Groomed by Gaslight

Editor's note: this fictional work contains scenes of fictional rough, reluctant, dubiously consensual, consensually non-consensual (CNC), or non-consensual sex or scenarios.

Special thanks to Andrew1968, kenjisato, and thegoofyproofyreader for their editing prowess, and for offering suggestions that ultimately improved my story.

Sunday, 8:15 am

"More coffee?"

"I'm good, thanks."

This simple exchange held so much tension, for both of us. To an outsider, it probably wouldn't have registered as more than the usual breakfast pleasantries, but for members of our family, the kind of atmosphere present at the table that morning was clear and familiar, and, of course, never spoken about.

My two sisters and I had grown up with this tension always around the corner, and we all had an intuitive ability to navigate it, but this morning was different. It was one thing when I was a teenager, and the whole family shared the house. Back then, one simply adjusted to the environment and never really questioned it. It was, after all, the way we were raised, and we didn't know much else. Now, two-and-a-half decades later, the dysfunction of it all was clear as day to me. I was raising children of my own by this point, so I had been forced to confront my own upbringing, to not pass this strange behaviour on to my kids.

You see, my mother always did this. When something was uncomfortable, or if there was a conflict, you could always count on her to pretend as if nothing was wrong. On occasion, she might, at most, acknowledge the issue, but her general behaviour was always certain — she would deflect by talking about other things; basically pretend as if nothing problematic had ever happened. My mother's way of dealing with such situations was so ingrained in me that I still had trouble confronting her. With my wife, children, friends, and co-workers, I never had any problems putting all the cards on the table and faced any disagreements head on. But with my mother, I was trained since childhood to accept her gaslighting, and go along with her pretence.

It still worked. The uneasy feeling in my gut was all too familiar, but I felt I had to try to overcome it. I wasn't able to look her in the eyes, and could only muster a feeble attempt at confrontation.

"Mom, shouldn't we at least talk about—"

"I can't remember you ever having just one cup of coffee," she interrupted. "You always have at least two."

"I almost never have two," I tried, sensing already how fruitless it was.

"Well, you should, now that you have a long drive ahead of you. Besides, I'm your mother, and I know what is best for you."

That last sentence almost made me shiver — she didn't seem to think at all about how she had used those very same words the night before, and my attempt to broach the subject had quickly turned into bickering about coffee.

"I really only need one cup," I said.

Ignoring my answer completely, she stood up and promptly refilled my cup. She set it down next to my half-eaten sandwich, then stretched her arms and yawned lightly. Her acting wasn't very convincing, but I understood the point — we were not confronting anything.

"You know, I have a few things to take care of today," she said. "I think I need to start getting ready, so I'll head upstairs and have a shower."

She put a hand on my shoulder and kissed me on the forehead, just like she used to do before sending me off to school. The dismissive signal was clear to me.

"Besides, I'm sure Helen and the kids want you home soon. I want the front door locked while I'm in the shower though, so could you use the back door when you leave?"

"No problem," I said. Trying to confront her didn't work; I quickly fell into my old habits and humoured her. With her back already turned, she left the room not waiting for me. As a definitive punctuation to the conversation, she said a few final words as she disappeared up the stairs.

"Drive safely, dear. So nice to spend the morning with you. Tell Helen and the kids I said hi, and thank you again for all your help." Her tone was sweet and dismissive.

So, I hastily packed my overnight bag and left through the back yard, as promised. As I sat in my car and turned the ignition, the whole thing felt surreal. I had experienced mom's gaslighting before, and she had avoided countless uncomfortable conversations that way. This time, she almost had me doubting that last night had ever happened. But I couldn't deny it, not even to myself. How could I just ignore the fact that I had had sex with my own mother just a few hours earlier?

Saturday, 1:20 pm

I pulled up into the driveway of my childhood home, where my mom had lived on her own for a decade or so. My younger sisters and I had moved out long ago, and my parents had divorced shortly after becoming a two-person household again. I was still not sure what the deciding factor had been, but I knew from experience what a challenge my mother could be. My dad had coped as long as we were a family under the same roof, but once the three of us had left, I guessed he no longer had any incentive to remain in a relationship where conflicts weren't discussed, much less resolved.

