textfiles/sex/EROTICA/M/mymother.txt

Copyright © 1997   BillyG.   ALL Rights Reserved.

This story may not be reproduced in any form for profit without
the written permission of the author.  This story may be freely
distributed with this notice attached.  The author may be contacted
through mrdouble@airmail.net.













MY MOTHER, SUSAN


Written by:   BillyG



     I remember the day exquisitely well.  The days - no the months and
years before it - are wrapped in some soft-focus, cotton-candy memory,
but that day snaps into sharp focus with a clarity that is the result of
moments of great impact long remembered.  For all those years, my mother
was my Mom.  Then one day she became a woman.  More importantly, she
suddenly became a sexy woman.   An extremely desirable woman.

     I didn't - that day at any rate - suddenly become a  profligate.  It
was to take a certain determinism and some considerable time before I
might aspire to that description.  No, the severest criticism one could bring
to bear back then might be that I was a horny kid, one who appeared to be
a touch more aware than his peers and maybe too curious for his own
good.

     I was home alone with my mother and my father was away.  That
was the case a good bit of the time it seemed.  I had a father, but we didn't
know each other very well.  On some level, I'd come to accept his absence,
for that's the way it was.  I suspect my mother, who didn't complain, was
experiencing less acceptance.  

     I'd been coerced into wearing a sport jacket that day - in place of
my usual, more casual attire - and attending some ho-hum, boring cocktail
party at the university president's home.  I don't recall the strong-arm
tactics that brought me to bay, but I do recall the suffering.  It seemed like
endless hours of mindless chatter where everyone but me got to have
champaign or white wine.  Oh, it wasn't forbidden, but my mother had
made it clear that she was going to have "some wine" and I was the
designated driver.  We both knew that champaign had more effect on my
mother than it appeared at first glance.  If she didn't try to walk, or drive,
she did quite well, at least at holding a conversation.  However, those who
knew her well were aware of a characteristic scattered thought process, a
type of clang association which, when coupled with an alcoholic gaiety,
turned her into a different woman.  Almost daring and perhaps borderline
loose.

     Anyway, we'd returned home in the late afternoon from that well-
supplied party and we'd both fallen into facing couches in our large living
room, each of us with a welcome sigh as we put our feet up.  That's when
it happened.  I don't recall that anything had occurred to set me up for this;
it just came out of nowhere.  Blind sided as it were.  Out of nowhere, this
sexy woman appeared!

     The late afternoon sun shone toward my mother while I sat
opposite her in deeper shadow.  She'd drawn up her knees to push her
pumps off and suddenly I was looking directly up her dress at a well-lit and
unobstructed view of my mother's thighs all the way to her undergarments. 
It was no flash, for she'd placed both stockinged feet on the coffee table,
knees still up and fallen back to the cushions, head up and eyes closed with
her skirt around her mid thighs in the front and completely dropped away in
the rear.

     "Oh, that feels so good." she exclaimed, wriggling her stocking-
clad toes.  "Christ, I wish I could meet someone interesting at those
parties, someone with some life in them!"

     It was the type of comment that needed no reply.  I suspect that I
couldn't have replied coherently in any case, for my attention was riveted
on the view under her dress.  

     Even though I'd lived with this woman all my life, I suppose I had
had no interest and no awareness of her as a *woman* and even less for
her clothes.  After all, she was my mother for crying out loud.   So, it was
with some surprise that I realized for the very first time that she wore
stockings and garters and not what I thought all women wore, pantyhose. 
I was fascinated with the stretch of her hose by the garters running down
each thigh.  But her panties held even greater fascination for me.

     I don't think that I'd given it any previous thought, but had I been
grilled on what type of underwear my mother wore, I might have guessed
something white, conservative, and certainly thick.  Clearly not what she
had on.  Illuminated by the long rays of the afternoon sun, the pale yellow
of her panties, pooched out by a thick cushion of pubic hair faintly seen
beneath, were not what I would have expected.  As I say, I hadn't really
expected anything, but what I saw so well that afternoon was to be
imprinted on my mind with an indelible permanence. 

     "Damn, my feet are tired," she complained to the heavens. And
then, stating the obvious,  "Professor Twist is so incredibly boring,"
followed by a mental right turn, "I need some excitement in my life."

     Excitement?  I glanced up at her face, but she looked unchanged,
head back and eyes still closed, the picture of fatigue, or was it boredom? 
Looking again at her long legs encased in shear nylons leading up to that
pantied juncture in her crotch, I suddenly had a near-overwhelming desire
to see more, to get closer.  Some desires, short of compulsions, can be
modulated if for no other reason than a fear of disclosure.  The strength of
this desire was not to be moderated by caution or restraint.  I *had* to see
more.


     Understand, I wasn't a complete nincompoop, but as a seventeen
year old, I didn't know much.  Most of my sexual adventures came as the
result of me just being there and things happening.  I suppose I was more
of an opportunist than a mover and shaker, at least in sexual things.  Later,
that was to change.  Anyway, I knew I wanted to get closer and hadn't the
faintest notion how I might accomplish this . . . and keep my head on my
shoulders.

     I had an idea!  Hardly original and certainly not a bit creative, but it
was what came to mind at that moment and without turning it over to
examine its merits, I blurted out, "Want me to rub your feet?  I know it's
not very exciting, but you used to love it."

     Now this was not entirely without precedent, for I'd once taken a 
low-grade massage course that had started with the feet and then the
hands.  Most of the people in there were taking the course hoping to learn
about erotic massage.  That never happened and it was not until eight or so
weeks later that we even got to the back!  At any rate, I'd massaged my
mom's hands and her forearms and feet and calves in the past.  At that time
I was doing it for the practice and hardly noted that it was my mother's
limbs on which I was working.  Now, months later, she just sank deeper
into the couch and wiggled her toes, saying, "Oh, yes!  Yes, indeed, yes. 
Oh, thank you.  Marvelous idea!"

     As I was walking around the coffee table, I remembered reading an
erotic story of a young kid who massaged his mom's legs so he could look
under her robe.  Each day his mother relaxed a little bit more, the story
went, and each day he'd get a little better view.  More, he was able to
move up her legs each day.  "How dumb!" I thought at the time.  I liked
the story, but knew it'd never work.  Now, it seemed like a much better
idea.

     Then, with the keen awareness of the paranoid, I thought, "If *I*
thought of this, then my mother probably did as well.  She probably knows
what I'm up to."  Yet her relaxed body surrender suggested otherwise as I
sat on the coffee table and said, "Gimmie a footsie, lady."

     "Footsie?" she asked, as she picked up one leg and offered it to me,
opening up the view of her entire pantied pelvis and crotch.  "Since when
did you get so cute?"

     "You want this massage or not?"  As if I'd be content to just walk
away if she decided she really didn't want it.

     "You can call it anything you want.  Just rub it for me, please."

     In retrospect, I don't know if one might have viewed this as some
right of passage.  Almost certainly not, yet it had a profound impact on me
that colored my thinking and my thoughts, seemingly to this day.  I mean,
why else can I recall with such vivid clarity the texture of her skin and the
color of her clothes?  Why else did this produce a deeply etched memory
that was swamped with eroticism?  

     Because I'd sat next to her feet on the coffee table, when she
offered me her foot, I'd pulled it slightly aside to hold it in both hands. 
This caused her dress to climb still higher on her thighs and open her legs
still more.  Her panties were a burnished saffron in the long light.  I was so
close and my view was so clear, I could see the lacy edges and the
stitching.  As well, I could see her auburn pubic curls through the near-
transparent material.  No panty gusset here.

     Squiggling, she groaned in obvious anticipation, "Billy, you're
saving this day from being a total bust.  Thanks."

