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Big Dicks

This story takes up where my previous story, Blessed, leaves off, in mid-stream as it were, but switching narrative perspective from Ben to Rachel, his mother. Note: there’s sex here, but it’s intermingled with reflection and reminiscence about how this mother-son couple’s relationship began, and where it’s heading. My primary interest is exploring the characters’ feelings for each other, depicting the nature and dynamics of their relationship, rather than just cataloguing a series of sex acts. The mother is a big, beautiful woman, bordering on supersized (about 240 lbs, or 17 stone). And there is some discussion of religion and ethics, particularly through a Quaker lens. If any of these things is likely to offend or repulse you, please go away now. As in Blessed, there are few Yiddish words and phrases thrown in: you can google them if you don’t know what they mean. All sexually active characters in the story are well over the age of eighteen. Any resemblance of the characters to any individuals living or dead is purely coincidental.

* * *

‘Hmm, and just how are you gonna pay this attention?’ I ask.

‘Roll over and I’ll show you, Mom,’ Ben playfully answers.

I roll onto my belly, eagerly. My body is a sexual playground for my son: I’m proud this is so, delighted to offer myself to him, to open myself up unreservedly to Ben’s playfulness, to his lust, even this most private part of my anatomy, that he loves so. Ben settles between my legs, gently kissing, nuzzling, stroking and kneading my vast, cellulite-dimpled tushy, eliciting soft groans of pleasure from me – then a sharp intake of breath as he spreads my cheeks apart and plunges his face down in between them. He begins licking from my perineum up over my anus to my tailbone, repeatedly. Ben knows this quickly gets me feeling completely wanton and uninhibited. I feel my anus opening for him like a blossom, as his tongue tip slips inside my sphincter, while his fingers penetrate my drooling schmundie, expertly massaging my g-spot. I bury my face in my pillow to muffle my gasps and squeals. The pleasure begins to wash over me in mounting waves, culminating in a toe-curling orgasm.

My body’s gone blissfully boneless, like a big blob of jello. Ben rolls me back over and gets between my thighs. I’m still flooded down there, so Ben’s thick, hot pole easily slides into me, as I welcome his tongue into my mouth. For a long time, he just stays planted balls-deep inside me, not moving, while our tongues slowly explore each others’ mouths. My hands travel languidly up and down over his muscular shoulders and back, my ankles locked around his waist, holding him close. Ben rubs his thumbs lightly over my nipples as we kiss. We know each others’ bodies intimately by now: there are no surprises. Just the beautiful thrill of closeness.

‘I can feel the your schmundie muscles gripping me,’ Ben murmurs happily between kisses.

‘You feel so good inside me, my sweet baby boy. I love you.’

Gently, slowly, he begins sliding in and out of my wetness. I feel love radiating off him like heat off a blast furnace. And my own heart responds in kind. Yes, this is the soulful love-making we’ve both been craving. It heals something inside me, psychological wounds that I didn’t even know I had, suffusing me with a deep feeling of well-being. As I gently rock my ass under him, meeting his thrusts, I pray/meditate/concentrate – whatever you want to call it – directing that same healing energy into Ben’s heart and soul and body, sharing it with him. The Quakers would say there’s something of God in Ben, touching something of God in me, blessing us both. Our whole bedroom seems to be filled with a pulsating, living sacred presence.

‘Do you feel that, Mom?’ Ben asks in a hushed tone of wonder.

‘Yes baby, yes I do.’

* * *

I’ve come a long way towards acceptance of my … unconventional (to put it mildly!) relationship with my son. Ben fell in love with me gradually, over the course of his high school years; by the time we crossed the line into a sexual relationship, he had already worked through any qualms he may have had, and he never looked back. At a subconscious level, I had gradually fallen in love with him too, but for quite a while I kept those thoughts and feelings stuffed down in my mental basement. So when this sexual love for Ben finally surfaced in my conscious awareness, I had an internal fight on my hands. It was an emotional roller-coaster for me, vacillating hour-by-hour between elation and dread.

