It feels so nasty, though... are you sure?"
"Positive. But if you ever tell anyone I will deny everything shortly before castrating you and feeding your balls to the dog, ok?"
He snorted something like a laugh but then held me closer. "Is it ok if I move just a little?"
I thought for a second he meant higher up my leg and I was about to scream 'no' at him, but then understood he was just talking about a little move of his hips to... well, to help him masturbate against me. It was still horrible on many levels but I wanted him to forget about our predicament. It was a sacrifice on my parts, and I was so far out of my comfort zone -- but I was his mother, his guardian... "Just a little," I said, patting his shoulder.
He started to move then, just a little bit as he had said and as I had imagined. It was awful for me on so many levels, but it was a duty I had and I understood that. I held him close and let the top of his chest press against my breasts -- my tits, to Philip, I guessed. If he could blank out the darkness and the disastrous position we found ourselves in for a minute or two, then -- really -- what was wrong with that?
He was breathing heavily against my neck very quickly and despite everything, I hoped he could preserve the moments for as long as possible, make the whole experience something calm and relaxed and above all else, long. In the deep, dark recesses of both the little wine cellar and my tiny brain, I felt the stirrings of something deep within me.
We all have needs, I knew, and while my son was attempting to satisfy one of his, my own body began to remind me that he wasn't the only one that desired things. I started to wonder if maybe it would be my turn somehow after my son -- but knew at once that while a mother could grant her own flesh-and-blood his release in front of her, it could never be the same were the situation reversed. I would have to wait, but that was just fine so long as my boy was diverted from the surrounding nightmare for a few--
The next crash was the loudest yet.
Behind me something else collapsed and I found myself tipped even further backwards, the roof seeming to press closer above me. I panicked for a moment fearing for Philip's safety but he came to my rescue with a quiet 'mum?'.
"We're okay," I began but then stopped. My panties had torn in the latest slippage and my son was now braced above me, his body all too close to mine.
And that's where I started this:
There it was, no more than an inch from the very centre of me -- from parting my labial lips, no less -- and I had the strongest feeling that no matter how hard either of us tried to stop it, we wouldn't be successful. It was the most alarming, scary, heart-racing moment of my life.
His member -- his hard member -- had slid further up my thigh, and with no panties on now... I could feel the heat from the tip of his erection as it rested so very, very close to the very centre of me. He was aroused and excited -- just as I had wished for him -- but there was an element of arousal deep within me too. But that did not, in any way shape of form, mean that I wanted congress with my own son... no way...
"Mum! It's so dark and I can't move back!"
"I can't move either," I was gasping,
"Is this it?"
I knew what he meant and I swear I thought it was. I couldn't say it though. "We'll... we'll be fine."
"I feel so trapped!"
"It will be over soon. The storm, I mean!"
Above me, Philip slipped a tiny fraction more, "Shit mum!"
I held him as best I could, "It's ok, angel, it's not your fault!" His member -- his cock -- was so close to me now, so very, very close. And this could be the end of things... He was a strong young man now. An oddly elegant young man. And it really could be the end game here and now.
If it was, who would ever know? If we were dug up still coupled but long dead -- there, I said the word to myself -- who would care? Not me and not, I imagined, Philip. Could I, though? Should I?
Another tremor came with another slip, and even in the near pitch-darkness I could see my boy's eyes widen as the head of his cock pressed against my womanhood -- my pussy -- and my decision was almost, almost, made for me.
But I wanted one final decision in my life. If I relaxed my legs even slightly then he would part me. My own son, my Philip. I would be fucked one last time, and he would finish with this world fucking a woman who he apparently thought was 'cute and fit'. And who would be there to criticise either of us?
"Hey, you," I managed, "I have a feeling that maybe, in reality, we could be totally fucked here. What say you?"
"You said... well... yes, I guess we are."
"If you slip any further, buster, you're gonna be in me, fucking your own mum. What say we take that final decision away?"
I could feel his confusion, "What do you mean, mum?"
"I mean," I said, slowly, "How about you and choose to fuck? If you want to?"
"Want to? Oh, mum yes please, oh yes!"
"Sure? Is it what you've been dreaming of?"
"I guess there's no time left for being nice is there? Being polite?"
I shrugged beneath him, "I guess not. So, have you?"
"Fantasised about you? Yeah, a lot."
"You realise if I relax my legs, fantasy becomes reality?"
"How can you tease at a time like this?"
"Old habits," I said, "But you're right. We don't have time for silly games."
I relaxed the muscles in my thighs and my legs parted just a little. Just enough, in fact, for the tip of my son's cock to press between my labia, spreading those lips as it sought entry. I gasped, shocked at just how delightful that sensation was -- and shocked at how much the taboo nature of what we were doing -- even there hidden beneath the wrecked house -- excited me. There were no deep, hidden sensations by then, just a need. I relaxed further and the muscles in my pelvic floor softened and opened the final channel for my son. His cock slid inside me, deeper and deeper.
And without need of a further word we started to fuck.
I'd seen his little cock a thousand times when he was a baby, and now I was feeling that same but much bigger cock buried deep within me, moving at an already frantic pace. I couldn't move much but I tried to buck against his thrusts and finally reached up and tore my nightie open.
"There," I panted, "You might as well have access to every curve, yeah?"
His hand shot up to cover my bared tits and he moaned his pleasure even more loudly than I did.
