The Master of the House

We were home by ten thirty. I had to go to work the next day so I suggested a quick nightcap, after which I would go to bed. Mum said she'd just have a mug of cocoa so I said I'd have one too and we sat side by side on the settee in the living room, looking out into the darkened garden, and sipped our drinks.

'What did you think about the restaurant?' I asked, presently.

'Oh David, it was so nice. I was nervous you know, before we got there, but they were so good to us.'

I felt a rush of affection for my undemanding mother who'd put up with so much in her life and had rarely if ever complained. I was glad I'd treated her. I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. 'You had nothing to be nervous about,' I told her. 'You looked very lovely and I was proud to be out with you.' She blushed and smiled at me. 'In fact,' I said, 'you look so good that if you weren't my mother I'd give you a proper kiss.' I don't know what made me say that. The booze probably.

Mum was silent for a couple of seconds and then she said, quietly: 'Well, you're the master of the house, now David.' That remark didn't quite register at the time. I heard it but I didn't process it. So we finished our cocoa and I rinsed the mugs and kissed mum goodnight and went up to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

Lying in bed I heard mum come up and use the bathroom and then I heard her bedroom door shut and the house was silent and dark. I'd had a day at work and a big dinner with wine but sleep wouldn't come to me, to begin with. I couldn't stop thinking about the remark she'd made about me being the master of the house. What did she mean by saying that, after I'd just said I would have kissed her if she weren't my mother? Was she telling me that if I did want to kiss her "properly" then, as "Master of the House" I was entitled to do so? Surely not. She was my mother. She was fifty-five. The whole idea of snogging my mum was... was what?

The notion was scary. But was it also interesting at the same time? I felt breathless, and wondered what mum was thinking right now. Mature ladies were not a new phenomenon to me, I was rather attracted to them; I'd dated a couple of forty-somethings in the past and, one night with my mates, I'd gone to a club on "grab a granny" night. I'd pulled, too, a generously built lady in her fifties. My mates had taken the piss a bit but she'd taken me back to her place and we'd spent half the night screwing and boy could she fuck! I'd wanted a repeat performance but it hadn't happened. 'You're younger than my son,' she'd said. But I could remember how she felt to kiss and to fondle and how she tasted and what it had felt like when I penetrated her big hairy pussy.

But this was my mum, part of my brain reminded me. But what would it feel like to kiss her? the other half persisted. How horny would that be? Kissing your mum and feeling her big, soft breasts against your chest. I drifted off to sleep eventually but I woke early and felt gritty eyed and tired.

That day at work all I could think about was that that little cameo of the night before. I repeated the two lines in my head like a religious mantra and tried to fit different explanations, different contexts to them. But I failed. Mum had said I could kiss her "properly". There was no other interpretation that made any sense. So what should I do about it? I asked myself in the canteen at lunchtime. Because after thinking about it all morning, the appeal of French kissing my own mother was undoubtedly starting to grow on me. She'd looked good the evening before. If she were ever to do herself up like that again, I told myself, I would take it as an invitation and I would kiss her, properly, using my lips and tongue.

I had a passing fancy that she'd be dolled up for me when I got home that evening but she was in slacks and a knitted jumper. I felt disappointed, then cross with myself for being so silly. But that evening I looked at her more than usual, seeing her middle-aged face and her housewife's clothes and body. She was very ordinary, just like your average suburban mum. But still... there was something. Something about the fact that she was my mother. The forbiddenness, if that's a word.

Later, in bed, I stroked my cock to hardness and tried to think about the scrummy personnel manager at work. But somehow she kept morphing into my mum. Towards the end, as my climax approached, I gave myself up to a vision of kissing my mother; what it would feel and taste like. How I would use my lips and tongue and run my hands over her body and squash her full breasts against me. My spunk splashed over my abdomen and I groaned.

Fate now took a hand in the unlikely form of my sister and her husband who rang mum and said they were passing by Newcastle at the weekend on the way to a holiday in Scotland and would love to pop in and see her for a couple of hours on Saturday afternoon. I think it was more a duty than a pleasure, especially for Frank, her husband. But the upshot was that mum decided she'd wear her new dress for her daughter's visit. When she told me this I felt a slight deliquescence in my stomach and faint stirrings of desire. After Lucy had gone, that would be the time.

