A Mother's Persuasion

A Mother's Persuasion

This is a story about a middle-aged mother who becomes attracted to her twenty-five-year-old son and persuades him into an incestuous sexual relationship. It contains graphic descriptions of anal sex between a mother and her son, so if this isn't for you, pass on by.

Comments are of course welcome, as always.

Sylviafan

This story took place in the late nineteen-nineties, which is a few years ago now, but the details are still clear in my mind and I'd like to set them down before the memories fade.

My name is Charlie. Just Charlie, it's not short for Charles or anything. I'm Charlie Macintyre, to be precise, and at the end of the twentieth century I was still living at home with my mum in a biggish, three-storey detached house on the outskirts of a city in the East Midlands of the UK. I was twenty-five at the time and I'd got a half-decent job as an assistant manager in a very large branch of a noted supermarket chain. To put that in perspective there were about eight other assistant managers; I was in charge of fruit and veg. But the pay was ok and there were other fringe benefits too. For one thing the workforce was about sixty-five percent female and a lot of the younger girls' career ambition seemed to be focussed on marrying (or at the very least, sleeping with) a member of the management team. Some of the older female members of staff also weren't averse to the odd fumble with a manager after a team night out in the city centre. Which, I suppose, begs the question why was I still living at home with my mum?

Well, in the first instance, it was, as I said, quite a big house and my mum had no objections to me bringing girlfriends back to stay the night. When this happened she would tactfully withdraw, either to her rooms upstairs, or out to visit one of her friends. And of course there were all the usual reasons for staying at home such as free meals and laundry. But there was a slightly more noble reason too. About eighteen months ago my dad had run off with his personal assistant, who was called Trevor. I had come to terms with this, but mum was all over the place for a while. Eventually she decided that it was preferable that her husband had run off with a bloke as it suggested her inability to provide him with what he wanted was clearly out of her control.

But she was shaken by the affair, understandably, and I'd never really seen my mum shaken before so I was happy to stick around and provide her with company and support and so on; my older sister, Catherine, offered to come and stay but she lived up in the North-East and she had her own life. Besides, my mother and I had always got on well: she's sassy and clever and funny and I enjoyed her company. At the time of this story I was in the off phase of an on/off relationship with a checkout girl called Sophie. She was lovely to look at and a great fuck but she was needy and always looking for reassurance and self-validation, which was tiring, so we went through a sort of month on, month off cycle.

When I wasn't dating Sophie, mum and I went out to the cinema together and walked in the Peak District and sat at home and drank beer and wine and watched rubbish on the television. Also I exercised a lot; I'm a bit of a keep-fit freak, running in the morning before work and sometimes in the evening too. I also cycle and go to the gym on my days off to pound the treadmills and pump weights and, as a result, I'm quite well developed. Not crazy-muscled like a Mr Universe, more like a professional footballer, with hard pecs and a flat, six-pack stomach, which, incidentally, was the catalyst for what follows.

This story really starts early on a Saturday morning in May. I'd just got back home from a five-mile run through the countryside at the back of our house and I was standing in the big farmhouse-style kitchen panting and concentrating on getting my breathing back to normal when mum came in carrying the dirty linen basket from the bathroom upstairs.

'You may as well put your top straight in the wash,' she said, plonking the basket down on the floor.

My top was Lycra and it was sweaty and stuck to me as I peeled it off over my head. Balling it up I pitched it neatly across the kitchen table and into the basket with a little grin of satisfaction.

'What?' I asked then, because my mother was staring at me, fascinated.

'Look at you!' she marvelled. 'Your muscles!'

I guess my mum hadn't seen me stripped to the waist probably since the last family holiday we had together, maybe ten years ago, and I hadn't looked like this then. She came round the table and stood in front of me and I felt a twinge of embarrassment, which increased when she stretched out her hand and stroked my abdominal muscles with her red-tipped fingers.

'Goodness,' she said, 'they're like rock! Your dad was never like this.'

It's probably sensible here to write a pen-portrait of my mother; it has a lot of bearing on subsequent events.

