Mothering Sunday

All characters are over the age of 18, and it is written in British-English. As I'm sure you can tell by the context, this story deals with mother-son incest. Be warned! But if you're into that kind of thing, please enjoy... hopefully.

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He was there, she could tell. There in the darkness outside her bedroom door. She didn't turn around to check, but she sensed his presence, his eyes, wide in the dark, his low silent breathing.

It wasn't the first time. At first, she'd felt concern and confusion about why he was there. Why was he watching her like this when she undressed? It was creepy, surely?

But no, she told herself. And she knew this wasn't being rational because he was her son. But surely, he should have grown out of this by now.

Today she felt some of the same concern, but lately there'd been something else she been feeling too, something she couldn't confess, even to herself. But it was unmistakable. Excitement.

She looked into the mirror, trying to catch a sign of movement, proof that he was watching her, but in the subdued light of her bedroom, and the dark of the space beyond, she could see nothing. She listened for him. Nothing; just the quiet ticking of the central heating, and the distant rumble of the traffic outside.

But she knew he was there.

She continued brushing her hair, pulling her robe tight around her. She felt deeply conflicted.

Why did he look at her like this? She was 42 years old; she could see the give-away lines on her face, the strands of grey in her hair when the dye had washed out.

She appraised herself in the mirror, trying - despite her growing excitement - to make a dispassionate assessment of what she saw.

But she was cheating, she knew. Cheating herself. Because she'd made up her mind but could not admit it.

She'd got ready that night feeling oddly detached. Part of her refused to believe the things the other part of her was doing.

The preparation ritual had been elaborate. It was as if she was preparing for a date. It was a long time since she'd been on a date.

She'd carefully prepared her make-up. Not so much to be obvious. Enough to accentuate her natural beauty. She'd dabbed on her perfume. Now she was brushing her hair.

She forced her face to look calm, but her nipples had no such control. They were painfully obvious, crinkled, and tight, thrusting through the sexy robe she had knowingly selected, pulled tight against her breasts.

But still she tried to normalise the situation.

Perhaps it was just love, innocent love, a son for his mother, she'd told herself many times before. But she knew she was kidding herself. She knew now there was much more to it than that.

She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. It swelled her chest, and her shape in the mirror looked pleasing to her. She was a good-looking woman, she knew.

Things were coming to a head. It was time to sort this out, for better or for worse.

She didn't feel guilty any-more. Well, she did feel guilty, but it was a different sort of guilt. She - and she could still barely believe it - but at least she had the consolation of encouragement from her husband, for what she was about to do. Probably.

With a sudden movement, almost shocking in the stillness of her room, she turned to face the door.

"Paul," she said in a low voice, "Are you there?"

There was no response, but she was sure this time that she heard his intake of breath, out there in the dark.

"Paul, I know you're there..." she repeated in the same low voice, "Come here."

Slowly she heard a sound, a shuffling of feet, a long exhaling of breath. He must have been about to expire.

"Come here," she said again, more insistently this time.

After a long pause, he stepped out of the shadows and edged towards the warm light of her room.

***

"So, what's worrying you?" Rachel's husband Gavin asked her as they sat at the dining table several weeks earlier.

There was just the two of them now. Paul was away at university and the house seemed very quiet. Rachel missed him more than she had anticipated. The worry and tension of the period leading up to his departure - the exams, the results, the college interviews, the decisions, the unknowns - were replaced now with a different sort of worry.

He'd always been a shy, introverted boy. Lacking in self-confidence, though God knows why - he was a good-looking intelligent young man, from a loving family.

He was bookish and studious, rarely putting himself out there, like so many of the young people she knew. He was slight, of average height, very slim, with a slightly feminine grace which seemed unusual compared to the clumsy youths she saw careering around the college where she worked. He sometimes seemed a little younger than his twenty years.

But she thought he was beautiful. That was the right word, she'd mused; beautiful. He was graceful, with fine cheek bones, unblemished skin, a mop of thick hair, red and glowing like hers in the right light, striking eyes, and an aquiline look to his face.

