Chapter 1

So beautiful. The manicured grass sloping gently toward the trees, a mixture of seven shades of green interspersed with bits of yellow and red. It was peaceful, by design. My heart filled with joy, and sadness too, knowing you will soon be here, finally, with me. Oh, my son, I have waited so long.

I remember the first time I became aware of your attraction to me. Your father, who had been away on business, called from the airport to say he was bringing a client home! I scrambled to prepare something better for dinner and then, still in my black exercise leotard, raced around the house, tidying, cleaning, and dusting. My frantic pace didn’t disturb your lolling recline on the couch except to force an occasional crane of your neck to see the TV.

Finally, I stood, exhausted, facing partly away from you toward the window. That’s when I noticed the television in the corner hadn’t completely captured your attention, the reflection in the window revealing the degree to which my pose had trumped the football game.

Still out of breath, I panted harder than necessary for an excuse to stay still, hand braced on my left hip, right jutted-out, and lifted my right hand to push my bushy, shoulder-length hair up and away from my neck. The truth really penetrated my mind then for your gaze fixed upon my right breast which my raised arm profiled quite nicely.

Unconsciously, I let my arm drop to let my breast sag a little, pushing it outward into my top, and your eyes widened. Or at least I thought they did. Maybe my mind was assuming more than the reflection could provide but in that precise moment I rediscovered how it felt to be admired as a woman despite my dress and the state of my hair.

My hair! I turned, unexpectedly, by your reaction.

“They’ll be here any minute,” I cried, and bolted for the stairs.

You scrambled to cover yourself and, given my hasty exit, probably thought you had been successful but as I leaped up the stairs the clear image of the erection tenting your pants seared itself into my brain.

I’m still sexy, even if Don doesn’t know it.

I had been working out for months — almost a year, really — but Don paid less and less attention every week. I noticed the glances of other men but dismissed them when he didn’t confirm their admiration. Writing it off to wishful thinking on my part, I refused to give up and doubled my efforts. But at night, as he snored beside me, I convinced myself I was losing him to a younger woman. Why else would he ignore a female body so conveniently at his disposal when it was in the best shape it been in for twenty years?

So months later my body, in even better shape, continued to draw looks from strange men and now it had even attracted my son. I didn’t quite know what to do with that information or the strange warmth it brought to my heart and body. I tried to dismiss the latter feeling but couldn’t deny I had held my pose far longer than necessary, despite my surprise, and had purposely lowered my arm to make my breast more noticeable, one of many long-forgotten feminine wiles.

I berated myself, wondering how a mother could be so desperate as to seek sexual attention from her own son. I told myself not to overthink a brief moment and that I had no reason to feel bad. My looks had returned and I had reacted, nothing more and nothing less, and so had you, bless your heart. I put on a nice dress, one that emphasized my refurbished figure, and told myself it was because I wanted additional confirmation from Don’s client.

That confirmation came in spades. Clive paid so much attention to me it angered you. Do you remember that, I wonder? It was so long ago. It struck me that you were actually jealous but I dismissed the notion at the time as being ridiculous. Why would you be jealous? There had to be another explanation for your rudeness.

Don, of course, didn’t even notice. I didn’t know why, then, but I thought I did.

Don worked late even more often after that. He was usually home by nine but sometimes would inexplicably return to the office and not come home until eleven or later. I tried not to be suspicious but one Saturday I ran across his office mate while shopping downtown. Herb asked if Don was with me or shopping for a Xmas gift on his own. I’m sure my surprise escaped before I could compose myself but Herb gallantly didn’t acknowledge it.

“Of course,” I replied. “He loves to surprise me,” I answered.

Don had told me he had to go over some important papers with Herb for an important meeting on Monday. Jealousy initially hit deep but then I rationalized it away — don’t we always do that? Of course, I reasoned, Don was doing just what Herb suggested, buying a special present for me.

When Don came home I snuck out to search his car. There was no present. Of course, he could have taken it to his office, or arranged for it to be delivered later, but I was done with rationalizations. I was hurt and angry. Mostly angry.

Soon after that I began wearing lightweight bras that provided lift and emphasized shape. Within a week I was going braless under a t-shirt covered by a blouse, or under a blouse covered by an open sweater. I knew the relative freedom of my breasts would draw your attention too but I didn’t care. At least one man knew there was a treasure to be found at home!