In that interview Ben and I did for the Consang Equality blog [see Interview with Mom and Son, first story in this series], I said I never felt much guilt or shame about letting my relationship with Ben become sexual. That was … not entirely true. Well, compared to the moral anguish some moms in my situation go through, I think I came through that period relatively unscathed. And in that interview, I wanted to put a positive spin on my experience, in case there Rize Escort was some shame-tormented mother out there: I wanted to let her know it would be okay, that loving her adult son would not lead inexorably to damnation and destruction. And it wasn’t all doom and gloom, in those early days: whenever Ben was with me, I was floating on air – knowing that my own wonderful, beautiful son was in love with me, that he wanted sexual intimacy with me … wow! That was a pretty potent rush of joy. But we live in a world where the kind of love I feel for Ben is universally condemned. Mothers like me are lumped together with rapists and child molesters. How could my feelings for Ben be right, when the rest of society said they were sick and unnatural? And I was the parent, I was the responsible one: it was my duty to call a halt to this … to kill this beautiful thing blossoming between us. When Ben and I were apart, these ugly thoughts of self-loathing crowded in on my mind.

It was my best friend Rhonda that helped me out of that Slough of Despond. She helped me turn that roller-coaster into a stable, smooth-running train ride.

I think back to those early days, about a week after Ben and I had first kissed. No sex yet, but every evening we snuggled together on the living room sofa – shades drawn of course – our kissing and petting getting a little hotter and heavier each time. One night I made him come in my hand. The next evening, I surreptitiously pulled off my panties in the bathroom before joining Ben in the living room. As we kissed, his hand reached beneath my skirt, travelling up my bare thigh; I didn’t stop him. His fingers brushed against my panty-less pubic hair. He paused and gazed at me with this look of wonder and gratitude that melted my heart.

‘Go ahead baby,’ I whispered, ‘you can touch me there if you want.’

A few seconds later, I came all over my own son’s hand.

I went to bed that night in a bubble of bliss. The next morning, though, guilt and shame were gnawing at my entrails. After barely stumbling through my American racial politics class, I met Rhonda for coffee in the student union, as was our regular habit. Rhonda is an associate professor in the sociology department. We had become acquainted through serving together on a social sciences faculty curriculum committee a few years previously, and had since become good friends, as well as co-authoring a few research articles.

She could see something was tearing me to pieces, and surmised that I was unhappily in love.

‘I’m sorry, Rhonda,’ I hung my head despairingly, ‘I just can’t talk about it. With anyone.’

‘Normally I’d guess that you’ve fallen for a married man; but I know that’s not your style. Look, Rachel, honey, you know I’d never judge you. Nothing but support and love from me, right? And you know I won’t ever breathe a word of this to anyone. Honey … it’s Ben, isn’t it?’

My heart thudded in terror. I started to sob. ‘How could you tell? Is it that obvious? I … I’ve got to stop this, before it becomes public knowledge and I ruin Ben’s life.’

‘No, no it’s not obvious. Ssh, calm down. I just know you really well, honey. You’re my very best friend, Rachel. I’ve seen the way your eyes light up when Ben walks in the room; I’ve seen how his light up for you too. But I’d never have thought anything of it except for how distraught you are. You’ve clearly fallen hard for some man, and, knowing you as I do, I figured the only man it could be is Ben. But, believe me, nobody else would guess … unless you keep on having a nervous breakdown about it and blurt it out in public.’

‘You must think I’m a monster.’

‘Hey, stop it. I think nothing of the sort.’

‘I’m sick though. I mean, his very name means ‘son’ in Hebrew. My love for Ben … it’s an evil, sick thing. It will destroy him and me both.’

She draws herself up, eyes flashing. ‘Love isn’t evil, Rachel. Ever! I believe love is divine. Any and every form of human love is a part of God’s love for the universe, or the universe’s love for itself, however you want to frame it. It may be messy and painful at times, but it can’t be evil. Save your moral outrage for how neoliberal capitalism is destroying the planet and promoting war: now *that’s* evil! Look, Ben’s not a little boy anymore, he’s of age, so … if this is consensual, it’s not evil, not even small-scale. It is consensual, right, on both sides?’


‘So … can you explain how exactly your love for Ben is going to destroy him?’

I buried my face in my hands. ‘Isn’t it fucking obvious, Rhon? This is … *incest*’ I whispered the word, even though nobody was sitting near us. ‘Last night … oh Rhonda, he … he made me come! And I let him; I welcomed it: I wanted it so bad, nothing else mattered. We could both go jail for this.’

‘Only if someone reports you, and only if a prosecutor then decides it’s worth his while to charge you. The probabilities on both of Rize Escort Bayan those is negligible, if you two keep it discreet. So you let him give you a cummy – good for you, I say.’