Eleanor Francesca Macintyre (née Marino) was fifty-five-years-old; she never admitted her age, but her birth certificate was in the bureau in the study with mine. Her dad, my maternal grandfather, was an Italian immigrant and she'd inherited from him her glossy black hair and her faint olive skin tone. She was tall, about five eight, and I suppose you'd say she was full-figured, like many middle-aged ladies of Mediterranean descent. She wasn't fat, but she was definitely carrying a few extra pounds, mainly on her hips and bum. She also had a bit of a tummy and her facial features were less sharp than they had been when she was in her thirties. And she had a big, heavy bust.

But don't get me wrong, mum was pretty and rather sexy in a slightly overweight and dusky-complexioned way. She had nice hands, with long, strong fingers; her legs, although rather thick, were shapely and well-muscled; she had good facial structure, with high cheekbones, a square chin and a straight nose; her mouth was full-lipped and turned up at the corners when she smiled, and above this she had large, saucy brown eyes and thick, black eyebrows. She also had a soft, deep voice that many people found very alluring.

And what she had, she made the best of. She wore her hair long and loose, she dressed stylishly most of the time, rarely in trousers, usually in a skirt and blouse, and high heels. She wore expensive lingerie and stockings and before you ask how I knew, I saw them on the washing line. She wore makeup even if she wasn't going out, and she painted her carefully manicured nails in various shades of red and purple.

But I wasn't really aware of her sexiness or her stylishness. She was just mum. I'd never thought of her as anything else. Not that the charms of more mature ladies were in any way lost on me. Quite the reverse. I had enjoyed the sexual favours of Valerie from the cheese counter, who was in her forties, and Julia from Wines and Spirits who was older still. I had a particular desire for Judith, the personnel manager, who was in her mid-fifties, but so far she had been immune to my charms.

But that encounter in the kitchen was definitely the starting point for what happened over the next few weeks. Looking back, I realise that from that Saturday morning mum started being more touchy-feely with me. Asking for hugs when she never had before. Giving me random kisses on the cheek and admiring my muscles through my polo shirt or whatever I was wearing; sometimes even running her hands over my pecs or my deltoids. I was mildly embarrassed but not enough to protest; it felt a bit weird.

The weirdness stepped up a notch or two a month or so later. In fact it was a Saturday again and mum and I had been invited to a wedding reception in the evening. It was one of my cousins, the daughter of dad's older sister, Rachel, so dad and Trevor would be there. Mum was initially resistant, insisting that she couldn't possibly be in the same room as dad and "that man". I pointed out that there would be plenty of people there that she did like and besides, Isobel, the bride, would be hurt if her aunt didn't turn up.

'You won't leave me sitting on my own, will you?' she said, accepting my argument. 'You will dance with me won't you?'

'Of course,' I told her and she gave me one of her new hugs, wrapping me in her arms and squashing her breasts against my chest, her glossy black hair tickling my neck and the scent of her perfume in my nostrils.

I was working that day until five, so I avoided most of her pre-event nerves. By the time I got home she'd had a couple of preparatory gins and tonic and was quite calm.

I showered and changed into trousers and a shirt and went downstairs to find mum in the kitchen. She was dressed in a dark-blue knee-length dress of some satiny material and with a square neckline and short sleeves. Black stockings and three-inch court shoes completed the ensemble. She'd made herself up carefully and she looked pretty good, although the nature of the dress material did little to hide the odd bit of bulging flesh. I just hoped she wasn't going to get drunk and embarrass herself - and me.

The wedding celebration was held in the function suite of a large hotel in the centre of the city. We arrived about seven pm and spent a couple of hours going round and chatting with relations we hadn't seen for years. Eventually, and with mum's tacit acceptance, I peeled off and went over to say hello to dad and Trevor. It was a bit awkward but it had to be done and as soon as I decently could, I excused myself and went over to dad's sister Rachel, the mother of the bride.

I've always liked Rachel. She was a couple of years older than dad, maybe sixty, or sixty-one. But she was still the same to me as she'd been when I used to go and stay with her as a kid: fun, irreverent, irrepressible. She and I chatted for ages and it was past ten when she excused herself as the bride and groom were preparing to leave. I looked round and spotted mum sitting by herself at a table. She gave me a little wave and I went over and sat down next to her.

