Every Other Weekend Ch. 01byTurniphead©
This imaginary tale is told from the perspective of both sexes. I am not a woman so I apologize in advance if the female perspective is a wreck.
This is a rather lengthy story. If if you're looking for a read where the characters are in the sack within the first few paragraphs, I suggest you look elsewhere. It isn't happening here.
"Of the delights of this world, man cares most for sexual intercourse. He will go to any length for it-risk fortune, character, reputation, life itself." ~ Mark Twain
"If you need a break," I said into the phone, "Why don't you leave the rodents with Aunt Molly and come down here for the weekend?"
There was silence on the line for a long moment. I could almost hear my mom considering my proposal and could visualize her biting her lower lip as she mulled it over.
"Come on, mom," I urged, "You need a vacation. I've got plenty of room and I've got nothing planned for the weekend. Come down here and I promise you won't have to do a single 'mom' type thing all weekend."
The sound of her laughter was sweet in my ear. I hadn't heard her laugh much lately.
"No 'mom' stuff, huh?" She mused.
"Nope. No cooking or cleaning or laundry." I grinned, "I won't even call you mom while you're here. Just drive down and you can relax all weekend."
"Mmmm..." I heard her murmur, "That does sound nice, Pookie Bear, but what are you going to call me if you don't call me 'mom?'"
I laughed, "Well, I could call you 'Snookums' or 'Babydoll' but I was leaning more towards Kathy."
"You're such a brat!" She giggled, "But you sure know how to flatter a lady."
"I tell you what, mom," I smiled, "You come to Marquette and I'll treat you like a princess. I'll take you out for some fun. Dining and dancing and movies. I'll rub your feet and your back and just generally pamper you all weekend long."
"If I do, do you promise you won't run off and leave me alone if one of your girlfriends beckons?" She demanded.
I laughed long and loud. "I think you're confused. The course load I'm carrying doesn't leave time for girls."
"Sure you don't have time!" She giggled again, "I know better. I remember what it was like when you were in high school. To paraphrase Mark Twain, we couldn't swing a dead cat without bonking a pretty girl in the noggin."
"No really, mom," I countered, "I haven't even dated in months. I just don't have time." I paused a moment and quickly added, "Of course, for you, I'll make an exception."
I heard her draw a sharp breath and exhale slowly, "You'll take me out on...on a date, honey?"
Biting off my first instinctive response, I answered, "Well, we don't have to call it a date. I'll just devote myself to you and treat you the way you deserve to be treated, mom."
"It sounds nice, darling," She finally responded, "Let me think about it and I'll get back with you. I need to check with Molly to see if she is agreeable. Maybe if I offer to watch Jake the following weekend..."
"Alright, mom," I grinned, confident it was already a done deal, "Just let me know. For right now, I gotta hit the books."
I could hear the smile in her voice, "Okay, sweetheart, goodnight. I love you."
"Love you, too, mom, good night, hot stuff." I whispered as I hung up the phone.
Afterward, I couldn't focus on my calculus homework. My mind kept turning to my mom. I hadn't seen her in over three months -- since the Independence Day picnic in Ahmeek. She had looked beaten and drained of life. The twins, just about to turn four, were enough to suck the life out of anyone. I loved them dearly, but they were more than a handful.
I couldn't help thinking as we watched the parade, such that it was -- two horse-drawn wagons festooned in sparsely placed red, white and blue bunting, a rusty Model T, and the local Boy Scout troop bringing up the rear -- pass by, that mom looked considerably older than her 43 years. With dad three years into a 12 to 20 stretch at Duluth FCI, the weight of the world had been dumped on her.
After dear old dad was incarcerated mom struggled a bit to keep things from falling apart. A small inheritance from Grandpa helped keep her afloat, and she worked as a waitress at a restaurant in Ahmeek a few nights a week -- I think more for social activity than anything else.
I helped as much as I was able, but with high school and football and track, I wasn't around as much as I would have liked.
Fortunately, mom's sister Molly lived on the other half of Grandpa's farm, and although my Uncle Bob was in the hoosegow along with dad, mom and Aunt Molly weren't completely isolated and were able to lean on each other for support.
The morning after the fourth, I said my good-byes and drove to Marquette to start a job to earn a few bucks before the fall semester at NMU began.
