Farewell to Arms

By Rex Antioch.

My unit was off to war.  Well, not war exactly.  It had been someone else#‘s war but being part of a UN Peacekeeping force can sometimes be a pretty dangerous thing and it was certainly the first time my training was likely to be put to a real test.
As we were scheduled to be away on a long deployment we were all issued with 48-hour passes to say our goodbyes.  Married men spent them with their families and many unmarried men with their fiancés or girlfriends.  I was one of the latter class and as I had no fiancé or regular girlfriend I just went home.
I was excited by the tour of duty to come, excited and a bit worried.  My mother was just worried.  She#‘d brought my two sisters and I up single-handed after our father had left her for another woman fifteen years before, and had never remarried.  The girls had already both left home, one married and the other living with a guy, but as home had been my base for all my leaves through basic training and afterwards I suppose it couldn#‘t really be said that I had left home yet.  Now, though, I quite definitely was on the verge of leaving home, with a slight but nonetheless real chance that I might never be coming back.
During the last day I made the rounds of my old school friends and acquaintances, visited my sisters to say goodbye and then went home.  Mother had prepared my favourite meal which we had with wine, just the two of us, and then afterwards we just sat talking as the slow summer evening closed around us and night, probably my last night at home as anything other than an occasional visitor, fell.
We went from wine to port to whisky for me and gin and lemon for her.  We remembered my schooldays, their triumphs and calamities, and the days I had run riot with my sisters - one a year or so older and one the same younger - as children will do.  I touched on my father and the marriage - for the first time ever - and found my mother more willing to talk about both failures than I had expected.  She was open and frank, and I realised she was as aware of the significance of the evening as I was and was talking to me as an equal.
Probably she had been doing it for some time but it was the first time in many years that we had really talked together and so the first occasion I noticed she was not treating me as her child any more.  It was a sobering experience and I looked at her in her chair with new and suddenly different eyes.  
I knew she had born me at 24 and I was now 25 which made her 49.  She was, I saw with surprise, quite a small woman for as she had always loomed so very large in my life she had always seemed large to me.  No-one would think her a girl at that age, there was a little grey in her predominantly dark, shoulder-length hair, a little puffiness in her cheeks, a wrinkling on the backs of her hands, a distinct plumpness around her middle and the first faint blue threads of varicose veins in her legs.  She had never been one of those big-bosomed women and I noticed with a pang of regret that her small breasts beneath her restrained blue dress appeared low and drooping.
The drapes were drawn against the moths of summer and the room was lit by a single standard lamp, throwing just a dim golden glow.  By its light my mother sitting in the chair oppose me changed in a terrible moment from being the powerful woman who had for so long carried my life on her shoulders as Atlas did the Earth to being a old, frail, woman whose only future was to wait patiently for those rare, fleeting visits from adult children and their children to brighten the long, lonely days leading to death.
The pathos of it hurt and almost without being aware of it I’d crossed the room to kneel by her chair and take her into my arms, crushing her to me.  “Oh Mum,#” I#‘m afraid I sobbed.
She returned the hug for a moment and then drew back slightly.
#“James,#” she said, amused and slightly chidingly. “Whatever is the matter?#”
My mother#‘s body was being betrayed by the years but her eyes were still bright and her voice was still of honey.  So close to my face hers seemed suddenly young and lovely again and her body was still warm and real in my arms.  Suddenly, overpoweringly, I wanted to have sex with her.
It was as shocking as a thunderflash in an empty room.  In the space of a heartbeat my own body responded to the closeness of my mother’s with the same urge that is triggered by the first sight of any beautiful woman, although I would not ordinarily have thought my mother at her age, a beautiful women had she not been my mother.  My penis pulsed and stiffened towards her, yearning to penetrate her and deliver its stored load of semen into her while my hands wanted to plunge beneath her clothes and experience her breasts, her flanks and her thighs.  My fingers itched to delve between her legs and explore the secrets there.
For a moment the animal urge was so strong I couldn#‘t think but then I regained control and crushed it.  #“Oh mum, I guess.......#”  I couldn#‘t tell her what I had seen, nor begin to express what I felt.  #“I can#‘t help being a bit sad,#” I finished lamely.
“Yes, me too,#” she agreed softly.
