Paradise Island

We had decided on a three weeks tour of the large island that is off the south coast of the mainland. Using one of my father's "toys," an expensive 4WD, we had left on the night ferry and arrived on the island next morning.

Our first stop was to be the city at the northern end of the island. It is strange that we had traveled to many countries, but never visited this lovely place before.

I took the road east out of the port of arrival, passing through landscape that many said resembled English rural countryside. It certainly was much greener than most of our mainland continent, and was dotted with small farms and villages.

Mother was delighted. Perhaps her delight was less than charitable, as I am sure much of it emanated from the fact that at the last minute my father had decided he could not come with us.

"A business matter has come up," he said. This being translated meant, "I've just got myself a new girl and will be too busy fucking her."

For those who are interest, my father is a businessman and a rich child. He has a superficial charm that he uses to good effect. His life is crowded with his "toys," as my mother calls them. All the latest he has to have, and having got them, loses interest almost immediately.

I am sad to say that this loss of interest includes his neglect of my mother. She had been waylaid by his charm when only eighteen. He had to have the best and most beautiful, and in mother he got what he sought. For a while she was feted as a sort of prize he had won, then he lost interest.

I think he must have got mother pregnant with me the first time they had sex, which I am convinced was before they got married. I believe that I am the reason mother still stayed with him, so I could have the best. To give him credit where it's due, he was generous with his money where mother was concerned. The contract with her seemed to be, "I'll supply the money, you stay beautiful and impress my dinner party guests and run the house, and stay out of my affairs (including his affairs with other women).

He also had a sort of contract with me. "Do well at your studies so I can boast about you, and I'll send you to the best schools, cover your university costs, let you play with some of my toys (like the 4WD), but stay out of my way."

I do not suggest that these contracts were written documents, or had ever been expressed in words. It was simply his attitude that conveyed the message.

It was the long summer university vacation, and mother was delighted to have me to herself for three weeks. I was equally happy to have her to myself. Being with her was to feel that I was escorting a lovely cultured woman, which indeed she was and is. The down side of this is, of course, that everywhere she goes she draws the attention of men. Perhaps I should be pleased about this, but in fact, I feel jealous. Unlike the mainland, the distances between towns and cities on the island are not very great, and quickly we were entering the city we were heading for.

We were stopping at a motel, and since my father had arranged all the accommodation bookings, it was the most expensive place in town. Its staff suffered from that strange combination of haughty obsequiousness, and any attempt to do something for oneself was frowned upon, including unpacking from the vehicle.

Once unpacked we set out to see the city. We found it delightful, with its lack of skyscrapers, its one way streets and narrow side lanes.

We went into the tourist bureau, and receiving a pile of pamphlets mother found one advertising a symphony concert by the island orchestra. Jeered at by father for her love of music, mother decided we should take the opportunity to go to the concert.

I was not so enthusiastic as mother, but she pleaded with me like a little girl begging daddy for an ice cream, so I went along with the idea. As it happened, we only managed to get tickets because of a cancellation.

We spent the rest of the day rambling round the town and poking into all sorst of odd and quaint corners. It is the sort of town where the city fathers have been prevented by popular pressure, from tearing down everything in sight for the sake of money, and been forced to let the citizens enjoy a more relaxed way of life. My father would have been appalled at this desecration of his god, Mammon.

In the late afternoon we decided on a meal at a pub called, "The Old Oak." For a very small price, we received a huge meal, all of which we could not eat. In addition, we drank a large carafe of rough red wine, and staggered out partly overcome by the amount of food we had consumed, and partly under the influence of the wine.

With mother clinging to my arm, we made our way to the new concert hall that had been built to blend in with the surrounding architecture, but had a stunning interior.

The orchestra is the smallest of our national orchestras, but is renown for the excellence of its performances. I did not see myself as a devotee of symphonic music, but I must say this orchestra went a long way to converting me. Their work was thrilling to say the least.