Of course, she was biased, but she was sure she was right about him. He could have been a model if he'd been taller and wasn't so ill at ease with himself.

She'd hoped university life would be the making of him. Away from his mother's skirts, out there on his own, an independent life would bring him out of his shell, she thought. Now though, almost a year later, she was not so sure.

During their frequent face-time conversations she'd seen the same shy boy that left home. He was chatty, clever, and she loved their conversations about his studies, about the books he was reading.

At least he'd at long last acquired a social life, but whenever she inquired delicately about his love life, he'd clam up, flush and stutter just like he did when he was sixteen.

Rachel shook the far-away look from her face and regarded her husband, Gavin.

"It's Paul, of course," she began. He sighed. She did not need to explain further.

They'd had this sort of conversation before on various occasions. He'd usually tell her not to worry, that he would grow out of it, that she was being too clingy; that she was over-analysing.

But she'd never dared to discuss her real concern, about what lay at the heart of her fears. And she'd certainly never revealed her own reciprocal feelings.

"I think, in a way, it's my fault," she began carefully.

"What do you mean?"

"His awkwardness... his shyness with girls... you know what I'm talking about."

He smiled, as if he knew what she was trying to say.

"I've probably mothered him too much. We've spent too much time together. I haven't given him a chance."

"That's rubbish," he said, quite forcibly.

She looked at him, surprised. She was only getting started.

"He's had plenty of opportunities, but he doesn't take them. He's shy. I've been thinking about this quite a lot. You're not the only one who notices you know. I reckon he needs someone to help him a little. I've seen it before..."

"What do you mean, you've seen it before?"

"He needs a confidence boost..."

"Well, that's obvious!" she exploded, "That's exactly what I'm trying to say..." Sort of.

He nodded, staring at her quite calmly, despite her outburst.

"Anyway, what do you mean, you've seen it before?"

Again, he ignored her question.

"You could probably help him."

The conversation was not what she anticipated. She was nonplussed.

"He's got a thing about you, hasn't he?"

She gasped, shaking her head - her instinctive reaction was to deny it. But he pressed on.

"Look, I thought it would go away. I thought he'd grow out of it. I've kept quiet. But I'm not blind. I've wondered what I should say, but since we're talking about it at last, I'll tell you what I've been thinking about."

She shook her head again. She'd started it, but now she feared where this was going.

"He's in love with you. Or in lust with you maybe. He wants you..."

She was open mouthed, staring at the table. There was a long moment of silence.

"You know what you're saying don't you?" she whispered.

"Yes, I know exactly what I'm saying."

She was still staring at the table.

He waited for her to come round.

"Well, what are you saying?" she asked, forcing her eyes up to his, barely able to face her husband of 22 years.

She was stunned at how he'd read the situation. She'd always - unfairly it now seemed - thought he failed to notice the subtle signs. That she and her son had a special connection which he could not possibly understand.

She was stunned even more that he was prepared to talk about it with such apparent calm.

She'd twisted herself in knots about this. Agonised. Wondered whether she could ever talk to him about it. Feared his angry dismissal. His scorn and disgust. Thought they'd never get to this point, and that if they ever did, she'd have to reveal herself as a sick and twisted woman. A mother with unnatural desires. That she'd put her precious marriage, and their little family unit in jeopardy.

But now all this was running away from her. And not in the direction she assumed.

He looked back at her, still remarkably calm. She was churning inside.

"OK, I'll spell it out. I'm saying that I think he wants to have sex with you."

Her head was spinning, her heart banging against her chest.

"And I think you should have sex with him."

She exploded. What was it - relief, shock, anger, guilt, horror, lust? Whatever it had been, she couldn't face it and fled the room, up the stairs, and sat clutching herself on the bed, unconsciously rocking back and forth.

Wisely, he left her to her thoughts for a while.

An hour or so later, a bit calmer, she forced herself to come down and once again they found themselves back facing each other again across the kitchen table.

"Don't tell me you haven't thought about it," he said, after a long pause.

She didn't answer. Even now he'd indicated his permission, she couldn't answer.

