Chapter 3

Dinner was an excruciating experience. I kept thinking that I was wrong thinking that Mom wouldn’t tell Dad. Any minute now, he would leap across the table and grab me by the throat, yelling, “You little bastard. You tried to fuck my wife, your own mother!”

And then I calmed down. As if my Dad would ever swear. I could imagine him killing me but not using profanity. Then the cycle of fear would start again.

Mom acted like the picture-perfect June Cleaver housewife and mother, and I was the ideal son, speaking only when spoken to and then politely. Was Dad blind? Couldn’t he see her for the asshole teasing bitch she was and me the disgusting, unworthy son? The more the charade went on the more I wanted to be sick.

As soon as I could, I went upstairs to my room. Mom didn’t make me do the dishes and when Dad seemed surprised she explained, “Warren’s been painting all day, Harold. I think he might be a little tired tonight.” I guess she wanted to be rid of me as much as I wanted to escape the shitty pretence of a perfectly normal family.

I locked my room. I didn’t think Mom would come up but if she did I didn’t want to face her. How could I have done that to my own mother? She must despise me despite the charade for my father’s benefit. Maybe she would continue acting like nothing had happened and if I did the same we could start over with a clean slate. No more stupid games. Starting tomorrow, I would find a job. That would help get things on the right track.

The next morning I got up and was out of the house before anyone else was up. I made the rounds of all the gas stations, tried grocery stores and even a shoe store in the new mall. I searched all day but had no luck. That changed when I stopped at the corner store on the way home for a pop.

“Saturdays and Sundays,” the old man said.

Well, it was something. I hurried home, feeling better but waited until we were sitting down for dinner before springing my news. Actually, it wasn’t until Mom brought in dessert that I unloaded the big surprise.

“I got a job today.”

Dad looked up, truly surprised. Mom glanced at me but quickly looked away, concentrating on slicing up the apple pie.

“Really? That’s great son,” Dad said. “Isn’t that great, mother?”

We both looked at Mom who was trying to shake a scoop of ice cream onto a piece of pie. The scoop was the old fashioned metal kind with a spring loaded band that was supposed to swing around to dislodge the ice cream when the thumb piece was squeezed but it didn’t work very well. Mom didn’t answer.

Dad looked back at me. “Where? Doing what?”

“At the corner store, running the cash register and stocking the shelves, I guess.”

“It’s a good start.”

“It’s just for Saturday and Sundays.”

“That’s great, isn’t it Mother?”

Mom nodded curtly, then handed Dad the first plate of pie and ice cream. She didn’t look happy even though she smiled. Yes, the perfect mother and wife, the great act. I smiled back and thanked Mom for making a great dessert. Such an appreciative son.

“Thanks, Mom. Apple pie and ice cream is my favorite.”

So I played my role in the perfect family. I ate my dessert and, without being asked, cleared the table and started doing the dishes. I watched TV with Mom and Dad for an hour after that and then went to bed.

The next day, I told Mom and Dad at breakfast I was going out to look for a second job for during the week.

“You don’t need to do two jobs,” Mom said.

“But I want to Mom.”

However, I didn’t have any more luck than I did the day before. The next day was Saturday and my first day of work at the corner store. Mom complained that I didn’t get a couple of dishes clean so I apologized and did them over without whining. I went to bed early.

The job went okay but was real boring. The corner store hardly had any customers. The old man said he’d lost most of them when the mall was built and he only stayed open for the few elderly customers he had left. Mostly for the conversation, he said.

I went to a movie that night with Kent. Afterward, he gave me a couple of issues of Penthouse Forum he’d stolen from his father’s stash. Kent liked looking at the pictures in Penthouse and Hustler but I liked reading better. I stuffed them in my shirt but Mom and Dad weren’t home so I was able to conceal them in the hideaway downstairs which I had rebuilt with a different entrance.

Sunday I went to work but the old man let me go home early because there weren’t any customers after lunch. I wondered why he had hired me because he had stayed with me both days. On Saturday I thought it was to train me but when he stayed Sunday I think it was because he didn’t have anywhere else to go. I felt sorry for him and offered to stay the rest of the day to ‘train’ without pay but he insisted on letting me go early and paid me for the whole day. I had been hoping to look after the store alone because there was a whole bunch of skin mags behind the counter. I guess the old guy had noticed me looking at them and let me pick one out and take it home. He said I could take a new one every Sunday but should try not to crinkle them so they would still sell.

