Mother's Good Deed Ch. 02

If you remember I left off my previous tale after Mother had shown me how 'exciting' a woman can be. If you also recall, I'd tried to minimise just how much I had been knocked out by her sexual antics, hoping to prolong the experience beyond one night. I'd been afraid if she found out I wasn't as 'gay' as she'd thought, she'd feel the job was done. But although she'd indicated to me at the time she was prepared to continue her sexual instruction, it was clear by the next day things had taken a turn for the worse.

I guess she'd mulled over what happened (and what she'd allowed me to do), and realised (perhaps for the first time) she was encouraging her only son to commit incest with his own mother ... and maybe that wasn't such a clever thing to do. She'd thought maybe she'd over-reacted to her suspicions of my homosexuality. Maybe if she'd just left things alone I'd have reverted to being a normal healthy heterosexual male. Certainly my apparent response to her advances, and to her revealing her body to me, indicated I was nowhere near as far gone as she'd thought. In fact it soon became clear she'd made a horrendous mistake. Rather than her advances turning me back into a normal 'male', maybe she'd done the complete opposite and thrown me off the rails good and proper.

As I have indicated, mother was never the sharpest knife in the draw, but she was at last starting to understand you can't offer your luscious body to your own son - you can't encourage him to cum in his own mother's mouth - without some consequences resulting. In my case these consequences can be summed up as a new and overwhelming desire to 'shag the living daylights out of her' at every opportunity!

At breakfast the following morning, for example, I'd sneaked up behind her whilst she was frying some eggs, slipped my hands under her arms and grabbed both her tits. At the same time I'd embedded my hard cock in the fold of her dressing gown. Looking back one could hardly call my actions 'subtle' or 'cautious' or even 'measured', and I guess a long night of dreaming about fucking my delicious mother in the mouth had proved too much for my normal reserved approach. All I wanted to do at that moment was rip her clothes from her body, throw her on the floor, and shag her for all I was worth! I wanted to enter her for the first time, to fuck her properly.

She, however, wanted none of it!

When I'd grabbed her breasts she was so shocked she'd actually screamed, and the two half-fried eggs in the pan did a double-somersault and ended up as new decoration for the kitchen tiles. She's spun round, pulled her gown tight across her body, and looked at me in sheer horror.

"PETER!" she screamed. "What are you doing?! What on earth do you think you're doing!?"

"Oh ..." I'd muttered. "I'm ... I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd mind. I thought ..."

"Well think again young man! I am not some TART you can grab whenever you want! I'm your mother for Christ's sake!"

I knew then that everything had changed. What had once been untouchable - and then as if by magic offered to me on a plate - had become untouchable again. Still, I did feel she'd over-reacted a bit. I mean I was only doing what I'd been freely encouraged to do the previous evening. It hadn't been wrong then; how come it was so bloody wrong now? I have to say I felt a bit pissed, and just a little justified for feeling pissed.

What I hadn't realised of course, was how turned on mother had been by what had happened the previous evening. After she'd gone to bed, she'd lain there and masturbated herself to sleep. But when she'd woken in the morning her lust had faded and been repressed, and (as lust often does) had magically turned itself into guilt. Ever since then she'd been castigating herself - flaying herself with an imaginary birch twig - and showing herself what a terrible thing she'd done. She was now explaining to herself in no uncertain terms that not only must she never let it happen again, but she must seek to undo the damage by pretending it never happened in the first place.

Complicated people women ... especially mothers!

Anyway, I was too young to realise any of this, so I just turned around and stomped off back to my room. Not only was I mildly offended at being shouted at, I was deeply miffed to realise I wasn't ever going to get another opportunity to see mother's tits, let alone get into her cunt!

But in the days that followed I couldn't quite let go of the memory of that incredible night, and I began to wonder if there was a way of turnings things around again ... of getting my hands back into mother's underclothing. There had to be some way.

Needless to say I masturbated furiously at every opportunity to memories of that night; to visions of her breasts and her stockings, and most of all to the sight of her mouth engulfing my cock. After a couple of weeks I convinced myself that so much masturbation can't be good for you, and the sheer single-minded intensity of my lust led me to believe I had to find a way back to her body (if only to stop myself going blind!). Time was not on my side, however. Father would be back in a month, and whatever I was going to try had to be done soon. If it didn't happen before dad came back, it would never happen at all. But after a couple of days of compulsive thought about the problem I started to come up with a few ideas.

