Chasing a Dream

Many of us keep various things from our past bottled up. We don't repress such things, we just don't feel comfortable talking about them, not even with close friends.

Billy Morris is no exception. Just a few years out of college, he's putting his broadcast journalism degree to good use as a reporter for a local TV station. It's a small station in a small town. Billy hopes one day to work in a large metro area for a national affiliate. It's a start, where he is now, and that's okay with him, for he knows that many of the industry's top names began their careers at small stations in small towns.

He's single, lives in a two-bedroom apartment and is generally happy with where he is in life. But lately, there is something that's been bothering him, eating at him like an itch that won't go away. And that something is what he wouldn't dare discuss with friends. It began with dreams of his mom in various stages of undress and then progressed into Billy becoming more involved in these nocturnal taboo goings on. The dreams began a few months ago, and he has no doubt what triggered them. If he had repressed anything, it was the way his mom had pranced around the household in skimpy attire. The kid Billy paid no attention. The teen Billy, hormones raging, paid lots of attention. What embarrassed him most was when his mom caught him looking and then smiled with gratification. Quickly, he'd look away, ashamed and embarrassed. Nothing was said between them, nor did Billy ever bring it up to his dad or younger sister.

The "exposures," as he called them in his middle school and early high school years, stopped in his senior year in high school. His mom dropped the skimpy attire when he was around. He wasn't sure why, and he wasn't about to ask. After he left for university, those memories of seeing his mom doing housework in revealing clothing such as short-shorts and see-through negligées faded into the ether. He didn't forget; he just had other priorities--pouring over his studies and also dating a few of the girls he met on campus and off.

But now, right in the beginning stages of his media career, he's dreaming things that actually happened and other things he apparently wants to happen. If not, why would his subconscious serve up such erotic images, images that produce wet dreams and shameful desires?

He and his mom Tracie never had an inappropriate relationship. There was no inappropriate touching, no sexually explicit remarks, no obvious attempts on her part to seduce him, although Billy questions that last one. The images of that time when he lived at home come back to haunt him. Tracie, attired in a short nightie, bending over the washing machine, exposing her sexy ass. Tracie, reading in bed, with her nightgown pulled to the tops of her full, creamy thighs. Tracie, squatting down, using the vacuum cleaner hose to vacuum under furniture, wearing a short housedress. And she wasn't wearing panties. Images--vivid, undeniably erotic and bothersome enough where Billy considers seeing a sex therapist.

First, though, he begins to read on the web about the Oedipus Complex, a theory developed by Sigmund Fraud to explain a child's attachment to his mother during early childhood. Normally, the complex is resolved when the boy begins to identify with his father. But what if it isn't resolved? Billy doesn't find much material on that, only that the boy might develop "abnormal" sexual relationships as an adult. So far, that hasn't been the case with him. He's had what he considers "healthy" sexual relationships with past girlfriends.

Meanwhile, the dreams continue, dreams that he'd be embarrassed to reveal even to a sex therapist. So he drops that idea. In his most recent dream, he walks into his mom's bedroom to find her dressed in a black Teddy, sitting on her bed, legs bent under her, with her pussy exposed. 'Mom, why are you wearing that?' he asks. She answers: 'To turn you on, son. Like it?' Then he awakes to find himself nursing a boner that he doesn't hesitate to take care of, letting his imagination run wild. He extends the dream, imagining things that bring him to a quick climax, while leaving him ashamed at the same time.

The unthinkable is becoming more thinkable--confronting Tracie. But that idea seems more embarrassing than telling friends or a sex therapist. He pictures a number of reactions. She'd laugh at him. Or, she might be appalled to the point of telling him to get the hell out of her sight. Or, as in his dreams, she likes what she hears and helps him fulfill those dreams. Again, thinking back to when he lived at home, she must have had a motive for dressing the way she did, for grinning when he gawked and then, in his last year of high school, appearing more covered up when he was home.

Finally, when his curiosity gets the best of him, Billy decides to pay Tracie a visit. She's now an empty nester, living in the same bungalow-style, white clapboard house that she lived in prior to her divorce from ex-husband Leonard Morris. He calls first, tells her there's something he needs to discuss. "Email or texting won't do," he says.

"I hope nothing's wrong. Are you okay?"