I can’t believe I was thinking like that, but in my defense I was an emotional wreck and felt sexually defunct. I was at the end of my stick. If only I knew how much worse it would get.

Evoking desire in other men proved too easy but, despite my accidental discovery, your attention was more elusive. Of course I knew, though it was taboo, most young men would at some point notice their mothers, if only because of proximity. I had caught you looking once and assumed you had done so more often but were adept at hiding such a forbidden interest. Therefore, I sought confirmation of my womanly prowess in your eyes just to make myself feel good, to be wanted.

Weeks went by where my thoughts were consumed by how to snag your attention with seemingly innocent poses designed to draw attention to my breasts. I repositioned furniture so I could surreptitiously utilize reflections to monitor your reactions and discovered, much to my surprise, that my lower body drew admiring glances longer and more often.

I wore shorter skirts and dresses without pantyhose and sometimes went without underwear so the shape and motion of my buttocks would be easier to discern, but only when Don wasn’t home. I oiled my bare legs and practised crossing them, pausing briefly to maximize the effect when they were open, and tensing my calf muscles unnecessarily to make them look sexy whether crossed or not.

Amazingly, Don didn’t notice the short skirts or the motion of my breasts. Nor did he question why the coffee table was six inches closer to the couch. I often rested my feet on the table in the evening but now braced them on the edge rather than laying them flat, to tighten rather than relax the muscles in my legs. With feet closer to the couch my knees rose higher, allowing my dress to slide down my raised thighs to reveal more glistening, well-oiled leg than was appropriate, even in the privacy of home — especially when my son was present.

I should say, my attentive son, for my weeks of effort had paid off and I measured my daily success not just in the count of surreptitious looks or even in the achievement of an erection, for that was expected. I now sought to prolong your arousal as long as possible, keeping you downstairs doing meaningless chores.

Then I sought your help with my crossword puzzles and, of course, got you to sit beside me. I kept you there for hours, feigning intense interest while using the bottom of the magazine to work my dress higher. At times, it neared my crotch and I was glad the magazine hid its raunchy state from your father’s eyes, should he ever bother to look. When I was stuck, as happened often, I lifted the magazine closer to my face to scrutinize the clues leaving my thighs open for your leisurely inspection. Sometimes I dragged my dress so high my panties were exposed. I went further, lifting one foot from the table to wiggle my toes and tense my calf muscles but the main reason was to stretch my panties tightly across my pussy.

It was shameless! I knew I was being a horrible mother but couldn’t stop. In the afternoon I rented and watched a series in which an aristocratic mother repeatedly satisfied her married son. She was evil but I was only playing a harmless game. It was fun, and okay because nothing had actually happened.

Like any addict, I didn’t realize how far gone I was, not even when I began removing my panties after dinner before sitting down to do a crossword. I knew you were aware something was up because I was too worked up to keep the tension out of my breathing.

The first time you smelled my excitement your whole body stiffened in surprise — everywhere, not just there. You stuttered and blushed when I queried you for word suggestions and tried to leave but I laid a hand on your forearm and pleaded for you to stay until the puzzle was done. I teased you wickedly but relinquished the joy of torture when I sensed you were about to come, actually come, in your pants.

Even then I didn’t quit.

Did you know I followed you upstairs that night to listen to the rapid patter of your masturbation? I knew you were thinking of me, though you didn’t mention my name, and it made me feel very sexy. That was the first time I slipped my fingers inside myself while thinking about how much I had aroused you. Until then I had limited myself to a few rubs but that was no longer enough. I pushed three fingers into my wet cunt to mimic the size of the bulge I had witnessed in your pants. When the speed of your hand and your moans betrayed the imminent culmination of your arousal I reached my own release and felt closer to you than I ever had, except perhaps at birth.

I should have quit then. Any reasonable mother would have, even if she had been insane enough to reach my state of degradation. Instead, the next night, I used the crossword magazine to push my dress high enough to bare myself, and then raised it, tilted toward the lamp, and Don, to hide my exposed state. Of course, nothing was hidden from you, not my slightly open legs or my carefully trimmed fur which glistened like my legs but from my own dew. I let you stare for several minutes and then parted my legs further to show a little pink, but only briefly. I didn’t try to stop you when you groaned loudly and jumped up.

“What’s wrong?” your father asked, but you were already running toward the stairs. He turned to me but thankfully I had lowered the magazine and tugged my dress into a more appropriate position. “What’s wrong with Donny?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, seeming worried. “I’ll go check.”

