My Neglected Mother

We relaxed against the back of the settee and the kiss went on, our heads moving, weaving, lips sliding over lips, tongues touching and tasting in the most intimate way. And, as before, I became ragingly hard, massively aroused by what we were doing, by who we were.

We kissed for minutes on end, kissed until the muscles of our mouths and tongues were tired. Kissed until our lower faces were coated with saliva. Eventually we broke off and looked at each other, slightly shell-shocked.

Mum pulled her handkerchief out and mopped my face then hers and I kissed her again, lightly, and stroked her face, feeling her silky hair under my fingers.

'Where does this stop?' I whispered.

'I don't know,' she replied. 'But it's just kissing, Martin. I'm not ready for anything else. I might never be.'

It wasn't exactly what I wanted to hear but who knew what the future would hold? I was confident in my ability to persuade my mother to go further, I was a salesman after all. But how far she would be prepared to go I didn't know and didn't want to think about. There is a gulf between some fairly harmless kissing and taking your mother to bed. In truth I didn't know if I was ready for that yet. Incest is a strong taboo, even for a young man who's just rediscovered his attraction to his mother.

But in the meantime my mother had just sanctioned unlimited kissing, while my father was away, of course.

I stayed until after eleven that first night and we kissed and kissed and kissed. At one point I lifted her spectacles off and she smiled and we kissed again. Neither of us seemed to be able to get enough intimacy. For my mother it was the filling of a deep need, filling a well of emotions that had been dry for years. For me it was the excitement of kissing my mother, of feeling her tongue slide into my mouth, feeling her arms around me, her hands stroking my back. Feeling her stroke my hair and press her face to mine. I drank in her smell and her taste and the feel of her body against mine, her full breasts against my chest.

After that evening we started to see each other about twice a week. Dad was generally away at least one evening per week and often on a Sunday night too. And if he wasn't away, she would come to my flat and we would writhe together on the settee, arms around each other, mouths locked together, a TV drama playing unnoticed on the television. But it was just kissing, I made no attempt to go further, not even to fondle my mother's breasts. And to compensate for this I masturbated before she arrived and after she left, and most mornings, too. By the end of October, my body was crying out for something more from my mother.

I took the next step on the first of November on a rainswept Sunday night when the streetlights were reflecting wetly off the pavements. Dad was away "on business" and I turned up at my parents' house just after seven-thirty.

Mum was wearing a grey woollen dress that I hadn't seen before and which hugged her curves and accentuated her hips and breasts. Below the knee-length dress were black tights and high-heeled shoes, a rare show of elegance for my mother. I had the distinct feeling that she was supplementing her meagre wardrobe with some new purchases and it gave me a bit of a thrill to think that she was dressing up for me. She also wore more make-up nowadays. Tonight she was sporting dark red lipstick and rather a lot of eyeliner and eyeshadow; she'd also used some darker foundation than usual, giving her a vaguely exotic look. And, I noticed with some surprise, she had painted her nails, something I'd never seen before; a dark red to match her lipstick.

As soon as the front door was closed my mother was in my arms and we were kissing frantically, me pinning her up against the wall in the hallway, pressing my mouth to hers, my crotch against hers.

'You look ravishing this evening,' I told her, truthfully as I reluctantly released her to serve dinner.

'Thank you!' She was pleased and flattered. 'What do you think of these?' she asked, showing me her fingernails.

'Very sexy,' I told her.

'I might have to remove it before your father gets back tomorrow,' she laughed.

We caught up on our news and gossip over dinner and then we were in our favourite place on the big settee in the sitting room and kissing like there was no tomorrow, mouths open, tongues duelling, me stroking her hair and drinking in the smell of her scent and the taste of her cosmetics and her saliva, my mother running her fingers through my curly hair and making little moaning noises as we mashed our lips together.

I pressed her back into the cushions of the settee and ran my hand down her neck and shoulder and onto her breast, cupping it, feeling it's fullness and weight. Mum didn't respond, so I began a gentle massage, stroking, squeezing, seeking her nipple through the double layer of dress and brassiere.

At length, we came up for air and mum rested her head on my shoulder and I released her breast.

