Chapter 1

Hi. My name is Dave. I’d like to tell you about what happened after my father had a very debilitating stroke. My mother asked if I would go through the stuff in his office when I came home from college for the summer because she didn’t want to do it and Dad seemed agitated when she mentioned it to him. Of course, I assured her that I would look after it.

When I arrived home, my mother was less distraught than she had been two months earlier but she was still greatly relieved by my arrival. She was exhausted by friends, relatives and especially acquaintances she barely knew offering their sympathies about Dad’s condition. She avoided all invitations to get together for coffee, dreading awkward conversations overloaded with concern about how she was managing by herself. She asked me to protect her from all that, to guard the gate since she found it difficult to say no. In her words, “I need you to look after me.”

I didn’t read anything into that. My mother was twenty years younger than my father but she was still twenty years older than me. I’d had an adolescent crush on her five years ago, rubbing my boner every night while dreaming of her late thirties figure as I drifted off to sleep. But now, I simply saw an exhausted woman. No, the memories of odd erotic moments didn’t surface until later, when I was cleaning up my Dad’s office. I found a box stuffed with letters at the back of the closet. My disinterest turned to shock as I read the correspondence he exchanged with members of a secret group, an incest group that exchanged true stories of their experiences with their moms.

There was a list of rules taped inside a flap on top of the box:

1. All stories must be true.

2. All names must be changed to protect the innocent.

3. The story must be about you and your Mother.

The first story in the first bundle was my Dad’s own submission. He called himself ‘Ron’ but he violated the second rule by referring to my grandmother by her real name. Later, I would discover that wasn’t the only rule he broke.

This was the first story in that set of files. My Dad’s story.

Hello all. Let me introduce myself. My name is Ron. Not my real name, but everything else I’m about to tell you is true. I grew up in the midwest on a farm, I suppose like a lot of you, even some of you city folk. Times were hard then, even before the depression. And there wasn’t a lot of fun to be had like there was in the cities. On the farm, there was always work to do and, without a car, too many miles for us young folk to get together anyway with the little time we did have to ourselves. So we mostly socialized within our own families or our closest neighbors.

We did have a car, a Ford, but it mostly got used for just for going to church and trips to town for supplies. When I came of age, I made all the trips to town in the Ford, with my mother, and usually to church too. My father needed to stay and work the farm. He said he didn’t have the time for socializing, and I may as well do the driving since I wasn’t any good at fixing things or doing real work. He figured I should learn how to be good at something, and the only chance for that was if it was something I liked doing. Well, he said a piece there, he did.

My father was almost sixty then. I think he didn’t come to town because he just plain didn’t have any patience for people anymore. He liked being on the farm, and he liked being on his own. Most of the time during the week he was out in the fields all day anyway, and at night he was in the shop or the barn after dinner until he went to bed, never later than nine o clock.

My mother, Ellen, wasn’t even forty by several years. When I look back at it, she was too young to be with an old crock like my father. She was a pretty woman when she fixed herself up for church or going to town. She had long red hair that she often got me to brush for her because my father was always too busy though she once said that he used to like doing it for her.

Even at that age, my mother had laugh lines around her eyes, and when she smiled, there were up and down crinkles in her cheeks on either side of her mouth. But, like I said, she was still pretty. She and I spent a lot of time together since my father was always tinkering and I was had a thousand excuses for avoiding work in the field in favor of doing chores closer to home. Father said it was just plain easier to do things himself. I think he preferred being by himself or he would have made me come anyway.

Mother was a lonely woman, I realize now, looking back. She looked forward to church Sundays and loved going to town. After several times driving to town on my own with Mom, the excitement of driving wore off enough that I began to pay more attention to Mom. She was one of the prettiest women in our little town but she kept a polite distance from people, despite her seeming need to be near them. I know now that she was treading a careful path, making sure she didn’t encourage the men or spark the jealousies of their wives who were all too aware that Father was much older than she.

