An innocent maiden named Herridge

Was cruelly tricked ito marriage;
When she later found out
What her spouse was about,

She threw herself under a carriage.
-- Edward Gorey

by Caesar, Copyright 2001, Revised 2007

License: Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0

I flung my arms about my son with abandon, hugging him fiercely against me.

“Jenny... ? For gods sake the boy has only been gone four months!” That was my husband, Brent’s step-father, Robert.

My eyes were squeezed tight and I held back a sob - it had been harder for me than Robert when Brent went off to an excellent University out east, on a scholarship.

Brent’s arms were pressed tight against his frame and he gasped, “Mom... ?”

Suddenly, I realized I may actually be harming my boy and immediately released him from my loving, but asphyxiating, grasp.

Holding his shoulders in my hands I leaned back and looked up into my handsome son’s blue eyes. My gaze was blurring with tears, I was so happy to have my only child home - if only for a month.

Robert leaned past me and slapped my son on the chest playfully, “How were the girls at school boy?”

My reaction was automatic, though none seemed to even hear me, “Oh Robert!”

Brent seemed thankful to look away from my sad-happy face, as he playfully replied to his step-father, “Pretty and plentiful!”

His bravado statement took me by surprise, Robert had always teased my brilliant son on the lack of female companionship - and the normal embarrassed and humiliated response was gone. My son looked confident and pleased with himself.

It was only the first of many changes I would notice.

Brent must have seen my surprised look, “Not as pretty as my mom of course!” He leaned in and kissed me gently on the lips.

It was the first time our lips had touched since he hit puberty.

Supper was huge, in honour of my son’s temporary return home - roast beef, figgy duff and mashed potatoes, with strawberry angel food cake to end top us all off. All my son’s favourites and all home made I assure you!

Robert unbuckled his belt before leaving the table, staggering off to the den mumbling something about, “ ... hockey scores...”.

Brent just sat there, smiling confidently at me, his blue eyes piercing me with love and pride.

“Great supper mom!”

I stood up and piled some of our dirty dishes together, “Did you really think so?” I was playing it cool - but what mother did not find joy in making her child happy?

“Everything was perfect...”, I turned about with a pile of heavy dirty dishes in my hand, “ ... and so are you mom.” I almost paused in the doorway to the kitchen - I let that strange comment go from my mind as quickly as I could. My son had probably met some girl at university and she had taught him enough to him to flatter the ladies. Though he was aiming this flattery at me ... I again forced the thoughts from my mind. And where did that self confidence come from - he had certainly not left home with it?

When I returned from discarding the first handful of dishes I found my son helping with the soiled dining room table and dirty dishes. It took me by surprise, briefly, my son never volunteered to help with cleaning up the supper dishes before.

“Let me do that honey”, reaching for the small pile he was building up before him, “go watch hockey with Robert.”

Brent gently grasped my hands just before I could grasp the dirty plates, and lifted them up to his lips. My son kissed the back of my hands while looking at me with an intense confident gaze that appeared so alien on my only child.

I felt my cheeks blush at this gallant attention, “Brent ... honey... ?”

“Quiet mom...”, he let go of my hands and slipped his arms about my torso to give me a gentle but firm hug. My arms came up naturally, to encircle his neck while my face pressed into his hard warm chest.

The side of my face was pressed to his chest, and could hear my son’s heart beating, and I felt warm and safe and thus, whispered to him, “I love you honey.” I was so happy at that very moment - my son was home and I was so happy.

Then I felt it, a strong hand slide down my hip to lay upon one butt cheek and squeezed possessively. It took me for a mental loop and though I tried to lift my face from him, I was held firm within his arms.

I was silent in shock as I felt the hand measure every inch of my bottom cheek, even pressing my skirt and panty up into the crack of my ass!

Just when I was about to open my mouth to protest, my son loosened his grasp and I pressed out from him. As I looked up into his piercing blue eyes, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against my own. My eyes widened and I froze when my son slipped his long pointed tongue past my lips and fondled about inside my mouth.