I hadn't been home since. Mom and I talked on the phone a couple times a week, and she wrote me on a regular basis, often sending me some of the twin's construction paper finger paintings. While none of them were likely to ever hang in the Detroit Museum of Modern Art, they all adorned the walls of my apartment.
I gave up on trying to study and changed into my sweats for a quick workout. As I used the weight bench and free weights, I couldn't stop thinking of mom. Working up a good sweat did nothing to diminish the stirring in my belly.
Mom wasn't what could be described as 'beautiful' in the classic sense. She was never going to grace the cover of Glamour magazine, and she hadn't had to turn down many offers to be a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, but to me, she was the most magnificent woman on the planet.
Her face was what mesmerized me most. She reminded me of Suzanne Pleshette -- circa 1965 -- with shoulder-length, wavy dark hair, a small button nose and dark brown eyes that lit up a room when she smiled and made me melt when she looked at me. Her mouth was small and pouting and her complexion, with the exception of a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, was clear and smooth. The freckles only added to her cuteness, in my estimation.
In the years since dad was out of the equation, mom had let herself go a bit and had put a few pounds on her 5'5" frame and, as a result, her curves had softened considerably. Willowy wasn't a word that could be used to describe mom. She was a farm girl. Solid and healthy. Mom would never tell me how much she weighed, but when I hugged her and lifted her off the ground to gales of laughter I was able to estimate between 140 and 160 pounds.
She was proportional, though. Her chest was about perfect -- neither too big or too small -- and her waist, while not as trim as it was in some of the photos in the family album, was still nearly as narrow as it was when I was growing up. And her hips flared out nicely to a pleasantly shaped butt that acted like a magnet for my eyes every time she came into view.
No, mom wasn't drop dead gorgeous, but she was cute. I loved her and she had been my obsession since the day that I found out girls were different from boys. She had fueled most of my adolescent fantasies and she had visited me on many a dark night as I struggled to fall asleep with an erection clamped in my fist and visions of soft, warm flesh in my head.
Her smile melted my insides and I loved the sound of her laughter. Mom was my darkest fantasy and though I'd die before I told her what I truly felt, I had tried to show her in little ways as I grew older. A back rub here. A foot massage there. "Why don't you go relax in the living room, Mom? I'll take care of the dishes."
When the rodents popped onto the scene, I happily volunteered to change poopy diapers, or bathe them, or rock them to sleep; not solely because I loved them -- I did -- but because I loved her. She made my life wonderful and I strove for opportunities to repay her.
After my workout, I jumped into the shower and used my imagination to bring mom into the shower with me. As I masturbated, mom was doing things to me that much of proper society would have undoubtedly frowned upon.
Afterward, sated somewhat, I crawled into bed and found my mind returning to mom and the farm and the joy of loving someone so completely and so honestly it brought a tear to my eye.
...him so much I could hardly stand it.
As I lay in my bed that night, I pictured Jim, tall and athletic and full of promise. The last time I saw him, he looked so good it scared me that I couldn't take my eyes off him. I wasn't alone. Every female -- and probably a few of the males -- in the park seemed to be captivated by Jim. As I replayed our phone conversation, I sensed my body reacting in decidedly unmotherly ways.
Did he really want to 'date' me? Was his flirtatious banter anything more than a lonesome son's yearning to connect with home and family? 'Hot Stuff,' my eye! It made me feel all squishy inside to hear him say such things, though.
Kevin and Katie were asleep. At least, if they weren't, they were quiet about it. In the darkness of my room, I thought about Jim's proposal and felt my belly stirring. I was shocked to feel my nipples harden and moisture between my legs.
"You're appalling!" I thought to myself as the shadows of the Maple outside my window played over my wall and ceiling. "Just because your son wants to dote on you, doesn't imply anything else."
I recognized the way I viewed my son wasn't normal, but in nearly 44 years, Jim was easily the most beautiful person I had ever seen in my life. It wasn't just a mother's pride -- I can't count the number of lady friends who had said as much. He was easily the most perfect thing I had ever done in my life. As far as I was aware, there wasn't a flaw in his character or his physical being.
By the time he had graduated high school Jim was 6'1" and tipped the scales at a lean 190 pounds. He had an athletic build that drew in females classmates like alley cats. His broad shoulders, narrow hips and, small, tight buttocks created a picture of youthful masculinity that invited more than one comment from my girlfriends.