II

Now if you remember my previous tale, I'm not exactly Attila-the-Hun when it comes to being bold and forceful. In fact I'm a bit of a wimp. My idea of standing up to mother in her authoritative mood was to go to my bedroom slowly (rather than instantly), and to stamp my feet a bit on the way up. Not very dominant I admit, but then this was the fifties, and if you remember I'd learnt to be passive rather than actively masculine. The point being my first ideas about getting round mum tended to follow this line. I thought maybe if I asked her nicely, or if I kept nagging her, she might just let me 'cop a feel' of her tits.

So over the next few days I tried to make peace with her, but at the same time let her know I still wanted (needed even) some 'sexual' contact. One of my first ploys was to beg her forgiveness (as if I'd done something terrible), burst into tears, and when she'd hug me to reassure me, my hand would tend to creep up around her breast area.

However we always seemed to end up with conversations that went something like this:

Me: "You don't hate me mum, do you? I'm so sorry. I just knew it was wrong ... but you said it was alright."

Mother: "No, I don't hate you Peter ... of course I don't. I know it wasn't your fault but it's done now so let's just forget about it."

Me: "But I can't forget about it mum, I feel so guilty. I ... I ... I'm so so sorry ..."

Cue the tears.

Mother: "Oh Peter, Peter, please don't. Here, give me a cuddle."

She would then take me in her arms.

Long pause.

Mother: "NO Peter, don't put your hand there. I've told you before, you must stop touching me! PETER, move your hand ... NOW!!"

My hand would drop from her breast ... usually on to her upper thigh.

Mother: "For God's sake stop touching me where you know you shouldn't. I'm your mother. You mustn't touch me like that. Please, Peter, please try not to do that anymore."

Me: "... but mum I can't help it. I love you so much. Please let me cuddle you ... just for a bit."

Mother"NO!! You're not getting any more 'bits' from me! For Goodness sake child, pull yourself together. Whatever happened, whatever we did is over, and it's not going to happen again. And that's final!"

And so on...

After a week of conversations that were variations of the above theme, I came close to giving it up as an impossible goal. One night, however, when I was idly fantasising about screwing mum stupid, I suddenly understood that my position wasn't quite as weak as it seemed. Indeed, if I could find it in myself to be a bit more 'forceful', I did have something really helpful working for me. That something, I realised, was mum's guilt.

Ignoring for a moment my minor (if lustful) role in all that had happened; it was mother who had chosen to do it. Alright she'd been extremely concerned about my sexual orientation, and all she'd wanted to do was help, but she was the one who made the decision to act ... ergo it was all her fault. If she'd been wrong all along about me being gay, and not stopped to think through the consequences of throwing her luscious body at her own (healthy and sexually active) son, then the consequences to her son were all her responsibility.

Now the important point here is there was genuinely quite a lot of truth in this. If I was becoming obsessed with the prospect of fucking my own mother, who could blame me? You wouldn't blame me, would you? I mean what healthy young boy wouldn't be driven mad by having his own mother suck his cock and willingly swallow his semen. So if this poor young fellow was driven over the edge by such a 'shocking' experience, well then mum only had herself to blame. Right?

Right!

The only problem left was how to turn all this to my advantage - how to play it. I mean I'm not Laurence Oliver, and I couldn't be expected to engage in any deep method acting. I had to keep it simple, whilst at the same time making her see she couldn't just stop what she started, as if nothing had happened. After all it was only natural I wanted to mount her ... wasn't it?

Having come up with the outlines of a plan I invested another couple of days in thinking through how best to exploit my advantage. Eventually I realised the fact there was some truth in all of this was my best ploy. I would be honest with her ... well sort of honest (I didn't want to get too carried away). I would let her know I was obsessed with her body (true enough) and try to persuade her that the only way to cure this obsession was to let me have my way with her (marginally less true!). I suppose you could call it a sort of 'fuck therapy' ... or preferably a 'bang the hell out of mother at every opportunity' therapy!

