Chapter 1: Coming Home

The most sexually riveting series of events of my entire life involved an affair with my own mother. I hesitated before confessing the fact that I was involved in what society calls incest, but then I realized that without my confession no one would ever know how wonderful it all was. Besides, at the time I was totally enmeshed and fell completely in love with her. Anyway, incest isn't really wrong if there is no possibility of there being children as a result. In this world I think you need to take love wherever you find it.

After my father was killed in a skiing accident in Colorado, my mother was left totally alone until I got out of the Army about two and a half years later. I went to live at home until I could afford to get a place of my own. Counting college, I'd been away for seven years. I'd left a boy and come back a man. And I had become the kind of man my mother liked.

After a few months I kind of became dominant in our household and mom treated me as an equal, usually asking for and heeding my advice about the everyday operation of the house. We shared the load. She was financially well set and didn't need to work.

But I did. With an engineering degree, I got a job quickly but was required to go through a one year probationary period before the pay would be good enough to allow me to support myself. Our home was a smallish Cape Cod with the bathroom, master bedroom, living and TV rooms, and kitchen downstairs and two bedrooms up whose doors faced each other across a short hallway at the top of the stairs. My mother had the master bedroom which was just down the hallway from the bathroom. The opposite end of the hall was the entrance to the kitchen. From the kitchen table you could see both doors and the full hallway.

She was forty three then, and still slim and attractive, with sandy brown hair tinged with red. She was about five foot two. I had inherited her hazel eyes. She'd always been very good looking and her looks combined with a kind of guardedness made most men hesitate to approach her. Also, she was not an outgoing person. That combination added up to no suitors on the horizon. It had been thirty one months since dad died.

I wondered whether she still thought about, well, about men and... sex. She was always reading spicy novels, usually by women authors, so I guessed she did. I admit that very soon after I moved back home I started thinking about - her body - couldn't help having those thoughts because she was always so lightly dressed around the house. She liked to wear halter tops which displayed her really good sized boobs, or one of my father's super loose old v-neck t-shirts. Those shirts were made of a 50/50 mix of rayon and cotton and after years of washings, the cotton had just simply been washed away leaving the filmy rayon. I had a few shirts that were old like that and I always reached for one of them first because they were so comfortable.

Anyway, she never wore a bra under those old t-shirts. How did I know? Her nipples poked themselves out about an inch or so. At night I fantasized about what they must look like to project that far. It was hard not to stare at them, especially when she leaned over to hand something to me, or to wipe off the seat of the chair next to mine at the kitchen table. The t-shirt would balloon away from her body exposing the tops of her breasts and nipples to me if I dared to peek at them. God help me, I did peek every chance I got, my heart suddenly pounding and my penis swelling inside my tight underwear.

She favored short, tight shorts. Those old t-shirts were so long on her I guess sometimes she thought she didn't need the shorts... or panties either, I learned one night by accident when she unthinkingly bent over to pick up a fork she'd dropped while doing the dishes, thereby opening a wonderful panorama of butt and pussy to me as I sat stunned at the kitchen table. Could she have been subconsciously luring me even then?

Subconscious or not, I was definitely very interested.

A few times I'd been there at the kitchen table looking toward the hallway as she left the bathroom after her evening shower. Once I caught a glimpse of her buttocks below the towel she liked to wrap around her torso for the six foot trip to her bedroom at the opposite end of the hallway from the kitchen. It wasn't always adjusted just right and when it wasn't the bottom several inches of her ass cheeks peeked out below it. They flexed sexily as she walked away from me to her room to dress. God help me, after I saw her that way the first time I began to hang out at the table when she took her shower, squeezing myself under my shorts as I waited, hoping for another peek at her body when she walked down to her room.

I knew it was perverse, but seeing her body had opened the door of a place in me that was full of deeply surpressed longing. Oh! The thrill those moments gave me. I wanted more but didn't know how to begin.

Then she handed me the answer.

One night, after a particularly long late evening shower, she called to me after she was in her bedroom. I went down the hall to her room. She was sitting on the bed, the towel still wrapped around her. There was a lamp on her dresser lighting the room but not brightly.

"Would you mind giving me a little backrub?" She asked, smiling up at me. Occasionally she'd given them to me on the sofa in the TV room - all very proper - now she was asking for the return favor. "Sure mom." I smiled.

Darlene, my last girlfriend, had been a divorcee a bit older than I was, with more experience if you know what I mean. She had taught me, among many other interesting things, how to give a very sensual and sexually arousing backrub. She'd look at me in her special sexy way and say, "How about a little rub?" There were four parts, the 'tickle', the 'scratch', the 'rub', and the 'smooth down'. I now decided to demonstrate it to my mother.