By rubbing mom the right way, I got more than her back to loosen up!

Dear Readers,

I hope you aware that I have written my true mother/son incest story Taboo: A Memoir, of which an excerpt and more information is available on this site, or email me. The following is fictional.

My mom has a bad back. Sometimes the pain's so bad she can hardly walk around. She has to take muscle relaxants and pain pills.

I gave her massages for a while, though, and that helped. First I'd just rub her neck and shoulders while she sat in a chair. This would usually be before she was going to bed, to help her sleep. She'd pin her hair up to get it out of the way and then pull her robe and nightgown down over the shoulders. I'd dig into those tense muscles with my fingers and thumbs, sometimes even use my knuckles. Her skin was tender, so we used cream.

She liked it, said it helped, and I liked making her feel better. It always pained me to see her in pain. I volunteered to do her whole back.

At first she was reluctant and embarrassed but finally agreed — anything for relief. She changed clothes in the bathroom and came out in her robe. "Don't look," she said. "Close your eyes."

I did, and after a few seconds she said, "OK." She was lying face down on the couch wearing pajama bottoms and a bra. She gave me a flustered smile that said this is a bit daring and unusual but we're being proper about it.

I tried massaging her around the bra, but that just didn't work. The straps totally interfered with the strokes and got soaked with cream in the process. I told her the bra would have to go. After a pause she said, "Close your eyes again."

I got exasperated and said, "Mom, you're lying on your front. I can't see anything."

"I have to sit up to unhook it."

"I can unhook it."

"Where did you learn to do that?"

"Mom, I'm eighteen!"

"As if that's so old." With a long-suffering sigh she pressed down onto the couch to prevent anything from showing, then said, "OK ... just undo it ... let the straps lie on the side."

With her whole back free I could really massage her, get into those long strokes that loosen the tension. She was groaning with contentment. I was getting turned on by touching her and seeing her skin ripple under my hands. I told myself, You're a weirdo, getting a hard-on for your mom. That's not what's supposed to happen. But whether it was supposed to happen or not, it was definitely happening ... and I liked it. As she relaxed, I could see the sides of her breasts. I wanted to see more. After the massage, though, she sent me away so she could sit up and "get decent."

That night I dreamed mom and I were on a boat that was gradually filling up with water. It was a rubber boat ... or maybe a water bed. I asked her what I should do and she said, "Have a drink." Her breasts were hanging over the edge. When I touched them, I woke up.

Next morning mom said she'd slept better, with less pain, so we decided to have another massage that night. We agreed the couch wasn't ideal. It was too short, and the slope was awkward. When I said a bed would be better, she gave me a look that said don't get fresh with your mother.

That evening, though, she turned down her bed and said we'd give it a try. She made me wait in the hall until she was ready and called me in. She was lying face down on the sheet wearing only pajama pants with her robe folded neatly beside her along with an open jar of skin cream. She had her head turned away from me.

If she's making such a big deal of it, she must be thinking about it, I thought. That made me think about it all the more, wondering what was on the other side of that bad back as I massaged it. I'd got a couple of peeks at her boobs before — stepping out of the shower and changing to go swimming. She'd been embarrassed and covered them up right away. They were big and nice, and I wanted to see more. I'd been just a kid then — now I'd be able to appreciate them better. I also wondered what was on the other side of her pajama bottoms. Those parts I'd never seen.

My dad had moved out about a year ago. Their fights had been terrible at the end. Once he yelled at her, "Uptight frigid bitch!" and she cried. I wanted to hit him for saying that, but I wondered what was behind it. She wasn't exactly Ms. Free & Easy.

But now as I was rubbing her back, she seemed very sensual. She was breathing deeply, almost purring. I could tell which strokes she liked by the different sounds she made, then I'd do more of those. "Do it there," she'd say, or, "Deeper in there ... harder." I liked pleasing her.

The massages got to be a routine with us. She'd have a few drinks after dinner while we watched TV, then about ten o'clock we'd go into her room together.

I got a book out of the library to learn to do it better. I had a hard-on almost the whole time I was massaging her. Afterwards, I had lover's nuts — my balls would ache and there'd be a cramp at the base of my cock, the whole thing sore from being hard for so long. I'd jerk off thinking about mom, what her hidden parts looked like, what it would be like to be in her. I'd had lots of girls, was what the counselors and magazines call a "sexually active teen," but I wanted mom more than any of them.

She liked it when I'd do powerful strokes from her shoulders all the way down to her buns. This slid her around on the bed, so to keep her steady, I'd brace my knee between her legs. She objected to this at first, but I told her there was no other way to do it, this was how they said to do it in the book, so she let me. Whenever I tried to nudge my knee into her, though, she told me to stop right there.

Most of her pain was in the lower back, and I spent a lot of time working on those tense muscles, trying to get them to relax. I'd edge her PJs and panties down a bit, and when she objected I'd say something like, according to the book, the pain comes from blockages in the deep musculature and this is the only way to get at them. She'd mutter something but let me.

Each time I went a little farther down. Her bottom looked great, so soft and round.

I got to where I could put my knee higher up into the softness of her thighs. If she'd move around, I'd grind it into her a little bit and tell her to hold still.

As I massaged her buns, I'd tell her the tension and pain was coming from there and I could feel it breaking up. I'm not sure she believed any of the reasons I gave. I think it was more that she needed to say no, but once she'd protested and I'd given some sort of explanation, then she could relax and enjoy what I was doing to her.

Gradually I got to the point where I could massage her whole "gluteus maximus," as the book called it. Mom liked that a lot, murmuring deep in her throat, her mouth open and smiling, eyes shut tight. Afterwards she couldn't look at me.