"Fuck, mum! They're even more gorgeous than I imagined!" He gasped loudly then, "But... oh fuck mum, I think feeling them is going to make me... oh fuck..."
"Cum? Do you need to? Need to fill your mum's pussy with your juices because she's letting you fuck her? Fuck her and feel her tits?"
"Yes! I don't want it to stop though!"
"Just cum in me, angel! I think if you cum in mum's cunt then she's gonna cum on your hard cock!" It was true, "And if we ain't getting out of here, I reckon there's no need to stop the fun is there?" Right then I wanted it all.
"Oh fuck, yes! Oh shit, oh fuck.... I'm gonna..."
He exploded inside me, his cock thickening somehow before unleashing spurt after spurt of his cum deep inside my pussy. It was the trigger for me and my own climax rushed to the surface, my eyes widening at the speed of its arrival. I howled something at the ceiling just inches above my nose, my fingers raking my son's back, my hips grinding against his as the spasms had me bucking even harder beneath him.
He held me tightly, one hand still on a tit, the other sliding across the cardboard behind my back, his cock, still hard, still buried inside me as my own juices gushed and mixed with his cum. It wasn't the hardest climax of my life, but it was easily the most intense, somehow electrifying in its speed and power.
I started to rock my hips the second I got my breath back and I heard the gasp of delight from my son's lips. He got the message though and we were soon fucking again, more slowly this time, relishing what might be our last sensations of this lifetime.
"Did my language shock you?" I asked between thrusts.
"Not as much as being able to fuck you. And the rules on swearing don't apply down here, do they?"
I nodded against his shoulder, "True and true."
"You're gorgeous."
"In the pitch blackness, maybe."
"No, Always."
I managed a laugh, happy -- amazingly -- and a tiny bit embarrassed by, of all things, the compliment, "Oh, shush and... you're sure the swearing doesn't offend?"
"It'll cost you another fuck."
"Fair enough," I agreed easily, "Then pound my cunt just as hard as you like. With that gorgeous young cock of yours."
And he did. Boy, did he.
My Philip, my only son, made me cum again and again. Countless times as the darkness enveloped us. But in truth there could have been the brightest of lights on us, an audience of millions.
Sure, I was single and seldom ventured into sexual games and pastimes, but Philip's youthful enthusiasm, his gorgeous body, his glorious passion, his perfect size and growing confidence... they all added up to something close to sexual perfection. If those hours or minutes were to be our last, then -- almost -- so what? As ways to go went, that was as close to the best as it must be possible to get.
But we didn't go, though. didn't realise what was happening at first -- I was lost in lust, I guess. A voice echoed around the enclose wreckage of the cellar, calling out if anyone was down there, were they alive and okay. I was both, for the first time in as long as I could remember,
Quite whether those were my responses or not I can't honestly remember -- and very oddly, Philip and I were able to cover up somehow and hide the truth as trees and debris were moved and we were dug out of the collapsed wine cellar.
It suddenly seemed to matter on one level although not on another.
Whatever (as my son is so fond of saying), we were eventually freed and wrapped in blankets, settled on temporary surfaces mean to be either luscious carpets or great examples of what our plastics experts can create these days. All around us the house or cottage or whatever it had been was... flat I guess is the best word. There were trees everywhere -- horizontal ones -- but not a single wall or partition. The place was, in short, an ex-place. I started laughing to myself at that point, visions of John Cleese complaining about his Norwegian Blue inappropriately distracting me -- until Philip put a concerned hand on my shoulder.
"Are you alright, mum?"
I dropped my voice to a whisper, "If by that you mean am I alright that we fucked, then yes, and if you mean am I alright about the cottage then yes as well -- I'm pretty sure the insurance will save me the trouble of redecorating -- except that we'll need to find somewhere to sleep now."
My son leaned closer, "Any old place will do. And maybe just a single room?"
I looked long and hard at him, "We're not in a relationship, understood?"
He nodded, "That wouldn't be right."
"Quite so."
"I mean, 'fuck buddies' isn't a relationship, right?"
I swatted his arm as I stifled a laugh, "I'll let you off the curse as there's no other word to use."
"Penetration-partner? Dick-deliverer?"
I laughed loudly and hugged him to me, dislodging my blanket but not feeling the cold air, somehow. One of the rescue team -- yes, there were quite a few by then -- hurried over and pulled the blanket back around me, muttering something about keeping warm at least until we were checked over and proper clothing could be provided.
After what seemed like an age we were taken to ambulances -- yes, plural -- out on the battered driveway, checked over, issued with dubiously stained tracksuits, and finally driven off to an equally dubiously stained guest-house. Only one room was available, apparently, but to their surprise -- but not yours, I imagine -- we were happy to share. The room had two single beds, not that we had any intention of using both, and much more importantly a shower and toilet in a tiny alcove-cum-room which was almost luxurious to our slightly battered and less-than-slightly surprised bodies.
And late that morning we made our tired way to one of the beds and, stripped, exhausted, battered -- but most importantly in love both as a mother and her son, and a woman and her new lover -- and that opening passage came to me again, because very soon:
There it was, no more than an inch from the very centre of me -- from parting my labial lips, no less -- and I had the strongest feeling that no matter how hard either of us tried to stop it, we wouldn't be successful. It was the most alarming, scary, heart-racing moment of my life.
I was giving myself to my own son. Willingly, happily, lustily.
It was alarming and scary and heart-racing -- because it was changing everything, changing our futures.
And I was as eager for that as Philip.