OK, so it doesn't sound too plausible put like that, but it was worth a try. I mean ANYTHING was worth a try to touch those monstrous tits again ... and to finally lay my cheek on her stocking-tops. In fact that bit was going to be much harder than it sounded; she simply didn't wear stockings around me anymore. Still 'nothing ventured, nothing gained' as they say, and by that time there was only a fortnight left till dad came home, so I knew it was now or never.

III

It was a Friday (in late November) and we had a potentially quiet weekend ahead. I remember thinking to myself at lunch-time that 'tonight's the night', and going over in my mind what I was going to say. I screwed myself up as much as possible. After all it was new territory for me. I wanted to break out of 'wimpsville' and become a real man. In the event I had no idea just how far I was eventually going to push things with mum, and it was certainly true that by Sunday night I could call myself a 'real man' (although in the circumstances to call myself 'a true gentleman' would have been stretching the truth just a shade too far).

At about eight o'clock that evening, when mum was sitting on the sofa watching TV, I slipped into the lounge and stood by the door. Her hair and make-up were immaculate as usual, but she wore a thick baggy sweater and brown slacks (with a bit on the end that attached round the sole of the foot ... if you remember such things). The point being she no longer appeared attractive or feminine in any way. I remember noting to myself I'd have to find a way to change that look. After all even her breasts failed to stick out significantly like they usually did. The sweater was one lumpy mess around her chest area, and hid from sight one of life's most important visual experiences. How could anyone allow a woman with breasts like that to hide them away? Even the uplifting mould and shaping of her fifties bra failed to push them significantly through the foggy clouds of that damn sweater. (If only I'd known how the future would pan out, with all women's brassieres reducing in shape and size to mouldy old bits of virtually non-existent nylon. What a life!).

My heart was beating fast, but I confess I wasn't feeling exactly confident. In fact I felt like an impotent fool, trying to take on something way beyond his current years and experience. After a moment mother noticed me and turned to look at me.

"What's the matter?" she asked with a quizzical look.

"Can ... can I have a word, Mum?"

She gave me a suspicious look. "Why? What's the matter?"

I thought back to that night several weeks ago when it had all been so different. Then she was smiling, encouraging me to come forward and talk - now all I could see was hostility. But I walked into middle of the room, took a deep breath, and launched into my pre-planned speech.

"I've got a problem Mum, and I really need to talk to you about it. I know you won't like it ... you won't like me for mentioning it ... but I have to talk to you. I have to or I shall go mad!"

She looked intently at me, still suspicious. But with a resigned sigh she finally said.

"OK, come on then."

I went over and sat on the sofa, tactfully keeping to the opposite end so she wouldn't start off too defensive. I sat there silent for a moment, until she raised her eyebrows inviting me to begin.

"What happened, what we did on ... that night. It has affected me I think."

Nice start, I thought to myself, seemingly innocent but with an implicit accusation.

"Affected you?" she whispered. "How? How has it affected you?"

"I'm not sure," I was trying to keep it all as vague as possible. "I seem to have become obsessed with ..."

"With what?"

"... With you Mum. I ... I can't stop thinking about you. I dream about you every night. All I want to do is hold you close to me ... and kiss you and caress you ... and love you."

OK, I thought, that's good, keep it sweet and innocent sounding.

"Oh," she said almost to herself. Then she looked at me for a long time without saying anything.

She looked so sad and, as a tear began to form in to corner of each eye, I almost decided to call it quits and go back to my memories and my dirty books ... but I didn't.

At last she said. "I'm sorry. I must have been mad to do what I did. I can't believe it. I thought I was helping, but all I did was abuse my own son. Dear God, forgive me. What can I do, how can I make things right. Or is it too late?"

I wanted to say something like, 'well, you could show me your tits for a start', but decided maybe that wasn't quite appropriate yet, so I kept silent

"There's no way back is there?" she mused, still seeming to be talking to herself rather than me. "You can't unmake yesterday. I only wish I could. I would give anything to go back and make things right again between us."

"Are things wrong ... between us?" I asked, not sure if I was being too innocent or too daring.

"Of course they're wrong. You shouldn't have these ... these ... sexual feelings towards your own mother. It's wrong, it's bad ... it's unhealthy. And it's all my fault!" She ended with a lame sob.

