Storm Doris

I didn't realise what was happening at first -- I was lost in lust, I guess. A voice echoed around the enclose wreckage of the cellar, calling out if anyone was down there, were they alive and okay. I was both, for the first time in as long as I could remember,

Quite whether those were my responses or not I can't honestly remember -- and very oddly, Philip and I were able to cover up somehow and hide the truth as trees and debris were moved and we were dug out of the collapsed wine cellar.

It suddenly seemed to matter on one level although not on another.

Whatever (as my son is so fond of saying), we were eventually freed and wrapped in blankets, settled on temporary surfaces mean to be either luscious carpets or great examples of what our plastics experts can create these days. All around us the house or cottage or whatever it had been was... flat I guess is the best word. There were trees everywhere -- horizontal ones -- but not a single wall or partition. The place was, in short, an ex-place. I started laughing to myself at that point, visions of John Cleese complaining about his Norwegian Blue inappropriately distracting me -- until Philip put a concerned hand on my shoulder.

"Are you alright, mum?"

I dropped my voice to a whisper, "If by that you mean am I alright that we fucked, then yes, and if you mean am I alright about the cottage then yes as well -- I'm pretty sure the insurance will save me the trouble of redecorating -- except that we'll need to find somewhere to sleep now."

My son leaned closer, "Any old place will do. And maybe just a single room?"

I looked long and hard at him, "We're not in a relationship, understood?"

He nodded, "That wouldn't be right."

"Quite so."

"I mean, 'fuck buddies' isn't a relationship, right?"

I swatted his arm as I stifled a laugh, "I'll let you off the curse as there's no other word to use."

"Penetration-partner? Dick-deliverer?"

I laughed loudly and hugged him to me, dislodging my blanket but not feeling the cold air, somehow. One of the rescue team -- yes, there were quite a few by then -- hurried over and pulled the blanket back around me, muttering something about keeping warm at least until we were checked over and proper clothing could be provided.

After what seemed like an age we were taken to ambulances -- yes, plural -- out on the battered driveway, checked over, issued with dubiously stained tracksuits, and finally driven off to an equally dubiously stained guest-house. Only one room was available, apparently, but to their surprise -- but not yours, I imagine -- we were happy to share. The room had two single beds, not that we had any intention of using both, and much more importantly a shower and toilet in a tiny alcove-cum-room which was almost luxurious to our slightly battered and less-than-slightly surprised bodies.

And late that morning we made our tired way to one of the beds and, stripped, exhausted, battered -- but most importantly in love both as a mother and her son, and a woman and her new lover -- and that opening passage came to me again, because very soon:

There it was, no more than an inch from the very centre of me -- from parting my labial lips, no less -- and I had the strongest feeling that no matter how hard either of us tried to stop it, we wouldn't be successful. It was the most alarming, scary, heart-racing moment of my life.

I was giving myself to my own son. Willingly, happily, lustily.

It was alarming and scary and heart-racing -- because it was changing everything, changing our futures.

And I was as eager for that as Philip.