I awoke from the dream with a gasp, sunlight and consciousness flooding through my brain, scattering the fragments of my sleep-world and leaving me dizzy with shock.
As my rational brain came haltingly online, I grasped for those fast-dispersing remnants of the dream like a shipwrecked sailor desperately trying to gain purchase on the flotsam that surrounds him in the ocean.
Quite why I was so keen to hold on to whatever scraps I could recall only became apparent when the first rational thoughts made themselves known, and I realised that I had awoken with a deep sense of unease running through me. The unease quickly transformed into something altogether more strange when a second realisation made me aware of the fact that I was also more than a tad....well... horny.
This wasn't such a rare occurrence. So, I'm a thirty-five year-old woman (happily divorced), but I often wake with a feeling of heat nestled deep in my belly. Most mornings when that happens I enjoy the sensation, and, yes, may even explore it a little, if you know what I mean.
This particular Friday morning, though, there was something different buried within the low-grade excitement that my body was experiencing. For a start, there was nothing particularly low-grade about it -- I was wet down there and I could feel a high-colour on my cheeks. Then there was that lingering sense of unease. Whatever had brought me to such an excited state had also, in some strange dream way, unnerved me.
Try as I might to stop them, the details of the dream were heading over the hills and far away. All I could capture were more general sensations -- something to do with someone I knew who had surprised me, and something about me as well, maybe along the lines of me reacting to something in a totally unexpected way...
It was a mystery and, I knew now, would remain one.
At about that point I also realised what is was that had woken me. I checked the sunlit face of my alarm clock and nodded. Jake, my son, had left the house a couple of minutes earlier and had, no doubt, slammed the front door.
I sighed, wondering whether to be grateful to him for pulling me out of the unsettling dream, or annoyed that he hadn't let the dream-me continue to whatever conclusion the dream had in store for her.
The realisation that Jake had left, however, had one distinct benefit. Knowing that he would now be out all day at his summer job -- taken in order to add to the funds he would need when he left for university at the end of the summer -- I had total privacy inside our little house.
With a slightly desperate sigh, I threw back the thin sheet that covered me, lay back against my pillows, closed my eyes... and allowed my fingers to explore the wetness left behind by the dream.
Life had become a comfortable routine at our house since my ex had left three years earlier. In the peace that followed his departure, Jake had been given the ideal conditions for studying and his grades rose from somewhere south of average to the dizzying heights north of straight-As. In other words, he was finally achieving the sort of results his expensive, all-boys private school expected from their pupils.
The sudden absence of his loud-mouthed father had seemingly done little, however, to shake off Jake's inherent shyness, and I had begun to worry that he would find university life intimidating. When he had announced that he was going to work through the summer on, of all things, a building site I was both shocked and delighted.
Given his bookish ways, I was also a tad worried that his levels of physical fitness might not be up to the requirements of such a labour-intensive job. Certainly, the first few days were something of a struggle for him, but after a week or so he began to find things easier and had even taken to socialising after hours with some of his workmates.
It's safe to say that I was delighted at thus turn of events -- and especially so since I had the house to myself for even longer than I was already used to. Given that I work for myself, from home, the extra two or three hours of peace let me catch up with a backlog of work that had developed during the spring.
That Friday, though, I found concentration rather difficult. Even though the mid-summer sun was blazing down and the birds were twittering happily outside my little home-office, my mind kept replaying the few fragments of dream that had survived consciousness. I tried to switch tasks -- from preparing a series of magazine articles on child-care for the elderly (don't ask) to a review of recent fashion trends -- I just simply couldn't settle to anything.
I knew that Jake wouldn't be home until at least nine or ten that evening -- Fridays seemed to be a particular favourite for joining his colleagues for a few drinks -- and I decided that I would take the opportunity to pamper myself and maybe return to my work later in the evening.
I took a leisurely bath, washed my unruly mess of long, dark hair, exfoliated, applied a face pack, exfoliated again, moisturised, gave myself a pedicure... you get the picture, and then made myself a light supper and opened a bottle of well-chilled Chablis as an accompaniment.