Town was necessary for her sanity but it was also a social minefield. On the way to town, she was tense. In town, she was careful and controlled. On the way home, alone with me, she was at ease, sometimes even exuberant. She would chatter away, reliving her conversations with other women, and what she thought they were really thinking. I was her confidant. She would lean over closer to me to make a point, sometimes whispering when repeating some gossip or confiding her thoughts, touching my arm if it was a particularly juicy bit of news. I loved it.

I started driving more slowly on the way back to the farm, even though I loved to go fast, just to drag out our trip home. Mom never complained. I think she liked having more time away from home where there were no chores to do. That’s probably why she never complained when I took our first detour, or maybe it was because it wasn’t very far out of our way and it was a beautiful day.

Because I liked Mom being close, leaning in, touching me on my arm, I kept the window open and complained about not being able to hear her. At first, she just talked louder. Then, she leaned closer to me most of the time, which I enjoyed immensely. Finally, at no urging from me because it never crossed my mind, she simply moved her cloth shopping bags from between us to the door, or on the floor, and sidled up next to me. She would sit there, thigh pressed against mine, and yack almost into my ear as I drove, her arm on the seat behind my shoulders, sometimes curling around to cup my neck.

As soon as we crested the small hill coming out of town, she would shift her bags and slide over. And when we neared our property, she always moved back to her door. On the rare occasions when we passed another car, or one came up behind us, she would lean back over to her side. It was as if our closeness was a secret as well as her confidences in me. I wasn’t sure why then but this really excited me. It was as if my Mom and I shared a world all to ourselves that no one should know about. Always, just before she pulled away, Mom would lean in and give me a big kiss on my cheek, sighing, “Well, we’re home already.” I took this as a signal that it was OK to take longer detours.

One day, I did something that started us on a road deeper into our special world. A road of touching. I started shifting gears more often, my hand thus making contact with her legs. I explained to Mom that, if we were going to take longer drives on the way home, we had to conserve gas. To do that, I explained further to my mom who knew nothing about cars, I needed to shift gears more often to maintain the best engine speed. “Oh,” she replied, and went on with her conversation.

That making sense to her, I was then free to change gears, often up and down for no reason except to touch my mother’s legs. She paid it no mind. It wasn’t long before I managed to nudge her left knee tight against my leg when I was in second or fourth gear, close enough to the seat that she had to put her knees on either side of the long shift handle. I changed to holding the shifter on the shaft under the handle so my hand would come into more solid contact with her legs. Soon, she kept her legs open when I was in other gears because she could never tell when I was going to pull the stick back against her knees. So we would drive along, Mother chatting away with her hand around my neck and her legs open whether the shifter was forward or back.

I preferred to drive in second or fourth because then my hand was between my Mom’s legs. I don’t think Mom noticed the first time I shifted up to third and, instead of keeping it on the shifter, moved my hand back to rest it on the seat between her legs. I’m not sure that I recall the first time. I do remember suddenly becoming aware that my hand was there between her legs, for no reason. But she didn’t seem to notice. So from then on I always moved my hand to rest on the seat between her legs. Tentatively at first, but then more naturally as if that’s where my hand was supposed to be.

On one of our trips, I had trouble with the car so while she was shopping and visiting, I worked the motor. On the way home, Mother slipped over beside me as usual when I shifted into third gear after cresting the hill. She nestled into place against my thigh, opening her legs to make room for the shifter, and my hand. Keeping the car in third gear with the shifter forward, I said, “Mom. You’d better pull your dress back so it doesn’t get dirty. I couldn’t get all the grease off my hands.”

“Oh, you’ll have to get them clean before dinner. You know your father,” was all she said. And then, amazingly when I look back at it now, she braced her feet to lift her weight and pulled her skirt way up so that the hem under her legs was completely on the top of the seat. When she sat back down, she pulled the hem on the top of her legs way back from where the shifter could reach, right up to her pelvis. She kept her hands there at the top of her legs, holding her dress in place for my next few shifts. I was very excited, almost in shock. I kept my hands on the shifter, afraid to put them down near her bare legs, which I had never seen before. My eyes were glued to the road.