Mother sat leaning against me with her head on my shoulder most of the time, and after the last piece, a tone poem by Sibelius, I had to prevent her from standing on the seat as the audience nearly clapped and cheered the roof off.

We returned to The Old Oak for a late drink, and after fending off a couple of young fellows who, as they say, tried to "chat up" mother (I'm a fairly formidable looking chap although much inclined to non-violence) we wended our way back to our snooty accommodation. I perhaps should have said, "tottered".

Two rooms had been booked one for mother and father, and one for me. Under the influence of the "late drink" we had consumed, and the music still rolling and thundering in our heads, I kissed mother goodnight at the door to her room in a rather unsonly manner. She responded in an equally unmotherly fashion and despite or because of my inebriated condition, I felt my penis starting to swell.

Having given mother my goodnight salutation, I continued on to my own room next door, entered, stripped off my clothes, and fell into bed naked. I must have gone to sleep in a matter of seconds.

When I woke in the morning, I had a head that I wished did not belong to me. Putting on my dressing gown, I tapped on the communicating door between my room and mother's, and I heard a feeble voice bid me enter.

Mother was still in bed, and looking at me through bleary eyes, she groaned. Like me, she had gone to bed naked, and her breasts were exposed above the bedclothes. I suppose my staring at this winsome exposure drew mother's attention to her partial denudation, and she pulled up the sheet to cover herself, much, I must admit, to my regret.

"I can't get up just yet, Blake, and I don't want any breakfast. You amuse yourself for a couple of hours while I try to recover."

With that, I went off for a shower and breakfast, and for the next couple of hours, I carried out further investigations of the fascinating little city.

Returning to the motel I found mother up and apparently recovered from the worst of her hangover. She was wearing a very expensive Levi suit and looked wonderful. In fact, mother seemed to look wonderful whatever she wore. I think that it must have been very annoying to other women who, wearing the same garments, looked as if they were clad in Op Shop throw outs.

Our first task was to make a booking for the theatre that night. Then we were off to see one of the local scenic spots called, "The Ravine." Here a river came tumbling down into a huge pool, then flowed out into the main river that fronted the city.

We crossed a swing bridge that really did swing, walked through the park, then returned to the entrance on an airlift chair.

Mother was fully recovered and seemed to be experiencing a sort of personality transformation.

Perhaps a description of mother is in order. Her name is Eve, but first her physical aspects. She has abundant auburn hair worn shoulder length, sometimes tied back as it was now, and sometimes flowing down the sides of her face to cascade over her shoulders. She has beautifully regular classical features with slightly dark complexion. I had sometimes wondered if she had some Anglo-Indian background, but she has always said that she knew of no such antecedents.

One of her loveliest features is her neck that is long, and seems to flow down to her shoulders. I always enjoy…but no, more of that later.

She is tall for a woman, I think about 1.7 metres, and my male ego is only just saved by my being a few centimetres taller.

In later times, I have by dint of cunning managed to determine her other measurements, more of less. They are about 38-26-39. Not, I believe the so-called "perfect female figure," but even mother could not have it all, and who is complaining anyway?

I once checked out her bra and found that she used a C cup, so…?

Her legs are long, strong and well shaped and in proportion with her body; she carries herself very erect, back straight and head high.

I have overheard someone describing her as an "austere beauty." That I think describes her rather well in the normal circumstances of her life. I think the slightly serious manner she adopted was a sort of defence, first against the pain she must have felt at my father's apparent lack of love for her, and also as a means of fending off would-be paramours, of which there had been many hopefuls.

It was only as I grew into adulthood that I realised that this austere aspect of mother existed. From my earliest memories of her, she had always been warm and loving towards me. I think that this was the real Eve. She wanted to be affectionate, but rejected by my father and sometimes plagued by men wanting her body, she shut down this side of her character to all except me, and perhaps her mother and father while they lived.

