The Shrine

I ran a hand over my breasts, pausing to briefly tease my nipples, watching them stiffen up, resembling the tips of spark plugs when they swelled up. I ran my hands downwards over my stomach and studied my legs, still lean and shapely thanks to staying on my feet day in and day out and slid fingers into the thick forest of black hair nestled between my legs. It had been so long since a man had lusted for my body, I wasn't sure if the really hairy look was "in" anymore.

I quivered a bit as I slipped fingers through my black pelt, finding my labia and spreading myself a little -- recalling John's father as a fan of hairy muffs -- often showing me photo spreads from some of the cheaper girly magazines where the girls spread their legs to show off muffs of wild, unruly hair. Benny had never commented one way or the other and had refused to consider orally pleasing me.

"Well, I've got plenty of time to decide," I told myself, taking one last look at myself in the mirror before trying to get my day in order. A quick assessment of the clothes I'd brought helped me decide to take my son up on his offer of a shopping trip. I got myself presentable in a clean pair of khakis and one of John's sweatshirts and allowed the dayshift doorman to call me a cab.

As I was getting ready to leave, the locked bedroom door caught my eye and I wondered if I should maybe buy some new bedding and fix up his extra bedroom so John wouldn't have to act valiant and sleep on the couch. I let the thought slip from my mind as I went downstairs and climbed into a cab.

It had been a long time since I'd let myself get carried away shopping, but by late that afternoon, I returned laden down with shopping bags and sporting a new 'do, having chopped off several inches of hair and looking a little more stylish, letting a hairdresser add a little curl to my usually straight locks to hint at that "freshly tumbled out of bed" look. Anthony opened the lobby doors at me, tipping his hat as he gave the new me a frank appraisal and felt my face flush slightly as he seemed to nod his approval as he said, "Good afternoon, Mrs. Blaylock."

It was all I could do to not giggle, I felt both embarrassed and flattered. As I rode up the elevator, I considered how good a day it had been. I'd bought a couple of dresses, some jeans and blouses and a jacket that I thought would see me into warmer weather. While at lunch, I'd called my lawyer who happily informed me he'd filed an injunction to halt any action regarding the house and that Benny would be served with papers before the next day was over. "I can't promise you the moon, Cassie," he said. "But, I promise the least you'll walk away with is 50% of everything." Later in the early evening, I went out and shopped for food, buying fresh fruit and vegetables and meat so I could fix my son some good home cooked meals.

That night as I sipped at my first Scotch on the rocks in many years, I recounted my day to my son when he called, feeling slightly sheepish as I told him how much I'd spent on clothes and on a new hairdo. John seemed delighted. "I can't wait to see it, Mom. I bet you look beautiful!"

I felt myself blushing again as I murmured, "Well, I don't know. I guess I'm not so bad for a middle-aged broad.

"That's my girl," John chortled. "Don't you realize what a gorgeous woman you are -- that you've always been a beautiful woman? I can't wait to get home and see you, Mom. I'll be home two nights from now, by the way."

"Well, I can't wait to see you, son. What say I have a nice home-cooked meal waiting for you?"

"I have a kitchen?" John deadpanned. "Like a stove and everything?"

"Yes, you do, sweetheart and you also have your girl waiting for you."

There was a long pause and then John said, "I can't wait to see you, Mom," with a funny tone to his voice. "I love you, Mom."

I felt my heart melting as I said, "I love you too, son."

That night I slept soundly again and even though I wasn't exhausted as I'd been the day before, I again passed on changing the sheets, preferring the comforting scent of my son -- somehow associating that with my newly discovered sense of happiness.

In the morning, I set out to make myself useful -- earn my keep, so to speak. I gathered up John's dirty clothes and discovered washer/dryer units down in the basement of the apartment building. I cleaned up the detritus of my son's existence and made his kitchen and bathrooms sparkle. I started to change his bed, but something seemed to hold me back and by the afternoon, I began considering again the locked bedroom. I knew I couldn't impose on my son's good graces forever, but I could foresee the divorce and all taking a few months to get done and it wouldn't be fair to my son to give up his comfortable bed.