'It was supposed to be just kissing,' she said softly, although she didn't sound upset or cross.

'You look so good, tonight,' I complained. 'So sexy. Especially with those lovely painted nails. How can I resist?'

'Smooth-talker,' she said, and we went back to kissing and I went back to squeezing her breasts and feeling their roundness and firmness and mum started breathing a bit faster and I felt her hot breath on my cheek between kisses.

After that evening breast massage and stroking became the norm and mum never tried to stop me. Of course it was always through at least two layers of clothing so it was hardly the beginning of a major offensive. It was progress though and I have to say I enjoyed the feel of her breasts, the same ones that had fed me as a baby.

I stuck to kissing and breast fondling for almost three weeks and mum never tried to stop me touching her tits, in fact I was sure she was enjoying the additional intimacy. I had got into the habit of coming up behind her in the kitchen when she was cooking and putting my arms around her and kissing her neck and cheek as I massaged her bosom with both hands.

The next step in my plan to conquer my mother was to initiate some leg stroking while I kissed her. This could, I reasoned, develop into sliding my hand underneath her skirt or dress and eventually lead to me getting my hand into her knickers. After that, I told myself, it would be all downhill.

I put the plan into action one Sunday afternoon, when we were locked together on the settee in my flat. On this occasion my father wasn't away on business but was at home watching the television.

'He's hardly likely to think that there's anything going on between us,' she told me.

It was getting dark outside and we hadn't put any lights on so it was dim and warm in the room, a perfect setting for the next stage of my plan. We'd been kissing for about half an hour and I had been squeezing and caressing her right breast. Now I allowed my hand to slide slowly and gently down her blouse, over the little bulge of her tummy and over her pleated skirt.

Mum continued to kiss me with passion and intensity, undisturbed by my hand. Emboldened, I reached the hem of her skirt, sitting in folds on her knees, which were pressed together. For the next few minutes I slid my hand slowly up and down her thigh from her knee to her hip, feeling the shape of her leg underneath the skirt.

It was a new and heady experience for me. I generally spent the time with my mother in a state of arousal but this afternoon my cock was ultra-rigid in my jeans and I felt hot and light-headed.

I rested my hand on her knee, stroking lightly, feeling the fabric of her tights under my fingertips. Then, slowly and tentatively, I slid my fingers between my mother's knees, silently praying that she would part them at my touch.

She didn't. She kept them firmly pressed together and after increasing the pressure on my fingers and meeting increased resistance I gave up and went back to her breast.

Mum didn't say anything, even after we'd stopped kissing and were having a glass of wine before she went home. But something did come out of that failed exploratory encounter: I began to fondle her thighs on a regular basis and she never complained or tried to stop me as I stroked her and imagined what it would be like to feel the soft, bare skin of her inner thighs. Not that there would have been much chance of that, even if she had opened her legs. Mum always wore tights, always had done.

November turned into December and it got colder and wetter. We had a family Christmas at my parents' house, as we did every year, and I stayed over for a couple of days. It was tough because I was in my mother's presence but I couldn't kiss her or squeeze her tits because of the fear of my father catching us.

After Christmas lunch, my dad predictably fell asleep in front of the television and I helped mum to clear up. We sneaked a quick kiss in the kitchen, with the door shut, but mum was nervous and pushed me away after a few seconds.

'We'd better not, Martin,' she whispered. 'We'll have plenty of time after Christmas.'

'I've got some extra presents for you,' I said, reaching into my inside jacket pocket and taking out a couple of small packages wrapped in festive paper. 'You might want to wait until he's out of the way before you open them,' I added.

'Ooh! How exciting.' She took the presents and put them in a drawer in the dresser, under some tea towels.

I went back to my flat on Boxing Day afternoon, feeling the seasonal blues and wondering when I'd see my mother again. Later that evening I was dozing on the settee in front of a particularly silly Christmas film when my phone bleeped out that I'd got a text message. It was from my mother.

Thank you so much for the lovely lingerie, Martin! I haven't worn stockings and suspenders for years! Your father is away most of next week and there's a film I'd really like to see at the cinema. I wondered if you'd like to take a day off work so that we could go together. And maybe we could make a day of it, go to the matinee performance and have an early supper afterwards. What do you think?

