Title: Knowing Which Side My Bread Is Buttered On Keywords: mF, mat, inc, mom, son Author: Caesar Summary: A recent widow entertains her son while contemplating her past and future. A german composer named Bruckner Remarked to a lady while fuckener : "Less lento, my dear, With your cute little rear; I like a hot presto when muckener!" Knowing Which Side My Bread Is Buttered On by Caesar, copyright 2006 Edited by Isaac Newton, circa 2006, Revision 1.1 $Revision: 1.3 $ $Date: 2007-12-02 07:47:45 $ When Tony stares at me with those familiar hungry eyes I do not discourage it. I know which side my bread is buttered on. That was my mother's favourite statement when we had our frequent arguments. The driver opens the door to our car, and Tony and I walk arm in arm to the large crowd at the top if the hill - the chosen site for my husband Jason's grave. It is a somber scene and tears come easily to my eyes. I look exquisite in my long black dress with the lace veil hiding most of my features. It is the end of another chapter in my life. The man who had been my husband had been a good provider. Our relationship was agreed upon in the opening weeks, and for the next twenty years both of us enjoyed playing our parts. Our agreement held to the end. Of course I didn't love him. I learned that lesson years before I met Jason. Everyone in attendance wants to come up and tell me how much Jason meant to them, tell me how sorry they are, how great a man he was. I shake their hands but say little. I play the part of the grieving widow to perfection, the final scene of my play with Jason. He would have been proud. The car drives us back to our home on the outskirts of the city. Just as we are entering the gate to our lane, my son Tony leans over, places his hand on my upper thigh and says in a reassuring way, "Don't worry, mom. I will take care of you now." How much did Jason tell him? The hand lingers until the driver opens the door for us. I do not discourage his touch. In my room I sit at my dressing table inspecting the woman reflected in the mirror. She is a beautiful woman, even though middle age has come upon her against my wishes. But beauty can be both a curse and a treasure, as I have seen again and again. When my mother's drunken boyfriend slipped into my bed in the middle of the night to rape the beautiful, twelve-year-old version of me, it was a curse. When Jason first set eyes upon me and could not believe that I smiled in return (he knew he was already showing the pattern baldness and pot belly that he would grow into), that was a treasure. I know Tony has been confused about our relationship for many years. I could feel his eyes upon me most days, feel it like a physical touch. I ignored him, of course - not because he was my son, but because I had agreed with Jason that he would be the only man in my life. I never regretted it. As Tony graduated from high school and went to university, I started to receive intimate gifts from him. Sometimes it was chocolate, but more often it was lingerie or a book of erotic poetry. These all went into a chest in the basement. The reflection shows that my earlier tears have made a mess of my makeup and I concentrate on making myself presentable. That was part of my side of the agreement as Jason explained it to me: to always make myself presentable, attractive but always dressed appropriately for every situation. I never failed to look like perfection, turning heads at every public function. It came as no surprise when Jason's lawyer explained that it would all go to his only son Tony. Jason was always a businessman after all. I was disappointed, of course, hoping that his death would change the path of my life. Evidently, it was not to be. A knock brings me back to the present and I casually say, "Come in." I know who it is of course. "Mother? How are you doing?" Tony ensures the door is closed behind him before stepping up behind me, looking at my reflection in the mirror. "My makeup is a mess." I continue to work on my face, feeling that touch-like gaze once again. His hunger is so obvious. His hands gently and casually rest upon my shoulders. "You look beautiful, mother. As always." "Thank you, Tony. But I am getting old - it is more work every day." I try to make light of my age, but I truly feel old. How can Tony look at me, his own mother, his own middle-aged mother, this way? A hand gently slides up my neck and brushes my long, thick hair out of the way, exposing my tender flesh. I set my compact down on the table and look up at my son, wondering, 'How much did your father tell you, Tony?' "Do you remember how I used to watch you comb your hair, mother?" "I do, yes." Even as a child he