Falling for My Mum Ch. 01

"Right, yes, well," I said, thrown off a little. "Last night I, er, I found something on the computer. Some files that Dad had left by mistake." At this, I saw you go suddenly very pale. "He had deleted most of them but had left some, some pictures of you which I think he had taken."

"He had," you said shortly. "They weren't taken by anyone else, if that's what you were thinking," you said, your eyes flashing with defiance at the idea of my judging you for what you'd done.

"No, no, of course," I said hurriedly. "Anyway, I, er, well I found them there and, well, I deleted them."

"I see," you said and looked and me searchingly. "And why did you need to tell me this?" You asked. A good question. Why did I need to tell you? Why couldn't I just pretend that I'd never seen those images? Was it selfish to tell you? Did I hope that it might lead to something between us? I don't think so.

"I just didn't want there to be things between us Mum. You've always taught me to be honest & that it's better not to have secrets."

You nodded thoughtfully. "That's true. It's a bit of a shock that's all – I didn't think your Dad would be so foolish as to leave them on there."

"I don't think he meant to. It looked like there were quite a few, um, collections and that he'd deleted all them. He'd just forgotten his, er, favourites."

"There were quite a lot, yes, it was something we started a few years ago now as a way to get a spark back into our lovemaking. It seemed to turn your Dad on a lot and I loved being watched and photographed by him – kind of voyeuristic you know?" I only nodded in response my mind racing at a hundred miles an hour. "The ones we kept were the tasteful ones. There were others," you gave a little throaty laugh that sounded so damned sexy, "but, well, we deleted those in case you or Sarah found them. I pretty glad we did now!" I blushed at that comment and you looked at me again, those blue eyes piercing me. "Tom, did you...do anything with the pictures before you deleted them?" I couldn't look at you, had to look down and away, and then you knew. "You did, didn't you?" you said quietly, placing your hand over mine again in a gesture of sympathy.

I looked back up into your beautiful eyes and saw that you weren't angry, just concerned. "Yes Mum," I replied quietly. "I did, I don't know what came over me, it just happened. You were there, looking stunning, my body just took over."

"You thought I looked stunning?" you asked softly.

"Of course Mum, I've always known you were beautiful, I mean enough of my friends told me, but, I'd never seen you sexually and there you were, so sexual before me and the man inside me just took control." You continued to stroke the back of my hand and, despite the awkward situation, I felt my body responding to your touch, the touch of the woman I was falling for.

"Well," you said eventually, "I guess that's kind of flattering but it's wrong Tom, you know that right?" I hesitated and then shrugged.

"Yeah," I said non-committally.

"Well, it is," you said flushing a little in the face. "You should be thinking of pretty young things your own age, not old ladies like me. You're a sweet, loving, generous guy, Tom, and handsome too, you just need to get back out there."

Still holding my hand, you stood up, leaned over the table and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. I breathed in the lemon smell of your hair, feeling its silky texture on my face, your firm breasts against my upper arm, and I sighed. "Thank you for not hiding this from me, Tom, it's very grown up of you and I'm glad that we can be honest with each other. Now, though, let's just get on with things & forget about this. I'll see you this afternoon after my tennis."

You hurried out of the kitchen, your breakfast still unfinished. Whatever you'd said, it wasn't going to be as easy as just forgetting about it, for either of us.

* * * * *

The next week was strange. From the moment you came back from tennis, all hot and bothered, your sexuality like your skin almost glowing, I knew that something had changed between us. There was something between us now, something that should not have been there. A secret but not an innocent one that a mother and her son can share without fear of harm, but a dangerous one, a secret that lovers might share.

Neither of us know how to deal with this, we had no reference points. Everything seemed odd, somehow forced and unnatural. Hard as I tried, and I did for the first couple of days, I couldn't get those images out of my mind. When I closed my eyes they were there, sitting at my computer at work they came unbidden to my mind. At night you came to me in my dreams, the sexual woman in the photos, wanting me, needing me. Both nights I had wet dreams, the first I'd had since my early teens.