I retrieved the set of keys that Anthony the doorman had given me and on the third key, felt the deadbolt slide back. A strange shiver went through me along with an idle thought of that old story about Bluebeard's closet, but I didn't imagine I'd find anything shocking in the spare bedroom -- no caged women or collection of serial killer trophies. More than likely it was filled with all John's now antiquated computer junk he was too sentimental to throw away. But what I found was beyond my imagination...shocking was too mild a word.

I fumbled for a light switch and flicked it on, brilliant overhead lights flooding the windowless room. In the center of the carpeted room sat a leather recliner, a plush blanket thrown over it and a small end table beside the left arm. My attention was quickly drawn away as beyond it was a huge, framed photograph of a woman in a cheesecake pose in a red bandana halter top and blue bikini swimsuit bottoms. She was sitting on a rock -- a lovely blue lake behind her. The photograph was at least five feet by four feet and crystal clear. For a moment, I felt a tug of recognition and then I realized that this was a massive blowup of a picture of me taken over ten years ago, during a camping trip up into Georgia before Benny had lost interest in me.

Blown up with excruciatingly clear detail, I had not realized how much of me seemed to be exposed with my upper breasts overflowing the halter top. As stunned as I was to see myself, a little part of me wanted to sigh wistfully over the much firmer figure and toner legs of my youth. I shook off those odd, silly thoughts and stepped into the room, wondering what John was doing with a picture like that of me on his wall.

I'd scarcely taken a few more steps before I was stopped in my tracks again and to the right of the photograph and above a big screen television was a large framed painting. I immediately recognized it as similar to the picture of John and me after his graduation, but here he wasn't wearing his graduation gown and I wasn't wearing my favorite green dress. In truth, we weren't wearing anything. The painting had us both nude, John's arm still around me, but now cupping a meaty breast, a thick nipple jutting out between to fingers. I had one arm slipped around my son's waist, but the other reached down so my hand could wrap itself around an erect penis...a very thick and long penis! Whoever had painted the obscene portrait had nailed my thick pubic hair down perfectly, painting a thick, wild thicket of black hair, split apart by glistening labia.

I couldn't help but look at amazement at my son. Still a bit stocky, but if the painting was accurate, he'd muscled up some, losing the baby fat that had plagued him throughout high school. I felt both mortified and a little shocked and a strange feeling begin to build in the pit of my stomach, growing warm and spreading downward between my legs.

The room seemed to tilt just a little. I felt lightheaded and I moved to the recliner and sat down, fearing I might faint. As I plopped into the chair, I discovered that it swiveled and it spun me around -- going from the pornographic portrait of my son, back to my left, past my photograph to pause at the wall to its left and I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach, all the air going out of me as I moaned, "Oh my God!"

On the wall was another large, framed painting that dwarfed the rest...a painting of me. I was naked save for a black bustier and black stiletto heels. I was sitting on a bed -- no, on John's bed. I recognized the distinctive ornate carved headboard. My legs were spread wide, my pussy wet and inviting -- the oils of the painting seeming to perfectly recreate the appearance of utter arousal of slick, glistening flesh surrounding by a wild, black bush. The bustier lifted up my breasts, giving them the real life look of my meaty tits. My hair was wild and tousled, reminding me of how I looked this morning and on my face was an expression that conveyed many things: love, lust, anticipation and invitation.

Tears rolled down my face as I tried to make this all make sense -- to connect my son to this obscene erotica. I tried to look away, but only came face to face with my younger self, looking so vibrant and alive and somehow, now that I was closer and in context with the pornographic paintings, seeming to be offering myself to whomever was taking the photograph.

Unable to look up at the walls, I looked down, my gaze falling on the small end table and I gasped again. A bottle of White Diamond sat there and beside the perfume bottle rested a pair of panties -- tiger stripped bikini panties, faded and worn and it hit me that they were mine as a dim memory of owning them came to mind. I hadn't worn them in ages and if I'd thought of them at all, I'd have assumed that they were buried deep in a dresser drawer of my bedroom.

With my hands shaking, I reached down and picked them up. They felt threadbare and fragile and yet, there were stiffened patches across the gusset and I dropped them in horror as I realized it was dried semen. "Oh, John," I sobbed as I realized my son had masturbated with my panties. A sudden vision of John, stroking that huge erection from the painting came into my mind, my son jerking off while staring at the wicked painting of me with my legs spread wide.