A year or so later, he had remarried and seemed much more content. My parents still saw each other now and then, mostly at their grandchildren's birthday parties, and the vibe between them was always polite and pleasant, but just a tad resentful at the same time. My mother had almost eagerly slipped into a role of victimhood, and she was always quick to complain about spending her life alone in her house, although she never took any steps to make a change. She had dated a few men, but nothing serious had ever come of it. My sisters and I were fairly certain that mom wasn't too interested in being part of someone else's life; she only wanted someone to come into hers.

My mother, Margaret, had by now reached the age of 67. She was a grandmother — I had three kids, and one of my sisters had recently had her first. Mom had always been in decent shape, and was generally considered an attractive woman. Her hair had greyed, but she wore it well, and still cared a great deal about her appearance. In fact, presenting a nice façade had always been important to her; a trait that was no doubt intertwined with her unwillingness to face any uncomfortable truths. Her age wasn't hard to guess, though, as she had begun to ask for help with things that she had previously handled on her own. These days, she seemed just a little hunched over, which made her appear shorter than before, and even if I wouldn't call her overweight, she was undoubtedly carrying a few extra pounds compared to just a few years ago.

I had driven there this weekend, to lend her a hand at the house. For many years, my mother had talked about refreshing her kitchen, and finally — somewhat surprising to us — she had set those plans in motion. But she couldn't do it all herself, or at least her role as a victim didn't allow her. The weekend before, my sisters had helped her clear out the kitchen, and mom had then spent the week preparing the room for a fresh coat of paint. This day, that's why I was here. I lived about a three-hour drive away, so mom and I had decided that we would get all the painting done in one day, and that I would spend the night before heading back home on Sunday. Mom had been eager to point out that she would cook us dinner, and made a big show about how nice it would be to have dinner company for once.

My relationship with my mother was tense, although I wasn't sure she saw it that way. Ever so preoccupied with herself, she didn't really bother to gauge others. Her self-image was that of an emphatic and considerate woman, but in conversation, she had the annoying ability to make anything and everything be about her. Discussing those traits with her was, predictably, almost impossible. As a result, my interactions with her were always guided by my instinct to appease her. I played the good son, who was happy to spend time away from his own family to help his dear mother, but what I really felt was an urge to get this done and get back home. I had wanted to drive home that same night, but mom had managed to convince me that it would be too late, and that it was a good opportunity to spend some time with her. As usual, I acquiesced.

I rang the doorbell. It always felt a little strange to do so, since I once lived in that house, but it hadn't been my home in a long time. When mom opened the door, she was wearing a pair of jeans that looked a size-too-small, and an old sweater. Clearly, she was ready to start working right away. Her hair and makeup were done, though, as always. That outward image had to be maintained, even if just for painting a room with her 42-year-old son. She opened her arms and gave me a hug. I was still holding my bag, and could only reciprocate with my left hand.

"Come in, Christopher. Why do you always ring that doorbell? This will always be your home, so just open the door."

To everyone else, I was Chris. My mother was the only one who insisted on calling me by my full name.

"I know, you always remind me," I said.

"Would you like some lunch?" she said, with her hands still on my shoulders. I was a little taller than her, and she tilted her head a bit as she looked up at me.

"That's okay, I had an early lunch with Helen and the kids just before I left. They say hi, by the way."

"How nice of them," she said, seemingly affectionate. "Are they all okay? How is Kate doing in school?"

Kate was my youngest. She had recently started first grade, and was adjusting to everything new.

"She's doing fine," I said. "There is a girl in her class that she really doesn't get along with, but we've talked to her about it, and she's found a few good ways to cope with it. Most of all, she's trying to focus on the kids that she does like, and her teacher has been very helpfu—"

"I remember what it was like," mom interrupted. "Have I told you about the time two boys in my class had a crush on me, and actually had a fight over me in the schoolyard?"

