The Lighthouse

"Know about what?" She asked and I allowed her to take the book from my hands.

"Her!" I questioned. "Look at her hair," I stated and Mom instinctively touched her locks, a vacant look on her face.

"I didn't. I've never even... I just got it cut like this for convenience," she looked in my eyes, clearly revealing it wasn't just Mayhew and I that saw the resemblance. "It's bizarre."

"Ah, that's an understatement," I forced a laugh. "Shows why Mayhew acted as he did. You were wearing that fur coat of yours."

"It's a modern puffer jacket," Mom defended her attire.

"Yeah, but it looked pretty much the same as in that photo," I explained. "Ghosts."

"What?" Mom looked at me.

"Something Mayhew said. It now makes sense. When he saw you, he thought he was seeing a ghost."

*

The television didn't pick up any channels. Not surprising this distance from the coast. There was however an old VCR and an assortment of mainly pre 2000 Tom Cruise movies to choose from, someone in the past clearly being a fan. We left the screen off the first night, however, another form of entertainment capturing our imagination. After an impressive meal gathered together from the well-supplied food storage building, I left the residence to check all was well with the lighthouse. GPS had seen ships safely past the island for the last forty years or so but the light still remained a warning beacon, red filters alerting any wayward travelers to the rocky outcrops on either end of the island. In the early evening, the sun just disappeared over the horizon, I looked up to the sky and knew I had to go and get Mom.

"It's amazing." Barefoot upon the lawn, Mom gazed up into the Milky Way as I opened the deck chairs and a bottle of sparkling wine.

"You're not cold?" I asked as I passed her a glass and she sipped before shaking her head and settling back into her seat.

I joined her and was admittedly awestruck by the sight. Billions of stars, unaffected by the light pollution of the city. Planets, and the random delight of meteors falling into the atmosphere and burning out like embers leaping from a fire.

"This is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," Mom admitted. "Ooh look," she pointed to another falling star and I smiled as I watched her joy. Right then, the wine admittedly quickly going to my head, I could've said She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, the galaxy reflected in her eyes, the curves of her body in the darkness.

Again, I snapped myself out of my fancy. That's not how a son is supposed to picture his mother, I told myself and refocused my attention to the night sky and the wonders of the universe.

"They're lighthouses," Mom stated after countless minutes of silence. The ever-present roar of the surf in the distance our only soundtrack.

"What?"

"The stars," she explained. "Every light could be just like us. Two people sitting on an island. A beacon of light sent out into the darkness just to show they exist."

It was a beautiful thought and I needed not add to her philosophy with words. Imagining myself another world where a mother and son sat together, just looking up into the sky.

*

"We could always sleep together!" Mom stated before bursting into alcohol-affected laughter at her words and my shocked expression as I prepared the couch for bed. "Oh, I don't mean sleep together," she tried to remedy her mistake, giggling. "Just, you know, in the same bed. Sleep, not..."

She thankfully didn't complete her sentence but the idea had been given life. A zygote of incestuous possibility that had never, ever, been spoken between us.

"Yeah, I get it," I fluffed up a pillow, placing it back down on the now sheet-covered couch. "I think I'll be fine here. Last of the wine?" I offered as I shook the near-empty bottle.

"No, I'm fine," she declined. "I was thinking of taking a shower. It's been a long day."

"That it has," I agreed and poured the remainder of the wine into my glass as she left me alone.

Not alone. I picked up the Delia Caster biography and reclining on my bed for the night, flicked through the pages, once more alighting on her photographs, more often than not alongside her son Jack, always in a grey peak cap. She really did look like Mom, I thought, as I heard the shower come on.

She took some time, and done leafing through the biography I turned my attention to the registry of lighthouse keepers/caretakers to the island that sat upon its pedestal beside the front door. The dates reaching back over one hundred years, I found Mayhew had done more than one 'tour of duty,' so to speak. His name, just 'Mayhew' appearing in three separate years. Previous to him the brother and sister he'd mentioned, James and Belinda Miles. It was as I read the name of Jack Caster from 1936 to 1938 that I heard Mom leave the bathroom and I turned to acknowledge her presence.

