Sharon rationalized no one would ever know.

She had no living relatives, and therefore I neither did Bobby. His father had been an only child, too, and his fatal accident over five years before had left them both alone in the world. Sharon had no really close friends. She was a loner, preferring it that way.

Who would be hurt?

There was a vague, nagging suggestion in the back of her mind that she shouldn't fuck her son, that it was wrong in some way. She tried to tell herself that was only a cultural demand. Other societies had no such qualms, she had heard. She wanted to take her son's cock into her cunt, fuck him wickedly, feel the hard thrust of his young cock going deep into her pussy. She was certain her son would do it, would fuck her with happiness.

Yet, something held her back.

But there had to be some way, some method, that would satisfy them both, end this torment they were both feeling.

The idea was only vague in her mind when Bobby came back into the living room. She was sitting on the couch, her legs crossed, elbow resting on the arm, her chin in her hand, considering the idea.

Bobby sat down on the other end of the couch, picking up a paperback book he had been reading the night before. He had found science fiction, and devoured the books ravenously. Sharon swung her crossed foot, feeling the friction on her cunt.

"You do that very often, don't you, honey?" she said, her voice so low and throaty she hardly recognized it.

Bobby nodded, unhesitatingly.

Sharon swung her foot, making the muscles of her thigh work against her cunt. She peeked at him from the corners of her eyes, wishing her son would speak, tell her bluntly that he jacked off frequently. She let her gaze move to his lap, trying to picture his cock and balls. Her clit was knotted tightly, and her panties were so wet they were uncomfortable. Her skirt pulled slightly away from her knee, working along her thigh slowly from the movement of her foot.