Awaiting a relapse
Andrey fell asleep and woke up with what had become part of his dreams.
Was it a temporary whim, a pastime? Or a bad habit? It's hard to say for sure. More likely, it was all of those things. A little bit of everything. And sometimes something more. In any case, it was rarely remembered (if remembered at all). But it was also never completely forgotten.
That is, Andrey was not at all surprised when he woke up with thirty-seven-year-old Anna. Moreover, he again experienced that half-forgotten feeling—the feeling of incestuous closeness. Which was nothing new: before, with his mom (i.e., Anna), they used to sleep together constantly. Then, for certain reasons,
they stopped. Well, and now, apparently, they had started again…There could be no statute of limitations here.
Anna carefully guarded a secret that Andrey himself was perhaps ashamed of. Andrey's mind snatched whole chunks of feelings—undifferentiated, fused together. In the end, everything turned out extremely inconsistent: first the deed, then the search for justifications. First a kiss, then a compliment. One could laugh at this, which the father and head of the family, Vladimir, often did. For him, the problem lay in the infantilism of today's youth, in their excessive pampering.
Be that as it may, in Andrey's consciousness, the image of his parent did not consist of mutually exclusive roles; these roles simply layered on top of each other. He perceived her in all qualities at once—Undivided. Anna never cheated on her husband, but she also couldn't reproach her son for something he already regretted. And how guilty was he? Was he guilty at all? She was ready to take responsibility for the "flaw" in her son's development upon herself. Or perhaps not a flaw, but a strange feature of "underdevelopment."
And so it all began. Movement along the perimeter of the familiar; timid deviations somewhere to the side. From watching porn videos together online to conversations about "purely hypothetical" things. And a little later, it progressed to something more practical.
Actually, in the priorities of family life, sex had gradually taken a back seat. By the fifteenth year of marriage, it was rarely remembered. Sexual intimacy had taken on the character of certain celebrations, tied to holidays, vacations, etc. Vladimir, making remarks to his wife about her "flashy" appearance, resorted only to a mockingly-simple tone. Of course, this hurt Anna. For many years now, the distance between them had seemed chronic, yet a crisis never came. Under these conditions, the so-called "relapses" occurred, first the second, then the third.
Andrey was unaware of many things. Some things didn't interest him at all. He was too busy with the pangs of his own conscience to think about the conscience of others. And when he managed to silence its nagging voice, he realized that the force of inertia was relentlessly dragging him back to where it all began—to the pernicious teenage nihilism combined with sexual preoccupation.
— Maybe father is right," he burdened himself with heavy thoughts, "and I'm just a pampered fag?
Once he got so carried away with his worries that he didn't notice he had started speaking out loud.
— God! What's wrong with me?!" he tormented himself. "What am I fighting against?!
— Resistance is futile!" he seemed to hear Anna's voice from afar, and when he looked down, he saw her face. Her lips, in a greedy captivity, were kissing the phallic mass of his erection. Andrey was horrified by his inability to delay the inevitable…
Sunlight flooded part of the wall, capturing part of the female figure as well. Anna was in a dress that was not only summery but categorically home-like—it barely reached the lower part of her buttocks. On the monitor screen, spots of naked bodies moved. The webcam indifferently recorded a couple of dissolute teenagers they were taking example from this time.
Anna didn't manage to cover the spurting "fountain." It came out inelegantly. Her lips slid over the thick fluid as it was expelled from the contracting head.
Andrey looked ruefully at his handiwork (a sticky blotch had tightened the pretty feminine features: nose, eyebrow, eyelash). The remainder of his thoughts flowed onto the "canvas," embodying a highly controversial incest-picture. Alive, she looks at him, blinking. And reflected in her eyes, Andrey realizes the entire drama of his experiences as stupid and pompous. Feeling an extraordinary lightness, he leans back in the computer chair. Anxieties recede before an inner calm, taking a back seat.
Watching porn videos together resulted in the moment of physiology temporarily eclipsing all other considerations. Of course, later those considerations reminded him of themselves. And it's not even about being caught "in the act" (the neighbors at the garden plot). It's just…
It's just that back then they weren't entirely sure yet. It seemed to them that something could change. For the worse. And the days, meanwhile, kept adding up into weeks and months.
Time gradually dissolved this fear—the fear of irreversibility. And then the desire to return anywhere disappeared as well. ("Where? Why?") It was either forgotten or transformed into something else…
Anna's build tends toward the stocky, although much of this "stockiness" falls largely on her butt and slightly plump tummy. Her legs, strangely enough, are thin, especially the ankles, which is why, for example, in jeans Anna looks big-bottomed (Given her average height, this is a rather significant detail.) Well, and if Anna is without clothes, then the gaze immediately catches on the large breasts, which without the support of a bra don't hold their shape at all.
Andrey never admitted to himself that he lived in anticipation of another "relapse." He didn't admit it because those supposedly forgotten experiences were too ambiguous. Condoms ran out quickly, and Andrey never got out of the habit of finishing quickly. The image of a pregnant mom haunted him relentlessly. An image that usually frightened him, but sometimes, contrary to common sense, pathologically aroused him.
There can be no statute of limitations here. Therefore, Andrey was not simply unsurprised when he woke up not alone, but once again in Anna's (i.e., mom's) embrace. On the contrary—he had only been waiting for this.
The desire to make Anna's awakening as pleasant as possible arose by itself. A kaleidoscope of similar situations surfaced in his memory, in which his own awakening sweetly transitioned into an orgasm, and opening his eyes, he saw his mom's face. "Surprise!" she would smile and wish him good morning, as if it were some kind of holiday.
— And she really does know how to turn every morning into a holiday…
Half-jokingly, half-seriously, Andrey wanted to leave a hickey on her neck. Through her sleep, Anna mumbles something, but Andrey doesn't react. Warm blood pulses through Anna's neck with the beats of her heart, the beating of life. Finishing kissing her neck, he kissed the sagging melons of her breasts for a long time, until he finally came to his senses and, without delay, crawled with his mouth toward her stomach and lower, leaving wet kisses in his wake.
After generously wetting the smooth pubic mound, he began to "fiddle" with the clitoris with a tense tongue, in all directions and with all possible amplitudes. The result was not long in coming: a radical change occurred in Anna's sleepy breathing.
She still pretends to be asleep, but not very convincingly. Feeling her thighs tense, Andrey spreads her knees wider apart. Anna has no choice but to arch in sweet languor, yielding her pelvis to meet him.
Andrey carefully inserts his fingers into the pinkening vagina—first one, then a second—mentally approaching the clitoris from the other, inner side…
After a few minutes, Anna is no longer playing the sleeping beauty and reacts sharply even to the slightest stimulation. Bringing her closer to the climactic moment, Andrey can hardly restrain himself from jumping up like a scalded cat and starting to pound her oozing womb with his stiffened member. However, he dares not pause.
— She deserves first-class cunnilingus!!" he thinks in a semi-delirium, reveling in what is happening in both the literal and figurative sense.
Anna shudders one final time and relaxes. Andrey slows down. He lies with a rock-hard member, listening to his own heartbeat, as well as to thoughts frozen from overexcitement.
He is insanely fond of this life—a life reduced to concrete and tangible forms, lines, curves, hollows, hemispheres. And can the drop in pressure in a system brought to overload compare to anything? For himself, Andrey had long answered this question. But is this a whim, a pastime? Or an undesirable bad habit? It's hard to say for sure.
The most important thing: he waited for another relapse, and, therefore, the pressure in his system has decreased for a while. And this already provides room for solving all other questions.