"Pleeeease, baby?" my mother whined. My ears pricked up. I knew she wasn't talking to me, for she did not realise I was home. But who else could she be talking to? We live alone, my mother and I, and we had for many years now. I had gone out to a friend's 21^st birthday, and it had broken up early, too many of the revellers too heavily drunk to go on. For my part, I drank steadily rather than heavily, knowing my tolerance for alcohol. And despite that had almost half a decade on the others there, I drank them under the table! They had one beer, then two, then chugged a third, their words becoming slurred, their steps sluggish. But I drank my own favourite- Rum and Coke, the smooth Bundaberg brand imported from far-off Australia. Even though each of the perspiring bottles I downed contained 1.6 "standard" drinks- whatever they were, and I fancied that, given the Australian's reputation for holding their liquor it must be impressive- I drank six of them over the course of the five hours I was at the party. Nearly ten of those "standard" drinks. The next-best of my competitors was only able to down five beers, and even now he was paralytic. But me? Oh, I was fine. I spoke slowly, more carefully than I usually did, but that was all. Aside from the good-time buzz, of course.

And any way, the party had ended. I had thought we would go on until dawn, but they were too impatient, unable to pace themselves. Well, I supposed they were young. I was always careful when I drank, priding myself on my self-control in all areas of my life. I'd never had a hangover, but from the sore and shabby state of my friends that night, I knew more than a few of them would come to regret the morning after the night before. So I had headed home, arriving in the dark, where I had crept about, cat-like in the familiar darkness of my home, careful not to wake my mother.

But apparently I need not have worried. For she was awake. Curious, I padded forward, finding her in the study. It was at the back of the house, a small alcove off a turn in the hallway. The light was on inside, and as I drew closer, I beheld ... well. Quite a spectacle.

The computer table faced out into the hall, and my mother's laptop was open and running. And so, for that matter, was she! She wore a hybrid microphone/headphone headset, and nothing else. She had turned the wooden chair around, and through the bars meant to support one's back as they worked, I could see her sex, open and dripping, great puddles forming on the wood between her spraddled legs. Her amazing, full breasts heaved, and she was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, which only seemed to heighten her beauty.

My jaw swung open, and I froze in the darkness. And I realised that I could see in, I could see her, but she could not see me!

And I know you will think me perverse, but you cannot imagine the depths of my lust for her. In an era where the societal norm was for waif-like, androgynous women with small hips and breasts in accordance with the desires of know-nothing, effete "fashion" designers, my mother stood out from the crowd. Her body hearkened back to an earlier age, when ancient people had worshipped crudely-formed clay idols. Her voluptuous form would have perfectly suited one of them, would have represented the ideal. If there had been a way to transmute clay to life, she surely would have been the avatar of a fertility goddess.

But in a cruel twist of fate, this woman was not some fine filly I might seduce, carry back to my bed and cavort with, but my mother. For as long as I could remember, I had fantasised about her, wondered how her breasts would look, entranced by the width of her child-bearing hips, and always, always wondering what lay between her creamy white thighs. And tonight, it seemed, fate was correcting that oversight, allowing me to see her in the way I had dreamt of for so very long.

I listened intently as she spoke into the microphone. She was cajoling an unseen partner to get his microphone set-up working, so that they might talk with voices instead of text. And as she walked him through some trouble-shooting steps (my mother was a secretary, and expert at her job), she rocked back and forth on the chair, grinding herself against it. And as I looked closer, I realised I had been wrong before; she was not entirely naked, as there was a belt tied around her waist. I wondered at its significance even as I looked away- but only briefly, so briefly from her erotic display- seeing the robe it had been taken from, a blue pastel affair covered, I knew, with imagery from that old poem, with cows jumping over the moon.

My eyes snapped back to her perfect form, all soft, white curves. And I stared between her legs, between her thighs where they were streaked with the juices flowing out of that hot, deep pink and very nearly red pussy. Her clitoris was poking out between her lips, large and hard, and above all this was a thin forest of pubic hair, just barely dark enough to be seen. But it was so sparse and light as to be non-existent, and I might almost be able to think she was shaven.

After a while, they gave up, my mother giving a great, disappointed sigh. "Maybe next time, baby? I suppose we'll have to make do tonight. But at least you can hear me. Do you like my voice, baby? Do you like your mommy's voice?"

I was thunderstruck. Could it be? But yes, it was! She continued speaking to her cyber sex partner, all the while rocking back and forth, back and forth and grinding her dripping gash into the wooden chair. And not just cyber sex, no! She was playing out a fantasy. And no normal fantasy, not having to ward off an employer's ire by offering him sexual favours or pretending a one-night stand, but something completely different, altogether more (to me, at least) compelling.

Incest. And as she chatted, I understood more; she was playing the part of a submissive tonight, obeying every command of her unseen master. Except that she never called him that; it was always "baby" or "son," and as she approached orgasm, she changed it yet again, calling him "Michael." My cock throbbed in response each time she cried that name- my name. Was it coincidence, I wondered, or something more ... sinister? No, that was not the word, not the way to describe it. But the freakish accuracy in the way she aped my most depraved fantasies was beyond belief.

And then she did something that enthralled me completely. "Are you sure, Michael," she asked "that you want that? Do you really want to hear your mother touching herself? I'll try for you, my baby boy, but I don't know how well this will work..." And she slid the head set off, balanced it delicately on her shapely thighs, and slid her fingers in and out of that tight, forbidden hole between her legs. She laughed, engrossed in the scene, and raised her voice so it would carry to the far-away microphone, "Yes, baby. Mommy is wet. Wet for you." And she picked up the head set, returned it to its proper place, and kept working at her heated gash.