While I had been able to get the urge to mate with my mother under control it was by no means dead.  It surged, tingling, through me like a great wave in a swimming pool, from end to end.  I had the power to do it, too.  I knew I was so much stronger than her, and what mother would report her own son for raping her?  Yet I was army-trained, too.  Trained to control my capacity for violence.  I eased my arms around her, smiled and kissed her gently on the forehead.
#“I suppose,” I said in a voice betrayed by a tight throat, #“This is one of those times Churchill called ‘the end of the beginning#’”
She smiled a little sadly and nodded.
I wanted her as I had never before wanted a woman.  She was in my arms and I wanted to brush the clothes from her body and cover it with kisses.  I wanted to lie on her, between her legs with my penis in her vagina pumping my sperm into her.  I wanted to do that to my own mother.
I couldn’t begin to imagine what her reaction would be if she knew what I was thinking, let alone how she would react if I actually tried to do anything about it.  Common sense, common morality, told me to let her go and retreat to my chair.  I’d get over it.  I was sad, maudlin and a little drunk so perhaps a little irrational emotional behaviour was understandable, even forgivable. To have sex with your own mother was obscene, immoral and illegal.  And impossible, for what mother would allow it?  I realised I was afraid of what my mother would do if she even caught a hint of what I was thinking, and every cell of my rational mind was telling me to retreat.  
But I was army-trained.  Trained to face my fears and still go forwards.  Inculcated with the idea that retreat was somehow cowardly, and that cowardice is the worst of sins. Certainly a far worse sin than incest. 
And I wanted to make love to my mother.
Less than the space of a heart-beat had passed since the urge had exploded on me and I was back in control, assessing the situation, analysing the options and measuring them.  Army training.  Objective, have sex with your own mother.  At first glance an impossible objective.  Yet it is a bad soldier who gives up at first glance.  Study the lay of the land.  Why was I so sure she would not want to have sex with me?  She probably hasn#’t had sex for years. That could be a pro, adding to her own needs, or a con in that her needs were dead.  Even if she doesn#‘t want to have sex with me, might she not be willing to let me have sex with her if it#‘s something I want, as she has done so much else for me over the years?  After all she hadn’t wanted me to join the Army, but supported me to the full once I made my choice. Point, mothers do not have sex with the sons and she knows it.  Who says they don#‘t?  The Bible says, society says, the law says.  But all three say that lots of things shouldn#‘t happen that do.  Why shouldn’t lots of sons have sex with their mothers that no-one else ever knows about.  They keep it a secret, no-one knows how much it actually goes on and we all share in a conspiracy of silence.
Another mere moment had passed and my mother was still smiling up at me though with a hint of puzzlement as though wondering what I was thinking.
After all, why was I so sure she#‘d be appalled at the thought of having sex with me.  She#‘d never been especially religious nor afraid of thinking for herself and speaking her mind.  That she wouldn#‘t want to have sex with me, or allow me to have sex with her, was just an assumption on my part and a great many, perhaps most, battles have been lost by generals making unwarranted assumptions.  
I decided on a tentative, cautious probe, leaned down and gently kissed my mother on the lips.
They were soft and tasted of wine.
I withdrew and assessed the response.  My mother was still lying quietly in my arms but the puzzled look in her face was stronger.
I probed again, a more passionate kiss on the lips and a kiss on each eye.  More like a lover’s kiss than a son#‘s yet not so much as to be blatantly sexual.
There was no reaction from my mother apart from a fading of the puzzled expression and the beginnings of a slight frown while her eyes on me were serious and composed.
Probe until you get a reaction sufficient to gauge the enemy’s strengths, weaknesses and intentions.  My mother wasn#‘t exactly my enemy, not yet any way, and she made no attempt to avoid my kissing her again nor to stop the kiss even when I caressed the parting of her lips with my tongue, though she did not respond to the kiss either.  I recognised the need to apply more pressure and, holding the kiss, raised a hand and lay it on one of her breasts.  Beneath the cloth of her dress I could feel its soft fullness and  stroked it gently.  I felt her lips beneath mine quiver slightly as though with surprise at that first contact but there was no other response even as I gently squeezed her breast.
I broke off the kiss and raised my head, leaving my hand on her breast.  I was committed and my pulse was racing.  No son had any legitimate reason to touch his mother as I was touching mine and there could be no pretence it was anything other than sexual.  Her response now would determine if I was to be forced to retreat slightly mauled, or perhaps advance further.  Even if forced to retreat, though, I was confident my mauling would be only slight for had it going to be severe she would have already responded angrily to what I had done, caressing my mother’s breasts like a lover.