liked to look at me; then, with the onset of puberty, his gazes took on a new meaning. "I thought you the most beautiful woman alive. I still do." I smile gently. "Thank you, honey." Was my beauty a curse or a treasure right at this moment? Time will tell. That same hand slips back to my shoulder and gently eases my dress away from my neck, exposing the black strap of my bra and more of my pale flesh. "I miss those days." "Which ones, Tony?" He looks back up from my shoulder into my eyes, "You did not seem to mind sitting with me in only your underwear then. I miss that." I force a gentle smile. "Perhaps it was a mistake to stop." My role comes so naturally to me after all these years. A pleased smile appears on his lips and his gaze returns back to my neck and shoulder. "Perhaps it was, mother." His other hand moves down from my shoulder, grasps the tiny zipper, and gently tugs it down the length of my back. I sit still and watch soberly as my son seduces me. Both hands move up to my shoulders, going beneath the top of my dress and then easing it over my shoulder so that it falls down to my navel. I am wearing a black lace bra and nothing else from the waist up. "As good as your memory, Tony?" His eyes are wide with desire. Men are so easy to read. "Better, mom, much better." His hands are trembling now as they encircle my body, going straight for my small-sized breasts. The touch is not as disagreeable as perhaps it should be. To others, this mixture of incest and seduction of the widow on the eve of the funeral would be unseemly, I am sure. But permitting a man's touch is an act of necessity in this life. If given wisely, then comfort and security are returned. Once, I gave my self to a man for love, but he disappointed me and hurt me even worse than that drunk that ripped my virginity from my prepubescent body. That has never happened again. "Your nipples are getting hard, mother." They must be pressing through my thin lace bra into the palm of his hand. Yes, my body often responds to the most lecherous of touches. It, too, cannot be trusted. "Why do you think that is, Tony?" I am forcing a seductive smile, but I feel like crying. Perhaps I still feel some love for my son after all. I thought it had dried up with those puddles of sperm he used to leave in my panties in his middle-teen years, proving to me that he was just like the rest. He grins knowingly. "I think you are enjoying this." I nod in agreement, my eyes flashing seductively. There is that obvious hunger again. The child has no chance here. My son's hands fumble with the middle clasp of my bra, nearly tearing the expensive material in his haste. "I always dreamed of this moment, mother." Which? The moment that he would seduce me before even his own father was cold? "I knew you would come to me eventually, Tony." Not completely true. I had hoped my son would somehow be different from every other man in my life, all of whom I saw as hard lessons learned. Now my small breasts are exposed, the bra slipping down my arms to fall between us. Two sets of fingers and thumbs roll my puffy, hardening nipples roughly. "Are they sensitive, mother?" "Oh yes!" They are. If my beauty is a curse, then so too are my body's reactions to intimacy. I often hated that fact more than any other. "I've wanted you for so long, mother. I have wanted you all for myself." Gently I spin on my chair, turning to face my grown child. His hand is forced to disengage from my excited, hard nipples. He stares at me in surprise, suddenly looking more like a nervous child caught doing something naughty than the man seducing his middle-aged mother. With a gentle push from me, he steps back two steps before I rise smoothly up to a standing position. And then, as if on command, the half-worn dress slips down my rounded hips to land about my high-heeled feet. Tony's jaw drops in appreciation. I am wearing only things which he had given me a year before, things stored in that basement chest for use on this day, which I knew would be coming. I stood in seamed, black, thigh-high stockings, black lace garters, a black lace thong panty and my black heels. Nothing else. As you can see, I know how this game is played. Tony's smile could not get broader. "I don't know what your father told you, Tony, but there are a couple of rules." I step out of the discarded dress and bra lying about my feet, step right up to my son until my hard nipples are touching his chest. He just stares at me, so I continue. "I only give myself to a man who can care for me in the style I have become accustomed to." Tony nodded dumbly. Oh, my innocent, stupid son! "For this I will always be a trustful and reliable companion." His father never loved me, he just loved how he looked with me, or loved how he felt inside me. Jason had been the classic nerd, but felt like a man when he was with me. "Dad always said I should find a woman just like you - someone who was beautiful, great in the sack, but knows which side of the bread is buttered." 