Title: Knowing Which Side My Bread Is Buttered On
Keywords: mF, mat, inc, mom, son
Author: Caesar
Summary: A recent widow entertains her son while contemplating her past and future.
 
 




A german composer named Bruckner
Remarked to a lady while fuckener :
        "Less lento, my dear,
         With your cute little rear;
I like a hot presto when muckener!"


Knowing Which Side My Bread Is Buttered On

by Caesar, copyright 2006

Edited by Isaac Newton, circa 2006, Revision 1.1

$Revision: 1.3 $ $Date: 2007-12-02 07:47:45 $

When Tony stares at me with those familiar hungry eyes I do not
discourage it.  I know which side my bread is buttered on.  That was
my mother's favourite statement when we had our frequent arguments.

The driver opens the door to our car, and Tony and I walk arm in arm
to the large crowd at the top if the hill - the chosen site for my
husband Jason's grave.  It is a somber scene and tears come easily to
my eyes.

I look exquisite in my long black dress with the lace veil hiding most
of my features.

It is the end of another chapter in my life.  The man who had been my
husband had been a good provider.  Our relationship was agreed upon in
the opening weeks, and for the next twenty years both of us enjoyed
playing our parts.  Our agreement held to the end.

Of course I didn't love him.  I learned that lesson years before I met
Jason.

Everyone in attendance wants to come up and tell me how much Jason
meant to them, tell me how sorry they are, how great a man he was.  I
shake their hands but say little.

I play the part of the grieving widow to perfection, the final scene
of my play with Jason.  He would have been proud.

The car drives us back to our home on the outskirts of the city.  Just
as we are entering the gate to our lane, my son Tony leans over,
places his hand on my upper thigh and says in a reassuring way, "Don't
worry, mom. I will take care of you now."

How much did Jason tell him?

The hand lingers until the driver opens the door for us.  I do not
discourage his touch.

In my room I sit at my dressing table inspecting the woman reflected
in the mirror.  She is a beautiful woman, even though middle age has
come upon her against my wishes.  But beauty can be both a curse and a
treasure, as I have seen again and again.  When my mother's drunken
boyfriend slipped into my bed in the middle of the night to rape the
beautiful, twelve-year-old version of me, it was a curse.  When Jason
first set eyes upon me and could not believe that I smiled in return
(he knew he was already showing the pattern baldness and pot belly
that he would grow into), that was a treasure.

I know Tony has been confused about our relationship for many years.
I could feel his eyes upon me most days, feel it like a physical
touch.  I ignored him, of course - not because he was my son, but
because I had agreed with Jason that he would be the only man in my
life.  I never regretted it.

As Tony graduated from high school and went to university, I started
to receive intimate gifts from him.  Sometimes it was chocolate, but
more often it was lingerie or a book of erotic poetry.  These all went
into a chest in the basement.

The reflection shows that my earlier tears have made a mess of my
makeup and I concentrate on making myself presentable.  That was part
of my side of the agreement as Jason explained it to me: to always
make myself presentable, attractive but always dressed appropriately
for every situation.  I never failed to look like perfection, turning
heads at every public function.

It came as no surprise when Jason's lawyer explained that it would all
go to his only son Tony.  Jason was always a businessman after all.  I
was disappointed, of course, hoping that his death would change the
path of my life.  Evidently, it was not to be.

A knock brings me back to the present and I casually say, "Come in."
I know who it is of course.

"Mother?  How are you doing?"  Tony ensures the door is closed behind
him before stepping up behind me, looking at my reflection in the
mirror.

"My makeup is a mess."  I continue to work on my face, feeling that
touch-like gaze once again.  His hunger is so obvious.

His hands gently and casually rest upon my shoulders.  "You look
beautiful, mother.  As always."

"Thank you, Tony.  But I am getting old - it is more work every day."
I try to make light of my age, but I truly feel old.  How can Tony
look at me, his own mother, his own middle-aged mother, this way?

A hand gently slides up my neck and brushes my long, thick hair out of
the way, exposing my tender flesh.  I set my compact down on the table
and look up at my son, wondering, 'How much did your father tell you,
Tony?'

"Do you remember how I used to watch you comb your hair, mother?"