She didn’t move or show any awareness of my hand still stroking her breast.  #“James,” she asked softly.  #“Where is this going?#”
There is a point in any battle when the time for probes and feints is over and the enemy#‘s positions must be stormed.  The outcome of the battle may still be in doubt but it is at least there to be won.  The general who does not recognise the moment, or who recognises it and hesitates, is lost.
“Can I sleep with you tonight?#” I asked in the whisper which was all I could manage.
My mother’s eyes widened and her lips parted slightly in her surprise.  It was that moment of surprise which, taken advantage of in a battle of men fighting men, could have won it for me.  Even in this battle which wasn’t a battle I recognised the moment.  “I love you,” I added.
I had absolutely no idea why my mother should say anything other than no to my request.  What her reaction was to thoughts of having sex with her own son, what she might feel about the experience of having her son making love to her, were hers alone and there was absolutely nothing I could do about them.  Yet I had already won to the extent that I had asked my mother to let me have sex with her and she had not been shocked, or  sickened, or angry, or disgusted, or appalled.  She hadn#‘t slapped me down, or had hysterics, or even just said No as though to a naughty six-year-old boy.  She regarded me steadily as though thinking about what I#‘d said.  Then she said, #“And I love you too.  If.....#” she stopped.  I waited.
#“And in the morning?#” she asked.  #“In the cold light of day?  When you remember it?  What then?”
She wasn#‘t turning me down flat but had counterattacked.  If we do have sex, what then?  How will you feel when the blood is cold, when this passion is spent?  What will you think of me, and of yourself, when you#‘re months and thousands of miles away, and remember that you fucked your own mother.
‘Motherfucker#’ is one of the worst words of abuse, the strongest terms of contempt, any man can apply to another, especially in the Army.  The implication, I suddenly realised, was that the accused#‘s mother was the only woman who would allow him to fuck her - the only woman he was able to fuck and presumably only then because of that special bond between mother and son. rather than because of any sexual attraction.
If you fuck me, my mother was asking, how will you deal with being a motherfucker for real?
But I did fuck other women.  Had no problems finding women to fuck, so the core of the insult didn’t apply.  Yet that begged the question as to why I did want to fuck my own mother, a woman twice my age, a woman who, were she not my mother, I would have no sexual attraction to at all.  I, and she, needed an answer.
#“I love you so much,#” I said.  “I love you so much.   And I want to love you.......all the ways there are.#”
She pondered that, still giving no sign she was aware of my hand fondling her breast.  Had I been able to get under her dress to it I would have, keeping up the pressure of my advance, but it unbuttoned at the back and was out of range.
#“James,#” she said softly. “What you#‘re asking..... is really out of left field.  My instinct is to say no, but if you were to ask me why I wouldn’t have an answer.  I#‘m your mother and you#‘ve been my life for 25 years.  In all that time I#‘ve only ever said no to anything you wanted when I decided for your sake that it wouldn’t be good for you.  Now you#‘re old enough to make up your own mind what would or wouldn’t be good for you.”
I waited, the soft weight of her breast in my hand, but she said no more and I realised she had given her answer.
“Can I have another drink?#” she asked gently.
I let go of her breast and kissed her properly, as a son should, before letting her go and replenishing her drink.  We talked for a little longer about the past and the future and then she glanced at the clock.
#“It#‘s late and you#‘ve a busy day tomorrow.  I#‘m for bed,#” she said.  She rose, crossed to me and kissed me motherly on the forehead.  Then she left the room.
She hadn’t said ‘goodnight#’, or ‘see you in the morning#’, or even #‘sweet dreams’ for I knew anything like that would have been an absolute bar to me from her bed and she must have known it too.  Yet neither had she said, #‘yes, you can sleep with me tonight#’.  She had left it entirely to me.  No rejection and no invitation.  She was my mother and would not deny her son anything he wanted if it was in her power to grant it, whatever might be cost to her.
I listened to her moving about upstairs, having a shower, and then quiet fell.  I finished my drink and went upstairs.  Her bedroom door was closed.  No invitation there.  Yet she hadn#‘t rejected me out of hand either.  I had a shower, soaping and fondling my penis still hard with its need, and considered masturbating there in the shower, knowing that false satisfaction would blunt the need, enabling me to return to my own room and sleep - to wake in the morning and face my mother with it all behind us and unspoken, loving son and fond mother.