'Just like Jason to steal one of my lines,' I think ruefully. "But you didn't take your fathers advice, did you, Tony?" I am looking at my child through my long eye lashes. The play is proceeding according to the timeless script. "What... what do you mean, mother?" He definitely seems a little agitated. "You didn't find a woman like me, did you? You decided early on that you wanted me to be The One. Am I right, Tony?" He swallows thickly and nods. "What else did your father say, Tony? Did he tell how I performed in bed for him?" Tony nods. Jason and I had not loved each other, but we certainly knew one another. "He said there was not a sexual thing you would not do for him, and that you loved every second." My turn to nod in agreement. Tony is acting like a virginal boy rather than a man. I had half expected him to throw me on the bed and rip my flimsy thong off by now - that was what his father had done our first time together. "But only with one man, Tony. That is very important. There is nothing I would not do for the one man in my life." Even in this charade I can not say 'love'. This isn't love, it is a farce I am forced to play out of necessity. My own child wants to violate and use his last surviving parent. Is it the genes of my own parent, selfish and with a heart of coal? My son swallows thickly and nods carefully, agreeing with my statement. I can see the desire radiating from him, knowing without a look downwards that he is throbbing in his pants. Since puberty, this moment has probably been imagined many times as he stroked himself in self abuse. My hand rises slowly and strokes the firm flesh of my child's chin, my lips following to place a tender kiss on his dry, warm lips. "Tell me, Tony ... tell me that you are the man in my life ... tell me this is what you want." He is trembling now - pathetically desperate even as his head bobs up and down. "You must say it, my son; say the words." Tony's mouth moves a couple times before the words come out, "Yes, mother. God, yes! I want you... I want you to belong to me!" That was it, wasn't it - just a beautiful possession. A smooth, pale-skinned, warm-blooded female with three holes and numerous optional zones of pleasure. I feel like crying but force my smile to widen - the play must continue. The kiss this time is filled with promise - light but passionate, juicy. Tony takes a full minute before he turns on like a light switch. His arms yank me against him, his tongue roughly invades my mouth. I will be bruised tomorrow, but that doesn't matter. As I know well, bruises disappear. Hands tear my black-lace thong right from my body, moving in to maul my round, still-firm buttocks. I do not disappoint. I return his energy by forcing my hands to fumble about his belt and zipper, as if in a rush to open his slacks. But in reality, I am sick to my stomach, hating the woman I have become, hating my life. He is panting now, one of his hands again twisting a nipple as if it is a dial on a radio. Saliva drips from both our chins as I pull my lips from his long enough to gasp, "I need you in me!" Playing the part I know by rote, at that very second my hand encircles his hard, throbbing penis; but I did not apply too much pressure. He is liable to explode prematurely and men are unbelievably sensitive about that, I know from experience. "God yes, mother!" With a jerking spin we both fall backwards onto the bed, his larger frame heavy upon my own, his hard penis poking into my stocking-covered thigh. A hand aims the hard male appendage, fumbling even as I spread my knees wide, raising my heels high. Then it sinks within me, just another cock in the long train of my life. Yes, it finds a wet, hot, ready path; but then my body rarely follows the same path as my heart and mind. Tony raises himself up onto his hands, looking down at me in disbelief. "I can't believe this is happening, mother! This is so awesome." I feel a tear come unwanted to my right eye and I gasp in pretend passion, "I have wanted this for so long, Tony!" He looks surprised and then delighted, "I too have wanted this, mother." My son begins to gently move his hips, that hard penis within me moving carefully after so abrupt an entrance. I pet his head with one hand and grasp his hard, round buttock with the other. I also force a fire into my eyes while I look at him like the vixen he wishes me to be. "This is