Love Mum xxx

I picked her up on the Wednesday after the holiday, thrilled to be out on a date with my mother, and drove her to the local Multiplex. We got there very early and ordered coffees and sat at a little table in the entrance hall. Mum had taken her woollen winter coat off and underneath she was wearing something new, a long-sleeved cocktail dress in some shiny, dark-green material with a neckline that showed a hint of her cleavage. She'd applied her makeup carefully, if a little generously and was wearing her silver hair in a thick plait. She'd also painted her nails, the same dark-green as her dress, and I hardly recognised the woman sitting opposite me as my ordinary, suburban mother. She might be sixty-one, but she scrubbed up well and I felt the stirrings of an erection as I thought about kissing her and exploring her.

At the appointed time we went and found our seats in the nearly empty cinema and after the usual round of hideous and deafening adverts the main feature began.

The film wasn't my cup of tea, a romantic drama that would have the tears running down my mum's cheeks but left me a bit cold. And in fact, as the drama played out and the tension grew, I felt my mother's hand search for mine in the dark. I offered her my hand and she took it and drew it to her, resting our clasped hands in her lap.

I was immediately on the alert. We weren't often together in public but when we were Mum was careful to keep her distance. And now here we were in a public cinema and my hand was in her lap and my cock was straining in my pants because I could feel her suspender strap beneath the silky material of her dress. She was wearing the lingerie that I'd brought her for Christmas! Surely that was a sign.

I sat through the entire film in a state of extreme arousal, my hand glued to hers, super-sensitive to the faint outline of her suspender. Feeling the heat of her thigh.

It was dark when we came out into the cold, late December air. We got into my car and I drove us to the restaurant, an Italian bistro that I'd taken various girlfriends to over the years. Mum was in a rare state of excitement, discussing the plot of the film and how well she thought it had been done and how sad it had been at the end when the heroine died.

I was sparing with the drink over dinner as I was driving, but mum had two or three glasses and she became very ebullient and talkative; she even had a cognac with her coffee.

'You are coming in, aren't you?' she asked as we pulled up in front of the house.

We took our coats off and she opened a bottle of red in the kitchen. 'You can stay over,' she said. 'Your bed's made up.' Was this another signal? I felt light-headed again, and very excited. There was an air about the evening that anything could happen, a frisson of electricity between us. And mum looked so good!

So we took a glass of red wine into the sitting room and we got into our favourite position on the settee and mum took off her spectacles and came into my arms and we kissed deeply and profoundly and I tasted her lipstick and smelled her scent and my hand found her breast and squeezed and kneaded it and mum gave a soft moan and sucked my upper lip into her mouth and I felt a rush of intense emotion, a sort of cross between love and lust.

We kissed for long moments, changing the angle of our heads, seeking each other's tongue, sucking and tasting, my arm around her shoulders and my other hand on her breast, cupping, squeezing, massaging. Mum's arms were around me and I could feel her nails dig lightly into the flesh of my neck and shoulders and I shuddered with desire and slipped my hand down onto mum's legs and felt the silky material slide under my hand, felt the suspender on her thigh. Mum moaned again as I slid my hand underneath her dress and found her stocking top and her bare thigh above that, soft and warm. I was on tenterhooks that my mother would stop me but instead she opened her legs to my exploring hand, an unequivocal gesture that she wanted to take our physical relationship to the next level.

And suddenly, here I was, after all these weeks, with my hand up my mother's skirt, feeling the heat of her yielding flesh, sliding my fingers under her suspenders, tracing my fingers higher, until I felt the gusset of her knickers, damp and warm to my touch.

As my fingers brushed the wet nylon of her panties she opened her mouth in a silent scream, her breath hot on my cheek, her fingernails digging into my flesh, her legs opening wide for me. I pushed my tongue into her mouth and pressed my fingers to her knickers, feeling the outline of her labia though the sodden material and I though fleetingly that many middle-aged ladies have trouble lubricating but apparently not my mother.

