I don't know what to do. Sitting here on the edge of my bed I am no wiser now than when I first started to think about what was happening and where it would lead to. I am a 35-year-old divorcee living in a small 2 bed-roomed flat with my 15-year-old son. My husband fled with his secretary almost 10 years ago and we have not heard from him since. Hopefully he has had a long painful lingering death or something equally terrible has happened to him. It's not that I want any contact with him but it would be nice for Michael if he heard from his Dad, even occasionally.

The first few years after the bastard cleared out were very tough as he had left us nothing and my parents were in no position to give us financial help, even if my pride would have let me approach them, and until Mike was old enough to be left alone after school we lived a 'hand to mouth' existence. Deprivations and hardships drew us together and we were best friends as well as mother and son, doing almost everything together and taking care of each other. When I was eventually able to leave Mike at home by himself, probably much sooner than I should have, I managed to get a job that didn't pay over much at the beginning but did have prospects. The last couple of years have seen some big changes happen in our lives as we can now afford some luxuries.

It was about a year ago that I began to notice some changes in the way Mike was reacting to and treating me. We had never been in the habit of parading around in front of each other in a state of nudity or even in our underwear, but on the odd occasion that we 'bumped' into the other while they were in the bathroom or getting changed we did not make a production of it. Bedrooms were regarded as private space and I would no sooner have entered his room without knocking than he would, mine. This is not to say that I would ever forbid him entry even if I was changing or in my underwear and he had not hesitation letting me come in and seeing him in an undressed state. In other words, while not being 'familiar' with each other's bodies we were not exactly strangers either.

It was, therefore, of some surprise to me when I noticed that Mike was spending a lot more time watching me than he ever had in the past, but I didn't really place any importance to it or realise what was actually happening. Suddenly he appeared to be visiting me in my bedroom, while I was changing my clothes, a whole lot more regularly and it seemed that every night, soon after I went into my room to get out of my work clothes, there would be a knock on my door and Mike would come in to sit on my bed and tell me about his day and ask about mine.

I found the time we spent like this was intimate and bonding and in my mind I convinced myself that letting him see me in my underwear was a small price to pay to maintain such a good and close relationship. At a time when teenagers were normally rebelling against their parents and families were under great stress, Mike and I were growing even closer together and arguments between us were unheard of. When I suddenly realised that I was buying sexier and more revealing underwear and parading it in front of him and that I had not hesitated to take off my bra and bare my breasts to him as I changed into a tee or sweat shirt, I began to look at my motives.

While not consciously letting my attraction to my son surface there was certainly no way of hiding my desires from my subconsciousness and I was acting on them without really knowing it. I suddenly became frightened of what was happening and vowed to reduce Mike's voyeurism of me. I couldn't completely stop his access to my bedroom without offending him and spoiling our togetherness but I did decide to try and always wear a wrap when around him.

Mike continued to visit me and talk but when he worked out that I was prepared to outwait him before changing so as not to give him any more views of me undressed, he began to cut his visits shorter. No comment was made about this and we seemed to go an as before.

Throughout our whole lives we had played together, tickling, wrestling, pushing each other around and generally never hesitating to lay hands on each other in fun. I found that Mike hands were starting to find their way to forbidden places and linger longer than they had before and it was as if he was replacing his loss of 'voyeuristic privileges' with his grabby/feely groping. Often either of us would hide and spring out or sneak up and try to wrestle the other to the floor and make him surrender and beg for release. This had always been a fairly innocent activity but the last time Mike had sprung on me it was from behind my bedroom door and he hustled me over to my bed and wrestled me down on to it. He leapt on top of me, pinning me face down, and wrapped his arms round me and, seemingly by accident, groped my breasts with one hand and held me at lower tummy level with the other. I didn't say anything or protest about the liberties he was taking but I did struggle to get free with a lot more vigour and, by the time I had managed to shrug him off, his knee had forced it's way up between my thighs and was pressed against my pussy. This forced my skirt up to nearly waist level and my nickers were completely on show and I was mortified with the thought that the crotch of them might show a damp spot from my excitement at what was happening. Mike eventually got off me and headed for his own room and I think we were both embarrassed about what we had just done.

On another occasion Mike was lying on the settee watching a program on TV. Some sports guru was discussing fitness and conditioning, emphasising that for almost all sports, long, loose and fit calf and thigh muscles were much better than very strong ones. He was pointing out that weight lifting in the gym was more suited to sprinters than distance runners and the like, who should put in lots of road- work. I had come in to tell Mike his tea was ready and, when I paused by the settee to watch for a couple of minutes to see what was intriguing him, Mike lowered his hand to my calf and rubbed it up and down a couple of times before saying,

"Hmm… your calf muscles are definitely those of a distance runner. What about your thigh ones?" and he slipped his hand higher, over my knee and moved it up under my skirt. He slowly worked his hand higher as, without conscious thought, I moved my feet apart to allow him more access. His thumb brushed against the bottom of the leg of my nickers, only a tiny space separated him from touching my heated pussy, before I came to my senses and moved away.

