Homecoming

* Arrival *

After several years of studying engineering at the university, I was going home. I had lived in one of the university residential colleges and had not spent much time at home over the past years. Now, having completed my first degree, I was taking a break to consider my future. I was fortunate, in that my paternal grandparents had left me some safe investments, which returned enough to give me a frugal independence. I could therefore take my time in considering where I was heading.

Until a couple of weeks before I had been looking forward to this visit, but then two events cast me into a state of depression. First, my mother contacted me to let me know my father had left her. Second, Pamela who had been my girl friend, and with whom I had thought to have a future, announced that she no longer wanted the relationship with me, and in any case she had been having sex with a couple of other students while still having it with me.

Both pieces of news left me a wreck. As far as Pamela is concerned, I can leave it to your imagination how bitter a blow this was. I felt a complete fool and utterly betrayed. My father was a different matter. The family home was in one of the larger provincial cities where my father had an accountancy business. He was the sort of person who always had "schemes" on the go. Schemes for investments and tax minimisation all of which were just inside the law (just), into which he put none of his own money, but persuaded many of the locals to put theirs.

One of the schemes had gone badly wrong, and whilst this was no financial loss to my father, some of his victims were after his blood. He had taken off with a girl twenty-five years his junior who had worked in his office. No one knew where he was. He had simply left a note for my mother, and departed.

As the train pulled into the station, I wondered what was to greet me. My mother was waiting on the platform. I could see immediately the effect of my father s departure on her. She looked tired and a little stooped and this was very uncharacteristic of mother. We greeted each other with a kiss and went out to the car. We lived about ten minutes drive from the station, and during the drive, little was said except the usual formal things like, "What sort of journey did you have?"

"Oh, not bad," and so on.

Arriving home, we busied ourselves with putting away my things and making a few minor adjustments to my old bedroom. We made much of all this as if to avoid talking about the matters which were foremost in our minds. It added to the pain.

Once the room was settled it was time for the evening meal. We sat down to this and hardly spoke throughout. The evening continued like this, with no more than desultory conversation and amazingly, no reference to the two matters affecting us most deeply. Eventually came time for bed, and with relief I turned in, thinking, that if this was how things were going to be, I had better cut the visit short for both our sakes.

* Consolation *

I had slept little and badly for a fortnight, but now I drifted off quickly. I slept deep and long and awoke late. Deciding on breakfast as the first priority I put on my dressing gown and went down to the kitchen. Mother was nowhere in sight, but she had left food out for me. I assumed she was at work in her studio, and decided not to disturb her.

Mother is an artist. Not a great artist, but competent. She sold quite well in a couple of local galleries, and got an occasional private commission. Financially she had no particular worries, for although my father was no longer supplying money for the household, in addition to money from her work, her parents had left her money. Like my inheritance, not a fortune, but enough.

After breakfast I showered and went to my room to dress. I got as far as putting on a pair of boxer shorts, and then looked for my shirts. I couldn't find them. Mother must have put them away somewhere, so I had to disturb her anyway.

To get to her studio I had to go through what used to be the family room. This had no door, only an arch, so my entry was probably very quiet. I got one step into the room, then saw mother. She was sitting on the couch leaning against one its arms, staring out of the large window with its view of the distant hills. She had one foot on the floor, and the other drawn up onto the seat. I stopped, startled. She was naked.

I should explain that the nakedness was not all that suprising. Throughout my childhood, I had been used to seeing my parents getting about with nothing on from time to time. We had never made a thing about this. In fact, I can recall that as a little boy I would sometimes climb into bed with my parents, who always slept naked. This stopped when I was about six, but only because I decided that it was a bit sissy for a boy to get into his parent's bed. So, I had seen my mother nude many time before, as she had seen me. What did startled me was that her hand was down between her legs, and she was obviously masturbating.