I could tell from the way you looked at me, little sideways glances when you thought I wasn't aware, that you were thinking about those photos too. I didn't know what you were thinking, you were too enigmatic for that, but I knew that you *were* thinking.

When Dad returned from the US, even he noticed that something was up. He asked me if I'd done anything to upset you as you had been notably short with me one evening at dinner. I certainly wasn't going to tell him what the matter was, I mean how do you tell your Dad that you think you've fallen in love with his wife of twenty-five years?

I couldn't get you out of mind now. Following the wet dreams, every night I'd masturbate to incest porn but now, in the stories I read, it was you and me, always Cat and Tom, that were together. While I didn't have *those* photos, I did, of course, have loads of family, and family-friendly, photos of you and us, and I placed a framed photo of you next to my screen so I could look at you, imagine your face, your body, your lips on me, while I stroked my hard cock to you. I felt guilty, in that we'd agreed to forget about it and I was hiding what I was doing from you, but on another level I couldn't feel guilty. I had thought long and hard about my feelings for you. I knew that you were my best friend, the woman I would turn to before all others and whose love, support and advice had always been central to me and my well-being. I also knew, after the incident with the photos, that I not only thought you were beautiful, something I'd always known, but that I was physically attracted to you in a way that I hadn't been with anyone else. Putting those things together, it was clear to me that I was in love with you and I couldn't feel guilty about masturbating about the woman I was in love with, whether she was my mother or no.

Nearly two weeks after the fateful breakfast, we had a row at dinner the night before when you snapped at me about not cleaning my plate and I'd flashed back that I wasn't a child and I might have finished if it wasn't so bland. You'd burst into tears and left the room. Dad, who'd witnessed the scene, told me to go and apologise immediately and to do whatever I needed to "sort your shit out".

I felt like a teenager again but was mortified at what I'd said to you and how I'd made you feel. I knocked on the door of your bedroom but your only response was "Sod off, Tom." I tried to apologise through the door but heard nothing in return. That evening spent uncomfortably with Dad in front of the sofa watching God-awful Saturday night telly before Match of the Day was one of the most agonising of my life. Liverpool losing to Arsenal, Dad's team, in the last game of the season only made it worse! Dad tried hard not to be too smug but with only limited success. So ashamed was I of my behaviour and what I had done to our beautiful relationship that I didn't masturbate that night – I just lay in my bed trying to sleep, trying to think of a way I could mend what I had broken.

You came to me again in my fitful dreams and I woke with a hard on and tears wetting me cheeks. What had I become? I got up early and went downstairs to find you again in the tennis kit you had been wearing two weeks before. Supressing the feeling of de-ja-vu that this sight prompted, I walked over to you. You were at the sink, washing up your bowl and I tapped you on the shoulder. You turned to face me and I could see conflicting emotions crossing your face. Eventually it settled on what might be called cautious forgiveness.

"I'm so sorry Mum...for everything," I said and held out my arms. You moved into them hesitatingly. "Can we be friends again?" I whispered into your hair as you rested your cheek on my shoulder. You gave a little nod and then pulled back, holding my arms, looking into my face. You bit your lip in that adorable way and I could tell that you were thinking. You gave another little nod, an unmistakable sign of yours that you had come to a decision.

"Why don't you come and play tennis with me? It's been ages since you played and," you added playfully but a little forced, "you'll need the exercise if you are to get back out there in the dating game."

"Jeez Mum," I laughed, "I hope your backhand isn't as strong as your backhanded compliments." A lame joke but it was a start.

The St Albans Lawn Tennis Club has a fairly unprepossessing modern clubhouse, but the facilities both inside and out are high quality. For England, it was a hot mid-May morning and the mercury had already hit 21 degrees centigrade by the time we stepped onto one of the four hard courts.

Throwing a ball into the air and gently knocking it over the net towards me, you called out, "As you haven't played for a few years, I'll go easy on you." At that, I bounded into position and slammed a forehand straight past you and into the metal fencing behind.