It probably lasted less than ten seconds, but it felt like an eternity when he released both my lips and my ass and I just stood there panting and looking up into the eyes of my only son.

Now, suddenly at that moment, they looked so foreign - as if this was not my son at all, but some alien that looked like him.

His lips were wet with our mixed saliva as they curled into a smug grin, his eyes daring me in some mysterious way.

“Brent... !” What was I about to say - threaten him for his unacceptable behaviour? Or perhaps scream for my husband to save me?

This was my son - the little boy that I had given birth too, breast fed, taught to walk and talk, played with and nurtured for all of his life.

I had no words - words could not voice the mixed emotions and thoughts that flowed through me.

“Yes mom?” Brent licked his lips and I watched that pink tongue slide over his almost feminine lips, remembering distinctly the feel of that same tongue against my own. A small electric charge ran down my spine and I could not help but shake my shoulders in a slight shiver.

My son was challenging me, daring me to defy him. He had done something that we both knew was unacceptable and here he stood daring me! The gall!

He slowly looked down and I followed his gaze to see him lift his hand up, palm toward me, between us. In slow motion he moved a step closer to me and lay his hand directly over my breast. Our eyes again met even as he squeezed my ‘C’ cup in his strong hand.

He squinted at me even as he fondled my tit, moving it about as if measuring my chest ... waiting for me to protest.

Why were no words coming out of my mouth? As if I was in a black comedy, I could feel my lips move in silent disagreement at my son’s actions.

Now he had found my nipple and was rolling it between thumb and two fingers, it thrusting outward toward my son. My sweater and brassier only causing more friction on my aching teat.

Stop this, I screamed in my mind!

I felt a wave of disgust roll through me when I realized that I was simply standing here letting my only son feel me up. I could have turned and ran, but didn’t. Robert would have come, if called, but I did not say a word. Brent was my son, damn it, and no matter how awful a thing he did, I was his mother.

When my one nipple was so tight that it hurt he let go of my chest and again stood silently before me. There were no tears, I was stunned to realize, as I simply stood silently looking up into my handsome son’s face - as if waiting.

Again I followed his gaze downward, to his hand, and watched it as it moved toward me. I felt him cup my crotch, his hand fitting perfectly over my sex, the heel of his hand pressing into my clitoris. Thank god my skirt and panties protected me ... didn’t they?

I had been a good mother - a great mom! Brent’s real dad had left us when our child was seven years old. It had been a tough two years, making ends meet, until I met Robert. Boring is a word I would describe my husband and Brent’s step-father. He had a big hanging gut, was three quarters bald and had a hairy back - but you want to know something, I loved him. He took me, a single mother, in and loved us, cared for us, provided for us. Brent had taken to Robert as a father, even taken after his step-father in the academic department. Our life was fine.

I’ve been happy - haven’t I?

Then Brent went off to University, winning a scholarship that allowed him to gain entrance to one of the most exclusive institutions in the country rather than a local College. My son had almost cried in fear of the unknown and, I hoped, in leaving his mother as he went deeper into the airport on the way to his first semester of school.

Looking at Brent now, I knew that fearful boy was gone. What stood before me was a stranger, a man that I’ve never met, that only looked like Brent.

I realized my breathing was coming faster, and I wanted to scream out in frustration. This was not how mothers reacted - not even with my husband, if you want the true.

His two middle fingers were pressing my panty and skirt up into my vaginal hole, while the heel of his hand scraped about my pelvic bone and clitoris. As much as I hated to admit it, I was getting excited.

Brent knew it too as his smirk of triumph had gotten wider.

Then just when I was fearful of giving my only child the wrong impression, possibly by grinding into his aggressive hand or falling into him by my knees giving out, my son stopped.

My boy whispered as he came toward me, “Don’t move mom.” Had I moved in any way since he first touched me in such an un-parent sort of way?

He stood before me, my breasts rubbing against his flat chest, our eyes locked. I felt his hands at my hips, pulling up my skirt and I felt faint at my lack of self control - I should be running out of the dining room screaming.