"I do, yes."  Even as a child he liked to look at me; then, with the
onset of puberty, his gazes took on a new meaning.

"I thought you the most beautiful woman alive.  I still do."

I smile gently.  "Thank you, honey."  Was my beauty a curse or a
treasure right at this moment?  Time will tell.

That same hand slips back to my shoulder and gently eases my dress
away from my neck, exposing the black strap of my bra and more of my
pale flesh.

"I miss those days."

"Which ones, Tony?"

He looks back up from my shoulder into my eyes, "You did not seem to
mind sitting with me in only your underwear then.  I miss that."

I force a gentle smile.  "Perhaps it was a mistake to stop."  My role
comes so naturally to me after all these years.

A pleased smile appears on his lips and his gaze returns back to my
neck and shoulder.  "Perhaps it was, mother."

His other hand moves down from my shoulder, grasps the tiny zipper,
and gently tugs it down the length of my back.  I sit still and watch
soberly as my son seduces me.

Both hands move up to my shoulders, going beneath the top of my dress
and then easing it over my shoulder so that it falls down to my navel.
I am wearing a black lace bra and nothing else from the waist up.

"As good as your memory, Tony?"

His eyes are wide with desire.  Men are so easy to read.  "Better,
mom, much better."  His hands are trembling now as they encircle my
body, going straight for my small-sized breasts.

The touch is not as disagreeable as perhaps it should be.  To others,
this mixture of incest and seduction of the widow on the eve of the
funeral would be unseemly, I am sure.  But permitting a man's touch is
an act of necessity in this life.  If given wisely, then comfort and
security are returned.  Once, I gave my self to a man for love, but he
disappointed me and hurt me even worse than that drunk that ripped my
virginity from my prepubescent body.  That has never happened again.

"Your nipples are getting hard, mother."  They must be pressing
through my thin lace bra into the palm of his hand.  Yes, my body
often responds to the most lecherous of touches.  It, too, cannot be
trusted.

"Why do you think that is, Tony?"  I am forcing a seductive smile, but
I feel like crying.  Perhaps I still feel some love for my son after
all.  I thought it had dried up with those puddles of sperm he used to
leave in my panties in his middle-teen years, proving to me that he
was just like the rest.

He grins knowingly. "I think you are enjoying this."

I nod in agreement, my eyes flashing seductively.  There is that
obvious hunger again.  The child has no chance here.

My son's hands fumble with the middle clasp of my bra, nearly tearing
the expensive material in his haste.  "I always dreamed of this
moment, mother."

Which?  The moment that he would seduce me before even his own father
was cold?  "I knew you would come to me eventually, Tony."  Not
completely true.  I had hoped my son would somehow be different from
every other man in my life, all of whom I saw as hard lessons learned.

Now my small breasts are exposed, the bra slipping down my arms to
fall between us.  Two sets of fingers and thumbs roll my puffy,
hardening nipples roughly.  "Are they sensitive, mother?"

"Oh yes!"  They are.  If my beauty is a curse, then so too are my
body's reactions to intimacy.  I often hated that fact more than any
other.

"I've wanted you for so long, mother.  I have wanted you all for
myself."

Gently I spin on my chair, turning to face my grown child.  His hand
is forced to disengage from my excited, hard nipples.  He stares at me
in surprise, suddenly looking more like a nervous child caught doing
something naughty than the man seducing his middle-aged mother.  With
a gentle push from me, he steps back two steps before I rise smoothly
up to a standing position.  And then, as if on command, the half-worn
dress slips down my rounded hips to land about my high-heeled feet.

Tony's jaw drops in appreciation.

I am wearing only things which he had given me a year before, things
stored in that basement chest for use on this day, which I knew would
be coming.  I stood in seamed, black, thigh-high stockings, black lace
garters, a black lace thong panty and my black heels.  Nothing else.
As you can see, I know how this game is played.

Tony's smile could not get broader.

"I don't know what your father told you, Tony, but there are a couple
of rules."  I step out of the discarded dress and bra lying about my
feet, step right up to my son until my hard nipples are touching his
chest.
 
He just stares at me, so I continue.  "I only give myself to a man who
can care for me in the style I have become accustomed to."

Tony nodded dumbly.  Oh, my innocent, stupid son!

