Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Title: The Good Mother


Summary: You can touch it if you like, she said.   


Keywords:inc,fic,erotic,hot,sex





   Theirs was a clapboard farmhouse in the country.  They had lived there
since the Depression.  A drafty two-story affair, large and rambling,
steep-pitched metal roof, worn floorboards.  The ceilings were high, the
stairs creaked.  The furniture and the rugs, time-worn and frayed, but
comfortable.  Out back, the stillness of tobacco fields and endless rows of
soybeans beneath a hot summer sun.  No neighbors in sight.

   It was the covered, wrap-around front porch with its swing and gathering
of wooden rocking chairs that my dad found the most intolerable.  He had no
use for rural America, sitting around on porches like that, passing the
evening away.  Wasted time, he would say.  Too much stillness.  Everything
so quiet.  Which is why, as often as possible, he avoided the two-hour
drive to my mother's parents, and the house she grew up in.

   Not me.  As a young boy, I loved that farm.  At least once a month,
always on a Saturday morning, I found myself sitting by the passenger-side
window, head leaning out to catch the wind, as my mother drove our old,
two-toned '64 Chevrolet along the back roads to Gramma's house.  One hand
on the steering wheel, the other brushing hair out of her face.  We drove
with all windows down.  She was thin and wore simple sun dresses on
weekends, light and airy, flowing out from her waist.  Usually a pale
yellow or flowered pattern, the hem pulled above her knees in the car to
capture any breeze.  She kicked off her sandals to work the pedals
barefoot. I kicked off my sneakers, took off my socks.  Such endearing
memories.  Some of the best.

   Sitting on that porch, Gramma would bring us sweet iced tea.  While she
and my mother talked, Granddad would give me a ride on his tractor, out to
the far reaches of the farm, then back.  Just for the fun of it.  Folks
from other farms dropped by later to sit a spell, rocking back and forth.
Stories were told into the evening.  And then, absolute darkness.  No
streetlights, of course.  Everything outside turning black.  Only the Milky
Way above.  And one feeble, lighted bulb dangling from the porch ceiling.

   "Are you ready?" my mother would ask.

   Each time I followed her inside, held on to the banister, step by step
to the second floor.  Then down the long hallway past her brothers' old,
unused bedrooms.  Opening a plain heavy door, we began a steep, forbidding
climb in the dark, up impossibly narrow stairs, walls closing in, winding
sharply to the left and to another door.  The entrance to the attic. 
Inside was the bedroom she knew as a girl.

   It was small with an awkward, A-frame ceiling, and only one window.  All
of it a patchwork, walls hammered together by Granddad.  I was uneasy with
it at first.  The furniture faded and threadbare, from another time.  A
small bedside table and lamp.  A mahogany wardrobe against the opposite
wall, its finish gone to black.  A full-length mirror on its door.  A
wooden chair beside it.  All of it hand-me-downs.  Images that remain vivid
to this day.

   Mother slept on the lumpy double bed.  I had a sleeping bag on the
floor. Above, a slow ceiling fan.  A small gas-flame floor heater to one
side.  A cramped bathroom with toilet and claw-foot tub.  Not much else. 
All of it claustrophobic, dimly lit and silent.  Barely enough space to
move around.  The musty smell, she told me, was there even when she was my
age.  I'd fall asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

   The years rolled by, the trips added up, each time finding us back on
that porch and sleeping in her old bedroom.  It began to carry some appeal,
if only for the quaint coziness of it.  I was 27, finishing graduate
school, when the change began.  During one predictably hot July.

   * * *

   For hours, we cleaned out the cobwebs and clutter in the barn, our
clothes soaked in sweat.  It was one of our now twice-monthly trips to the
farm.  All to help my grandfather, who by then was in declining health. 
Exhaustion consumed us.  Moving to the porch after dinner, my grandparents
sat in those rockers, Gramma breaking up snap beans from a bowl in her lap.
I was in the swing beside my mother, she in her usual sun dress.  With the
spread of darkness, the grandparents retired for the night.

   Mother and I uncorked a bottle of red wine sneaked in from the car.  We
sipped it in juice glasses pilfered from the kitchen.  Swinging slowly back
and forth.  The swing squeaking.  Moths flitting around that solitary porch
light overhead.  A few fireflies blinking on and off out in the darkness.
The nighttime heat only slightly less draining than the daytime sun. 
Somewhere in the sweet scent of green crops and rich soil, I could detect
the familiar aroma of her skin.  Her sweat mingled with a hint of perfume
on her wrist when she lifted her glass.  She was that close.  After pouring
maybe one too many glasses, she stood up.

   "Are you ready?" she asked.  We headed inside.

   I don't want to mislead you.  Mother was not a youngish, bosomy blonde.
She bore the narrow face of a calm and serious, middle-aged high school
librarian, which she was.  Tall and thin, a brunette with watchful eyes and
chocolate brown hair pulled up in back, off her neck.  Turning gray here
and there, with a few strands of silver.  A straight nose, lips perpetually
ready to break into a wide smile, but never quite did.  It was just her
look.  Well-dressed at school, modest fashions, low heels.  She did not
think herself attractive.  It's true, she wasn't a standout, but nice
looking.

   I thought her a proper woman.  Decent, respected.  Carrying an inborn
sense of responsibility.  A woman with an education, who had manners, chose
her words carefully, and kept her past to herself.  She donned reading
glasses to look at menus.  She was often silent.  To me a sign of
sophistication.  I admired that.  Collecting black and white photographs.
That was her hobby.  Scenes from the long ago sidewalks and plazas of New
York, Paris, Berlin.  Photos large enough to be framed and hung on the
walls of our home.  Most were of crowds sitting at sidewalk cafes.  Tables
where one could sit and watch life go by without participating.  Places she
knew she would never get to.  She was 52.

   As we settled into the attic bedroom on that July night, I waited for a
sweaty sleep, listening to the loud mating calls of cicadas in the woods
and June bugs bumping against the screen of our open window.  No
air-conditioning.  Having outgrown the sleeping bag, I lay beside my mother
on the double bed.  She in her customary dark, summery thin pajamas, me
bare-chested, in boxers.  We'd done this many times before.  The ceiling
fan offered little relief.  Sweat seemed not to leave my skin.  I felt a
movement, then watched in near shadows as my mother pulled her knees to her
chest, raised her hips a little, and in one slow, silent act, slipped off
the bottom of her pajamas, leaving her in panties.  Eventually, we fell
asleep.

   Blinking awake sometime later, I felt my way to the bathroom.  Gently
closing the door, I stood in darkness at the toilet, my eyes acclimated,
and reached through my boxers.  I pulled out and began peeing.  Lightheaded
and a little unsteady from the wine.

   The rest seemed to unfold in slow motion.

   The door opened.  The light switched on.  My mother stood at the door
jamb.  "Sorry.  I thought maybe you were sick," she said.  "Too much wine.
We drank too much, you know." Her voice was hoarse from sleep.

   But she didn't leave.  It was the oddest thing, unexplainable really. 
Instead, she leaned her shoulder against the door frame, arms crossed,
beginning a conversation, me not six feet away with dick in hand and a
stream of urine arcing out, then curving down into the water, splashing
loudly.

   "I guess this may be one of our last trips together," she said.  "When
grad school ends, you'll go off to some job." Her eyes dropped to my penis
then lifted to my face, then back again.  She tried to conceal it, but I
could tell.  And then the strangest feeling flowing through my loins.  This
sick, squeamish sensation of being indecently exposed.  Yet I did nothing
about it.

   I blame it on the wine.  It saps resistance.  There's no other excuse
for me to have stood my ground, as I did, and unashamedly continue peeing.

   "Maybe not," I said.  "I don't know what will happen.  I could wind up
with a job in town."

   I could see the bottom half of her white panties below the hem of the
pajama top.  And the slight rise of her mons pubis pushing out the fabric.
A faint dark patch showing through the material.  Pubic hair.  But not a
lot, no strands emerging out the sides of the panties.  I would have
thought there would be more.  Her thighs slender, smoother than you would
expect for a woman her age.  She hadn't seen my penis since I was a small
boy.  And I never thought I would see her in panties.  Mothers in our
neighborhood just didn't do that sort of thing.  Surely she knew my view of
her was hiding very little.

   There was no emotion.  She rarely showed any.  My childhood had been one
of few embraces, an occasional comforting word, and the rarest of kisses on
the cheek.  Her manner was not lack of affection, nor inattention.  She
took care of me, as well as any mother.  It was just her way.  Growing
older, I was aware that people liked her.  But none were close.  And there
was a weariness about her.  As if resigned to her fate.  She was unknowable
to me.

   Those thoughts were rushing through me as we stood there, me with dick
in hand, disregarding all modesty.  The raw, naked light bulb above
illuminating my body, and hers, surrounding us in the tiny, clammy
bathroom. I didn't know what to make of this.  If she wasn't going to
leave, then I was stubborn enough -- and drunk enough -- to just keep
showing it all.  Penis out, both of our eyes lowered to watch the pee flow.
I had been holding my dick with my hand, but to let her see more, I
adjusted, holding myself with just two fingers at the base.  A memory so
visceral that, even now, I can at certain moments recall the exact
sensations in my prick as her eyes lowered to it.  Its skin bristled,
itched a little as it began thickening, hardening, expanding.  The hardness
accelerating, feeling as if it was turning into iron.  "We'll just have to
wait and see," I said, barely managing to get my words out.

   But there was little attention to our words.  My mother kept talking,
her face with no emotion, but her eyes lowering, looking at it, then
raising again, meeting mine.  As if her son's penis, reaching the pinnacle
of its erection, was just the ordinary course of events.  As if we were
still sitting in the swing on the front porch, chattering away.

   What did she think of this hardening erection, I wondered, as the last
drops dribbled into the toilet.  Her eyes lowered to it again, as if she
was memorizing the bobbing up and down that had begun.  Did she notice how
the skin of my dick was a slight shade darker than the rest of me?  I
worried about that.  Could she see the small mole on the side?  Did she
notice that when the head of my cock swelled, it seemed artificially smooth
and rubbery, to me at least?  Did she think me well-enough endowed?

   My emotions seesawed, at once proud of this enormous, marvelous
erection, while being flushed with a nauseous feeling that it was in front
of my mother.  Maybe I was about to throw up.  I wasn't sure.

   We ceased any attempt at conversation and just stared.  Both of us.  My
arms down by my side, leaving my hard-on in profile for her.  This prick of
mine, at full mast, was uncontrollable, weaving side to side.  I could have
grabbed it, steadied it.  But I liked her seeing that it had this life of
its own.  Her face stoic, with seeming disinterest.  But her eyes -- those
eyes were riveted to my cock.

   Then, something else so uncharacteristic of me.  I continued standing
over the toilet, but slowly began stroking, my hand moving up and down its
length, up and back, then again, maybe even a third time.  I let go and
just watched.  Droplets starting to seep out of the opening.  I looked once
more at my mother.  Still no emotion.