"Forgot my panties!" She needlessly informed me as, wrapped in only a towel, she crossed the room to open the dresser containing her clothes. Her covering barely contained her body, the curve of her buttocks visible below, her bust heaving above. "Found them," she waved what looked like satin underwear at me before she headed back into the bathroom. Ridiculously my cock responded to the sight and I tried to fend off the impending erection.

"Oh no, no, no!" I whispered my declaration. "You're not doing this!" I stated, realizing the last thing I needed on the very first day of a yearlong stretch of isolation with my mother was an unwarranted display of unchecked libido. I quickly changed out of my clothes and slipped under the sheets on the couch, hiding the uninvited arousal from sight. Just in time as she exited the bathroom a second time. This occasion wearing more. But only just.

A fifty-five-year-old widow. Alone for an extended period with her son. Had she thought through her attire stringently, I wondered? It was lingerie. A white satin nightie that only just reached her groin. Lace dominated her chest, the shadow, no, the actual pinkness of her nipples visible through the thinnest of material. My dick ignored all attempts I'd made of ceasing its erection and I sported one of the most rigid hard-ons I'd had in recent memory. This wasn't what I'd planned.

"Good night, Honey," Mom seemed unfazed by her provocative garment and her demeanor made me feel I was being overly sensitive. Maybe it was what she'd always worn to bed? And why couldn't she? I was her son. She could be comfortable in the knowledge that regardless of what she wore, there'd be no sexual overtones attributed. I wouldn't be lecherously ogling her as an object for my gratification. The lights went out and the temptation was removed from my sight. But long into the night, my hardness reminded me of her beauty.

*

Surprisingly, despite the events upon bedtime. I slept the sleep of the just. The morning was fine and bright and with Mom still snoozing, a gentle snore, I made my way to the bathroom and entered the shower. No hot water. Well, some. Quickly turning icy cold and I let out the appropriate groan in response. What I didn't expect was Mom to come in unannounced to see what was wrong.

"Are you okay?" Her voice of concern filled the room and my soap-covered eyes opened to see her staring straight at my nudity.

"Jesus! Mom!" I gasped as the burning came to my eyes and I slapped a hand in front of my groin to cover myself. "Yes! There's just no hot water," I explained my situation, and post rinsing my face I saw her look of understanding.

"Oh," she remarked, seemingly comfortable to remain in the doorway and watch me. "Well, I'll leave you to it."

"Ah, yeah!" I agreed, astonished as to what had occurred. But as I finished my shower, more concerned about how the cold water had affected the size of my cock. Disappointed she'd not seen me in all my glory. I should've been aghast at the sudden thought. What the hell did it matter how big my dick looked to my mother? I wanted to admonish myself for my current incestuous thinking. But little by little, I was beginning not to care.

*

And so, it began. Each day blending into the next as we became accustomed to island time. Up at dawn, retiring at sunset. Though my list of official duties was short, they filled the day, even Mom finding more than enough to keep her busy. The sizeable vegetable garden needing constant maintenance and seasonal replanting; assisting me with the eradication of invasive weeds from around the island. Weeks went by and a routine was adhered to without question, without complaint. Yet underneath our idyllic relationship with the environment, with each other, there was a tension. I felt it constantly. And I knew the cause.

The solar hot water system worked well in the evening, and for washing the nightly meal's dishes and Mom's extended shower, it was more than enough. If I, however, was particularly dirty from the day's activities or simply desired to treat myself to a slightly longer shower, I would invariably end up standing beneath a freezing flow that was far from the relaxation I sought. And so it was, after a particularly strenuous and minor accident-filled day, a stubbed toe, a hammered thumb, I allowed my tensions to come to the fore.

"Can you maybe spend a little less time in the shower?" I remarked as I left the bathroom. "I had no hot water."

It wasn't called for and Mom was suitably surprised by my admittedly snarky tone.

"Well, I'm sorry. I actually did have a shorter shower than usual though," she reflected truthfully. "...and I did offer for you to go first you might remember!"

At the time, I didn't want to hear her sense, nor could I think of a valid retort, simply snorting as a response.

"Well, we could shower together!" Mom suggested, sarcastically. "That'd solve our problem."

"Why not? You essentially go to bed naked; it'd be nothing I hadn't already seen!"

