The Forbidden Shore

"You can pay me back whenever you want. When Dad sends money, just transfer it over - remember it's OUR account. I'm so damn busy I don't have time to spend it right now anyway. This way you can get necessary things when you need them, not on Dad's BS say-so."

Squeezing her hand tightly, I said seriously, "Look Mom, when I'm running the deck on the Anna, I need to be on top of my game. If I'm worried about what's going on back here, I can't concentrate. That's not safe, either for the deckhands or me. Doing this gives me one less big thing to worry about. Besides, I also like the idea of you having a little folding money, being able to do stuff like taking Hilda to lunch at Amy's Tavern or going into Anchorage for a girl's day out."

Mustering my most persuasive tone, I pleaded, "Look, if you like, think of it as my Christmas present to you, okay?"

Abruptly, Mom burst into tears and pushed her chair back, rushing to sit in my lap, hugging me fiercely.

"Oh, Petey, you're so good to me, I can't stand it! What did I do to deserve such a wonderful son?" she snuffled into the crook of my neck.

I simply sat there and held her, savoring our contact, waiting for Mom to turn off the waterworks. I was well pleased with myself, my mission an unqualified success. Of course, holding this lovely woman in my lap inevitably led to certain...results. As I became hard beneath the weight of her shapely ass, I knew that my little secret wouldn't be so little or so secret in a matter of moments, but Mom showed no signs of vacating my lap.

I was nearly certain that she could feel my erection pressing on her behind, but she still made no sign and gave no indication of wanting to get up. Just when I thought I was going to have some very embarrassing 'splainin' to do, my stomach growled. Mom chuckled and wiped her tears with the heel of her palm, giving me a radiant smile that just about put me into fibrillation. Then she tweaked my nose with a laugh and got up, her hands lingering slightly on my thighs as she pushed off.

"Men and their appetites!" she teased with a twinkle in her eye. "Something always needs fed!"

"Appetites?" I thought to myself. "Plural?" Was Mom really playing that game with me? I asked myself.

Smoothing her pants as she stood, she reached for the coat hook and her parka.

"Are we going somewhere, Mom?" I asked in confusion.

"Well, my wonderful boy, there's not much in the cupboard. I figured we'd borrow Hilda's car and get something to eat in town, pick up a few things for the rest of the week."

I stood and perused the near-empty pantry and checked the refrigerator, smiling to myself as I tallied the inventory. "No need tonight, Mom," I grinned, taking her hand again. It seemed I was looking for any excuse to touch her and be close.

"We've got Campbell's, bread and cheese. Would you make me a TCS and tomato soup?" I gave her my best smile and Winsome Little Boy look. "I'd rather just stay here with you and sit by the fire."

Mom smiled and got a little misty. "My boy wants his favorite lunch, does he? Well, I suppose I could make that happen."

"Takk, mamma," I said, leaving a lingering kiss on her cheek. "Elsker deg."

"Love you too, you big lug. Now, when was the last time you had anything to eat?" she asked severely.

"I had a bacon sandwich and some coffee about 6 this morning."

"And nothing since?" Mom was scandalized. "Jesus, Peter, you need to take better care of yourself than that," she scolded.

"Ja, mamma," I said contritely.

A full can of soup, liberally dosed with butter and three TCS later, I sat back from the kitchen table, replete and very content. Mom joined me with her own sandwich and we shared a couple of sliced apples with the last of the cheese. Life was just about perfect.

Later, when we snuggled on the sofa, in front of the fire, Mom squeezed me affectionately and said, "Just because I fed you doesn't mean you're out of the doghouse, young man. You've been a very irritating person today, first with the car and then with the checking, but I suppose I'm going to have to forgive you...eventually. But I do want to set up some ground rules with you tomorrow about the money," she said firmly.

"Mom, you know I trust you completely. There's no need for that."

"I'm dead serious, Peter. I know you trust me. That's not the point."

"Then what is?" I asked, puzzled.

"What you did, Peter, it makes me feel...funny. Really good, but funny and a little uncomfortable, too. I just feel like I want to talk it out, so there are no misunderstandings."

I decided a light touch was called for. "What, don't you like being a kept woman?"

"Peter Heimdahl!" she gasped, color rising in her cheeks. "You are such an absolute brat!" she fumed, slapping my shoulder.