Then his thumbs hooked into the elastic of my panty, his digit feeling cool against my skin, and then he pushed down. The air tickled my flesh as it became exposed, and I knew that I was leaving a trail of my excitement down the inside of my thighs, the crotch of my panties saturated.

Brent stepped away from me and squatted down with his eyes level with my navel, and I looked down thanking whatever god there may be that my skirt had again fallen down my legs hiding that part of me from what was forbidden to a son. He lifted my feet, one at a time, by holding onto my slim ankles.

My little boy, is that not how all mothers think of their son’s, stood back up with my soiled white cotton brief in his hand.

He brought the darkened patch, wet from my helpless pleasure, in the crotch area up to his nose and inhaled deeply. Then my son again captured my gaze and ordered in a voice that was so foreign, “Go finish the dishes mom.”

I cried the whole hour it took to clean the kitchen, silently wiping away my tears on the arms of my sweater as I loaded the dishwasher and scrubbed the pots and pans.

Robert only came into the kitchen once, for a can of beer - his one weakness was cold beer while watching sports on television - and I had my face turned away from him the whole time. My husband never even noticed my tears let alone if something was wrong!

I had no idea where my son was for that hour.

Robert, I saw, had fallen asleep with a book still open upon his chest. I leaned over him and took off his reading glasses and placed a marker in his book before setting it on the night-side table.

My mind was moving rapidly over the minutes that Brent had possessed me in his gaze after our pleasant supper - I would barely sleep this night I knew.

Our house was large and very comfortable - and had a huge bathroom off the main suite. My darling husband had silently allowed this to be my sanctuary, as he used the bathroom down the hallway - so it contained only my personal items. Robert, you see, loved me - took care of me and I loved him.

I washed my face in the wide sink and stared at the weary lost gaze that returned in the mirror.

What had happened downstairs?

My son had not only fondled me openly, but I had not defied him in the least. My son had not been known as a dominant personality before going off to university, but I had felt his dominance as I stood there to be silently fondled. He could have done anything and I knew I would not have stopped him!

It was wrong, of course ... taboo ... illegal as well ... hell, everyone knew that. A mom and son ... being together. But that is not what happened is it? All that happened was that Brent had touched me in places that I was not comfortable with.

Don’t forget the panties, I chastised myself!

What the hell did he want with my plain white panty? A fucking trophy of his mothers silence as he felt her up?

Again I felt my cheeks turned bright red as I remembered how wet they were and that my little boy had brought them up to his nose to smell the forbidden scent of his parent’s excitement.

What type of mother got excited and stood submissively when her child touched her? I should be sick of my inaction, of the response of my body - but I was not.

I stood back from the mirror and looked at myself in the floor to ceiling reflection. What I saw did not give me the reason why my son would do these things. Staring back at me was a woman, forty two years old, five foot four, well proportioned - I assured myself - with pleasant curves, which meant full breasts and wide hips, small mouth, shoulder length brown hair, and a pleasant, but plain I had to admit, face. I would certainly not stand against any competition of the co-ed’s that my son was seeing daily at his new school. If you looked closer you may notice that the hips had small stretch marks upon them, that my breasts could never be called perky, as they had when I was a teenager, and that there was definite wrinkles about my eyes and mouth so that no one would mistake me for twenty ever again.

So why the hell had he done this to me?

I lifted my hands, and they felt like weights were attached to them, and unzipped and unbuttoned my sweater and skirt. I disrobed slowly, removing even my earrings before again looking up into the same mirror.

There stood a middle-aged woman with a lost look in her gaze, I assessed.

I slipped my open fingers through the thick curls between my legs and sighed at the gentle familiar touch. Brent was only the third man, boy I chastised myself, to touch that part of me - even through my clothing. He had in his possession, the panty that had covered me since early morning - the same garment that had quickly gotten soaking wet with my excitement. How much humiliation was he willing to put me through?

Was he masturbating to the scent of his mothers sex, I wondered with a chill up my spine? Did he relive those few moments as I was? Was he horrified at his actions, as he should be, or did it excite him?