'You seem to have had a good old chat with your aunt?' she began. Her words were a bit slurred and the bottle of red wine at her elbow was two-thirds empty. I hoped someone else had been sharing it with her.

'Well you know Rachel,' I replied.

'Yes. You've always had a soft spot for her, haven't you?' I wasn't sure but there seemed to be a faint tone of accusation in mum's voice. 'Of course, she's a fine-looking woman, with a nice figure. A bit skinny maybe,' she ended, cattily.

'I was just talking to her, Mum. I wasn't trying to chat her up. She's my aunt! And she's in her sixties!'

Mum took another big sip of red wine and filled her glass again from the bottle. 'Ah, there's many a good tune played on an old violin. As you know yourself, Charlie.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, that cheese-counter woman, she was in her fifties. And the other one, the wines and spirits one, she was older wasn't she?'

'Mum, Valerie was forty-three. And yes, Julia was a bit older. But Rachel's my aunt! What are you trying to suggest?'

'You promised me a dance,' mum replied, evading the question. So we went onto the little dance floor and jigged about in front of each other for half an hour or so when the DJ announced that he was "slowing things down".

The first slow number was The Commodores' Three Times a Lady. Mum stepped up to me expectantly and I really had no choice other than to take her in my arms and begin a sort of slow waltz to the music oozing out of the speakers. Mum was a bit closer than I was comfortable with really. I could feel her breasts against my chest and her tummy against my abdomen. And I could smell her. A mixture of scent and a light perspiration overlaid by the odour of red wine. I cast about for an excuse to break off and go back to our seats; it was pretty crowded on the dancefloor and I was about to suggest we retire when mum put her head on my shoulder and stroked her fingers down my back and I stiffened and looked around, but nobody was taking any notice of us.

'Mmm, this is nice,' she said. 'An intimate dance with my handsome son.'

I'd never thought of myself as handsome; I look a lot like my mum, much more than I do my dad. But mums are notoriously biased, especially mine, it seemed. And she was two thirds drunk, maybe more, which wasn't normal for her and was probably a reflection on the awkwardness of the social occasion for her. Or so I thought at the time. Later I realised she'd got herself drunk for another, darker reason. Even so I was unprepared for her next whispered statement.

'You know, Charlie, if I weren't your mother and you weren't my son, imagine how much fun we could have together.'

My initial reaction was that I'd misheard, but I didn't want to ask her to say it again in case I hadn't. A shiver went down my back and I loosened my hold on my mother. But she responded by drawing closer, running her fingertips down the ridges of my spine and lightly rubbing her hair against my neck. If this had been a girl I'd met at the function I'd have been delighted, but this was my mother and there were family and friends all around us and I didn't feel good about it at all.

As the music ended I broke our embrace, telling mum that the taxi I'd booked would be here in ten minutes. She pouted a bit but allowed me to lead her back to the table, where she sat down and poured herself the rest of the red wine and took a big gulp.

'Have I shocked you, Charlie,' she asked, slurring her words and looking at me with her big saucy eyes.

'A bit,' I admitted.

'Just a bit?' she said, smiling coquettishly. 'I'll have to do better than that, won't I?'

'What do you mean?' I asked.

'Did you think I was coming on to you?' she asked.

At this point her elbow slipped off the table and she slumped to one side. I stood up and got her upright and she put her arms around me and allowed me to steer her out of the function room, through the hotel lobby and outside to the taxi rank where, blessedly, our car awaited us. I put mum in the back seat and took the front passenger seat and, twenty minutes later, we were home and I was pulling her out of the back, half asleep, and propelling her towards the front door. I'd never seen my mum in this state before, nowhere near. And I was confused and disturbed by some of the things she'd said to me during the course of the evening. But first things first. I got her inside and upstairs to her rooms on the first floor and there I kissed her cheek and said 'goodnight' and propelled her through her door. She turned round and tried to embrace me but I held her off and told her I'd see her in the morning and I shut the door and went downstairs to find a drink.

Sitting in the conservatory with a big whisky, looking out at the star-spangled sky, I wondered what the hell had occurred this evening. Had my mum really been coming on to me? Surely not! It was obviously some private joke of hers. But... that wasn't the sort of thing that one joked about was it? She'd practically accused me of chatting up my aunt and then she'd told me that she and I could have had a lot of fun if we weren't mother and son. What did that mean for God's sake?