"I've seen him looking at you," he said, "I know that look. Can't say I blame him... You're really something to look at..."

At this she shook her head. "Don't be facetious. This isn't a joke. You know what you're suggesting."

"Yes, I know exactly what I'm suggesting."

"It's so wrong... You know that it's... " She couldn't bring herself to say the "I" word. She sighed deeply, "It's," she cast around for a word of sufficient import, "It's disgusting."

He smiled and reached out and held her hand.

"Do you really think it's disgusting? Really?" he asked gently.

She looked at him, unsure what to say. Surprised that, yet again, he had read her so well.

"I don't know what I think."

"You have thought about it, haven't you?" he asked again. She shook her head.

"Come on Rachel, talk to me. I'm telling you, it's OK - I'm OK with it."

"Well, it's not something very easy to talk about." She gave another long pause.

"But yes, I suppose I have thought about it," she finally conceded.

He smiled. At last. He'd seen the longing looks she gave her son. Just as he'd seen Paul's puppyish devotion morph into something much more serious as the boy turned into a man.

"But wouldn't it just make him worse?"

She continued after a while, "You know, wouldn't it feed this... obsession?"

"I honestly don't know. It's a risk I know," he said. It was true, he really was not sure about it, but he continued, "I think he has a real problem with his self-confidence. And it doesn't look like spending time away from you has improved things much. I mean how much time does he spend on FaceTime with you?"

"I think it would help him. Make him feel better about himself. Give him a boost. Make him ready to meet other women."

"What about me? How would I feel?"

"I don't know - how would you feel?"

"I don't know... I guess I've asked myself that question a lot... And haven't come up with an answer."

"It's not exactly normal parental behaviour I know... But Rachel I've thought about this a lot, and I think it could be something special.... a very special kind of love."

She shook her head in disbelief. She was incredulous that they were having this discussion.

"I can't believe you're talking about this so calmly. Do you realise what you're suggesting I do? You're my husband and you're saying I should be unfaithful. And with our son of all people. God knows what it would do to him... and me."

"OK, I see your point," he said, stroking her hand. "It's OK really..."

"So, let's take it one step at a time. For one thing you wouldn't be unfaithful if I'm suggesting you do it. Yes, he's our son, and you know what that means. But well, I guess I don't find it as shocking, or unthinkable, as most people do."

He paused. Now he wasn't sure how far he should go.

She stared. This was a side of him she'd never seen before.

"And what would it do to him?" he continued, "Well it's clearly what he wants isn't it? He's an adult. You wouldn't be abusing him or anything. You'd be doing it to help him, not harm him."

There was another long pause, while she digested all this, still disbelieving.

"I was a teenage boy once..."

"He's 20. Shouldn't he have grown out of this by now? This Oedipal thing you describe."

He continued, picking his words carefully.

"I was his age once. I think I know what he's feeling."

She was staring at him. It was his turn to shift his eyes down to the table. She remembered her unanswered question from earlier.

"You said you'd seen it before. You have, haven't you?"

"Was it in someone else?"

He shook his head, and with a shocking realisation, she got it.

"Did you and your mother?" Her voice trailed off, still not even sure how to say the words.

She'd only met Gavin when he was in his late twenties. He was fifty now and eight years older than her.

He seemed like an older, confident well-adjusted man at the time, and she tried to picture him as a young, confused teenager. His mother, Gloria, had been a striking woman in those days, and even now was still beautiful.

He nodded slowly.

"You look surprised..." he said.

"Everything about this is pretty shocking. Scandalous even. It's hard to get my head around. Did you... Really?"

"Yes, I did. We did."

He seemed upset, admitting it. His deepest darkest secret.

He took a deep breath. She stroked his hand, trying to reassure him.

The load finally off his shoulders, he described to her that period of his life before he knew her. The sexual confusion he'd felt back then, and how his mother had quietly and lovingly helped him. Made him a man. He described something beautiful and loving. Not at all sordid and dirty.