"Ow!" I bellowed, pretending agony. "My Mom is beating me! Help! Help!"

We both dissolved in laughter at that point. I rolled off the sofa, pulling her down with me. I landed on my back, her full length laid out on top of me. Greatly daring, I hugged her close and gave her a brief kiss on the lips. For the merest fraction of a second, it seemed like her lips slightly opened to me and then she rolled off me and stood, offering up a hand.

When we both sat back down on the sofa, Mom snuggled under my arm and put my hands around her waist and then put her arms over mine, saying, "Hold me, Peter. Hold me please."

I let my head loll to one side, ear resting on the top of her head, savoring the moment. We both nodded off in short order.

Some unknown time later, we were awakened by one of the burned through logs in the fireplace collapsing, a shower of sparks rushing up the chimney. I got up to stir the embers and put some more wood on the glowing coals, Mom stretching luxuriously. When I rejoined her, she snuggled back down with me, slightly startling me with her own light kiss on my lips. She prolonged it for a brief moment, just enough to set me flushing once more.

"I wish we could stay here all night," she sighed.

"Who's stopping us?" I asked, my heart accelerating again.

Sighing again, Mom touched my cheek and placed a finger on my lips, preventing me from talking. "It's not a good idea, sweetheart," she said softly. "I might forget who I'm with."

I began to speak, but Mom shushed me with more pressure from her finger and I subsided back into the cushions, ten thousand questions and impulses rushing around in my head. She sat up and regarded me with a strange stare, at once equal parts of motherly affection and...longing?

Removing her finger from my lips, she gave me another kiss, but this time very definitely lingering beyond any "proper" duration. Her lips parted oh, so slightly and I was stunned to feel the tip of her tongue on my lips for an indescribably wonderful moment.

Then she stood fairly abruptly, saying, "I need time to think, Peter. See you in the morning."

She walked quickly to her bedroom, casting one more inscrutable look at me over her shoulder, leaving me poleaxed on the couch. I heard her door close and then, most unusually, the lock being set.

Chapter 5

I got up from the couch and squatted in front of the fire, morosely stirring the glowing embers in front of me. I was so hard in my jeans it was quite difficult to hunker down and tend to the blaze. My balls felt like leaden cantaloupes, aching in the confines of the tight denim. I couldn't ever remember such feelings.

While the warmth of the hearth washed over me, I thought, "What does the locked door mean? Is it a simple need for privacy? Could Mom be doing something naughty in her room? Was it that she didn't trust me not to try and slip into her bed tonight?"

That thought rankled. I wound never do anything Mom didn't want or ask for, never. Didn't she trust me?

For a moment I toyed with the notion that it was because she couldn't trust herself, and then I got a grip.

"Don't be an idiot, Peter," I thought. "Your little brain is making you big-time stupid."

Still, I had felt that our simple dinner and evening together was magical. There was something in the air between us and I had a steadily growing feeling that whatever "it" was, "it" went in both directions.

My mind ran in aimless, dithering circles, bouncing between poles of horny optimism and abject despair. Now with Mom's abrupt retirement to bed, I had the feeling of sand running through my fingers, escaping my grasp forever.

I put the fireplace tools away quietly, taking care not to rattle them and disturb Mom. I took myself to bed, wearily collapsing in beneath the covers, still wearing my long underwear.

As tired as I was, no amount of sheep counting or mantra chanting could bring me the welcome oblivion I needed so acutely. The memory of Mom's last kiss replayed itself over and over again in my head with high definition clarity and before long, I had a problem that demanded an immediate solution. I was so wound up, once wasn't even close to enough. I innundated the inside of both of my socks, my orgasms absolutely tectonic in intensity. Even then, I slept poorly.

I awoke with a start the next morning, flat gray light anemically and barely illuminating my old room. Mom had kept things pretty much the way they had always been since I graduated high school. It was familiar and comforting on one level, but also depressing on another. I took little solace from the memories evoked by all of the poorly seen, but clearly remembered childhood artifacts and memorabilia lining the darkened shelves.

Glancing outside, I could see light flurries dusting the fir trees beyond my window. The air seemed heavily silent, hushed and vaguely tense. I felt an ill-defined apprehension, a feeling of expectancy that mixed equal parts of dread and groin-tightening excitement. A great weight seemed to press on the entire world around me. Suppressing my anxiety with a sigh, I heaved myself up and headed to the bathroom for my shower.