My money-orientated father united mother and I by his jeers and sneers. Regarding me, it was largely because of my desire to be an artist. "Bloody useless sod. Gay are you? How much do you reckon you'll make painting pictures?"

More than the sneers at me, I was deeply pained when I overheard him on a number of occasions taunting mother with comments like, "Hoping he'll (naming some man) give you a good fucking, are you?" If ever there was a woman sexually faithful in the face of rejection, it was mother. At least, until she finally decided to cut free from him.

So back to our second day in the little city.

As we had crossed the swing bridge mother, suffering a little uneasiness had taken my hand in hers. After that, she continued to hold on to it.

We had lunch at the Ravine Restaurant, then walked back to the city and the main river, where we took a tourist boat for an hour.

Throughout our activities, I noticed a steady change coming over mother. Always looking years younger than her actual age, even more years seemed to be dropping away from her. It was like being with a girl who was even younger than I was. She moved and spoke with a sunny air.

My picture of what was happening to her was of chains being struck off her and she being free. Contented as I had been to be with a beautiful and sophisticated woman at the start of our trip, once I got used to it, I was even more delighted to be with this sparkling young girl.

Looking back, I now understand that having got pregnant and married so young to a man who eventually made her life dull and miserable, she was with me starting live some of her lost youth. I was really happy to be instrumental in bringing about her ease.

I suggested we should go and look at the city gardens saying "Mother shall we…?" but she cut in.

"Darling, what about calling me 'Eve'? Just while we're on holiday."

For me the title "mother" had been the symbol of my love and respect for her. The idea of calling her Eve was a bit hard for me to accept. Never the less I said, "All right mother…er…Eve." With that, she put her arm round me, so I reciprocated and we walked along arms about each other.

I found this rather unsettling but at the same time gratifying. The soft warmth of her body close to mine, the fragrance of her subtle perfume, gave rise to thoughts that I had never had before…until…then I recalled the sight of her breasts that morning. I felt a lump rise in my throat and my stomach churned a little followed by an ache in my genitals.

After our tour round the city gardens it was time to eat, so we returned to The Old Oak, and ate another of the huge meals it offered and drank another large carafe of red wine.

We went on from the pub to the theatre. The play turned out to be a rather erotic work with some explicit sex scenes and near nudity. Mother was again sitting with her head on my shoulder. And between the rather heated scenes on stage, the close proximity of mother and the fragrance of her perfume, I got into a rather heated state myself.

After the show we went back to The Old Oak and downed some more red wine. As we left mother bought a bottle of whisky and with our arms once more round each other, we wavered our way back to the motel.

Arriving at Eve's door, I went to kiss her goodnight, but she said in a rather thick voice, "Don't be an old misery sweetheart, come in and have a nightcap with me."

We were both well inebriated so we lurched into the room and I sprawled into an armchair. Eve opened the bottle of whisky and poured out liberal measures into glasses.

I must apologise for the scanty description of what happened next, but the room and Eve seemed to be something "out there," if you know what I mean. I struggled to look and sound sober, as drunken people often do, but I am sure I only made matters worse. I do know that we drank the whole bottle of whisky because I saw the empty bottle next morning, but I have no clear of recall actually doing so.

Deciding that it was time for bed, I staggered over to Eve, and in bending over her to kiss her goodnight my bending continued until I ended up with my head in her lap.

Mother began to caress me and said something like, "I've spent years in lonely beds, darling. Keep me company tonight."

A little alcohol is said to produce much truth; to release us from our inhibitions and expose our real desires. If I say, "It must have been the alcohol that brought about what happened," it is but a half-truth at best. Even to say it was the relaxed day we had enjoyed, the pleasure of each other's company and the intimate holding and touching, it is still not the whole truth.

