The Good Mother

She was looking at herself in the mirror. Watching her own reflection. She had nothing on. The sight startled me. Looking straight at that narrow waist, slender legs, the sheer nakedness of her ass with such soft buttocks. And that dark, curious divide between them. Her standing so straight and tall. I could not dismiss the feeling that I had no business seeing this.

In the mirror's reflection, I saw her front, one hand on a breast, holding it, feeling its weight. Plumping it a little. She bent her head down as if to examine each nipple, watching them thicken, extend out. Then something curious. She let go, then pinched a nipple between two fingers of one hand. Did the same to her other nipple. She lifted both breasts by the nipples, pulling the breasts up and out, stretching each breast, pulling each nipple out as far as possible. It had to have been a little painful. Maybe she liked that.

She let go, then let just the tips of her fingers drag down her skin, in slow motion, until she was touching herself between her legs, a finger reaching under, gliding along her slit. Reaching behind with the other hand, she caressed her ass before grabbing one cheek with her hand and pulling it out, away from the other, exposing her ass to me. Letting me see the little dark anal opening. Her eyes looking down toward the floor, as if she was all alone, no one to see such an intimate act. Her eyes slowly looked up, caught mine watching her in the mirror. It's why she was doing all of this. An appalling, nasty moment, holding her ass open for me to see. I adored it.

"My age is showing. It's in my face, my legs," she said, sighing a little, her eyes making a gesture of acceptance. She searched my face. At that moment I was contemplating her breasts. She knew.

"They're not pretty either . . . I'm getting old. They're beginning to droop."

It's true. The years were beginning to show. A wrinkle on her chin, crow's feet at the eyes, but only slightly. A few gray hairs in her soft fleece. None made a difference, not to me. And she knew that. She wanted me to see her naked, her fingers toying with her pussy, her hand caressing her ass. All of it deliberate, for me. Looking in the mirror, the image she saw behind her was of a son, eyes wide on her nude body, one of his hands massaging his prick, the other fondling his balls, in anticipation of getting hard. I couldn't help it.

I was struck by how dangerous all of this was.

Bending over, she rummaged through her suitcase. Her breasts, hanging down, suited that slender frame. With each move, they shifted in tandem. And between her legs the soft, small labia barely visible from behind. I was weak, beginning to idolize her. She seemed so normal once, now so flawless.

I imagined being inside her. What would that soft flesh feel like enveloping my hard-on, sucking it all the way in, snug and velvety, milking me into absolute bliss, then utter contentment. But this was not a girl at school who I could put a move on. This was my mother. I could not bring myself to ask permission. And she wasn't volunteering. We both knew she was calling the shots.

Stepping into the bathroom, still naked, she quietly bent over the little sink, turned on the tap, using a bar of soap and washcloth, rubbing her forehead and cheeks. Watching herself in the mirror above the sink. I watched from the bed. She, of course, knew I was surveying her body, exploring her flesh with my eyes. Every move she made.

I could see, in her profile, the curve of her backbone as she turned the faucet knobs, breasts swaying slightly, nipples still hard, slender arms rinsing out the washcloth. Then straightening and raising her arms up high to wash her armpits. Even that act seemed elegant. She finished, and with brush in hand, fussed with the snarls in her hair. She was so slender, more than some men would want. She was quite something to see.

To my surprise she straddled the toilet and sat down to pee. In a moment of sheer bravery, I got off the bed and walked into the bathroom. I could hear her stream starting, tinkling into the bowl. I dropped to my knees in front of her. No words between us. She simply spread her legs to let me watch. The stream widened into a gush, splashing onto the bowl above the water line. Her eyes were not on me, but on the view between her legs, watching herself pee. She knew the power of that. She knew the hold she had on me.

Despite being my mother, there had sprung up between us a kind of sexual camaraderie, a closeness I had not experienced with girls on campus, all three of them. This was different. I loved that we were so nasty together.

There was no one else in the world that morning. Just us in her room. A few birds chirping. Leftover rain dripping from the roof onto the window sill. Serenity and contentment. A languorous early naked morning. She stepped into her panties, reached for her dress. As she slipped it down her arms and over her bra, the morphing began. We took the stairs down to help make breakfast.

