The Good Mother

Her fingers flicking my balls. Tongue swirling around the head of my prick. I could feel it thickening against the roof of her mouth. It was steely hard in no time. Just watching her lips sliding up and down was enough to coax my sperm up the shaft. I loved the sensation of it erupting out of my prick, knowing in the dark that it was filling her mouth, shooting down her throat. She swallowed most of it, licked up the rest with her tongue.

For years I'd had fantasies of meeting the perfect bed mate, someone on the same page as me, who liked crossing the line into a little perversion. Who relished all the tastes and smells. It's just that I had trouble accepting the idea of it being my own mother.

Both of us were at the far borders of morality.

* * *

Spring. The farm seemed wondrous to me by then. The sweet smells of earth, crops beginning to thrust up from the dirt, the cool morning air. Life in farm country comes alive in the spring. And so it was also in the attic. The sweet smells of her warm flesh, the soft moist area between her open legs. Night air stoking this hunger for flesh. It permeated everything.

The workload for my grandparents proved too much. They leased out the land to other farmers, keeping just the house and barn. So my mother and I began driving back every other weekend to help with the upkeep. Each bringing our own cars. I pulled Granddad's mower out of the barn and cut the front, back and side yards of the house while Mother helped Gramma tend the flower bed and vegetable garden. We washed windows, swept the porch.

As always, we'd help close down the house for the night, watch television until the grandparents seemed asleep, then vanish up the attic stairs. Bolt the door, strip off our clothes. No time to waste. We were riding a hot streak, ravenous and determined to indulge each other. Beyond that, nothing much mattered.

Our lives, my mother's and mine, intertwined, measured out in long nights of shuddering flesh, muffled screams, dripping fluids and damp sheets. In that room ours was a world of unending thirst. We wallowed in its fragrance. Wine seemed to be the catalyst.

"Walk around the room," she would say. "I like to watch your dick moving and swinging."

So I'd model a little for her while she lay on the bed. I marveled at how different my mother had become in private with me. She liked watching my nakedness. I loved doing it. I relished the fullness of my dick as I moved about, hanging down thick but not yet erect. It felt manly to let her see me in that state. Swinging and swaying, balls bouncing a little. I'd stop and stroke in front of her. Then I'd will my prick to jerk a little without touching it. Silent applause from her.

"Come here. Closer," she would say.

I'd step in and she would reach for my balls, feeling their weight, holding and fondling. Playing with them really.

"Turn around."

She liked to look at my butt. I never understood why. She caressed it. Squeezed each cheek. I would pull away and step to the bathroom, still semi-hard, leaving the door open. Engorged enough to make me seem long and thick, but not so stiff that I couldn't take a leak. I stroked myself a little, then let the muscles relax and the pee flow. Inevitably, she would jump off the bed.

"I want to hold it," she would say, rushing in.

So we would stand at the toilet, side by side, her holding my dick, aiming and watching the pee splash into the water.

I wanted as much from her.

On the bed, I would tell her to "assume the position."

In one smooth motion, she would turn over, up on her knees, elbows on the mattress, lifting her ass up high for me to see. Her naked ass facing me, the dark divide pulled apart, her ass hole on deliberate, blatant display, a lightly dark areola around the hole. Her small labia making an appearance too. Obscene, nasty, beautiful. She would lay her head on the bed.

From underneath she could reach between her legs, her middle finger easing along the line of her narrow slit, slipping her finger inside, moving it around to make squishing sounds. Intentional, of course. She'd slip another finger in, then two more, all four fingers in her, moving in and out of her pussy, slow but forceful. By then I was on the brink of eruption.

"Oh God, that's tight," she would say.

I would lean closer, stick my tongue out and lick her ass hole, for several long minutes as she tended to her pussy. She loved the dual feeling. And the disgusting, unacceptable nastiness of what we were doing. It was enough to get me going.

"But don't come. Not yet. Not til I do," she would say. We would climax together. The best of course, was being inside her. Face to face. All that warmth surrounding my throbbing, swollen prick. Hardness enveloped by her softness. Close-fitting, comfortable, secure. I didn't want ins-and-out that were jack-hammer-fast. Taking it slow at first, in and out, back in. Slow but forceful, so she could feel the strength of my dick. Her eyes, looking into mine, narrowed, almost as if she were falling asleep. Each muscle of her body, each nerve beginning to relax. One at a time. One moment after another, surrendering her body completely to me. Letting the moments happen.

Then rocking, my pelvis against her clit. Falling into a rhythm. Her thighs raised to my waist. My pelvis pushing more, putting pressure on her clit. Heat building between us. Both of us intoxicated by each other's bodies, both slipping into some far off world, rocking toward ecstasy.