Lucy and Frank ended up staying longer than a couple of hours, so on that basis the visit was a success, although mum was disappointed not to see her grandchildren. They were apparently away skiing with the school. Hardly surprising that they couldn't contribute to mum's finances, I thought sourly. Mum had toned down her make up a bit this time, perhaps because we were in broad daylight. She was wearing the woollen dress and her new heels and grey tights and her hair was loose around her shoulders. She looked good, I decided. Definitely good enough to want to kiss. The thought of it made me shiver slightly. Oh, God. What if I'd read it all wrong?

At one point Lucy ambushed me in the kitchen for a "brother and sister" chat about mum. Lucy was as tall as me and well built. Not fat but sturdy, although today I fancied she looked slimmer than the last time I'd seen her. 'Mum seems happy,' she began. 'She obviously likes you living with her.'

'Yes,' I said neutrally. 'She seems to be coping ok.'

'I'm sorry we weren't much help,' said Lucy in an unexpected show of contrition. 'To tell you the truth, Frank and I have been having some problems...'

'I'm sorry to hear that.'

'Thanks.' She paused. 'This break in Scotland is an attempt to sort things out.'

'I hope it works out. You look like you've lost weight,' I said, changing an uncomfortable subject.

'A few pounds,' she agreed. 'It's the worry. Mum looks like she has too. She looks a bit haggard, I thought.'

'She's fine,' I said, a bit tetchily, feeling it was a criticism of me.

'Thank God she's got you. I'm really grateful for everything you're doing, David.' She squeezed my arm and gave me a peck on the cheek and we re-joined mum and Frank in the living room who were sitting in an awkward silence. I wondered briefly how grateful she'd be to me if she knew I was planning to French kiss our mum as soon as she'd gone.

They left about four o'clock, saying that they wanted to do the rest of the journey in daylight. I closed the front door behind them and mum said: 'Well, that was nice. Lucy looked well, didn't she?' I agreed, deciding not to tell mum about her daughter's marital problems. 'What would you like to do now?' she asked. 'They're showing A Taste of Honey on the television. It's one of my favourites. Shall we watch it together? I know it's probably not your cup of tea...' For a bizarre moment I wondered if mum had got a copy of my imaginary script. This seemed to be going eerily to plan.

'That sounds good,' I said, warmly. 'I'll open a bottle of wine.'

'In the afternoon?'

'Live dangerously, Mum.'

So we sat together on the settee and watched the classic black-and-white British kitchen-sink drama on our little twenty-two-inch television set. At least mum watched. My mind was whirling with the hope and doubt. When would be the best time? How would I do it? What would I say?

The wine helped. It was red and about fifteen percent ABV, so after we'd drunk most of the bottle I was feeling pleasantly warm and amorous. More to the point my mother, in her new dress and grey tights, (she'd discarded the heels) was looking more and more desirable to me.

I took the plunge at an advert break, close to the end of the film. The scene had ended with Jo, played by Rita Tushingham, who bore a faint resemblance to my mother in her youth, being kissed passionately. As the adverts rolled I swallowed the last of my wine and turned to mum.

'Watching all that kissing reminds me of my birthday.'

'Oh?' said mum.

'Do you remember me saying you looked so good that if you weren't my mother I'd give you a proper kiss?' I felt tense despite the alcohol; my palms were sweating. Mum sat very still. 'And you said "Well, you're the master of the house, now David",' I said, quietly.

'I remember,' she whispered. The atmosphere was intense.

'What did you mean?' I asked, softly.

Her cheeks and neck went red and she rubbed her hands together and I felt mean to have embarrassed her in this way. She was quiet for long moments then, without looking at me, she said, very softly: 'You'd given me the loveliest night out that I can remember. If you wanted to kiss me afterwards I think I was saying that it was alright.'

'Can I kiss you now?' I asked, my throat constricting so that I could hardly utter the words.