Dad was watching the news when I got home and I guess Mom was upstairs so I went down to the hideaway to look at the new skin mag. When Mom called for dinner, I slipped out a basement window and climbed up to the one in my room—my usual ruse to maintain the integrity of the hideaway. It had worked for years but Mom looked surprised and then suspicious when she saw me coming down the stairs. She must have known I wasn’t in my room.

Mom was stand-offish during dinner, losing the June Cleaver act, but at least she didn’t bug me, even when I put away the dishes. It was both relieving and disconcerting that she stayed out of the kitchen and didn’t harass me. She did give me another suspicious look when I went upstairs after watching only a half hour of TV.

“Are you not feeling well, Warren?” she queried when I started up the stairs.

“No, I’m okay. I just want to read. I got a good book from the store today.”

“Oh. What is it?”

I scrambled for something to say, having trapped myself, but my mind went blank.

“Uh, I can’t remember the title.”

“You can’t remember the title?” Mom repeated, her expression becoming more dubious.

“Nah, but it’s by that guy that wrote, uh ... what was it? ... I can’t remember that one either.”

“What’s the author’s name?”

“Uh, Jacobs. Yeah, that’s it. Jacobs.”

I turned and beat a hasty retreat, cursing myself for such a lame performance, it’s lack of credibility confirmed by the knowing nod that accompanied Mom’s response, “Uh huh.”

I hung out in my room for half an hour in case Mom came up to check on me. I meant to stay for an hour but was too eager to get back to the new skin mag from the store and to check out the stories in the Penthouse Forum and the old magazines I had found in my grandfather’s old beside table.

The table was next to my Dad’s old Lazy-boy in the rumpus room. I hadn’t used either of these pieces to build my fake wall because Dad was super touchy about them. When I was first building the hideaway I sat down in it to take a break but quickly became bored with the old TV in the corner because it only got the basic channels and opened the small drawer in the top of my grandfather’s table.

It was an odd table, sitting atop two foot high legs that bowed out and then curved in to end only a foot apart from each other on the floor. There was a solid block on top which contained the small two-inch high drawer. Thinking there might be a secret compartment in the area below the drawer I pulled it out to look but it was completely closed in within a mahogany casing. I lifted the table to confirm my memory that it was heavy despite its small size, part of the reason I had suspected a hidden compartment. Evidently, the drawer was cut into a solid block of mahogany.

Disappointed, I had started to slide the drawer back in but noticed an old magazine covering its bottom. It was tattered, and too thin for a proper binding, being kept together by a couple of sturdy staples through the folded middle. The cover was plain except for some small writing across the bottom and a plain title in large font, ‘Strange Family Tales’. I didn’t find it particularly interesting and tried to replace the drawer. That proved difficult and while fiddling with it I noticed the bottom of the inner casing was loose. Reaching inside, I managed to pull the quarter inch thick bottom out and lo and behold, the inside block was indeed hollow and filled with more magazines.

They proved to be issues of the same magazine. I flipped through several of them and found stories about guys trying to get it on with their sisters. Weird, but kind of exciting. I would have read more but on that day I had been in a hurry to the hideaway before Mom got home. I put most of the magazines back in the table, replaced the false bottom, and returned the issue that had been in the drawer. The rest I hid in the hideaway for later enjoyment.

So now, days later, I was safely ensconced in the hideaway and reading a Penthouse Forum story while sitting on the mattress with my back against the wall. I glanced occasionally at the pics in the new skin magazine spread out beside me while I lazily stroked the underside of my hardon through my undershorts. My fingers were pushed through the open zipper of my pants to achieve a more pleasing contact along the underside of my blood-engorged cock and my eyes were closed so I could better imagine myself in the Penthouse Forum story.

A rustle from beyond the hideout’s improvised wall forced my eyes open and my hand froze inside my shorts. Since Mom’s discovery of the hideout, I had completely closed it in so the only easy access was through the basement window.

