tagIncest/TabooA Tale of Two Mothers

A Tale of Two Mothers

byrbuchanan©

I – My Evil Stepmother

Why is it stepmothers are always portrayed as wicked? I'm thinking of all the old fairy stories - you know, Snow White, Cinderella, etc. - where the stepmother is always the villain of the piece. Maybe it has something to do with an (inevitably) younger woman replacing mother, breaking up the happy home, and causing pain and suffering to all concerned. (If that sounds a bit sexist it's probably because it is. For some reason the guilty husband is never branded in quite the same way - it's almost as if everybody understands how an older man can fall under the spell of a beautiful young woman, and they blame the woman not the man). But whatever the reason stepmothers are portrayed this way in fiction, in my case it wasn't just poetic licence, my stepmother really was wicked.

In fact she was a downright evil bitch!

It started when I was sixteen. My father and mother split up and father married a woman fifteen years his junior. As a result Mother was ousted from the family home and the new woman moved in. I have to say I hated her from the start, and I guess the feeling was probably mutual. I should explain this all took place many years ago - before the days of women's lib - and mother ended up losing her house, home, and family. It wouldn't happen today, but back then she was conned out of everything she had, including the prospect of a comfortable retirement. At the time I didn't really understand what was happening, and it was only a couple years later (when I was 18) I realised what she'd given up.

I guess I need to take time to explain how it all happened, not only because it sets the scene for my story, but also because in may in part justify what I did later. I like to think I'm an ordinary human being, and I don't want you to go away with the impression what I did was perverted and wholly unjustified. I mean it may well have been perverted, but I hope when you hear my tale you won't think it unjustified.

Anyway it wasn't entirely my fault and I didn't do it alone. I had a partner in crime - my mother to be exact!

I don't really know for sure why Mum and Dad split. If I had to guess I'd say it was Dad's roving eye that caused the problem - he was a real sucker for the Ladies. He was a charming man and I loved him very much, but he wasn't the strongest character in the world. I don't think he went out of his way to seduce other women; he just couldn't turn it down when it was offered on a plate. Unfortunately his charm and personality meant it was always being offered in three course meals, not just plates, and he seemed to have a ravenous appetite!

As I understand it, father did a deal with Mom when they split. The house was in his name and so was the business so he kept both, but he agreed to give mother a generous living allowance if she was prepared to leave and find a new life for herself. She agreed, partly because she loved my Dad very much and trusted him implicitly and partly for my sake. She thought if she went I could stay in my home, and as my Dad was a fairly wealthy man, I'd be better off in the long run.

So the deal was done and Mom moved into a rented flat in London. She didn't get any guarantees in writing as she trusted Dad, and for the first couple of years it all seemed to be working out. Mom wasn't very happy suddenly living alone at 55, but she had enough money to live on and I visited her every other weekend, staying overnight in her flat, so she felt she could make a life for herself.

My new Stepmother's name was Julia, and I have to say I wasn't very happy either. Julia was in her mid thirties and a right stuck-up bitch. She worked as a manager in the local hospital (which was unusual for a woman in those days), and she was as hard as nails. When she was around everything had to be clean and tidy and perfectly ordered. My home was replaced by a 'show house' for all the local dignitaries to visit, and she was forever castigating me for being untidy and disorganised.

After Mom left she employed a professional housekeeper to run the house, and Maria, the housekeeper, was almost as bad as Julia. She moaned at me constantly about the state of my room and my 'noisy' music, and sometimes I got the distinct impression she was under orders from Julia to try and drive me out. They'd both come down on me all the time for stupid little things (like leaving my coat on the bed), and they'd act as if I'd done something really terrible or disgusting. After just six months I was under such pressure I seriously thought about getting myself a flat, but I hated Julia so much I wasn't prepared to give her the satisfaction of forcing me out.