On the way home, we listened to pop music on the car radio, making our way past woodlands, over narrow bridges crossing thin creeks, and through one-stoplight towns. A few half-smiles from her. Shy ones. As we pulled into the driveway, she had slipped away entirely. It wasn't unexpected.

Now, eight thousand days later, the smell of her on that weekend -- the touch of her skin, the taste of her sex -- is as real to me as it was that morning driving away from the farm.

* * *

And then nothing. Weeks rolled by with no invitations back to the farm. Summer faded into fall, and fall into winter. She phoned me each week at the university. We talked as if our lives were normal. Like other mothers and sons do. I knew better than to broach the subject. I had to accept that she demanded a certain distance. So I curtailed my trips home, just for Thanksgiving and Christmas. From Dad I learned she had been to the farm twice in the fall, never telling me. As for those holidays, she was nice, polite, at arm's length.

I dated a few graduate assistants, got lucky with one. But as the young woman stepped into her panties to leave after spending the night, I looked away, guilty thoughts of my mother creeping in. This ceaseless yearning for her became an inextinguishable thirst. But also anger at the rejection. Nights ahead were without sleep, days filled with numbness. I was miserable.

* * *

February. I found myself traveling snowy two-lane back roads to the farm. I had driven from campus, pressed into service after my grandfather was hospitalized with pneumonia. Mother had driven over with Dad to help my grandmother. I was to relieve him for the weekend.

The drive was lonely and frigid. Gray skies, ice patches, flurries all the way. Country stores and small white churches here and there. Miles of frozen fields and empty tobacco barns. No one about.

We drove to the hospital -- my mother, grandmother and I -- then back to the farm by dark. No one else was there as we closed up the house for the night. A heavy downfall of snow began. We lit the fireplace, ate dinner and talked. Mother was guarded, inaccessible to me. I was glad to see her, but angry still. Gramma went to bed. Mother and I sat on the living room sofa, one of us at each end, and watched television. We uncorked wine, with little conversation. She seemed uninterested in my life for the past few months. Then, without a word, she started up the stairs, got halfway and turned.

"Are you ready?"

* * *

Icy, windy, bitter night. The unleashed power of a winter storm. Snow on the fields, snow blanketing the road. Snow piling atop tree limbs. A constant groaning of the rafters overhead. Our attic room warmed by the gas heater's blue flame dancing back and forth.

My mother turned off the lamp, instead lighting candles. They flickered, threatened to go out. She undressed in front of me, facing me. I sat on the bed in silence. Her shoes left by the door, her dress on the door knob. Her bra and panties on the floor at her feet. No longer any effort to conceal her body from me. The curve of her hips, the ivory color of her thighs barely illuminated. She slipped on a flannel nightgown. Stepping directly in front of me as I sat on the bed, she looked down at my face. A moment of mutual silence. Standing still. As if at attention. She spoke slowly.

"If you haven't figured it out by now, Michael, I have this dull, ordinary, middle-class life and a marriage that is wearisome. You're my escape. For a few hours I can be someone else. With you. Up here in this room I can be the woman I always wanted to be. But I always have to go back to the other me. I'm not a good mother, Michael. You deserve better. Your dad deserves better."

Reaching down, she raised the edge of her nightgown, pulled it up to her waist, naked, displaying for me the dark curls and the beginning of that divine slit between her parted legs. The vision of her pussy was enchanting. The rest of the room was lost in darkness.

"At night, every night," she said, "I take baths before bed. In steaming hot water I masturbate until I have an orgasm. Sometimes two. I think about us. I go to sleep thinking about being naked, with you watching. Other mothers don't do that. I think of me spreading my legs so you can see better. Wanting my own son to like me. I've spent too much time hating myself for these thoughts. I have to accept myself. I like the woman that I am in this room. I feel free here."

Holding the gown with one hand, she put her other between her legs. I could barely see her middle finger slide inside her vagina. She pulled it out. Brought it to her nose. "I've grown to love my pussy. A year ago I couldn't even say the word. Now, it's the center of who I am. You've brought life to me, made my body come alive. My pussy is on fire every time I think of being in this bedroom with you. No one else could do that for me."

