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Jason has had better mornings.

She deftly used her skilled hands to guide me in, settling down on my bone. On all fours now, she looked skyward, moaning out the first of her six orgasms. She looked down, finally, searching my eyes as if she had never seen me before. Seeing the intense love I had for her, she swooned and our lips met. We did not kiss at first, only brushing our lips across in unbelievably repressed passion. When we finally let hell break loose and kiss, it was nuclear powered excitement.

Mom was in fantastic shape (cleaning a big house, plus secretly cleaning my separate house as I worked the fields). When she did cowgirl, it was with atomic power. Her cunt muscles held and released my cock so many times it was like she was trying to get the last bit of ketchup out of a stubborn bottle. She would moan in passion and orgasm every few minutes, each time swooning to my chest to passionately kiss me. I was in such intense, unexpected, heaven that I could only lie there, enjoying the ride. While we were doing this, he was coming around.

All of a sudden, he leaped up and grabbed mom by the hair, trying to get her off me. To everyone's surprise, I stood up, my powerful left hand securing mom to me by holding her by her pert bum. With my right hand, I grabbed his hand off mom, twisting it till we all heard a pop. He grasped his broken wrist. I flexed my powerful 22 inch right bicep while mom put an adoring hand over it. I said, "Be a good boy, and sit over there on the old picnic benches. Watch a real man at work, satisfying your legally married wife." He held his damaged paw and slinked over, dropping dejectedly onto the faded green pine bench.

To rub it in, I purposely held mom at 90 degrees to him so he could watch everything. He looked down when we looked over at him, but he was staring. Weirdly, he was getting his tiny cocky excited by the spectacle and actually undid his fly and touched himself as we proceeded.

Mom saw that and whispered something to me which made us both look at him, look at each other, laugh, and then kiss. As we got into a rhythm of sex, mating, and perhaps something else, mom brought up the 'something else':

Speaking in tones loud enough for him, and any owl within three miles of us, to hear, mom said, "You know Jim, just because we only had one child doesn't mean that I didn't want more children. In fact, if a certain someone had been more of a man and less a taste tester for charcoal smooth mellowed sour mash, we might have made a few more heirs to our 'great family fortune'. It got so bad in the marital bed that performances were usually called off. When the performance came off, it was all over in two or three minutes, with one or two droplets, and I mean raindrops, of thin goo. There might have been a few dozen sperm in there, at best. It was no wonder I could sleep in a marital bed for 17 years, no pill, no birth control, and no babies. The only breeding and babies were in my dreams. I was embarrassed to tell anyone, for obvious reasons, but I saw my handsome son Jim change his shirts out by the baler once too often. His bronzed body, cut into detailed muscle, the powerful sinews of his manly form sending shivers through me. I used to lie in bed at night, turning in early so I wouldn't risk appearing awake when 'he' got in bed. I would dream of my suntanned son, like Apollo, coming down from the sunlit skies to use his power, his godly gifts, to bestow love, sex, adoration, and his wondrous, fertilizing seed to me. Each time we joined in lover's embrace, that god would bring about my belly expansion, and then a resulting birth of one, two, maybe five babies. Eventually, the Elysian fields of that dream were filled with squalling babies, a symbol of our passion and love. One day, that male god left, leaving me with the worst empty feeling of post partum depression. It was sort of like the emptiness I really felt in waking life."

At this point, mom and I gazed upon each other's e

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