I resisted the temptation.  I hadn#‘t masturbated for years, although women#‘s hands or mouths had occasionally done it for me if circumstances ruled out a good screw, and it felt wrong to start again.  I even enjoyed the pressure of the urge in me, tingling in my blood and reminding me I was alive.
Out of the shower I dried off and cleaned my teeth.  Remaining naked I stepped out into the hallway and paused outside the door to my mother’s bedroom.
It was the moment of decision, in which battles are lost by the faint heart of indecision or won by the man who, as Lady Macbeth understood, could screw his courage to the sticking place.  It was a moment I knew would very probably never happen again. I could keep going to my own bedroom and go on with my life with a mother who was just a mother, or I could pass through the door next to me and have sex with my mother with consequences I could not begin to understand.  One path was broad and easy - the other unclear in a whole new territory no-one had ever given me a map of, or talked about, or even admitted existed.  The secret world of sons who commit incest with their mothers.  My penis throbbed achingly erect, still urgent to bury itself in my mother, and it occurred to me how much more exiting, challenging and exclusive was the world of incest.  How special it was.
I turned out the hall light and then opened my mother#‘s bedroom door.  The room within was dark, the curtains closed and only the glowing red digits of the clock on the bedside table offered a bearing.  Yet I knew well enough where the bed was, the double-bed of my parents’  marriage, and I crossed to it, felt my way up it and slid between the sheets.
My mother was there, naked I discovered when I reached for her.  She came into my arms and I kissed her, my hands on her breasts again.  Her bare breasts, soft and nipple-tipped.  I stroked her flanks, her stomach, her buttocks and thighs.  I ran my finger-tips through the small tangle of her pubic hair and found the slit between her legs which she parted slightly.  I gently opened it and explored her clitoris and labia.  Gently, with the finesse of a sapper defusing a mine, I slid a finger into her vagina, my mother’s vagina, until it was buried in her up to the knuckle and I was caressing the soft folds of flesh within.  I toyed with her clit, searching for the spot that makes women melt, but she lay quiet, unresponsive, one hand resting lightly on my waist and the other lying still on the mattress.
Her female sex under my hand lit the fuse of my desire and the knowledge it was my mother#‘s sex, forbidden to a son, blew it into a flare.  My throbbing penis reached for her, taking me with it, and I rolled onto her body.  She spread her legs, opening herself to me and I reached between us, took my penis in my hand and guided it against her, probing her slit until I felt her part before me and I slid into her.
My mother#‘s vagina embraced my penis, accepting its full length until my little bush of hair pressed against hers.  I was mating with my own mother.  Copulating with my own mother.  Fucking my own mother.  It was glorious.
I slid my penis back and forth inside her, wallowing in the cascades of pleasure that poured through me as the soft-furrowed walls of my mother’s vagina stroked the blood-gorged helmet of her son#‘s penis.  It had been there before, I realised.  Twenty-five years ago I had been there and my penis had stroked the walls of my mother’s vagina then.  Every man not born by Caesarian has had his penis in his ‘s vagina.  Mother-son incest is just a return home.
My orgasm detonated and my sperm pumped from me into my mother, flooding her uterus and womb.  I gasped, shuddered and strained with the exquisite sensation, pulsing in my mother.  Then the explosion faded leaving me exhausted, weak and stunned.  I collapsed onto my mother#‘s body, panting, my face in her hair, my arms around her, her breasts crushed against me and my penis still buried in her vagina.  
She had not, I realised, responded in any way usual to women.  As I had fucked her she had lain passive and quiet, seemingly unmoved by the sex act I had committed on her.  I felt a sudden sense of shame and embarrassment at what I had done and as though becoming aware of it she put her arms around me and held me to her, the way mothers are allowed to hold their sons.
‘Oh Mum,#’ I gasped.  #‘I#‘m sorry.#”
“If you are,” she chided me gently, #“It means you#‘ve done something wrong.  Have you?#”
I found the strength to lift myself partly off her although I left my penis where it was, buried like a bayonet in her.
“Mum,#” I said firmly. “It was fantastic.  It was wonderful.  It was beautiful.  I just wish it had been for you, too.#” 
“Oh,#” I couldn#‘t see her face below me in the dark but I heard the smile in her voice and felt her small shrug.  “It wasn#‘t bad.   I guess I#‘m a bit rusty.#”
I began shafting her again, fucking her long and slow until I felt her body convulse and quiver to an orgasm and was even able to manage a second small orgasm and ejaculation of my own.  Then I lay on her, exhausted, for several minutes while my sated penis shrank within her.