"For this I will always be a trustful and reliable companion."  His
father never loved me, he just loved how he looked with me, or loved
how he felt inside me.  Jason had been the classic nerd, but felt like
a man when he was with me.

"Dad always said I should find a woman just like you - someone who was
beautiful, great in the sack, but knows which side of the bread is
buttered."

'Just like Jason to steal one of my lines,' I think ruefully.

"But you didn't take your fathers advice, did you, Tony?"  I am
looking at my child through my long eye lashes.  The play is
proceeding according to the timeless script.

"What... what do you mean, mother?"  He definitely seems a little
agitated.

"You didn't find a woman like me, did you?  You decided early on that
you wanted me to be The One.  Am I right, Tony?"

He swallows thickly and nods.

"What else did your father say, Tony?  Did he tell how I performed in
bed for him?"

Tony nods.  Jason and I had not loved each other, but we certainly
knew one another.

"He said there was not a sexual thing you would not do for him, and
that you loved every second."

My turn to nod in agreement.  Tony is acting like a virginal boy
rather than a man.  I had half expected him to throw me on the bed and
rip my flimsy thong off by now - that was what his father had done our
first time together.

"But only with one man, Tony.  That is very important.  There is
nothing I would not do for the one man in my life."  Even in this
charade I can not say 'love'.  This isn't love, it is a farce I am
forced to play out of necessity.  My own child wants to violate and
use his last surviving parent.  Is it the genes of my own parent,
selfish and with a heart of coal?

My son swallows thickly and nods carefully, agreeing with my
statement.  I can see the desire radiating from him, knowing without a
look downwards that he is throbbing in his pants.  Since puberty, this
moment has probably been imagined many times as he stroked himself in
self abuse.

My hand rises slowly and strokes the firm flesh of my child's chin, my
lips following to place a tender kiss on his dry, warm lips.  "Tell
me, Tony ... tell me that you are the man in my life ... tell me this
is what you want."

He is trembling now - pathetically desperate even as his head bobs up
and down.

"You must say it, my son; say the words."

Tony's mouth moves a couple times before the words come out, "Yes,
mother.  God, yes!  I want you... I want you to belong to me!"

That was it, wasn't it - just a beautiful possession.  A smooth,
pale-skinned, warm-blooded female with three holes and numerous
optional zones of pleasure.  I feel like crying but force my smile to
widen - the play must continue.

The kiss this time is filled with promise - light but passionate,
juicy.  Tony takes a full minute before he turns on like a light
switch.  His arms yank me against him, his tongue roughly invades my
mouth.  I will be bruised tomorrow, but that doesn't matter.  As I
know well, bruises disappear.  Hands tear my black-lace thong right
from my body, moving in to maul my round, still-firm buttocks.

I do not disappoint.  I return his energy by forcing my hands to
fumble about his belt and zipper, as if in a rush to open his slacks.
But in reality, I am sick to my stomach, hating the woman I have
become, hating my life.

He is panting now, one of his hands again twisting a nipple as if it
is a dial on a radio.  Saliva drips from both our chins as I pull my
lips from his long enough to gasp, "I need you in me!"  Playing the
part I know by rote, at that very second my hand encircles his hard,
throbbing penis; but I did not apply too much pressure.  He is liable
to explode prematurely and men are unbelievably sensitive about that,
I know from experience.

"God yes, mother!"

With a jerking spin we both fall backwards onto the bed, his larger
frame heavy upon my own, his hard penis poking into my
stocking-covered thigh.  A hand aims the hard male appendage, fumbling
even as I spread my knees wide, raising my heels high.

Then it sinks within me, just another cock in the long train of my
life. Yes, it finds a wet, hot, ready path; but then my body rarely
follows the same path as my heart and mind.

Tony raises himself up onto his hands, looking down at me in
disbelief.  "I can't believe this is happening, mother!  This is so
awesome."

I feel a tear come unwanted to my right eye and I gasp in pretend
passion, "I have wanted this for so long, Tony!"

He looks surprised and then delighted, "I too have wanted this,
mother."  My son begins to gently move his hips, that hard penis
within me moving carefully after so abrupt an entrance.

I pet his head with one hand and grasp his hard, round buttock with
the other.  I also force a fire into my eyes while I look at him like
the vixen he wishes me to be.