Again, what I said was uncalled for. To be honest, the highlight of my day was seeing what she was wearing to bed, excitement when she debuted something new. A babydoll. A see-through nightie, the shadow of her pubic hair tantalizing beneath its shroud. I'm not ashamed to admit I was jerking off daily in the sanctuary of the workshop, my mother the inspiration for my solitary habit. Possibly what was keeping me sane.

She pursed her lips at what I'd said and we spoke not another word to each other that night. The next day was just as frosty. I hated myself for causing the rift, the first real argument we'd had in the near month we'd been together on the island, and all day I debated ways to remedy the situation, Mom eventually the one to salve the wound.

Near bedtime and both of us still treading on eggshells, she, as per usual entered the bathroom to change out of her clothes, emerging moments later, not in her regular nightie or ever sexier lingerie, but track pants and a sweater. I made no big deal of it, concentrating on the history of the Channel Islands book I'd started. From the corner of my eye on the couch, I watched her tuck her pants into her socks, her sweater into said pants, lift her hood, and then move into the kitchen to place oven mitts over each hand.

"Alright enough," I broke the silence. "What are you doing?"

She looked incredulous but I could see mischief hiding behind her eyes.

"Well, I heard what you said so I thought I'd cover myself up a little more. So as not to offend you!" She held up her hands in the oven mitts.

"You look ridiculous," I didn't attempt to contain my smile, the frostiness melting away. "Take them off you nutter," I laughed and was pleased to see her grin as I set aside the book and rose to meet her. "I'm sorry I said those things," I took the oven mitts from her and she lowered the hoodie from her head.

"No, it's alright. I'm probably half to blame. I was just wearing what I would at home. I didn't think how it might make you feel."

I suspected she had no idea how horny it had been making me feel and I kept it to myself.

"It doesn't matter. You can wear whatever you want. I think I was just having a bad day."

"That may be," Mom agreed. "But it did make me think about some things."

"Oh?"

"Well, it's true I might have been being a little selfish," she began.

"No, you're fine, I'm..." I attempted to deny.

"No. Just let me finish," she interrupted as she untucked her sweater from her pants. "I do take long showers. But that's not all. There's the bed situation."

"We spoke about..."

"Uh!" She held up her hand. "I know but it's not fair you have to take the couch. I think we should swap. Alternate even."

"No," I adamantly denied. "You're not sleeping on the couch, it's uncomfortable."

"There, you said it," she picked up on my admission. "Well, if that's the case, I think we should both take the bed."

"What?"

"We share the bed. It's big enough."

"Yeah but... I mean," I could feel myself blush.

"Oh, don't be silly about this," she could at least see the awkwardness. "We're mother and son. Not strangers. It's okay for us to share a bed."

"But..."

"No buts!" She quickly shut down my doubts. "Now. I'm going to bed. I expect you to join me. Do what your mother says for once Daniel," she firmly stated and I was left with little but to follow her orders.

So, there I was. At thirty-five years of age. Sleeping in the same bed as my mother. She, despite what had happened moments earlier, had no problem undressing in front of me. Deciding to wear a t-shirt to bed on our first night together. It was large, but not enough to fully cover her groin, my eyes spying purple panties hugging her pussy mound as she climbed into bed. Lights out and with only inches between our bodies, I soon heard the contented breathing of sleep from her side. But with a hard-on and thoughts of incestuous possibility floating around my mind, I, however, had far more trouble finding rest.

*

I awoke to the gray light of early dawn. For the briefest of moments, I thought I was back in L.A. In bed with my ex-wife and wondering why we were sharing such affection? It was then reality and horror set in. On my side, my arm around her waist, I was spooning Mom. My dick was a solid pole of steel, wedged hard between her soft buttocks, her boobs resting upon my forearm and bicep. With my head sharing her pillow, my lips were brushing her exposed neck and with eyes wide, I tried to ascertain if she was indeed still sleeping?

The soft breath of sleep. Or was she faking? My dick twitched between her cheeks and I wondered the best way to extract myself from the situation before she felt it or naturally awoke. Like a band-aid, I thought. Quick. On three I told myself and began the count. Pausing at two, allowing just a little longer lest it never happen again. Grinding my cock ever so slightly against her ass, forcing myself to remember the feeling of her soft boobs and belly. Three. I lifted my arm and rolled away from her, Mom immediately feeling the movement and rolling onto her back, a hand lifting to her face to rub her nose, clear sleep from her eyes.