I tried talking to Dad about the problem but it was no use. He was infatuated with Julia, and as I've said he wasn't a particularly strong character. Mind you I could understand what he saw in her. She was a tall elegant woman with shoulder-length blond hair, who was always immaculately dressed in her smart, well-tailored, business suit. She spoke real classy, and she had these amazingly large breasts which always seemed on the verge of bursting through the top of the suit. Occasionally she'd leave a button or two undone; displaying the most daunting cleavage I ever did see. I don't know how she did it but she had this incredible erotic presence, and she eluded an aura of sexuality which would flood over you in waves. I mean she could turn you on (well she could turn me on anyway!) just by standing in the same room as you, and if she hadn't have been such a bitch I'd have fallen under her spell instantly. As far as I could tell she seemed to have the same effect on virtually every man she met, and it was no wonder she'd got such a high position in the hospital.

Julia, of course, was well aware of the effect she was having on all those around her, and she used her sexuality to make my Dad do whatever she wanted. Unlike most women she always dressed sexy when Dad was home, and she never seemed to get fed up with it or need encouragement. Her skirts were always shorter than when she was working, her cleavage more pronounced, and she would focus on those things a man finds particularly sexy. Stiletto heels, for instance, and fully-fashioned black seamed stockings were the standard evening attire. My dad always seemed to be drooling over her, but as much as I hated him for it, I was rapidly becoming a man myself and I could see where he was coming from. She was an unbelievably sexy woman, and I have to confess I masturbated many times to visions of her taking off her clothes for me and letting me fondle her breasts or stroke her stockings. I may have hated her but that didn't stop me wanting to bang the life out of her. I was only human after all!

So, as you can see, it was a pretty strange set-up in our house, what with Julia and the housekeeper.

We lived in Wimbledon in South London and the house wasn't that big, just four bedrooms, so it didn't take me long to start to wonder exactly what Julia saw in my Dad. He was quite a lot older than her, and although charming, it seemed to me she could have had many younger and more attractive men without any effort on her part. In the end I realised it was his business she was after (and the money of course). He owned and ran a number of private Rest Homes in the London area, and he was gradually expanding and opening more all the time. I think Julia saw great financial potential in this business and her ambition was to take over and control the whole enterprise.

The problems for my mother began when Julia decided she didn't want Dad wasting money giving it to Mum. I don't know how she did it but she persuaded Dad to go and see Mum and tell her he couldn't afford her allowance anymore. He told her he was sorry but he needed the money for the business. Obviously Mum got upset and angry with him and they had a blazing row, but Dad dug his feet in and left telling her he would stop the allowance the following month. When Mum got legal advice she discovered because she'd left of her own accord, and nothing was signed, she didn't have a leg to stand on.

Mother, as you can imagine, was devastated and left with no choice but to find herself a job. To her credit she found work as manageress in a dry cleaning shop, which although a come-down for her at least provided enough income to survive. Her life, however, had been changed beyond recognition, and she felt as if all her efforts up to that point had been entirely wasted. Understandably she became pretty depressed.

I was furious when I found out and I angrily confronted my father and stepmother. What on earth were they doing, I demanded to know. How could they do that to my Mother when Father was getting more wealthy, not less? I screamed and shouted at both of them, but it didn't do me any good. Dad just retreated in to his shell and mumbled something about needing the money, and Julia just told me it was none of my 'damn business', and to keep my nose out of it.

I remember standing in front of her, seething inside and eyeing her angrily, but she just stood there defiantly. Eventually I became abusive and she too got angry. She moved right up close and confronted me. I tried to tell her what I thought of her, but even in that situation I couldn't help being distracted by her cleavage which, as her anger increased, was heaving up and down only inches from my eye-line. Part of me wanted to look her in the eye and shout at her and tell her what a bitch she was, but another part of me wanted to drag down my gaze and feast on those magnificent breasts. Unfortunately it tends ruin the effect of an argument when you're shouting in someone's face but looking at their tits!

So anyway the deed had been done and there was nothing I could do. Julia was clearly in charge of our family and Dad and I had both been relegated to bit-players. I guess it wasn't so bad for dad, at least he could fuck Julia whenever he wanted, all I could do was swallow my pride and discharge my emotions by masturbating to visions of tearing off her clothes and raping the bitch!