Even my sister Molly had made salacious observations about Jim; most of them coming after our husbands had been sentenced.
As I lay in the shadows and thought of Jim, my hands lazily played with my breasts. I was working myself up into a heated frenzy as I contemplated a weekend with my son.
Again the thought occurred to me: "Did I read something into what Jim had said that wasn't there?"
I always felt Jim was different. Even when he was a prepubescent teenager, I had been cognizant of his eyes on me as I puttered around the house. I chalked it up to the curiosity of youth, and I never said anything to discourage him, not wanting to make it anything more than it was.
On the one hand, Jim's attention to me was a bit disconcerting, but on the other -- in a sick way -- it was strangely flattering and exciting. Since he left for Northern Michigan University though, I was becoming aware that I really missed his attentions.
I missed having him bring me my morning coffee and have him lie on my bed and watch me as I readied myself for the day. At first it felt strange to be in various stages of undress in front of him, but with time I grew more comfortable with the arrangement. After a month or so, I actually began to enjoy parading around in front of him wearing only a bra and panties or a half-slip. It somehow gave me an illicit thrill to feel his eyes on my body. A woman likes to feel feminine and since Paul had been incarcerated I hadn't been getting any attention -- unless I counted having my butt pinched by the dirty old men who frequented the restaurant.
I missed dumping the twins off with Molly and driving with Jim to Eagle River to escape the summer heat in Lake Superior. I missed hearing him whistle at the sight of me in my bikini. I missed lying face down on the blanket while Jim applied sun tan lotion over my exposed flesh. His touch was strong and sure and somehow hypnotic and, more than once, I found myself becoming aroused by his deft fingers on my arms and legs.
I missed our late night talks, after Kevin and Katie were put down. He'd build a fire in the fireplace and sit on the floor with his back to the couch where I'd drape my legs over his shoulders and as Jim thoroughly massaged my aching feet, we'd talk about our hopes and dreams and laugh together at the absurdities of life.
Mostly, I missed crawling into his bed late at night and spooning with him to keep away the boogieman.
I missed him much more than I thought I would -- more than a mother should, I knew -- but Jim had been almost my whole world after Paul went away. When Jim left for college, he left a gaping hole in my life that two four year olds couldn't fill.
Reminiscing about my son that night, I closed my eyes and unfastened the first two buttons of my pajama top and slipped my left hand inside to cradle my right breast. I slowly teased my nipple with my thumb and forefinger, eliciting delicious electric bursts inside my belly and my right hand pushed beneath the elastic of my PJ bottoms and into my panties.
"Jim..." I moaned involuntarily as my digits pushed through my thick pubic hair and fluttered over my swollen petals.
Two fingers eased into my drooling canal and began leisurely sliding in and out to small gasps of pleasure that escaped from between clenched teeth...
A brief moment of sanity hit me and cold water coursed through my veins when I realized I was masturbating to thoughts of my own son. At that moment, a particularly strong mini-orgasm burst in my head, eviscerating doubt.
Faster and deeper my fingers plunged in and out of my pussy and the hand at my tits was pulling and teasing my nipples more firmly. I could imagine Jim in my bed laying next to me, fisting a hard penis, his eyes wide with wonder as he stared at me.
Over and over Jim whispered that he loved me as I brought myself to orgasm.
My climax burst like a dam, flooding over and washing through me. Bright lights exploded in my head and I cried out long and loudly. I tossed my head back into my pillow and my body arched violently as I clenched my thighs on my hand and my vagina convulsed on my fingers.
As I came harder than I had in months, a strangled moan of pure pleasure hissed from my throat, "Jimmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm..."
Slowly, deliciously, my magnificent orgasm faded like a morning mist, leaving me weak and winded. My cotton PJs were damp with perspiration and my breath was ragged and harsh. I was tingling all over -- I was completely satisfied.
The last vestige of my climax disappeared like a wisp and I collapsed onto my comforter and slowly extracted my fingers from between my legs and buttoned up my top. I felt myself blushing in the darkness.
"Now what was that about?" I whispered to myself, "What is wrong with you?"
Whether it was Jim's flirtatious teasing, or the crushing loneliness, I had brought myself off with my son figuring prominently in my fantasy.