'Yes.' Her voice was so faint that I barely caught it. My stomach lurched again and for a dizzy couple of seconds I asked myself if I wanted to go ahead, to take this irrevocable step. Then I reached out my arm and put it around my mother's shoulders and gently drew her unresisting to me. She looked up at me and I saw fear in her face, but I saw something else too. Hope? Expectation? I lowered my face to hers and our lips touched for the first time. Hers were soft and warm and for a while I just brushed my lips against hers, feeling their fullness and softness and warmth. I opened my eyes for a second and noted that mum's eyes were closed, the lids heavy with eye shadow.

I pressed lightly and opened my lips and I felt my mother's lips open slightly but I made no move to invade her mouth with my tongue. Instead I kissed her tenderly, almost tentatively, working my lips gently against hers before breaking slowly away and opening my eyes.

'Are you ok with this, Mum?'

She opened her eyes and looked at me and I saw tears well in them. I felt a roaring in my ears and I put my hand on the back of her neck and pulled her face to mine and our lips met and this time I opened mine wide and hers opened too and I felt her arms go around me and I hugged her into my chest, feeling her full breasts against me, and I slid my tongue into her mouth and tasted her saliva for the first time and the roaring in my ears got louder and closer and I gave myself completely to kissing my mother with a passion I'd rarely experienced. And my mother kissed me back with sweet fervour, her arms around me, her fingers digging into the flesh of my shoulders.

We must have kissed for five minutes because the adverts were just ending as we broke apart and slumped breathless back into the cushions. We certainly didn't see much of the ending because after a minute mum came back into my arms and we kissed again. More gently this time. Exploring and tasting each other's mouths. A languorous, erotic, incestuous kiss that made my cock rigid and the blood pound in my ears.

We broke off again as the final credits rolled and looked at each other, stunned. I wasn't sure what to say, so I said nothing and eventually mum stood up and smoothed her dress. 'I'd better get us some dinner,' she said, disappearing into the kitchen. I followed her out, after a decent pause. She was standing at the sink, looking out of the window so I went up behind her and put my arms around her and kissed her neck and her cheek. I could see that she had been crying, there were the tracks of tears in her face powder.

'Are you alright, Mum?'

She pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and blew her nose. 'Just a bit emotional, I think.' She smiled tiredly. 'It's not every day that your son kisses you like that.' She loosened my arms and turned to face me. Some people would consider what we've just done as very wrong, but I don't see any harm in just kissing. It's a long time since anybody kissed me like that. A long time since anyone showed me any affection at all.' She sniffed and blew her nose again. 'Thank you, David.'

'Thank you,' I replied. 'It was...' I couldn't think of a suitable, or at least acceptable, word. 'Was that a one-off?' I asked, needing to know.

'No,' she said, looking at me with her deep blue eyes. 'You can kiss me whenever you like. As long as there's no one else around,' she added. She put her hands on my shoulders and her expression became serious. 'But kissing only, David. We mustn't do anything else.'

I sighed in mock frustration. 'If you say so.'

And that was how I kissed my mother "properly" for the first time. And it most certainly was not the last. That little act of passion on the settee in front of the television seemed to unlock a well of passion inside me for my mother. I couldn't seem to get enough of her. I kissed her before I went to work in the morning, I kissed her when I got home and she rarely saw any television because in the evenings my arms were around her, my mouth fastened on hers. But it was just kissing; she stiffened if I touched her breasts or stroked her buttocks.

This "status quo" went on for about a month and in that month I saw my mother blossom into a happier, more content and more secure woman. In the same period I turned into a frustrated young man with a growing mother fixation. It was ridiculous; I tried calling some old girlfriends and even had a few dates. But it seemed that even when I met up with them I couldn't wait to get home and kiss my mother. I even went so far as to ask Penny, the personnel manager at work, out; she declined, very gracefully, saying that she was seeing somebody already.

But it was in my bed at night that my imagination ran wild. I masturbated endlessly, imagining what it would be like to take my relationship with my mother to the next stage. What her breasts would feel like. If she had big nipples and how they would taste. If she were very hairy and what her labia would look and taste like. And how it would feel to penetrate her. To whisper "I love you, Mum" as I thrust my rigid penis in and out of her vagina, her grey-streaked hair tumbled over the pillow beneath me, her eyes half closed with desire. I imagined my mother sucking my cock, straddling me, groaning as I thrust into her from behind. And I imagined darker pleasures. I saw her kneeling above my face, lowering her pussy to my tongue, my hands grasping her fleshy buttocks, my finger seeking her anus.