#“Would you mind getting off me, James,#” she said eventually in the kind of voice mothers use to obtain instant obedience from their sons.  #“I’d forgotten how messy this is, and it#‘s sogging up my side of the bed.”
I obeyed, slipping my sticky, floppy penis out of her body and bringing, I guessed, a load more semen with it. My mother groped at her bedside table, I heard tissues drawn from a box and lay weakly beside her as she mopped herself up.
“Here.#”  She passed some to me and I cleaned my penis.  Then my mother snuggled up to me and I slept the sleep of the sated.
Army-trained I woke in the first grey light of the dawn, my mother sleeping curled with her back against me and my penis erect again, pressing against her buttocks.  I moved only slightly and it slid between them and I had to move only a little more to begin buggering my mother.  Softly, gently, I manoeuvred it into her anus while she lay still, seeming to sleep, but when I#‘d eased no more than the helmet into her she said softly, #“You#‘re the first man to do that to me.  You father wanted to do it but I wouldn’t let him.  But if you want to.......#”  I felt her shrug.
I reached round her, took her breasts in my hands and squeezed her to me as I worked the rest of my penis into her back passage.
#“Don’t you like it?” I breathed into her ear.  She shrugged.
“It#‘s nicer for me in its proper place.  Isn#‘t it better for you, there?”
#“Yes, but this is nice.”  I was gently fucking her anus. “It#‘s..... softer.  Milder.  And it#‘s special somehow.  Maybe because it isn‘t in the proper place”
She shrugged sleepily in my arms. “Anything for you, son,#” she said quietly as I ejaculated into her lower intestine.
I went back to sleep with my penis still in my ‘s rectum and when I awoke two hours later I was alone in the bed.  I lay half wondering if the night’s events were not a dream, although I was quite definitely in my mother#‘s bed, my penis felt a little worn and the lethargy that follows sex was heavy in my body.  Then the bedroom door opened and my mother entered, bearing a tray.
“Ah, the sleeper awakes.  Breakfast in bed for you this morning, my boy,” she said.
She was in a dressing-gown and as she set the tray on the bedside table next to me I reached out, caught it by the belt and undid it.  The gown fell open to reveal her naked beneath.  She straightened and faced me, not trying to hide herself.
Her body wasn’t the loveliest, but then she wasn’t a 20-year-old girl any more.  Gravity had had its way with her breasts, pulling them down to lay like tears on her chest and the dark rings surrounding her nipples were huge, like chocolate sauce on a pudding.  There was a distinct roll of fat lying like a hoop on her hips and a flabbiness to her thighs where the skin was dimpled like the skin of an orange by the fat underneath.  Between them, under a mat of tangled, short dark hair, was the beginning of the deep cleft into her body I had plumbed the previous night.
I realised she was watching me examine her with a wry smile and I grinned up at her.
#“You’re beautiful,#” I breathed.
“Liar,#” she grinned down at me, pleased. “But perhaps now I#‘ve a reason to get back into trim again, hey.  My special lover.#”
My penis throbbed awake, eager again, and I reached for her.
“Wait,” she said sharply and left the room, housecoat flapping.  When she returned it was with a wet flannel and, pulling back the bedclothes, she began washing my penis.
“I know where that’s been,#” she said.  
She washed it thoroughly, dried it unceremoniously on the corner of a sheet and then, kneeling by the bed, leaned over and took it in her mouth.
“Oh mum,#” I groaned as I melted to the sensation of my mother sucking, nibbling and mouth-fucking me.
It look a delightfully long while until I felt my orgasm begin to stir and I stopped her, drew her up onto the bed and after kissing her lips, her throat, her nipples and her navel I buried my face between her legs.
My mother#‘s genitals were full and lush, sweet and tangy with woman-sex.  I nibbled her clitoris, sucked on her labia and wormed my tongue into her vagina, the hot, soft, dark tunnel through which I had passed to enter to world twenty-five years before.  Surely, I thought as I did it, every man should kiss and worship that secret place which received and treasured the seed from which he had grown, and through which he entered the world nine months later.  Suddenly it didn#‘t seem wrong that I should be kissing my mother#‘s vagina.  It seemed wrong not to.