"Don't worry about it, I'm sure it will all come flooding back." I told you haughtily. One of my many failings is a strong competitive streak and that, combined with my frustration and confusion, now came out on the tennis court. You are no shrinking violet yourself and, in no time at all, we were playing with aggression and passion. That excited me, the passion I could see in you, something very different to anything I'd seen from you in the last fortnight and different somehow from anything I'd experienced before. There was anger in both of us but that only showed that we cared and I was glad to know that you cared enough to want to beat me, that meant something. I didn't know what exactly but it was definitely progress.

To watch you play with such vigour was, frankly, also very arousing. The exertion was causing you to breathe heavily, something which showed off your breasts to great effect as they heaved with each gulp of air and bounced with each effort shot you made. The muscles in your shapely thighs flexed as you moved gracefully across the court and, while your 'grunting' was not exactly at Maria Sharapova levels, the noises you made when making big shots were not exactly innocent. Something I especially enjoyed was watching you bend over to pick up stray tennis balls, as each occasion gave me a view of your exquisite arse and the white Lycra knickers that covered it. It was a pity they weren't more revealing, I reflected, but then perhaps that was for the best.

To salve my pride, I'd like to be able to say that I came completely to my senses and realised what a jerk I was being and eased off which was why you won. In truth it was partly that, partly being distracted by playing someone so overtly sexy and partly that you were a very good player who was in much better practice than me. As you won the tiebreak you gave a big grin and I managed to compose my features into something resembling those of a magnanimous loser. We walked to the net and I leant over to kiss you on the cheek. We were both glistening with sweat on your foreheads and chests from the heat and exertions and as I leant forward I couldn't help but notice a droplet of perspiration run down your cleavage as I glanced through the open buttons of your white polo shirt. The light smell of your perfume mingled with your own scent, heightened by the exercise you'd been taking, was intoxicating and I stuttered out my congratulations.

You looked at me with amusement in those blue eyes & suggested that go for a lunch in the clubhouse before heading home. Sitting at lunch with one long leg crossed over the other, I couldn't help but think that you looked like a cougar with her toyboy. I hadn't been at the club for several years and one or two of the older woman there regarded us with a knowing look. I wondered if you noticed. You didn't tend to miss much so I rather suspected that you had.

Leaning forward, giving me a flash of generous cleavage as you popped a morsel of chicken Caesar salad in your mouth, you fixed me with a beguiling stare and began to talk.

"I'm sorry for the way I've been since...you know. I was a little shocked and I didn't know how to react. Last night, though, made me realise that I was driving you away and that isn't what I want, Tom, not at all. So," you said in a more breezy tone and with a smile, "I've decided not to be angry about your little crush and to be flattered instead."

"It's not a little crush Mum," I protested but you placed a finger on my lip, not quite the act of a mother I thought, and smiled.

"Yes, yes it is, Tom," you said gently. "It can't be more than that, it just can't, and I know it's not less. I know that's not the only time you...you, well," you looked a little flustered, the colour rising in your cheek, and took a deep breath before whispering, "masturbated over me." I nodded, confirming the truth of that statement.

"As I say, it's really very flattering," you continued, touching your blonde hair with your fingers. "It's nice to know I can still turn a young man's head, even it is only my son's," you said again in a whisper. I flinched at the 'only'. "So," you said, "I'm not going to mind it you indulging your little fantasies. Fantasies aren't harmful, after all," you said in a tone that was trying to convince yourself, "as long as we know they're just that and no more."

I couldn't quite get my head around it so I just nodded in agreement but, looking back, I think you had been frightened by the distance and tension that had suddenly developed between us and were trying to find a way, any way, to fix it. You obviously hadn't thought through the possible consequences of indulging what you called my 'little crush' for me or for you but then we rarely do think of these things. It was also clear that, after being second to Dad's work for so long, you liked knowing that you were still attractive. By this stage, I was already in love with you, something I knew and accepted whatever we'd just agreed about fantasy. You weren't there, nowhere near, but these triple feelings, confusion, fear and pride, had opened the door of your heart and when that happens we can't always control the consequences.

From that time onwards, there was a notable uplift in your mood, something even Dad noticed and commented on, and this was accompanied by subtle changes in your dress, appearance and mannerisms. You were always a stylish dresser but you were now showing a bit more daring and confidence in your wardrobe, items I hadn't seen in a couple of years reappeared and you took advantage of the warm summer weather to show off a little more flesh. Your makeup, always classy, was now perfect everyday, and you were just a little more tactile with Dad and with me.