I had an overwhelming desire to go over and give her a cuddle. It was an innocent desire (well almost innocent), but I thought it better to keep my distance for the time being. I'd lost a lot of credibility recently by using any excuse I could to get near enough to give her tits a quick grope, so I thought it best not to undermine the good work I'd done so far.

"I'm sorry Mum, I can't help the way I feel," I said in a sympathetic voice, but knowing full well I was rubbing it in.

"I know, I know," she whispered. "I ..." She stopped suddenly.

For some reason I had a premonition she'd been about to say, 'I feel the same way', but dismissed the notion as wishful thinking.

She was weeping softly now, and after a couple of minutes of loaded silence she finally said. "So ... so what are we going to do?"

"I ... I don't know," I said.

Then, taking a predetermined leap, I added. "Maybe it's not such a bad thing. Maybe we could sort of ... sort of work it through?"

"Work it through?" she repeated with a puzzled voice. "What do you mean, 'work it through'?"

She was silent for a moment, clearly thinking about what I'd said ... and then the shit hit the fan.

She leapt up from the sofa and screamed at me. "PETER! PETER! YOU STUPID STUPID CHILD! Have you heard nothing I've said? Don't you understand what we've done ... what I've done? How can you say such a thing? What's the matter with you ... are you mad!? How can you suggest that we ..."

She spluttered as she ran out of words, and her face started to go red and blotchy. For a moment I thought she was going to explode!

"INCEST!" she shouted at last. "I've committed incest with my own son! I will be damned forever ... I could go to prison! Your life is ruined; you're never never going to get over it! And what's your solution for Christ's sake!? What's your solution? You want me to fucking WORK IT THROUGH!!!"

'So what's wrong with that?' I thought to myself, but wisely I kept silent.

"I don't believe you!" she went on, still ranting at me. "You just don't understand, do you? All you want is to touch me ... to get your filthy hands on my breasts! You can't think of anything else. Nothing else at all. You're totally obsessed with sex. You've no idea of the enormity of what we've done. No fucking idea at all ..."

I have to admit I was a bit startled by her anger (and her language). I felt like I'd lost my chance in a big way. I confess I was even starting to feel just the tiniest bit guilty (if you can believe it!).

Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea. I had no idea what to say or how to respond, and mentally I began to wave goodbye to ever getting a chance to finish what she'd started. I had a sudden vision of her legs, dressed in those magnificent stockings, fading into the distance. I felt disappointed, gutted ... and then somewhere deep inside I began to feel just a little bit angry. What right had she to take away such a fantastic experience?

Suddenly, all by itself, my brain slipped into gear.

"You're right I am obsessed," I hissed at her. "Of course I'm bloody obsessed! That's why we're having this conversation, remember?"

To my surprise she went quiet and flopped back down again onto the sofa.

"Yes ..." she murmured vaguely. "Yes, of course, you're right. I ... I'm sorry. I feel so bad about what I've done. I feel so guilty. But I shouldn't take it out on you, should I? Of course you're obsessed with me and my body ... that's the whole damn problem isn't it?"

IV

As we sat there in the lounge in silence, I realised my over-simplistic 'therapy' plan was never going to work. However I didn't feel entirely deflated. My unexpected success in calming her down made me feel stronger somehow. I no longer felt like a child who has no power and has to do exactly what he's told by the adult. Mother was clearly at a loss. Confused, racked with personal guilt, she simply didn't know what to do or say. As I sat there watching her, I could see pain and uncertainty mirrored in the expressions flickering across her face. She was clearly tearing herself to bits inside her head. Eventually she began to cry, and as she stared blankly ahead, tears rolled down her cheeks in ever increasing rivers of sorrow and distress.

Now those of you who've followed my story so far will know I'm not necessarily the nicest person in the world. I'd taken advantage of Mother on more than one occasion. Indeed it could be argued I was as much to blame for this situation as she was. You'd think, however, given her current broken state of mind, I would take this opportunity to help her. You'd think I'd want to make her feel better - that I'd want to reassure her, and relieve the doubt and fear and uncertainty tearing her apart. I was her only son after all.