"We'll look, just think about it," he said as they sat at the kitchen table, "It's up to you obviously. But I've said what I think."

For weeks it felt like she thought of little else. He was due home for the long summer holidays soon, and while she missed him terribly, she was growing increasingly anxious about his return, and what might happen.

But she had to admit that she was excited too, turned on, and increasingly horny as the days went by until his return. But apprehensive, wary, scared, confused.

The more she thought about it though, the more she could see the strange logic of her husband's advice. And she surprised herself at her intense desire to know more about Gavin's relationship with his mother Gloria.

Gradually she prized some stories out of him. How as a teenager he'd become obsessed with his gorgeous mother's curvy body.

How he'd peeked on her so much that he was caught one day. The inevitable show-down which followed, and his tearful confession, how he professed his love and desire for her, and how she gradually softened, and was maybe even flattered by his attentions. How she seemed to be neglected by Gavin's father.

One night she persuaded him to tell her about their first time together, the night he lost his virginity. He described an almost mystical experience, which clearly meant so much to him, even now decades later. His words were so full of love that it brought tears to her eyes.

Far from seeming sordid, he recounted what became a gentle, warm, and loving relationship, full of touching intimacy.

Reflecting on it later she realised that it was a vital transition period for him, with Gloria teaching her son, encouraging him, and giving him the confidence to make his own way in the world.

She was struck time and time again at how it struck a chord with their own situation. She put herself in Gloria's shoes (a sexy set of high heels one night, according to Gavin) and she was incredibly turned on by the stories.

She would have loved to ask Gloria herself about it for a mother's perspective, but how do you raise a subject like that?

It did wonders for Rachel and Gavin's rather stale sex life. They found themselves at each other like newly-weds. Gavin was delighted, but sometimes couldn't help wondering who she was thinking of when she cried out in ecstasy in his arms.

To be honest, it turned him on even more, thinking of his handsome son with his beautiful mother, and the ecstasy and intimacy they could both experience together.

He became determined to find a way to witness it in some way.

Rachel forced herself to stay bright and breezy during her regular phone calls and video chats with Paul. And as she looked at him on the screen, she tried to picture them together. It would be awkward, she was sure, but more than anything she felt a burning love for him. She felt sympathy for his predicament. Could she really be the key to set him free? To make him more at ease with himself.

She fantasised about being his teacher, his confidant, his sexual soulmate. She started to picture him as a lover.

The last few weeks had reminded Rachel how she was a deeply sexual woman, but that the grinding reality of long married years had thwarted her desires. Now in her forties, she was once again experiencing the sex-drive she remembered as a young woman. She masturbated frequently, but now allowed herself to fantasise about her son.

For some years now during their infrequent love-making sessions she allowed her mind to drift, replacing Gavin's soft body with the sleek hard firmness of a young man, a faceless young man, who's ardour and sexual energy matched hers.

She'd had fantasies about students at the college where she worked. But she would never have dreamt of acting on them. Now she found herself dreaming about Paul. Trying to imagine him naked.

He was very private about his body, and she hadn't seen him unclothed in years. He was slight, and slim, but well-built. He was strong, for his rather average height, but not muscle-bound or anything. He was the bookish type.

What was his cock like? Average, she presumed, based on what he might have inherited from his father.

Paul certainly was not the cocky type. She'd had a few lovers before she met Gavin. One had been very well-endowed, but unfortunately, he really knew it. She shuddered, remembering his cocksure arrogance, but nonetheless she often fantasised about him, or at least about his big dick and their breath-taking encounters together.

She wanted to ask Gavin about Paul. The two of them sometimes played sport together, and he must have seen him naked. But she was worried about seeming too prurient. The last thing she wanted was to make Gavin feel like a cuckold.

But her mind wandered back to a comment he'd made on one occasion, long before their shocking conversation. She'd joked, in a slightly despairing way, at how he never seemed to have any long-term girlfriends.

Gavin had said that if he ever found a woman, she'd be very satisfied. At the time she thought it was a compliment about his kind and caring personality. But now she was viewing him differently she wondered if his comment was more salacious than that.