Then she froze, and I instinctively stopped probing and we half lay on the settee, fixed in an embrace, her cheek against mine, her tears wet on my skin.

'Is this what you want, Martin?' she whispered in my ear.

'With all my heart,' I replied.

She disengaged herself from me and stood up. 'Give me five minutes then come up. We'll use your bed.' She disappeared through the sitting room doorway and I heard her mount the stairs and then I heard the noise of water running in the bathroom. A minute or two later I heard the bathroom door open and then it was quiet upstairs.

I felt as excited as I had ever felt in my life. More so. But at the same time I was faintly queasy. Faintly frightened, perhaps. I was about to commit the crime of incest. The mortal sin of incest. I had no religious belief but I recognised that I was potentially messing with my mother's deepest feelings. The mother who had sacrificed much to raise me in an otherwise loveless relationship. I had pursued her, seduced her you might say, and now she was upstairs in my bed, waiting for me. Waiting to be penetrated by her son.

She had asked me if that was what I wanted. Is that what she wanted? She'd only ever asked me for a kiss. Was she sacrificing herself out of love for me?

I was so hard I thought my cock would split open, so I pushed these difficult thoughts to one side. We would talk afterwards, of that I was sure.

I went slowly up the stairs and into the bathroom, where I cleaned my teeth with the toothbrush that was always kept in the bathroom cabinet for me. I walked softly through the open door into my bedroom. It was in darkness except for the faint light coming from the streetlights through the thick curtains. My mother's hair was a smear on the pillow of my double bed, her body an outline under the thick winter duvet.

I undressed, throwing my clothes onto the easy chair, on top of my mother's. Then I pulled the duvet back and slid into bed with her.

We came together and I felt her nakedness for the first time, her heavy breasts pressed against my chest, the nipples big and stiff, her loins pressed into my erection.

We kissed as we had never kissed before: frantic, wild, fingers exploring, tongues darting and searching. Tasting and smelling each other, all barriers finally down.

I felt her bare breasts heavy in my hands and I squeezed her nipples and took them in my mouth and sucked and bit down on them and my mother groaned and pressed my head to her. I ran my hand down over her tummy and she opened her legs for me and I felt the bush of her pubic hair and her labia, wet and parted. I slid a finger into her, then two, as deep as they would go into her hot, silken depths. She arched her back and raised her hips to get more of me inside her and I went back to kissing her and as our lips mashed together I found her clitoris and started stroking the little bud.

I could feel my mother's arousal, smell her secretions, hear the almost constant moaning as I masturbated her with my thumb, my first and second fingers deep in her cunt. And I felt her orgasm build, felt it in her shuddering and the rising pitch of her voice and then it was upon her and she was writhing under me and raking my back with her fingernails and pushing her tongue into my mouth.

At the peak of her climax she cried out and went rigid, then she subsided, going limp.

'Now!' she urged me. 'Now Martin!'

I got between her thighs and gripped my shaft, supporting myself on my other arm. I guided myself to my mother's sopping pussy and entered her in one long, hard stroke, all the way inside her liquid cunt. Mum gasped as I entered her and wondered for a minute if I'd hurt her; she hadn't had sex for a long time. But then she started urging me on, urging me in and I started fucking her with long strokes, feeling her cunt tighten as she gripped me.

I cannot describe how that first penetration felt other than to say that it opened a vast well of love inside me. My mother, the woman who had borne me, breast-fed me, raised me to manhood, had allowed me into her most intimate place, willingly and with a passion I had never before known in her.

It was over very quickly that first time. I had been in a state of arousal all day, especially in the cinema, and within a few short minutes I was feeling my orgasm swell and grow and engulf me and then I was crying out: 'I'm coming, Mum!'

'Yes,' she urged me, her legs hooked over mine, her hips thrusting to meet me. 'Come inside me! Come inside Mummy!'

I exploded inside my mother, spurting five or six gouts of hot spunk into her cunt. Then the sensations were dying away and it was all over and I rolled off her and she came into my arms and we lay in silence while the rain beat at the windows and cars splashed past on the road outside.

After a long-time mum got up and used the bathroom. Then she padded downstairs and came back with our wine, putting the glasses on the bedside tables.