a fantasy come true, my son. Now fuck me ... fuck your mother!" "God, yes!" The passionate, violent energy returns, his hips slamming into my loins so that I bounce beneath him upon my own bed - the bed in which his father so frequently fucked me. The familiar echoes of my overly wet sex disgust me, but I can see my son take in this moment, saving it to his mental scrapbook to be remembered for all time. I know my future is assured - as long as I can keep him interested in his middle-aged mother, I mean. I may have to use a few things to keep that spark going - now that my beauty is greying with my hair - things that would have made me puke in disgust half a lifetime ago. I can still remember the shrill screams of my mother as her latest man slapped and threw her around our home. More than one of the guys liked his drunken woman's teenage daughter to sit and watch, as he fucked her near-comatose body to his satisfaction. One of those times was the first time I had felt a dick enter my mouth. It was coated with my own mother's juices. She lay passed out a meter away while her boyfriend finished on my innocent face with an evil glint in his eye. Tony is soon grunting as he vigorously fucks his surviving parent, evidently enjoying himself. I allow moans of 'pleasure' to escape my own lips, my body moving as it is supposed to, though I know there will be no climax for me in this little play. There never has been; not once have I had an orgasm with a man, not once have I had an orgasm with another person even in attendance. My fantasies are almost comic in their romantic love scenes, always with some fictional person that can never exist in real life. Oh, I can fake a climax like the best. Jason, Tony's father, felt so proud that he could bring his new and beautiful wife to repeated orgasms, while other girls our age would not even look at him twice. Stupid girls - he was rich, he was safe, and he was desperate. My son is nearing the end of our first time and I allow my panting of pleasure to rise an octave, my imaginary climax approaching as rapidly as his own. I even make my centimetre-long nails claw his long, strong back as my hips shove violently to meet his thrusts. Before I ran away from home, my mother had discovered the advantages of letting her men use her only daughter. It gave her a respite so she did not have foul-smelling, disgustingly-dirty men pumping in and out of her body. Using her daughter, having her daughter receive those coarse, filthy attentions, did not seem to bother her at all. My life has been a nightmare ...yes, even my time with Jason. My husband was fat, bald, and had hair all over the rest of his body like a gorilla. In the bedroom, he subjected his beautiful wife-of-convenience to all sorts of debauchery, seeming to enjoy how his grotesque personage could dominate a willing, beautiful woman. I can still feel the heat of his urine as he peed upon me that first time ...and yes, I faked an orgasm even then. The cock within me expands and turns momentarily harder - just as his father's used to do. I clench the muscles within me so that when I arch my back and scream out in passion it will be all the more believable. My son, seconds after my own faked orgasm, begins to fill his mother's sex with his incestuous seed. Then it is over and I feel like running and away and crying, just like that teenage girl did after her virginity was forced from her by a heavy, sweaty man-thing. Lips find my own and half-consciously kiss me, I pretend weariness as well, praying he will turn over and fall asleep as his father did practically every time we had sex. "You enjoyed it as much as I did, didn't you, mother?" My son is grinning stupidly, proudly, not realizing that I can barely stand his touch. I kiss him back, our eyes locking tenderly. 'Is my son in love with me?' I wonder, as if it would change what he will want to do with me in the bedroom. But perhaps it would make it easier for me to manipulate him, to keep myself away from the dangers and the risks that eventually killed my mother. "I just can't wait until tomorrow, Tony." He frowned playfully, "'Tomorrow?'" I nod, letting my eyes give that playful, naughty twinkle that Jason so loved. "Yes, tomorrow, my son. Tomorrow you are going to stay in bed with your mother and fuck me all day long." A huge grin spreads on his lips and he nods back, murmuring, "There is nothing I would rather do, mother." His mouth shoots between my jaw and shoulder, attacking the tender flesh of my neck as he kisses down to my still-erect nipple. As he grazes again, after so many years, at my breasts, I stroke my son's head tenderly, thinking all the while that men were so simple. --