As I woke beneath the hot spray, I relived the previous evening's events and before long, my erection clamored for relief. My memories morphed to long-suppressed wishes and desires and after just a few minutes, I painted the shower curtain, my climax corresponding with the recollection of the last kiss of the evening. I came so hard I practically saw stars, my legs buckling as I slid to the floor of the shower.

"Oh, Mom!" I cried softly, watching the gobs of my spend swirl around the drain and into blackness, lost it seemed, for good.

Struggling back to my feet, I thought I heard a floorboard creak in the hallway, but I couldn't be sure. A few minutes later, I entered the kitchen; fresh sweats on, wet hair slicked back. I was already sporting a half-woodie as I saw Mom for the first time that day.

She looked...just like Mom. Wearing man pajamas and a worn, quilted red housecoat, it seemed like any other morning at home I could remember from the previous twenty-odd years of my life.

"Good morning, lazybones!" she called cheerfully, favoring me with a dazzling smile. "I'm glad you're up early. We've got a lot to do today!" My spirits lifted immediately. Mom took the skillet off the stove and divided a batch of scrambled eggs between us, along with toast made from the last of the bread and big, steaming mugs of black coffee. We both dug in immediately and were soon engaged in our usual early morning banter.

Part of me was upset that there seemed to be no acknowledgment of our previous evening together, but another part was very relieved that we seemed to be back to "normal," whatever that was for us these days. In any event, I was very glad that Mom didn't seem upset.

While Mom rinsed the dishes and I put them in the dishwasher, the phone rang. Mom answered, and then handed it to me, simply saying, "It's Bert."

We spoke for about two minutes, Bert saying that he had replaced the solenoid and starter on the Ford and done a full tune up and alignment. Bless him, he'd stayed late the previous evening, getting it all done. We arranged for Dave to pick me up, and a half hour later, I was heading back up to the house, about $450 poorer. The money was well spent though. The old pickup was now running like a top.

I found mom (where else) in the kitchen, making a list for shopping, a frown furrowing her brow as she wrote on a piece of scrap paper.

"Oh, Peter!" she exclaimed disconsolately, "What are we going to do for our holiday dinner? The markets are going to be all picked over. I so much wanted to cook something nice!" It had long been Mom's tradition to do the big holiday meal the day before Christmas, so that we could be lazy on the holiday and eat delicious leftovers.

Unknown to Mom, I already had a plan in place. Sitting next to her, I squeezed her hand and said, "We'll talk about it as we shop for the rest of the stuff, okay?"

True to Mom's prediction, the Safeway was pretty well decimated of holiday fare. There were still a fair number of frozen turkeys, but there was no way we'd be able to thaw one in time to cook for tonight for our traditional Christmas Eve dinner. We did pick up a lot of basic stuff to restock the larder, but Mom was disappointed. I let her buy a small beef roast, knowing that we'd be freezing it later, rather than using it, and this seemed to satisfy her need for a holiday entree.

We finished in about a half hour. By then it was lightly snowing and the parking lot was getting slushy. We decided to leave the cart at the front of the store and load up there. Mom surprised me as we walked back to the car, taking my hand in hers.

Very surprised, but happy, I turned to look at her. She was already staring back at me. She smiled shyly and blushed a little, but said nothing. I was used to walking with her with my arm around her shoulders, which I had done for forever, but this was different. I felt like I was fourteen all over again, holding Angela Lepowski's sweaty hand in mine on my first real date.

The difference was not that my heart was pumping fit to burst, which it was, nor that I was nervous. Nervous doesn't even come close to what I was feeling. That instant when her fingers intertwined with mine was so terrifyingly perfect, it felt like simply breathing would cause the moment to shatter like the most delicate of crystals.

I couldn't have inhaled anyway. I had that feeling in my chest like the first time I had ever had the wind knocked out of me. I was ten years old and playing in my first Pop Warner football game. I had tried to make a tackle against a sweep and got flattened by the pulling guard, a kid 2 years older and a good fifteen pounds heavier than me.

As I lay on the ground then, gasping like a beached codfish, I thought for sure I was dying. Right at the instant Mom's hand found mine, I felt the same way. Only this time, if I was expiring, it was from pure happiness.

