My Shooting Star

She brought her face close to mine, kissed my cheek. Leaned even closer, next to my ear. And whispered, very softly.

"More than anything."

* * *

Of course, Dad was back home within the hour, and the following day was Sunday. He was home all day. No way to consummate our desires, which now were growing by the hour. I was frustrated. Wound tight. On edge. Sad smiles from Mom. She knew my disappointment.

Mom suggested we go out for a late lunch. Hoped Dad wouldn't go. But he did. More glances from Mom. A bitter pill for both of us.

We ate Italian downtown, sitting at a small outdoor table covered with a white tablecloth. Mom and Dad were seated almost opposite me. Mom's gaze at me was long and intense, as Dad studied his menu. For the first time, I saw desire in her eyes, frustration on her face. A nervousness in her voice. Our only appetite was for each other. We were in agony.

Under the table, as an act of desperation, I slipped my foot out of my loafer, found her foot. I had to touch her, feel her, caress her leg. Began at her ankle, moving up and under her summer dress and finally against the inside of her thigh. My foot was bare. I rubbed the top part of it against her thigh. It wouldn't have taken much for others at nearby tables to see what I was doing. But I couldn't stop myself.

Her skin was moist from the heat. She parted her legs for me. Let me slide up to her panties. I pressed my big toe into the softness, could feel the swollen labia give as my toe pressed into her slit. Already, her panties were wet.

She grew quiet, which forced me to start a conversation with Dad. Mom turned her face away, out to the sidewalk at the passersby. Her face flushed, beads of sweat on her cheek, the look in her eyes absolutely wanton. She closed her legs, put her arm under the table, pushed me away. She could take no more.

My point was made. I wanted her badly. My mania unrelenting. I could think of nothing else but us. Her feelings were the same. I could tell. Her face was suddenly tender, vulnerable, fragile. And the look in her eyes. Those beautiful brown eyes. She longed to be held. Desperately needed to be fucked. A girl on fire.

Back home, Dad settled down and tuned in to a late afternoon, pre-season football game, oblivious to us. Mom pulled down the attic ladder from the ceiling in the hallway. I went to my room, paced the floor, came out, a bundle of frustrated nervousness. Climbed the ladder and, at the top, looked into the semi-darkness and asked Mom what she was doing in the attic. Did she need any help?

She was 20 feet away, barely visible in an alcove, on her knees, looking into a large, old trunk she had just opened. It held our old family photos. I don't know what she was looking for. She didn't answer me. I headed toward her.

The only light was from a naked bulb at the other end of the attic. The air was thick, sweltering. Unbelievably humid.

Kneeling down beside her, I put my hand on her back, her summer dress damp from sticky attic heat. Still only quietness from her. She was looking in the trunk, not at me. I rubbed her back, caressed it, letting my hand journey down, onto the curve of her hip. Still no words from her. She reached up, closed the trunk. Stared into the darkness ahead of her, still on her knees. I lifted the back of her dress to her waist, moved over between her legs so I was directly behind her, still on my knees. Pulled her panties down to her thighs. Slid my fingers down her buttocks to between her legs, felt wetness in her vagina, my finger easily parting her labia and slipping inside. I had never felt anything so soft, so welcoming.

But no time to enjoy sensations -- of my mother's naked ass in front of me, of my fingers on her skin, or the soft opening of her vulva. There just was no time to waste. We both were driven by lust as hot and sweaty as the attic's air. We had to have this -- and now.

I unzipped, pulled out my dick -- hard, moist, throbbing -- and placed it at her slit. Could hear the intake of her breath. I pushed in, quickly, surging all the way in at once. She was snug. Her muscles squeezing me. She lay her head sideways on the cover of the trunk, her arms reaching across it to grasp the other side, holding on for dear life.

She lifted her hips up higher for me. I moved back and forth, in and out, pounding as hard as I could. Hard but slow. Very slow. And quiet. Reached around with one hand, grabbed her, cupped my hand over her mound, pressed in at her clit, held it as I continued slamming into her, slowly. She caught my rhythm, pushing back as I pushed forward. Her naked hips pounding against my abdomen, then pushing rapidly forward, pressing her clit against my hand, which was dripping with her fluids. Our clothes already drenched from the heat.