Careful not to make any noise, I listened intently. Fortunately I had covered the inside of the barrier with blankets to block stray light from the lamp plugged into the wall next to me. It was the light, I knew, which had betrayed the hidden room’s presence in the first place. Excited but confident that I wouldn’t be discovered, I managed to control my heightened breathing. I was even cocky enough to rub myself, experiencing an additional thrill from the nearby presence of my mother. I tilted the magazine up and imagined her in the same pose as the younger model.

My confidence was shattered by the scraping of the narrow bookshelf at the far end of the hideaway as it twisted sideways, leaving little more than a foot-wide improvised doorway. Mom poked her head inside.

“There you are. I was wondering where you’d got to.”

Mom stepped inside but quickly turned to twist the bookshelf-doorway closed. Thankful for the opportunity, I lowered the open skin mag to cover my unzipped jeans, hoping it wouldn’t betray the lump in my shorts. I glanced down to check that I was adequately covered but quickly looked up at Mom when she turned to face me. She took a step or to toward me and stood at the end of the bare mattress I was lying on.

“Is that the book by Jacobs?”

“Uh, yeah, er, no. I mean, that was his name but it isn’t the book.”

That was patently obvious as testified by the naked woman sprawled across the front of the magazine spread over my lap. There wasn’t a single book in sight. I looked helplessly at the rest of the skin mags strewn around the mattress within easy hand-reach. Why hadn’t I left them stashed under the mattress and just taken them out one at a time?

Mom followed my gaze, looking at the dozen or so magazines, then returned to the one covering, and hopefully, concealing my open jeans.

“Is it good?”

I avoided Mom’s face while I attempted to provide an even-toned response but was thrown off my thoughts when my eyes fixated on the yellow blouse she was wearing. She had changed her clothes since supper. She was now wearing a dark bra underneath the almost see-through yellow blouse and I wondered if it was the same chocolate brown one I had seen earlier. My eyes dropped to the pleated brown skirt and my confidence rose that it was indeed the chocolate brown bra. That wasn’t the only thing that rose. I gave my head a mental shake but managed to keep it steady as I responded.

“Um, yeah. It’s okay.”

Mom didn’t wait for my response. She got down onto her knees on the mattress and picked up one of the magazines. I waited for the blast of outrage I knew was coming.

A simple ‘Oh’ was the unexpected response.

Mom flipped through a few pages and, as she did so, turned around and used her spare hand to position two pillows against the wall, then settled in beside me, separated only by a few magazines.

“Mom...”

“Sssst.”

I took a deep breath and resigned myself to my fate. I knew I was going to get it. She was only extending the expectation for punishment, knowing my dread would make it even worse. She was quite accomplished at this sort of psychological torture. I knew things would soon be taken to the next level with the insertion of threats of my father’s intervention which did make it worse even though it had never happened.

Mom threw the magazine aside.

Here it comes.

Surprisingly, she picked up another one.

Uh, she’s going to prolong it. She must really be enjoying this.

“Mom...”

“Ssssst,” she raised a finger to emphasize the command for silence.

The second magazine was flipped open to the centerfold.

“I don’t know why some of these girls are even in here,” she mused. “I know several women that are just as attractive, if not more.” She paused, then added, “Even I have nicer legs than some of these girls.”

Mom shifted the magazine she was looking at sideways and looked at her legs, which were partly drawn up so her knees could form a table for the magazine. I followed her gaze down her legs which looked very fine in the sheer nylons she was wearing. I had only seen Mom in these nylons when Dad was taking her out to a fancy dinner for some special occasion. It seemed a bit late for Dad to be taking her out.

“Don’t you think?” she asked after a long pause. “Warren?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah.”

“You don’t sound very convinced,” Mom complained, lifting her left foot up and extending her leg, twisting it slightly and rolling her ankle while she examined it.

Was this a trap, to bring up the incident in the kitchen?

“Well?”

“It’s very nice, I mean, compared to, ah...”