I felt the hot snake of my orgasm unwind in my loins, wriggled up my ‘s body, slipped my penis into her and fucked her for all I was worth.  This time she orgasmed too, moaning and wriggling under me, arching her back with my weight as well as her vagina sucked and squeezed at my penis pumping yet more of my semen into her, seeking to drain every drop from me.  I gave her all I had and then we collapsed together, exhausted.
We lay entwined like lovers, weak as new-borns joined at the groin.  I didn’t want to move ever again while my mother snuggled herself contentedly against her.
The evening before we had talked frankly and exchanged confessions yet there was one I had held back and it troubled me.
“Mum,#” I said quietly, nuzzling at one of her big nipples as I had as a baby.  #“I don’t know if I ought to be telling you, but I feel I have to.  And it’s long in the past, now.#”
“Yes, dear?” my mother said, gently moving her hips so that the head of my penis stroked the depths of her vagina.
“I did this with Alice.  And Jane.#”  My elder sister had been perfectly happy to share her sexual discoveries with her brother as she had made them, and I had been only too happy to pass them on to my younger sister, by demonstration.
“I know, dear,#” my mother said with long-suffering patience.  My surprise jerked my penis inside her. “Her teenage son may be a closed book to his mother,” she explained.  “But there isn#‘t much she does‘t know about her daughters.#”
“You knew?#”  I was flabbergasted.
#“You were all fond of each other, you didn’t force them, and I knew you always took precautions.  So while I wasn#‘t exactly happy about it, I had a feeling I wouldn’t be able to prevent it.  So I went with the flow.  I knew you#‘d grow out of it.#”
“Oh.”  A whole wonderful chapter of my life had suddenly taken on a totally different light.
“And I#‘ve got something you ought to know, son,#” my mother said archly.  #“I#‘m not so old that I couldn#‘t get pregnant from all this.#”
#“Oh,” I said again, this time because it felt like someone had punched me in the stomach.  I hadn#‘t thought about it.  I#‘d assumed my mother was too old to fall pregnant.  A false assumption of the sort that loses battles.  I mentally kicked myself.
“But we#‘ll worry about that if it happens, hey?#” she laughed.  I laughed weakly with her.
“You#‘d best go have a shower,#” she ordered, “And get some breakfast down you.  Time#‘s getting on and it wouldn’t do to go AWOL now.#”
As usual mother was right and I wearily lifted myself off her, my shrunken penis sliding out of her body into the cold air.
Three hours later she was among a small crowd of mothers, wives and sweethearts waving at the Army coaches as they left the Camp for the airfield nearby.  I gave her a wave back and my tired penis twitched at the memory of her hot cunt while to anyone else she was just a fond mother waving her son goodby at the start of a dangerous journey.  It made me wonder how many other mothers in that crowd, and in all the other crowds of mothers waving their sons away to war over the years, had willingly gone far beyond the bounds of what mothers are supposed to do with and for their sons.  Millions, surely.  There was nothing special about us.  My mother and I were incredibly ordinary in our lives and our feelings for each other. Yet, mother and son, we had shared sex and I knew in my bones other mothers and sons had, too.  Binding themselves together to face the worry and the bad times with that supreme joy only sharing sex can bring.  I felt a sudden, deep sadness for all those mothers whose own inhibitions had turned her away from the act, and the sons who hadn#‘t liked or been bold enough to ask their mothers for sex, for how much more empty and lonely were the lives of those mothers when their son’s had not returned and the memories of what could have been, what should have been, haunted them.
A letter from my mother six weeks into the tour informed me, obliquely, that she wasn’t pregnant and I believed her, although I would not have put it past her to abort the baby without telling me had she been, and I relieved many unbelievably tedious hours of duty watching empty hillsides or peaceful streets reliving the memory of my mother’s body twitching with orgasm under mine, or her mouth sucking at my penis like a stick of rock.  
At the end of the tour I went home with a fourteen-day pass and spent most of it in bed with my mother who was now, she informed me, on the pill again.  I had other women, too, and she knew and didn#‘t begrudge me them.  One I eventually married and she was a wonderful grandmother to my children even if we sometimes left them to play in the garden while we crept upstairs like teenagers for a quicky on her bed.
Now she is seventy, white-haired and withered, but because she still enjoys it her son is only too happy to fuck her carefully and lovingly.  And I#‘m going to keep on doing it as long as she enjoys it.