Dad asked what had got into you and you just smiled, gave him a hug and winked at me over his shoulder. "Oh nothing, maybe I've just got a secret admirer, that's all." Your 'secret admirer' was what I had become and you dropped little references to it occasionally. It even seemed to perk up your love life with Dad, as the sounds of lovemaking now reached my ears in the loneliness of my own bed. I listened and I wanked, I think you knew that and that the idea excited you as, with a twinkle in your eye, you'd apologise at breakfast if you'd disturbed me.

May turned into June and June began to approach July. We didn't talk about what was happening in our house, save for the odd reference to the 'secret admirer' but in mid-June, while I sat in my office at Westminster trying to write a research paper on pension reform, an email arrived in my inbox from 'Cat Moore' headed 'Reminder'. I was doubly surprised. First, by the sender – your normal email address was in my contacts as 'Mum' so this must be a different address that I didn't recognise. Secondly, I didn't think there was anything I needed reminding about – it wasn't anyone's birthday coming up except my own and we didn't have any plans in place for anything.

My curiosity piqued, I clicked on the email and read it.

"To my Secret Admirer,

I wanted to thank you for putting a spring back in my step and I was worried that, your memory being what it is, you might be struggling to remember your original inspiration. Here's a little reminder.

Cat x

P.s. You might want to wait until you are on your own before you open the attachment."

I looked around the office, my heart pounding, but the coast wasn't clear. I could feel my cock hardening in anticipation of what might be in the attachment as I forwarded it from my work account to my iPhone, smiling that you could never remember which of my email addresses to use. I excused myself and headed to the toilets. Locking myself in the cubicle, my hands trembling slightly, I opened the email, read your words again with a smile, and the accompanying attachment. It was the photo of you in your underwear and stockings on the leather sofa. I leaned back against the cubicle door and puffed out my cheeks. What did this mean? It had to be significant but I couldn't yet fathom what it augured. It certainly seemed like explicit, if secret, encouragement for me to continue my fantasies.

Tugging down my zip, I reached into my trousers and grasped my cock. Pulling it out and began to stroke it, gently at first, then more vigorously as I stared intently at your photo, looking into your eyes, drinking in the swell of your breasts, the flatness of your stomach and the shapeliness of your thighs. "Fuck, Cat" I groaned as I reached for the loo roll and spurted my load into it, feeling the cum seep through the thin ply tissue and onto my fingers. I clamed my breathing and threw the tissue down the loo, opened the door and checking I was alone before heading to the sink and washing my hands clean, removing the evidence of a secret that would have shocked my co-workers to their core.

Returning to my desk, I sent you a short email in reply:

"Dear Cat,

Best to use this email address in the future, should you wish to send me more reminders (or new material). Rest assured that your reminder was put to exactly the sort of use you may have imagined.

Your Secret Admirer x"

No verbal reference was made to the email when I returned home but a smile and sparkle in our eyes told a story all of their own. For the next few days, just before lunch, I received an email from 'Cat Moore' with a new photo, each was one of Dad's 'favourites' in that original folder. Sometimes there was one photo, sometimes two or three. Each email was addressed to the 'Secret Admirer' and signed off from 'Cat'. The day Dad left for another two-week business trip 'Cat' sent me another email titled 'The final favourites'. It read:

"To my Secret Admirer,

These are the last of Richard's favourites that you naughtily glimpsed. As it's our secret, though, I've decided to send you a more up to date photo, from this morning in fact..."

Attached were two photos that I'd seen before, each exquisite in demonstrating your beauty, but also a new one, one that I had never seen before and neither had my father. It was a selfie of you sitting at your dressing table. The flash of the phone in the mirror didn't distract from the gorgeous woman captured in the glass. You were leaning forward slightly, giving a deep view of your cleavage enclosed in a stunning silk fuchsia bra with lace trimmings. Your flaxen hair was swept over one shoulder and your lips, with a shade of lipstick that matched the bra, pouted provocatively.