It's strange you know, but back then I never thought I'd actually have a chance to do just that!

II – My Loving Mother

Over the following couple of years I spent a lot of time with Mum, comforting, consoling, and encouraging her. She'd had a pretty hard time of things, and as her job barely covered her outgoings, she had no money left to enjoy herself or meet people. As I said, I stayed with her every other weekend and we did things together. I suppose I was her only source of entertainment and joy in life.

Slowly, however, she got more and more down, and I resorted to visiting her every weekend for a while, just to try and life her spirits. I guess as a nineteen year old teenager I should have been out enjoying myself, meeting girls and having a good time, but I simply couldn't abandon Mum after what Julia and Dad had done. Mum and I became very close during this period - too close some might say.

Why might they say that?

Well, because something happened one weekend in February which changed my relationship with mother irrevocably. There was snow on the ground that day, and the train I took to visit her was late. I was frozen when I got there, and Mum, obviously worried about me, was very concerned when I arrived.

"You shouldn't come and see me in this weather," she said fussing about me, taking off my overcoat and rubbing my hands to get them warm.

"It's Ok," I replied with a smile. "No problem. The snow is fun, and let's face it we don't see it that often." As usual I was trying to make light of her concerns, not wanting to put her under any pressure.

Mother was fifty-seven by then. She was about average height (a couple of inches shorter than me), and very slim. She had short mousy brown hair which curled at ends and, unlike Julia, fairly small breasts, but she was still quite a good looking woman. Although she rarely used make-up these days or anything to bring out the best in herself, she was a very old-fashioned woman and in her eyes a certain degree of presentation must always to be maintained. She was normally smartly dressed in a skirt and thin sweater, and she always smelt of lavender. Her shoes tended to be flat or low heels, and although tights were in fashion by then, she continued to wear the light brown stockings she'd always worn. I knew that because occasionally I'd get a glimpse of her stocking-tops as she bent over. Mother had nice legs and I guess a guy looks - even if it is his mother.

I remember mother seemed especially low that weekend, and overly worried about me and the trouble I'd taken to visit her. I think she was becoming concerned about the amount of time I was spending with her, and the fact I was, as she put it, 'missing my teenage years'.

"You shouldn't keep bothering about me," she insisted. "I'm alright, really I am. You don't need to worry so much. I'm happy in my little flat and I keep myself busy. When I've saved up some money I'm going to take a few days off and have a bit of a holiday."

But I'd just smile at her and tell her not to worry. Regardless of what she said I knew full well she needed my company, at least until she'd come to terms with her new situation - if she could ever do that.

It was late Saturday evening when it happened. We'd had a meal, cooked by Mother, and we sat together (as we tended to do) watching television up until about eleven o'clock. About that time Mother would usually take her sleeping pill (which her doctor had prescribed for her depression), and get up and go to bed. She only had one bedroom so I would bunk down on the sofa. Sometimes she'd have a bath before bed and sit around for a while in her dressing gown. For some reason she always got dressed again after her bath, at least in her normal underclothes, and the dressing gown would replace the sweater and skirt.

On that evening she taken her pill early and had her bath, and she was sitting back on the sofa watching the end of a film before she went to bed. It was one of those sad, weepy 'women's films' where somebody dies in the end, and I think it depressed mother. Certainly she was crying by the end of it and I gave her a cuddle to make her feel better.

I remember how her dressing gown fell open as she cuddled me, and how I couldn't stop myself from looking at her stocking tops. As she pulled back she noticed me looking, and I blushed red and said something about the film to change the subject. She never said anything at the time about my furtive glance at her stockings, but I'm sure she thought about it and that it was partly responsible for what followed.

As the film ended she got up and gave me a peck on the cheek and turned for her bedroom. As she went in I noticed her looking back at me with a melancholy look on her face, and I grinned at her to try and lighten the mood. She smiled back at me but her smile was tinged with sadness.

I'd watched the TV for about another half an hour and was just undressing for bed when I heard a sound. As I listened I realised in was mother crying softly in her bedroom. Worried and concerned, I slipped into my pyjamas and knocked softly on her door. The crying stopped instantly and I heard her say 'come in'.