Scarcely one minute passed before she came. Both of us together. She sighing, followed by gasping for breath. Then pushing her hips back against me, harder than ever. Little noises came from her throat each time my sperm jetted into her.

"Mary? Do you need any help up there?" my Dad asked from below. I could tell he was at the bottom rung of the ladder, about to climb up.

I pulled out, grabbed her panties, pulled her dress down, opened the trunk lid, scooted beside her and began searching for photos with her.

She turned her head toward me.

"I'm dripping on the floor."

I pulled the panties out of my pocket, reached down under her dress, hurriedly wiped up my sperm and, in one quick motion, threw the panties into a dark corner of the attic.

Dad came up and joined us as we looked at old photos. I never did know what we were looking for.

* * *

Our second time was better. Two days later. Early afternoon. Home alone together. In my bedroom. The door locked.

"Can I undress you?" I asked.

She wore a nice pencil skirt and baby blue blouse. I fumbled a little with the buttons, but finally slipped it off her. I was captivated with the beauty of her shoulders, the femininity and softness of the skin leading down in front, and into the small valley between her breasts. Let my fingers glide down her skin to her bra. Felt her breasts through the fabric -- not with my hands, just the tips of my fingers -- feeling their shape, their weight. Reached around behind, unhooked her bra. Let it drop.

We were face to face. A foot apart. I bent down, kissed her nipples. Sucked them, trying for the tugging feeling she longed for. Her legs gave a little. She grabbed my shoulders.

"Too much?" I asked.

"No. Perfect. Just perfect."

I kissed all over her breasts, grazed my fingers across her skin. Let my palms touch her nipples, just barely. They were hard and pointy. She sighed, leaned her head back, closed her eyes.

Her stomach quivered as I ran my knuckles down her skin to her skirt. I hesitated. Her eyes opened half way. Keep going, her look told me.

Unzipped her skirt. She watched me slide it down. Stepped her out of it. Smelled the mix of skin and perfume. Something Parisian, I think. Lifted her feet, one at a time, to take off her shoes, rubbed her feet a little.

I dropped to my knees, staring at the front of her panties. And those thigh-high stockings. Put my hands, one on each foot, moved them up her legs, felt their smoothness.

Her stockings. My most erotic image of this day. They may have been silk. I never asked. My fingers reached the top, at the wide band that held them up. Then, bare thighs. Lustrous, white as snow, heated to the touch. I turned my hand over, ran fingers across the smooth skin effortlessly. Moved my face closer in. That splendid smell of moistness between her legs. Breathed it in. Kissed the inside of each thigh, my lips barely brushing. Shivers from her. We did not talk.

We were evolving. From mother and son. To two lovers.

Her panties. I just had to caress them. My hands slipping around the back to feel the weight of her hips. Held them, one in each hand. Cupping them. Feeling their slight plumpness. Slid my fingers around front. With one finger, traced the narrow indent of her slit through the panties. Pressing in slightly as I went. First, a drop of moisture. Then more before my very eyes. The entire gusset of her panties damp after I ran my finger a second, then a third time. She swayed a little from my touch. Regained her balance.

She stopped me. Then, slowly, she pulled her panties down herself. Then off. Left on the stockings. I reached up, let my fingers weave through her soft, dark, curly hair, then let them dance around her vulva. Moved in closer, to smell her sex, her crease glistened. Closer still. One kiss on each thigh again. Stuck out my tongue. Touched the lips of her sex. Her taste indescribable. Undefinable. Yet I knew the taste would stay with me the rest of my life. I had to have more. Parted her opening with my tongue. Let it disappear inside, then back out. Lightly grazed the top of her clit. She gasped. I loved hearing that. So I did it again.

Our first time was sweet. Intoxicating. Lying together, side by side in bed. Kissing. Touching each other with our fingers. Looking knowingly at each other. In bed, she seemed more fragile. Had to take it slow, an inch at a time, once I put my cock at the entrance of her slit. No hurry. Neither of us. I wanted not so much to cum in her as to just be in her as long as possible.

After my final push in, we rested. Then I moved above her. Began moving in and out, small increments at a time. She grew comfortable. Wetter. I moved harder. Kept that up. Her arms wrapped themselves around my neck. Her legs raised up, squeezed me. Her hips were squirming underneath me. She was at the edge. And then, over. Her orgasm was silent, except for one gasp of breath after another. Moments later, another orgasm. This one after she felt my sperm filling her up. "So beautiful," she whispered in my ear. "So hot. Just glorious." Her legs wrapped around my waist. Her body shook hard. She came, moaning into my neck, almost imperceptibly.