My anger melted. Carefully she picked up the chair, to make no noise, and set it with its back a foot from the window. Snow sticking on the outside of the glass, piling up, as if to block out the storm. But in the room, darkness and warmth. And her. There was a reverence to it all. She undressed me, held my penis in her hand, squeezing gently. Watching it grow. Squeezing more until I was rock hard. She studied it as she stroked me a moment. She was invincible, completely in control.

"Come and sit."

I was obedient, sitting naked in the chair, my cock pointing and swaying in my lap. She faced me, stepped between my legs, lowered to her knees, bent her head down and, not using her hands, began to slowly slide her face against by raging prick. Letting her face, her cheeks feel the hotness in my erection. Her face gliding up and down along one side of my dick, then moving to the other side with her other cheek. Stopping, she raised her head a little and hovered it over the tip of my cock, looking down at it, slowly lowering her face, then parting her lips and taking me in her mouth, just the head of my erection. Gently sucking. Then just as quickly, she stopped and stood up.

With one hand she raised her nightgown to her waist and straddled the chair. Those soft pubic curls and the warmth of her pelvis almost against my chest. With eyes looking down on mine, she reached beneath her, took hold of my erection with her other hand, held it straight up and lowered herself, sliding my wet prick back and forth, between her legs, until she found the center of her opening.

The head of my prick, swollen and sensitive, could feel the warm, slippery, wrinkled flesh parting to let me in. Her pussy enveloped the head. She held it there for a second. Then with one swift move, she sat down on me, face to face, thrusting my dick farther in her. I was unprepared.

It felt full, my dick sliding snugly against all sides of this secret tunnel within her. She moaned, heat flowing from her body to my erection. The silken smoothness was overcoming, pushing all other thoughts of mine aside. Only this mattered. Like nothing I had known before. I grit my teeth to stave off ejaculating. A delirious hunger in my heart. Bringing her mouth close to my ear, she spoke barely above the sounds from the burning gas heater.

"You know, don't you, that we're casting our lot with the Devil. There's a special place in Hell for the likes of you and me. To be sure."

"I don't believe in Hell," I said.

"We'd better both hope you're right," she answered.

Feathery hidden muscles wrapped around my prick, pulling me, taunting me farther in. This prick was no longer mine. Heavy, ramrod hard, aching for relief. My body's energy, all of it in my arms, legs, chest, all of it absorbed down into my hard-on. The insides of it felt on fire. This dick was hers to do with as she wanted, trying to draw me deeper into her softness. I thought I was in as far as she could take me. But no. With a final push, she devoured me down to the base. Over our shoulders, gusts rattled the window pane. Her arms wrapped around my neck.

"Is this the mother you want?" she asked, her face an inch from mine, nose to nose, eyes on me. My nostrils filled with the scent of her skin, our sweat and the aroma of wine on her breath.

She turned her head away. Her voice low. Not meant for me. "Please forgive me this. I know how terrible I am."

To be that close to her. That's what I wanted. I knew in the instant it happened. Her face, her breath up against my own. Her pussy enveloping my cock. Nothing could compare. She sat up a little, straightening her back, moving back and forth with just the lower part of her body. Pushing her pelvis and clit against me hard. She found a rhythm, began grinding. I pushed with her, meeting her clit each time. Her face still in front of mine, nose to nose. Those breasts, loose through the flannel fabric, cushioning my chest. No matter that the gown was thick, I still could feel the hardness of her nipples. Overcome by it, I twisted my face down, bit the nipples hard through the cloth, pulled them with my lips. She winced.

"So this is the way you want it," she said. "Okay then."

In turn, she bit my neck with her teeth, hard. I gasped. Both of us trying to hurt the other a little. She dug her fingernails into my back, left marks. Her heat all down my front with a chill down my back from the leaky window.

As we rocked, my hands found their way under her gown, searching for her smooth ass. Sitting astride me caused her buttocks to pull apart, each side resting on one of my legs. My middle finger found the divide. Her breath grew heavier, stronger. I matched mine with hers until we were in tandem, rocking and breathing together. My finger progressing downward, inch by inch, until meeting the small anus, already wet from her sweat. I rubbed my finger around the opening. Her heat building fast, the rocking grew harder, quicker, then with abandon. Her thighs raised, tightening around my waist. I slipped the finger in her ass, just a little. It went in so easy.

"Oh," is all she said.