     Bending to my task, I started a slow rubbing, more a caress really,
that ran the length of the sole of her foot.  Initially, softly with a slow build
up and then slowly kneading deeper, causing her toes to curl. 
Accompanied by appreciative groans, I attempted to establish a level of
pleasure that might allow me to go farther.

     With my head down, looking up through my eye lashes, I was
trying to drink in the vision of her exposed private place.  I knew it was
risky, but at that moment, I was out of my head.  I'd suddenly become a
sexually-aware and turned-on young man and the erotic thrill of that sight
had a much greater pull than the fear of getting caught.

     I scooted closer and slipped under her legs, placing one stockinged
foot on my chest as I ran my hands over her calf from knee to ankle, still
staring at the darker shadow of her pussy seen inside the taut and stretched
crotch of her panties.  With one thigh pulled aside, her tendon stood out,
tenting the leg of her panties a bit and exposing a rich forest of pubic curls
peeking from under the edge.

     At that moment, perhaps alerted by my prolonged silence, she
suddenly looked up and saw where my eyes were staring.  I expected an
explosion.  Since I'd been caught red-handed, I made no attempt to look
away.  Instead, I just continued to massage her calf as I looked into her
eyes.  In the periphery of my vision, I could see her dress almost in her lap. 
Jesus, what a moment!  What was going to happen?

     My mother pulled back a little and said, "There's a problem here,
Billy."

     "Oh, shit," I thought.  "Here it comes!"

     "Let me remove my hose.  You can't give me a proper massage
while I'm wearing them."  

     She didn't wait for a discussion.  Instead she suddenly got up and
went into the nearby hall powder room, returning minutes later with her
hose bunched in her hand.  She tossed them on the couch and sat again.  I
noted that the garter belt was with the hose as it fell out in plain view.  I
suppose that she didn't give it a thought.  In contrast, I was acutely aware
of her intimate undergarments lying there.  My mind was whirling.  Why
hadn't she protested when she caught me so flagrantly looking under her
dress?  Was she collecting her thoughts that she might upbraid me the
better?

     Instead, she just smiled and said, "There!  I feel better. Back to the
massage, if you please . . . and quit looking under my dress!"  Her warm
smile took away any sting her words might have had.

     She sat directly opposite me and demurely placed her foot back in
my lap, offering me no more than her knees and lower thighs to see.  I
worked for another 30 minutes, kneading and massaging, and while I was
able to get fleeting glimpses of her thighs, I was not able to see again what
I so desired, a close-up and unobstructed view of the crotch of her panties.


     ---------------------------------------------------


     From that day on, I remained aware that my mother was a very
attractive and sexy woman.  And, as a consequence of that awareness, I
became increasingly familiar with all her clothes, both from the perspective
of what was stylish as well as what was revealing.  I became intimately
aware of her various undergarments, not that I had many opportunities to
see her in them, but more that I couldn't resist snooping in her lingerie
drawers. 

     Mother was a striking woman, tall - about 5' 10" - mostly legs it
seemed, with athletic-looking calves and slender thighs.  I'd always
anticipated that I would be a tall man, for my father, at 6' 2", was the runt
of his family.  Couple that with my mom's genes and it seemed reasonable
that I'd be tall.  It was not to be.  At eighteen, we were pretty much the
same height.  I knew just where the tips of her breasts hit my chest.

     I should mention that my mother had very attractive breasts, a C-
cup with prominent, up-tilted nipples that were often evident despite her
clothes.  Sometime later I was to learn that she was one of those women
who were blessed with exceptionally firm, youthful breasts, that never lost
much of their firmness.  She is one of those rare females that will have
youthful breasts into her later years.  Like intelligence, beauty is given to us
as an accident of birth, no more than a fortuitous role of the genetic dice. 
It's comforting to be part of a line of good stock I was told, but I hadn't
thought of it in this arena of sexual attractiveness. 

     While my mother's figure was model-attractive, it was her facial
features that were eye catching.  She had a straight, almost aristocratic
nose and a wide, full mouth.  Her prominent cheek bones set off her
unusually attractive eyes.  They were hard to describe, her eyes. She had
high, full, unaltered eye brows, that were dark in color in contrast to her
natural auburn hair.  But it was the eyes themselves that caught your
attention, for they were a light green-blue with an exotic cast.  At times I
thought she might have some Asian blood, but I never got a hint of it in the
rest of her family.  In any case, they were striking, often dark and brooding
and at times almost electric.  Without altering her facial expression, her
eyes could show humor or joy and, at times, anger.  I often wondered what
she looked like when sexually aroused. 

     But I digress.  Back to the awakening of my sexual awareness.

     I didn't set out to seduce my mother, despite the rich and lurid
fantasies I entertained.  I held them as deeply secret and guarded as one
would any shameful, licentious desire.  The thought was given no more
than masturbatory acknowledgment, as frequent as that was.  Still, the gap
between our thoughts and our actions remains hidden from our conscious
awareness by the strength of our denial.  So while I might have denied a
plan to seduce her, my actions would have argued differently.  I set out to
be her friend and her confidant, to reduce if not break down the
conventional barriers between us.  This was largely an unacknowledged
plan of mine.  I don't recall thinking anything more detailed than vague
objectives of getting closer to her.

     Over time, I became more open with her about my self.  I asked her
opinions of things, including girls and dating and later, sexual things.  I
worked at being her emotional intimate.  It wasn't difficult, for she was at
heart an emotionally trusting and open women who, it turned out, was
largely unencumbered by repressive standards.  To my surprise, we
gradually became good friends.  That I would bond so closely with my
mother was not surprising, given my nature and that fact that my father
was largely an absent force in my life.

     I slowly became less conventional in my own modesty.  It was not
at all unusual for me to chat with my mother wearing no more than my
Calvin Kleins.  I was aware that she studiously avoided looking at my body
when I was so briefly dressed, but she never reprimanded me for
inappropriate attire.  


     ---------------------------------------------------------------------


     I became aware that when my dad was away, she usually left her
bedroom door open.  I took that as an invitation and often walked in on her
to "chat."  Not infrequently, I'd catch her in her bra and panties.  She'd
say, "Whoops," and slip on a robe, loosely tied.  Once, as I walked into her
room, she was walking out of her large closet wearing only an unbelted
robe that swung open as she moved.  From a moment only, I saw her nude
body.  It was no more than a flash that left nothing more than an after-
image.  It was that after-image that I examined so repeatedly.  I saw firm,
upthrust breasts, and a flash of dense pubic hair at the base of a flat
abdomen . . . and then she pulled the robe closed without comment.

     I'd gone in to ask her if she'd like to play some tennis and for a
moment was tongue tied, standing there, staring at her.

     "How're you doing, Billy?" she asked as she belted her robe.

     "Doin' OK, Mom," I replied, trying to sound cool and collected
when I was anything but.  "You like to play some tennis?"

     "Love to," she replied.  "Now?"

     "Sure, now."

     "OK," she tossed over her shoulder as she walked to a tall chest of
drawers and picked out a pair of small white cotton panties.  I'd become
aware of what undergarments she wore for what occasions and white
cotton were for sports.

     Her robe was clingy, hugging her body and buttocks.  I was acutely
aware of her prominent nipples and the swell of her rounded mons as she
faced my direction.  Then, glancing directly at me for a moment, she turned
away and, unbelting the robe, she stepped into the panties, pulling them up
firmly into her crotch, snapping the elastic.  It took no more than brief
seconds, but time was suspended and she moved in slow motion.

     She was standing in front of a large, south-facing slider window,
and intensely back lit.  The sheerness of her robe allowed the bright sun to
highlight her body silhouette and I could see her remarkably well through
the translucent robe.  I gazed in rapt awe at the long-legged outline of her
figure, the shadow of a full breast swinging forward as she bent to step into
her panties.  I thought of ripe fruit.