These thoughts suddenly stopped when I realized what I was doing, one of my fingers already damp from slipping up and down my outer labia.

But I stopped again, and stared intently in the mirror - is that what interests you Brent? The woman starred back at me looked confused but also a little excited as well. I saw the submissive look in my eye, the wide eyed wonder of a child-like innocence that caused the men in my life to want to protect and care for me.

I brought my damp finger up to my nose and took a deep smell of the familiar, though rare, juices of my sex. I wondered if my boy was smelling the same from my cotton panty.

A shiver ran down my spine and right into my crotch.

I was exhausted the next morning, as I made my husband and son their breakfasts. I had spent the night in chaotic thoughts, flashes of recent memories and in a strange state of excitement, fear and confusion.

Robert ate his breakfast heartily, as he does with every meal, while reading the morning paper. You could set your clock by my husband’s routines.

Brent hadn’t come down from his room as yet.

Soon I was standing at the door in my robe as my husband kissed my cheek automatically as he does every work day. Then he was gone. In my confusion, it felt like a he had been awake only seconds.

I wasn’t surprised when Brent’s voice appeared behind me, “Alone mom?”

I closed the doors and took a deep breath as if to gain some semblance of self-control, then I turned toward my child.

Brent was smirking while he looked me up and down as if he could see through my satin robe. I had not denied him yesterday so why should my son not consider his mother readily available for any perversion that he may think up? Had the pleasure of what occurred not been upon the panty that was taking as a trophy?

What else could a mother ask, “Do you want pancakes for breakfast honey?”

I was surprised at the answer, “Sure mom.” What else could he have said - I shuddered at the possibilities my mind started to conjure.

Feeling a huge wave of relief, wondering if yesterday’s embarrassing episode was a thing of the past, I strode down the hallway on my way to the kitchen.

My son grasped my arm roughly as I was going by him and I stopped dead in my tracks - my heart started thumping loudly in my chest. I had to protest, “Honey, I... !”

“Quiet mom.” He said gently - and strangely I did. Though my breathing seemed incredibly loud to me in the wide hallway.

Then, reminiscent of yesterday, I felt him gathering up my satin robe behind me.

Oh my god, I remembered, I had not worn anything after the long hot shower I had to wake up this morning!

In seconds I felt the air tickle the skin of my bottom and knew, that my son was looking down at my naked ass. The cheeks of my face, and perhaps behind me as well, flushed and I felt my knees buckle almost dropping me to the floor.

Then I felt him tuck my robe into the belt at my waist, leaving my backside naked from waist to heel.

Brent let go of my arm and slid around behind me and do you want to know something, I just stood there stupidly as my own son grasped both my ass cheeks in his big youthful hands.

I hung my head as he openly fondled my bottom, roughly and possessively. And I could not move an inch away from him - he was my son, damn it to hell! A finger actually slipped down and tickled the small hairs between my cheeks and I feared that it may go further when my son leaned forward and placed his lips against my ear. “Now I’d like those pancakes mom.”

His hands suddenly dropped from my ass and I half ran from him, his final command echoing through my home - “Leave your robe like it is mom!”

God help me, I went through the next forty minutes with my bare ass hanging out of my robe as I fed my child. Brent was eating and smirking the whole time, his eyes glued to my bottom whenever he could. I think my whole body was bright red with shame and embarrassment.

I knew all I had to do was pull out my robe from my belt to cover my bottom, but I did not - this was my son and I loved him. Why was he doing these things?

His youthful hand was molding the closest cheek for the sixth time since he sat down for breakfast as I leaned over to retrieve the butter from the table. Then he spoke for the first time since the hallway, “Don’t move mom.”

I froze, fearing what was next.

Looking over my shoulder I watched as my only child aimed the bottle of maple syrup directly over my ass and, horrified, I watched as a thick glob slipped out and slowly dropped down to lay upon my exposed skin. “Beautiful - good enough to eat mom!” He laughed at his own joke as he leaned in.