"You make me feel whole," she said.

This was where I belonged.

* * *

Two weeks later. "Do you really want to know me?" she asked as the two of us were driving home from having lunch. "I mean really know me?" she said from the passenger seat while I was driving. "You said you wanted to know everything about me."

"Is there more to know?" I asked. "We've had sex a dozen times now."

"Actually 15 times. But there's a side of me you don't know. No one does."

"I'm listening," I said.

She turned to face me, pulled her knees up on the seat, wrapped her arms around her legs. Her black sweater dress, down to the knees, cinched at the waist, showed off her slender figure.

"This is something I've never told anyone," she said. "Not a soul. In bed, I've always been the good girl: quiet, demure, a little lady. With your father and with my boyfriends before him. I suppose it's partly because I don't have the body to be the kind of woman men desire. I'm too slightly built. But I've had this lifelong fantasy of wanting to find a lover who would let me be something other than what I am."

"Michael, I want to experience all of sex, even the darkest parts." She stopped talking. Looked at me. Waited.

"What is it you want?" I asked.

"To be free to try anything and everything, as long as it just involves you and me. I want to do all the things I've read about and heard about. No shame. No embarrassment. What I'm saying, Michael, is that I want to be your lover. But I also want to be your whore. A really dirty whore with you."

"Okay," I said.

Well, what else could I say? I was at a loss for words.

She spoke: "You said you wanted to know me. So there it is. Not a very pretty side of your mother, is it. If it's abhorrent to you, tell me now. I don't want to humiliate myself with my own son if it's not what you want. You've got to be honest with me, Michael."

"Take off your panties," I said.

"What?"

"Lift your dress up to your waist and take off your panties," I said. "Then open your legs. I want to see your pussy while I'm driving."

"We're in traffic, Michael. Someone might see. Besides, I might need to clean up. We can go home. We have a little time this afternoon."

"If someone sees, then so be it. It'll be a day they never forget. And I don't care whether you're clean or dirty. If you want to be my whore, then prove it. Do the things I want you to do. So take your panties off and show me your cunt."

It was a huge gamble on my part. I wasn't sure that being "my whore" was what my mother really wanted. Maybe it was just a desire for the sex to be a little rougher, a shade on the wild side. But if she really wanted to be a slut with me, I needed to find out. What were our boundaries going to be?

I could tell. She didn't want to, but she reached down, slowly pulled her dress up where I could just begin to see her panties. They were pink, incidentally. She pivoted. Were other motorists looking? It took a few minutes to gain courage, but she pulled her panties off and raised her dress to her waist.

"Now swing your legs around and open them up," I said. Slowly she complied.

"Nice. Very nice," I said. My God, she was beautiful, sitting with her legs wide apart, facing me, the opening of her vagina already wet, those soft black curls beckoning. It was a shameless display of nakedness, hiding nothing. Reminded me of a quote I read in literature long ago, that some Greek goddesses were enough "to make strong men weep, and heroes sigh." I could have cried. This woman, Mary Armstrong, was so beautiful.

But I didn't let on.

"Now, tell me Mom, how do you masturbate? Do you use one or two fingers? Do you put them inside of you or what?"

"What are you wanting me to do, Michael?" Her voice was shaky, alarmed. Carried a sense of dread at what my answer might be.

"I want to watch you do yourself while we're driving home. You can teach me how you do it. Go ahead."

"I have to be in the mood, Michael. I can't just do it on command."

"I think you are in the mood."

She looked at me, stared at me actually, as I drove on, glancing over at her every few seconds. I wasn't smiling. I wanted her to know this was no joke on my part.

At first, hesitation. Then, keeping her eyes on mine, she took the middle finger of her right hand and moved it slowly to her vagina, slipped her finger into herself, brought it out, smeared the liquid around her vaginal lips. Repeated this several times. Began touching her clit. Fingering herself. In little circles, or more in an oblong configuration. It felt good. I could tell. Her head slowly fell back against the car window. Clear fluid oozed out onto the car seat. She closed her eyes. Began rocking her bottom on the seat, a slight back and forth motion, falling into the rhythm of her finger circling her clit. Began pulling her knees together, then opening them up. Closing them. Opening them. Urging herself on.