I must have made a noise, because mother, who was sitting in profile to me, looked round and quickly drew her hand away from her vagina. She flushed and said, "Sorry darling, I just need the comfort." I said, "It's all right mum, I have had to do that myself sometimes." It was as I said this I saw the tears that were pouring down her face.

I went and sat besides her putting my arm round her. "Oh mother, mother, I'm so sorry, I..."

She cut in, "Michael, I'm so miserable, so utterly miserable. You came home yesterday and I didn't even give you a proper welcome. And yet I'm so very, very pleased you re here. You can't know how I've longed to see you." She leaned against me, burying her face into my chest. She was wracked with sobs of grief. "Welcome home, my love," she sobbed.

Tears welled up into my eyes. Her misery, added to my own, was too much for me, and for the first time since all this pain began, I joined her weeping. We clung to each other, saying words of comfort and endearment, hardly knowing what we said. We poured out our emotions of misery and loss, until at last we began to subside. We sat there, soaked with each other s tears, still holding on to each other, and mother was stroking and kissing my face. "My love, my dear love, I've wanted to see you so much," she was saying.

Emotions are strange and unpredictable things. One emotion can spill over into another. Grief can even turn into laughter. If I were to tell you in relation to what happened next, "I don't know how it happened," I would be lying. I do know.

Perhaps I should describe mother a little for you. She was not beautiful, certainly by the alleged ideals presented by commerce and media. She is about five foot nine tall, slender in a lithe sort of way. Her nose might be accounted a little too long with a very slight curve, and her mouth would be considered a little too wide. Her breasts, while not sagging, hang down slightly, but her pink nipples still stand out proudly and are surrounded by darker pink aureoles. Her legs are slender and well shaped. Her hair is a sort of dark chocolate brown, which she normally wears in a braid, which hangs over her shoulder and descends to lie between her breasts. Her most attractive feature are her eyes. They are dark brown and almond shaped. The one great thing about her is dignity. There was nothing artificial about this; she simply has a natural grace in all she does. In addition, I have noted at social gatherings that the men seemed to seek out her company.

I was in the arms of this naked woman. We were showering each other with kisses and endearments. My penis started to grow erect and the boxer shorts did nothing to hide this. Mother saw my swelling dilemma and touched it. "Sorry mum," I croaked. "Its all right darling, I understand," she whispered. We sat silent for a while, her hand still resting lightly on my penis.

I had never overtly thought about my mother sexually. What Sigmund Freud said about sons desiring their mothers may be true, but it had never been a conscious thought for me. Now, with an erection and my mother s hand resting on it, I felt thoroughly confused. Did I really want mother sexually?

She looked very thoughtful, and then, very gently, pulled down my boxers to expose my penis. She slid lower down onto the couch and extended her arms to me. Her legs parted, and she looked at me plaintively and said softly, "Please, my darling, comfort me."

I started to protest, but she went on, "Come in, darling," she murmured, "Come in."

"But mum..." I gasped. "No, its all right, my love, just put everything into me." I entered her. She was still wet from her self-stimulation, so entry was easy. It was no wild passionate lovemaking. What happened was something utterly new to me. I moved up and down inside her slowly and tenderly, and all the time she was murmuring, "Michael... darling... so lovely... so sweet... oh beautiful..." Then I ejaculated. I seemed to flow into her rather than spurt. I gave a little gasp, and she whispered, "Darling," then it was over.

Mother simply said, "Thank you, my love." I lay inside her for a long time as we kissed and stroked each other. Neither of us seemed to want to separate. We had in this act consoled each other, and now continued to do so.

Eventually we had to part. We sat side by side on the couch and at last really talked. Mother pointed out that she had married father when she was eighteen and pregnant with me. "He was good looking with a radiant personality," she said, "that's how he managed to talk so many people into his schemes. It's not hard to see how girls would fall for him, even though he s forty-five. I thought there were other women from time to time, after all, he was very virile. I had no proof, I just suspected, and it seems I was right."

