The Reluctant Mother Ch. 01

It was more than I was able to resist and I slipped a hand into her dressing gown and cupped one of her full breasts.

Mum broke the kiss straightaway, and I removed my hand. 'You're not supposed to do that. You promised.'

'I didn't think I was ever going to kiss you while you were naked underneath your dressing gown. I'm only human.'

'That has nothing to do with it.' But I sensed she wasn't cross.

'Just this once,' I wheedled softly into her ear.

I wasn't expecting her to capitulate but to my intense surprise and delight she said: 'Just this once. And be gentle.'

Our mouths met again and, feeling like a lottery winner, I slipped my hand back inside her robe and cupped her breast again. Now I had an opportunity to feel its weight and roundness and feel her nipple, stiffening under my palm. I squeezed gently and massaged the soft orb, stroking her nipple with my palm, finding it with my fingers and caressing it between finger and thumb.

My mother moaned softly into my mouth, the first time she had made any noise of overt arousal. I squeezed her nipple harder and started kissing her cheeks and neck and ears and she clung to me while I fondled her and I could feel her heart thumping in her chest and little moans of desire escaping from her.

Just as I was contemplating exploration further south, she disengaged and leaned back on the settee. Her face was flushed and her hair was in a state of disarray. Then her eyes opened wide and I realised that she was looking at the tip of my erection which was nosing through the gap in my dressing gown, big and bulbous and purple and seeping a clear liquid.

'We shouldn't be doing this, Michael,' she muttered. 'I'm going back to bed now,' And then she was gone and I could hear her footsteps going upstairs and her bedroom door closing. Then the house was silent again.

I went back to bed too and fretted that my impetuousness had blown the slowly developing relationship with my mother, or at least set it back by some weeks. I tried to remember how her breast had felt in my hand, how big her nipple had been. Eventually I sank into an uneasy sleep and woke as the dawn sun was slanting through the gap in my curtains.

In fact, when I went downstairs later that morning and found my mother in the kitchen, she behaved as if nothing had happened in the night. She even gave me an early morning kiss although it was a bit more chaste than our normal tongue-twining, lip-mashing osculation.

That evening we cuddled together on the settee and kissed as usual and I stroked her breasts through the cotton blouse she was wearing and she didn't stop me, but neither did I try to slip my hand into her blouse. And as we kissed I wondered how the next step of our relationship would develop, because her resistance to exploration seemed to be strengthening the more I tried to seek the ultimate prize.

And as time went on I desired the ultimate prize more and more; each evening that we kissed, I spent in a state of high sexual excitement; I would be erect for hours and be almost relieved when we stopped kissing and I went to bed and masturbated furiously, usually several times. I felt as though I'd go mad if I didn't find some sexual release with my mother. She had become, to me, the pinnacle of sexual fulfilment, the ideal feminine figure with whom I would find ecstatic release and enduring love. Which all sounds pretty crazy for her thirty-six-year-old son, but that's how it was.

August morphed into September and the weather stayed hot and dry and mum and I sometimes sunbathed together on the enclosed patio at the back of the house. She wore a bikini, which stayed firmly on, and she was reluctant to let me kiss her in case the neighbours saw, although I pointed out several times that they couldn't possibly see us. Mum tanned easily and by this stage of the summer she was usually a delicious golden, honey colour, which made her even more insanely desirable.

The next stage of development, and really the big turning point, occurred around mid-September. It was a Saturday and another cloudless scorcher. Mum announced her intention of spending the afternoon on a recliner and I regretted having agreed to turn out for the village cricket team as I'd have preferred to stay and look at my mother in her bikini.

I left the house just after ten and drove the twenty-odd miles to the village where we were playing. Strangely, when I got there, the car park next to the pavilion was empty and there was no sign of life in the pavilion itself. I poked around and looked through the dusty windows but it was deserted. So I called the team captain, Jeff, who called me an idiot and told me that the match was Sunday, not Saturday.

I drove home feeling a bit stupid but also pleased because now I could spend time with my mother, who would be wearing only a skimpy two-piece swimsuit.

When I got home, half an hour later and went through onto the patio, my mother was topless and, to all indications, fast asleep on her recliner, her book by her side. I stood transfixed by her breasts - the first time I'd seen them in the flesh.

