Never Doubt I Love

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What happens in New York stays in New York.
7.5k words
4.74
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226

Part 1 of the 3 part series

Updated 10/16/2022
Created 08/16/2014
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In retrospect I had no one to blame but myself. I love clothes. I can't remember when I didn't. I wanted to be a designer. Mom thought that impractical and said I should be nurse. After all, Mom suggested, with my looks I could rope-in a doctor husband. Chasing dreams was something rich people did. So I was in college, in my second year of a pre-nursing program and I hated it. Every minute of every day, I hated it.

So what did I do? I met Charles Clinton. He was from a good family, one of those families my mother approved of, and he offered an out. He would take care of me and save me from a career I detested. That he was as controlling as my mother, telling me what to wear and what to do, was a red flag I choose not to see.

I am more self-forgiving as to a second, more obscure red flag. Charles would assume that I would be grateful that a rich man like him would choose a poor girl like me. He expected, after we married, to have carte blanche to do what he pleased.

Of course, it was not only my mother, but everyone else who seemed to think it was a great idea. Well, almost everyone. I had a high school teacher, Janet Prosnit, whom I held in awe. After I graduated the seven year difference in our ages seemed unimportant; she became a friend I loved and adored. She had always urged me to pursue my dream, a career in fashion. When I talked to her about Charles, she suggested I think it over real hard.

And now for a third and, I promise, my final act of self-remonstration. I could have said no the night we made love without protection.

His family was not happy about the union, but I worked hard to win their approval and while I can't say I fully overcame their reservations, I was far more dutiful daughter-in-law than he a son. They could, and did, depend on me and if not their unconditional love, I won their respect.

Unfortunately for his relationship with his macho father, our son inherited my love of design. It wasn't clothes, it was drawing and comic books. Charles signed his son up for football, baseball, soccer, and basketball. Rick dutifully participated. He just wasn't particularly good.

After Rick's failure in sports Charles, to Rick's immense relief, paid minimal attention to him, leaving Rick free to pursue his interests. I was not my mother, I fully encouraged him. Thus, during the summer before his senior year in high school when he expressed a desire to go to New York to visit the Parsons School of Design and the School of Visual Arts, the country's leading graphic design schools, I was supportive. His father said no.

"I am not sending my son to college to learn to draw!"

I brokered a compromise. Rick was about to turn eighteen. My birthday was a week after his. How about a family trip to New York as a dual birthday present? Charles, reluctantly, agreed and said he'd come along, a proposal I would have abhorred more - I didn't want to go to New York to watch baseball games - if I wasn't sure Charles would find a reason to back out of the trip. A cultural trip with his family in New York was most certainly not his thing. When one came up he started imposing arbitrary financial restrictions on the trip - it was his way of showing who was in charge. Charles decided Rick and I would share a suite at the Ritz-Carlton. I argued that there were far cheaper places to stay where Rick and I could have separate rooms, but Charles was adamant: his wife would get the best. However, his "pussy" son did not need his own room. He could sleep on the couch.

Rick seemed unoffended; he had long ago taken the measure of his father.

Rick, who had also assumed his father would bail on the trip, had insisted on planning our vacation. He had, he said, a thousand ideas and plenty of surprises for his mother. Especially day one. Day one was my birthday.

We touched down in New York on Friday evening, making it to the hotel with only enough time to unpack, brush our teeth, and hit the sack. The bed was huge and I offered to share it with Rick. He declined, heading for the couch.

He was up early the next morning, bringing me a cup of coffee in bed. "Happy birthday Mom. Today you get anything you want, whether you're supposed to have it or not."

He then unveiled his "suggested" schedule. He had done his research; it exceeded my imagination. We started out by visiting the museum at the Fashion Institute of Technology, famous for its collection of gay and lesbian inspired clothing, and then the more traditional fashion collection at Metropolitan Museum of Art.

We went to lunch at Jungsik, a Korean-French restaurant. I scanned the menu: sea urchin, octopus, squid.

"Your Dad would never come here."

"That's sort of the point."

I had three glasses of wine and we went shopping at Lavin's and Bloomingdale's. Rick encouraged me to buy whatever I wanted. I checked the prices.

"You're father will have a fit."

"He'll have a fit no matter what we do. And remember today's theme: you get anything you want, whether you're supposed to have it or not."