   Turning away slowly, she faded into the dark and climbed back in bed. 
My ego and my erection deflated, I turned out the light and climbed in
after her.  No further words from either of us.  I spent much of the night
staring at the ceiling in darkness.

   * * *

   On the next morning's drive home, she changed radio stations, again and
again, frantically twisting the dial this way and that with one hand, the
other on the steering wheel.  All in search of loud music, anything to
drown out the silence between us.  She would not look at me, nor I at her,
both in fear of this mute complicity between us.  I had showed her.  She
had watched.  And the farther from the farmhouse we drove, the more I
sensed this was not to be talked about.

   At home, the days ahead were filled with self-consciousness,
nervousness, withdrawal.  For both of us.  I lived an hour away, in an
apartment near the university.  Most weekends, however, found me back home.
My mother talked a lot to my father during dinners, little to me. 
Humiliation when our eyes met.  We avoided being alone together.

   And I was faced with additional shame.  My guilt was matched by
something worse: the stomach-turning thrill of it all, at having had other
eyes watching my erection.  Those of my own mother.

   Other women, the young ones I'd been with, had seen me naked, with a
hard-on.  They didn't stare.  They seemed indifferent.  I didn't think that
much of it.  I wasn't an exhibitionist.  Yet, deep down I fantasized about
having another opportunity to show my dick to my own mother.  I hated
myself for the very notion.  Sexual thoughts about her had never before
crossed my mind.  Still, there was no escape from my feelings.  Standing in
that little bathroom, my hard prick felt thicker, hotter and more alive
than I could remember.  As sick as it was, I loved the sensation of the two
of us watching it together.  I shamefully contrived fantasies of her
stepping forward and taking my dick in hand, holding it as I finished
peeing.

   No way would it ever happen again, not back in our happy little home. 
And I assumed there would be few invitations back to the farm.  Not after
that night.

   * * *

   Peach season.  I had forgotten about that.  Every August.

   "I want to drive over and help gather them in," my mother said to my dad
at the dinner table one weekend.  Three weeks had passed since that sweaty
night in the bathroom.  The orchard was just a dozen trees to the side of
the farm.  Still, it was a lot of work.  Dad nodded approval.  "Maybe
Michael can go with you and help."

   "That would be nice," she said, her eyes calm as she looked at him.  Not
even a glance toward me.  She raised her glass of iced tea and changed the
subject.  She had known Dad wouldn't go.  And knew that I would.

   * * *

   The sky spread out before us, the Saturday morning turning vivid blue.
Not a cloud overhead to protect us from the sun.  The day's heat settling
in early.  We were on the road to the farm to pick the peaches, the city
far behind us.  I was driving, my mother in the passenger seat.  It doesn't
take much for details to come back to me.  Even the smallest particulars.
Thin, bare-chested farm boys outside country stores, drinking orange sodas
in the shade.  The smell of hot asphalt wafting up from under our tires. 
My mother's fingers changing radio stations, her nails manicured and
polished in fire engine red.  Something I had not seen on her before.

   She raised her knees, braced them against the dashboard glove box in
front of her.  Her legs parted, the sun dress slipping, more and more, as
we rode along.  Eventually, showing a little thigh.  Our conversation
nervous and awkward.  Each afraid to say much.

   We pulled onto the gravel drive at the farm.  My eyes shifted to the
tall pitch of the weathered roof.  And to the side window of the attic.  I
wondered about her years spent in that little make-do bedroom.

   "I love this old house," I said in a spontaneous moment.  It embarrassed
me.  She too looked up.  "I feel safe here," she told me.  I wish I'd asked
what she meant.

   "I brought wine," she said as I turned off the ignition.  Her voice
quivered, eyes focused out the windshield, toward the house.  She would not
look at me as she spoke.  "We can sit on the porch again tonight and have a
glass." She opened the car door, got out, then half turned back to me. 
"But don't let your grandmother see the bottle," she warned.

   I found myself staring as she walked away.  Disbelief in what she had
said.  Drink wine on the porch?  That's what precipitated that night in the
bathroom.  Was she suggesting something?  I felt the immediate return of
that familiar sickening thrill.

   Two hours under the sun.  Sweat on our faces, running down our arms as
we picked peaches.  My mother walked to me.  "We're almost done," she said,
holding a wooden basket stuffed with plump cling-stones.  Beads of
perspiration trickled down her neck and chest, disappearing into the bosom
of the sun dress.  Her voice less nervous by then.

   She hoisted the basket to the back gate of Granddad's pickup truck.  As
she returned, I felt a hand on the shoulder of my damp tee-shirt.  A gentle
squeeze.  She kept it there a second longer than you would think.  So out
of character for her.  That got my blood going, my imagination too.

   I caught myself staring at that summer dress as she walked on, her back
to me.  The material so damp it clung to her bottom, wedged slightly
between her buttocks.  Each buttock conspicuously separated.  Each cheek
defined.  Each inducing a barely noticeable jiggle with every step.  Those
naked shoulders in that dress, naked arms, bare chest.  For the first time,
I conjured images of what my mother might look like nude.  I had a hard-on.

   Dusk settled over the fields.  My grandparents retired.  The house
slipped into a quiet stillness.  A hush over everything.  Sitting on the
porch, we had half of the wine, then carried the bottle with us, climbing
the attic stairs and clicking on the lamp without speaking.  I slid the
lock bolt shut on the door.  We had never bothered with it before.

   "Don't worry," she told me.  "They never come up here."

   She turned her back to me, slipped off her sandals and reached behind,
fingers clutching the zipper of her dress.  She was going to take it off
with me right there.  Always before, she had used the bathroom to change.
Always.

   Her fingers, long and slender, red nails still intact, slowly pulled the
zipper down, inch by inch.  All the way to her white panties.  My eyes
retreated, looking at the floor.  The dress parted.  I heard the fabric
being coaxed past her hips.  The faint sound of it slipping to her feet. 
My eyes raised.  I couldn't not look.  Her back came into view.

   Her hands neatly smoothed out the dress.  With her back still to me, she
hung it in the wardrobe.  I tried to collect my thoughts.  Maybe I should
act busy somewhere else in the room.  Or maybe say I needed to use the
bathroom.  I was only deceiving myself.  I knew I could not look away.

   She reached behind again, this time to unfasten her bra, but then
stopped, her fingers still at the clasp.  I could sense uncertainty.  She
turned her face to the side, her eyes looking over her shoulder, back at
me, holding her gaze.  She knew I would be watching.  Then she turned her
face away.  Another few seconds of hesitation.  She unclasped and drew in
her shoulders.  The bra slipped down her arms.  But she did not turn
around.

   Only the outside edge of her right breast was in view.  A thin curved
sliver of linen-white flesh.  A five-second glimpse.  It jiggled a little.
Enough to make me pale, weak, as if I were coming apart.  It was more than
any view of her I had seen before.

   I sat entranced.  The long nape of her neck, the pronounced line of
backbone, a waist slender, even after all these years.  Those white
panties. A derriere contoured and soft.  She stood, feet together, back
straight and tall.  Her body spoke of poise and grace, something I had
failed to notice heretofore.  This was not a commonplace woman.  Not any
longer.  Not to me anyway.

   From her suitcase, she held her usual pajama top up to her chest, to
cover herself.  For a moment her body seemed frail and exposed.  I sensed
she was about to turn to me.  She started to.  She let her hands drop to
her waist, the pajama top with them.  The swell of her right breast
beginning once again to appear in my view.  Then she stopped again,
hesitating.  Both of us silent.  She turned back, her breast away from me,
and slipped on her pajama top.  She was going to show me, but changed her
mind.

   It seemed at that moment as if we hardly knew one another.  Strangers
meeting for some unspecified assignation.  An appointment with an older
woman.  Why was she doing this?  And why was I watching?  This wasn't
infatuation.  Certainly not romance.  I was, once again, filled with
embarrassment and shame.  But desperate for more.

   "Why is it you don't have a girlfriend at school?" she asked, stepping
to the bed with slow deliberation.  "Or do you?"

   I explained that I hadn't found anyone to like me, not for very long, at
least.  "Anyway, by grad school most are already married or engaged."

   Her eyes closed as she lay on her back.  I undressed, stood beside the
bed in my boxers.  Putting a knee on the edge of the mattress, I reached up
to pull the fan cord above.

   "I wish I'd had someone like you when I was young," she said.

   The fan blades inched slowly forward.  I looked down.  Her pajama shirt
had bunched up, covering nothing below her waist, exposing her panties just
below her navel.  Her eyes were out the window, not on me, deep in private
thought.  As if she were thinking of sitting at one of those sidewalk cafes
in some far-flung locale.  Such a fineness to the curve of her hips, and
the rise of her mons, still subtle but easily seen.  So much closer to my
view this time.

   Her panties were damp from sweat, clinging to her skin, turning the
material almost transparent.  I saw again the dark patch underneath.  And
then something else.  There before me was the slit between her legs,
clearly indenting the panties.  My face flushed from this raw view of her
sex, but more from such an obvious invitation to let me see.  Yet, she was
unwilling to meet my eyes.  I kept asking myself, what does she want?

   We sat side by side, backs against the headboard, passing the wine
bottle between us, forgoing drinking glasses.  Just swigging, taking turns.

   "I like the darkness better," she said, turning off the bedside lamp. 
There was stillness everywhere.  Only the slow turning of the fan above. 
All else at rest.  As if the big house was empty save for the two of us.

   Moonlight spilled across the field and into the window, bathing us in
subdued tones of white and gray.  Our eyes adjusted.  The conversation
whispery, close to my ear.  She surprised me by starting to talk -- first
of the farm, the summer heat, then at length about her own life.  Slowly,
her teenage years in this room unfolded.  We let the sweat dry on us.  She
raised her knees, but kept her feet flat on the mattress.  I stole glances
at the damp patch between her parted legs, the indentation still prominent,
a magical, mysterious crevice so close to me.  Surely she was aware that I
was looking at it.  She had a hint of a new, unfamiliar perfume.

   We all grow up with dreams and fantasies.  Hers began in this room.  A
calmness came over her, the nervousness gone.

   "I would lie here at night, nights a lot like this, and wish that one of
those boys from high school would phone, asking me to go to one of the
dances in the gymnasium."

   She looked at me.  "But of course none of them ever called.  So I was
left to fantasize about some handsome young guy asking me out.  Dating. 
The places we'd go.  I memorized all the details."

   "So why didn't you date?" I asked.

   "Boys at school didn't find me attractive."

   "I don't believe that."

   "Pimples and not enough curves," she said.  "Besides, my mother wouldn't
let me.  Thought I'd be corrupted.  Get drunk.  Get pregnant.  It was a
sin. That's what she told me.  Time and again.  It was a sin."

