Incest stories. Either you hate them or love them. I’m on the fence despite having written a few and now here I am, providing yet another. There is something so naughty about writing them. It scratches an itch. Now, while I am not proud of writing incest stories, I am aware of the draw for some people.
Does this make me a bad person? Probably. But I’ve never pretended to be a nice person.
I love stories with proper endings–not some long protracted series of events that go on and on with more and more implausible things happening. I know readers demand more and more in the stories I create, but you need to understand most times I like the ending and that’s it for me. I won’t go farther down the rabbit hole, usually content in what I’ve created.
This story will have a few parts, but not many.
Please enjoy,
Love,
Lana Ocean
Canada
Prologue
“A man who has been the indisputable favorite of his mother keeps for life the feeling of a conqueror.” Sigmund Freud.
My psychologist instructed me to write down the events that led to me taking my son into my bedroom, my life, and ultimately, my heart. Not the heart of a mother, but the heart of a lover. The quote above from Sigmund Freud is so appropriate to me and my son. My psychologist had quoted it to me during our first session. I had gone to her to help me with my emotions. Not to stop me, but to help me make it work.
She also gave me this quote:
“It sounds not only disagreeable but also paradoxical, yet it must nevertheless be said that anyone who is to be really free and happy in love must have surmounted his respect for women and have come to terms with the idea of incest with his mother and sister.” Sigmund Freud.
So much of Freud is exclusively focused on the man and so little on the woman. Or rather, on the son, and not the mother. When incest is discovered and exposed, it is the woman who suffers the hardest. She will be the more criticized. The more shunned. I feel all those feelings toward myself, all on my own. Thankfully, my son and I have found a way to co-exist. To live in our sin. To find solace in our combined peace and happiness. And no one will ever know.
Still, I can’t escape the guilt and shame. They are now my constant companions, but I have come to terms with them. Just seeing the look my son gives me erases all those doubts. It’s not right. It’s illegal. It’s horrible.
And I’ve never been happier or more in love. I actually have three loves, but that part of the story will come later. Just know that I am so very happy.
It started innocently enough; I suppose. First, a forced encounter. Then another. Then I rose to the challenge. I’m not proud of what I did. But I’m proud of the results. A little hypocritical, but I don’t care anymore. My son has accepted all my ministrations and manipulations. It’s strange. I’ve been in love many times in my life, and I have always loved my son from the moment I became pregnant to the moment I held him for the first time in my arms and took him to my breast to feed him. Nourish him. Care for him. As only a mother can. Knowing I was providing his much-needed life sustaining nutrients bonded me to my son in a way that women understand intimately. The line between mother and lover blurs at times. That special bond that is created at conception and continues until your dying day.
And now I love him beyond what my heart and soul can handle. It’s so raw and real and floods my mind with desires that my body can barely contain. It can be overwhelming. Its psychological and physical.
My son feels the same way. When you cross that line–the incest line–you open something almost surreal. You wonder: It can’t be this real, can it? All I can say to explain it is, my love for him knows no bounds. There is nothing I will not do for him. Nothing. It’s as simple as that. All my prior loves pale in comparison. I live in a constant state of arousal as a forty-year-old woman. Constant. And I love it. It has transformed me and brought meaning to my life.
Enough. I was told to write this down chronologically. To explain my feelings along the way. My psychologist is very keen on this story, and I’ve spent hours with her already. She sits perched on the edge of her seat, her eyes locked on me, writing furiously, grinning at times.
I can tell this story excites her terribly. I can smell her in the room. And she can smell me. It’s carnal and I enjoy watching her expressions shift and change. She’s addicted to my story. And I can’t blame her. I’m addicted.
Okay. Deep breath. Here we go…
Chapter One–Jessica and Desmond Smith, Mother and Son
My name is Jessica Smith. That’s obviously not my real name, but let’s stick with that. I live in Smalltown, USA, somewhere in the Midwest. The main industry is agriculture and livestock, and the people are not very complex. It’s a simple life. The summers are hot, muggy, and wet. The winters are very cold, snowy, and windy.
I work at one of the two banks in town as the Mortgage Loan Officer. My son, Desmond Smith, works as a teller. I’ve worked at the bank for twenty years. My son started two years ago when he turned eighteen; working mostly weekends during the school year until he finishes his degree in business.
My husband left us two weeks before our son’s first birthday. He moved to California, and I haven’t heard from him since. I divorced him through correspondence and his pay was docked a small amount for childcare until Desmond turned eighteen. He’s not a deadbeat. He simply felt trapped in a life he didn’t want. He wanted to escape Smalltown and eventually he just left. I used to hate him for abandoning us. Now, I feel nothing toward him. His parents still live here, and they used to come around to see their grandson, but now I rarely see them.
Their loss. Truth be told, they’re not very nice people. Sadly, they lost interest in him when he stopped being the young grandchild they could spoil. All that matters is Desmond grew into a wonderful man.
After my husband left, I struggled to come to terms with it. I blamed him. Then I blamed myself. Then I blamed my son. My in-laws. The town. The bank. Then I realised it was no one’s fault other than my insecure, lost in life former husband.
The last man to have sex with me was my husband. He fucked me the night before he left me. One last hurrah, I suppose. He left for work in the morning, kissing my cheek, and I’ve never seen him again. Since then, I’ve never been interested in sex. If I were to be honest with myself (and my psychologist tells me, I need to be more honest with myself) after Desmond was born, my sex drive disappeared. Sometimes I wonder if that had anything to do with my husband leaving. Probably. Most likely. I never missed it. You can’t miss something you aren’t interested in. I simply lost interest.
I am hit on all the time in the town. By men I know who are married. Almost all the men in town are married. Single men my age can’t exist in Smalltown, USA. They aren’t tolerated. They are suspect. Shunned even. A single man past age twenty-five is looked at as a possible deviant. Homosexual. It gets worse as they get older. I suspect a massive amount of cheating is happening in this town. But not with me. I’m just not interested.