"Doing great. See you after work."

Come early evening, Billy sits behind the wheel of his Honda CRV, his nerves a jangled mess. He's not sure how he's going to approach this sensitive subject that very few sons, he imagines, ever discuss with their moms. He's got to first remind her about the way she used to dress around the house. That would be tough enough. But then, going into his dreams...It seems overwhelming, so much so that he's tempted to turn back for home. But doing that won't resolve his problem. "No, this is what I've got to do," he says out loud.

He pulls up to the house, parks by the curb, then walks up the flagstone walkway to the front door and reaches for the heavy brass door knocker. He's wearing the conservative outfit he wore for work, olive dress pants and a blue, button-down dress shirt.

Tracie greets him wearing white slacks, a striped green and white blouse and black flats. She wore this very outfit when he and his sister Marlene came over for dinner. Nothing provocative there. Even so, Billy notices the way her tight slacks bring out the fine curves in her shapely thighs. She's nearing fifty, and yet her light brown hair, the ends curled just shy of her shoulders, is still devoid of gray. He always noticed the sensuous, seductive way she brushed back her hair and shook her head, her full lips parting slightly as she did it. He never thought she was actually trying to be seductive; it was just her way.

After removing his wire-frame glasses, he bends down to kiss her. He has to, for she is a mere five-four to his lanky six-two.

After stepping into the living room, she says, "Billy, what can I get you to drink? Last week, you and Marlene raved about the Merlot I served."

"That would be great," he says, greater than she even knows, he thinks. He needs something to calm his nerves.

He also goes along with her suggestion about talking on the back patio. The warm spring evening is perfect for enjoying fine wine and chatting. He surmises, though, that Tracie might not think that what he plans to chat about is particularly pleasant.

Seated on one of the cushioned wicker chairs, he takes one of the quarter-filled glasses, then watches as she takes the other chair and crosses her legs.

She takes a sip and smiles. "Well, son, I'm just dying to hear what you've got on your mind. If email and text won't do, it sounds kind of serious."

He takes a sip and shrugs. "Well, don't worry, it's not life or death. Just something that I've been curious about."

She purses her lips and nods. "Okay, let's hear it."

Sitting on the edge of his seat, he sips more wine, then takes a deep breath. "Mom, I've been having dreams. Not nightmares, just these crazy dreams."

"How crazy? We've all had those." When he doesn't say anything, she says, "You look kind of tense, Billy. Are you sure there's nothing wrong?"

He squirms in his seat. "Mom, when I lived at home, do you remember wearing skimpy clothing when doing your housework?"

Her hazel eyes widen. "Skimpy clothes? Like what? Thong underwear or bikinis? Because I would never--"

"No, no bikinis or thongs. Short, see-through nighties, short-shorts, short, tight skirts. Stuff like that."

She utters a bemused chuckle. "Um, maybe. Is this what you wanted to discuss?"

He removes his glasses to wipe his eyes, then puts them back on. "This isn't easy."

She lets out a full-throated laugh. "I guess not for a grown man like you who wants to discuss the skimpy clothes his mother wore years ago. What's the punchline?"

A nervous giggle, then a gulping swallow of more wine. "No punchline, mom."

Then she says, "If I were in your place, I'd also need alcohol to fortify me. Want some more? I can bring out the whole bottle if you'd like." While watching him laugh, she says, "Billy, if this isn't the weirdest conversation I've ever had, I don't know what is."

He knows he's stalling, but he also knows he's too far into it to back out. He leans back in his seat, holding his glass with one hand over the armrest, trying to relax. "I mentioned the dreams. Well, lately I've been dreaming about you wearing those outfits around the house. Not sure what brought them on, but they're becoming more frequent."

She nods and takes another sip. "This is getting interesting. Okay, so what do you think brought them on? I mean, you've been out of the house for a few years."

"I'm not sure. But will you level with me?"

"I'll try."

"Did you wear those outfits to...not to seduce me, exactly, but to get a rise out of me? Perhaps to tease me?"