"Are you OK?" I said gently as I entered her bedroom.

"Yes ... don't worry ... I'm fine," she said, but it was clear from the tone of her voice she was still struggling with her tears.

It was dark in her bedroom, with only a distant streetlight behind the curtains providing a faint glow. I went over and sat on the edge of her bed.

"What is it?" I asked.

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You haven't disturbed me," I said, "I'm just worried about you. I hate to see you so unhappy."

"Oh dear," she whispered. "That just makes it worse."

"I don't understand?" I said, not sure what she meant. "Makes what worse?"

"I was just thinking about you and what you've given up for me. I feel so guilty ... so wretched, knowing that you're sacrificing your youth just to help me keep going. It makes me so sad. I'm sorry, I couldn't help my tears."

I reached over to cuddle her. "Don't be daft Mum," I whispered, "I don't mind, I really don't. I love you very much and I enjoy coming up to see you ... I really do."

"That's very kind of you," she said in a voice that clearly indicated she didn't believe me. "I know you worry about me, and I know you're doing your best to help me, but you're a young man and you're missing so much of your life. These days will never come again. You should be going out with girls and learning about life, not wasting your time with a miserable ugly old woman like me."

"Don't be so daft! You may get sad occasionally, but you're certainly not ugly ... or old for that matter."

She patted my hand and whispered. "Thank you dear, but I know you don't mean it."

As I tried to argue the point she dismissed the subject with a wave of her hand. Then she said, "Lie down here beside me and cuddle me for a while. It will make me feel better." I did as she requested and she whispered, "You're such a generous boy and I'm so lucky to have you."

As I slid on to the bed beside her I put my arms around her shoulders. "Please Mum; stop worrying so much about me. I've got my whole life to live and I've plenty of time to go out and have fun. You need a bit of support at the moment ... life's been pretty cruel to you, and I'm more than happy to help."

"I know," she said, "but it's wrong for me to steal away your adolescence. This should be a time for learning and for having fun. You should be falling in love and learning about the opposite sex, not stuck here with me. It's wrong, I know it's wrong."

"Now stop it," I whispered forcefully. "I'm not complaining and I'm quite happy." Then I added with a smile, "I'm supposed to be here to help you, not to make the situation worse by giving you something else to worry about."

But she didn't seem to be listening, and I heard her whisper almost to herself. "I wish there was something I could do to show you how much I appreciate you coming to see me ... something I could do to help."

I squeezed her shoulder again. "I'm fine," I said. "I don't need you to give me anything. I really don't."

For a while she was silent and I lay there holding her in my arms. Then I felt her move her arm. After a moment her hand came to rest on my thigh.

"Maybe there's something I can do," she said, so softly I could hardly hear.

Very slowly her hand began to inch its way across my thigh in the direction of my crotch.

"I love you so much," she whispered. "Mummy loves you ..."

And then suddenly her fingers touched to edge of my penis under my pyjamas. I felt a jolt of surprise, and I thought for a moment it was an accident. Automatically I tried to shift my body, but then I realised my penis had gone hard and I started to feel very embarrassed and uncomfortable. I felt deeply ashamed of allowing such a thing to happen when I was lying next to my mother, and I hoped she wouldn't notice her hand was actually touching my erect penis. Again I tried to wriggle away.

But then her fingers moved across my hard cock and shaped themselves gently around it.

If I'd been shocked before, I was now stunned, but this time I didn't move. In fact I was frozen in place, my mind spinning and my heart racing. What is she doing? I kept asking myself, does she know she's holding my cock?

And then I heard her whisper to me gently. "It's alright baby, relax. Let mummy help. Let mummy do something nice for you ... just for once."

I lay there silent, not knowing what to say or what to think or what to do. Stunned as I was by mother's hand on my penis, I nevertheless waited breathlessly to see what would happen next. I knew what she was doing was wrong and very naughty, but at that moment I didn't care. All I wanted was for her to go holding me.

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