   More silence, she for the moment in her own thoughts.  Me savoring the
hum of the overhead fan, the faint scent of her perspiration, a trace of
that perfume and the sweet aroma from the fields, wafting in through the
window.  At that moment there was no place I'd rather have been than on
that bed listening to her.  She began again.

   "About that night in the bathroom . . ."

   I tried to interrupt, tell her it was unimportant.

   "Let me talk," she said.  "This may sound stupid, Michael." She paused
to catch her breath, then looked straight ahead, not at me.  She spoke
slowly, trying to find the right words.

   "It's humiliating to have to admit that I had never seen a man pee
before.  I'm 52 years old and never seen that.  I'm ashamed to say that I
just wanted to watch." She sighed.  "So I watched my own son."

   "You've never seen it?"

   "Never."

   "But you and Dad, how many years have you been married.  Thirty?"

   "Thirty-two.  I'm afraid your father is a pretty conservative guy.  With
us, everything has been by the book.  Lights out, in the dark.  Your
father. He doesn't . . ."

   I finished her sentence for her.  "He doesn't show you things like that,
does he."

   "He's not like that," she said.  "He's never been playful."

   "There's so much I haven't done," she said.  "Things that everyone else
has experienced.  Things I've missed my chance at." It was all described so
matter-of-factly.

   "He just fucks you."

   She ignored my vulgarity.  Moved her eyes to the window, catching the
moonlight.

   "That's about right." Her voice a little dispirited.  "I'm so sorry I
watched you."

   "I'm not," I said.

   I could feel it inside me.  Her honesty was emboldening me.  All of it
enough to begin giving me an erection.  Glimpses of her panties may have
helped, plus the smell of her hair so close to my face.  We were side by
side, our arms touching.  The thick nipples under her pajama top were in my
peripheral vision.  I kept sneaking glances at them.  Just inches away.  My
hard-on was pushing out my boxers a little.  I wasn't sure whether I wanted
her to notice.

   "So, you've always wanted to see a guy take a leak." It was more of a
statement from me than a question.

   "It's not just that, Michael.  It's everything.  In my mind, everyone
else all these years has been having great sex.  Everyone but us."

   "Maybe he doesn't know what to do?"

   "Oh, he knows.  But his idea is just to get it over with.  Be done with
it.  I honestly believe he feels there's a certain uncleanliness about the
whole business."

   "All those bodily fluids and sweat," I said.

   "Yes.  Yes.  You're right," she said, surprised that I understood.

   "But what about before him?  Other guys."

   "There weren't any.  He was my first.  My only.  That's how
inexperienced I am.  It's one of my biggest regrets."

   We scooted down in the bed, heads on our pillows.  She moved her face
close to mine to lower our whispers.  Then the story of her upbringing.

   "You see," she said, "Back then, in the '50s, dates were more social
events.  Parties overseen by parents, or church dances.  Even if you went
to a drive-in movie, you had to be home by eleven.  There were two kinds of
girls, those that sneaked out late at night or lied, saying they were
spending the night at an all-girl slumber party.  Then there were the rest
of us.  The ones who did what their parents wanted.  We did what we were
told.  The good girls."

   "And that was you."

   She nodded.

   "You should have an affair, you know."

   "No one wants women my age.  Besides, for the life of me, I wouldn't
even know how to go about it."

   The wine was taking its toll, our restraints receding.

   "It's embarrassing for me to tell you the truth," she said.  "Your
father was always the same, from the beginning.  I was told to lie on my
back, keep my legs spread, close my eyes, don't talk.  Don't say a word. 
Within 10 minutes, it was over."

   "He just wanted you to lie there like some corpse?"

   "He's a conventional man," she said.

   "That's not conventional, Mom.  Dad's some kind of necrophiliac."

   We looked at each other.  There in the darkness.

   "No.  Don't laugh.  We can't," she whispered, quickly covering her mouth
with her hand.  Neither of us could stop.  We turned, threw ourselves face
down on the bed, burying our mouths in the pillows to muffle the laughter.
Tears in her eyes.  Our ribs beginning to hurt.  It went on for a full
minute.

   "You can never say a thing about this," she whispered, doing her best to
regain composure.  "No.  Really.  You can't."

   "So have you never even seen his erection?  Surely you have."

   "Well, of course.  And in the early days, I wanted to examine him
closely, but he pushed me away, said he wanted none of that.  Before him,
in college I sneaked around to look at medical books in the library. 
Believe me, we all did.  And there were a few dirty magazines that a
college girlfriend of mine had."

   Even today, all these years later, I have trouble imagining my mother,
the librarian, turning the pages of pornographic magazines from the 1950s.
But she had little choice.  Playboy Magazine had barely started. 
Penthouse, "Sex and the Single Girl" and nudity in movies -- those were
years away.

   The confessions tumbled out.  I listened.  Long pauses in between as she
thought about what to say.  I liked watching her mouth, liked listening to
her breathe, even if her eyes for the moment seemed full of sadness.  I
realized that I might never have truly known any of that had it not been
for that night in the bathroom.

   Hers was a generation of women, millions who came of age in the '50s,
facing rigidly defined morals.  Forced to be good girls, lectured in
church, terrified of getting pregnant.  Girls who knew little about sex
and, out of fear, saved themselves for husbands, most of whom were equally
ignorant.

   She was a few years too early, in a marriage with me as a young child,
and left a bystander as the sexual revolution exploded around her in the
'60s.  By then, young single women were braless, bed-hopping, confident the
pill would protect them.  My mother's generation was relegated to the
sidelines.  A life of envy, frustration, silent rage.

   "Did you think I looked disgusting in the bathroom that night?" I asked.

   "No.  No.  You looked . . .  fine." She started to say more, then cut
herself off.

   "Better than the photos in medical books?" I teased.

   "Oh, much better," she teased back.  "Handsome."

   "Really?" I asked.

   "Yes.  Really."

   A long, awkward moment.  All silent.  It seemed to last an eternity. 
The heat in the air was beginning to subside, our sweat drying up.  The air
more palatable.  And then, she surprised me.

   "Would you consider letting me see it again.  Just for a moment?"

   "I'm sorry," she said before I could answer.  "I know that's disgusting.
I'm your mother.  Forget that I asked." She turned away.  I realized she
was every bit as repulsed with herself as I was with me.

   My boldness evaporated.  All confidence gone.  Fantasies of exposing
myself to her had been reckless.  I could not actually see myself pulling
my boxers down in front of my mother.  Reality had set in.  I felt myself a
coward.

   Nonetheless, I stood up beside the bed.  Something compelled me.  A
gravitational pull toward her.  Despite that sickening feeling again.  My
fingers trembled as I slid them under the waistband of my boxers.  Absolute
anxiety as I lowered them.  My penis was embarrassingly shriveled and limp.
What woman would be impressed by that?  Both of us were looking at it.

   "I'm sorry," I said.  "Sometimes it's this way."

   "No, no.  That's fine.  You look nice," she said, probably lying.

   I lay down, leaned my back against the headboard, raised my left knee,
but kept my right leg out flat on the bed so she could see, lying beside
me. She sat up, her back also to the headboard, saying nothing.  I swigged
more wine, gulped it down out of embarrassment.  Passed the bottle to her.
We talked a little.  Then to my relief, I sensed a slight stirring and my
diminutive penis began to thicken, turning into a true cock.

   "Turn the lamp on," I told her.  I wanted her to see it better.

   Her shoulder and arm were lightly against mine as we sat in silence.  I
looked down at my cock.  So did she.  Her watching it made it enlarge more,
get harder, without me touching it.  I could feel the stretching, almost
beyond its limit.  My prick lay along my stomach, the underside turned up
and in her view.  The skin tight, veins visible.  Drops seeping out the
opening, trickling slowly down the head of my dick.  One or two dripping on
my stomach.  My balls filling up.  I was at full erection.

   Even with that sick anxiety, this was the me I wanted her to see. 
Though I wasn't sure why.  Maybe it's because of the feeling I sense
throughout every vein and artery when I'm hard.  Maybe I wanted to share
that with her, show her that magical feeling.  Manliness, strength, power.
And that sense of the inevitable: an intoxicating explosion just ahead. 
Still not touching it, my dick began weaving about on my abdomen, twitching
on its own.  I could hear her intake of breath.  And then her first words.

   "That night in the bathroom.  You were going to masturbate, weren't
you?"

   As soon as she said it, I realized it wasn't just showing her my naked
prick and balls that I wanted.  Ejaculating in front of her, shooting out
my sperm halfway across the room.  That's what I really wanted.  And to see
the look on her face as I did it.

   "You turned around and left before I could," I said.  "Is that what you
want to see now?"

   "I don't know what comes over me," she said.  "I'm a terrible mother. 
Mothers don't do things like this.  Not with their sons.  It's not normal."
But her eyes stayed fixed on my erection.

   "Maybe you and I just aren't normal people," I said.  She gave me a
look, as if for the first time realizing it might be so.

   "Well, do you want me to do it?"

   "This is so sick," she said.

   "Maybe its because we're both drunk again," I said.  "No one's going to
know."

   Her voice dropped.  Almost inaudible.  "All right then."

   I held my prick straight up, which to this day I still do when jerking
off.  Encircling it at its base with my thumb and middle finger.  My other
hand stroked.  Fingers up and over the head to slicken it, using the liquid
oozing out.  Then fingers back down on the other side.  Slow, up-and-down
motions, followed by gliding my fingers lightly all around the erection. 
Running my palm over the swollen head.  Her brown eyes watching my fingers'
every move.  Again it started to twitch and bob.  I turned my face to her.
We said nothing.  She looked back down at my hard-on.  Eyes wide. 
Curiosity in her face.  I kept going.

   More wetness flowed from the top.  I was leaking like a sieve.  I
gripped the thing with my whole hand, gave it longer strokes but kept it
slow.  Slow and even.  I was unhurried, letting the glorious arousal wind
through my blood vessels, that familiar feeling of building closer and
closer toward one final moment.  More importantly, that thrill of her being
right there, shoulder to shoulder, watching it with me.

   I stopped, let go, leaned my head back against the headboard and closed
my eyes, savoring the moment, trying not to come, thinking less about my
arousal and more about her watching.

   "Whats wrong?" she asked.

   "Nothing.  I just don't want to come this soon."

   "Its okay if you need to."

   And then it seemed as if that hard dick was no longer mine, nor
anyone's. It was its own entity, as I again held it straight up, like some
beast from another planet that both of us were staring at fixedly, close
together, in awe of its strength, its forcefulness, its life-like
movements. Standing straight up.  An invincible tower.  Each of us equally
inquisitive.  She leaned down, her head a little closer.

   "Do you do this a lot?" she asked.

   "A couple of times a week.  Sometimes more.  Sometimes a lot more, I
guess." I was telling her something I'd not divulged before to anyone. 
What man does?

   "Really?" she said.  She went silent again.