"Morning already?" She lazily whispered and was again asleep as I contemplated my perfect crime. With a morning erection that seemed unwilling to soften, I lay and watched her as the sun slowly rose and filled the residence with warmth. No makeup. Her long eyelashes and perfect eyebrows. The turn of her small nose and lips so slightly parted. She was beautiful. Had I always known this? I wanted to kiss her awake. To tell her I loved her and yes... fuck. No. Make love. In our shared bed. In our home. On our island.

I kept my fantasy to myself.

*

The day like any other. I began the painting of the interior of the lighthouse. Mayhew had begun. The laborious job of scraping the flaking original away was taken care of, much of which still lay upon the ground floor and the stairway. Mid-morning, I heard the door to the lighthouse sway on its hinge and footsteps following as Mom passed through and I called down around the curve of the staircase.

"I hope you've brought coffee!" I laughed but there was no response. No attempt on her behalf to at least mount some of the stairs. Curious, I placed down the paintbrush and descended to find the ground floor empty. There was the scent of lavender, a perfume of another era, and almost... it's silly, but I would describe it as a presence in the semi-darkened room.

I walked outside and saw Mom tending the vegetable garden. Shovel in hand and certainly not bearing coffee. Goosebumps raised on my flesh and the hair on the back of my neck stood up as I turned back toward the lighthouse, darkness within the doorway.

"Ghosts," I whispered and unexpectedly shivered in the warm morning air.

The painting could wait.

*

Date night. Is what we'd begun to call it. I'd accidentally termed it that, meaning to say 'movie night' at the time, referring to our watching one of the Tom Cruise movies, eating popcorn, and sharing a bottle of wine now and then before bed.

His back catalog was almost complete as we'd randomly picked titles and as I scanned what remained, I pulled out Jerry Maguire and Eye Wide Shut. One of which I'd purposefully been avoiding for obvious reasons.

"What's it gonna be?" I held up the two VHS cassettes as Mom settled back into the couch, glass of red wine in hand.

"Oh, I've seen that too many times," she referred to my left hand and with a blush already forming on my face, I looked to my right to see Nicole Kidman's bare back as she lowered her dress.

This was going to get uncomfortable.

It wasn't that bad. From the very beginning, we didn't take the film seriously, which helped. What I also found advantageous was the blanket that we'd thrown over our laps. My hard-on kept a secret. Even the fact I was secretly stroking myself through my jeans with my mother's hip pressing to mine throughout the movie. The perfect crime. Or so I thought.

"Can you pause it?" Mom asked as she placed her glass on the table and rose from the couch. "Have to pee!" She explained and fortuitously I stopped the movie on a naked woman.

With her gone, I used the opportunity to treat myself. Pulling my cock from my pants and masturbating to the image. Who was I kidding? With the faint sound of my mother pissing in the background, I knew exactly what was my inspiration. I was edging when after an extended time she returned from the bathroom already changed for bed. The t-shirts abandoned nights before, she'd gone back to the lingerie and with my cock hurriedly tucked away mid-stroke, the pressure of my jeans against its rigidity, unfortunately, finished the job. Just as she climbed back up on the couch, the thinnest piece of satin all that covered her body, I ejaculated.

Mortified, I sat there for minutes as the movie played. Again and again, Mom wriggled in her seat to find comfort, and once more her hip found its way against my leg. This time bare skin pressed upon my body. Was it a come-on?

"She has nice boobs," Mom out of the blue commented on an actress as an orgy began onscreen, and feeling the cum in my pants spreading, no doubt seeping through my clothing, I had to get out of there. Embarrassed, I finished my glass and faked a yawn.

"I'm done," I rose from the couch and keeping my groin directed away from Mom, left her alone.

"Oh. What about the movie?" She questioned almost despondently and I hated myself for my response amid my cowardice.

"You watch it. Not really interested," I fled into the bathroom to clean up the mess I'd created and look myself in the eye. I hated what I saw. My face was red. A wet patch on my groin and inside, about as much cum as I'd ever seen myself produce. All wasted. So much flew around inside my head. What had just happened? Was it a come-on!? A mother and son watching an erotic movie together. She'd changed into lingerie and begun to talk about boobs! Was this normal? And what had I done? Cum in my pants like a teenager. Had I just blown it?