     Suddenly it was very still in the room.  I think I was holding my
breath.  Was she really aware of me there?  Did she know what I was
seeing?  I knew her as too quick and too smart to be unaware of how she
looked.  Were we slowly escalating to a new level of intimacy?  And if so,
could I ever acknowledge it?

     As she pulled the robe away from her body for a moment, I  caught
no more than a flash of one rounded hip and thigh and it thrilled me.  From
a lower drawer, she pulled out a pair of white tennis shorts and employing
the same visual screen of her robe, pulled them on, again pulling them tight
into her crotch.  In my mind's eye. I could see her puffy mons

     In a moment, I became aware that my dick was swelling and caught
down the leg of my shorts, feeling bent and painful.  Before she looked
back, I adjusted myself.

     Now what?  I knew she kept her bras and shirts in the same chest of
drawers.  Would she select them and go into her closet, or even into her
bathroom to don them?  I watched as she picked out a brief white cotton
bra and a white T-shirt.  Again, she glanced at me, and then shrugging her
shoulders as if to say, "Oh, the heck with it," she turned away, let her robe
drop to the floor where it pooled at her feet.  She quickly put her bra on,
hooking it in the back with a nimble facility that comes as the result of long
practice.  Magicians, I think, have the same facility.

     I saw, perhaps as never before, how narrow her waist was and how
beautifully full her hips were under her long and delicately curved back.  It
was more pronounced and exaggerated by all that flesh!  It took but
seconds to don her bra, but it wasn't quick enough, for I snapped a mental
picture of a back and side view of her full breast before it disappeared.  Yet
another lurch in my groin.  I was a goner.

     She looked back.  I smiled, wanting her to know that I had seen
her, but not wanting to act snide or smart ass.  "Nice," I said.

     She returned the smile and turned toward me as she was pulling the
T-shirt over her head.  Again, for a brief moment, I saw her en face,
appreciating how skimpy the bra was and how much of her breast simply
appeared to ride as much above of the cup as in it.

     I don't recall who won at tennis that day.  What I do recall is the
moment of watching her bend over, nude under her robe, and lifting one
foot, place it into the leg hole of those white cotton panties.  Later, looking
at the panty line under her shorts, I thought to myself, "I've *got* to see
more of her."

     We had slowly grown more relaxed around each other.  I know that
that sounds odd, that a mother and her son would become more relaxed
with each other, but that's exactly what happened.  I think that there has
always been some male-female sexual tension in our culture, mostly buried
and not honored, but certainly operative.  And as with many things, we
aren't aware of them until they go away.  It's their absence that highlights
their former presence.  In that fashion, I was very aware that many of our
defenses had been lowered.


     --------------------------------------------------------------------


     Some months later when I'd been away at school for what seemed
like too long a time, I called my mother just to chat.  We never said
anything blatant, but there always seemed to be a kidding undertone to our
conversations, subtly skirting around sexual things.  One day she upped the
ante.  "So, getting any?" she asked.

     I was stunned.  Was she reading my mind?

     "No, dammit.  You?"  I was taking a chance here and I knew it.  I'd
been distantly aware that in the last little while, even when my father was
home, that they were not connecting, my mom and dad.  You can't be that
close to someone and not be aware of those charged emotional states, even
when they're never discussed.  Mom, I knew, was frustrated, but we didn't
talk about it.  As I said, she never complained.

     "No," she answered, and then quickly added, "but we're not talking
about me.  What's happening with *you* these days?"

     I was used to her fending me off in this fashion and hardly paid it
any attention.  The fact of my emotional state was that I was lonely.  I
missed my mom.  And oh, yes . . . I was horny.  I decided to act out on a
new fantasy.  I asked her for a date, a mother-son date.

     "Mom, I miss you and knowing I won't get back home for a couple
of months, it makes it worse.  So I was wondering, would you come up
and visit me?  We're having a little dance here and I don't know anyone. 
You wouldn't have to stay in a hotel or anything.  I've got a pull-out
couch; I'll use that and you could use my room.  Will you let me take you
to dinner and then the dance?"

     She made I'm-thinking-about-it noises and then said, "Well . . . I'm
not sure about the dancing part.  I've danced with you - or tried to - before
and it's something about two left feet . . ." and then she laughed.  

     "Mom!  Come on, will you?  I'm not that bad," knowing that I
really was that bad.

     "Alright, alright.  I miss you too and I'm a little lonely myself.  I
miss our talks.  It's be nice to have dinner and re-connect with you. 
When's the dance?"

     "Two weeks . . . the weekend after next.  Can make it?"

     "Sure.  Will you pick me up at the airport?  I dread tying to get a
bus or a taxi."

     We made the arrangements and just before hanging up, I blurted
out, "Mom, I love you and I can't wait to see you.  Gosh, a real date!"


     --------------------------------------------------------------------


     In retrospect, I can see that I'd been sexually attracted to my
mother for a long time, but initially too inhibited to admit it to myself. 
With the pealing of that layer of my denial, I came to accept the intense
sexual feelings I had for her, but continued to deny that I expected or even
wanted to seduce her.  

     Another uncomfortable foray into self honesty brought me to that
point where I knew I *wanted* to be sexually intimate with her, but
realistically, didn't imagine I ever could.  After years of viewing her on
some asexual pedestal labeled MOM, I rapidly came to see her as an
extraordinarily sexy woman.  Suddenly, I was in lust.

     After all, she wasn't a dummy and she wasn't some bimbo.  I had
reason to believe that she was a sexually intense person, but because of
conventional morality, she didn't feel free to share that side of herself with
her son.  I'd been successful in developing and easy-going and partially
uninhibited relationship with her.  There was an unspoken sexual tease to
be sure, but it remained submerged and unacknowledged.  How might I
change it?  That was the question.

     Crudeness would never work.  That was a no-brainer.  Similarly, a
frontal assault would be ineffective and worse, insulting.  While she might
be more susceptible to a secret romantic connection because of my father's
neglect, it wouldn't be with me, that was clear.

     I'd thought of enticing her into something like a nudist colony, even
mentioned it a couple of times.  She was mildly interested, but I knew that
that was no more than a blind alley, an emotional cull de sac, and not even
a very sexual one.  I feared the stiff and formal behavior I imagined a nudist
colony to be. Too, I suspected that it would provide at most little more
than an avenue for my voyeurism but no entre into sexuality.  Nothing
there, I concluded.
     
     Would some innocent approach move me closer?  I remembered
that she'd been willing to allow me to massage her feet, even had been a bit
careless in her posture, at least at first.  Might that provide an avenue of
approach?

     Then I remembered that my mom liked her wine.  She wasn't a
lush, but it was clear that she didn't stop drinking just because she began
"to feel it."  More than once she'd said, "Why drink if you don't want to
feel it.  I drink for effect."  I also remembered that when tipsy, she became
something of a sloppy drunk.  Not fall-down drunk, but certainly risque
often and careless of appearances.  I once overheard her say, "I drink to
make my *friends* more interesting."  This wasn't a common occurrence,
but I had seen it rarely, and only with friends.  Well, I was a friend, wasn't
I? 

     
     -----------------------------------------------------------------


     I was waiting for my mother at the arrival gate.  Boy, she looked
good as she stepped into the arrival area, an over-night bag hanging from
her shoulder and wearing a light summer dress, uncharacteristically brief
with a hem line well above her shapely knees.  

     "Hi, good lookin'." I said to her as I stood there, hands on hips,
looking her over.

     "Don't just check me out, guy.  How about a hug?" she asked,
dropping her bag and stepping into my arms.

