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Author’s note: This is a VERY long story. Over 31,000 words long. It’s not some silly piece of stroke material (although, yes, there IS sex in it). It’s a love story, of sorts. If themes of incest and inbreeding bother you, please don’t read further. If you’re not intimidated by such themes, however, please read on. If you’ve read my stories before then you should be aware that I frequently involve cervical penetration in my sex scenes. I KNOW this is not a common sex act and is not usually achievable. This is erotic literature, okay? Just relax and enjoy the story – THAT is why I wrote it, for the enjoyment of it.

As always, please feel free to leave comments, most especially supportive feedback or critiques. And, one last thing: just because I write about it does NOT mean I endorse it! Incest is against the law in most countries and states- THIS IS FICTION ONLY. Now… I sincerely hope you enjoy the tale I’ve spun. Time to read on…

*****

As I lay in this darkness, cut off from the world around me, I think about the only thing I can: my life. I’d like to say that it was full of adventure and danger, that I proved my manliness to the rest of my species through feats of heroism and daring. I’d like to say that I thwarted foes and foiled evildoers. I’ve always been a fan of super heroes and dashing warriors for God-and-Country. I always wanted to be like them. Alas, I am only a man of modest means and, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, hardly worth a second look. Conrad Atwood, nobody you’d look at and think of as especially powerful or important.

The truth is, though, that the world scarcely notices me because my affluence hides me very well. I am, after all, the inheritor of extreme wealth. I don’t earn the income I’d been raised with, not a penny of it, but I don’t flaunt it, either. Certainly, I used it, but not in a flamboyant manner. I’m not one of those egocentric rich men who gets off by rubbing his wealth in the faces of those who don’t have it. I’m the furthest thing from a show-off that you could imagine. No, truth be told, I’d like to keep as much distance between the world and myself as humanly possible.

Because my manliness is proven in my progeny.

I guess, for me, it all started from the moment I was born in 1973. The family fortune kept my birth a fair secret from the rest of the world. Oh, I have a birth certificate like everyone else, but my family likes to keep prying eyes away from us, so a few salient facts about me were- shall we say?- “fudged.”

From the moment I drew breath, I was showered with love. My mother Rose kept me safe and my father kept US safe. We lived in a secluded but comfortable house outside of town. It wasn’t so far out of town to make things difficult for us, but far enough away and isolated enough that it would take many decades before the town’s growth would overtake us and force the family to move elsewhere. A food delivery service had been arranged, paid for by the family fortune in a roundabout manner, making it unnecessary for us to bother with such things on our own. All we did was fill out an order for what we needed, left it in the post box at the end of our very long driveway every Tuesday, and the items appeared there a day or two later. For as long as I can remember, this happened without fail every week, regardless of weather or circumstances. I never investigated the conditions of the arrangement and simply took it as a given. It wasn’t until I was much older that I learned most other people didn’t have a similar arrangement of their own, that my family was unique.

Growing up as a boy, we had no visitors. Nor did we have any staff. Mother took care of everything around the house while Father worked in seclusion and secrecy in the barn on our property that had been converted into a lab of sorts. Apparently, Father was an inventor of some kind. The family fortune, apparently, came from a series of inventions that his grandfather had made back when Thomas Edison and Nikolai Tesla were causing the US Patents Office to have kittens. My great-grandfather was apparently a very crafty and ingenious fellow indeed whose patents and inventions kept an obscene amount of money pouring into our coffers since the early 1900’s. For the sake of my family’s devotion to secrecy I won’t divulge what those inventions and patents were. Suffice to say that they are still in use more than a century later and some of them are integral parts of every American’s daily life. Don’t trouble yourself about it; it isn’t really germane to my story anyway.