As I was to learn later, my mother, showering upon me the love thrown away by my father, found as I entered puberty that love taking on a sexual dimension. This may never have been given overt expression save for the alcohol we had consumed, but there is another aspect. My love for her. In my high school days and at university I had first experimented with girls, then used them to unburden myself of sexual tensions. In what I suppose must be called my "promiscuous behaviour," I had found no contentment, only temporary release.

I had never viewed mother as a sexual object until the previous evening when we kissed in a non-filial manner at her door. This was the first intimation of a love that went beyond that of the respectful and obedient son. In addition, the day we had spent together in such happy harmony, the freedom we found with each other, her closeness to me and her fragrance, all had the effect of stirring my sensual self. And now her open invitation for me to join her in bed!

I might try to make the alcohol my excuse, but that would be to insult mother and to misrepresent my true feelings. I wanted her sexually without any need of alcohol to make me feel like that. The alcohol merely served to release me from my self- restraint in this regard.

Mother managed to get me out of her lap and on my feet. She drew me to the bed and commenced undressing me. Having completed the task, she pulled back the covers and with a gentle push, toppled me into the bed. I lay there watching her as she undressed and then joining me in the bed.

Pulling the covers over us, she snuggled up close to me, curling her body against me. Alcohol often serves as a sexual suppressant, but her closeness seemed to overcome this, and I had a raging erection.

Mother said nothing, but lying there facing me, I remember her putting one leg over me and somehow getting my penis into her. I have no clear memory of ejaculating into her, but I must have, because in the morning I could see the stains on the sheet, and mother assured me that I had, because she had removed my semen from her vagina.

When we woke we were suffering from bad hangovers, and nothing was said beyond the barest exchanges. We might have tried to pretend that nothing had happened, but waking up together in bed put ignoring it out of court. We did, however, avoid confronting the situation for the time being.

We were departing for our next location that morning so once packed and loaded up, we set off. We were heading for a small village a few kilometres off the central highway that cuts right across the island from north to south. Again, we passed farms and little villages with old colonial houses and buildings, but I think that we were both too preoccupied to pay proper attention to the scenery.

Turning left off the highway we traveled a few kilometres down a side road, went over a river bridge that had been built by convicts many years ago, and entered the village.

This time there was no luxurious motel. We had been booked into the only place offering accommodation, the local hotel. It was in fact a fairly large two storied building amid a village of one-story cottages.

To our surprise the place was full, as there seemed to be some sort of convention going on. This time, although we had adjoining rooms, there was no communicating door.

Having brought our luggage in, this time doing the job ourselves, we went to the dining room for lunch. It was crowded, but our host showed us to a side dining room saying, "I reserved this for you, sir." No doubt my father's money again!

" An excellent meal was provided but certainly not on the gargantuan scale of The Old Oak. We settled for one glass of wine each this time.

Finishing the meal, we set out for a walk round the village, and headed for the bridge first. We read the inscription carved into the stone work that announced the date the convicts had built it.

As we stood there I took advantage of our being alone and said, "Mother, I'm so sorry, so terribly sorry."

There was no need for an explanation as to why I was sorry, we both knew.

Eve had now become her "austere" self again. She turned and looked directly at me with her green eyes for some time, saying nothing, then, "You've nothing to be sorry for, Blake."

I began to protest, "But…but I fu…I had…my own mother…"

She stopped me, placing her fingers against my mouth. "Would you prefer it to have been someone else's mother?"

"No…I mean…you don't do that…"

"With your own mother?"

"That's right."

"Well, I have to confess to you, Blake. When we kissed the previous night the thought came to me 'How wonderful it would be to have sex with someone I loved,' specifically you. I thought you might resist if you were sober, so I bought the whisky. So now you know, and have nothing to feel guilty about."

I had wondered about the drinking. Eve was not a drinker in the way we had been downing it, but then, neither was I.

I stood leaning over the parapet of the bridge, staring at the water flowing under it. Eve was trying to take the guilt upon herself, but I could not and would not accept that I was guiltless. She was offering me a conscience easing way out, but how do you let someone you love do that?