   "You can touch it, if you like," I said.  She was hesitant, a little
disbelieving.  After regarding it for a moment, head bent down a little
more toward it, she reached her right arm over and carefully touched the
side of my prick.  Her fingers shaky, unsteady.  My cock jumped.  She
pulled back in surprise.

   She returned her hand, let two fingers glide along the slickness, from
the top of the shaft to the bottom.  I was coated with it entirely.  She,
having watched me, used her thumb and middle finger to form a ring.  She
slipped it over the top of the head, gliding down and up.  I should have
known her light touch -- my own mother's fingers -- would trigger the
inevitable.  She sensed my urgency and moved her hand away as I succumbed,
tensed up.  I grabbed, pumped two, maybe three times and together we
watched as the white bursts shot out, a foot straight up from our bodies.
Three impressive spurts, falling back down on my stomach, and a little on
her arm.

   I kept pumping, slower now, smaller spurts, six inches or so high, until
the last of my sperm oozed out, dribbling down the sides slowly into my
pubic hair.  I fell back, exhausted.  Her breath, close to my face, was
faster.  I sensed intuitively that her heart was racing.  Silence between
us for long minutes.  The clean bleach smell of my sperm filling the room.

   Then both of us embarrassed, maybe a little ashamed.  It was tangible.
She turned away, horrified, no doubt, at what we had just shared.  I heard,
after awhile, the slow, steady breathing of her sleep.  For me, I lay awake
and nervous, in fear of what we had just done.  Wondering what outcome we
faced from this.

   * * *

   After breakfast, we left for home.  Mother less quiet.  Talking of
traveling as I drove.  Maybe to faraway locales overseas, she said.  Exotic
city streets she would like to walk.  Maybe the two of us going together.
No mention of my dad.  And no mention of the night before.  At least she
was talking.  She knew I understood the ground rules.  We were not to
discuss what went on in the attic.  Nonetheless, she was more upbeat.  I
took that as a small victory as we pulled into the driveway at home.

   But as I stopped the car, with hands in her lap, she looked down, as if
praying.  "I'm a terrible mother," she said quietly.  Nothing more.  She
would not look at me and left me sitting there as she went into the house.

   I had to admit there was a creepiness about this whole business of me
and her.  More than ever I should have been disgusted with my behavior. 
But that revulsion wasn't enough to stop this pull toward her.  There was a
growing hunger in me.

   * * * 

   Another Saturday evening, early September.  Dark beginning to descend.
Heat giving way for the day after baking farm fields all around.  The air
was still.  We were back in the attic, three weeks since the last trip. 
Both of us fresh from baths, both on the bed in underwear, she with her
pajama top and panties, sitting cross-legged.  But then she raised her
right knee up to her chin, hunching over it to smooth baby oil up and down
her leg.

   At home, after the last trip, there had been her customary distance.  A
pretend amnesia.  This time, as we turned into the narrow gravel driveway
at the farmhouse, I paid more attention to the change as it began.  A
comfortable feeling settling over her, a mellowing with each farm chore we
finished.  By night, behind the attic door, bolt lock in place, my "other"
mother emerged.  The mother known to no one but me.

   On the bed, she spread the oil in lingering slow strokes along those
slender legs.  Fingers and palms working their way up from feet to ankle,
to her toned calves and knees, all the way to her thighs, smoothing in the
oil to the very edge of her panties.  Her legs open to me.  Those thighs,
by then, seemed splendid.

   She was absorbed in it.  I tried paying it no mind, resorting to glances
every few seconds.  But she was letting me look, giving an unhindered view.
No effort to hide that indentation, her slit concealed only by a single
layer of white satin.  Underneath, her nether lips swollen, puffed out,
pushing out the panties just a little, further delineating her sex.  I
could see again that small pattern of pubic hair underneath.  A little
wetness beginning in the fabric's gusset.  She noticed I was looking.

   "I like being here," she said.  No makeup at that point, her hair
disheveled from the hard work, loose strands gathered and pushed behind her
ears.  My thoughts turned inward as I looked on.  She seemed more in tune
with herself.  And aware of the raw sexual grip she held over me.

   Maybe we are never meant to know our own mothers.  I mean to really know
them.  As people.  As women.  We see what they allow us to see.  Know what
they choose to let us know.  Nothing more.  But in that moment I was
desperate to know everything.  Her private history.  Each perverse desire.
Every impure thought.  I sensed that she was opening the door to let me in,
if ever so slowly.  But I remember thinking that I might be totally wrong.

   The room's lamplight flickered.  Off, then back on.  Off and on again.
Finally off, throwing the attic into a sudden dark grayness as the night
closed in.  I felt my way down the attic stairs, then to the first floor
where my grandmother had an oil lamp waiting for me.  All the electric
power was off.

   "It's most certain there's a storm gathering.  That's why we lose the
power," she said.  "Always happens.  It'll be a hard rain.  And soon."

   The oil lamp cast dim light and dark shadows around us back in the
attic. An unexpected cool breeze sent my mother and I to the window.  We
stared out.

   "Gramma was right," I said.

   Above the shadowy rows of soybeans and tobacco stalks, a hurried wind
set in motion the storm.  Distant tree tops swaying in unison, shutters
suddenly rattling against the house, gusts lashing at the roof shingles. 
Black clouds rolling low overhead, churning, gaining speed, bearing down on
the farm.  Thunder building, closing in.

   Side by side we stood at the window, watching lightning arrive.  Her
eyes moved slowly from me to the storm.  We skipped the wine glasses and
swigged our usual bottle right there, standing up, silently passing it to
each other.  Emptying it quicker than we should have.  Maybe that's what
gave my mother more courage.

   "This window has such memories for me," she said.

   "How so?"

   "Those fantasies I told you about, they didn't stop with high school,"
she said.  "When I was in college, I would come home on weekends.  Every
night before bed I stood at this window.  Looking out, making believe that
some handsome young man would see me from the road, stop his car and climb
through the window to be with me.  Every small breeze, I fantasized, was
announcing his arrival."

   "And I would try to tempt him from his car.  Do you know what I would
do?"

   I had no idea where this was going.

   In a slow, careful movement, as if resigned to do so, she began opening
the top button of her pajamas.  Then working her way down, one button
nervously after another.  Her head bent down, eyes watching her hands
finger the buttons.  Nipples hard under the fabric.  The pajama shirt
parted, began to slip open.

   "We think we know someone, but we don't," she said.  "None of us really
know each other."

   She let the pajama top drop to the floor.  We were still side by side,
looking out the window.  I didn't move.  Too afraid to look at her straight
on.  She was almost naked.

   "This is the only place, this room, where I've ever been able to be
myself," she said, looking back out the window, not at me.

   "I would stand here, in front of the window, showing my breasts to
anyone who might pass by on the road, pretending it would be enough to
entice that young man to come in," she said, watching the rain come closer.
"I wondered if anyone could see.  No one ever did, of course.  Every night
was the same."

   My peripheral vision in the lantern-lit room was good enough to see that
her skin all over was pale.  But for those breasts.  They were whiter than
white.  Sloping slightly down and out to the tips.  My fingers would have
slid off had I been allowed to touch them.  The areolas dark brown,
sizable. Each nipple thick, protruding, as if they had been made for a
bustier, fleshier woman.  I was seeing my mother's breasts.  For the very
first time.

   I could hear my own breathing deepen.  Hers too.  Those breasts rising a
little and falling with each inhale, each exhale.  She looked down at them,
as if comparing one to the other.  Raising her hands, she held each in her
palms, fingered the nipples.  She turned to me, then I to her.  She lowered
her hands and let me look.  I tried to focus on her face, but my eyes kept
falling.  I was no more than a foot from the tips with no idea what she
wanted from me.

   "Are they what you thought they would be?" she asked.  "They were
perkier back then, of course.  With more life to them.  And this one's a
little larger than that one.  Just a little."

   Disappointment was in her voice.  She waited for a word from me.  I
couldn't think fast enough to answer.

   She looked down once more, letting her fingers glide over her nipples
again, freely feeling their hardness.  She was exciting herself and
inviting me to watch.

   "I guess most guys don't care what their own mother's breasts look
like," she said.  "Especially if they're not all that large." She was out
on a limb, vulnerable.  Not a place she was used to being.

   "I like the way they look," I stammered.  It seemed such a foolish thing
to say.

   "Did you ever want to see them before?"

   "Would you have let me?" I asked.

   "Probably not," she said.

   "Then why now?"

   "You let me watch you last time we were here.  I wondered if you'd want
to see me," she said.  "Maybe I was wrong."

   "You're not wrong," I said too quickly, before she could finish her
words.

   A slight mist sifted through the window screen.  After a silent moment,
she picked up her story of those nights in the bedroom.

   "I thought about the imaginary man a lot.  He would climb through the
window and sit in that chair, waiting, wanting to watch.  So I would take
off my panties too, lie on the bed and spread my legs wide, exposing me in
the most indecent ways.  And I would touch myself, pretending that I was
letting him see me do that.  It was humiliating.  But I couldn't stop.  The
next morning, I'd eat breakfast with my mother, wondering how repulsed she
would be if she knew."

   Still at the window, she raised her face, looking at the ceiling,
looking anywhere but at me.

   "This is your mother, Michael.  Your real mother.  Why I am telling you
all of this, I don't know?  I've never told a soul.  It's the most shameful
secret I have.  I wish I was normal like everyone else." Her voice was
unsure, but she kept going.

   "Would you be interested in sitting in the chair?" she asked.

   I could sense she was shaking, more vulnerable that she had ever been
with me.  A rawness to her emotions.  I could see that in her eyes. 
Readying herself for rejection and humiliation.

   But when our eyes connected, dead on to each other, she knew.  For the
first time that night, it felt like a moment of pure honesty between us. 
She needed no answer from my lips.  She saw it in my eyes.  She turned from
the window, moved to the edge of the bed, her back to me.  Slipping her
fingers under the waistband, she pushed her panties down to the floor, no
hesitation.  Naked with her back to me.

   Picking up her panties, she looked at the crotch, held it to her nose.
"I'm so wet," she said.  "It's always been that way.  Gooey.  I wonder if
Mother ever noticed when she did the wash?"

   I couldn't see the moisture, but I had no doubt it was there.  I stared
at that dark divide between her buttocks, watched as she lifted her knee to
the mattress to lie down.  Her legs parting a little as she did, the lips
of her pussy coming into view, from behind.  They were slighter, less
pronounced than I expected.  Barely there.  But enough to take my breath
away.

   She lay naked on her back, head on the pillow, knees raised, feet flat
on the bed, legs open obscenely wide, showing me her pussy, all of it. 
Wanting me to see it up close.  She moved her arms back, behind her head,
hands grabbing the headboard, as if they were shackled to it.

   "Are you afraid?" she asked.

   "A little," I said.  "To be honest, yes." 

   "So am I," she said.