That, at least to a woman with three glasses of wine in her, made perfect sense. I bought several outfits, sexier than I would normally.

We got back to the hotel and I, still buzzed, lay down, my head on my son's leg, and fell asleep. I woke about forty-five minutes later, slightly groggy. My son, just getting out of the shower, was wearing a towel. I inspected his body. I had not realized how long and lean he was. My husband was broad shouldered and barrel chested, Rick's body was much closer to my slender build. I had let my husband's criticism of Rick's athleticism and sport of choice, bicycling, influence me. Rick was far from the chiseled body builder my husband idealized, but he was lithe and muscular.

"You better get ready. We got places to go."

"What are you talking about?"

He pointed to the pillow next to me. It was Fashion Week in New York and sitting there were two invitations to the show of my favorite designer.

I held them up. I stared. "Ohmigod! How did, where, how, ohmigod, thank you." I felt tears well-up. I wiped them away.

"Now aren't you glad we went shopping?"

* * * *

I looked in the mirror. I wasn't going to compete with the ladies on the runway, but still, I thought I looked pretty good. Through the years of my marriage I had maintained my figure and I still carried only 115 pounds on my five foot six inch frame. I had also discovered one nice thing about the B breasts I had complained about when I was a teenager; at thirty-eight they remained pert and firm.

I went with a simple strapless coral dress that hung to my knees. The dress was sexy, but understated, and it showed off my shoulders and back. It went well with my caramel brown hair, which flowed past my shoulder blades, green eyes, and lightly tanned skin. The shoes, well there I got a bit impractical, choosing ivory open-toed evening sandals with 3½ inch heels. Some simple gold earrings and a bracelet completed the look.

The evening was fabulous, as fabulous and magical and sexy as I imagine any evening could be. Rick and I were surrounded my beautiful men and women and beautiful clothes. A bit intimidated by the crowd, I stayed at his side and when we walked back to our hotel we held hands. Once in the room I gave him a big hug and poured out my appreciation. When done Rick placed his open hand on the side of my face and said, "It's how you should be treated every day," and kissed my lips.

I was already aroused - how could you spend an evening like that and not be - and felt a sudden explosion down below. I put my hand on his shoulder and closed my eyes, realizing that I was waiting for another kiss. He didn't deliver. Instead he sat me on the edge of the bed. "Let's get these off you." He took off my shoes and cradled my feet. "Are they sore? You don't often wear heels all evening."

My voice was almost meek. "A bit."

He went to the bathroom and returned with a warm wet wash cloth that he used to clean my feet. He rotated my ankles and toes clockwise and counterclockwise and then pulled on each toe. He applied lotion to his hands and walked his thumbs over the soles, pushing deep, finding the pressure points. Turning to the balls of my feet, he moved his thumbs in semicircles, working back and forth, and then focused on my soles, the massage starting at the top and ending at the heel. He finished by cupping his hands and sliding his palms and fingers forcefully up and down my feet. It was wonderful. I could get used to this.

"How do they feel?"

"Much better. Oh Rick, this has been the best day of my life."

He lay on the bed next to me. "They should all be like this, but today's not over yet. Remember our theme: you get anything you want, whether you're supposed to have it or not."

He kissed my forehead. I thought about how I had wanted him to kiss me again when we first got back to our room. I opened my mouth, running my tongue along my lips, inviting him to do so again. He tilted his head and kissed my lips. I kissed him back and when he returned for another peck, I worked my lips against his, flexing my jaw. He broke the kiss and took my head in his hands, bending it forward to kiss my forehead, kissed my mouth and eyes, turned my head to the side and took an ear lobe in his mouth and, oh so carefully, dragged his teeth across it.

Up until that point I had been quiet, unwilling to make the slightest noise fearful of disrupting the perfection of the moment, but I let out a low long moan, "Unnhhhh..."

Rick whispered in my ear. "I've always thought you were the most beautiful woman in the world."

We moved up the bed. I lay on my back, he next to me. He turned to face me, propping his head up on an elbow. His other hand was traipsing down the side of my body. We resumed kissing. It was like being back in high school, when kissing was not just a step on the way to another place, but an end in itself. I explored his mouth. After awhile he pushed me away and again kissed my mouth, my cheeks, my nose, my chin, my ears; his face wore a radiant smile. His hand had become bolder, his fingertips were gently caressing the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. I spread my legs; my moans were louder and insistent. I needed more.