"Have you got any plans for the future?" I asked. "Not really," she replied. "I'll wait for a while to see what happens...see if they catch up with your father, and what happens to him, and then I might sell the house and move. All the house and domestic stuff is in my name, so it shouldn't be any trouble to sell. But I don't want to do anything in a hurry. What about you?"

"I'm not sure," I said, "I thought I might stay here for a while, if that's all right, while I decide. I've got enough money to live on, but I might be able to pick up a temporary job locally, perhaps at the mine, until I can make up my mind. I thought I might try for a higher degree, but I don't know."

"You will be very welcome to stay here as long as you want, darling," my mother said. "After all, it is your home." I thanked her and we both stood up. She leaned forward and kissed me softly on the lips, and said again, "Thank you, my love." Nothing was said about our sexual act.

I spent the rest of the day until late afternoon, getting acquainted with the town again. There had been a few changes here and there, but not much. I decided I would catch up with old acquaintances another time, and eventually headed for home.

That evening we continued to talk about the shocks we had both received. In the way traumatised people have of going round and round the same circle, we spelt out our pain to each other over and over again. This was to continue for some days, despite our repeated resolves "not to talk about it any more." It just popped into every conversation, no matter what the subject initially. Time came for bed. I had something to ask which I had dreaded all evening, but I had to ask it.

She was about to leave the room, and I burst out, "Mother, could I...could we..." She cut across my stammered attempt, "Of course, darling, if you want to come to bed with me, then come." We made soft, tender love again that night, and for the next five nights.

* Things Change *

For six nights, we had gone to bed together. Each day nothing was said about our lovemaking. On the seventh night things changed.

So far, we could tell ourselves that this was mother and son comforting each other, giving consolation for the pain we had suffered. Our lovemaking had been very soft and tender, almost, but not quite, passionless. On this seventh night, it was as if something snapped inside both of us. We began as usual, with me just slipping my penis into mother s vagina as we lay facing each other side by side. We might lay like this for a long time, uttering loving words to each other. Then I would start to move until I ejaculated. Mother did not have one orgasm during this time, but seemed to love the physical contact with my penis.

On this night, and after I had penetrated her, I felt her suddenly heave herself up towards me. I responded with a deep penetration into her, and the next moment we were wildly thrashing together. She was moaning, "Michael... darling... my dearest love... don't stop... take me... take me hard... don't stop... don't stop..." I was just as bad, crying out, "I want you... I love you... I want to fuck you always..." We came together, and for the first time ever I felt a woman s sexual fluids burst out from her, flooding her vagina, the bed, and me. This time I erupted into her, my sperm smashing against the end of her vagina. It was overwhelming. When we had finished, we fell apart, exhausted by the waves of love and lust that had washed over us.

After a while mother got out of the bed and said, "Let's change the sheets and have a shower." We changed the sheets then showered together, and as she washed my penis and I her vagina, my erection grew in her hand. We dried and hurried back to bed. Now it was love making in its fullest. Mother had orgasm after orgasm, tearing my back with her nails as she climaxed, and screamed for me not to stop. I don't know where I got the sperm from, but three more times I spurted into her. I had never had a sexual experience like this before.

In the early hours of the morning, we fell asleep. When I woke, mother had gone from the bed. I went into the kitchen, and she was standing at the sink. I began to speak, "Mother, last night..." I was going on say how wonderful it had been, but she stopped me. "Yes, we have to talk about last night, but calmly and quietly." She told me to sit down, and then started.

"Michael, up until last night we had been comforting each other in the sexual act. It may have been wrong, but I was able to excuse it because of the awful misery both of us were experiencing. Last night was different. The nail marks down your back should tell you that." I cut in, "I know it was different. It was wond..."

"Michael, listen to me for a little longer before you speak," she said firmly. "Last night it was the act of two lovers lusting for each other, taking each other with enormous power. This makes the whole thing different. Even if we wanted to go back to our previous way, or even before that, we can't. Everything has changed. Our relationship has changed. No matter how much we may want to, we are no longer mother and son in the emotional sense. That can never be again. We have given expression to the most powerful emotional force that can exist between a man and woman. We've got to decide now what we are going to do with that force."

