Coming to Terms

Love? In love with me? Ohhh ...

"I kept pulling up that picture. I was just fascinated by the way you looked. I couldn't stop wanting to see you without clothing, and ... and also wanting to ... to touch you, to be with you most intimately. I really had to struggle not to let it overwhelm me. But I loved—love really—I love looking at you. You are so beautiful."

Tears began to flow down his cheeks and hers.

He gathered himself, then continued. "I came to accept it, but I really didn't think that I could ever have what I wanted. I could fantasize, but I didn't think it would ever be possible, but I knew that I had to try."

She wiped her eyes and felt her love for him swelling inside her, threatening to burst her open, leave her defeated, vulnerable. She struggled to make sense of it all, to get perspective, to accept what she heard and figure out what she should do with the information.

He wasn't done, though. He sensed that he had her softened. "So, I know you are upset, and I do understand why you are upset. And I am sorry, really sorry, that you are upset, and that I am the cause."

She struggled to keep from sobbing. He had her set up. Now he struck. "I have never been happier than I was last night. My dreams, my unattainable, unshakable dreams, had come true." He paused and gazed at her reddened eyes, deep love in his expression. "I would make love to you every day for the rest of my life if you would have me."

At that, he got up, kissed her on the cheek, and went back to work. He had struck. Now he had to let her think it over and, hopefully, come around. He would wait as patiently as possible and find out when she was ready.

She suddenly found herself alone, adrift in a sea of emotions, tossed and turned, sinking and soaring on the waves as she considered these revelations. She hurt and her heart ached for his lonely frustration, his unknown pain and shame. His words of love buoyed her, gave her joy and ... hope? What did she hope for? What did she want? What was the right thing to do?

She prepared dinner, and tidied, and watched him as he passed by from time to time, up and down the stairs or past the kitchen window, always in motion. He was not like his father, except in the way he looked; and perhaps in the way he looked at her.

He was subtle, but he made sure their eyes met, from a distance, unthreatening, but deliberate. She could not help but feel loved, to feel desired, to feel desirable and lovable, something she'd forgotten over the years. It was nice. It had been so long. All those years of single parenting. All those years dedicating herself to his care and not having much of a life of her own. Now, he proposed to be her lover, her life partner, a full partner, a man around the house and a man in the bedroom. She knew it was ... well, what was it? Society would frown.

Society did not have to know.

But wasn't it wrong to deprive him of a normal life, a normal wife? It would be selfish, a parental failure, not to give him the best opportunities.

Of course, if it was truly what he wanted?

She did not know what to do.

Finally, he stopped working and came into the house to stay. He greeted her with his handsome smile but did not approach her or try to force her to answer him in any way at all. He just smiled and then went up to shower.

When he left the kitchen, her eyes followed her man-about-the-house, studied his movements, admired his form, his firm ass. She thought perhaps she should not look, not allow herself to be tempted, but, really, what harm was there in looking at her own son? He was hers and she loved him and, besides, he would not be home much longer. She wanted everything she could get out of his presence—within reason, anyway.

Later, when he came out of the shower and crossed the hall, she allowed herself a brief gaze. Only one, quickly. He was nude and the effect on her was as expected. She turned back to the stove, to her work, contemplatively.

She wondered whether he knew she had been looking at him, whether he might even be aroused now because he knew it. She forced her mind to other matters, the state of the kitchen, the rain clouds gathering outside the window, the sound of a car passing by, anything to distract herself.

They spent the evening quietly. They played cards and listened to music and just enjoyed each other's company. They were becoming comfortable with each other again. If there was sexual tension between them, they masked it well.

They drank wine and started to get silly. Perhaps the giddy way she slapped his hands when he tried cheating at cards, or the way she patted his bottom as he got up to go pee, perhaps these were clues as to the direction they were headed. But she was not ready to concede. She was not at ease with his desires, or, frankly, her own.

Finally, he made a slight push. "Mom?"

"Hmm?"

"I have saved up so I could treat you to a nice dinner. Will you let me take you out tomorrow night? After that, you know, I have to go back to school, so I'd like to have a little celebration of us getting together this week.

That last part came out with an odd inflection. She could barely manage to ignore the suggestion and take his words at face value: he was home for the holiday, and they were spending time together.

Still, she thought it wrong for him to spend the little money he could have saved from his campus job to treat her. "You shouldn't spend your money like that."

"That's the reason I saved it, Mom. To treat you. Please."

How could she refuse? "Well, okay, if you insist."

"I already made a reservation."

"Pretty sure of yourself, huh?" she asked as she squeezed his thigh, an ambiguous gesture. Was she chiding him or allowing herself to touch?

He paused quite deliberately, then struck again with subtle inflection. "I wish I were." He smiled suggestively and let it go at that.