‘You … you really don’t think incest is wrong? I mean, our whole society, from the Bible and Sophocles on downward, say it’s an abomination.’

‘Hey, c’mon, where’s my enlightened utilitarian buddy? You’re not turning all moral positivist on me, are you? Does it make you and Ben happy, yes? Does it hurt anyone else, no? Then why give a fuck what society thinks?’

‘Ben deserves a … a normal relationship with a girl his own age – a relationship that can lead to marriage and children.’

‘Have you asked him if he wants that?’

‘Well, of course he *says* he doesn’t want that … he we wants to be with me, but …’

‘But what? You think he’s just thinking with his dick?’

‘No! I mean, Ben really seems to love me. It’s … very surprising. It’s overwhelming.’

‘I’m not surprised, Rachel. You two have always been close – not in a smothering, controlling way at all, more like best friends. You’ve been a wonderful mother to Ben; you’re eminently lovable. And you deserve some romantic love, at long last.’

‘I just can’t bear the idea of harming him, Rhon. If I could … just love him, without harming him … I’d be the happiest woman in the universe.’

‘So what harm are you doing by accepting his love, and loving him back? By letting yourself and him both have what you want? I really don’t see what your moral quandary is here.’

‘You … really think I should let this happen? I shouldn’t … try to … to put a stop to this, before it gets completely out of hand?’

‘That’s your decision to make, honey. But I will support you a hundred percent whatever you decide.’

* * *

That conversation with Rhonda shifted something within me. The ugly thoughts still floated around in my brain, but Rhonda’s calm, supportive analysis of the situation – she uses the Quaker term ‘discernment’ – had deprived those thoughts of their moral force. A week after that conversation, Ben and I fully consummated our relationship, and then there was no going back. The ugly thoughts soon faded away completely, replaced by wonder and delight at the beauty and power of my relationship with my son. Ben and I together, in love, making love – it all just felt so *right*. The fact that it’s socially taboo … well, frankly, that just makes the sex hotter.

It didn’t take much persuasion on Ben’s part to convince me to have a child with him. At the time, I mentally downplayed the risk of birth defects. The stuff Ben and I read on the internet about consanguineous reproduction made it less scary than I had thought. But the risk was still substantial, on top of the elevated risk due to my age. We didn’t quite realize how much we were playing Russian roulette with the genetics. As it turned out, we got lucky. The pre-natal screening showed no problems, and our daughter Yael was born without any birth defects. In fact, she turned out absolutely perfect. If you ignore her foot-dragging on cleaning her room, and her occasional smart-assedness. Honestly, Ben and I are so blessed to have her in our lives, even her smart-assedness is endearing.

With my permission, Ben came out to his best friend Mohan about our relationship, and got the same supportive response that I received from Rhonda. Inevitably, Mohan and Rhonda met through us. And to our surprise, Mohan fell for Rhonda, big-time. Mohan is an absolutely *gorgeous* young Bengali-American math genius. That’s not an exaggeration: he was shortlisted for the Field Medal while still in grad school. At first, Rhonda resisted her attraction to Mohan, worried about the substantial age gap. But I gave Rhonda a taste of her own medicine, sitting her down and ‘discerning’ what the fuck she was so afraid of. Well, now they’re happily married, and Mohan joined her Quaker meeting. They’ve been together five years now, still all over each other like newlyweds. I wish Ben and I could be publicly affectionate like that; but we make up for it in private. We have dinner at their place, or they have dinner at ours, every Sunday night. First Day, Quakers call it.

And now we’ve joined the Quakers too. Ben and I still completely identify as Jewish, but that’s not a problem with the Quakers. In fact, we’ve met Quakers who are more serious about their Judaism than a lot of the congregants at Temple Beth Tikva, the shul we used to attend. I like to quip, some of our best Jews are Friends.

Ben and I have found support as well through an online forum of the Consang Equality blog. We dropped that icky word ‘incest’ from our vocabulary, replacing it with ‘consanguinamory’. We’ve met other happy mom-son couples – we’re not the only ones! – as well as other consanguinamorous couples and polycules. We talk through our common problems and share our joys. I’ve helped several mothers who were in Escort Rize despair about their feelings for their sons, the same way Rhonda helped me. Some day, maybe we’ll travel and meet up with some of these online friends face to face.

* * *

I’m brought back to the present by Ben’s steady thrusting, growing more vigorous by the moment. The room is dark now; it’s long past sunset.