   I was about to see something that sons aren't supposed to see.  There
was no will left in me to fight the dark angel in me.  I let the queasiness
take over as I watched the overwhelming vision of her.  Naked, silken. 
Lying vulgarly open.  Her long neck stretched back, arms lean, a neat
little patch of hair.  My first real look at her pubic hair.  Even her feet
seemed graceful.

   So there I sat, pulling the chair right up to the end of the mattress,
just watching.  I could tell that her opening was a little wrinkled.  Soft
and delicate.  Moist and slick, even in the half-light of the oil lamp.  I
was her substitute for the imaginary man in the window.  He had been her
fantasy, morphing eventually into an unfulfilled obsession.  She was
accepting her fate.  No choice but to do it this way.  An act of
desperation, as if her whole life was fading fast.  Now there was left only
me, her son, to act it out with her.

   Hard rain reached the fields.  Poured onto the house, pounding against
the clapboards in waves.  We paid no attention.  All I wanted was to touch
her perfect body.

   I was amazed at her ministrations to those nipples.  An index finger on
each, gliding over the surface, around the hardness, over the areolas.  As
if she were memorizing the texture of them.  Then flicking them, tweaking
them.  Pushing them in, letting them pop out on their own.  Shivers ran
down her sides from the effect.  She had done this hundreds of times.  No
one could know her body better than herself.  I could tell.  Hands expertly
caressing her stomach, then back up to her nipples, then back down, lower.
Repeating the movement, floating lower and lower each time.  Now just above
the soft triangle of hair.

   We had crossed a barrier that almost no mother and son ever cross.

   "Do you want me to stop watching?" I asked.

   "No.  I like it too much." She lifted her head to look at me.

   "I like to do it as much as you do," she said.

   "What do you mean?"

   "Make myself come.  Every day, all of my life.  I can't seem to help
myself.  I've never let anyone know."

   "I've never let anyone know either," I said.  "But we all do it."

   "Mine's not nearly as exciting as what you do," she said.  "You shoot
out so far."

   Easing her head back on the pillow, she closed her eyes and let the long
middle finger of her right hand slide into the moisture at her vulva. 
Those lips were glistening, the wrinkle soaked, her thighs fidgeting.  Up
and down with her finger, sliding it along the crease.  Slow each time,
lovingly touching above, right at her clit, before moving the finger back
down.  Then the finger pressed on the wrinkled crevice, disappearing inside
her pussy.  Past the knuckle, all the way in, as deep as her long finger
would go.  Staying inside as she pressed her palm onto her mons.

   "Can I see you again?" she asked.  "Can I see it?"

   I stood at the foot of the bed and slipped my boxers down.  She lifted
her head, opened her eyes and looked at my erection.  As ridiculous as it
probably looked, I was sickeningly proud to stand there with such a hard
prick.  Thick, swollen, veiny.  Stretched already to its limit and swaying.
Just from the sight of her nakedness.  We watched each other in the dim
light.  I stroked slowly, guessing it's what she wanted to see.  She slid
her finger in and out of her pussy even slower.  Then slid her index finger
in too.  I believe she liked the two of us doing it together.  I stroked
back and forth, slow but non-stop.

   Her other hand's middle finger moved to her clit.  Chin down, watching
her own fingers at work, a few whimpers at first, turning into panting. 
Fingers faster until they were strumming her clit.  Then faster, almost a
blur.  Then slowing.  Now faster.  Throwing her head back, chin up. 
Surging to a crescendo.  Heavy breathing, her stomach convulsing, rippling,
flattening out, rippling again.  For a full minute she was in another world
altogether.

   Then it was over.  Only heavy breathing left in her.  Her hands, those
long fingers, moved up, began caressing her neck, her breasts, her stomach.
Slower now.  Then down to her vulva again.  It wasn't over.  Touching
herself again.  But slower this time, two fingers inside, and her eyes on
me.  Eyes watching as I looked at her wet pussy.

   "You can touch it if you like," she said, her voice now heavier,
throatier, husky, as if from deep inside her.  From another woman.  The
woman of her fantasies.

   I crawled onto the bed on my knees, my prick swaying.  She looked not at
me.  But at it.  She was watching my dick.  Never have I liked my own hard
prick as much as in that moment.  I was proud of its length, its girth, the
heaviness in my swaying balls.  I knelt beside her, right at her waist, let
my hand caress the outside of her thigh.  I could not take my eyes off her
triangle of hair.  I noticed some of it was in curls.  I leaned closer. 
The head of my prick brushed against her hip.  Just for a second.  More
rain, soaking the fields.  Mist coming through the window, darkness
surrounding us.  And me sifting my fingers through her pubic hair.  Silky
to the touch.  A slight shudder from her.  She pulled her own fingers out
of her pussy.  "No.  Don't," I said and guided them back in.  I used just
the tips of my own fingers to feel the soft outer lips, slender inner ones.
My fingers overlapping her own.  Each hand caressing the other as we both
tended to her glorious opening.  Though the storm had cooled the room, I
was overcome with heat and desire.

   "Do you like looking at my pussy, Michael?"

   "I can't find the words," I said.

   She opened her legs even more.  Around and around, slowly, my fingers
traced along her labia, smoothing her wetness as I went.  Her fingers kept
up the in-and-out.  Fingers of her other hand atop her clit.  The smell of
sex filling the room.

   "I love being naked," she whispered.  I'm not sure those words were
meant for me, or for anyone other than herself.

   She pulled the two fingers out of her pussy, moved them down, slipped
the tip of her middle finger to the opening in her ass.  Pushing inside
just a little, catching her breath and jerking up off the bed.  Then coming
back down.  The noise of the rain much louder.

   "You like doing that?" I whispered.

   "Is it too nasty?" she asked.

   "No.  I just never imagined."

   Soft guttural sounds from her as her finger moved in and out of her
anus. She slowed her motions.

   "Get me the bottle," she said.

   "What?"

   "The wine bottle."

   It took me a moment, as I picked it up, to realize her intentions.  Its
neck was longer than most wine bottles.  More like a champagne bottle.

   Holding the fat part of the bottle in her hand, she put the top of the
bottle's neck right at her vulva's opening, eased it in.  Slowly the long
neck disappeared.  All the way in her vagina.  She began drawing it back
out, then back in, starting a slow rhythm with her other hand's finger
still in her ass.  Each time she pulled out the bottle, the neck was wetter
and wetter.

   "Let me," I said.

   I clutched the bottle, she let go.  I began moving it in and out, at her
same rhythm.  Disbelief at what I was doing.  Pushing all the way in,
pulling almost all the way out, to the tip.  Then back in.  Over and over.
One of her fingers rubbing her clit, the other still in her ass.  My eyes
glued to the sight of it all.

   "Oh, God, it feels so good," she said, her head moving from side to
side, her voice hoarse and deep.

   Both of us sweating, her stomach rippling again.  Breathing faster.  She
reached a cliff, no longer any self-control, gasping.  Her back raising,
arching.  Everything in her tightening.  Anus muscles, muscles in her
pussy, all clamping down on the wine bottle.

   Her mouth opened wide, closed quickly.  She grit her teeth and groaned,
surrendering to waves of spasms and manic jerking, one after another, then
another, until one last tight squeeze.  Then free fall.  A giant release, a
rushing flood.  Her vulva pulsing and pulsing.  Her body collapsing. 
Thighs trembling.  She raised both arms to her chest, each hand cupping a
breast.  She squeezed them, harder than I would have.  Then a calmness as
she tumbled back into reality.  The bottle slipped itself out of her pussy
and lay between her legs, wetness on its neck.

   I wanted to taste her.  Wanted to feel her soft labia around my prick.
My hard-on aching for that sublime smell of her.  I shifted around, got
between her legs, lowered my face to within inches of her vulva.  My tongue
reached out, lightly touching the liquid leaking from inside her.

   I could hear a quick intake of her breath.  Then my tongue making a
slow, feathery lick over her clit.  She groaned hard.  I did it again. 
Flicking my tongue back and forth over it.  Pausing a few seconds.  The
repeating.  Barely touching it, soft as I could.  My head suddenly trapped
between her thighs that had clamped together, tight and quivering as
another climax approached.  Her hand quickly grabbed my hair and pulled. 
My lips and nose were crushed against her wet opening as she came on my
face, liquid trickling over my chin, puddling on the bed sheets.  It took
time for her breathing to slow.

   She sat up slowly, hands by her side, face lowered, as if she had just
awakened from sleep.  I guess I could have pushed her down and shoved my
dick inside her.  I didn't.  I could tell there was no invitation from her
for that to happen.  Besides, could she even take another orgasm?

   Trouble was, as I lifted my face from between her thighs, I was myself
at the point of no return.  I rose to my knees, held my prick out and with
the first stroke of the hand I came, shooting out my sperm uncontrollably.
An accident.  Three quick hard spurts, splashing on her neck, her arm, one
of her nipples.  She was only two feet from me.

   Before I could apologize, she used her finger to wipe the come from her
nipple, then brought it to her mouth.  She sucked in my semen, swallowing
it, then leaned back a little, arms down, resting on her hands.

   "That's how nasty your mother can be," she said.

   Pangs of guilt followed in the dark hours after.  I lay beside her in
bed doing the math.  The number of mothers involved with their grown sons
had to be infinitesimally small.  Yet in a country with millions of people,
that still meant a few dozen mothers and sons might have been at that very
moment having similar sex in bedrooms and hideaways.  Maybe hundreds.  I
was attempting to justify this, to convince myself.  Or were we the only
ones?

   * * *

   Dawn found Mother standing, facing the wardrobe's tall, narrow mirror,
her back to me on the bed.  The attic room still grayish and white. 
Morning sun not yet peeking over the treetops.  Everything misty and damp
from the storm.  I breathed in the fresh aroma of the farm after a
cleansing rain.  No stirring in the rest of the house.  Everything still at
rest.  Too early yet.

   She was looking at herself in the mirror.  Watching her own reflection.
She had nothing on.  The sight startled me.  Looking straight at that
narrow waist, slender legs, the sheer nakedness of her ass with such soft
buttocks.  And that dark, curious divide between them.  Her standing so
straight and tall.  I could not dismiss the feeling that I had no business
seeing this.

   In the mirror's reflection, I saw her front, one hand on a breast,
holding it, feeling its weight.  Plumping it a little.  She bent her head
down as if to examine each nipple, watching them thicken, extend out.  Then
something curious.  She let go, then pinched a nipple between two fingers
of one hand.  Did the same to her other nipple.  She lifted both breasts by
the nipples, pulling the breasts up and out, stretching each breast,
pulling each nipple out as far as possible.  It had to have been a little
painful.  Maybe she liked that.