I had to get out of that room. I spun the chair around to face the door and as I came to my feet, I stopped again, gazing at the last wall. When I'd entered the room, my attention had been locked on my photograph, so I had walked right past the large bookcase and antique writing desk and chair situated there. DVDs and Video tapes sat on one shelf while books filled up most of the bookshelf.

As I cautiously approached, I was able to make out titles -- a long series of what I supposed were movies, all entitled Taboo -- most of which were followed by Roman numerals. The books were mostly paperbacks with lurid titles like "Mom Likes It Hard" or "Mommy's Favorite Son," although some were trade paperbacks or hardbacks like, "Garden of Sand" or "The Dreams of the Weeping Woman" and even one I recognized, an old novel called "Flesh and Blood" that I vaguely remembered had an incestuous subplot.

A laptop sat on one side of the writing desk, a few flash-drives scattered around it and lying open on the desk was a moleskin covered journal -- a lovely fountain pen resting below words written in what I recognized as my son's handwriting.

Shivering as if the room's temperature had suddenly plummeted, I slipped into the cushioned seat, casters creaking as I scooted forward and began to read...

March 7,

I talked to Mom tonight. I love her voice...her voice is like liquid velvet to me. I wish I could capture it and wrap myself up in it like a soft, warm blanket. Mom seemed down, but living with that dullard, how could she not be? I marvel at her ability to put up with him. I hate hearing her sound so blue. Mom's voice needs to be filled with joy -- to be hoarse with pleasure, screaming out in ecstasy from being pleasured...pleasured by me. I yearn to know the timbre of my mother's voice as she cries out while I sink my hardness deep inside her, making her shake and tremble and scream as I fill her sweet, motherly pussy with my cock. Maybe I'll dream of Mom tonight -- Lord knows that doesn't happen enough, just remembering a wisp of her begging me to fuck her, to fuck my mother hard until she cums...man, I am riding in the clouds for weeks after such dreams. Oh if there's a God in heaven, please let me dream of Mom asking me to fuck her tonight or even better, God, make it actually come true!

A violent tremor tore through me as I pushed my son's journal away, my mind reeling as I attempted to comprehend what was going on with my son. I tore my gaze away from the page of written incestuous fantasy and saw nestled here and there among the books and DVDs, framed photographs of me and of John and me, spanning all the years since he'd been born. There was a picture of me, holding my baby in my arms -- taken from above with my partly unbuttoned shirt showing off cleavage from my milk laden breasts. There was a Polaroid shot of me acting silly, my lips pursed in an exaggerated kiss on John's cheek -- he being maybe ten years old and a Christmas tree behind us.

Mixed amongst these pictures were shots of me I don't remember being taken. One was of me bent over in my flower garden, shorts bunched up tightly and showing off the imprint of my crotch. Another Polaroid showed me asleep in the bed, nightgown sweaty and pulled up, exposing my legs and thighs, white panties covering my pussy. I looked peaceful and below the picture was a handwritten caption, "My Sleeping Angel."

Then I noticed on a shelf on the crown of the writing desk, a series of books -- most with similar covers to the journal I'd just read from. There were maybe ten or twelve...the first wrapped in a brown faux-leather vinyl cover. A memory stirred within me. Hadn't my son asked for a journal for his birthday one year? He'd been what -- eleven or twelve? Was that the one I'd bought him?

However twisted and bizarre this room was, whatever was wrong in my son's head, I knew I was violating his privacy, but it was so insane. This was my son, the person who I loved more than anything on Earth and I wanted to understand this madness. Half rising from the seat, I reached up and plucked down that first journal. With my heart pounding in my chest, I opened the first page to see a more primitive form of my son's handwriting in faded pen ink...

"I saw Mom naked!!!!!!!!!! I saw Mom's tits! I saw Mom's big bush! She's so hairy down there. It was awesome. Mom is so sexy and pretty and she's Mom! I got so hard I had to run to my room and jack off. It was the best yet! I may be a perv but Mom makes me hard just thinking about her. She left her bedroom door open and I saw her coming out of her bathroom after her shower and she was naked and wet. Her tits, man, I knew they were big but these were BIG! I think I'm in love!"

