I think back and realize it was the best of times. I don't mean high school, or the fumbling during those early dates or even graduating from university years later. No, she was the least likely target for my heart and it may have started as lust but it certainly settled into a deep caring and loving relationship. That woman is my mother.

We certainly shared a maternal-child love for the total of my life. But early in my pubescence I realized she was a woman, with curves and breasts and hips and that most secret spot between her legs that made me swoon to even think about it. I'm not sure if, back then, it was anything different than most of my peers may have realized with their own parent — the difference was, I never grew out of it and that lead to our eventual affair and to the years-long love we shared.

I snuck peeks up her skirt, down her blouse, watched her walk away or toward me; the delicious symphony of movement that was my mother's body — and she had to have known it, felt my eyes devouring her — but nothing was said. What would she have said, chastised me for realizing my own mother was a woman or that I found her attractive? I can guess that she enjoyed the attention, and did not provoke or lead me further down that forbidden path — with the belief that I would soon grow out of it.

I started to date when I was fourteen — silly kisses in the darkness of a theatre or a shocking touch of a sweater covered breast that nearly caused me to mess my pants. Your typical fumbling correct?

My love then was pure — the child and his mother, only laced at times with a lust that I was ill prepared to contain.

Life like this went on for a couple of years as I was a naïve fool.

During those early stages of my adolescence my parents were having a difficult time — arguments behind closed doors, dad not coming home for days on end, mother sobbing to herself at all hours.

It was for that reason that I approached my mother that fateful night — she was alone in bed, sobbing almost silently to herself but quickly drying her eyes as I approached. Normally, I ignored my parents as most teenagers did, but that night mother was wearing the thin cotton one-piece nightie that came half ways to her knees and was old and thin so that any light at all caused the shadows within to be visible.

To that end I entered her room after a feeble knock and she turned from her pillow to look at me half startled, "Honey, is everything okay?" Ever the parent.

I sat down on the bed by mother's hip and took her hand in a forced empathic way — I wanted to sit there and let her know that I was there for her, while I really wanted to sit there and look at the wide shadow of her nipples dancing upon the thickness of her bosom as she breathed.

A brave smile laced with a thankful-love was the response I got from my sympathetic attempts.

I truly don't know what was different that night than any other time, when I clandestinely looked at my parent. I do know that my heart was beating rapidly and that I felt dizzy with lust.

Mother's eyes closed and she took a deep breath — which caused her moderate sized breasts to heave and dance unencumbered upon her chest.

That was the catalyst that drew my hand. Quivering I remember looking at it approaching the far breast as time seemed to still, as if I were dreaming and this was not real. It slowly dropped to grasp itself about the natural contours of that mound and I heard myself gasp, my eyes shooting to mother's face to see no reaction at all. At that point I analyzed what my hand held — much larger, softer than the fumbling I had had up to that point in my life.

Eventually I let go of mother's hand and took a hold of the other breast. Still no reaction — she lay breathing steadily and almost calmly. My hands began to kneed her flesh and I heard a soft pleasure-filled moan that shocked me nearly as much as that first touch of her bosom.

Time returned to normal at that point — or perhaps you could argue that it sped up. My hands trembled and did poorly as they worked the top buttons of her nightie, shoving the thin cotton to the sides of her chest to witness my first sight of my own mother's breasts.

The flesh of her chest was very white — her nipples, in contrast, were dark brown and wider than I had imagined any woman would have, much wider than my own most certainly. The nipple was wrinkled and the tip was thrust out boldly that I would soon learn was from pleasure. There was small blue veins barely visible beneath the nipple, upon the pale smooth skin, the flesh also not as perfect as above, small stretch marks were in evidence.

Mother would always be self conscious of her ageing flesh and was shy even from me as the years progressed — but that first time witnessing more than I had ever seen before, there was little evidence of that low self-esteem.

The hard nipple drew my mouth like a moth to a flame and mother gasped as I roughly drew it into the back of my mouth as a baby searching for milk. A hand rose and she rubbed the top of my head as I fed from her flesh, savouring every second of this moment, as she mewed with pleasure.