Mom ignored my floundering, dropped her foot back to the mattress, and resumed flipping through the magazine. The pain of expectancy was excruciating. Nevertheless, perhaps due to the detachment of the condemned, I took the opportunity to enjoy Mom’s legs, enhanced by the glimmer of the sheer nylons. I followed their lines from her feet past her knees and down the six inches or so of thigh to the hem of the pleated, brown skirt. I followed its edge to the underside and noticed how Mom’s leg thickened just a few inches above her knee as it transformed into her thigh, following an elongated ‘S’ curve that contrasted with the straight line on top. I knew the same curve would define the underside of the other thigh and that prompted me to think about what lay between. Again, I gave my head a mental shake.

“I’ll read down here with you for a while if you don’t mind.”

What could I say? I couldn’t very well ask her what this was all about but I suspected she was trying to lull me into an uncertain state before lowering the boom. I responded as casually as I could, “Go ahead,” but my nerves were on a razor’s edge.

As if I had a choice. I actually started to pick up the magazine I had been looking at before she came but realized that would uncover my unzipped jeans. Was that it? When my open shorts and the boner, which was still there I noted with despair, were uncovered the boom would come crashing down and the tantrum would begin. And that was probably why she had made a show of looking at her legs, to set me up. To make it worse, I noticed how her breasts formed nice, prominent lumps even when lying half-way onto her back.

My hand slipped sideways and picked up another magazine. I opened it to a page without pictures and pretended to read. Mom continued to browse through the magazine she was holding, then tossed it aside and picked up another one. That one was quickly discarded and she leaned toward the middle of the mattress to pick up another. When she resettled, I noticed that the skirt had slid farther up her thighs and now exposed eight or nine inches. The heavier part of Mom’s thighs were more in evidence and the wide, thickened tops of her nylons were partly exposed.

What the hell was she doing? She was making me horny, for sure, but did she really think I’d fall for such an obvious trap? I looked at her thighs again. What if she wasn’t trying to trick me. My cock throbbed.

Don’t be stupid!

I tore my eyes away and concentrated on my own magazine. Except for a few small advertisements, the pages were full of text. I was in the middle of a story and my eyes focused on a paragraph in the middle of the left hand page.

Mom dropped her hand to the side of her leg and scratched, pulling the dress even higher up her thigh.

Oh my God. I had grabbed one of the magazines from my grandfather’s table and they were obviously not just about guys wanting to get it on with their sisters. This was too much. My cock lurched and I raised the right edge of the magazine to make it harder for Mom to see what I was reading if she bothered to look. I cast my eyes around for another magazine but there weren’t anymore between us. I would have to reach across Mom to get another and I couldn’t discard this one in case she picked it up. I looked back at the magazine.

[Mom leaned over to pick up her drink from the table at the end of the couch, using her right hand instead of her left, which forced her to twist more and lifted her thigh off the cushion. She took a long sip which let me bask in the underside of her left thigh, now bare right up to the panties plastered on her firm cheek. I noticed the bulbous outline of her pussy lips and groaned audibly.]

I sucked in my breath and Mom looked at me.

“Good one?” she asked.

I shook my head. “No.”

“Hmmph. They’re not very realistic, are they?”

Before I could answer, Mom discarded her magazine over the edge of the mattress and leaned over to pick up another from the floor. Just like in the story I was reading, the underside of her thighs were immediately exposed. I could see above the tops of the sheer nylons and was surprised at the surge in my balls upon seeing the tender skin situated there. I couldn’t see Mom’s panties but then she suddenly lunged to reach something further away on the floor and the skirt skidded higher up her legs. For a few tantalizing seconds, as Mom retrieved the object of her search, a pair of dark brown, lacy panties burst into view. They were sumptuously triangular in shape and the bottom of Mom’s buttocks bulged beyond their restrictive border.

Mom bounced back and settled lower into the pillows. The skirt, I was both overjoyed and frightened to see, had slid way up to expose the tops of the nylons, along with at least two inches of bare upper thigh. Mom’s knees, previously locked tightly together, were now parted a few inches, which made her legs seem more like individuals than members of a pair. I noticed that she had a small mole on the inside of the right thigh above the stocking and wondered if others would be encountered before her legs joined. I thought about kissing it, then groaned inwardly and imagined the damp and primordial meeting place of her thighs.

