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Who makes the distinction, and who gives them the authority? My heart quickened and blood overloaded my capillaries, making me hot and itchy at the same time. My period was at least a week and a half away, making pregnancy a very distinct possibility for this lady.

Most people would consider what we did to be wrong. " Blushing, I went to answer smartly but he got in ahead of me. It took every bit of willpower not to go digging at my underarms. You are not old." "I'm no spring chicken, either," I said, taking another sip. Paul grinned up at me and I knew he had prepared for this eventuality. Putting his other hand under my sweater, he sought out my now-free breasts and held them as though he were handling bars of gold.

It was the last time I let myself be around Paul in nothing but my bathrobe. But no sooner would he start a relationship with a girl than things would turn sour. Not only did the crowd of invited friends swell all out of proportion to the square-footage of our house, but alcohol and some very potent-smelling marijuana found its way into the basement. Suddenly, here I was in control of the damned boat and steering not away from the thundering flume, but towards it. "You don't tell anybody about this," I said, tapping the mouth of my bottle against his. Gathering myself, I said, "Your farther is not old," meaning to add something like: "He'd get really upset hearing you say that, Paul." But Paul jumped on my mispronunciation and teased, "My farther? Then, with his assistance, I stood up and walked breezily out to the kitchen for two more bottles of wine.

Two or three weeks would pass, a month, maybe two months, during which I'd feel his interest as strongly as I would any suitor. I can't tell you how many times I yelled at Paul to turn down the music, nor how many inappropriately locked-together couples I separated in my wanderings. Kissing had sent blood rushing to my face and every other part of my dermis. Paul watched me like a calculating, long-suffering suitor. "Well, we could start with my underwear," I said meaningfully. For ages now I had been aware that Paul borrowed my underwear to fantasize over. "I'm too old to get locked up for contributing." He snorted. On the way back I grinned sheepishly crossing before the two open windows, one of them the big bay widow overlooking the front lawn.

Embarrassed, I looked numbly at the Watchman and mumbled something instantly forgettable. Then Paul said in an oddly constrained voice: "Mom? That's a seriously impressive record, sweetie." "Twenty-three would be better," I said grumpily. Then I accompanied him to the front door where he gathered his flight bag and his two pieces of luggage. He did leave, however, just as he had to, and after watching him drive down the street and turn the corner, I slowly closed the front door and locked it. The last of the company had left and Paul and I cleaned up the mess in silence. " he added, making a scooping motion with his hand. He slowly began to work them down my hips and thighs. He worked my leggings the rest of the way down to my ankles and I stepped out of them awkwardly. With trembling fingers I unbuttoned the front of his shirt, spread it apart and ran my hands across his young, hard-muscled flesh.

I knew, even without a crystal ball, that things would get out of hand that night with Paul. In the kitchen, he came up behind me and said: "I guess it's just you and me now, partner." Forcing a smile and a cheery tone of voice, I replied: "I think we'll make the best of it. " "I opened the flue in the chimney," he said, jokingly. I was on the verge of saying something totally inane when he encircled my waist with his arms and pressed up against me. My heart skipped a beat, and then began pounding thunderously. I felt blood rush into my face and my upper body again broke into gooseflesh. He responded with a shiver of his own and I leaned in to kiss him.

Most of the relaxation had gone from my body and I felt like a mouse trap ready to snap closed. "No tongue, and no touching, either, Paul." This stipulation caused more embarrassment to me than it did Paul, who just nodded eagerly. I hadn't even seen him put down his wine bottle on the end table. Trembling inside, I gave it to him and allowed him to pull me to my feet. I know we kissed, quite chastely, lips pushed out like some old Saturday Evening Post cover. Until then, I won't say a word to anyone." What could I say to that?

He caught me before I could fall backwards over the pillows. She'll write up our story and I'll surprise you with it on Christmas Day when you're 58 years old.

Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Mom and her 18 year old son Paul are home alone Christmas Eve. Paul has been openly infatuated with her for years. "You better never let me hear anybody call me that," I threatened, "or they'll be picking flakes of fingernail out of their throats." He smiled at me wryly. What I should have done, was what I had done two years ago: get up and leave. "Sons aren't supposed to want to fuck their mothers, Paul." I had said it. The red berries, deadly poisonous if eaten, glowed softly with reflected firelight. Then my mouth was open and I touched my tongue to his and suddenly I was in his arms and he was holding me tightly and this kiss just kept going on and on and-- "Paul! I moaned as he took possession of it, squeezing it gently, his fingertips tracing the outline of my brassiere underneath.A few would say it was okay, but mostly out of prurient interest. " Feeling a sudden pity, I opened the refrigerator and withdrew two Seagram's wine coolers from the six-pack on the shelf. "On me." He twisted off both caps, handed me back a bottle and took a sip. "Embarrassing your mother on Christmas Eve," I scolded, taking a sip of wine to mask my embarrassment. "Tell that to my friends," he countered, making me wonder where this strange conversation was leading. Undoubtedly he had a whole box of condoms stashed away somewhere in his room, just awaiting the opportunity. Knowing that made my emotions battle just that much harder. " I gushed, finishing the glass and grabbing his off the table. Sitting in his lap, I stripped off my sweater and sat there with it clutched in my hands.A few others, those who have been through the experience themselves and understand the emotional impact, would claim that it's both. This story rightfully starts in 1987, when I was thirty-seven and Paul thirteen. " "Your sister's in there making it right now," I said, again suppressing a grin. He looked in the direction of the kitchen, where Joan, from the sound of her furious soft cursing, was industriously ruining dinner. I had embarrassed him awfully about my underwear and was feeling slightly guilty. Especially with this," I said, holding up the cold bottle. "You should be ashamed of yourself.' He laughed softly and took a sip of his own. "If it's bad, I don't want to hear about it," I warned. I returned my mouth to his and let him work his hand up under my sweater. I was in the rapids of desire and alcohol was vital to assist me over the jagged mental rocks and boulders. I watched his widened eyes travel from one bra-covered hand to the other. I'm sure, except for the absurdity of a 42 year old woman and her 18 year old lover, we looked liked something out of a movie. My mouth opened under the urging of his tongue and I met and accepted him into my mouth. Snapping off the lid, I stuck the bottle into his hand and twisted the lid off my own bottle. Still adjusting a log with his right hand, he looked back over his shoulder. I was ten pounds overweight (OK, maybe twenty), my breasts had begun to sag, and I would never looked nineteen again in a bathing suit. The fire had begun to devour the new logs and was crackling merrily. "Well, since I was eleven, anyway," he said, shrugging. I remembered that morning when Paul was thirteen, and his eyes relentlessly following me around the kitchen. I let him draw me in, holding the nearly-full glass of wine safely aloft.

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