I remember feeling suddenly nervous and had to force myself to open my eyes, lips still wide and a saliva covered nipple presently being sucked deep into my mouth. There were mother's green eyes looking back down at me — surprised and perhaps pleased, I could never be sure exactly what I saw within her those few seconds.

My mouth moved from one warm soft breast to the other, the nipple and the surrounding flesh covered soon in my saliva — feasting without a care.

All things end and I did eventually raise from my parent's chest — looking at her beneath me. Mother lay looking back, breathing rapidly and deeply, her eyes now almost subdued but otherwise unreadable. My own eyes moved from the top of her head, the exposed white of her pale shoulders to the bouncing heaving tits that I would soon learn were oh so sensitive — but further, to her soft stomach, her waist and fleshy hips and even to her bare legs.

Mother lay silent, perhaps nervous and self-conscious, watching me watch her with a submissiveness totally unlike the person I thought I knew.

My hand — yes that same adventurous appendage as before — fell to the flesh inside her knee. In the room there was no sound but her heavy breathing and the rapid pace of my heart. My hand rose up her smooth flesh so that the bottom hem of her nightie was forced higher — only when those soft thighs hindered movement did mother gently ease her legs apart, opening the path that I so obviously wanted to travel.

The nightie moved with my hand until that hand cupped a hairy wet hot place that I felt almost faint at the realization of what it was. A small whimper from my mother was her only response at this new intimacy between her child and her.

So wet and slippery was that inner channel, that my middle digit slipped as if the path was lighted with neon signs, right into the depths of my parent's body. Mother gasped and her back arched up off the bed, then followed a long whimper from her.

I slipped another finger into her depths and her breathing sounded so loud, so desperate that it was the soundtrack of this moment — a memory that I shall never forget. Her hips were moving, thrusting upwards as my fingers moved in and out. My free hand pulled the nightie above her navel so I could see what lay between her legs — the abundant dark brown kinky hair, the slippery pinkness beneath and my two fingers moving in and out.

My whole body was quivering and I felt inadequate but also desperate. Strangely I wanted to make mother happy, my selfish need to peek and then touch had dissolved with my discoveries. My mouth latched on her closest nipple as my two fingers moved steadily in and out of her sex. She was whimpering and moaning loudly beneath me, her two hands stroking my hair and shoulders, her whole body was wiggling, trembling and thrusting.

Later, I would remember and think that precious first for us lasted less than a moment — but in reality it must have lasted at least three to five minutes. Mother beneath me became loud and the squeal coming from her gaping mouth constant and animal-like, her whole body tensed, her back arched off the bed and her sex clenching on my two fingers as if they were never allowed to leave.

Little did I know it then, but I had just given my mother a climax. It was a gift I would learn well to give — witnessing the act was nearly the highlight of that night.

Another moment passed and mother lay on her bed as if exhausted, her body would sometimes jerk uncontrollably, her exposed flesh slick with her sweat, warm to the touch. She did not move or make a sound as my fingers were disengaged from her, or when I stood from the bed.

I remember wanting to put those two dripping fingers up to my nose to smell, wanting to taste that which I had never considered tasting before. Yet it felt childish, and I fought the urge. Instead I boldly removed my pyjama bottoms and tee-shirt as it seemed the most logical next move.

Mother's eyes opened then but only looked at my hard thrusting penis without blinking, almost without emotion.

I eased her knees further apart before I crawled up into bed with her — she watched it bob between us, watched it as I fumbled between that virtual forest of kinky hair for the opening that I had just fingered so beautifully a moment earlier. Then I was in her and mother inhaled deeply and held it, her eyes clasped closed. I was too young, or perhaps too stupid, to realize the enormity of what had just happened between us.

I dropped my hands above my mom's shoulders and began to move my hips in what had to have come instinctively as I had no prior experience to guide my way.

Within a dozen seconds mother's lips widened into a pleasant smile, her feet rose and spread above and behind me, her hands grasped my hard teenage butt as her hips began to again thrust beneath. I sped up my thrusts and she whimpered in appreciation.