My breathing froze as I felt his warm moist lips come into contact with my cool smooth flesh, his hot tongue licking at the droplets of syrup aggressively as I felt it slowly slide down toward the back of my thigh.

I closed my eyes with shame, a mother with her own son’s tongue on her ass - it was against everything I’ve been taught and what I knew.

He licked at my bottom for several minutes, before sitting back in his chair and staring at my saliva covered flesh. I stared at him in silent horror over my shoulder as he brought his hand up and swiftly struck my ass in a open handed slap that reverberated throughout the kitchen. The dampness and the shame of it all caused sharp pain to violently flow through my body from his slap - and I hissed in response. I wonder if the pain or humiliation of his actions hurt me more?

Finally he looked up from my exposed bottom and dared me with those lovely blue eyes, “You’ve been a good girl mom - why don’t you go have a shower.” It wasn’t a question.

I simply stood there, my elbows on the table and my ass naked and high behind me, staring at my son as if he were a stranger. We shared a look, and I thought I saw his gaze soften for only a second, that puzzled me even further.

His hand lifted for another smack of my bottom and I quickly moved to comply to his suggestion before it again struck at my sensitive skin.

I felt the change in air pressure before I heard his voice, “Mom?”

In my personal washroom I had always had privacy, my own sanctuary as my husband called it. But I knew my son had invaded, and I felt his presence like a blow to my gut as I could barely respond, “Yes?”

Go away I screamed silently to myself. The tears starting again, ready for the shower door to open. Come to your senses ... son’s do not do this to their mothers!

“I’m going to take a shower - can you come get me out in about ten minutes?”

I took a deep breath suddenly, realizing I would not be cornered in my shower stall naked and fearful - finding the words I responded, “Sure honey.”

“Can you get a towel for me mom?”

I stood there in jeans and tee-shirt with wet hair and bare feet ten minutes later, as ordered.

I found a large clean towel, and moved to place it on the toilet by the bathtub when the water shut off and the sliding door slid open.

“God damn that was hot!” I stood stunned in the steam filled small basement bathroom, both hands holding the towel before me, and my mouth open as I looked upon my son’s nudity. Of course I’ve seen my son naked before - the last time about his twelfth year I think. Yet, he had changed - so very much - into a man.

With his long strong legs Brent carefully stepped over the edge of the tub and stood on the fluffy bath mat dripping wet. “Dry me mom.”

I stood there dumbly, my eyes staring at the thick penis hanging limping between my son’s legs. My breathing was already coming faster and I felt my hands trembling.

Brent grunted impatiently, “Mom!”

I shook my head and looked up into his blue eyes, “Dry me.” I only nodded in agreement - again my voice gone.

Kneeling down, to easier start from the bottom I told myself, with my jeans already getting wet where they lay upon the rug, I started at my son’s feet. I ached all over to look upward, it being so close, but I forced my eyes to watch the movement of my hands on his wide spread feet and towel.

Why was I so helpless with him? Why is this happening to me? To us?

His ankles and calves came next. And I knew I was moving excruciatingly slow, tenderly even - but I knew what was higher up and it caused fear and, god help me, yes excitement at the mere thought.

Brent was tall, six foot two, and though not a jock, was still in good shape. He had well defined muscles and slim features. His cock, I remembered at my first look in six years, was different than his slim features as it was rather thick. A shiver ran through me suddenly. He is, without a doubt in my mind, the most perfect male that I have ever looked upon.

His knees and thighs were definitely dry as I had spent nearly five minutes on that part of him, my peripheral often seeing that man-meat between his legs almost as if it was waiting for me.

Why was I so helpless - it was not like I was an innocent teenager who had never seen or felt the plunge of a dick before?

The next section to dry was what I feared and desired to do, but I froze and looked up into his dominant humoured gaze. “What’s wrong mom?”

I could not say a word, and thought it justice for my lack of a voice since his aggression started only last night.

Brent leaned down and took the towel from my hand and wrapped it about his waist and laughed as he ordered, “Get up mom!” I stood on quivering legs and stood facing my son as if I was a child about to be punished. He nodded with his chin, “Remove your jeans mom.”