Then a little grunting from her, legs raised higher, wrapping around me. A message to begin longer thrusts, slow but long. All the way in, pushing to get as close to the end of this tunnel as possible. Then pulling most of the way out, then back in. More grunts meant for me to do it faster, harder. Beads of sweat dribbling down our skin, becoming rivulets, trickling down my waist, wetness seeping from her pussy, all of it onto the sheet.

I plunged and plunged into her, her body arcing, jerking, pushing hard against me. Finally, her biting my neck, teeth grinding into me, gasping for her breath. On and on and on. Until it was over. But we stayed locked together until the cool down. Not wanting to give up those moments.

Other times we would talk, lying side by side on the bed, both of us naked. She would lay her arm over my thighs and play with my balls and my prick, even if it was soft. Slowly, casually rolling my balls around and running a finger around my penis. Using her finger to absorb any droplets, tasting them on her lips. If I started getting hard, she would stop, let me calm down. Then begin again. She loved seeing me when I wasn't hard. Loved the softness of it. All of this while talking, talking.

Or sometimes turnabout. Me playing with her clitoris. Still side by side, talking, my hand on her abdomen, sliding a finger over her slit, enough to make her wet. Then dip my finger in her pussy, soak up some of the lubrication and use it to caress her clit. Getting her juices going. Then stop, letting her rest. Do it again. Starting, stopping, talking.

"Do you like eating my cunt?"

"Of course."

"And my ass. You lick it and finger it a lot. Do you like that? You don't have to, you know."

"And do you like it?" I asked back.

"Yes. Yes. Yes, she said. It's so vile and vulgar. Don't you just love the decadence? Do other women like it?"

"Some do. Most don't," I said.

I mounted her every way we could. We were like a long-married couple. Used to the rhythms of our sex. Falling into habits. Knowing the pleasure that was coming but not yet burned out.

"Does what we're doing horrify you? It does me," she asked. "It's so immoral."

We had been naked on the bed, just before dark. She was stretched out on her back, her head in my lap as I sat cross-legged. I was playing with her nipples. I lied to her.

"No. It doesn't bother me. It's our business. No one else's." I touched her pussy, slipped a finger inside to feel her wetness beginning.

"It frightens me sometimes," she said. "But then I'm obsessed with this beautiful dick of yours," turning her head in my lap just enough to kiss the shaft of my hard prick, which she was holding beside her ear.

"All of life tied up in these momentary little orgasms," she said. "These little acts of pleasure." She had a wistful smile as her fingers maintained their grip on my prick. "Without them, there would be no civilization at all. It's the meaning of life."

Some days were arduous, long hours of helping my grandparents, too tired at night to fuck. Instead, I would massage her back and legs, fingers kneading her flesh. Then I lay between her legs, probing her vulva with a finger, or my tongue. Teasing her clit. Until she would come. Not a shattering orgasm. Just enough to relax her. That intimacy was enough for me. Then sleep.

"This lust is consuming me, devouring me," she said one night.

"But you like it, don't you? I mean the sex," I asked.

"Sometimes I feel I was born for nothing else but this," she said. "That my other life is unimportant. I know that's wrong. All of this is so wrong. But I'm starved for it. Is there ever a way to stop?"

"I don't want to stop," I said.

"I don't think I can," she whispered.

* * *

As all good sons should do, back home I visited my parents at least once a week, usually for Sunday dinner, or some Saturday night grilling on the back patio if we weren't at the farm. My mother was her usual self. Talkative but holding back. At Christmas I kissed her cheek. She smiled. In a private moment I caressed her face.

"Don't go there," she said.

I knew that would never change. So I lived to climb the attic stairs. That's where my real life was. Wanting it to last forever.

* * *

I hadn't counted on meeting Judy. How rapidly everything changed. A friend had set us up. My mother, after having one dinner with her at our house, said our nights in the attic would have to end. "Judy's your future. She's the one." Mother was right, of course. Our courtship moved along quickly.

Trips to the farm had gone on for two years. Never in those long attic nights did we even talk about the future. But we both knew this day would come.

About the same time, both my grandparents moved to nursing homes. The farmhouse went up for sale. The family moved out all the belongings. One of my cousins wound up with most of the attic furniture. Another took the bed. She would never know the history of it.

My father, mother and I drove over one weekend to make sure nothing was left behind. We walked the rooms. He went out to check the barn. Mother and I headed up the stairs to her empty room.

"I had hoped he wouldn't come," I told her. "I know," she said.

We looked out the window, could see him walking around the barn. The two of us moved away from the window. We looked at each other in silence. Her eyes were sad. Before I could say anything, she reached under her sun dress and pulled down her panties. Stepped out of them. Then sniffed them, as she had done before. She handed them to me.

"So you never forget," she said with a slight smile.

She pulled her dress up to her waist, affording me one last look at her pubic hair, her pussy. She looked down at it too. We heard a noise. Our moments had run out. Dad would be back in the house. She let the dress hem fall to her knees and started down the attic stairwell, which even in daytime was almost dark. Halfway down, she turned around and flung her arms around my neck. Mine went to her waist. Faces side by side.