She shakes her head. "Oh, my goodness. Not that I'm aware of, although I'll admit that I remember you gawking at me and feeling, well, sexy when you did. You might be my son, but all women like to be admired." She looks him over as if she's meeting him for the first time, admiring his broad shoulders and photogenic smile. "You were a good-looking kid who grew into one handsome man, handsome enough to report the news on TV. As far as teasing you...hmm, perhaps in a playful sort of way. I mean, I wasn't trying to make you frustrated or anything. Were you frustrated?"

"Not frustrated, just...this is hard to express but I'll try. I felt weird because it got me aroused, when sons aren't supposed to get aroused looking at their mons. And you had this gratified grin on your face when I gawked at you, like you knew I was aroused."

"And what else were you feeling when I did that? Holy crap, Billy, I'm beginning to feel like some kind of psychoanalyst. All I need is a goatee and a Viennese accent."

The humor helps, it does. His mom always had a good sense of humor. But he's also got some serious business that he still wants to get to. "How did I feel? I felt like you enjoyed me looking at you. But it was a two-way street because, embarrassed as I might have been, I enjoyed it, too. In fact, well, maybe I shouldn't tell you this, but I sometimes masturbated thinking about it."

Tracie blushes, turns away and giggles. "Geez, Billy, I didn't know it went that far. Oh, my. Well, do you also remember that I dressed more appropriately when you went into your senior year in high school?"

"I do. So it was a conscious decision. Why is that?"

"Because I got the sense that it wasn't healthy exposing myself to my son that way. I was playing a game, I suppose, and I was beginning to think that maybe I had gone too far. You said you didn't think I tried to seduce you. Speaking candidly, I kind of was, at least subconsciously, to get at least a rise out of you as you said. Your dad was out of the house and your sister wasn't home much. If I caused you any trauma, I apologize."

"No, trauma, just these latent thoughts, whirling around in my sub-conscience. Oh, and a few wet dreams also." He holds up his wine glass. "This is making me bolder."

She knocks back a laugh. "Alcohol usually does."

"Mom, I don't think I ever rid myself of the Oedipus Complex. I'm still that little kid who craves sexual closeness with his mom. You studied psychology in college. Am I on the right track here?"

"I find Fraud interesting but many of his theories don't hold up today, and that's because he didn't have much of a database. He based his views about sexuality on one or two people who talked about things that fit his theoretical framework. He did contribute to our knowledge, especially when it came to the psychological development of children. The Oedipus Complex and the Electra Complex, its opposite for girls' attachment to their fathers, is fascinating to me because I feel that there is some validity to them. Love him or hate him, Fraud is still a giant in the practice of psychoanalysis."

She imbibes more and then continues. "So tell me about this latest dream of yours?" She leans forward and whispers, "Is it...sexy?"

Billy can feel himself blush even before he answers. Either that or he's getting flushed from the wine. "It was to me, mom. You were sitting on your bed, legs tucked under you, dressed in a black Teddy, with your beaver hanging out. I asked you why you were wearing that and you said, 'to turn you on.'

"Ohmygod! And then what happened?"

"Nothing. I woke up. Do you even have a Teddy?"

"I do, the one your father bought me years ago. But it's not something I ever wore in front of you."

"Right, because I would have remembered it if you did."

After moments of silence and imbibing, she speaks up. "So, in this dream about me and the Teddy, what did you want to happen? I mean, were you sorry you woke up so soon? We all have dreams about things where we're moving toward something we want, only to wake up before we can reach it. I guess what I'm really asking, if it wasn't a dream, had you really been in my bedroom and saw me the way you said, what would you have done? If you think I'm probing too far, no problem, I understand. I mean, this is X-rated stuff we're talking about in a personal way."

"No, I'm fine. What would I have done? The least I would have done is slide up on that bed next to you and see where things might go from there. The thing is, I really did see your beaver hanging out, when you wore those see-through nightgowns and when you bent over with no panties on. Like I said, it got me aroused. So I've got to ask...did you ever harbor fantasies of getting intimate with me? And if so, do you still?"

"Oh boy." She looks down and squeezes her fingers between her eyes. "Can I plead the fifth on that?"

"Maybe it's you who needs that wine bottle, mom."

She nods and draws a coy smile. "Maybe I do. Make that two bottles. Oh my goodness." She takes another sip. "Okay, look. Assuming I once did and still do, what would you do about it? You know, that's a question I should be asking you as well. So, I'll ask. Billy Morris, do you harbor fantasies about getting intimate with your mom? Not to answer for you, son, but from what you've said over the course of the last few minutes, the answer is kind of obvious. Is it not?"