   She let go, then let just the tips of her fingers drag down her skin, in
slow motion, until she was touching herself between her legs, a finger
reaching under, gliding along her slit.  Reaching behind with the other
hand, she caressed her ass before grabbing one cheek with her hand and
pulling it out, away from the other, exposing her ass to me.  Letting me
see the little dark anal opening.  Her eyes looking down toward the floor,
as if she was all alone, no one to see such an intimate act.  Her eyes
slowly looked up, caught mine watching her in the mirror.  It's why she was
doing all of this.  An appalling, nasty moment, holding her ass open for me
to see.  I adored it.

   "My age is showing.  It's in my face, my legs," she said, sighing a
little, her eyes making a gesture of acceptance.  She searched my face.  At
that moment I was contemplating her breasts.  She knew.

   "They're not pretty either . . .  I'm getting old.  They're beginning to
droop."

   It's true.  The years were beginning to show.  A wrinkle on her chin,
crow's feet at the eyes, but only slightly.  A few gray hairs in her soft
fleece.  None made a difference, not to me.  And she knew that.  She wanted
me to see her naked, her fingers toying with her pussy, her hand caressing
her ass.  All of it deliberate, for me.  Looking in the mirror, the image
she saw behind her was of a son, eyes wide on her nude body, one of his
hands massaging his prick, the other fondling his balls, in anticipation of
getting hard.  I couldn't help it.

   I was struck by how dangerous all of this was.

   Bending over, she rummaged through her suitcase.  Her breasts, hanging
down, suited that slender frame.  With each move, they shifted in tandem.
And between her legs the soft, small labia barely visible from behind.  I
was weak, beginning to idolize her.  She seemed so normal once, now so
flawless.

   I imagined being inside her.  What would that soft flesh feel like
enveloping my hard-on, sucking it all the way in, snug and velvety, milking
me into absolute bliss, then utter contentment.  But this was not a girl at
school who I could put a move on.  This was my mother.  I could not bring
myself to ask permission.  And she wasn't volunteering.  We both knew she
was calling the shots.

   Stepping into the bathroom, still naked, she quietly bent over the
little sink, turned on the tap, using a bar of soap and washcloth, rubbing
her forehead and cheeks.  Watching herself in the mirror above the sink.  I
watched from the bed.  She, of course, knew I was surveying her body,
exploring her flesh with my eyes.  Every move she made.

   I could see, in her profile, the curve of her backbone as she turned the
faucet knobs, breasts swaying slightly, nipples still hard, slender arms
rinsing out the washcloth.  Then straightening and raising her arms up high
to wash her armpits.  Even that act seemed elegant.  She finished, and with
brush in hand, fussed with the snarls in her hair.  She was so slender,
more than some men would want.  She was quite something to see.

   To my surprise she straddled the toilet and sat down to pee.  In a
moment of sheer bravery, I got off the bed and walked into the bathroom.  I
could hear her stream starting, tinkling into the bowl.  I dropped to my
knees in front of her.  No words between us.  She simply spread her legs to
let me watch.  The stream widened into a gush, splashing onto the bowl
above the water line.  Her eyes were not on me, but on the view between her
legs, watching herself pee.  She knew the power of that.  She knew the hold
she had on me.

   Despite being my mother, there had sprung up between us a kind of sexual
camaraderie, a closeness I had not experienced with girls on campus, all
three of them.  This was different.  I loved that we were so nasty
together.

   There was no one else in the world that morning.  Just us in her room. A
few birds chirping.  Leftover rain dripping from the roof onto the window
sill.  Serenity and contentment.  A languorous early naked morning.  She
stepped into her panties, reached for her dress.  As she slipped it down
her arms and over her bra, the morphing began.  We took the stairs down to
help make breakfast.

   On the way home, we listened to pop music on the car radio, making our
way past woodlands, over narrow bridges crossing thin creeks, and through
one-stoplight towns.  A few half-smiles from her.  Shy ones.  As we pulled
into the driveway, she had slipped away entirely.  It wasn't unexpected.

   Now, eight thousand days later, the smell of her on that weekend -- the
touch of her skin, the taste of her sex -- is as real to me as it was that
morning driving away from the farm.

   * * *

   And then nothing.  Weeks rolled by with no invitations back to the farm.
Summer faded into fall, and fall into winter.  She phoned me each week at
the university.  We talked as if our lives were normal.  Like other mothers
and sons do.  I knew better than to broach the subject.  I had to accept
that she demanded a certain distance.  So I curtailed my trips home, just
for Thanksgiving and Christmas.  From Dad I learned she had been to the
farm twice in the fall, never telling me.  As for those holidays, she was
nice, polite, at arm's length.

   I dated a few graduate assistants, got lucky with one.  But as the young
woman stepped into her panties to leave after spending the night, I looked
away, guilty thoughts of my mother creeping in.  This ceaseless yearning
for her became an inextinguishable thirst.  But also anger at the
rejection. Nights ahead were without sleep, days filled with numbness.  I
was miserable.

   * * *

   February.  I found myself traveling snowy two-lane back roads to the
farm.  I had driven from campus, pressed into service after my grandfather
was hospitalized with pneumonia.  Mother had driven over with Dad to help
my grandmother.  I was to relieve him for the weekend.

   The drive was lonely and frigid.  Gray skies, ice patches, flurries all
the way.  Country stores and small white churches here and there.  Miles of
frozen fields and empty tobacco barns.  No one about.

   We drove to the hospital -- my mother, grandmother and I -- then back to
the farm by dark.  No one else was there as we closed up the house for the
night.  A heavy downfall of snow began.  We lit the fireplace, ate dinner
and talked.  Mother was guarded, inaccessible to me.  I was glad to see
her, but angry still.  Gramma went to bed.  Mother and I sat on the living
room sofa, one of us at each end, and watched television.  We uncorked
wine, with little conversation.  She seemed uninterested in my life for the
past few months.  Then, without a word, she started up the stairs, got
halfway and turned.

   "Are you ready?"

   * * * 

   Icy, windy, bitter night.  The unleashed power of a winter storm.  Snow
on the fields, snow blanketing the road.  Snow piling atop tree limbs.  A
constant groaning of the rafters overhead.  Our attic room warmed by the
gas heater's blue flame dancing back and forth.

   My mother turned off the lamp, instead lighting candles.  They
flickered, threatened to go out.  She undressed in front of me, facing me.
I sat on the bed in silence.  Her shoes left by the door, her dress on the
door knob.  Her bra and panties on the floor at her feet.  No longer any
effort to conceal her body from me.  The curve of her hips, the ivory color
of her thighs barely illuminated.  She slipped on a flannel nightgown. 
Stepping directly in front of me as I sat on the bed, she looked down at my
face.  A moment of mutual silence.  Standing still.  As if at attention. 
She spoke slowly.

   "If you haven't figured it out by now, Michael, I have this dull,
ordinary, middle-class life and a marriage that is wearisome.  You're my
escape.  For a few hours I can be someone else.  With you.  Up here in this
room I can be the woman I always wanted to be.  But I always have to go
back to the other me.  I'm not a good mother, Michael.  You deserve better.
Your dad deserves better."

   Reaching down, she raised the edge of her nightgown, pulled it up to her
waist, naked, displaying for me the dark curls and the beginning of that
divine slit between her parted legs.  The vision of her pussy was
enchanting.  The rest of the room was lost in darkness.

   "At night, every night," she said, "I take baths before bed.  In
steaming hot water I masturbate until I have an orgasm.  Sometimes two.  I
think about us.  I go to sleep thinking about being naked, with you
watching.  Other mothers don't do that.  I think of me spreading my legs so
you can see better.  Wanting my own son to like me.  I've spent too much
time hating myself for these thoughts.  I have to accept myself.  I like
the woman that I am in this room.  I feel free here."

   Holding the gown with one hand, she put her other between her legs.  I
could barely see her middle finger slide inside her vagina.  She pulled it
out.  Brought it to her nose.  "I've grown to love my pussy.  A year ago I
couldn't even say the word.  Now, it's the center of who I am.  You've
brought life to me, made my body come alive.  My pussy is on fire every
time I think of being in this bedroom with you.  No one else could do that
for me."

   My anger melted.  Carefully she picked up the chair, to make no noise,
and set it with its back a foot from the window.  Snow sticking on the
outside of the glass, piling up, as if to block out the storm.  But in the
room, darkness and warmth.  And her.  There was a reverence to it all.  She
undressed me, held my penis in her hand, squeezing gently.  Watching it
grow.  Squeezing more until I was rock hard.  She studied it as she stroked
me a moment.  She was invincible, completely in control.

   "Come and sit."

   I was obedient, sitting naked in the chair, my cock pointing and swaying
in my lap.  She faced me, stepped between my legs, lowered to her knees,
bent her head down and, not using her hands, began to slowly slide her face
against by raging prick.  Letting her face, her cheeks feel the hotness in
my erection.  Her face gliding up and down along one side of my dick, then
moving to the other side with her other cheek.  Stopping, she raised her
head a little and hovered it over the tip of my cock, looking down at it,
slowly lowering her face, then parting her lips and taking me in her mouth,
just the head of my erection.  Gently sucking.  Then just as quickly, she
stopped and stood up.

   With one hand she raised her nightgown to her waist and straddled the
chair.  Those soft pubic curls and the warmth of her pelvis almost against
my chest.  With eyes looking down on mine, she reached beneath her, took
hold of my erection with her other hand, held it straight up and lowered
herself, sliding my wet prick back and forth, between her legs, until she
found the center of her opening.

   The head of my prick, swollen and sensitive, could feel the warm,
slippery, wrinkled flesh parting to let me in.  Her pussy enveloped the
head.  She held it there for a second.  Then with one swift move, she sat
down on me, face to face, thrusting my dick farther in her.  I was
unprepared.

   It felt full, my dick sliding snugly against all sides of this secret
tunnel within her.  She moaned, heat flowing from her body to my erection.
The silken smoothness was overcoming, pushing all other thoughts of mine
aside.  Only this mattered.  Like nothing I had known before.  I grit my
teeth to stave off ejaculating.  A delirious hunger in my heart.  Bringing
her mouth close to my ear, she spoke barely above the sounds from the
burning gas heater.

   "You know, don't you, that we're casting our lot with the Devil. 
There's a special place in Hell for the likes of you and me.  To be
sure." 

   "I don't believe in Hell," I said.

   "We'd better both hope you're right," she answered.

   Feathery hidden muscles wrapped around my prick, pulling me, taunting me
farther in.  This prick was no longer mine.  Heavy, ramrod hard, aching for
relief.  My body's energy, all of it in my arms, legs, chest, all of it
absorbed down into my hard-on.  The insides of it felt on fire.  This dick
was hers to do with as she wanted, trying to draw me deeper into her
softness.  I thought I was in as far as she could take me.  But no.  With a
final push, she devoured me down to the base.  Over our shoulders, gusts
rattled the window pane.  Her arms wrapped around my neck.

   "Is this the mother you want?" she asked, her face an inch from mine,
nose to nose, eyes on me.  My nostrils filled with the scent of her skin,
our sweat and the aroma of wine on her breath.