I wouldn't be honest if I said I hadn't occasionally looked at Jim in ways that were inappropriate -- especially after I was left husband-less. Jim was well on his way to becoming a man and just because I was his mother didn't negate the fact that he was very easy on the eye, at least as far as I was concerned.
On more than one occasion I had surreptitiously watched him from my bedroom window as he chopped cord wood for the fireplace and sauna, his muscles glistening in the summer sun. Jim never seemed to notice that, curiously, during his last year of high school, I was in the basement laundry room almost every single time he exited the sauna with nothing but a towel knotted around his narrow hips.
And lately, when he and I would drive to Lake Superior or the Gratiot River for a quick dip, I took every opportunity to furtively ogle his crotch where his flaccid penis hung heavy against his thigh, usually limned by his wet boxers or swimsuit. His father had been blessed in that region but even limp, Jim made Paul look small. The cold Lake Superior water didn't shrink him much.
I was grateful for the sunglasses that hid my gawking eyes.
But despite my admiration for his physical presence, I had never seriously thought of him in a sexual manner and I certainly had never masturbated to thoughts of him. Until the night Jim invited me to visit him.
I was his mother, for Christ's sake, what the hell was wrong with me?
The following Friday...
...Mom was on her way. She called me at 6 that evening just before she left Ahmeek. The way she drove, I estimated she'd get to Marquette between 8 and 9.
I didn't want her spending her break from Kevin and Katie cleaning. So I hurriedly gave my one bedroom apartment a thorough cleaning. I had always been something of a neat freak, but compared to mom, I was a slob.
Running down to a grocery store, I picked up a six-pack of Heineken using my fake ID and bought an assortment of the kinds of food I knew she enjoyed. Just after 7:30, I jumped in the shower to take care of the problem that had been impossible to control ever since her call. The thought of greeting mom with a raging hard-on was enough to make me grimace. I could guess she would terminate her visit before it began if she saw me sporting an erection.
An hour later, I was starting to get concerned. The roads were dry, as far as I knew, and mom was more than cautious behind the wheel, but it was only 100 miles or so from home to Marquette. It shouldn't have taken more than two hours.
I was standing on my balcony and debating whether I should jump in my car to see if I could locate her, when her turquoise Subaru station wagon turned into my visitor's space. My relief was enormous.
Her smile was infectious as she smiled up at me through the open window of the driver's side door and I couldn't help laughing excitedly as I waved to her.
"I'll be down in a second to get your bags, pretty lady." I grinned easily, hoping she didn't detect my nervousness.
"We have got to get your eyes checked, brat." She called up to me as she exited the vehicle and stretched, "Either that or we have to have your meds adjusted."
I scampered down the flight of stairs in my slippers and met her at the back of her car. We stared at each other for a brief moment before I swept her into my arms in an animated bear hug and spun her around.
"My God I missed you, mom!" I exclaimed as we frantically clutched at each other, "It seems like it's been an eternity."
Her laughter rang in my head as she kissed my cheeks and chin repeatedly and panted, "Take it easy, Dollface, it hasn't been that long."
I drew back and grinned sheepishly down at her. She was blushing furiously. Her hair was a little tousled and she had a mixed scent of sweat and coffee and Doublemint gum. She was beautiful and I worshiped her. A light danced in her eyes that conveyed her own happiness.
Setting her bags by the front door, I watched her survey my apartment. The furnishings would never make Better Homes and Gardens, but they were more than serviceable for a college freshman. A threadbare couch occupied most of one wall. A worn Lazy Boy was canted slightly off to the side. In between a stereo that sat unceremoniously upon three milk crates, a beat up coffee table perched precariously on three legs and a stack of books.
The other side of the living area was occupied by the only piece of furniture I had laid out real money for -- a roll top desk and an office chair I had picked up at a yard sale.
Mom didn't offer an opinion immediately as she wandered through the hovel of an apartment, though I watched a small smile creep across her face when she recognized the rodents' finger paintings.
"I can't say that this is the most palatial of accommodations I've ever seen," She intoned dryly as she walked through the small kitchenette that was complete with Formica table and counter tops, an avocado green refrigerator and a lemon yellow gas range. The wall paper looked remarkably similar to some of Katie's paintings. "But for a young man out on his own for the first time, I suppose it'll do."