								


							MY MOTHER, SUSAN

											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 champagne 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 champagne 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 sheer 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 foot 10
		  inches - 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.

			   "All right, all right.  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 cul-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?


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			   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 all right?"

			   "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 tousling 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, wielding 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.  Your
		  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.


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