You’re losing it, asshole!

Oh Jeez. My rock hard cock throbbed beneath the arch of the magazine covering it. I jerked my eyes away from the space between Mom’s open legs and desperately returned to the story, landing a few paragraphs further on.

[Mom leaned over to take another drink and I let my hand drop to the cushion and slid it toward her. I glanced the other way to ensure that my aunt, sitting beside me, was still watching the TV. Bingo! She was snoozing. Beyond Mom, in the dining room, my father and uncle were playing crib. Mom put the drink on the table and settled into the couch, giving me a brief look but not saying anything. She glanced at my aunt and then looked at the dining room. I didn’t do anything for a full minute after she started watching the TV again. Then, I wriggled my fingers.]

Shit that was hot! I had never read anything like it and reading it while sitting next to my mother made me nervous and horny at the same time. Mom was flipping through yet another magazine, browsing more slowly because there no pictures in this one. I looked her over which was easier now because sinking into the pillows left her head below mine. The rise of her breasts, pressured by her more supine posture, swelled against the confines of the yellow blouse and the dark bra underneath. I was pleased that the blouse had parted sufficiently for Mom’s ample breasts to spill part way out of the chocolate brown bra.

Surely the blouse hadn’t been unbuttoned when Mom first arrived. I would have noticed that. The swells seemed to be trembling, or was that my imagination? I watched their rise and fall as I contemplated the surreal situation. Mom had discovered my hideaway and quietly joined me, reading the skin mags I was too afraid to squirrel away in my room in case she found them, and seemed to be leading me on. How bizarre was that?

So here I was, reading an incest story about a guy copping a feel from his mother while sitting next to my own mom. The top button or two of her blouse had mysteriously loosened and her skirt had ridden so high on her legs that her thighs were exposed well above the tops of her sheer stockings. And my poor defenceless cock was so hard it was threatening to pop above the waistband of my shorts and there was nothing I could do about it. I certainly couldn’t reach under the magazine covering my lap to zip up my jeans.

And that was strange too. Why hadn’t Mom mentioned the incriminating presence of the magazine covering my crotch? Why was I no longer afraid that the hammer of her wrath would come down on my head? Instead, I felt strangely confident that Mom wasn’t going to give me shit, though I had no idea what was going to happen next, or how I could make it occur. And, what the fuck did I want to happen anyway? I had wanted to apologize for what I’d done in the kitchen but I was no longer sorry for that.

Mom flipped the page and became engrossed the words. I ducked my head sideways and tried to see which one she was reading. Was it some kind of romance, a true story kind of thing? I couldn’t remember anything like that but I hadn’t read all the mags I had gotten from Kent. I bent lower to take a look.

Holy shit! Mom was reading one of the issues from the bedside table: Strange Family Tales.

I lowered my head further until I could make out a few words. The word ‘Mom’ leapt off the page. JeSUS, it was a mom/son tale.

“Mom...”

“Sssst.”

Mom lifted her left hand and reached up to put her extended index finger against my lips. I stopped trying to say anything but Mom kept her finger pressed against my lips in case I did. So I sat next to Mom with her finger pressed against my lips while she read a story about a son seducing his mother, or vice versa. My lips trembled and Mom must have thought I was about to speak again because she pressed her finger harder against my mouth, bending at the first knuckle sufficiently for the tip to slip between my lips. How ironic that it was now Mom implicitly telling me to ‘shut the fuck up’.

The thought made me chuckle and the movement pushed my lips against Mom’s finger which inserted far enough into my mouth for the tip to scrape past my teeth and onto the tip of my tongue. I closed my lips and gently sucked her finger. Captivated by the story she was reading, Mom didn’t notice so I nibbled, cautiously working her finger deeper into my mouth. When she reached the end of the page she deftly used the fingers of her right hand to change it and that was the only acknowledgement that her left was committed to another task.

Encouraged that Mom had either tacitly accepted or was oblivious to what was happening I turned slightly toward her and let the finger slip all the way into my mouth. Afraid she would suddenly realize, if she wan’t aware, where her finger actually was and then pull it out, I held very still. When nothing happened, I sucked gently, sliding my tongue along its entire length.