‘Not sure I can hold off a whole lot longer, Mom, with your shmundie squeezing me like that.’

‘S’okay baby. Come in me, whenever you’re ready’, I answer.

‘Mmm, can you get on top, Mom? I want to feel your weight on me.’

It seems strange, but Ben loves the feeling of being immobilized under me as he comes. And I don’t mind taking a turn as the more active partner. So we pause our love-making as Ben rolls off me onto his back and I roll onto him, straddling his thighs. I take his beautiful schmeckl back inside my drooling schmundie and sink down on him.

‘Oh God Mom, you feel so good! I’m so close …’

I begin wiggling and bouncing my hips over him, gyrating myself around the hard, hot schlong buried in my depths. Doing my belly-dance moves. Oh my! This feels exquisite: he’s penetrating me even deeper than before this way.

”Oh! Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come too … again. C’mon baby, come in me, come with me!’

He thrusts upward, powerfully, his cockhead punching my cervix, as his body goes rigid, grunting and gasping beneath me, eyes screwed shut … I feel his thick rod pulsate, and then a torrent of hot son-semen splatters deep inside me. My baby boy, the one I gave birth to, the one I breastfed, the one I raised and taught, the one I’ve loved my whole life, my beautiful son, is lovingly coming inside me. Then my own orgasm tears through me like a flame on dry kindling.

* * *

In the blissful afterglow of that shared orgasm, a line from the Quaker Advices and Queries comes to my mind: ‘Children and young people need love and stability.’ I ruminate on this as I recover from the climax. Why the hell am I thinking about this? Yes, I recall that the line was quoted in a vocal ministry in last week’s meeting for worship, but why is this resonating for me right now? I think about my son: he’s getting plenty of love from me, and then some! And with his dissertation research panning out so well, there’s no instability or insecurity to be concerned about. But what about our daughter Yael? She seems happy. She’s thriving. She knows we both love her unconditionally. But … her happiness is built on shifting sand, isn’t it? I don’t like to think about it, but this life Ben and I share is illegal in this state; all it would take is a careless word about us from someone who knows us, and a police investigation could ensue. We could end up in jobless, publicly humiliated, even incarcerated, and Ya-ya could end up in foster care, never permitted to see us again. I guess my reminiscing about the early days of our relationship has dredged up that old fear – but it’s not an entirely unreasonable fear.

I think back to what Ya-ya asked when we came out to her about our relationship, and explained the danger if anyone found out: ‘Why don’t we go to a safe place right now?’ There are states where consensual adult consanguinamorous relationships are legal. Rhode Island is one of them. Lots of Quakers there.

Ben’s deflating penis slips out of me, and I roll off him, grabbing a handkerchief from the nightstand (kleenex is less eco-friendly), to mop up the semen running down my inner thighs before it turns into a big wet spot on the bed.

We lie back in bed. As Ben cuddles up to me under the covers, his head on my left breast, he murmurs, ‘Mmm, I forgot to tell you Mohan’s big news. Brown’s made him an offer, with a position for Rhonda too.’

I stiffen. ‘Brown University, you mean, in Rhode Island?’

‘Is there another one?’ he asks.

‘Founded by a Quaker, did you know that?’

‘Okay … good to know. But, I mean, my point is … it’s gonna be a lot lonelier here without Rhonda and Mohan around.’

‘Hang on, I’ve got to check something.’

I slip into my bathrobe, then waddle over to the computer and boot up. A few minutes later, I’ve navigated to the poli-sci job listings site. I haven’t paid much attention to job postings in years. Ever since getting tenure here, I’ve thought of myself as unmovable. But I vaguely remember recently seeing something from Brown. Yup. There it is. A senior-level hire, in the poli-sci department at Brown. Application deadline: two weeks from now. I surf to the department’s website, and I’m reminded that my friend Amy from grad school has ended up there. In fact, she’s now the department chair.

‘Earth to mom,’ Ben says. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Ben … what if we follow Mohan and Rhonda to Rhode Island? There’s an open position at Brown I can apply for. My big article on immigrant disenfranchisement is forthcoming in AJPS – that’ll make a good splash for my CV. I don’t know who else may be applying for this, but I think I look pretty competitive. The language of the ad seems wide-open, not tailored for some particular individual, so that’s a good sign. And the department chair is an old grad school buddy.’

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