"This is a fantasy come true, my son.  Now fuck me ... fuck your
mother!"

"God, yes!"  The passionate, violent energy returns, his hips slamming
into my loins so that I bounce beneath him upon my own bed - the bed
in which his father so frequently fucked me.  The familiar echoes of
my overly wet sex disgust me, but I can see my son take in this
moment, saving it to his mental scrapbook to be remembered for all
time.

I know my future is assured - as long as I can keep him interested in
his middle-aged mother, I mean.  I may have to use a few things to
keep that spark going - now that my beauty is greying with my hair -
things that would have made me puke in disgust half a lifetime ago.

I can still remember the shrill screams of my mother as her latest man
slapped and threw her around our home.  More than one of the guys
liked his drunken woman's teenage daughter to sit and watch, as he
fucked her near-comatose body to his satisfaction.  One of those times
was the first time I had felt a dick enter my mouth.  It was coated
with my own mother's juices.  She lay passed out a meter away while
her boyfriend finished on my innocent face with an evil glint in his
eye.

Tony is soon grunting as he vigorously fucks his surviving parent,
evidently enjoying himself.  I allow moans of 'pleasure' to escape my
own lips, my body moving as it is supposed to, though I know there
will be no climax for me in this little play.  There never has been;
not once have I had an orgasm with a man, not once have I had an
orgasm with another person even in attendance.  My fantasies are
almost comic in their romantic love scenes, always with some fictional
person that can never exist in real life.  Oh, I can fake a climax
like the best.  Jason, Tony's father, felt so proud that he could
bring his new and beautiful wife to repeated orgasms, while other
girls our age would not even look at him twice.  Stupid girls - he was
rich, he was safe, and he was desperate.

My son is nearing the end of our first time and I allow my panting of
pleasure to rise an octave, my imaginary climax approaching as rapidly
as his own.  I even make my centimetre-long nails claw his long,
strong back as my hips shove violently to meet his thrusts.

Before I ran away from home, my mother had discovered the advantages
of letting her men use her only daughter.  It gave her a respite so
she did not have foul-smelling, disgustingly-dirty men pumping in and
out of her body.  Using her daughter, having her daughter receive
those coarse, filthy attentions, did not seem to bother her at all.

My life has been a nightmare ...yes, even my time with Jason.  My
husband was fat, bald, and had hair all over the rest of his body like
a gorilla.  In the bedroom, he subjected his beautiful
wife-of-convenience to all sorts of debauchery, seeming to enjoy how
his grotesque personage could dominate a willing, beautiful woman.  I
can still feel the heat of his urine as he peed upon me that first
time ...and yes, I faked an orgasm even then.

The cock within me expands and turns momentarily harder - just as his
father's used to do.  I clench the muscles within me so that when I
arch my back and scream out in passion it will be all the more
believable.  My son, seconds after my own faked orgasm, begins to fill
his mother's sex with his incestuous seed.

Then it is over and I feel like running and away and crying, just like
that teenage girl did after her virginity was forced from her by a
heavy, sweaty man-thing.  Lips find my own and half-consciously kiss
me, I pretend weariness as well, praying he will turn over and fall
asleep as his father did practically every time we had sex.

"You enjoyed it as much as I did, didn't you, mother?"

My son is grinning stupidly, proudly, not realizing that I can barely
stand his touch.

I kiss him back, our eyes locking tenderly.  'Is my son in love with
me?' I wonder, as if it would change what he will want to do with me
in the bedroom.  But perhaps it would make it easier for me to
manipulate him, to keep myself away from the dangers and the risks
that eventually killed my mother.

"I just can't wait until tomorrow, Tony."

He frowned playfully, "'Tomorrow?'"

I nod, letting my eyes give that playful, naughty twinkle that Jason
so loved.  "Yes, tomorrow, my son.  Tomorrow you are going to stay in
bed with your mother and fuck me all day long."

A huge grin spreads on his lips and he nods back, murmuring, "There is
nothing I would rather do, mother."  His mouth shoots between my jaw
and shoulder, attacking the tender flesh of my neck as he kisses down
to my still-erect nipple.

As he grazes again, after so many years, at my breasts, I stroke my
son's head tenderly, thinking all the while that men were so simple.

--