Despite my apparent concern, I sauntered up the stairs. I knew Don wasn’t watching and I wanted to give you time to get started. I felt very sexy and wanted to enjoy the feeling of warmth rolling outward from my center, the spread of my own condensation dampening my inner thighs, and the power my son’s escape ingested within me.

I was too late. You had been in such a hurry you hadn’t fully closed the bathroom door and it was obvious you were already coming. I should have left but stayed to hear the whole thing after you rasped a single, magic word.

“Mom.”

It was too late then to make an escape so I braced myself for the inevitable confrontation between mother and son, the first acknowledgement that I knew you were masturbating. I would have to brush it off but could I when it was so obvious what had triggered it?

And would I? Could I trust myself when you opened the door, perhaps still stuffing your semihard cock into your pants? Would I grab it and stuff into myself instead of my fingers, as I wanted to? Could I control myself, force myself to do the right thing? This was no longer a game, I realized with a sinking feeling, yet I stood fast instead of running and braced myself for the most important face-to-face of our lives. I didn’t know what would happen.

But you didn’t come out. There was silence, then a sigh, and that magic word again ... Mom. You were at it again. Once was not enough for your mother! I inhaled your love, seeping through the crack in the door, and swayed on my feet, dizziness briefly overcoming me. The floor creaked and the sound of your hand stopped.

I stood rooted to the floor, unable to breathe, or move. My ears tried to pierce the wall and I noted with horror that my hand had lifted my dress and slid between my legs to cup my sex. I tried to pull it away but instead let the pad of my longest finger push into my slit. Long seconds passed, followed by a quiet grunt and the sound of the renewed movement of your hand. I turned toward the wall and leaned forward until my forehead pressed against it, the nearest I could be to you. I pushed my fingers inside and started working them in concert with the sound of your hand.

You bought me a thick magazine of the toughest New York Times crosswords the next day. Do you remember that? You’d think I would have recognized the danger in that but I didn’t, or at least, I didn’t acknowledge it. I thought it was so cute that you found a way to make me ponder for every word that I let you inspect my fur every night that week. I took my time getting to it but that made the game more fun.

The sight of the pink didn’t make you lurch into coming as quickly and I liked that. We sat next to each other, one hard and one wet, for ages, until you eventually went upstairs to masturbate and I inevitably followed. We did ourselves in unison, unbeknownst to you, almost every night for two weeks.

I didn’t do it on purpose, it just happened on one of those nights when my fur was finally exposed. Delicious tingles danced around my pussy and it twitched. Though my nose was supposedly buried in the crossword magazine I registered an immediate reaction from you. Peeking sideways under the magazine, I noticed a complementary surge in your bulge and that encouraged me to do it on purpose. I hunched my pelvis, thrusting forward the tiniest bit, just enough to flex my mound without any apparent outer movement. I forgot I wasn’t wearing panties. If you were captivated before, you were lost then.

I told myself you didn’t know I was doing it on purpose, or that I had knowingly dragged my dress up my legs and spread them in the first place. Incredibly, I believed you thought I was innocent and unaware my sex was so blatantly exposed, that you were simply the fortunate recipient of repeated, accidental clothing malfunctions. It was a ridiculous assumption believable only to an addict in complete denial.

Things deteriorated from there.

I had been teasing you with sexy, supposedly innocent, poses in the kitchen until you suddenly needed to leave but I grasped your forearm to keep you there.

“Give your Mom a kiss,” I implored.

You tried to pull away but I insisted and dragged your face down for a kiss on your cheek. You were trembling and I felt almost cruel when I refused to let you go.

“Give me a hug, too.”

You resisted.

“Don’t you love your mother?” I asked, pulling your arms around me.

I pressed against your body and felt the strength of your manhood. It shocked and excited me and I wanted to envelop it with my soft flesh but was afraid you’d run away. When I felt it jerk against my tummy I let you go and acted like everything was okay.

“Thanks, honey.” I turned away. “I’ll call you for dinner.”

After that we began touching during the day, just hugs and pecks on the cheek, and the odd quick kiss, but they became more and more frequent, especially the hugs. Strange that the thing you seemed so afraid to do became your favorite. The hugs became longer and you liked to surprise me from behind when I was busy. We both pretended it was platonic and there wasn’t anything pressing between us.