   She turned her head away.  Her voice low.  Not meant for me.  "Please
forgive me this.  I know how terrible I am."

   To be that close to her.  That's what I wanted.  I knew in the instant
it happened.  Her face, her breath up against my own.  Her pussy enveloping
my cock.  Nothing could compare.  She sat up a little, straightening her
back, moving back and forth with just the lower part of her body.  Pushing
her pelvis and clit against me hard.  She found a rhythm, began grinding. I
pushed with her, meeting her clit each time.  Her face still in front of
mine, nose to nose.  Those breasts, loose through the flannel fabric,
cushioning my chest.  No matter that the gown was thick, I still could feel
the hardness of her nipples.  Overcome by it, I twisted my face down, bit
the nipples hard through the cloth, pulled them with my lips.  She winced.

   "So this is the way you want it," she said.  "Okay then."

   In turn, she bit my neck with her teeth, hard.  I gasped.  Both of us
trying to hurt the other a little.  She dug her fingernails into my back,
left marks.  Her heat all down my front with a chill down my back from the
leaky window.

   As we rocked, my hands found their way under her gown, searching for her
smooth ass.  Sitting astride me caused her buttocks to pull apart, each
side resting on one of my legs.  My middle finger found the divide.  Her
breath grew heavier, stronger.  I matched mine with hers until we were in
tandem, rocking and breathing together.  My finger progressing downward,
inch by inch, until meeting the small anus, already wet from her sweat.  I
rubbed my finger around the opening.  Her heat building fast, the rocking
grew harder, quicker, then with abandon.  Her thighs raised, tightening
around my waist.  I slipped the finger in her ass, just a little.  It went
in so easy.

   "Oh," is all she said.

   We rocked, my finger moving in and out, deeper inside, up to my knuckle
and back.  Her panting right at my ear, then biting her lip to stifle a
groan.  More panting, panting, panting.  Stifling another groan, this one
louder.  She turned her head.  Her breath all over my face.  Heavy
breathing.  I could smell the wine and the sex building up from her pussy,
filling up my nose.  Panting loud and quick, non-stop.  Until she froze
suddenly.  Both of us still, in anticipation for several seconds.  She
yielding to the sensations of my finger in her ass and her pussy impaled on
my rock hard prick.

   Suddenly, quickly, she heaved, squeezed her arms tight around my head.
Ground her mound and vulva into me, groaned, then moved her mouth onto
mine. Not a kiss.  A scream.  From her mouth into my throat, to muffle the
noise.  Holding her lips on mine as she rode her orgasm, on and on until it
peaked.

   Even on the downside there was a quivering in her stomach, giving way to
spasms that I felt against me, her limbs shaking.  Guttural sounds in her
throat as my own pulsations began.  My dick was getting hotter, my sperm
moving up, pushing itself toward the head of my dick, then letting go,
feeling it launch straight up, a fountain erupting inside of her.  Three,
maybe four bursts.  The magic of passing it from me into her.  All of it in
the dark void we never see, only feel.  Sweet seconds of ecstasy.  She had
a second climax as I came, shudders and groans, legs again squeezing
against me.  Then it was over.  We clung to each other in the chair, beads
of sweat dribbling from skin to skin.

   "Nothing can exceed this," she said.  "Nothing."

   Then lying side by side on the bed, silent, the taste of sex lingering,
the carnal smell.  This immortal, incurable desire to come together.  We
cooled off, pulled blankets up and pressed close, facing each other, arms
and legs tangled together.  My disappearing erection, wet and sticky,
wedged against the slippery opening between her legs.

   "It's never been this good," she whispered, our faces touching.  "I had
no idea it could be like this.  I could feel your semen splashing against
the very back of me."

   She reached under the covers, found my limp penis in its diminutive
state.

   "God I love your dick," she whispered, rubbing it along her opening. 
Then forced the head into her pussy, barely pushing it inside.

   "Is it this way with other women?  This good?"

   I told her no.

   "No?  Why?"

   "You're my mother.  That's why."

   She pulled my penis out of her pussy, then slipped her head under the
sheet, moving down.  Her ass sticking up in the air, covered by the
blankets.  I felt her lips surrounding my penis, gently sucking and
licking. She climbed back out.

   "I love cleaning you up.  I never thought about that before." She smiled
at me, a rare smile.

   I put my hand on her cheek.  "You mean everything to me," I said.

   "So, you're not ashamed of me?"

   "That would never happen."

   She paused.  "And do you like my pussy?"

   "Like isn't the word.  Obsessed with, I think."

   "It's the same with me," she said.  "I have such an appetite for this."

   We drifted into sleep, for an hour or so.  I awakened with my
middle-aged mother lying on top of me, squirming around to rouse me, acting
like an insatiable 18-year-old girl.  I was barely awake.  Her eyes still
sleepy, hair askew.  "I just have to do this.  I can't wait," she
whispered. "I've been thinking about it for months."

   She rose to her knees, pushing the blankets down in back of her ass,
scooted up and straddled my head.  Her hands were braced on the backboard
as she shifted her vulva, lowering it on my face, the soft downy hair right
at my nose.

   "Lick my cunt, Michael.  Make me come."

   She slid her pussy back and forth, rubbing it on my face, smothering my
mouth and nose.  Liquid smearing me.  I had to close my eyes.  There was
the smell of her pussy, her sweat and mine, the taste of her soft fuzz.  I
stuck my tongue out as far as I could and just let her slide over and over
it.  Tongue in her slit, tongue at her clit.  Her juices running down my
chin.  Part of it must have been the remains of my own semen.  I had not
known a woman could leak so much.

   "There.  Right there," she said as my tongue again met her clit.

   She rocked harder.  Speeded up.  Soft moans from her lips, quick shallow
breaths.  Her body on fire.  Her climax.  This one lasted longer than the
others.  She pressed herself down on my face, hard as she rode the waves. I
had trouble breathing but took as much as I could down my throat, getting
the full taste of her fluids for the first time.

   A moment's pause before she shifted her ass down to my ankles, leaned
forward and took my half-swollen prick in her mouth.  The crease in her
buttocks was on my left foot.  My big toe up against that anal opening. 
She rubbed her ass back and forth a little, feeling the sensation of it. 
She liked her ass.  I could tell that.

   Her fingers flicking my balls.  Tongue swirling around the head of my
prick.  I could feel it thickening against the roof of her mouth.  It was
steely hard in no time.  Just watching her lips sliding up and down was
enough to coax my sperm up the shaft.  I loved the sensation of it erupting
out of my prick, knowing in the dark that it was filling her mouth,
shooting down her throat.  She swallowed most of it, licked up the rest
with her tongue.

   For years I'd had fantasies of meeting the perfect bed mate, someone on
the same page as me, who liked crossing the line into a little perversion.
Who relished all the tastes and smells.  It's just that I had trouble
accepting the idea of it being my own mother.

   Both of us were at the far borders of morality.

   * * *

   Spring.  The farm seemed wondrous to me by then.  The sweet smells of
earth, crops beginning to thrust up from the dirt, the cool morning air. 
Life in farm country comes alive in the spring.  And so it was also in the
attic.  The sweet smells of her warm flesh, the soft moist area between her
open legs.  Night air stoking this hunger for flesh.  It permeated
everything.

   The workload for my grandparents proved too much.  They leased out the
land to other farmers, keeping just the house and barn.  So my mother and I
began driving back every other weekend to help with the upkeep.  Each
bringing our own cars.  I pulled Granddad's mower out of the barn and cut
the front, back and side yards of the house while Mother helped Gramma tend
the flower bed and vegetable garden.  We washed windows, swept the porch.

   As always, we'd help close down the house for the night, watch
television until the grandparents seemed asleep, then vanish up the attic
stairs.  Bolt the door, strip off our clothes.  No time to waste.  We were
riding a hot streak, ravenous and determined to indulge each other.  Beyond
that, nothing much mattered.

   Our lives, my mother's and mine, intertwined, measured out in long
nights of shuddering flesh, muffled screams, dripping fluids and damp
sheets.  In that room ours was a world of unending thirst.  We wallowed in
its fragrance.  Wine seemed to be the catalyst.

   "Walk around the room," she would say.  "I like to watch your dick
moving and swinging."

   So I'd model a little for her while she lay on the bed.  I marveled at
how different my mother had become in private with me.  She liked watching
my nakedness.  I loved doing it.  I relished the fullness of my dick as I
moved about, hanging down thick but not yet erect.  It felt manly to let
her see me in that state.  Swinging and swaying, balls bouncing a little.
I'd stop and stroke in front of her.  Then I'd will my prick to jerk a
little without touching it.  Silent applause from her.

   "Come here.  Closer," she would say.

   I'd step in and she would reach for my balls, feeling their weight,
holding and fondling.  Playing with them really.

   "Turn around."

   She liked to look at my butt.  I never understood why.  She caressed it.
Squeezed each cheek.  I would pull away and step to the bathroom, still
semi-hard, leaving the door open.  Engorged enough to make me seem long and
thick, but not so stiff that I couldn't take a leak.  I stroked myself a
little, then let the muscles relax and the pee flow.  Inevitably, she would
jump off the bed.

   "I want to hold it," she would say, rushing in.

   So we would stand at the toilet, side by side, her holding my dick,
aiming and watching the pee splash into the water.

   I wanted as much from her.

   On the bed, I would tell her to "assume the position."

   In one smooth motion, she would turn over, up on her knees, elbows on
the mattress, lifting her ass up high for me to see.  Her naked ass facing
me, the dark divide pulled apart, her ass hole on deliberate, blatant
display, a lightly dark areola around the hole.  Her small labia making an
appearance too.  Obscene, nasty, beautiful.  She would lay her head on the
bed.

   From underneath she could reach between her legs, her middle finger
easing along the line of her narrow slit, slipping her finger inside,
moving it around to make squishing sounds.  Intentional, of course.  She'd
slip another finger in, then two more, all four fingers in her, moving in
and out of her pussy, slow but forceful.  By then I was on the brink of
eruption.

   "Oh God, that's tight," she would say.

   I would lean closer, stick my tongue out and lick her ass hole, for
several long minutes as she tended to her pussy.  She loved the dual
feeling.  And the disgusting, unacceptable nastiness of what we were doing.
It was enough to get me going.

   "But don't come.  Not yet.  Not til I do," she would say.  We would
climax together.  The best of course, was being inside her.  Face to face.
All that warmth surrounding my throbbing, swollen prick.  Hardness
enveloped by her softness.  Close-fitting, comfortable, secure.  I didn't
want ins-and-out that were jack-hammer-fast.  Taking it slow at first, in
and out, back in.  Slow but forceful, so she could feel the strength of my
dick.  Her eyes, looking into mine, narrowed, almost as if she were falling
asleep.  Each muscle of her body, each nerve beginning to relax.  One at a
time.  One moment after another, surrendering her body completely to me. 
Letting the moments happen.