His hand slipped under my loose fitting dress, it's heel sitting on top of my panties. He cupped my pussy.

I stiffened, not sure what to do. Then his voice again, "Remember, whether you're supposed to or not." He squeezed and kneaded my pussy mound. The soaking wet lips of my sex slid against each other. He shifted the position of his hand so its heel sat on my clitoris and worked his fingers along my labia and pussy lips through the panties. He rocked the heel of his hand on my clit.

"Oh Rick," I said, acknowledging who he was for the first time, "Ahhhh...uhhhmmmm." I pushed my hips, and clit, into his hand.

His pulled up my dress so it was above my waist. A single finger, starting at the top of my labia, slipped under my panties and slowly, ever so slowly, surfed through the moisture to the opening of my vagina. It massaged my pussy lips, sending shivers throughout me. My vagina swelled and spread, the lips of my pussy opened. He placed the tip of his finger inside me and it sank inside as my vaginal spasms drew down as if it was standing on quicksand.

He twisted it around, rubbing the interior walls of my snatch. I was murmuring in delight when I felt a sharp explosion of pleasure. So there was such a thing as a g-spot! I held his upper arm and moaned.

"Am I'm doing it right?"

"Oh, yes!"

He kept moving inside me, sometimes returning to my g-spot, delighting it with the tip of his finger. I was getting wetter and wetter. Drops of juice ran down my thighs and butt. The walls of my vagina swelled and ballooned, opening themselves to him.

My son noticed too. "I can feel how turned on you're getting. You're so incredibly wet. Your pussy..."

When he said that word I groaned, pushing my sex against him.

He shifted position to pull off my panties. I lifted my ass to help. He was looking directly at my sex.

"Your pussy, Mom, its changing colors, from pink to red to purple. It must dig my finger."

"Yes, oh please."

"The lips of your cunt..."

I felt a new explosion inside.

"The lips of your cunt, they're swelling, flattening out, your cunt is opening up to me."

His finger left my vagina.

I started to object, "Oh no, please," but then it rolled over my clitoris.

"Unnhhhh."

It stopped just above the button and stretched the skin up.

"Your clit is beautiful Mom. I can see it. Its growing."

A finger, maybe two, touched it, bumped it, stroked it.

"Oh my god...Ahhhhhh..."

Blood filled my breasts. My nipples stiffened. I started to reach for them, I wanted to plunge my hand inside my dress and play with them. Then I heard the voice of Charles, my husband, criticizing me when I tried anything new in bed.

Rick noticed my hesitation. He kissed me and, his voice soft, said, "If you want to play with your perfect breasts..."

"Ahhhhhhhhhh."

"...you should do so. You should have everything you want."

I took them in my hands, squeezing and kneading, my thumbs working the sensitive nipples.

The pleasure from my breasts merged with that from my clit as Rick trapped it between his fingers. My pulse rate jumped. My skin heated up and took on a gentle red hue.

I was floating on a celestial plateau, my body suffused with pleasure. Rick's pinkie returned to my vagina, teasing the swollen entrance.

"Your snatch, Mom, its wonderful. So tight. I can feel it squeezing my finger. You've got such a beautiful pussy Mom."

The pressure was building inside me, desperate to escape. I was a pressure cooker waiting to explode. My clittie retracted, pulling back into my body. Rick's fingers followed it, continuing their sweet torture, upping the tension, increasing it until I thought it would tear me apart.

I worked my breasts harder. My entire body was straining. My heart rate shot up; I was gulping in air.

Then all the tension, all the pressure, all the muscular and nervous energy, all of it, in less than a moment, released in an explosion of pure sexual bliss. It was the most intense, most profound physical experience of my life. It was like a seizure, or a series of convulsions, incorporating my entire body. I jackknifed on the bed, my head and stomach bouncing from the mattress, my arms and legs flailing in the air. Then, suddenly, all I was relaxed, utterly relaxed. I lay there; my body tingled. This is what sex should be.

Rick undressed me and in a voice thick with love said, "Are you going to wash up? You've always said getting the make-up off helps your skin."