"Yeah, I've heard that story before," I said. There she was again, making it all about her.

Saturday, 6:30 pm

I was just finishing the second coat of paint, and luckily, it appeared as if another one wouldn't be necessary. There wasn't enough paint to go over the whole room again, anyway, and mom seemed happy with the result, as well. Although there had been a few instances of my attempts at humour falling flat, we had actually managed to work quite well together. I had anticipated mom to focus way too much on small details and demand a perfect result, but she was mostly content to go along with my 'good enough' mindset.

As we put down the rollers and brushes, she put her hands on her hips, and scanned the room.

"This looks great. Don't you agree, Christopher?"

"Yeah, it makes a huge difference," I replied, and wiped my forehead. "Now we just need to get all the buckets and stuff out of here."

"Why don't you do that while I have a shower," she said. "Then I can get dinner ready while you shower. I prepared most of it this morning, so it won't take long."

"Sounds good," I said, and got to work.

Mom headed to the upstairs bathroom, and from the kitchen, I could hear her open and close the shower door, before the steady stream of water began. It didn't take more than ten minutes for her to finish, and after blow drying her hair, applying new makeup and getting dressed, she descended the stairs just about when I was putting the last of the painting equipment into the garage.

When I returned inside, mom was already in the kitchen and had started preparing dinner. Apparently happy to be out of her work outfit, she had made an effort to look nice for the evening. She was in a pair of black dress trousers and a burgundy satin blouse. A single string of white pearls around her neck completed the outfit, and she looked quite elegant, even with an apron on top of it all.

"Go have your shower now, Christopher. I'll have things ready here when you're done."

I went upstairs, and took the time to give Helen a call. She knew all too well how demanding spending time with my mother could be, and we had talked about it before I left. Helen was also very aware of how I had a special way of behaving in mom's proximity, and how my mother alone could make me put my own needs and opinions aside, just to keep her in a good mood. There had been a few arguments about this, especially in situations where I had found myself stuck between standing up for my family and handling my mother's demands in a more submissive way. Helen had helped me see how dysfunctional it was, but it was still a deeply rooted instinct that was difficult to overcome.

"Hi honey. How did it go?"

My wife didn't beat around the bush.

"It was actually okay," I said. "She was in a good mood today, and there hasn't been that much tension."

"Did you have dinner yet?"

"Not yet, we just finished working. The kitchen turned out well, so that was nice. I'll just have a shower, and then we're having dinner."

"Ok, honey. I hope you'll have a nice night together. Just don't let Margaret roll over you, like she always does."

"I'll try," I said. When it came to standing up to my mother, I could never go as far as making any promises, and Helen had accepted that.

"All right. The kids and I miss you. Tell Margaret we said hi, and try to think about what I said. Love you!"

"Love you too, honey. I'll call before I head home tomorrow morning."

After all that painting, the shower felt very good. I was a bit stiff here and there, but that was par for the course whenever I did manual labour these days. I hadn't packed anything fancy, so a black t-shirt and beige slacks was the most formal outfit I could muster.

"Is that the best you could do?" mom asked, as I came back down. "Is your mother not worth a greater effort?"

That was another speciality of hers — saying something critical in a light-hearted tone, but only enough to leave you wondering if she wasn't actually being serious. Mom had always kept me and my sisters on our toes that way, as we could never be sure about her true opinion. It was such a manipulative thing to do, but if we ever tried to confront her about it, she would always wriggle out of it by leaning into the 'I was only kidding' stance, even making us feel guilty to have accused her of such a thing. I knew that tone so well, and as always, I was immediately apologetic.

"I'm sorry, I didn't have dinner in mind when I packed my bag this morning. I guess I was so focused on the painting that I—"

"Never mind, I was just joking," she cut me off. Like the expert she was, she had managed to put me on the defensive with just a few words. "Please sit, Christopher."

Saturday, 8:45 pm

"Let's go sit in the living room for a while. Just leave the dishes, I'll take care of them tomorrow."