He knew nothing more would happen that night. He was biding his time, letting her, he hoped, come around. In a while he got up, and said, "I'm pretty tired. I think I'll turn in." Her heart sank at the news. He would leave her alone, now for just a night, but soon, all too soon .... He could see the pain in her eyes. He had hit the nerve he'd aimed at and wanted to console her now. He bent down and kissed her cheek, very near her mouth. She was tempted to turn her face toward him, to allow the passion that now simmered in her groin to come to a boil, to chuck it all and throw herself into his proposed arrangement. But she still needed more time to contemplate, to think it through, to be sure what she wanted, and, more importantly, what she thought was best for him.

"G'night," she said hoarsely. He was gratified at the sound of her voice. He was elated, in fact, because he thought he was breaking through. He restrained himself from the impulse to turn her face to him and kiss her mouth wetly. He held his fire. He would take his shot tomorrow night.

The next day he did more chores in the morning, then showered and went out to buy some new clothes. He returned with a handsome, houndstooth jacket, some crisp new trousers, and a bright, new dress shirt. He went to his room and read for a while, waiting. Their dinner reservation was deliberately early. Their time was slipping away quickly.

As expected, she started getting ready about two hours before dinner time. She showered, put on her robe, stood in front of the bathroom mirror, and made herself up. She did not allow herself to think about how she was prepping like a schoolgirl getting ready for her first date.

He sat on his bed and watched her out of the corner of his eye. He admired her bare legs and the occasional glimpse of feminine curves he got when she moved around. He was certain that she wore no underwear, and his imagination enjoyed itself liberally. He was also certain that she knew he was looking, was teasing him and herself, was letting the sexual tension build.

Finally, she emerged from the bathroom and headed down the hall to her room to get dressed. He left her alone. He put on his new clothes and went down to the living room to wait for his date.

When the time came, she descended the stairs wearing a tight, gold colored, leather skirt and a tighter, white cotton blouse, the buttons on which strained to contain her ample breasts. The latter were barely constrained by an obvious, lacy, black brassiere. She looked stunning and he fell in love with her all over again. A perfect complement to his handsome self in his new clothes, looking all fit and mature.

"You look gorgeous," he told her. She was flattered and let herself enjoy the compliment.

"You look pretty fine yourself, young man," she replied ambiguously.

He smiled, and offered his arm, and led her out to the car.

Dinner was an event. It was her favorite restaurant. They started with glasses of crisp, bubbly Crémant d'Alsace paired with appetizers of moules frites. Then followed salads and perfectly roasted fish with a nice bottle of Sancerre. They finished with a decadent, shared dessert: a perfect soufflé, with coffee.

They talked quietly and enjoyed their meal and pretended like there was nothing else on their minds. In fact, both their minds were quite busy, his with fantasies of lying with her naked and hers with a protracted struggle with her still repressed desire for the same thing.

Eventually, the meal was over, and they returned home. He went to his room to pack. He had a train to catch in the morning.

The rapid approach of the hour of his departure pressed her now. She could no longer dawdle. She had to resolve this before he left, or she would send him off sad and lonely and maybe hopeless. She could not bear the burden. Realizing that sad fact unburdened her.

She went to her own room and put on her night clothes, a silky gown with matching robe. She decided that her panties were pinching her and so she took them off and left them on her bed.

"Want more wine?" she asked as she headed down to the kitchen.

"Sure. Thanks."

She soon returned with two glasses of white wine, amply poured. She handed one to him, then sat down on his desk chair to watch him pack. Pangs of longing afflicted her as she watched, knowing he'd be gone again in just a few hours. She would miss him so badly. She was lonely there by herself in that empty house.

He had removed his jacket and dress shirt, but still wore his trousers. She gazed at the muscular frame beneath his tight, tank top. He, on the other hand, made a point of not staring at her, despite his strong desire to admire her back. He had to let her come around on her own.

She drank her wine quickly, and it was going to her head. That may have been deliberate on her part. She was not sure.

He finished packing and set his bag on the floor by the door. She admired his movements. His muscles rippled under his shirt. His biceps and deltoids bulged pleasingly. She swallowed and stared at him. She felt a need in her groin. She was losing control. Giving it up, really.

He then took up his own wine and began to sip, looking at her over the rim of the glass. She gazed back, an almost helpless expression on her face.

He could see that the wine was getting to her. It was time.

He toasted her. "Here's to my gorgeous lady."

It was a bold move, but time was getting away quickly and it was now or never.

She raised her glass to him in acknowledgement, then sat there uneasily. She was still reluctant to commit herself despite her need for his affections.

"Mom?" he said, gently.

"Yes?" she replied, barely audible.

"You know." He shrugged vaguely.

She paused, hesitated, stalled, "Yes?"

"Well?"