I kissed her cheek, then her neck. Finally her lips. She surprised me and slipped her tongue inside. After all those nights in the attic, our first real kiss. We had only seconds. It was urgent, her mouth hot, her tongue strong against mine. She groaned, pulled me hard against the softness of her breasts. Her thighs clamped around one of my legs. She squeezed them tight. Still a hunger for each other. She tasted like cinnamon. I wanted her closer. But there was no time. My cheeks were wet as she pulled away. Her eyes watery.

As I heard my dad's voice coming back into the house, I jammed the panties in my jeans' back pocket. We pulled out of the driveway. My mother looked up at her window. It would be the last time we would see the farm house.

Hours later, back in my apartment, I locked the door, sat on my sofa, pulled out the panties. I held them in my hands, then buried my face in the crotch. And breathed in.

* * *

On the beach at Ocean Isle one summer morning, years after Judy and I were married, we lazed on lounge chairs in the sand, watching my mother search for seashells down at the edge of the water with our two children. Mother would bend down on one knee, pointing out a shell here and there, wiping the sand off and showing them. The kids, they were seven and five years old then, would squat and look, then put them in their plastic bucket. Smiles all around. Such a beautiful day.

"All she has is a simple, modest black swimsuit, and her hair is mussed up by the breeze," Judy said. "It's so average. So typical of a woman her age. But there's a certain beauty about her. There in the curve of her mouth, the softness in her eyes, a real grace. She wears time so well. What I wouldn't give to look that good when I'm 70."

She looked not at me, but out at my mother and the kids. "Slim, still toned. All that poise and self-assurance," she said. And then, in a flat, matter-of-fact voice, Judy said: "I can understand what you saw in her."

She looked at me without a smile. Then back at my mother and the kids.

"I know about you and your mother," she said calmly.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm not mad at you. But I do know. I've always known."

"Someday I'll want you to tell me about it," she said. "Not now, but someday. And I'll want to know everything. Do you understand? I need you to promise that you'll tell me."

What else could I do but nod my head.

* * *

Time runs out for all of us. At first it was my father, and eventually for my mother too. As I came to grips with her death, Judy kept telling me she had a long, good life. "And we gave her some grandchildren to love." That helped.

We were in bed one night, lights out.

"How did it start?" she asked, her face close to mine. "Tell me from the beginning."

I had no option but to take Judy through our history. Each night, as we lay in bed, she pressed me for more. "And then what?" she would say, over and over. My answers were graphic. She demanded the smallest of details. "What did her nipples feel like?" "Were her pussy lips like mine?" Which makes sense. My wife loves sex, not just doing it. Talking about it, watching porn, you name it.

For our honeymoon, we had strolled the canals and alleyways of Amsterdam's red-light district, mostly for the sex shows. We took the train south to nude beaches on the Mediterranean. You get the picture. A woman after my own heart. A modest woman, a proper woman to those who know her. Underneath dwells a perverse taste for sex. One that only I am privy to. She wanted to know every lurid detail. I told her all I remembered. In a way, she is just like my mother.

"I'm betting she loved to be naked a lot," Judy said in one of those nighttime talks. I nodded.

"What did her pussy taste like? Did she ever want more than one finger in her ass?

"I know you love it when I come on your face. Did you two do that?"

One night we had too much bourbon, our drink of choice by then, and Judy told me she wanted to play a game.

"Pretend I'm your mother and fuck me like you did her." She bought a sundress, put her hair up off her neck, as my mother always did, and got up on all fours on the bed. I came into her from behind, just as I'd described one of my mother's favorite positions. It was the first of what would be many nighttime mother-son games that we still play.

On that night, she lay on top of me after our sex, then a long silence before raising her head from my chest.

"You do know, don't you, that she wasn't a bad mother at all. She may have said she was, but she wasn't. She told you all the time that you deserved better."

"I don't know what to think," I said.

"She may have held back on the things other mothers give, the affection and all," Judy said. "But in the end, she gave you something she couldn't give to anyone else: her real self. She wouldn't give herself, couldn't give herself, to anyone else. She trusted only you."

"If you look at it that way, she really loved you. She wasn't a terrible mother at all. She really was a good mother," she said. "Don't make this too complicated, Michael. She loved you in her own way. Okay, so it was incest. Call it what you will. She still loved you and that was the important thing."

So there it is. To this day, I still wonder how many other mothers and sons have done what we did. Very few is my guess. And those that did will, like me, keep it secret for the rest of their lives. But it interests me. What are their memories?

I suppose I will always wonder about my mother and me. Maybe this is a love story after all. She was like no other woman.

"I'm telling you," Judy said. "She really was a good mother."

Maybe she's right.

End