Justin rushes to the far side of the table and holds the chair out, looking at me anxiously, patiently - the suggestion obvious. With a hidden sigh I glide forwards on my low-heels and sit with my knees together, back straight - like a lady should. Pushing my chair in so that I am facing my plate, my son leans over and sniffs my hair which causes me to freeze.
A second later, the kiss is gentle, at the nape of my neck, then another deep inhale through the nose which is almost touching my flesh.
Though this shocked me, it did not come as a total surprise.
Justin is like his father, like all men I should think. And like mother often told me around the time my body started to change that 'men do and women must endure'. No truer words have ever been spoken, Justin's father rutted upon me night after night for the first years of our marriage - pumping me full of his seed before rolling off and falling asleep. I did my duty, I endured. Not once did I deny my husband his due.
Thankfully Justin soon stands up and returns to his chair, looking rather pleased with himself. His hand rises with his glass of wine, "To you mother, you look beautiful tonight!"
I nod my thanks but secretly resigning myself to whatever path fate set me upon. With Justin's father dead and buried there is simply no where else for me to live - the man I married hadn't the sense to insure against his own demise, I was left penniless and quickly destitute. All too soon after the funeral, I had to move out of our home - which the bank took possession off.
There is simply no where else for me to go - forty-nine years-old, widow and broke, with no family or friends to help. My son came to my rescue immediately before the funeral, acting so mature now that he has a good job and a place of his own - of course he offered to help his mom he said, though I hadn't the bravery to ask it myself. There was the underlying message, 'his home' he had spoken - as if our lives have transformed and he the adult and I the child. No, not a child - something more, like an animal that lives on its most basic desires without thinking of the consequences - a man.
It was Justin's eyes of course - and every woman knows, feeling them Cara zing her, undressing her constantly. Justin started early, always looking at me as if he was starving and I was a platter of food. Then my panties started to disappear and I didn't enquire when they simply showed back up in the dirty hamper days later. The stains on his bed all normal right? But when he starts to peak at me, subtly at first then not so subtly - as if he cared not for the life he would loose if his father had caught him...
Oh yes, as a mother, I knew.
And my defence was to fall back on the wisdom of my mother - though barely out of childhood, Justin was a man and as such, it was my job to endure. So I ignored his interest, hide my rage from my family at the humiliation and indecently forced upon me, and then his intensity finally waned some years later. Though never truly disappeared as I had hoped.
With the offer for a new life, living in my son's home, I felt powerless and feared where the offer may lead. Supper tonight was our first together, a celebration he said. Yet he suggested I dress up, nylons with a skirt Jason said - to look pretty, for him. That wasn't the first indication since I arrived just this afternoon with my two bags in tow that things were going to be a trial between us - it was that look, eyes like his fathers, devouring me alive as I stood in his doorway to accept his charity.
I gritted my teeth and resolved to do what I have always done, endured.
The meal is surprisingly good, but I guessed it was purchased and reheated - my son never even boiled an egg when he was living at home. No doubt, from this meal forwards I would be doing the cooking. We ate in silence throughout, his eyes upon me and not his meal - his real hunger obvious. The plates are quickly removed after that portion of our meal and he is again behind me, kissing the nape of my neck, a tongue this time licking just behind my ear. I clench my jaw and held my breath - willing it to be over, for him to be satisfied with this. All the while, knowing it to be untrue.
Justin reaches around my torso without his earlier gentleness, laughing lightly as he whispers into my ear, "You should show more cleavage mom." His hands grope my abundant chest, even while I silently cursed my large breasts and the constant interest men seemed to have toward them since they started to develop. Two buttons of my blouse are roughly opened.
Then the dessert appears, my son red in the face and I'm full of surprise that he hasn't done more - his father would be snoring in bed by now.
I barely eat, my appetite gone - knowing as I do what was next. Its in my son's eyes don't you know.
I've never felt this negatively when my husband gave all the signs that he wanted to mount me - but this was my only child not my husband I reminded myself. Yet, like I'm sure mother would say, he is just like all the rest - a man. He is certainly no longer a shy teenager who peeked up my skirt at the supper table - and Justin is making sure the message came across loud and clear that he was the man and this was his house. Just as my being here meant that I was now part of his home, like a possession, a painting on the wall.
Pleased with himself over dinner and perhaps the silence of my submission, Justin leads me into the adjoining living room, rushing about like a child to light a dozen candles, turning on some light instrumental music. Was this where he wanted me? I grit my teeth and willed my heart to slow itself.
My mind shouted at me, to run and scream - to chastise this man like he was still the young boy that stole my soiled panties. What then? What if my son should evict me from my only option? His tempter had always been like his fathers, volatile and sometimes illogical - yet easily countered if given his daily rut. Would the son be as easily calmed? I had no skills, just a old middle-aged woman and house-wife - how would I survive outside my son's home?
His strong arms encircle me, his lips finding mine. I do not push him away, nor do I bite the tongue that is soon slipping into my mouth. What I did do was to stifle my gag reflex - though in such a way, my son probably thought it a guttural groan of pleasure.
Big masculine hands are soon upon my bottom, roughly kneading it like I was raw dough, his hardness pressing into my stomach aggressively. I hold back a sigh and resolved to endure, hating myself, hating my late husband for putting me in this situation and hating my mother for being right.
The hands are trembling as they unzip my skirt from the back, pressing my Sunday woollen garment to the floor like some rag. When was the last time Justin's father was this hungry for me? I can't recall.
I hear a tear and I wince, my blouse was almost forty dollars when I bought it several years ago - money I no longer had.
I've been here before, felt the desire of a man with the hands roughly groping me and the hardness pressing through clothing - desperate to get off, wanting nothing more than to use me like a tool out in the garage, tossed aside when done.
My son suddenly steps back, hands dropping to his sides, his eyes devouring me in my underwear. The candles are enough light to embarrass me, my hands coming up to cover my chest, my groin, even though he must have seen more peaking through that hole he had dug through his closet into my room years before.
"Take the pantyhose off mom."
It wasn't a request - his hunger obvious. If I wanted to resist, I should have done it before this moment - knowing it was too late.
A part of me is surprised at this voice my son was using - so different from the nervous teenager that tried to had to peak at me.
Resigned, my hands move slowly, doing what was bidden even though I wanted to die. But I cursed that wish away when I remembered that my bastard husband would be waiting for me on the other side, if the priests where right I mean.
"Damn I can't believe this is happening mom!" I stood there feeling like an old fool - how can my son look at my ageing body like it was a teenage girl. Men, other men and even my husband up to his death, didn't look at me like that - ever. Well, no one but Justin of course - which just confused me all the more. Sure my breasts garnered enough attention before I had a child but since then only my son had eyes for me. It was all so surreal.
My hands wanted to return to their concealment position but I forced them to my side, wearing only my panties and bra - neither sexy in my estimation. Hell, nothing I owned would classify as sexy.
"Turn slowly mom."
God, the balls on this boy, I thought! His father was a quick hump and roll off kind of guy - and if you are going to do it just get it over with Justin! I had resolved myself to enduring a moment of my very own son humping inside me once a day like his dad had done if it gave me a home, security. Yet this was something else and I couldn't quite put my finger on why it bothered me so much.
Facing away from my son I feel him approach, his hands coming up and fumbling with the five hooks of my bra. Then its slipping off my shoulders, falling to my bare feet with the rest of my best clothing. I wished this was a nightmare and I would soon wake up but I knew it to be reality. My son's breathing was heavy, quick - I could feel how hot it was against the sensitive flesh of my shoulder and neck and I suppressed a shiver.
.... There is more of this story ...