     Whew!  I'd hugged my mother lots of times, but I didn't recall such
intensity, such a full-body press.  I was acutely aware of the pressure of her
breasts pressing into my chest and more, somehow her crotch was riding
on my thigh.  I distinctly felt her pubic bone as I held her close and kissed
her, first on the cheeks, and then looking at the joy in her eyes, impulsively,
I planted a wet one on her lips. Did I feel a flash of tongue tip?

     That fast.  It happened that fast.  I didn't have a woodie when I saw
her, but when I stepped away from that kiss, I'd sprouted a boner.  I
thought I detected her eyes flitting across my pelvis, but couldn't be sure.
To hell with it, I thought.  She knows I'm not a monk.

     "Have anything more than this?" I asked, picking up her shoulder
bag.

     "You kidding?  You ask me up for a week end, for a dance, and
you think I've got it all in that little bag.  Why I wouldn't go to the tennis
club with that little bag alone."

     "A steamer?"  I groaned.

     "Not quite," she laughed, "but I did come prepared."

     Prepared for what, I wondered.  "Oh, that's OK.  I brought the
Four by Four."

     "You're taking me to dinner and a dance in a TRUCK?" she asked
in fake horror.

     Laying my hand on my chest, I asked in mock indignation, "Moi?
Did you think I was so crass?  Me?  Of course not!  I borrowed a *van*."  

     I knew what she thought of vans . . . that they were thinly disguised
make-out vehicles, employed mainly by the underclass . . . whoever they
were.

     She squeaked, "A *van*?" and then laughed.  "Oh well, mothers
will do anything for . . ."

     "Kidding!  Just kidding, Mom.  Actually, I borrowed a friend's
Mercedes sedan . . . the kind you like . . . you know, long, sleek, and very
conservative."

     "A Mercedes?  For me?  You must really *want* something, eh?"

     I thought, "Little do you know Mom.  I want to get into your
pants."  But what I *said* was,  "Just to be with you, Mom, that's all I
want," and gave her one of those shit-eating grins that gives evidence to
the lie.

     The business of picking up her two sizable suitcases occupied us for
the next little while and it wasn't until we were driving away from the
airport, ensconced in the warmth of the big Bronco and listening to some
soft jazz that I was able to fully appreciate her being there.  

     I drove over to the old river road, longer but a more scenic, more
romantic route.

     "Thought I might take you right home, give you the chance to take
a nap and then clean up before going out to dinner tonight.  That sound
alright?"

     "Don't *leave* me.  Stick around, won't you?  I came this far to
spend some time with you.  I can nap anytime."

     "Don't worry, lady.  You won't be able to get rid of me," I
promised, laying the palm of my hand on her knee, aware of the silky soft
skin on the inside of her thigh.

     She laid her hand on mine and squeezed it, saying, "I think I like
dating you."

     In short order we were home and the Bronco was unloaded, her
bags placed in my room.  We chatted non-stop as I watched her move
about my room, making room for her things.  I knew it was her custom to
get out of her traveling clothes straight away, so I stuck around to see what
might unfold.  

     As I'd hoped, she began to undress, tossing things here and there,
commenting on news from back home, requiring no more from me than an
occasional affirming grunt.  When she was down to her bra and panties, she
pulled her robe from a suitcase and, turning her back, unhooked and
dropped her bra and in almost the same motion, slipped into her robe.

     Still with her back to me, the robe hanging open, I could see her
hook her thumbs into the panties' waist band and pull them down and then
off, tossing them carelessly on the bed just a short distance from me.  I
stared at them, brief and rumpled, imagining that they were warm and
scented by her.  I was dying to pick them up and hold them to my face.

     When I pulled my eyes from her panties and looked at her, I noticed
that she had seen where my eyes were.  She looked away, as if to relieve
me of the embarrassment I might feel, and I thought I detected the
beginnings of a faint smile.

     She turned and walked into the bathroom, saying, "Just a minute."
The bathroom door would close all the way with some effort, but it was
sufficiently warped that one had to lean on it in the last inches.  She had
simply pushed it toward closed as she walked in.  I knew that she would
see the door ajar by inches if she were to sit on the toilet.  I waited for her
to come back and push it the remainder of the way, but she didn't.  Instead,
she continued to talk to me as if the door just cracked open was a
convenience and not an embarrassment.  

     For all our openness, she'd not been this relaxed with me at home. 
I strained to hear her intimate sounds.  I needn't have, for when she began
to pee, it was remarkably loud.  I could hear her initial tinkle followed by
the characteristic hissing sound of female urination, pee splashing against
the porcelain, ending with the less forceful last squirts dribbling into the
water.  I was enthralled with the sounds, for it called to my mind vivid
mental imagery.  

     As she pulled toilet tissue from the roll, I was suddenly aware that
she'd been talking the entire time and I'd not heard a word.  Oh, Lord, I
hope she hadn't asked me a question.

     My heart sank when she said, "Will you?" in a tone that indicated
that this was the second time she'd asked it.  

     "I'm sorry," I said, "I missed that.  Would you say it again, please?"

     She laughed and flushed the toilet and as she came out of the
bathroom belting her robe, she smiled and said, "I asked if you had any of
that promised chilled Champaign, and if so, could I have some?"

     We spent the next few hours catching up, first one then the other
talking, sipping inexpensive Champaign and once again, sinking into the
easy familiarity we'd discovered.  I shared with her the intense
competitiveness I'd experienced in school, the long hours I'd been putting
in, trying desperately to maintain the pace and the feeling of isolation in a
crowd.  "Christ, Mom, I haven't even kissed a girl in months!"

     "Poor Uncle Wiggly," she said.  The origin of that expression was
lost to me, but I knew it to be a tongue-in-cheek sympathy.

     "Yeah, poor me," I agreed, smiling.  She'd never let me sit on the
pity pot long.

     Looking at my watch, I whistled and said, "Even if we rush, we're
going to be more than fashionably late.  You want the shower first or shall
I?"

     "You go first.  You know how I like to fuss.  I've got some
primping to do if I'm going to impress your friends."

     "You spend more time doing less making up than anyone I know,"
I complained, not for the first time.  

     She laughed and reasoned, "You'll like the result.  Now, get
going!"

     An hour later, near-record time for her, we were off to the dance,
having given up on the notion of dinner entirely.  Our entrance might have
been choreographed, for there was an apparent brief lull in the music as we
entered and people were mostly standing around the edges of the floor, I
thought, just to watch us come in.

     My chest was puffed up with pride and self importance, having this
knock-out woman on my arm.  She was wearing a dark green, partially
iridescent dress with a flowing, full skirt and a tight bodice, cut shockingly
low.  The full upper portions of her breasts were visible and they seemed to
sway and bounce with her step.  I kept reminding myself not to stare. 
Sometimes it even worked.

     "I must look good," Mother said, "you've been staring at me all
night.  Thanks."  Suddenly changing the subject, she asked, "Have you
smelled my new perfume?" 

     I shook my head and leaned toward her neck, as if to smell the
scent behind her ear but she surprised me by pulling the bodice of her dress
away from her breasts and leaning toward me.  Suddenly I had an almost
unobstructed view of her bra-clad tits.  Any forlorn thoughts I had about
being suave were lost at the moment.  Cartoonists have done well using my
expression, eyes bugging and tongue lolling out.  Tres cool, that was me.

     "Nice!" I gasped.  I was also quite articulate.

     "The perfume?" she asked, laughing and not waiting for an answer,
added, "Now, I want to dance, Mr."

     Perhaps I'd had healing of a few damaged neuronal circuits, or
maybe I'd just matured a fraction, but my dancing was remarkably
improved.  I could say that, knowing that I'd not stepped on her feet, at
least not as much.  A definite improvement.  Keep in mind that that's a
relative statement, given my starting point.  Nevertheless, we danced and
danced, initially a bit stiffly, but gradually with greater grace and closeness. 
At first we chatted a bit, mostly about nothing of consequence.  You know,
social small talk .  Soon, however, she placed her head next to mine and we
danced silently.