I trembled as I read my son's adolescent ramblings about me. Page after page followed, John detailing how much he loved my body and his efforts to see me naked. I'd though it was just once or twice, but if he wrote the truth -- he'd caught glimpses of me dozens of times in those early years. I'd been so ignorant. I'd had no idea how many times he'd masturbated after one of our cuddle sessions or after seeing my breasts when I'd inadvertently show them off while serving breakfast in a nightgown that gaped open more than I ever imagined. According to his words, just me walking by and smiling at him made my son hard!

I became lost in reading my son's private words, taking down journal after journal, immersed in the chronology of how I became my son's obsession. He became so adept at peeking at me -- becoming stealthy in his efforts to spy on me while I was showering or sunbathing or slipping into my bedroom to stare at me while I was still asleep when his father was already up and out of the house -- raging that the "lazy bastard" didn't work enough to support us, let alone give him enough opportunities to sneak more looks at me.

There were entire entries devoted to describing various parts of me, especially my breasts and nipples and my hairy bush which he adored and found provocative and sexy even though it meant he was unable to usually see much of my actual pussy. There were entries where he'd write incredibly graphic accounts of making love to me or simply as he put it, "Fucking me senseless!"

Other accounts examined his feelings for me, struggling to understand how he could feel this way about his own mother, but never able to convince himself that it wasn't love -- that the ache for the unfulfilled part of his life came from both being unable to share with me his love and desire for me and from not being able to achieve similar feelings for any other girl or woman. He spent pages describing all the things that he loved about me -- my loving ways as a mother, my "generous and gentle" spirit that he saw me demonstrating with others -- at school, at church, in the neighborhood -- every aspect of my life. He loved my sense of humor, my tastes in movies, food, and food. He loved my body, seeing it as natural beauty, unforced by diet or excessive exercise.

My mind boggled as I slowly began to comprehend the enormity of my son's love and/or obsession with me. My mind whirled in disbelief as I read his lusty thoughts -- his almost primal desire to know me sexually shocking me almost as much as the description of things he wanted us to do together...lengthy entries describing me giving my son a blow job or him parting my thick bush to lick, eat and suck my pussy. I could feel his hunger for me as he described fucking me in so many positions -- some which I'd never done myself -- anal sex, titty-fucking, showering my face with his seed, rimming and tying me down and teasing me until I screamed for release.

In his mind and heart, my John had been carrying on a love affair with his mother for over a decade, evolving from pure adolescent lust to love to something that was both love and lust and something beyond. He grappled with the incestuous aspect of it all, but time and time again, spoke as if it was the true cement that bound his love and desire for me together -- that made it into something holy to be quested for:

"I know that most would consider me a madman or a pervert or both if they knew of the great love that I have for my mother -- that I love her not only as a son, but as a man would love a woman -- his soul mate. It doesn't matter that she's my mother, indeed, I can only imagine that our joining together both body and soul would be that much more intimate because of our bond as son and mother.

Who upon all the earth could I be closer to than Mom -- she who carried me in her womb for nine months, who raised me, cared for me, whom I share more with in both blood and mind than anyone else? When I am near her, I feel an ache to be joined with her once again, joined cock and pussy -- my flesh buried in her most holy of places. I know that if the day ever comes that we are joined in love, our bodies clinging together as we near climax, our eyes locked together, I will see the truths of the universe unfolding."

A shiver went through me as I read those words, written when my son was scarcely eighteen years old. To know he had such yearnings, such terrible passions dwelling within him -- such intense and awful desires for me. As I reread John's words, the phone rang and I let out a terrified shriek. I had no idea how tensed up I had become and as I rose stiffly from the chair, I suddenly realized I'd been sitting there for hours -- the afternoon had come and gone and we were now in the midst of evening.

I left John's secret room and made my way towards the phone in the bedroom. As I moved, beyond the stiff muscles and shakiness from the stress of my discovery, I felt a warmth...a stickiness between my thighs as if I had been aroused. Not allowing myself to contemplate what this meant, I sat heavily on my son's bed and reached out with a trembling hand to pick up the phone. "Hello?"