Her heart pounded in her chest. Her inhibitions now cascaded away. She put aside her doubts. Now she wanted desperately for it to work, wanted it badly, wanted to love him and make love to him, to give herself to him, totally.

"Okay," she rasped. At that, she stood, went to his bed and turned down the sheets. He watched her, fascinated first at her decision, then, accepting that as given, he marveled at the way her body, barely concealed beneath the sheer fabric, moved, revealing its curves, its soft feminine qualities. As she moved about, he caught glimpses of her bare buttocks and her swaying breasts.

When she had the bed arranged, she stood erect and looked at him, her eyes now smoldering as she studied his muscular form. She swallowed and smiled prettily.

Slowly, tantalizingly, she unfastened her robe and dropped it to the floor. She stood there in her delicate nightgown, letting him take her in. He could plainly see her breasts, their dark, hardening nipples pushing against the silk. Unconsciously, he licked his lips in anticipation.

He watched her closely as she untied the bodice of the nightgown. He was ready, had been for days. Now, so was she. She slipped the garment off her smooth shoulders and let it fall to the floor. She stood there boldly naked, letting him see what was now to be his. She was ready to give herself to him.

He studied her body, the way her breasts hung against her chest, the little stretch marks he himself had caused, the generous roundness of her womanly belly, her full, curvy hips, the coiled, neatly trimmed hair of her mons, her parted labia and her swollen clitoris, red and pulsing beneath its sheath. He took his time looking her over and then slowly unfastened his belt.

When she saw that he was preparing to lie with her, she lay down on her back, her head propped on a pillow, and waited for him. She thoroughly enjoyed the sight of her lover readying himself for his desirous, resolved mother. He unfastened his trousers and removed them deliberately, not hurrying, setting them aside neatly. She eyed the bulge in his boxers and yearned for it, wanting it inside her, wanting to love him and to give him pleasure, to savor coupling with her most beloved.

He took off his undershirt, then his boxers. She stared at his erection, now the object of deep, unequivocal desire. She was ready to take him. No reservations. She opened herself for him, spreading her long legs apart, revealing her most intimate self, a lewd signal that she was prepared for him to lie with her.

Still, he stood there, looking, in awe.

She raised her arms and beckoned to him. Her vagina glistened. It was thoroughly wet inside and ready to be filled. His erection, too, oozed with desire. He took his time, nevertheless, savoring every moment. This time he had her seduced and there was no rush, no worry that she would change her mind. She had come around and would make herself his, give herself to him again, altogether willingly.

He studied her body and her face, those full, moist lips he so longed to kiss, the womanly form that he longed to hold close, feel against himself, enter and please. He aimed to make love to her sweetly.

Though she was open to him, he did not rush. He lay carefully, gratefully beside her. "I love you," he told her as he took her into his arms. She turned her head toward him, her lips parted, her eyes closed, and he pressed his lips to hers, firmly, but still not rushing. She sighed when his tongue probed for hers. He caressed her breast and pinched her nipple while they kissed. Their passion grew. Their tongues began to dance and play together, and their breath quickened. He ran his hand across her stomach, slowly down to the upper edge of her mons. She began to push her hips upward, wanting his touch. He held back and let her desire for him grow, then, slowly still, eased his way down to her swollen clitoris. When he finally touched it, she gasped aloud and pushed herself up again. He caressed the needy little nub then ran his fingers between her labia, then back, now slick with her juices, to her clitoris. Again, she gasped aloud. They were still kissing, and she spoke directly into his mouth, "Stop teasing me!"

"You want to do it?" he asked, being deliberately crude. "You want to fuck me?"

"Yes, baby, you must make love to me now. You must fuck your mamma again," she breathed lewdly.

At that, he rolled atop her. She spread her legs widely, bent her knees upward and hooked his ankles with her feet, and then he entered her, slowly, gently sliding himself into her until their lower abdomens ground together. Her hips began to rock, gently at first, savoring the feel of his manhood inside her, relishing the moment. Their passion ascended rapidly then, and they soon began wailing at each other, him pounding into her and grunting aloud. She responded by thrusting her pelvis hard against him, pounding right back, squealing and moaning in a deeply human mix of lust and joy. She was unable to take him deeply enough, was desperate for his semen to fill her. She had a passionate, unchecked desire to get pregnant by him, though she knew that would be unwise. Her passion made her ecstatic, though, about the ultimate consequences of fucking her son and then she began to cum, moaning loudly, then shouting "Yes! Yes! Oh God, yes. Oh fuck. Fuck me, baby. Cum in me. Fuck your mamma and cum in me!" And so he did, with a loud, satisfied growl, he took her completely and made her his forever.

She spent the night in his bed. They made love once more before going to sleep. In the morning, they lay together, cuddling for a long time, then he got up, got ready, and left her alone to contemplate what should come next.