     Remember that we were about the same height?  Then you can
picture us, she with high heels, dropping her head a bit to mine.  I didn't
give a darn what I looked like.  I was in heaven.

     "Billy, introduce me to your date, won't you?" said a classmate of
mine as he moved in on us, smiling and holding out his hand.  

     "Uh, Mother, I'd like you to meet John . . . I'm sorry John, I don't
think I ever knew your last name."

     Mother laughed easily and held out her hand saying, "Hi, John. 
Nice to meet you.  My name's Susan."  

     Strange, I thought.  She didn't use our last name.

     "Could I have the next dance, please," John asked.

     Mom made a production of asking my permission first and then
accepted with a warm smile.  

     Darn him.  He was tall and looked too damn handsome.  Worse, he
could dance.  You know, the fast dances that had me confounded.

     For the rest of the evening, John and I danced with Mom.  He was
actually a pleasant, very polite and socially at ease fellow who, as it turns
out, filled my mother's desires for "lots and lots of dancing."  But perhaps
more significantly, John caused to appear an apparent inexhaustible supply
of chilled Chardonnay wine, only a little of which I drank, but a great deal
of which Mom quaffed.  

     I don't ever remember seeing Mother look so gay and animated. 
Her eyes were shining and she laughed easily, a deep-throated, lusty laugh
as she chatted gaily with the two of us.  She has always been a marvelous
story teller and in the last hour of the dance, told us a number of
outrageously funny stories, often with herself as the brunt of the humor and
most often with deliciously naughty overtones.

     The last few dances were slow and romantic and Mother insisted
that she dance with her date. "You understand, don't you John?  Billy's my
main squeeze . . . he's the guy I'm really taken with," she said as we moved
away.

     I was almost floating with pride and when we moved onto the floor,
I looked into her eyes and said, "Thanks, Mom.  That meant a lot to me."

     "Well, it's true," she said as she leaned forward and kissed me
lightly on the lips.

     I was aware of a sheen of perspiration on her face and upper torso. 
Looking down, I could see a large drop of moisture that was trailing its
way down between the heaving halves of her breasts.  I felt very warm and
didn't know if it was from the dancing or something else.  

     She moved closer and wrapped both arms about me, holding me
tightly to her body.  Again, I was acutely aware of her pelvis against my
thigh.  My hand had dropped to her waist and then to her upper buttocks,
at first by accident but when I realized what I was feeling, I pressed a bit
more with my finger rips, feeling the firm muscles of her butt moving under
my hand. The melodic strains of a familiar number floated around us.

     "Thank you, Billy," she whispered in my ear.

     "For what, Mom?"

     "For everything.  For this day, this dance.  Mostly for treating me
like a woman.  Like I'm special.  Like I'm . . . desirable.  It's been a while."
The muted refrain seemed to wrap us in some terribly romantic cocoon as
we swayed closely together.

     She moved against my erection.  Part of me wanted her to know it
was there and another part, the scared-little-boy part of me was horrified. 
It didn't seem to bother her, so the lusty part of me won out.  I just pulled
her even closer, allowing my hand to slip farther down on her ass.

     Even though it was quite dim during the last dance, I maneuvered
us into a darker corner where we simply danced in place, she with her back
to the wall, me with my hand on her ass, swaying side to side with the
melody dimly heard.

     She whispered something.  I thought it was, "Oh, yes . . ." but I
couldn't be sure.  I pulled my head back and looked into her shining eyes,
asking an unspoken question.  Her nonverbal answer was to close her eyes
and offer her lips to me, partly open.  I lowered my mouth to hers, barely
touching.  I could feel her breath on my lips and smell the Champaign. 
Motionless, we stood together, breathing into each other.  Unmistakable
this time, the tip of her tongue flicked out and ran across my lower lip.  I
returned the compliment.  We didn't really kiss, at least as in pressing our
lips together.  Rather, it was a mild version of dueling tongues accented
with heavy breathing.  

     I could feel her legs against me and her stomach pressed into mine. 
As well, I could feel her full breasts pushed against my chest as I ran my
tongue down into one corner of her mouth, there pushing the hardened tip
just into her mouth and then back out.  In, then out, the meaning blatant.  

     She groaned and then pulled back, saying, "I turn into a pumpkin in
moments.  Get me out of here, please."

     Minutes later, in the deep leather bucket seats of that borrowed
560SEL, pulling away from the dance, she leaned over and placing a hand
on my arm, said, "This is magical.  I don't want it to end.  Can we pretend
a little longer?"

     "Pretend what, Mom?"

     "That I'm your date.  For just right now, that I'm your date and
we're going home from the dance.  For tonight, don't call me Mom, OK? 
Call me Susan, won't you?"

     Stopping at the exit a moment, I turned to her and placed my finger
tips on her cheek.  "Susan?  Yes, Susan!  Would you like to dance some
more?  At my place?"

     The radiance of her smile thrilled me.  "Yes, Bill, I'd like that a lot."

     
     ---------------------------------------------------------------------

     
     Walking into my place, I turned down the lights and switched on
some soft music.  Taking her in my arms, I said, "I would like to have this
dance, if you please, and then the next dance, and the dance after that and
then . . ."

     She shushed me with a finger on my lips and saying, "Yes, each of
them . . . they're yours."  Then, slipping off her pumps, she nuzzled into
my neck, whispering, "For the rest of this magical evening, I'm yours. 
Ready or not, here I come."

     This time there was no proper and polite arms-length beginning to
the dance.  We simply resumed where we'd left off, body to body in that
familiar shuffle that passes for soul-felt dancing.  Instantly I was acutely
aware of her.  Aware of the smell of her hair and the press of her breasts
and the hardness of her pubic bone against me.  And, as instantly, I became
hard.  I didn't wonder if she could tell.  It was blatant.

     "Susan," I asked - it sounded strange to my ear, "could I kiss you?"

     "Of course, Bill.  I'd like that."

     "I mean a real kiss.  An adult kiss.  Not some little-boy-peck-on-
the-cheek kiss."

     "Of course, a real kiss.  I never expected less from you."

     She closed her eyes and offered her partially open mouth to me, her
lips wet and seemingly slightly swollen.  I opened mine and kissed her lips,
initially very softly, and later with more feeling.  She kissed back, making
no effort to end the kiss, seeming to melt into it all the more.  We kissed
again, and we mouthed each other, breathing into each other.  I gave her
my tongue again and she responded the same way, pushing the urgent,
hardened tip of her tongue deep into my mouth.

     I found my self slowly rocking my pelvis into her, rubbing my erect
cock on her thigh.  I felt her push back in a slow, grinding fashion, pushing
her pubic bone into me.

     "Let's sit, Bill.  I want to be closer to you."  She slowly pushed me
backward toward the couch and as it hit me behind the calves and I was
falling into it, she added, "Can I sit on your lap?"

     Without waiting for a reply, she half turned and lowered her bottom
into my lap, wrapping her arms about me in the same motion, her breast
under my chin, her cleavage right under my nose.

     "There!  That's better," she proclaimed, reaching for my right hand
and placing it on her hip while I placed my left hand around her bottom.
She was sitting right on top of my hard-on.  She squirmed a few times as if
better defining what she was sitting on.  "Isn't that better?"

     "Ummph," I exaggerated and in a strained voice as if an elephant
were sitting on my chest, I replied, wheezing, "Yesss.  So much better."

     "You turkey, you.  I hardly weigh anything and besides, you
haven't paid enough attention to me tonight.  Well, at least not in the last
few seconds.  I want another kiss."