They were round and full and hung either side of her sternum. The areolae were quite big and pinky-brown and her nipples were the size and shape of little thimbles. She'd evidently gone topless quite a bit that summer judging from the uniform honey colour of her orbs, marred only by faint stretch marks in the upper flesh.

I went back into the house, dim and cool by comparison, and changed into swimming shorts. Then I went back out and sat down on the vacant recliner and feasted my eyes on my mother body, and especially her breasts, my cock growing rigid and tenting my shorts.

I guess at some level my mother must have become aware of my scrutiny because she opened her eyes and started as she saw me sitting next to her.

'Goodness, you startled me, Michael. Why aren't you playing cricket?'

'I screwed up. The match is tomorrow.'

Mum laughed, breasts jiggling and then, seeming to remember her state of undress, reached for her bikini top.

'Don't put it back on, mum. You look so lovely,' I said softly.

She gave me a keen look and hesitated and I somehow felt that our joint destiny was on a knife edge and could go either way. Somewhat to my surprise she dropped the bikini top on the ground.

'Ok, but you can go and get me a drink.'

We spent about two hours out on the recliners; the September sun wasn't as fierce and we were sensible with suncream. I lay and covertly examined my mother's breasts and tummy and the faint bulge of her pubis beneath her bikini bottoms. My cock was rigid most of the time and mum cannot have failed to see the tent in my shorts. But she didn't mention it, or appear to look, as we chatted pleasantly about this and that.

About one o'clock I asked mum if she'd like a glass of wine. In the evenings, a glass of wine was usually a precursor to us snuggling up on the settee together. Now she just smiled and said: 'Yes, that would be lovely.'

So I got us a bottle and an ice-bucket and poured us both a glass and we sipped and talked and watched as the shadows lengthened on the patio. After a few minutes I topped up her glass and, putting the bottle down, I knelt next to her recliner and leaned over and kissed her on the lips. After a tiny pause she responded, somewhat lazily, letting me do most of the work and I massaged my lips against hers and slid my tongue into her mouth.

My mother started responding a bit more strongly, pressing her mouth to mine and darting her tongue against my teeth and gums. Then I felt her arms go around me, her hands on my shoulder blades, her nails very lightly scratching my skin.

This was new territory. We were nearly naked and mum was clasping me to her in a lover's embrace. My head was whirling and, despite my promises, it felt very natural to reach down and cup her left breast, stroking and massaging the soft globe. Mum gave a little gasp into my mouth but made no move to stop me or take my hand away so I stroked her breast and tweaked her nipple and it became hard under my fingers and mum made little mewing noises of satisfaction and arousal and I squeezed her nipple between my finger and thumb and she opened her mouth wider and devoured me hungrily.

By now, my knees were killing me from kneeling on the patio slabs. I got up and sat on the edge of mum's recliner. I leaned over again and we kissed some more and I cupped her right breast and gave it the same treatment as her left one and she moaned: 'Oh Michael,' as I pressed her rubbery nipple between my fingers.

Finally, breaking our kiss, and with the blood pounding in my head, I lowered my mouth to her breast and took one of her nipples into my mouth, sucking it gently, almost tentatively, waiting for a reaction.

Mum's reaction was to grab my hair with both hands and press my face hard into her bosom so that I could hardly breath. But about five seconds later she pulled my head away, leaving her nipple wet and erect.

'We must stop, Michael! What if the neighbours came round the back and found us?'

There were a couple of inconsistencies in this statement. Firstly the neighbours never came around the back, they always used the front door. And secondly, if she thought the neighbours might appear why had she gone topless? But I didn't argue because my mind was in a whirl because she hadn't told me it was wrong, she hadn't stopped me for that reason.

Instead I got back on my lounger and picked up my book and mum put her top back on and picked up her book and we read in silence as the afternoon ticked away and the sun dropped behind the hedge at the end of the garden that separated us from farmland.

We had a bottle of red wine with dinner. A second bottle at the weekend was unusual, although we had undoubtedly started drinking more since the beginning of my pursuit of my mother. As a result, we were both a bit tipsy as we sat down together on the settee to watch a silly detective drama.