We rocked, my finger moving in and out, deeper inside, up to my knuckle and back. Her panting right at my ear, then biting her lip to stifle a groan. More panting, panting, panting. Stifling another groan, this one louder. She turned her head. Her breath all over my face. Heavy breathing. I could smell the wine and the sex building up from her pussy, filling up my nose. Panting loud and quick, non-stop. Until she froze suddenly. Both of us still, in anticipation for several seconds. She yielding to the sensations of my finger in her ass and her pussy impaled on my rock hard prick.

Suddenly, quickly, she heaved, squeezed her arms tight around my head. Ground her mound and vulva into me, groaned, then moved her mouth onto mine. Not a kiss. A scream. From her mouth into my throat, to muffle the noise. Holding her lips on mine as she rode her orgasm, on and on until it peaked.

Even on the downside there was a quivering in her stomach, giving way to spasms that I felt against me, her limbs shaking. Guttural sounds in her throat as my own pulsations began. My dick was getting hotter, my sperm moving up, pushing itself toward the head of my dick, then letting go, feeling it launch straight up, a fountain erupting inside of her. Three, maybe four bursts. The magic of passing it from me into her. All of it in the dark void we never see, only feel. Sweet seconds of ecstasy. She had a second climax as I came, shudders and groans, legs again squeezing against me. Then it was over. We clung to each other in the chair, beads of sweat dribbling from skin to skin.

"Nothing can exceed this," she said. "Nothing."

Then lying side by side on the bed, silent, the taste of sex lingering, the carnal smell. This immortal, incurable desire to come together. We cooled off, pulled blankets up and pressed close, facing each other, arms and legs tangled together. My disappearing erection, wet and sticky, wedged against the slippery opening between her legs.

"It's never been this good," she whispered, our faces touching. "I had no idea it could be like this. I could feel your semen splashing against the very back of me."

She reached under the covers, found my limp penis in its diminutive state.

"God I love your dick," she whispered, rubbing it along her opening. Then forced the head into her pussy, barely pushing it inside.

"Is it this way with other women? This good?"

I told her no.

"No? Why?"

"You're my mother. That's why."

She pulled my penis out of her pussy, then slipped her head under the sheet, moving down. Her ass sticking up in the air, covered by the blankets. I felt her lips surrounding my penis, gently sucking and licking. She climbed back out.

"I love cleaning you up. I never thought about that before." She smiled at me, a rare smile.

I put my hand on her cheek. "You mean everything to me," I said.

"So, you're not ashamed of me?"

"That would never happen."

She paused. "And do you like my pussy?"

"Like isn't the word. Obsessed with, I think."

"It's the same with me," she said. "I have such an appetite for this."

We drifted into sleep, for an hour or so. I awakened with my middle-aged mother lying on top of me, squirming around to rouse me, acting like an insatiable 18-year-old girl. I was barely awake. Her eyes still sleepy, hair askew. "I just have to do this. I can't wait," she whispered. "I've been thinking about it for months."

She rose to her knees, pushing the blankets down in back of her ass, scooted up and straddled my head. Her hands were braced on the backboard as she shifted her vulva, lowering it on my face, the soft downy hair right at my nose.

"Lick my cunt, Michael. Make me come."

She slid her pussy back and forth, rubbing it on my face, smothering my mouth and nose. Liquid smearing me. I had to close my eyes. There was the smell of her pussy, her sweat and mine, the taste of her soft fuzz. I stuck my tongue out as far as I could and just let her slide over and over it. Tongue in her slit, tongue at her clit. Her juices running down my chin. Part of it must have been the remains of my own semen. I had not known a woman could leak so much.

"There. Right there," she said as my tongue again met her clit.

She rocked harder. Speeded up. Soft moans from her lips, quick shallow breaths. Her body on fire. Her climax. This one lasted longer than the others. She pressed herself down on my face, hard as she rode the waves. I had trouble breathing but took as much as I could down my throat, getting the full taste of her fluids for the first time.

A moment's pause before she shifted her ass down to my ankles, leaned forward and took my half-swollen prick in her mouth. The crease in her buttocks was on my left foot. My big toe up against that anal opening. She rubbed her ass back and forth a little, feeling the sensation of it. She liked her ass. I could tell that.