By the time we pulled into the driveway at home, she was close. Very close.

"God, your cunt is so hot looking," I told her.

No way she could answer. She strummed herself faster and faster, eyes only half open. Her body was beginning to shake, almost vibrating. The smell of her sex was already reaching my nostrils.

I pushed the button on the remote garage door opener, so we could pull in. Just as the door raised up, she began cuming, groaning as she did. At the same time, we both saw Dad's car in the garage. He was home early.

Before Mom could finish, he walked out the front door and around and into the garage toward us. I whisked up her panties, stuffed them in my pocket. She yanked her dress down, closed her eyes, composed herself. Then got out of the car quickly. Still shaking. Hurried indoors. He didn't notice. Had he looked inside at the seat, he might have seen the huge wet spot.

* * *

When I slept in, and I almost always did on those summer mornings, I knew when it was 8 a.m. That's when Dad made a racket raising the garage door and backing out of the driveway as he headed to work.

I had stayed up late the night before, working on more resumes and cover letters, but mostly replaying the previous afternoon with Mom in the car.

Not five minutes after Dad left, my mother bounded into my room, flinging herself on top of me in bed. Without saying a word, she kissed me, a deep tongue-probing kiss.

"What's that for?" I asked.

She smiled, mussed my hair up with her hand, looked me straight in the eye, and said: "Because I love being your whore."

"Yesterday was absolutely exhilarating, Michael. I couldn't sleep last night."

"I thought maybe I was too abusive to you," I said. "You seemed terrified in the car. I was worried that I had gone too far. Really, I was just playing."

"Oh, I was terrified," she said. "But I couldn't believe how exciting it was. I've never had an orgasm that strong before. It was so good. It was just exquisite."

"Do you think anyone saw me?" she asked, her eyes wide open.

"I know at least one trucker who got a bird's-eye view when he passed by your side of the car."

"Oh, God, Michael. He didn't?" she asked. She was faking embarrassment. You could see the energy in her face. Pure excitement. Sexual excitement. Probably wondering just what the driver might have seen.

"No. I'm kidding, Mom. If a trucker had seen what you were doing, he'd have laid on his horn and you would know. Everyone around us would know." We both laughed.

And so began our journey into whore-dom.

In bed, it freed her. She became exploratory, daring, reckless. Anything two people could do together we at least tried. She was often leading the way. My darkest, nastiest lust was matched by her own every step of the way, groaning, squealing, even yelling. "Do it more," she would say. "Don't stop." "Let's try this." "God, I love your dick." "Harder, harder."

Unless it required gymnastic skills, we did every position seemingly possible. Sitting in a chair, bent over railings, on the dining room table, standing up (this one in a downtown alleyway. "We could have gotten caught," she said excitedly.).

We sneaked into a sex shop, bought dildos, vibrators, beads, plugs, even a black "pleasure" whip, with accompanying mask and handcuffs. I tied her to the bed with the mask on her. She loved it. I used the whip, very lightly, on her bare ass. She loved that even more. We went through vibrators until finding one she liked. Then let me watch as she did herself, legs spread wide. My mom -- the exhibitionist.

From there it was on to anal sex. It became a favorite of hers. I remembered the night of the wedding when she mentioned that my touching her ass was a "weakness" of hers. She liked me touching her anus, sliding my oiled-up finger into her, sometimes two fingers. I wish I could convey the sounds from her as I pulled a string of anal beads out after slowly working them in. One loud gasp after another.

We graduated to full-blown anal, me pushing myself into her. She loved that "fullness" feeling of me inside her. But we went slow, very, very slow on that. She would cum, rubbing her clit with her own hand while I moved in and out from behind.

She became obsessed with my apparatus. Gave me blowjobs. Swallowed everything. Every time. Bought flavored lubes, just to lick them off. We would lie on the bed, me letting her probe and play with my dick and balls for half an hour. She launched into a running commentary of how beautiful she thought my penis was, describing in intricate detail every part of it. I laughed at her exaggerated flattery. But I loved it afterward when she began licking, kissing, fondling, blowing on me, rubbing her face on me, smelling my scent. She liked to hold my dick straight up to see how high my sperm would shoot. I loved her sweet touch as she held my hard penis in her hand, admiring it.