Soon, Mom put her left arm around me in its usual position, and began using her right to accent her conversation, as usual. Gingerly, I moved my hand to rest on the seat between her legs, lightly scraping her bare legs for the first time in my life. I was ready to rocket my hand back to the shifter if she complained, but she didn’t seem to even notice. But I certainly did. My cock hardened. I looked down to make sure it hadn’t ripped through my pants like it felt it had. Relieved, I sidled my glance over to her legs. Clear, soft looking white legs, the sun highlighting short little blondish hairs sparsely covering her thighs. I couldn’t look away, they were so beautiful.

“Watch the road, Ron!” she commanded crisply as the car wandered onto the shoulder.

But that was the only admonishment she gave. I kept my eyes on the road, but I shifted more often than usual, took a longer detour, and managed to have my hand in contact with her bare legs most of the way home.

The next week, just as Mom got into the car, I made a production of trying to rub grime off my hands. “Darn car,” I complained.

“Watch your language, young man,” Mom barked. When she slid over next to me, I reminded her to watch her dress. Without a word, she slid her skirt up again. I was in my glory feeling her legs all the way home.

The next week I forgot to go through my grimy hand act and was wondering how recover from that error when she slid over next to me and pulled her dress up without any prompting from me. I immediately moved my hand between her legs and started my little scrapes and rubs, my boner near breaking point all the way home.

The following week, Mom lifted her dress again, all on her own. After moving the shifter back into fourth gear, I made a dangerous move of my own. Whenever I was in second or fourth gear, back against the seat, I always kept my hand on the shifter. To be sure, I held the shaft under the knob so I could touch her legs more, but I never let go, always needing an excuse for my hand to be there. But this time, just like I did when in the forward gears, I let go of the shifter and dropped my hand behind it to the seat between Mom’s legs.

This put me higher than I’d ever been, almost to her crotch, firmly in contact on both sides of my hand with the softest part of her thighs. Fearing an angry response but not being able to stop my hand from making its short journey, I was again surprised.

“I had a lovely time in town today,” Mother sighed as she ran her fingers up the side of my neck. “A lovely time,” she repeated as she stroked her fingers slowly up and down my neck, her pelvis seeming to push forward in the seat, or was that my imagination?

I hardly shifted at all on that trip. When I did, I quickly moved my hand back to its high position between her legs regardless of which gear the car was in. I was in bliss all the way home.

When we got home, after carrying in the supplies but before I could run out to the barn to relieve myself in private, Mom told me to stay in the kitchen. She sat down on a kitchen chair with her legs stretched out before her. I was startled when she suddenly pulled her dress up, holding the hem just below her crotch. This had never happened before. We always went out separate ways at home, never reentering our private world until the following week.

“I think you might have got some grease on my leg.”

There wasn’t a speck of dirt to be seen. I stared at her legs, brazenly displayed before me. She was looking at them intently as well, allowing me a better look at them than I’d ever had.

“No,” she said finally, “I don’t see anything ... Maybe underneath. Could you look for me, Ronny?” she asked, lifting her knees to raise her upper legs, looking down herself at the bottom of her thighs. I stood frozen until she quietly said, “Come on honey. I can’t keep my legs up forever.”

Kneeling down, I inspected the underside of her legs. I could see all the way to her panties.

“Do you seen anything?” she asked.

Yes, I thought. Your beautiful legs, and your PANTIES!

Gathering my courage, I stretched my trembling hand out toward her, pointing, “Oh, there is a spot,” I said, my voice cracking.

“Can you get it?” she asked, “I can’t even see it.”

“Sure, Mom.” I tentatively touched her with my outstretched finger, high up on the bottom of her thigh. I poked at the imaginary spot of grease.

“Did you get it?” she asked.

“No, it’s really on there,” I replied, pulling my finger back to lick it before renewing my rubbing on her thigh near the crease where her leg met her bottom. With her permission to rub, I poked away, pulling my finger back to lick it several times.

“It’s a tough one,” I said as I continued rubbing, her leg now wet with my saliva.