My voice seemed far away and weak. "I'm sorry son, I can't move. I just want to lie here."

He got up and returned with bowl of water and a wash cloth. He cleaned my face. Then he laid down and wrapped an arm around me. He was fully clothed.

"This was the best day of my life."

"They should all be Mom."

* * * *

I woke at 3:00 A.M. I reached for my son, but he was not there. There was a light on in the living room. In there I found him stripped to his underwear on the couch, asleep. On the table before him were drawings of my face with hair dangling to the middle of my back. I was beautiful. Is that how he saw me? I laid a blanket over him, kissed his forehead, turned off the light, and returned to bed.

* * * *

I slept in the next day. When I woke I heard Rick in the living room. I grabbed one of the thick bathrobes provided by the hotel and walked in. He was wearing a robe. His wet hair showed he'd showered. On the table before him were the drawings of me, but now my head was attached to the body of a muscular woman with enormous breasts in a one-piece spandex tank body suit.

He looked at me and then followed my gaze to the drawings.

"I was imagining you as a superhero."

I sat next to him, our legs touching. I took a drawing in my hands, studying it. Finally I said, "The drawings are wonderful son, but whoever that woman is, she stole my head."

It took him a second, but he got it, "All woman superheroes look like that; they've all got huge muscles, giant boobs, and wear tight clothes."

I put my arm around his shoulder and kissed his head. My body felt so good. Last night's orgasm was still rumbling around within me.

"I hear you, but think about my perspective. I look at that and think, you must not like my body, you want a woman who looks like that."

He looked at me, then at the drawing. He'd heard what I said, which is more than my husband ever did. He spent a minute or two looking at the drawings. "I hadn't thought about it that way. You're beautiful, the most beautiful woman I've ever known. I wouldn't change a thing. I'll sketch out a few new ideas."

I started a sentence, "About last night..." and stopped. What about last night? Where did I want to go with this?

He put the drawing down and took my hand in his, leaning into my body. "Mom, last night, before you feel asleep, you said it was the best day of your life. Did you mean it?"

"Yes."

"That's what I wanted it to be. Can we, at least for a little while, not try to figure out what else is was."

He was right. It had been a magical day. It should stay a magical day.

"Okay honey."

* * * *

That day was devoted to Rick. We spent the morning at the Museum of American Illustration and the rest of the day wandering New York City: we ate pizza, visited Greenwich Village and Strawberry Fields, and walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. We got back to the hotel in plenty of time to dress for Never Doubt I Love. It was to be our theater experience in New York.

We had chosen this show, in part, because it would never come to our home town. I'm still not sure how to describe it. It called itself immersive theater. Two and a half hours of wandering through several floors of interconnected warehouses while actors dashed from room to room performing pantomime montages inspired by Shakespeare's Hamlet. The rooms were dark and stuffed with junk, the electronic music thudded, and the attendees wore masks and dressed in black. The day before I had picked out a short black leather dress which displayed a bit of cleavage, a broad black belt, black boots, and black leggings. Rick wore a turtle neck and slacks.

I was nervous when we entered the warehouse, but soon relaxed and began to enjoy the experience. Not only was the performance otherworldly, but the variety of people attending - interracial couples, gay men, some people in grubby clothes, others in high fashion - were unknown in the world where I lived. I was especially struck by a lesbian couple, one a tall willowy blonde who looked like a model, the other in cropped hair and built like a spark plug. I imagined my husband's carping if he saw such a pairing.

We had been there about an hour when, standing on a balcony, we came upon a re-enactment of the play within the play in Hamlet. My son guided me to an open spot and stood behind me, his arms wrapped around my body. The electronic music was overpowering.

I spotted the two women. The blonde was standing behind her partner, kissing and nibbling on her neck. There was no shame in their coupling. No one stared in disapproval. I scanned the people around me. Almost everyone, through a touch, a kiss, a caress, was expressing love for the person they were with. Everyone was wearing the prescribed masks. We were all anonymous.

I turned my head and caught Rick's attention. I spoke, trying to tell him I loved him, but the music was far too loud for me to be heard. There was another way to say it; I kissed him, working my lips against his for several seconds. No tongue, but not a mother's kiss. I turned back to watch the performance. He understood. His arms tightened around me and I lay my hands over his. I was happy, content.