Of course, it all ended too quickly. I handed her into the car, brushed the snow off the windows and drove to the store exit, where we packed up. Mom's hand found mine again on the ride home, to my everlasting delight and then we were back, time resuming its normal frenetic pace.

Once we got everything unpacked, I told Mom that I had one more errand to run and would be back before noon, saying that we would tackle everything together when I got back.

As I headed out the door, I fixed her with a mock-serious glare, saying, "I mean it, Mom. Don't go burying yourself in the cooking until I'm back. I want to be there and do it with you, okay? I'm looking forward to it."

We shared one more kiss that hung right on the edge of something more and she swatted me. "Daylight's burning, you big lug. Get your stuff done and don't keep me waiting," she teased.

More seriously, she added "And, Peter, drive carefully, all right?" ever my mother.

I found myself in the old Ford, grinning like an idiot. I didn't remember putting my coat back on or walking out to the truck. Shaking my head, I actually looked out the window to confirm my footprints leading to the door of the F150. I had to convince myself that I hadn't floated out of the house, feet never reaching the ground.

Chapter 6

I cranked the key in the ignition and the old truck fired up with a smooth purr. I sat for a minute while the defroster did its work and contemplated my strategy for the morning. The first thing I did after Mom's truck was towed the day before had been to call an old friend in Anchorage who owed me a favor or two.

Tony, my best buddy from high school, was working as a physician's assistant at Providence Hospital there and doing pretty well for himself. I explained what I wanted to do for Mom for our holiday meal and he was on board immediately, being well acquainted with my father's past antics.

Not only did Tony shop for the fresh turkey, fixings and wine I asked him to track down, he suggested meeting me halfway, saving me the rather long round trip into Anchorage. He handed the goodies off to me in Stirling and I wished him and his new wife happy holidays. I was a little ticked at the amount of pleading I had to do to get him to take the two Ben Franklins I had earmarked for his troubles, but that's the kind of guy he is, one of my best friends.

I did not tell Mom what I was up to, other than that I had an errand to run and would be gone a couple hours. When I showed up just before noon with the care package, she was overwhelmed. Tears in her eyes, she scolded me furiously about it, until I silenced her with a hug, saying, "I just want a nice, normal Christmas with my favorite girl. I don't know when we'll be able to do this again and I want it to be special."

Wiping her tears, Mom hugged me fiercely once more and jolted me with a firm, closed kiss on the lips that lingered again just long enough to set my heart going like a trip hammer. After a short discussion, we unpacked all the goodies, agreeing that we would invoke our old tradition and have our holiday meal today, on Christmas Eve, then lazing about Christmas Day and enjoying leftovers.

We had a wonderful time fixing our dinner. When I unpacked the box, I found out that Tony had slipped me a double mickey, the sneaky bastard. I had asked him to pick up a decent Rhine wine for the dinner, as it's one of Mom's favorites, but instead I found two bottles, a French white burgundy and a Trockenbeerenauslese Riesling that must have cost at least eighty or a hundred bucks all on its own. There was a small card attached to that one, saying, "Merry Christmas to Peter and his Mom with love from Tony and Amanda."

I showed it to Mom and she welled up all over again, saying, "You have a good friend in Tony. Be sure to thank him for me the next time you see him."

In the end, the temptation of the Poilly Fume was too great and we started imbibing during our prep of dinner. I made the candied yams, roasted carrots and mashed potatoes and helped chop up the onions, mushrooms and celery for the cornbread stuffing. Per our longstanding, but often-unperformed, tradition, Mom took charge of the bird. We had everything done within an hour and by then, both of us were already two glasses of wine across the yardarm. We joked and teased throughout the whole morning and early afternoon, our slight tipsiness making us behave like a couple of kids.

Mom started it by depositing some wet potato peels down my neck. As I squawked indignantly while the cold water ran down my back, she grinned wickedly and said, "That's for spending too much on your Mom's car and for the meal, you big spoiler!"

As I danced and squirmed to extract the peels from under my shirt, I retorted, "Just remember this, you minx, revenge is a dish best served cold. You'll never know when I will extract my vengeance!"

Sticking her tongue out, Mom shot back, "Do your worst, you big brute!"