My jeans? My hands moved as I was still formulating an argument why I could not, unzipping and then pushing the denim quickly to my feet I stepped out and kicked the pants into the corner.

My son was looking down at my white bikini-cut panties, a wide smile upon his lips. I followed his gaze, fear cursing through my veins, until I saw what he was looking at. Brent was looking at the white cotton panty that was so wet with my sexual juices that they were dark and nearly transparent.

I wanted to scream out that it was not my fault that he should not do this to me ... but of course I stood there dumbly.

Finally, Brent ordered, “Get out mom, I’ll finish the rest.”

I left in shame and humiliation - mostly because of the raw hunger I felt for my son and knowing that he knew it as well.

The sun was out that afternoon but it was a chilly day, surprisingly my son sat outside as if asleep in a lawn chair. I stood at the closed sliding window in the den staring at him, my thoughts racing a mile a minute. I still had not replaced my jeans with another garment - conscious that my son had not given my leave to do so, and so endured the humiliation.

It was with a mixture of fear and excitement that I saw him open his eyes and motion for me to come outside. As if he knew all along that I was standing just inside the winder - almost as if I was waiting for his summons.

I hated myself so much at that moment!

Brent motioned to the foot of the long lawn chair, and so I sat straddling it, facing toward him. Immediately, I regretted my position - feeling more exposed with my legs spread so wide, my still damp panty barely covering my loins.

“When was the last time you came mom?”

It was like he had hit me across the face, and my head jerked back and I sat open mouth at his ungentlemanly question. It was none of his business was it - but those words did not come out. Instead, “Brent, honey, this has got to stop.” I cursed myself for the lateness of my rebellion. Where were my words last night as my own son felt me up or this morning as he licked syrup off my ass?

Tears suddenly flowed from my eyes freely, and finally.

“No.”

No? I wiped my eyes to see him clearly - and could see his dominant amusement. He looked so sure of himself, that it made me sick to realized that I was powerless against him. And yet, I still had no conscious understanding why that could be!

“When was your last orgasm mom?”

I again wiped at my eyes, feeling the well of my tears already drying up. My rebellion already disintegrating - and that submissive powerlessness returning. “I don’t remember.” I saw my son’s firm disagreement with this noncommittal answer, and followed immediately up with, “Last week.” It had come out barely a whisper.

“Robert?”

I nodded negatively.

“Someone else?”

That shook me, how could my son think I would ever cheat on his step-father, my husband? “Good god no!”

Then I understood that in a way I was cheating on my husband, to a certain extent, with my very own son. My soul turned black at the thought and my heart beat double time.

“You masturbated then?”

Why stop now? “Yes.”

“Where ... how?”

I felt my heart beating rapidly and cursed myself knowing that I was again getting excited, “In the tub ... always in the tub.” I could not meet his eyes. I never told a soul how I pleasured my self, or even revealed that I do masturbate!

“And how often does Robert fuck you?” That word struck me like a fist and my stomach knotted up. I’ve never heard my son use that word before and it seemed to me that our lives had just changed in that second it took to say it.

I could do nothing but reply truthfully, “Two or three times a month usually.”

Please stop this Brent!

“Have you ever sucked Roberts cock?”

Again the foul mouth tightened my guts. “No.” I had sucked my first husband infrequently but Robert was a in-the-dark-on-top kind of guy. I never regretted my marriage to Robert, knowing that my own hand could relieve the ache between my legs if I should need it. And I needed it much more frequently than I did my husbands cock, I thought with shame.

“Have you ever had anal sex?”

The question disgusted and excited me for some reason, “God no!” My son chuckled at my response strangely enough. Was I that humorous - being completely helpless to him?

The cold was causing me to shiver, or was it for some other reason, and my nipples hardened painfully in my bra. There was a familiar heat between my legs and I cursed my weakness, hating my cunt for being submissive to my own son, for enjoying it. Was it flowing yet again, causing my panty to become practically transparent?