She paused, then began again. "We have been committing incest and that is rated as a terrible crime in this country..." I interrupted. "Mother, I know what we've been committing. I'm not a little boy any longer, and am quite capable of taking responsibility for my actions. It's not as if you raped a five-year-old boy or I a little girl. We are two adults who began by comforting each other, and for good or ill, it turned into something else."

Mother broke in, "It's got to stop, we can't go on like this. It can only end in more unhappiness for both of us." She was clearly in a very disturbed state, and I realised that to continue this conversation would not serve either of us well at this point. I wanted badly to put my arms round her again and comfort her, but this was out of the question, as it might be interpreted as a sexual approach. I decided on a delaying tactic.

"Mother, I intended to go out today to look up some of my old friends. We've been more or less continuously together for the past seven days. Let's have a break from each other. When I get back this evening, we can talk about it. She looked relieved that I had taken over the decision making, and agreed. I borrowed the car, and went off resolved to think the situation through and my own attitude.

I arrived home about 6-30 p.m. Mother was in the final stages of preparing the evening meal, which we sat down to shortly after.

I noted that she had gone to some trouble with her appearance. She wore little make-up, just a touch of lipstick and eye shadow. She was dressed in a dark red gown. Her hair, hanging between her breasts in its usual braid, shone with the obvious brushing it had received. The air of tension and anxiety that had sat upon her ever since I arrived home seemed to have diminished, and she had resumed her old dignified manner. I felt as if I was out on a date with a very attractive and sophisticated woman. She looked ten years younger than her age. I suspect that this was mother s intention.

I, on the other hand, had not had time to shower or change. I was in jeans and a shirt that was beginning to show signs of the day s wearing. I felt at something of a disadvantage.

As we ate the meal the conversation centred on my day s activity, whom I had met, what had been said, and so on. It was a careful avoidance of the conversation we both knew had to take place.

We finished our meal, washed up, and at mother s suggestion we retired to the family room. We sat in separate armchairs no couch this time. Neither of us seemed to know how to start. Eventually it was mother who took the initiative. "Michael," she began almost sternly, "If we are going to go on living in the same house together for any length of time, we have got to try and sort out what our relationship is going to be. We were mother and son; we then became mutual comforters, and finally passionate lovers. Where can we possibly go from there?"

She didn't wait for me to answer. It was if she had to have all the cards face up on the table. "Apart from the incestuous nature of what we have been doing, there is more than twenty years age difference between us. That's something that many people would consider disgusting..." I cut in at this point. "My father is having sex with a girl twenty five years his junior." I saw the look of pain flash across her face, and regretted having said those words.

She continued. "That may be the case, but we are talking about you and me. I don't know how long you intend to stay here, but we must come to some conclusion about our relationship." I could see that this was another circular conversation in the making, so I stepped in to try to get it back on track. I decided on forthrightness. I had considered all day what I was to say, so now I thought I might as well get it said.

"Mother, last night was the most wonderful, beautiful sexual experience I have ever had. The fact that it was incest and there is an age difference between us, can't change that, at least, not for me." I paused and looked at her. She was staring at me intently as if trying to read my innermost thoughts. "What I would like to hear from you," I went on, "Is what it was for you. Not about incest and ages, but what it meant and did for you."

She burst out, "Oh my darling, it was..." She almost left her chair to fling her self into my arms, but stopped herself and started again. "Michael, you know how wonderful it was for me. I had never been loved like that before. But you re asking me the wrong question. I am not the sort of woman who gives herself without commitment to the person I'm with sexually. I have only been committed to one man in that way and when that commitment was betrayed it nearly destroyed me. I don't want that agony again. If we continued as lovers, I should be asking you for an undertaking I have no right to expect from you."