Chapter 2

Remember I said I never thought of my mother in a sexual way? Yeah. Well that changed after the shaving incident. While, previously, I could look at my mother's naked breasts and shaven pubis completely objectively and dispassionately, I was now unable to look at her even clothed without a sexual stirring. Not always, of course, but way too much for comfort. Before, she had been just Mom. Now, she was a curvy blond who had sucked my cock until I spurted in her mouth. Suffice it to say I looked at her in a very different way.

It was as though a veil had been lifted from my eyes. I had seen my mother naked since as early as I could remember, and never once had I realized what an unbelievably sexy woman she was. I had obviously deliberately blocked that part of my psyche, because it was all too active when it came to other women.

As my eyes saw her in new light, I began to appreciate every sweep and curve of her shapely body. I had always just thought of her as pretty. But now, now I couldn't help noticing how voluptuous her body was. I would wonder at how delectably her rosy nipples stood out on her full breasts; how perfectly rounded the cheeks of her ass were, how her thighs met in that lovely, hairless... pussy.

Yeah, I thought of that, too. I would feel my cock harden in response to the stimuli pouring into my brain as I focused on her body. I would upbraid myself, but despite my guilt, I couldn't take my eyes off her. My mind would reel in the pleasant delirium of the fantasy of cupping her heavy breast and closing my lips around a distended, rose-tipped nipple, getting her moist, hearing her moan...

Yes — my mother aroused me sexually. I wanted her.

I began to have the most stunningly erotic fantasies of my life. They were so much more real than any others because I had memorized every sweep and curve of her body and, besides, she was my mother. I knew exactly how she moved, how she smelled, how she sounded, how she reacted — everything. So fantasizing was a snap. All I had to do was set the scene and my overactive imagination, fueled by desire and shaped by intimate knowledge took over.

But although I desperately wanted to fulfill my fantasies, I saw nothing in her behavior that offered any opportunity. Quite the contrary — she acted exactly as if nothing had happened. Perfectly normal.

In fact, as time went by, I began to wonder if I'd dreamed the whole thing -- her hand sliding up the shaft of my cock, her head dropping to take me in her mouth, the endless orgasm...

But I knew it had been real. I had a shaved pubis to prove it.

In my frustration, I began to devise puerile ways to achieve my carnal objectives.

I'd get her drunk and seduce her.

I'd con her into watching a porno movie and then take advantage of her arousal.

I'd walk in on her when she was in the shower and get in with her.

But I had to acknowledge that none of these offered any realistic chance of success, and the consequences of trying and failing were potentially grave.

Then I hit on something, quite by accident, that offered some promise.

Massage.

I was taking massage class at a local adult education program. I had always loved massages. There's something incredibly sensual and powerfully sexual about someone running their hands over you, pressing deeply into your muscles, your body... One day, almost on a whim, I had decided to take a class and learn the technique myself. I had assumed it would be very simple, but it turned out to be a lot more work than I'd expected — learning about the parts of the body, the major muscle groups, the different techniques. But after a few weeks — with many, many practice sessions — I had started to really understand the essentials, and was actually able to give a good massage. I knew that both from the reaction of the recipients (and the teacher) and by trying it out on myself (e.g. my legs).

After a seemingly interminable time, I graduated. Then I had to get my license, a real challenge in and of itself. But I persevered, and one Saturday morning, I opened an envelope and there it was: Jeff Ingersoll, Certified Masseur!

I decided to wait until the opportune moment to tell her. I went to the club and worked out. On my way back, I bought a bottle of expensive champage. Then I spent the rest of the day helping her in the garden — moving bags of potting soil, replanting plants, digging new soil or whatever she needed to be done.

That evening, we were sitting the in the living room and she was sipping her usual glass of wine. She was wearing a light robe, which she did in the evening when it was a little cool.

"I got some good news in the mail, today," I said casually.

"What's that, honey."

"I passed the test and got my massage license," I said.

"Oh honey, that's wonderful!" she said. She came over and hugged me. Her big breasts felt fabulous against my chest.

"I got some champagne to celebrate," I added.

"Great — open it up and let's toast," she said brightly.

I got the bottle and two glasses and brought it in. I popped the cork and poured us each a glass.

"To the new masseuse," she said, raising her glass.

"Thanks."

We both drank.

"Or should it be "masseur?" she wondered.

"I believe it's masseur, since I'm a boy," I noted.

We talked about the training and certification process. I had told her, from time to time, some of the more interesting aspects of it. Now, I focused on the more amusing ones — the incidents involving the ticklish student -- you couldn't touch her anywhere below the knee or she would start giggling; the time when one of the students fell off the table.

The champagne, meanwhile, was flowing freely — mostly, I made sure, into her glass. The more it flowed, the happier she became, giggling and laughing at the tales of student innocence or incompetence. I told her about the guy who wouldn't get off the table because he had a hard on (as he told me later) induced by a massage from one of the sexier female students. He just lay there, face down, and said he was dizzy.

"I guess that kind of thing happens, huh?" she asked.

"Yeah, particularly in the beginning"

"Did it ever happen to you?" she asked.

This was typical Mom — never shy about anything.

"Uh, sort of," I said, embarrassed.

"Who was the precipitating cause," she asked, looking amused.

"Just one of the girls," I said.

"And what happened?" she pressed.

"I, uh, well. I was on my back and the sheet was over me, but you could... tell."

"Well, with you, it's not hard to tell," she said, her eyes twinkling — an obvious reference to the shaving incident.

She got up, glass in hand.

"I'm going to get some wine — want some?" she asked. The champagne bottle was empty.

"Ah, sure," I said.

She was back in a couple of minutes, with two glasses.

We talked for a few more minutes. She was definitely feeling the effects of the wine and champagne. She was slightly flushed and her words weren't quite as crisp as usual. I judged it was the right time to make my move.

"Hey Mom," I said, casually. "Can I practice my massage technique on you?"

"Well, of course," she said immediately. "Who could pass up a professional massage. And the price is right."

"The price is definitely right," I said. "And you don't even have to tip me."

"Well, what are we waiting for? Tell me what to do."

"OK. Why don't you lay down on the couch" I suggested.

"Clothed? Unclothed?" she asked.

"Oh, uh, unclothed, I guess."

"Your wish is my command," she said, undoing the robe and letting it fall off her shoulder. I resisted staring at her rosy nipples.