I went to bed disturbed and tossed restlessly for hours before sleep came. When it did I dreamed of being chased through the house by a big, fleshy woman who held her arms out to me and shouted, 'it doesn't matter if it's illegal, Charlie!'

I woke at seven, gritty eyed and coated in sweat. Throwing off the duvet I showered and went downstairs where all was quiet. I made coffee and sat in the snug watching a news programme until just after nine, when I heard noises from the kitchen.

Mum was in her dressing gown and she smiled at me as I came through the doorway.

'Good morning Charlie, how do you feel this morning?'

'I'm fine. Well, I haven't got a hangover. But then I didn't drink much last night. How do you feel?'

'Oh, not too bad.'

'That's insane. You were so drunk!'

'Yes, I'm afraid I was. Did I embarrass myself?'

'No, not really.' I paused. 'You said some odd things, Mum.'

She gave me a level look. 'Like what?'

I was suddenly embarrassed, but my determination to get whatever it was out in the open was stronger. 'Well, for example, you said, "If I weren't your mother and you weren't my son, imagine how much fun we could have together".'

If I was expecting shock, or contrition, I was to be disappointed.

'Well, it's true,' my mum replied, softly. 'You're a very handsome and fit young man and I still have a lot to offer, physically.'

'But... you're my mum! You can't say things like that!'

'It's only supposition, Charlie,' she said, looking at me with her big, brown eyes. I'm not suggesting that you and I should become intimate. Unless that's what you want,' she added, quietly.

'That would be incest,' I choked. 'It's against the law!'

'Lots of things are against the law, Charlie, but we still do them.'

'Like what?'

'Like speeding, for example.'

'That's hardly the same as incest.'

'No,' my mother agreed. 'I imagine it's a lot less fun.'

I leaned back against the island unit and tried to relax. 'I think you need to tell me what all this is all about.'

She looked down at the floor then back up at me, taking a deep breath. 'Ok, Charlie, I'll tell you.' I waited as she mustered her thoughts. Eventually she spoke.

'Rightly or wrongly... wrongly, I suppose, I've become sexually attracted to my son. Actually, fixated would be a better word.' I opened my mouth. 'No, Charlie, don't say anything until I've finished.' She went on.

'I know it's wrong but I can't stop thinking about it. About you. And last night I got drunk so I'd have the courage to say something, to test the water. I'm afraid I made a bit of a mess of it, but this morning I want to make it a bit plainer.' She paused again. 'So here goes and remember that this is very difficult for me and I'm expecting you to be horrified and disgusted but I have to say what's been building up inside me for weeks.

'After I accepted that I'd got this fixation there were three choices, the way I saw it: I could say nothing and bottle it all up and drive myself mad; I could see a counsellor and try to come to terms with it and get over my fixation, or I could let you know how I felt on the remote off chance that you might feel the same way. Unfortunately I had to get drunk to say something, and even then I might not have managed it if I hadn't seen you talking to your aunt and got all silly and jealous.

'So that's it, Charlie. That's what I wanted to say to you: I am available to you if you want me.' I opened my mouth again. 'Just give me a couple of minutes, I'm nearly done.

'I do know about the law regarding incest between a mother and son, and I know it makes no difference that I can't have any more children. It's still illegal. But I did some research. Incest between consenting adults is rarely, if ever prosecuted. Why should it be? Who does it harm? So if the adults concerned were discreet... Very discreet.

'And I should also say that I am a very passionate and broadminded lover. I could give you a very good time, Charlie. A very good time indeed; I know that you like older women.'

She looked at me expectantly and I just stared at her with my mouth half open like a confused guppy. Eventually I found my voice.

'I don't know what to say. I just don't.'

'So say nothing, Charlie. Just think about what I've said. About us not hurting anyone. And how much fun we could have without anyone knowing...'

'I can't, Mum,' I said. 'I can't have sex with you. I'm so sorry.' I fled the kitchen and shot upstairs to my room where I shut the door and stood staring unseeingly out of the window, my mind a glutinous and confused mess of echoes and emotions, replaying mum's words over and over.