We were pretty well bored with it by the second advert break and I started to run my hands over my mother's breasts. She'd changed into a loose floral skirt and a more tightly fitting T shirt. I'd just put a polo shirt on.

She made no move to stop me as my hands roamed over the cotton-clad mounds, stroking, squeezing, massaging. In fact she initiated the first kiss and we came into each other's arms like practiced lovers, kissing, teasing, nibbling, sucking. We kissed while the television dram played to the next advert break and then I broke off and switched the set off.

'I don't think we need that,' I told her and she smiled.

'No I suppose not.'

'Now that there's no chance of the neighbours seeing,' I grinned at her. 'You could take your top off again.'

She looked at me with her serious brown eyes. 'Is that what you'd like me to do, Michael?' She didn't ask it teasingly, but in a matter of fact, almost sad tone.

I was suddenly aware that it wasn't just my needs that must be taken into account. My mother was facing huge emotional difficulties with what we were doing and, as notionally the parent, her responsibility was arguably greater. So I thought carefully about my words.

'I would love you to,' I said. 'But I know how difficult this is for you and I don't want you to do anything you're not comfortable with.' It was a pretty lame response.

'I'm not really comfortable with any of this, Michael,' she began. 'Not very comfortable at all. I went along with the kissing because it seemed harmless, a treat for my son. But it wasn't harmless, because it leads to other things. And rightly or wrongly, what we do arouses me. I look forward to our intimacy, limited though it is. But I am worried about where it will end. The taboo of incest is very strong for my generation, for me. And that's what this is, Michael, incest, even though we haven't gone all the way. But I know that's what you want and I'm worried that I won't be able to give you what you want.'

It was a pretty devastating speech for someone who thought he was on the home straight but I rallied and took my mother in my arms and kissed the top of her head and stroked her hair.

'Yes,' I said to her softly, 'I do want you. I do want us to make love and I know, or I think I know, how difficult it all is for you and we're not going to do anything without both of us consenting and if that means I never get to sleep with you then that's the way it is.'

'Thank you,' said mum. 'I appreciate that.' She paused, a faint grin on her face. 'Now would you like me to take my T shirt and bra off?'

I spent the next half-hour kissing my mother, fondling her breasts and sucking her nipples. I found that she liked it when I bit down gently on one of her engorged teats and she moaned and cried out and stroked my head and shoulders while my mouth was fastened onto her, sucking and nibbling.

By this stage she had slumped down and was almost lying on the settee. I was leant over her, one hand on her naked stomach, feeling its softness and yielding flesh. Mum's feet were on the ground, her legs apart, and she was moaning and mewling softly as I suckled her and squeezed her tits.

Dizzy with arousal, I let my hand stray from her stomach and down, past the waistband of her skirt to the area at the top of her legs, feeling the firmness of her pubic mound through her skirt and panties. I cupped her vulva gently, expecting to be rebuffed firmly. I'd never before tried to touch my mother's genitals. This was uncharted territory and I was both nervous and excited. I don't think I'd have had the courage if it hadn't been for that second bottle of wine.

I kept sucking and licking mum's nipples while I started a gentle rubbing motion with my hand, feeling, or thinking that I felt, the outline of her labia through the material. Mum was breathing in short, shallow gasps, her eyes shut, her fingers tangled in my hair; she showed no inclination to stop what I was doing, which was effectively to masturbate her.

After a couple of minutes of this new peak of excitement, when it was apparent that I wasn't going to be pushed away, I put my hand under the hem of her skirt and slid it up her bare thigh. Her skin was silky smooth and soft and warm and I almost came in my shorts when my fingers touched her panties. Again I cupped her vulva and used two fingers to rub up and down the outline of her labia.

It was sensationally erotic and I was gasping and short-breathed as I suckled my mother's breasts and bit gently on her nipples. Her panties were of some micro-light silky material and I could feel the outline of her cunt lips and feel the material become damp with her secretions. So much for older women not self-lubricating, I thought fleetingly. My mother was soon sopping wet and I fancied I could almost hear squishing noises as I massaged her cunt through her knickers.

In a few short minutes, and before I could muster the courage to slip my fingers into her panties, she gripped my hair hard and arched her back and with a great extended groan, an orgasm washed over her, making her cry out and close her thighs on my hand. Then she went limp.