Dinner had been surprisingly relaxed. Pleasant, even. Once we had opened a bottle of wine and started eating, our conversation had felt genuine and laid-back, without any snide remarks or deflections. It was such a rare occasion — my mother and I just talking about the past and the present, about everyday life and its ups and downs. For once, it felt as if she truly listened to what I was saying, without constantly trying to twist whatever subject to be about her. Without the usual feeling of always being prepared for what she would say next, I actually lowered my guard and felt calm. Instead of thinking about where I would rather be, I truly enjoyed spending the evening with her. We opened a second bottle of wine, left the dinner table and sat down on the living room sofa.

"I'm glad we were able to finish today," mom said, as she sat down. "But I can feel it in my shoulders. Would you mind giving me a quick massage, Christopher?"

"No problem," I said, and put my glass down on the coffee table. "Turn around."

Mom moved closer and turned her back towards me, and I started rubbing her shoulders. I could feel how tense they were, and I admitted that I was a little sore myself.

"It comes with age, you know," she said, with a snicker. "Take it from me — might as well get used to it."

"Very funny," I said. "At least I'm not a senior citizen."

Her tone was not one of underlying criticism, and it felt so good to just spontaneously trade playful insults and laugh together.

"Come, let me return the favour," she said, as she turned around.

Mom gave my shoulders and lower back a massage, and it helped me relax even more. When she was finished, I emptied my glass and stretched out. I felt ready to go to bed, even if the time was only just past nine. It had been a long day, and the plan was to head home fairly early in the morning. Mom seemed to have picked up on my intentions, as she suggested that we shouldn't turn in just yet.

"No, let's stay up a bit longer, Christopher. It's such a lovely evening, don't you think? Here, you can lie down on my lap for a bit."

Mom slid over to the end of the sofa, and motioned for me to lie down. To be honest, I also felt that I wanted to enjoy this rare moment of relaxed understanding between us, so I lay down on my back with my head in her lap. I felt closer to my mother than I had in years.

"How nice," she said. "I love you, Christopher."

"I love you too, mom."

From that point, that evening would see our relationship change forever, although I didn't know it at the time. Perhaps she did — I don't know if she had been planning her actions for a long time or if the impulse came to her there and then. The house was silent, and the room dimly lit. With my head in my mother's lap, I could feel her breathing, as she gently stroked my hair with her right hand. At one point, she looked down and smiled at me, and after a while I dozed, off for a bit.

When I opened my eyes again just a few minutes later, mom appeared absent, as if in deep contemplation. With her left hand, she was fiddling the top button of her blouse. Noticing that I was awake, she looked down and gave me another warm smile, before suddenly undoing the button, revealing the top of her cleavage. She must have felt me freeze; I wasn't prepared to process such a thing, and had no idea how to react. Feeling a little uneasy, I tried to sit up, but mom put her left hand on my chest and gently pushed me back down. When I was back in her lap, her hand returned to her blouse, this time slowly rubbing the placket of her blouse between her thumb and index finger.

"Thank you again for all your work today, Christopher," she said. "I'm very grateful that you took the time away from Helen and the kids to come here and help."

"I'm happy to help," I replied. "I miss my family, of course, but I'll see them again tomorrow."

"How lucky I am," she said, "to have a son like you".

We stayed like that for a few minutes, and my uneasiness abated. Her undone button didn't seem to have any significance anymore, and what appeared to have been genuine gratitude on her part had a soothing effect. But just as I felt relaxed again, mom took a deep breath and looked at me again. No longer with a motherly smile, but rather a determined glare that I had difficulties interpreting, and the atmosphere in the room changed completely.

"Then again, I could always make you do as I wanted, couldn't I?" she said.

The warmth in her voice was still there, but mixed in was a patronising tone, a sense of her looking down on me.

"What do you mean? I came because you asked me to. Why would there be anything more than that?"

"Oh come on, Christopher. You've always been a pushover, just like your father. I always knew what buttons to push with him, and the same buttons work with you. I only had to comment on your trousers before, and I know that you would have run off to buy another pair if I had pushed the issue, hadn't you?"