So where was I? Oh, yes. My childhood. It was filled with knowledge and learning and exploration. You’d think that I was kept hidden from the rest of the world, but that isn’t quite accurate. When I was very, very young, yes. I was sequestered from other children until I was old enough to understand that our family had certain boundaries that we didn’t want crossed, that there were rules for how we interfaced with the outside bahis firmaları world. It was shortly after I really came to understand these rules and family policies, all of them drilled into my mind by Father and Mother, that Father passed away suddenly. Illness did not take him; an accident of weather and happenstance did. His death was not gruesome or horrific, as far as I can tell (his funeral WAS close-casketed), but Mother insists that its suddenness took her by surprise.

And so it was that my mother, now a heartbroken widow, resolved to ensure that I would receive the education that Father could not supply directly. With his lessons in how to comport myself firmly seated in my young and impressionable mind, Mother saw to it that I attended school in the city. She had warned me that it was a different world out there, a lot more complex than the one I knew at home, but that I would always be safe there and a watchful eye would be kept upon me at all times, unseen but vigilant. While growing up, I was uncertain of how she arranged this, but I can attest to it: not once was I harassed or troubled by bullies or troublemakers, even though, as the archetypal “new kid”, I should have been by all rights. I saw other kids receive their fair share of headaches from such characters, but whenever they caught sight of me, they always mysteriously turned away as though just being in close proximity to me might somehow cause them to melt in agony. The resentment in their eyes when they saw me was obvious and worrisome, but they never acted upon it. I once mentioned it to Mother and she simply nodded approvingly, as though it was exactly as it should be. Having seen what some of those other kids had to endure, I did not rail against the mysterious protection- “never look a gift horse in the mouth”, after all. My early years in school were lonely, sure, but they were also blessedly absent of scars or unwanted fights. I think that if the protection hadn’t been there I might have made more friends and had a more normal experience around other kids, but I didn’t come to that realization until much later in life. Don’t get me wrong- I wasn’t a total pariah; I DID have a few friends growing up, but there was always a sort of distance between us and I sometimes found myself giving them a good bit of misdirection about my family life due to the rules I had to follow. But, all in all, I suppose that it could have been worse. I never outright lied to my friends (Father had taught me that telling only part of the truth or wording the truth in specific ways was always preferable to telling lies whenever possible), but I always felt alone in keeping my family’s identity so secret.

The years went on and I grew older. I grew smarter, too. And stronger. I played soccer in middle school and, when I turned 16, took over Father’s lab, turning it into a workshop of my own rather than seeing it go to disuse. I believe that Mother was initially upset about that, but when she saw that I was spreading my creative and intellectual wings in there, she decided to let it go. While a brilliant woman in her own right and in her own way, she had no use for the lab and allowed me to do as I wished in there as long as I came in for dinner and kept it clean. I never did make anything of note in there, but I had a lot of great fun tinkering with things and learning how they worked. Some things I did make with my own two hands, which worked according to my own designs, but they all amounted to just re-inventing the wheel. I was not destined to follow in my father’s or great-grandfather’s footsteps, it seemed, but I still learned a lot about all manner of things from the time I spent in that workshop. What I couldn’t figure out from empirical knowledge, I gleaned through Father’s library.

One could make the argument that I learned more in that re-tooled barn house than I ever did in school… and I wouldn’t disagree a whit. That is not to say, however, that I didn’t learn a lot in school. I learned history and literature and science and math- all of the subjects that the other kids learned. I soaked it all up like a sponge, always thirsty for knowledge and forever thrilled by the challenges in understanding how it worked. The teachers loved me for that, I think, but my peers did not. The already small pool of friends I had grew smaller as I grew older. By the time I was in my senior year of high school, I honestly had only one real friend left, and our relationship was tenuous at best- we got along amicably enough until his eye got turned by a certain girl and I drifted into the background of his life, becoming someone he would nod to as we passed in the hallways and share small banter in the two or three classes we shared. I think he is now married to that young woman who’d turned his head and they have a couple of children. I did not feel upset about how my last and only friend in “the real world” had so easily drifted away from me; he was my friend and I was happy for him that he’d found a girl kaçak iddaa he liked.