     I looked up at her and mimicking her surrender, closed my eyes and
offered her my lips.  She immediately ran her tongue deep into my mouth
and groaned, "God, you're delicious," again grinding her butt on my lap.

     Without thinking or conscious decision, I ran the palm of my right
hand up from her hip, across her waist to the side of her thorax.  I missed
and was palming the side of her breast.  She kissed me harder in apparent
approval so I went for broke and cupped her full breast in my hand,
thumbing her erect nipple.  

     I don't know when we broke that kiss.  Actually, I suspect we
never did.  It just slid into others.  I made no pretense of touching her tit by
mistake.  Rather, I palmed it and weighed it and rolled her nipple between
my fingers in as provocative a fashion as I could imagine.  I wanted to feel
her breast and more, I wanted to be patently blatant about it, that both of
us would know and acknowledge that I was caressing her breast and
nipple.

     We were both moaning and voicing largely incoherent sounds.  She
was hugging my head and tussling with my hair in a passionate, almost
frenzied fashion.  Our faces were wet from the open-mouth kissing and
licking.  I had pulled down the bodice of her dress, exposing her demi bra. 
Her dark areolae were plainly visible through the lacy half cup.  Pulling the
bra cup down, her hard nipple popped out as I bent my head toward her tit.

     "Yessss," she hissed, "kiss me there.  Suck me, Billy.  Suck my
nipple.  You've been wanting to do this for a long time, haven't you?"

     "You could tell?"

     Laughing, she replied, "Kids think their parents are dumb as well as
blind.  Yes, I could tell.  It's tough isn't it, trying to be subtle and look at
my tits at the same time!"

     All pretense had vanished.  Any thought I might have had for a
negotiated seduction was out the window.  This wasn't going as I'd
planned and it was wonderful.  I couldn't believe what was happening.  My
beautiful mother was sitting on my lap with her breast exposed, the nipple
shining with the wetness of my saliva, groaning as she ground her bottom
into me.

     "God, Mom," I rasped, "I love you so much.  I can't tell you."

     "Yes, yes . . . I know Billy.  Just love me.  Hold me tight.  Kiss
me."

     I couldn't keep my hands off her body.  She'd been squirming
around so much that her dress had ridden up on her thighs, exposing a
good expanse of leg.  Holding her skirt-covered buttock with my left hand,
I ran my right hand up and down her body, then down to her left knee and
up under the hem of the dress to the top of her thigh, above her hose.  She
scrunched down farther, helping me to lift the dress.  Suddenly she was
bared to her pelvis.

     "Jesus, Mom!  You have such beautiful legs."   

     Her only reply was to kiss me again and open her legs.  I flashed
back to the afternoon I was looking up her dress.  Now, however, I wasn't
peeping.  She was showing herself to me.  It was clear that I couldn't be
content just looking.   Still I hesitated.  Could I *touch* her there?  Could I
cup her mound in my hand?  Actually feel her pussy?  What the hell!  In for
a penny . . . 

     I ran my hand up and down the soft inside of her thigh, moving
closer each time to her panties.  She moaned and pushed her pelvis at me. 
The side of my hand pushed against the cushy bulge of her panty crotch. 
She grunted and lurched, snapping her legs shut, trapping my hand.  I tried
to pull out but she suddenly reached down and with surprising strength,
grabbed my wrist, I thought to pull me away from her pussy.  Instead, she
opened her legs a little and pulled my hand into her crotch even tighter,
sawing me up and down against her cunt, moaning constantly. "Oh, God. 
Oh, God. Oh, God.  Shit.  Shit, Shit.  Yes.  There!  Do it!"

     I scrabbled my fingers, trying to get in under a pant leg edge.  She
let go of my hand, lifting her hips as if to help me.  I gave up and grabbed
the lacy crotch of her panties and pulled downward.  Again, she heaved up,
and with her free hand, helped me pull them down, first to her low thighs
and then in a tangle of limbs, off, muttering the whole time, "Get 'em off,
get 'em off."

     What happened to my sedate and dignified mother?  Where'd she
go and where did this lusty woman come from?

     Freed of her feet, I pulled her silky panties to my nose, inhaling the
essence of her as she was groping in my lap, fruitlessly trying to pull down
my fly zipper.  

     "Christ!  And I thought *guys* had a hard time with girls' bras!"
she complained. "Help me, dammit."

     "Jesus, I can't open my pants much less pull them down if you're
sitting on me, can I?"

     She laughed and said, "This isn't going smoothly at this moment, is
it?"

     Heaving her off my lap, dumping her on the couch, I replied, "No,
but it's sure as hell is GOING . . . and right now!"  

     I shucked my trousers and briefs, my hard cock sticking up
obscenely.  Mother's dress and bra quickly joined the frantic pile of
clothing on the floor.  Suddenly, we were both nude, or nearly so.  I was
stunned at this out-of-control passion that had overwhelmed us.

     A very small, detached part of my mind was observing the blind
passion of us.  No prolonged, romantic build up.  No inch-by-inch
seduction.  We'd fallen over the edge, both of us, and were in some run
away free-fall of lust, both mindful of what was happening and each fueling
the consuming fires of our passion.  I think we were mostly beyond words
at this point.

     She reached for me, as if to cuddle again, as if to kiss again.  I
pushed her back into the couch and her legs came up.  In one motion, I
pulled outward on the inside of one knee, opening her up to me, nude save
her hose and garter belt framing her wet, swollen and open pussy.  I gazed
at it in absolute awe, it seemed for a long time but in fact was probably
only seconds.  Then, making eye contact, I gradually lowered my head
toward her crotch, that she would know my full intent.  

     I paused, studying here pussy.  As I expected, she trimmed the
edges of her luxuriant pubic bush.  Her lips were bare.  I looked, but
couldn't see her anus.  That area lay hidden in shadow.

     Smiling, she murmured, "Oh, yes!" and slouched down even
farther, arching her pelvis up to meet me.

     In contrast to my usual too-fast-to-savor-the-moment hurry, I
moved as in glue, so slowly.  Looking alternately at her open pussy and
then into her eyes, I continued lowering myself slowly.  I placed the palms
of my hands on her thighs, pushing them open even more.  She murmured
approval, "Yes, that way."

     The sometimes-rational part of my mind was boggled.  Only a little
while ago, I was dancing cheek to cheek with my mother.  Not quite
innocent, to be sure, but a league from holding her legs open that I might
see her better.  How'd this happen?  My libido suggested that I not screw it
up by "thinking" about it.

     The musky scent of her cunt wafted up to me, ripe and intoxicating. 
I knew that smell.  Knew it from a hundred times that I'd picked up her
soiled panties, but it was never this erotic, this intimate.  I drank in her
scent as one would savor the heady aroma of heated brandy.  I pulled it in
and held it.

     I felt her hands on the back of my head, pulling me gently toward
her.  I gave myself to her control and allowed her to guide me to her
pleasure.  She pulled my head into her crotch and my lips first touched her
pubic hair above her slit.  She rapidly corrected, pushing my head down to
the uncovered clit.  I kissed it softly and she ran her fingers through my hair
as she crooned, "Oh, Billy.  Kiss me there.  Suck me.  Please suck me."

     I pursed my lips and kissed all around her clitty, occasionally
flicking it with the tip of my tongue.  Each time she lurched, as if shocked
by a small jolt of electricity.  She rolled her pelvis against my face, rubbing
on my mouth as I tongued inside the wet and swollen lips of her cunt.  At
the bottom of her slit, it was a swamp she was so wet.  I curved my tongue
into the pool of her secretions and pulled some up, wetting her clit with her
own juices.