"Your food's getting cold." I said and fled back to the kitchen.

Another change that was taking place was the way he was greeting me when we first met each afternoon. Most days Mike would get home soon after me, sport and studying at the library taking up most of his spare time, and I would usually be standing at the bench getting the evening meal on before getting changed. It had been his usual practice for years to wrap his arms round my waist and hug me and kiss the back of my neck in greeting. Now his arms didn't go right round, only far enough to leave one hand spread directly on my midriff just below my breasts and the other hand spread on my tummy, and he hugged me like this. I was fully aware that his hands were getting both higher and lower each day and soon he would be holding my breasts and pressing on my pussy. Once again I found this to be quite exciting and it was with some reluctance that I finally had to grab his hands and move them to slightly safer positions. We still never discussed what was happening between us.

I had one particularly close friend and she lived across the street and 2 houses down, and we often got together for coffee and discussion. Both of us knew that we could talk about anything to each other in complete confidence that it would go no further. After I had almost let my son feel me up in front of the TV I decided that I needed to confide in someone and seek some guidance and my friend was the obvious choice. Her status was something similar to mine in that she had only one child, a son 3 or 4 years older than mine, but she was still married to her husband. She often said that she might as well be divorced, as her husband spent almost no time at home, being always away on some business or other. We often joked that he had other women in other towns but Mary always said that there couldn't be anybody else who would have anything to do with such a 'Pencil Dick'.

"I've got a bit of a problem and I don't know what to do about it." I began, tentatively, "and I don't even know where to turn to, to get help."

"Well? Tell me about it. You know you can tell me anything and I'll tell you totally honestly what I think."

"I'm not sure how to start." I was nervous about broaching this subject even with my closest confidant. "Well there's no easy way, so…. I think Mike's coming on to me and the thing that worries me is that I don't find it as repugnant as I should. Sometimes I don't stop his advances straight away and sometimes I even sort of help him before stopping him. There. I've told you now. It's disgusting isn't it?"

Mary looked right into my eyes and smiled at me as she replied,

"What? Is that it? I wouldn't be surprised if every mother fancies her son and single mothers must be more vulnerable than those with a husband in tow. Why, Billy and I had…..." Her voice tapered off before she started again, " Anyway you and Mike haven't actually done anything yet have you? What's actually occurred?"

I explained all that had happened and how Mike seemed determined to keep pressuring me until I gave in, or that's what I thought he was up to. I hadn't actually discussed it with him just in case I had read the whole situation completely wrong.

Mary listened and then poured us more coffee and lit a cigarette before going on,

"It definitely sounds like he's trying to do something. How old is he again?" Mary was aware of his age but she seemed to want confirmation before she proceeded, "He's definitely at the horny age. They get quite desperate for their first fuck at that age. If you can wait him out he will look elsewhere, eventually, but you'd be missing out on a real good opportunity. At that age they can go for hours, recovering at an amazing rate. You could send him over to me, I wouldn't mind being his teacher."

Mary swallowed a mouthful of coffee and sucked in a large drag of her smoke as she watched anxiously as I thought about what she had said.

"What? Do you mean to tell me that you and Billy actually … " what she had told me finally registered and I giggled nervously before she answered,

"You don't expect me to answer that, do you? Just let it be said that I didn't really care if my husband never came home."

"If you did do it, it doesn't seem to have done you any harm. Maybe I'd better rethink it all. I'm certainly not going to let you get your hands on him, anyway. You'd probably be the death of him." I grinned at her, to take the sting from my words, and went on, "I wish I knew whether what I suspect is really true. There doesn't seem to be anyway of finding out without coming out and directly asking him, and I don't want to do that. I could be on a completely wrong tack."

"Why don't you check his computer and see what he checks out on the web? That might give you some indication of his interests."

"I'm almost computer illiterate and I wouldn't know where to start. You work with computers, don't you? I don't suppose you feel like helping me? It'll be a couple of hours before he's home."

Mary agreed so we went to his room and she 'Booted up?' his computer and told me that the first thing she would check was the 'history' in 'explorer'. I didn't have a clue what she was on about so I just nodded wisely and left her to it and went and checked out his drawers. I felt very guilty about our invasion of my son's privacy but I justified myself by deciding that it was in his best interests. My search was rewarded when I found a stack of printed pages buried under the paper lining of the bottom drawer and I found them to be stories about mother son relationships and I slid them back into place without telling Mary.

"It looks as if he spends a lot of time in story and incest sites. I recognise some of them but I can't actually tell you what sort of stories he is reading." I didn't tell Mary that I was already sure of what stories he was interested in and I suggested that now that we knew that much we should shut off his machine and leave his room.

Over another coffee we changed the subject and when she went home, I was left in a completely different frame of mind. I slipped back upstairs and removed some of his stories, hoping that he returned early he wouldn't notice their absence and I read them in the privacy of my bedroom. I found them to be highly exciting and arousing and I swapped the first lot for some more and went back to my reading. When I had finished this lot I returned them and sat and thought about the situation.