He couldn't help but grin. Of course, the answer is obvious. He'd look awfully silly denying what he's known via his dreams, what Tracie obviously knows, what anybody who might have overheard their conversation would know. He draws a shy, hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar smile, then runs a hand over his short, dark brown hair and chuckles. "Yeah, I guess the answer IS kind of obvious."

She slips off one of her flats, extends her leg and begins to rub his calf with her bare foot. "Well, I still have that Teddy I mentioned. Want me to model it for you? It still fits. Well, sort of after a few pounds gained since I last wore it. Think of it as your dream come true."

"And then what?"

"And then...I don't know, we'll see. Remember, you woke up before anything else happened." She stands up and takes his hand. "Shall we?"

Wine glass in hand, he takes a seat on a stuffed lounge chair in the living room, while Tracie goes to her room to change. He drove over here more anxious than he can remember being anxious about anything. Now what he feels is a heady excitement. He doesn't know where this will lead, but he sure as hell intends to find out. Best of all, he's not dreaming; there will be no waking up to spoil the party. He hears her changing in her bedroom, hears the closet open and close, hears the faint whisper of clothes being taken off and put on. Then he hears the clip-clop of what sounds like high-heeled shoes coming down the hall.

Then, into the living room she steps, more like sashays over the yellow carpet, then stands just a few feet in front of him, hands on hips, with one luscious leg slightly in front of the other. "Well?"

He swallows. Hard. "Um, ah, yeah. Wow!"

The Teddy, sheer and black, covers half her breasts and drops just above her crotch. Matching panties cover her pubic area, so there's no beaver hanging out. Except it might as well be because those see-through panties don't offer much of a cover. The black high heels which complete the outfit, lend a beautiful taper to her shapely calves.

She slides her hands down her smooth, luscious thighs and says, "I've got black stockings to go with it but I think my legs look good enough without them. Don't you?" She giggles watching him gawk.

"Um, yes, absolutely."

She poses the way models do, turning left, then right, then in a full circle. Yes, she's gained a little weight since she last wore it. The backs of her curvy, still firm thighs show faint traces of cellulite. Her tummy isn't as flat as it once was. And her biggish boobs aren't as firm as they were twenty years ago. But damn, does she look fucking sexy! He says, "Mom, if Victoria's Secret has a place for middle-age women modeling this kind of stuff, you ought to apply."

"Well, I don't know about that, but thanks."

Still seated, now on the edge of that lounge chair, he reaches out to touch her and she accommodates him by stepping closer. He rubs his hands over her legs, feeling the silky-smooth texture of her skin. He feels her butt, not as firm as it once was, but still cute enough and curvy enough to draw looks from guys lucky enough to be walking behind her. His cock, which began to rise in anticipation even before she entered the room, completes its trajectory upward.

"Oooo," she gasps, when he puts his nose against her crotch and then kisses it. "I hope I don't smell bad."

"You smell lovely," he says, and kisses it again.

Her knees bend slightly when she spreads her legs and swishes a hand over her crotch. "You're making me awfully wet, young man. I bet that wasn't in your dream."

"No, it wasn't," he admits, licking his lips. "So, are you wet enough to lead me into your bedroom?"

"Sure, but before that..." She straddles his lap, then puts her lips to his.

He's never in his life kissed his mom this way. But then, the way she's dressed, coupled with his raging libido, makes him feel like she's more Tracie than mom. Moms aren't supposed to appear irresistibly sensuous and erotic in front of their sons, but that's exactly how she appears, kissing him wearing that sexy outfit and grinding her wet pussy into his stiff cock. "God, I want you so bad," he says.

She slides off his lap and takes his hand. "And have me you shall."

Once in the bedroom, she says, "How about if I help you recreate that dream of yours? I believe you said I was sitting on the bed with my legs tucked under me with my beaver hanging out."

"Yeah, that's right." He's practically panting, while feeling an electric-like current shoot through him, head to toe.

Tracie steps out of her heels, then assumes the position, her butt against her calves. "And now for this," she says, and then releases the snap from the crotch of her garment. "Look familiar?"