     Her speech had become almost guttural as she explosively exhaled
each time I drove my tongue into her.  "Unh . . . God, I, unh . . .  needed
that, unh . . . deeper, Billy, unh . . . take me . . ."

     I pulled back, my face drenched, and kneeling between her legs, I
fisted my painfully hard cock that she might see me and again looked into
her eyes.  Her face was in half shadow and her eyes were dark pools.  

     I could see her shift her vision to my cock as I slowly stroked the
shaft, bunching up the skin about the bulbous head and then pulling it
slowly back.  I looked at her open pussy and then at my cock before I again
looked into her eyes, asking the silent question.  Her answer was equally
silent and equally unmistakable.  She looked at me gravely, then pulled her
knees up and out, while running the inverted V of her fingers down to her
pussy, opening it up in invitation.

     Suddenly she clasped her crotch in her hand as if shielding it and
with a wide-eyed look of alarm, said, "Wait! Billy, *think* a minute.  Think
about what we're doing.  Do you know what this means?"

     I slowly shook my head, not understanding.

     She rushed on after her rhetorical question, "If we do this - and
God, I want to - there's no turning back.  There's no pretending it never
happened.  Our relationship will never be the same.  Billy, this is a HUGE
step.  Are you sure?"

     "As sure as I know how to be, Mom . . . uh, Susan.  If you're
worried I'll suddenly become some arrogant, impossible-to-control jerk
after this . . . relax.  I'll be the same person I've always been.  I don't want
to change our relationship.  Well, except this way.  Do you believe me?"

     With the same look of concern, she stared at me and then slowly
nodded her head.  Then, her eyes softened and she smiled and whispered,
"Yes."

     Leaning forward, I gently moved her hand away from her crotch.  I
knee-walked to her up-thrust pelvis and bent my cock down to her, running
the head through her wet trough and then, welding it like a stick, I used it
to thump on her clit.  I started softly but rapidly increased her clit flogging
until she was gasping and twitching.  

     "God damn you, Billy.  Quit teasing me.  You're hauling coals to
Newcastle.  I'm ready, dammit."  She smiled, taking the sting out of the
words and then added, "Fuck me, you shit."

     Shit?  I was seeing a side of my mother I didn't know existed.

     Again, bending my impossibly hard cock, I forced the head into her
pussy, asking, "Want more?"

     She answered by thrusting her pelvis at me, effectively burying my
cock deep in her vagina, ending any thought I had of feeding it to her
slowly.  Who was I kidding?  As if I could have waited!

     I fell forward on her, mashing her breasts under my chest.  Her
hands were above her head and I grabbed each wrist with my crossed
hands and imprisoned her arms.  I supported much of my weight with my
elbows, but allowed my mass to hold her down as I thrust into the female
depth.  

     "Feel my cock, Mom . . . Susan.  Feel the head of my cock slip into
you . . . into your cunt."  I emphasized the T sound.  "Feel it push open the
walls of your pussy.  Feel me open you up.  There!  Can you feel the head
of my cock touch your womb?"

     Her only answer was to grunt and thrust back at me.  Then we
proceeded to rut.  Short rapid strokes followed by slow, longer strokes,
occasionally pulling all the way out and then slamming in again. 

     "I'm inside you.  Feel me inside your woman slit." 

     She struggled and thrashed about, seeming to fight me, but never so
much they she actually got away.  We both supported the sham of me
forcing her, almost raping her.  Of course, the bucking and rolling of her
hips gave evidence to the lie of her struggles to extricate herself.

     I spoke into her ear constantly, but I can't tell you exactly what I
said.  I simply gave mindless utterance to the train of imagery marching
through my head.  I remember only that it was very vivid and very lewd,
just like my dirty talk.  

     Mother is multi orgasmic and she bucked her way through her first
cum minutes after we started fucking.  Thereafter, I controlled her
orgasms, or so it seemed to me.  I would slowly build up the pace of our
copulation and concomitantly, edge into increasingly lascivious spoken
imagery, describing in lurid detail what I was thinking and what I wanted to
do with her.  

     "Feel my hardness.  Feel my shaft . . . inside your pussy."

     She'd throw her head back, tendons straining in her neck, eyes
closed and mouth gasping.  Then, face contorted, almost as if in pain, she'd
begin whipping her head back and forth, a wail building in her throat and
she'd cum again.

        We rested a few moments, my cock hard in her pussy, still
holding her wrists above her head.  I whispered in her ear, "I want you to
get on your knees, facing away from me.  I'm going to fuck you from the
back."

     She gasped, "My ass?"  

     "That'll be later, little girl," giving her my oil-can Harry voice,
"Right now, I want to sink into your woman place, that sweet, hot girl
pussy, but from the back.  Doggie position."

     Would my dignified mother submit to kneeling in front of me, ass in
the air, that I might fuck her like an animal?

     As she was scrambling around she said over her shoulder, "God,
Billy.  I love it doggie style.  How'd you know?"

     Kneeling just behind her, I looked down at her very narrow waist
and her beautiful ass and replied, "Didn't.  But I do now.  You're pussy
looks so sweet, pooched out that way between your legs."

     "Jesus, you've got a wonderfully dirty mouth."  Then she chuckled,
adding, "And I love it."

     She lowered her head to her crossed forearms, accentuating the
sway of her back.  With her ass pointing up, the cheeks of her buttocks
opened, I could see for the first time her ass hole.  It was tan, slightly
darker than the surrounding skin, puckered and tight looking.  I wondered
if she'd ever had Dad's cock in her butt.

     "You're looking at my ass, aren't you?"  As if reading my mind, she
added, "I love anal sex but your father thinks its somehow dirty."

     "Susan, I've dreamed of this.  Months . . . couple of years even. 
And now we're here.  It's one of those rare times when the realization is
greater than the expectation."

     "Don't tease me, Billy.  Touch me.  I'm hungry for you."

     With the fingers of my right hand pointing down, I hooked my
thumb in her pussy and cupped her mons.  I'd read of the so-called G-spot
and searched for it with my thumb.  Almost instantly I was rewarded.

     "Umph . . . yes!  Right there!  God, what you're doing to me?  I
can't believe this."

     I rolled the pulp of my thumb over that slightly raised tissue under
her pubic bone as I fingered her clit on the outside.  With my left hand, I
traced feather-light touches around the rim of her anus.  The sphincter
tightened and then relaxed.  I pushed the tip of my left index finger against
her anal opening, applying constant but gentle pressure.

     "Oh, God.  What are you doing?  I can feel so many feelings but I
can't tell where they're coming from.  You're driving me ca-RAY-zy."

     Her hips were rolling and I had only to hold my right hand still to
allow her to set the rhythm and intensity.  I continued to gently apply
pressure to her anal sphincter, occasionally bending down to drop a dollop
of spittle on her softening ass hole.

     "Yes, yes, yes," she chanted.  "Do that.  Do *everything*!"

     As she rolled her pelvis, pushing her butt back against me, my left
index finger slowly slipped into her ass up to the first and then the second
joint and finally all the way.  Curving my finger forward in her rectum, I
could feel my thumb in her pussy through the thin wall of tissue separating
those two cavities.  God, I couldn't believe what was happening!

     Her orgasmic song started again, initially deep in her chest and
raising to her throat, ending in a wail.  Vocal restraint was not her strong
suite.  For one who was normally so properly restrained, it clearly did not
extend to sexual passions and orgasms.  I idly wondered if my neighbors
could hear her, and then dismissed it, not caring a whit if they did.

     We both slumped to a pile of entangled limbs, she exhausted from
another orgasm and me . . . well just emotionally wiped out.

     After several minutes, she stirred.  I slowly pulled my fingers from
her body and then just hugged her ass and her hips, softly raining kisses on
her buttocks, murmuring sounds of love.