   Then rocking, my pelvis against her clit.  Falling into a rhythm.  Her
thighs raised to my waist.  My pelvis pushing more, putting pressure on her
clit.  Heat building between us.  Both of us intoxicated by each other's
bodies, both slipping into some far off world, rocking toward ecstasy.

   Then a little grunting from her, legs raised higher, wrapping around me.
A message to begin longer thrusts, slow but long.  All the way in, pushing
to get as close to the end of this tunnel as possible.  Then pulling most
of the way out, then back in.  More grunts meant for me to do it faster,
harder.  Beads of sweat dribbling down our skin, becoming rivulets,
trickling down my waist, wetness seeping from her pussy, all of it onto the
sheet.

   I plunged and plunged into her, her body arcing, jerking, pushing hard
against me.  Finally, her biting my neck, teeth grinding into me, gasping
for her breath.  On and on and on.  Until it was over.  But we stayed
locked together until the cool down.  Not wanting to give up those moments.

   Other times we would talk, lying side by side on the bed, both of us
naked.  She would lay her arm over my thighs and play with my balls and my
prick, even if it was soft.  Slowly, casually rolling my balls around and
running a finger around my penis.  Using her finger to absorb any droplets,
tasting them on her lips.  If I started getting hard, she would stop, let
me calm down.  Then begin again.  She loved seeing me when I wasn't hard.
Loved the softness of it.  All of this while talking, talking.

   Or sometimes turnabout.  Me playing with her clitoris.  Still side by
side, talking, my hand on her abdomen, sliding a finger over her slit,
enough to make her wet.  Then dip my finger in her pussy, soak up some of
the lubrication and use it to caress her clit.  Getting her juices going.
Then stop, letting her rest.  Do it again.  Starting, stopping, talking.

   "Do you like eating my cunt?"

   "Of course." 

   "And my ass.  You lick it and finger it a lot.  Do you like that?  You
don't have to, you know."

   "And do you like it?" I asked back.

   "Yes.  Yes.  Yes, she said.  It's so vile and vulgar.  Don't you just
love the decadence?  Do other women like it?"

   "Some do.  Most don't," I said.

   I mounted her every way we could.  We were like a long-married couple.
Used to the rhythms of our sex.  Falling into habits.  Knowing the pleasure
that was coming but not yet burned out.

   "Does what we're doing horrify you?  It does me," she asked.  "It's so
immoral."

   We had been naked on the bed, just before dark.  She was stretched out
on her back, her head in my lap as I sat cross-legged.  I was playing with
her nipples.  I lied to her.

   "No.  It doesn't bother me.  It's our business.  No one else's." I
touched her pussy, slipped a finger inside to feel her wetness beginning.

   "It frightens me sometimes," she said.  "But then I'm obsessed with this
beautiful dick of yours," turning her head in my lap just enough to kiss
the shaft of my hard prick, which she was holding beside her ear. 

   "All of life tied up in these momentary little orgasms," she said. 
"These little acts of pleasure." She had a wistful smile as her fingers
maintained their grip on my prick.  "Without them, there would be no
civilization at all.  It's the meaning of life."

   Some days were arduous, long hours of helping my grandparents, too tired
at night to fuck.  Instead, I would massage her back and legs, fingers
kneading her flesh.  Then I lay between her legs, probing her vulva with a
finger, or my tongue.  Teasing her clit.  Until she would come.  Not a
shattering orgasm.  Just enough to relax her.  That intimacy was enough for
me.  Then sleep.

   "This lust is consuming me, devouring me," she said one night.

   "But you like it, don't you?  I mean the sex," I asked.

   "Sometimes I feel I was born for nothing else but this," she said. 
"That my other life is unimportant.  I know that's wrong.  All of this is
so wrong.  But I'm starved for it.  Is there ever a way to stop?"

   "I don't want to stop," I said.

   "I don't think I can," she whispered.

   * * * 

   As all good sons should do, back home I visited my parents at least once
a week, usually for Sunday dinner, or some Saturday night grilling on the
back patio if we weren't at the farm.  My mother was her usual self. 
Talkative but holding back.  At Christmas I kissed her cheek.  She smiled.
In a private moment I caressed her face.

   "Don't go there," she said.

   I knew that would never change.  So I lived to climb the attic stairs.
That's where my real life was.  Wanting it to last forever.

   * * *

   I hadn't counted on meeting Judy.  How rapidly everything changed.  A
friend had set us up.  My mother, after having one dinner with her at our
house, said our nights in the attic would have to end.  "Judy's your
future. She's the one." Mother was right, of course.  Our courtship moved
along quickly.

   Trips to the farm had gone on for two years.  Never in those long attic
nights did we even talk about the future.  But we both knew this day would
come.

   About the same time, both my grandparents moved to nursing homes.  The
farmhouse went up for sale.  The family moved out all the belongings.  One
of my cousins wound up with most of the attic furniture.  Another took the
bed.  She would never know the history of it.

   My father, mother and I drove over one weekend to make sure nothing was
left behind.  We walked the rooms.  He went out to check the barn.  Mother
and I headed up the stairs to her empty room.

   "I had hoped he wouldn't come," I told her.  "I know," she said.

   We looked out the window, could see him walking around the barn.  The
two of us moved away from the window.  We looked at each other in silence.
Her eyes were sad.  Before I could say anything, she reached under her sun
dress and pulled down her panties.  Stepped out of them.  Then sniffed
them, as she had done before.  She handed them to me.

   "So you never forget," she said with a slight smile.

   She pulled her dress up to her waist, affording me one last look at her
pubic hair, her pussy.  She looked down at it too.  We heard a noise.  Our
moments had run out.  Dad would be back in the house.  She let the dress
hem fall to her knees and started down the attic stairwell, which even in
daytime was almost dark.  Halfway down, she turned around and flung her
arms around my neck.  Mine went to her waist.  Faces side by side.

   I kissed her cheek, then her neck.  Finally her lips.  She surprised me
and slipped her tongue inside.  After all those nights in the attic, our
first real kiss.  We had only seconds.  It was urgent, her mouth hot, her
tongue strong against mine.  She groaned, pulled me hard against the
softness of her breasts.  Her thighs clamped around one of my legs.  She
squeezed them tight.  Still a hunger for each other.  She tasted like
cinnamon.  I wanted her closer.  But there was no time.  My cheeks were wet
as she pulled away.  Her eyes watery.

   As I heard my dad's voice coming back into the house, I jammed the
panties in my jeans' back pocket.  We pulled out of the driveway.  My
mother looked up at her window.  It would be the last time we would see the
farm house.

   Hours later, back in my apartment, I locked the door, sat on my sofa,
pulled out the panties.  I held them in my hands, then buried my face in
the crotch.  And breathed in.

   * * *

   On the beach at Ocean Isle one summer morning, years after Judy and I
were married, we lazed on lounge chairs in the sand, watching my mother
search for seashells down at the edge of the water with our two children.
Mother would bend down on one knee, pointing out a shell here and there,
wiping the sand off and showing them.  The kids, they were seven and five
years old then, would squat and look, then put them in their plastic
bucket. Smiles all around.  Such a beautiful day.

   "All she has is a simple, modest black swimsuit, and her hair is mussed
up by the breeze," Judy said.  "It's so average.  So typical of a woman her
age.  But there's a certain beauty about her.  There in the curve of her
mouth, the softness in her eyes, a real grace.  She wears time so well. 
What I wouldn't give to look that good when I'm 70."

   She looked not at me, but out at my mother and the kids.  "Slim, still
toned.  All that poise and self-assurance," she said.  And then, in a flat,
matter-of-fact voice, Judy said: "I can understand what you saw in her."

   She looked at me without a smile.  Then back at my mother and the kids.

   "I know about you and your mother," she said calmly.

   "What are you talking about?"

   "I'm not mad at you.  But I do know.  I've always known."

   "Someday I'll want you to tell me about it," she said.  "Not now, but
someday.  And I'll want to know everything.  Do you understand?  I need you
to promise that you'll tell me."

   What else could I do but nod my head.

   * * *

   Time runs out for all of us.  At first it was my father, and eventually
for my mother too.  As I came to grips with her death, Judy kept telling me
she had a long, good life.  "And we gave her some grandchildren to love."
That helped.

   We were in bed one night, lights out.

   "How did it start?" she asked, her face close to mine.  "Tell me from
the beginning."

   I had no option but to take Judy through our history.  Each night, as we
lay in bed, she pressed me for more.  "And then what?" she would say, over
and over.  My answers were graphic.  She demanded the smallest of details.
"What did her nipples feel like?" "Were her pussy lips like mine?" Which
makes sense.  My wife loves sex, not just doing it.  Talking about it,
watching porn, you name it.

   For our honeymoon, we had strolled the canals and alleyways of
Amsterdam's red-light district, mostly for the sex shows.  We took the
train south to nude beaches on the Mediterranean.  You get the picture.  A
woman after my own heart.  A modest woman, a proper woman to those who know
her.  Underneath dwells a perverse taste for sex.  One that only I am privy
to.  She wanted to know every lurid detail.  I told her all I remembered.
In a way, she is just like my mother.

   "I'm betting she loved to be naked a lot," Judy said in one of those
nighttime talks.  I nodded.

   "What did her pussy taste like?  Did she ever want more than one finger
in her ass?

   "I know you love it when I come on your face.  Did you two do that?"

   One night we had too much bourbon, our drink of choice by then, and Judy
told me she wanted to play a game.

   "Pretend I'm your mother and fuck me like you did her." She bought a
sundress, put her hair up off her neck, as my mother always did, and got up
on all fours on the bed.  I came into her from behind, just as I'd
described one of my mother's favorite positions.  It was the first of what
would be many nighttime mother-son games that we still play.

   On that night, she lay on top of me after our sex, then a long silence
before raising her head from my chest.

   "You do know, don't you, that she wasn't a bad mother at all.  She may
have said she was, but she wasn't.  She told you all the time that you
deserved better."

   "I don't know what to think," I said.

   "She may have held back on the things other mothers give, the affection
and all," Judy said.  "But in the end, she gave you something she couldn't
give to anyone else: her real self.  She wouldn't give herself, couldn't
give herself, to anyone else.  She trusted only you."

   "If you look at it that way, she really loved you.  She wasn't a
terrible mother at all.  She really was a good mother," she said.  "Don't
make this too complicated, Michael.  She loved you in her own way.  Okay,
so it was incest.  Call it what you will.  She still loved you and that was
the important thing."

   So there it is.  To this day, I still wonder how many other mothers and
sons have done what we did.  Very few is my guess.  And those that did
will, like me, keep it secret for the rest of their lives.  But it
interests me.  What are their memories?

   I suppose I will always wonder about my mother and me.  Maybe this is a
love story after all.  She was like no other woman.

   "I'm telling you," Judy said.  "She really was a good mother."

   Maybe she's right.

   End


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