“Rub it harder then,” she commanded me in a strangely hoarse voice, which I proceeded to do. When I pulled my hand back I spat on my fingers instead of licking them and used several fingers to rub this time. I widened the area I was rubbing to cover the whole inside curve of her leg along the line of her panties. Up and down I rubbed, pressing very firmly. Her thigh was damp, I realized as I noticed a strange, pungent odor. I didn’t need to pull my hand away to lick them, so I just kept rubbing her, the edge of my fingers starting to press against the side of her panties on each stroke up and down.

“Rub it harder,” she gasped in a weirdly intense voice.

I obliged, quickening my pace. Then, the sound of the tractor filled the house through the open kitchen door. My mother sprang up, her face flushed, and rushed upstairs. “Go help your father,” she yelled as she flew up the stairs.

Of course I didn’t. I had a huge boner, absolutely huge.

That night, Mother informed my father that she needed me to take her to church on Wednesday afternoons because she’d volunteered to help with some church service. That was news to me, she hadn’t mentioned anything, at least I didn’t think she had.

On Wednesday, after lunch, we pulled out of the yard. As soon as the house was behind us, Mom pulled her dress up. This had never happened before. We only touched on the way home, never on the way into town. Acting unsurprised, I simply moved my hand down between her legs. Within a mile, I was rubbing her leg in the same spot I’d done several days before. I rubbed in silence. Mom didn’t talk. Soon, I moved my hand to rub in the same spot on her other leg, though there was never any ‘spot’ there, and so no ‘reason’ to rub there.

As I rubbed her thigh with my finger and thumb, the edge of my hand was scraping against her panties. Mom’s breathing became quite ragged. I focused my attention on the action of my hand, pressing it more firmly against her panties.

“I don’t want to go to church,” Mom broke the silence, her voice broken and breathless. “Take the road up to the hill,” she instructed me, indicating a spot where we often went for a picnic in the trees overlooking our fields. As I turned off the side road toward the picnic spot, I turned my hand as well, facing my palm directly at her panties. Driving along, I gripped the mound underneath her panties, firmly squeezing it, and started to rub it up and down.

By the time we parked under the trees, I was rubbing her furiously and she was pressing herself against my hand, following it up and down. I turned toward her, pulling my hand away to replace it with my left hand, putting my damp right around her shoulder, up to her head, pulling it in to my chest.

“Mom,” I gasped, frigging her panties. “Touch me, touch me too,” I cried.

I felt her hand, her little hand, fumbling with my pants. My cock leapt against her touch. Then my pants were unbuttoned and her hand was fishing underneath, groping for my cock. She found it, her fingers curling around my shaft. “Oh, my, Mom,” I shouted as she started moving her hand up and down, jacking me off with her incredibly soft fingers, sliding them right up over the head, unlike my own action that always remained on the shaft. She pinched and twisted her fingers ever so gently, teasing my head, then down and up in full, long strokes. And then I was coming, spurting, gushing high into the air, into her lap, onto her chest and her dress, and on my shirt and pants. Her legs closed tightly around my hand, trapping it, her legs shivering as if very cold, violently cold, though I could feel they were steaming hot.

We lay there for several minutes before Mom said, “We’d better rinse these things off in the creek and dry them before going home. Come on,” she said, taking her dress off, “give me your clothes.”

Mom swished our clothes around in the creek and spread them out on the grass to dry in the hot afternoon sun. We lay about on the grass in our underwear, switching between the sun and the shade. Mom wasn’t wearing a bra, she just wore a kind of slip thing though it was made of cotton and not the silky material we have today. It was like she was wearing a very revealing dress. Designed for wear beneath a dress, it was much shorter. While Mom dozed on the grass, I spent my time surveying her body. I was quite taken by the lack of wrinkles that were evident on her face when she smiled or frowned. Her body looked much younger.

I became especially intrigued when I noticed something which had somehow escaped my notice; her panties were spread out in the sun next to her dress. I had watched as she laid out our clothes but my attention was on her legs, exposed in her short underdress much more than I’d ever seen. I simply didn’t look at the clothes on the ground.