I stopped sucking her nipples and removed her hand from her skirt. Mum's eyes were closed and she seemed almost comatose and it came home to me suddenly that I'd just given my mother an orgasm.

She opened her eyes and sat up straighter on the settee, adjusting her skirt over her knees. Then she looked at me.

'You made me come.' It wasn't an accusation, or a thank you, it was just a statement.

'Yes. I er... got carried away. I'm sorry.'

We were silent for a few moments then mum said she felt tired. She gave me a quick peck on the cheek and stood up.

'I'll see you in the morning.'

I went to bed soon afterwards and lay on my bed masturbating. I could smell my mother on my fingers, an intensely erotic and complex scent that drove me to a frighteningly intense orgasm. I'd masturbated my mother that evening. My highly desirable and sixty-one-year-old mother. The object of so many fantasies over the past month or two. I had masturbated her to orgasm! What, I asked myself, would be next? Was it really going to happen? Would I really push my penis into her vagina? It suddenly seemed much more likely than it had a week or so ago and it was exciting and terrifying in almost equal measure.

Mum was a bit quiet in the morning and wouldn't give me more than a quick kiss on the lips when I left for the cricket match. I wasn't altogether surprised. Yesterday had been a pretty emotional rollercoaster alongside the physical stimulation. I looked forward to a proper kiss when I got home, and perhaps some breast fondling.

We won the match by almost a hundred runs and I came home in a high humour, my cock twitching with expectation. Mum was pottering in the garden but she put down her secateurs and came into the kitchen when she saw me, taking off her gloves.

I went to her and kissed her but she turned her head away.

'What's the matter, Mum?'

'I've got some things I want to say to you, Michael,' she said, looking at me. My heart sank. It could only mean one thing.

We went into the sitting room and I took the easy chair and left mum the settee.

'It's about last night, isn't it,' I began.

'It's about all of it,' my mother replied. 'Everything that's been going on between us.'

'You want it to stop?' I asked, feeling suddenly cold and depressed.

'Listen to what I have to say,' she replied. Then she went on. 'Yesterday evening you brought me to an orgasm on the settee. The first orgasm anyone apart from myself has given me in years. Many years. I thought you were going to put your fingers inside my panties, put them inside me. I wouldn't have stopped you. I couldn't have stopped you. Oh Michael, if felt so good what you were doing.

'It's been very hard for me for the past few weeks and months, as I think you know. I couldn't contemplate incest with my son but when you touched me and when we kissed it made me feel alive, wanted, desired, call it what you will. It's been so long Michael.' Her voice had risen but she continued in a gentler tone.

'I loved your father very much. We had a lot in common: both academics, both interested in the same things. But there was a yawning chasm in my life, Michael, and it was sex. Your father wasn't a sexual person, in any way. I on the other hand had always had a strong sex drive. I had two or three affairs before I met your father, so I knew what it could be like with another man.

'Oh, I'm not complaining. We had a good life and I always resisted the temptation to have affairs, although the opportunities were there, God knows! Instead I masturbated. It was my way of coping. And then, at the age of thirty-six, my son started to show an interest in me and I was confused and scared and I didn't know how to handle it. I wanted to stop you but it was so nice, so I thought if I could limit it to a bit of harmless kissing and fondling that would be enough for you. But of course it wasn't.

'Last night you masturbated me and I had an orgasm. I think it was the point of no return. I don't feel any of the guilt and self-loathing that I thought I would feel. And I don't think I will, regardless of what happens next. And I don't feel ashamed of showing you my body,' she added.

'Are you saying,' I said, slowly, 'that we're ok and... and...?'

'I've spent the day thinking about us, Michael, I haven't thought about much else! I'm sixty-one and I'm a long way past child-bearing age. You're an adult. An incestuous relationship between us isn't going to hurt anybody as long as we can both handle the emotional issues. After last night, I think I can. That's what I'm trying to say.'

'So,' I was almost lost for words. 'So we can... sleep together?'

'Yes, Michael,' she said quietly, 'we can sleep together. But you must promise me that you will never talk about it to anyone. Ever. If it got out that we were lovers the effect upon our lives, and on those of our family, would be devastating. You do understand that, don't you?'