     "You're not finished are you?" she asked in a tone of alarm,
looking back over her shoulder.

     Kneeling, I thrust my still-hard cock in her direction and asked,
"Does this *look* like I'm finished?"

     "Oh, good!  Fuck me now, won't you?  From the back?"

     With renewed vigor, she again pointed her butt at me.  Holding her
hips in my hands, I pushed at her, but my cock missed her pussy repeatedly
until she reached back between her legs and, taking my errant dick in her
hand, guided it to her cunt's entrance.  

     "There!" she declared with some pride of accomplishment.  

     Then, as I slowly stroked in and out of her soggy sex, she reached
back again and caressed my balls, cupping them in the palm of her hand.

     "God, Billy!  You've got huge balls!"  

     I suppose I took it as a judgement and said lamely, "Uh, I guess if
some of that growth went into my dick rather than my nuts, I'd have a big
cock."  It's true that men are always concerned about the size of their
dicks.

     "Baby, it's perfect.  It just couldn't be any better.  You couldn't
pleasure me more.  And you know?  I *want* you to fuck my ass.  If it
were any bigger, I don't think I could take it there."

     We fell silent, grunts and sighs excepted, as we continued this
languorous coupling.  Still holding her hips, looking down at the beauty of
my cock slipping into her swollen cunt . . . in and out . . . in and out.  The
old in-an-out game.

     Riding the pleasurable plateau, content for the moment, I
remembered something she had said and asked, "Did you really know that I
was . . . uh, lusting for you . . . all those months?"

     "Sure.  Oh, it shocked me at first.  Thrilled me too.  But I was
shocked and didn't know how I felt really.  I suppose it really hit home
when you were massaging my feet and looking under my dress.  I was a
little tipsy and it gave me a thrill . . . that you were attracted to me."

     "Then what?" I asked.

     "Then what?  I don't know.  I was confused.  You know.  Mother's
duty.  Conventional morality.  I was horny.  You're father . . . well, let's
leave that alone for now, OK?"

     "OK, but tell me, was I so obvious?"

     "Yes and no, Billy.  You weren't rude or anything, but for someone
like me, someone who already loved you and who was affection starved, I
was a set up.  I was very aware of your attention.  Looking for it even."

     I began patting her butt with the palm of my right hand.  "Did you
know about . . . about the panties?"

     "What about them?  That you liked to touch 'em?  I knew that right
away, but it was a while before I saw you pick them up to smell them. 
That what you mean?"

     I picked up the pace of the patting.  Now it was a soft spanking,
first on one cheek, then on the other.  "Yeah.  I was afraid you'd find out,
but I couldn't stop.  They're so erotic.  I love the scent of you."

     "Hmmm, that feels good on my butt."  She wiggled her ass and,
glancing over her shoulder, she continued, "So, I thought about it and
decided it wouldn't hurt to enter into a little game with you.  I knew that
this wasn't going anywhere . . . we'd never actually *do* anything, but I
enjoyed the sexual tension."

     "Changing your clothes . . . were you flashing me?"

     "Of course.  I wanted to give you a thrill.  But what I found out
was that *I* was the one who was getting the thrill.  It got me wet,
showing myself to you.  Several times - you may remember this - when I
left you to go into my bathroom, I had to masturbate.  And that gave me a
thrill.  Sitting on the toilet, fingers on my sex, knowing you were right out
there.  I wanted you to know and at the same time, I was terrified that you
would know.  Funny, huh?"

     Another glance over her shoulder.  "A little harder, please?"

     I increased the intensity of this erotic spanking.  Her cheeks were
getting pink and she was getting wetter.  I could see the sheen of her juices
on my cock as I pulled it from her tight, wet sheath.

     "Did you ever think about "doing it" when you were playing with
yourself, Susan?"

     "With you?"

     A harder slap.  "Yes, with me!"

     "I was really embarrassed then, even with myself, but yes, of course
I thought about it.  I tried to think of other things when I was
masturbating.  I tried to hold off thoughts of you, but so often - sometimes
stuck and unable to get off - thoughts, visions of you would pop into my
head and whoosh!  I'd get off.  After a while, I gave up and just used you
all the time.  I'd day dream about you and get wet when you'd see me
dressing."

     Nodding in recall, I said, "I'd get so hard, it'd hurt.  I was always
afraid you'd see me and be insulted.  But it was so thrilling, I couldn't stop. 
Did you know that?"

     "That it was thrilling or that you got hard?  I certainly knew about
your stiffies.  And I knew it had to be about me.  One part of me was
shocked I guess, but the stronger, the sexual part I mean, was excited.  I
tried not to look, but I did.  I just couldn't help myself."

     I was brought to a halt by the intensity of my emotions.  "I
*thought* you knew and averted your eyes because you disapproved."
Laughing, I added, "I'll never hide it again."

     Wiggling her ass, she asked, "Why'd you quit spanking me, Billy? 
It was just starting to feel good.  And by the way, how'd you know I
*liked* to be spanked, anyway?  You seem to know a lot for a young
guy!"

     "I read a book once," I quipped, as if that explained everything.  I
resumed the spanking, alternating one cheek and then the other.

     Arching her back, she rested her head on her forearms again and
observed, "I've quit trying to figure it out.  I mean, I'm a feminist and a
strong woman, but I *love* to be spanked.  I think it's a sexual thing, you
know, a pleasure thing and it has nothing to do with feminism.  A little
harder, if you please?"

     Turning up the intensity current a notch, I slowly moved to the
bottom of her buttocks, to the crease where the cheek meets the thigh. 
With only my fingers, I slapped the tender area closer to her vulva.

     "Oh, YES!"

     Then I moved inward, right next to the fur-trimmed swollen lips of
her cunt and continued the erotic slapping, asking, "And here?"

     "Yes . . . no.  I mean, spank me right on my pussy, Billy.  I'll come
for you . . . it's getting closer . . . yes, right there . . . oh, yes, yes, yes . . .
shit, shit . . .," and her words again degenerated into a crescendo of
pleasure as she thrust her hips further back at me.  I slipped my thumb into
her cunt, pressing the soft tissue right behind her pubic bone.  Thrashing
her head and beating her small fists into the pillow, she shuddered, once,
and then again, then fell into a heap, sobbing.

     I held her close in my arms, patting her head and murmuring soft
sounds of loving.  "It's OK, Mom, it's really OK.  I'm here.  You're all
right."

     She nodded her head, sobbed again and with her voice catching in
her throat, said something like, "I'm OK, Billy.  There's nothing wrong
except I can't remember when I've felt like this.  It's never happened just
like this before.  I've never felt so . . . so much.  It's almost scary.  But I'm
certain about one thing," and then she stopped.

     "What's that, Susan?

     "That I love you, Billy.  I don't know if we've done the right thing
or not, but I know that I love you.  And I know that there's no going back.
I'm not sure what to do next, but I want you to know that this was one of
the more beautiful moments of my life.  I want you to know that I have no
regrets about this, about us . . . that I love you very much.

     -----------------------------------------------------------------

     Epilog

     That was the beginning of a new chapter in our lives, my mother
and me.  She and my father never divorced and while they continued to
have differences, at times major differences, they both were willing to show
up for their marriage and work at maintaining the good parts.

     We remained the very best of friends and very occasional lovers. 
Oh, we always fooled around, teasing each other, but permitted ourselves
moments like this one only at rare times.  I suppose we were rationing
ourselves, or more correctly, she was rationing me.

     This little story is not meant as a case for incest.  While clearly it
might work from time to rare time, for the most part, it's too dangerous
and too wrapped in dysfunction.  It's just that this time, it did work.  For
us.  My life was fuller and better for it.  I look back only with fondness and
pleasure and at all times, wonder. 

     
     






























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