And that brings me to an interesting point about my youth: girls. Did I notice them? Certainly! I’m as red-blooded as any male alive! When I was a young man, I was just as intrigued and fascinated by pretty girls as any other guy. But the interest, I must admit, was only superficial. I recognized their youthful beauty and their charm, but the truth was that I went home every day to the most beautiful woman I knew existed: my mother. She taught me, whether on purpose or by accident, about the kind of woman I should want in my life. I wanted a smart, dedicated, calm, elegant, wise woman. The girls I went to school with, while very pretty, were nowhere near as refined as my high standards required. So I contented myself with looking, but never really approaching. Some of them approached me, a few very forward in their advances, but I always saw through their attempts and shrugged them off. Their weak performances of shoddy manipulation and flirtation were ungainly and awkward and without grace. I was never cruel in rebuffing them, but I was always clear in making them understand that none of them were the kind of woman I was looking for. They lacked the sophistication required to hold my interest. Most were shot down gently and even seemed to appreciate my kind and poised way of turning them away; a small few of them were even less graceful in accepting my rejection than they were in pursuing me. I think some of my fellow students, both boys and girls, thought that I might be gay, but I know for certain that I perplexed virtually all of them. I simply had no interest in having a temporary relationship with a girl who would ultimately disappoint me or be disappointed BY me. I mean, what’s the point, right?

On the day of my graduation, however, one of my fellow male students said something that struck me as very odd when he saw my mother in the audience, at first not knowing that she was my mother. We were standing on the stage, waiting for our names to be called so that we could receive our diplomas and walk into the world as legal adults. “Man, check HER out! Whoever’s sleeping with her, he’s one lucky son of a bitch!”

I just turned to him, only slightly annoyed by his crassness. “That woman happens to be my mother. And she’s a widow.”

The boy blinked at me in surprise and then nodded. “Makes sense now,” he said casually and even actually smiled, which replaced my annoyance with confusion.

“What makes sense now?” I asked cagily.

He pointed at her. “I mean, LOOK at her!” he said. “Your mother, on a scale of one to ten in hotness, is like a fifty! She’s off the charts hot! NO WONDER you never had a girlfriend, man! You bring some girl home and she’ll feel like chopped liver compared to her. Hell, you probably saved yourself more grief than you’ll ever know by not dating any of the hags in our school!”

I looked around us and noticed several of our female schoolmates giving him dirty looks. “The girls in our school are anything but hags,” I said placidly, which earned a few appreciative smirks from the ones who looked ready to claw the other boy’s eyes out.

He just smirked and said, “Maybe, but none of them is like your mom.”

And that was when I had a sort of epiphany. I fell silent as my mind began to turn with thoughts inspired by this exchange. I cast my gaze out into the audience, looking directly at my mother with new eyes. She saw me staring at her and gave me a small, demure wave of support and love, a wisp of a smile on her ruby red lips. In that instant I found myself looking at her objectively, as a woman, and realized that what the other boy had said as absolutely true. Her large, firm breasts; her curvy hips; her well-toned legs; full, brunette hair that had natural ringlets; plump, kissable lips; beautiful blue eyes that look almost like still water; her pale, unblemished skin; her short stature that was perfectly proportioned; her thin waist and dainty hands. She wasn’t dressed provocatively, but every pore of her being screamed “I’M A MILF!” before the term had even been coined.

My mother was, far and away, a significantly more attractive woman than any of the girls standing around me on that stage. In every way I could conceive of, she was an absolute goddess in comparison to them. How had I not noticed this sooner? And, as attractive as she was, why was it that she did not have suitors banging down our front door? I could not remember a single instance where some man who was not my father came calling on her. Not even a lawyer or vacuum salesman. All these years, since my father’s death, she had been alone and devoted herself to nothing but my upbringing. We got along very well and spoke about a great deal many things in the privacy of our own home, but I suddenly realized that, what for all that she had taught me, I knew virtually nothing about HER. For the rest of my high school graduation ceremony I was locked kaçak bahis in a brooding, pensive silence. I scarcely recall even shaking my principal’s hand as he handed my diploma to me, I was so engrossed in my thoughts about my mother.