What was it about her? She wasn't particularly pretty; she was a bit overweight and she was a bit too meek and submissive for my taste. So what was the attraction? It came back every time to the fact that she was my mother. The lure of incest. The desire for the forbidden. Well so be it, I thought. But how do I go about having her without physically forcing myself on her, which held no appeal for me.

I pondered this question and the answer was obvious: I was the master of the house. If I insisted on my conjugal rights she would acquiesce, wouldn't she? I wasn't sure. Yes, she'd quoted this tenet as a reason for allowing intimate kissing but full sex was way beyond that and she had been quite clear about the boundaries.

The key to it, I selfishly decided, was to take her out again and wine and dine her, especially wine her, and then make my move. Tell her that I wanted things to progress further and, if necessary, play the master of the house card. What could possibly go wrong, I asked myself in a fervour of anticipation as I wanked myself off in the early hours of the morning. In the end it was pretty easy, which isn't really a spoiler because I wouldn't be writing this story if I had never progressed beyond kissing my mother.

It was her birthday; she was fifty-six and she was uncharacteristically glum about it. I took the day off work and started by bringing her a cup of tea in bed and kissing her lips, gently, as she lay propped up with pillows, her cards and few presents around her on the bed.

'Cheer up, Mum,' I said, stroking her hair. 'it's your birthday.'

'Yes,' she said, quietly, 'I know.' I held her hand and stroked the back of it and she gave me a watery smile. 'You're very kind, David, and I know I'm being silly.' She paused, mustering her thoughts. 'It's the march of time I suppose. Here I am, fifty-six, lumpy and unattractive with a failed marriage, and I've done none of the things I dreamed of as a teenager.' I watched aghast as a tear rolled down her cheek.

'You're not lumpy and unattractive,' I protested. 'I fancy the pants off you!'

'But you're my son,' she replied, although she smiled when she said it.

'Yes, and I've got a special day planned. After breakfast we're driving out to Kielder Forest and doing that long walk that you like. We'll take a picnic and eat it at the edge of the woods, where all those wildflowers grow. Then this evening you're putting on your glad rags and we're going out to Antonio's for dinner. And no arguments,' I added as she opened her mouth.

'I wasn't going to argue. I think it's so kind of you to think of me.' Another tear welled in her eye and I felt suddenly guilty about my ulterior motive so l leaned down to kiss my mother but she pulled her head away. 'I haven't brushed my teeth yet.' I must have looked disappointed because she said: 'When we're in that lovely wood with all the wildflowers you can kiss me as much as you want. If there's nobody around,' she added.

The weather was perfect that August day. We parked where, a few years later, Kielder Water would be and walked for hours through woods and moorland. There was a breeze to moderate the heat and the air was full of the smells of nature and the song of birds. We got to our favourite meadow just after midday and it was as we had remembered; sheltered by ancient oak woods and teeming with flowers of all colours, the drone of bees and birds loud in the otherwise vast silence.

I took the rug out of my rucksack and spread it on the turf and we lay down and embraced and I kissed my mother and she opened her mouth to admit my tongue and we lay together for long minutes while I explored her mouth and tasted her saliva and smelt her light scent and I became very aroused, which she must have been aware of because I was practically lying on top of her, but she said nothing, she just returned my kisses and stroked my back with her fingers and nails.

We ate the sandwiches I had prepared and drank lemonade and then we kissed again in the stillness and the heat and I smelled the light odour of her sweat and I thought my cock would explode with desire. At length we rose, hot and rumpled, and packed the picnic things and headed for the car. Mum seemed happy and content after the morning's upset; a couple of times she stopped me at a gate or a stile for a kiss, something she rarely did. Once she offered her face to mine and I said I could see people in the distance and she surprised me by saying: 'l don't care. They don't know us anyway.'

It was late afternoon when we got home and mum disappeared upstairs saying she wanted a bath. I lounged on the settee watching the television. When I woke, an hour later, the six o'clock news was starting and mum was standing in the middle of the living room, watching me. She was dressed in the dark-grey cocktail dress and tights and she had put quite a lot of make up on and put her hair up in a coil on top of her head. 'How do I look?' she asked, breathlessly.