I sipped at my iced tea, watching my mother as she stood at the kitchen counter, deftly chopping vegetables. God, it felt good to be home. I'd just finished a brutal year of college, and looked forward to a relaxing summer with Mom.
You might have heard of my mother, actually, except that I can't tell you her name. She's a fairly successful author of historical novels. She ditched my loser of a dad when I was ten, and has been content to live on her own ever since, raising me along the way. She's still beautiful, and could easily have found another husband, but chose not to. I thought she simply wasn't interested in finding a new love -- but as you will soon see, there were a few things I didn't know about my mother.
Anyhow, I'd just finished my tea and put the glass in the sink when she said, "Would you get my glasses, honey? They're on top of the short bookshelf in the study."
I walked along the wide hallway over the deep pile carpet that we'd had since before I was born, absently looking for shapes and faces in the curlicues that adorned the wallpaper -- something I'd enjoyed doing as a little girl. It always made me feel at home.
Mom's study was also the house's library, a room crammed to the ceiling with books filled with wondrous things. I'd read many of them growing up, and those thousands of pages I'd thumbed through had left me with a real thirst for the written word. I was very much my mother's daughter in that respect.
Picking up her glasses, I wandered happily through the room, breathing deeply of that scent I loved so well -- of paper, bound up in volumes of many hues and shades. Each one waited patiently, eager to be picked from its shelf and browsed; pages turned, ideas absorbed.
I seated myself behind Mom's desk, allowing myself a leisurely carousel spin in her chair. As my last turn came to a slow stop, I spied a thin manuscript lying upside down on the desk with a bookmark I'd given my mother on my last visit -- a laminated strip of Belgian postage stamps -- inserted about halfway into it. Curious, I turned it over.
The title showing through the clear plastic cover startled me -- My Daughter, My Lover, my mother's name typed neatly underneath. I stared at the words, puzzled.
I began to flip though the pages, reading occasional passages, my eyes widening as I took in the story. My God, Mom had written a story about incest -- lesbian incest, no less!
My body began to throb as I found myself quickly engrossed in this tale of a mother who takes her own daughter to bed and makes passionate love to her. My arousal only grew stronger as I pored through the part where the daughter returns the favor, licking her way down her mother's body and eating her wet pussy.
Since the beginning of my freshman year of college I'd experienced lesbian sex many times and loved it, so to discover that Mom was writing stories like this was equally as exciting as it was shocking. And I could have been mistaken, I suppose, but ... the character of the daughter seemed a lot like me.
I quickly turned back to the story's beginning, skimming through the first few pages until I found a description of the girl. My heart thumped so loudly that it echoed in my ears as I took in my mother's words.
Finally, I closed the thin binder and leaned back in the chair, staring at the story's title. Could it be... ? I wondered, head reeling in a mixture of excitement, confusion and fear. Does Mom want to make love to me?
"Marcie?" My mother's voice called from the kitchen. I quickly dropped the manuscript onto the desk as if it were on fire, and hurried toward the hallway -- remembering at the last second that I'd forgotten Mom's glasses, dashing back to snatch them up before racing from the room.
"Here." I handed the glasses to her, trying not to betray the storm of emotions that raged through me right then. "I'm going to sit on the back porch for a bit ... looks like there's a nice breeze." I placed a gentle kiss on my mother's cheek before leaving the room.
I stared out into the June evening, hands resting on the oaken rail that enclosed the porch. The soft glimmering of fireflies could now be seen, and the buzzing of crickets filled the air as I stood there quietly, scuffing the floor with the toe of my sandal. All my thoughts were of that strange manuscript, done up on my mother's manual typewriter and annotated here and there in red ink, her scrawly handwriting as familiar to me as my own.
Julie, the young woman in the story, was my age, with short coppery hair like mine, a college student who was visiting home. Too close for coincidence. The longer I thought about it, the more convinced I was that the character had to be a barely disguised version of me. The page Mom had bookmarked was especially exciting -- that first scene of intimacy between mother and daughter.
"Glorious weather," she said softly, suddenly standing next to me.