After the ceremony, I distractedly bid a small number of schoolmates I was on good terms with goodbye and wished them well in their future endeavors. When I’d shaken my last hand and given my last wan smile to someone I doubted I would ever meet again, I went to my mother who was waiting a short distance away, looking as lovely and patient as humanly possible. She wore a ghost of a smile on her lips, but her eyes were filled with pride and joy for my sake.

When I stood before her, I simply nodded and said, “I think I would like to go home now, Mother.”

For a fraction of a second a look of concern flashed across her face, but it disappeared just as quickly. With a simple nod of understanding, she turned and slipped her arm into mine. “Of course, dear,” she said. “Home it is.”

The trip home was had in silence while I continued to brood and got lost in my thoughts. What that boy said had troubled me deeply. Mother, of course, recognized that I was thinking deeply and didn’t disturb me the whole time. When we got inside, however, she closed the front door behind us and said, “If you’d like to join me in the kitchen, I made you a graduation cake. We don’t have to eat all of it, but I’d like you to at least have one slice with me.”

Still swimming within my own mind, I numbly nodded to her and followed her into the kitchen. Sure enough, there on the table, sitting beneath a glass cover, was a small chocolate-iced cake with the words “Congratulations, Conrad!” elegantly painted on it. I sat down at the table while she cut the cake, removed a slice and put it on a plate for me. When she placed it in front of me and I stared at it stupidly, she finally had had enough.

“Okay, Conrad,” she said sternly. “Out with it. What’s eating you?”

I continued staring at the cake for a few seconds, gathering up the words and questions I wanted to have answered and took a deep breath. “Mom, are you single because of me?”

Mother blinked at that question in surprise. “I… what?”

Then I told her about the conversation I’d had with the boy at the graduation ceremony and the thoughts I’d had as a result. The whole time she was studiously silent and let me have my say, let me ask my questions, until I’d gotten it all out. When I was done, she just stared at me with this most peculiar expression on her face. Without a word, she simply got a slice of cake for herself and took a few bites, chewing on it pensively. Every once in a while her pink tongue would slip out and lick icing from her lips, which drove me crazy now that I was aware of how sexy she really was. I couldn’t tell if she was upset or amused or sad or what. I’d never seen these expressions before, not on her. I watched her eyes, which seemed to move in several directions for a few moments, until she finally looked directly back at me and put her fork down, her piece of cake only half-eaten. Still, however, she said nothing.

“Well?” I prompted her. “Am I right?”

My mother stood up slowly, never taking her eyes from mine. When she was completely on her feet, she said, “Stay here a moment, please. I need to get something. I’ll be right back.” Without another word, she turned and left. I waited in my seat at the dinner table for several long minutes until she came back, now holding a thick photo album in her hands. She gently pushed our plates of cake aside, set the book down on the table in front of me and sat back down across from me.

“Open it,” she said. As I flipped it open about midway through, I saw a lot of black-and-white photos, most of them pictures of her or my father, sometimes together and sometimes alone. They looked very happy.

“I don’t understand,” I said after leafing through the pages for a few moments.

Mother reached across and flipped the pages back. She stopped at one page that had a picture of her when she was very young. I’d guess that she was about the same age I was then, when the picture was taken. Father was in it also. Conner and Rose, 1972, the picture was titled. I looked up at her blankly in confusion. She nodded to the picture. “Take a close look there,” she said. “What do you see?”

“I see you and Father,” I answered immediately. “Before he died.”

“Look closer.” I looked down. “Now, look at me.” I did so. My confusion was still writ large on my face and she noticed instantly. With a roll of her eyes she said. “Do it again. Look at the picture and then look at me.”

“I get it,” I said blandly. “In the picture you’re younger and now you’re older. So what? How does that answer anything?”

Mother, however, remained stoic. “Now… look at your father,” she told me.

And so I did. And then it hit me like a bolt of lightning. I looked back up at her quickly. “He was older!” I announced.

She nodded. “Now I want you to turn the pages back even further. Go back through the years. Keep your eyes open. It shouldn’t be too difficult to figure it out.”

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