Taking a page out of the story I had been reading, I shifted my right hand along the mattress until it contacted Mom’s hip. At first she didn’t react but then leaned forward, evidently thinking I wanted to put my arm around her. Unfortunately, Mom’s finger slipped out of my mouth when I put my arm around her shoulder and she shifted toward me until we were sitting right next to each other. I pulled the pillows over and Mom settled back, her eyes never having left the story she was reading.

I was content for a bit to maintain the status quo but the nearness of my hand, draped across Mom’s shoulder and hovering over her breasts, was too tempting. I brushed my own fingertips against the side of Mom’s neck and then let it dangle over her breasts. I watched, fascinated, as my fingertips skimmed a fraction of an inch over the open lapel of Mom’s blouse, almost touching the upper swells of her breasts. I remembered the brief grip I had once had on the left one and dipped my hand towards it.

Mom caught my hand just as my fingertips made contact with her flesh. She twisted it up and pushed it away, bringing my fingers back into contact with her neck. Properly chastised, I rubbed her neck and jaw for a minute but wasn’t satisfied to leave it at that. Slowly, I edged my fingers toward the corner of Mom’s mouth, worked it into the crease, and finally popped it through until the first knuckle was embedded just as Mom’s had been in mine a few minutes earlier.

Mom didn’t object to my finger’s presence, perhaps because it was safer to let it explore her mouth than delve into her bodice. I think I had pegged it right that she wanted to continue reading the story and was therefore open to allowing me a little playful leeway, though probably not as much as I’d taken in the kitchen. She even nibbled my finger and used her tongue to play with the tip.

Tiring of watching Mom read, I turned my attention to her legs. Her knees were still drawn up but the magazine obscured my view of her upper legs. The skirt, I noted, had fallen almost to her lap which made the obstructing magazine all the more annoying.

I turned more toward Mom to make it easier to look at her. The magazine I had been reading fell off my stomach. I tried to retrieve it with my left hand but instead let it drop to the mattress beside Mom’s thigh. I let it lie there for a moment and then, as in the story, pushed until it was underneath Mom’s leg. I waited until she turned to a new page and became re-engrossed in the story before lifting up until my fingers touched the underside of her thigh. I held still, waiting for a negative response. Her eyes seemed to narrow but couldn’t be sure, it happened so fast. Other than that, there was no reaction except her mouth clamped firmly around my finger. Though I didn’t move I maintained contact with Mom’s thigh.

It was several minutes before I traced my finger in a line up the underside of her thigh. When Mom didn’t protest, or even react, I wiggled my finger inside her mouth. Thrilled by the lack of any rebuke, I moved my fingertips more freely up and down the underside of Mom’s thigh and even slipped it over to the other one.

It was too hard to believe that Mom wasn’t aware of my touch so she had to be allowing it. Confident that I had permission, I moved freely back and forth from one thigh to the other and even dipped my fingers low enough to tickle across the fleshy part of her legs only an inch from the bottom of her panties.

I hunched closer and that prompted her to put her hand on my arm just below the elbow and pinched it which I took as signal not to go any further. I held still until her fingers relaxed and was amazed she didn’t pull my hand away because it had stopped, fortuitously and not by plan, with my fingertips resting on her panties.

“You’re right, Mom,” I whispered. “None of the women in those pictures have legs as nice as yours.”

Mom’s fingers tightened on my arm.

“Or anything else, for that matter.”

Mom pinched my arm tighter, as if sensing that I was trying to soften her up before resuming my inappropriate caress and warning me not to try. That’s when I went for broke, gambling that Mom was caught up in something she couldn’t control, just as I had been in the kitchen, and as I was now. I hoped she was near enough to the cusp to slide over to the downhill side.

“But only your son should know that.”

Nothing happened right away but, gradually, the pressure in Mom’s clenched fingers relaxed and her hand eventually fell off my arm. Tentatively, I resumed the tickling caress over the bottom of her thighs and, holding my breath, even let my fingertips brush fleetingly across her panties. After a tense moment, Mom flipped the page as if nothing untoward was happening.