"Mmmm, yes ... it is," I replied inanely, my mind filled with images of sapphic love, brought to life by my mother's words.
Mom gave me a sweet smile that had my knees trembling. I could see the shape of her body through the summery dress she wore. She still looked luscious at thirty-eight, I had to admit. It occurred to me then there were no lines visible through her clothes -- was she naked underneath?
The thought made me quiver inside ... and it was at that very moment that I knew I wanted her. My own mother.
"Beautiful," she smiled, gazing at me; then gesturing toward the garden, still visible in the fading light. "The flowers."
I knew what she really meant -- and it wasn't the flowers. God, she was flirting with me!
I leaned forward slightly, my upper arms squeezing my chest, leaving the cleavage more pronounced. "Am I one of your flowers, Mom?"
Her eyes dipped for a moment to take in my partially revealed breasts. "You are, angel ... a lovely flower, ready to be plucked by an adoring hand." She blew me a small kiss and returned indoors, giving me one last sidelong glance before vanishing.
I stared after her, my mind already wandering into some very forbidden places. "Damn," I whispered.
I was tempted to slip a hand into my panties and touch myself -- right there, right then. I struggled. I resisted. Finally, I went back inside, looking for her. She was in the kitchen.
"Need any help?" I asked, then leaned against the back of a chair by the kitchen table. I watched Mom's bare legs extending from beneath her skirt, a flowery number that ended a few inches above the knees. My eyes roamed upwards, taking in her shapely hips. I realized for the first time that the women I most desired as lovers had bodies very much like that of my mother, full and curvy. How could I not have seen that before? I wondered.
I imagined the soft, warm delights hidden under Mom's skirt ... and knew that I craved them. Desperately.
I glanced up, startled from my reverie. "Y-yes?" I asked.
"I said yes, I would like some help, thanks very much. You can set the table."
"Ah. Okay." I shook my head, in a futile attempt to clear it.
I pulled the silverware drawer open. She was standing nearby, close enough to touch. Instead, I inhaled deeply, registering the scent she wore. She glanced at me. "Mmm, you smell so nice," I cooed. "I'd even go so far as to say ... intoxicating."
She looked at me again and smiled. "That's very sweet." Her eyes held mine for a moment longer, then she turned back to the sink.
I picked out knives and forks. "Spoons?" She nodded and I took out two, closed the drawer and leaned in to gently kiss her neck ... every atom of me alive with excitement.
"I was just thinking about how good it is to have you home," she said softly.
She turned and faced me, a hand resting casually on her hip. Her eyes were inviting, her lipsticked mouth even more so. I'd stood in the same place thousands of times growing up, and never had I felt the way I did right then. Mom's fresh breath caressed my cheek. Her lips were inches from mine and ripe for tasting. I closed the distance and let mine brush hers, taking her in my arms. Jesus, she felt good.
"I've been thinking the same thing, Mom. It's always nice to be home with you, but this time there's something extra special." I knew what it was, too, but I wasn't telling. I felt warmed from her, tingling from head to toe with desire. I kissed her again, this time letting it linger.
"That was nice," she cooed as I gently broke away. "You're a very good kisser, honey." She reached out to touch my cheek. "Your lips are so warm ... and sensual. But then, I think that women's mouths are far sexier than men's could ever be."
I was surprised at my mother's candor, even as and a rush of naked lust flowed though me. She'd given me an opening big enough to drive a truck through, and there was no way I'd pass it up.
I took a deep breath, released it. Steady, girl. "Mom ... have you ever made love to a woman?"
She nodded slightly. "Yes ... yes, I have," she murmured, then gazed thoughtfully at me. "What about you, honey? Have you ever... ?"
I reached for her hand. "Yes. Many times."
She smiled. "What was your first time like?"
"It was wonderful. I was a little drunk, but that wasn't why it happened." I stopped and watched her eyes brighten slightly. "Anyhow, I loved the experience. Her kisses were different, better, and the way she went down on me was ... well, you know, right?"
She smiled and nodded. "I do."
"Tell me about when you first did it," I purred.
.... There is more of this story ...