Perhaps that eased the transition from looking to touching during the evening crossword session. I grasped your forearm one evening when I knew you were ready to go upstairs. I hadn’t meant to do anything more than keep you for a few moments longer but when you took the loose, flopping left page of the puzzle magazine in your other hand, I pulled your right down to rest on my thigh. My bare thigh, only inches away from my wet, pulsing pussy. In that instant, through that small movement and delicate touch, I admitted to us both I knew exactly what I was doing.

It was an electric moment. You didn’t pull your hand away as I half expected. Neither of us moved while we continued to discuss clues and suggestions. Several minutes passed during which our bodies began to react to this new level in our game. My pussy pulsed involuntarily, beyond my control and unable to ignore the proximity of your warm hand. I knew, by the trembling in your leg, that you were also having difficulty controlling yourself. We started to come, together, sitting next to each other and only feet from your father, all from the warmth of your hand on my bare thigh!

You went upstairs and masturbated yourself to another come, moaning my name louder and more often than ever before. I bit my lip to stop from moaning yours in return, realizing I wanted you to hear me, to burst out the door and fill me with your meat. All my fingers fit easily inside that night and I fell to the floor. You took a long time to clean up and I wondered if you knew I was there.

I pulled your hand onto my upper thigh the next two nights. You kept it still but the third night you beat me to it, grasping the left page of the crossword magazine and placing your hand on my thigh. After a few minutes you moved it ever so slightly until your fingers dangled down the inside of my thigh, the tips only an inch or so from my pussy. The next night they came close enough to brush the edge of my fur.

You didn’t try to move closer but after about ten minutes or so, an eon it seemed, your finger pressed into my flesh, then released. A minute or two later you did it again and gradually did it more often. Press and release, press and release, press and release.

It felt wonderful, so fantastic I almost forgot Don was sitting only feet away. It was the most intense sexual touch I had ever experienced, bar none! My whole body trembled in anticipation of the next press. And then you did it. You changed your touch, pressing in and dragging the flesh of my thigh outward, away from my tingling pussy, opening my secret lips, holding them exposed, then letting them snap back in a flurry of frantic, neural impulses. I almost passed out and briefly lost hold of my side of the magazine. By the time I came to my senses and grabbed it you were pulling my pussy apart again.

I came quickly that night but harder upstairs where I didn’t have to pretend nothing was going on. Of course, you and I knew there was but we maintained the pretense. During the day you didn’t try to touch me any differently, simply hugging and kissing my cheek or pecking me on the lips. But at night you continued to pull on my pussy lips until we both came, right next to your father.

Upstairs, outside the bathroom, the urge to feel your meat filling me became stronger each night. I wanted to beg you to come out, grab my tits hard and press me to the wall, enter me with unbridled enthusiasm, then throw me to the floor and fuck me from behind!

But I didn’t call out, and you never put your hand on my pussy, upstairs or downstairs. Nevertheless, eventually I knew I would beg for it or you would touch me. It was only a matter of time and then our lives would change forever, and probably caught. It was only a sign of Don’s distraction that our shenanigans hadn’t been discovered already. Amazing, really, until I found out why.

A letter from the hospital arrived addressed to your father. Suspecting a billing error, I opened it. It confirmed the date for the start of his radiation treatments and follow-on chemotherapy. Don had cancer!

I stumbled into the kitchen in a daze and sat down. My husband was sick, possibly deathly ill! We had been married for twenty-four years, survived the death of our first child, and raised a fine son. Yes, we had our difficulties of late but I still loved Don. I suddenly knew why Don disappeared at night and sat vacantly when he was at home. He was preoccupied with his fate. No wonder he hadn’t noticed Donny and I playing around! But why should he face this on his own? Why hadn’t he shared this with his family?

Anger flooded through me and the more I thought about it the angrier I became. I was his wife, Donny was his son, and we were a family! My hands trembled and I bit my lip often waiting for him to come home. Boy, I was going to let him have it.

I didn’t, of course. I did just the opposite. Don seemed, if anything, relieved that I knew. He cried and admitted he couldn’t find the courage to tell us. He didn’t want us to feel bad. Can you imagine? He was facing death and he didn’t want us to be sad.

I thanked God nothing had happened between us that couldn’t be undone and vowed to redeem myself by providing exemplary care for my husband. I noted over the following weeks that you must have made a similar commitment for while I cared for and cleaned up after your father you did the housework, shopped for groceries and cooked most of the meals. I loved you and knew you loved me but we also loved your father.