Just before eight, I flopped down in front of the TV and channel hopped until I cam across an ideal programme -- or at least, an ideal programme insofar as it would temper my guilt at having done so little work during the day. The programme was focusing on the work of a couple of fashion designers and I reasoned that I could justifiably call an hour or so watching fashion shows well-intentioned research. I pulled my skirt straight, hitched the shoulder straps of my little t-shirt fully onto my shoulders and grabbed a notebook and pen -- and the wine bottle.
To my surprise, the front door opened a few minutes later and Jake's head appeared in the doorway.
"Hi, you. Early tonight?"
Jake shrugged, "Our normal bar was closed and some of the guys were heading off on some fishing trip or something anyway, so I decided to have an early night. I'm pretty well knackered anyway."
"Fair enough. If you haven't eaten yet there's loads in the fridge, and I put a couple of cans of beer in there as well."
"I'm truly honoured, thank you."
I couldn't help but smile at his grin, "I do hope that isn't sarcasm?"
"Oh, go take a shower or something and stop tormenting your poor mother. I need to watch this." I pointed at the television.
"Quite apart from trying not to take offence at your suggestion that I'm in desperate need of a shower, do you promise to change channels when I've finished cleaning up and eating?"
"That depends on how long you take. As it is, I've got lots of work to catch up on and this is research -- so don't hurry!"
Jake squinted at the screen, "Er... no, I guess I won't." He wandered upstairs with a few disparaging words about un-wearable clothes trailing in his wake.
I turned my attention back to the programme and couldn't help but agree with my son to some extent. The vast majority of the outfits being worn by the models were completely outlandish and totally impractical. For the next ten minutes I was subjected to a parade of near-naked models who would be arrested were they to wear their outfits out on the street.
To make matters worse, so many of the girls looked unhealthily thin. I'm kinda petite, but my thirty-two inch bust actually looks well-proportioned on my tiny frame. You would certainly never mistake me for a guy if you ever got to see me topless, but the same couldn't be said of some of the so-called supermodels. Even as I watched, I started to make notes for another series of articles about the cruelties of fashion.
I became so engrossed with this new topic that I was surprised when Jake flopped down beside me on the sofa.
"That was quick."
"Hardly, ma," Jake paused to sip beer from a newly-opened can, "I've showered, changed -- just in case you hadn't noticed -- and had a few chicken wings while you've been scribbling away for the last half hour."
"Is it really that long? And yes, I did noticed you'd showered and changed -- I can put the gas mask away now." He was wearing white tennis shorts and a strappy t-shirt that was very similar to mine.
Jake prodded me in the ribs, "Not nice, mother of mine. And anyway, I thought we'd agreed to change the channel when I was through with my ablutions."
I prodded him back and snorted, "No, we didn't -- you suggested it, and I told you that it depended on how long you were. As it is there's only ten minutes left of the programme, so I'm sure you can wait it out."
"I... um, don't really think I could."
I glanced at the screen to see yet more models in see-through tops. I gave a laugh, "Surely my little boy is not getting embarrassed at the sight of a few scantily clad women?"
"No!" he replied, a little too quickly, "It's just.. you know? Dull?"
I was about to say something along the lines of eighteen year-old males normally being impossible to drag away from such a spectacle when I noticed the high colour in his cheeks and a slightly frantic look in his eyes. Without warning a flash of the dream-unease passed through me, accompanied by another sensation -- one I couldn't place for the moment. I decided to change tack. "How about you open another bottle for me instead?"
"I guess I could," Jake managed, "But I'd rather just change channels."
"Well you can't," I told him, "I have the remote control and for the next seven minutes, it stays in my power. Now, either open some more wine for me, or sit back and enjoy the boobs."
"Oh, come on, Jake. I know you're heterosexual, so why not just enjoy the view and think of it is a guilt-free soft porn session?"
I wasn't sure why I had said such a thing myself, but a tiny little part of me was revelling in Jake's discomfort -- even though I became suddenly aware that the situation that was developing held heavy overtones of the previous night's dream. "If you promise to be quiet a let me watch the rest of this in peace, I promise I will never wear anything remotely that revealing, how about that?"
"For f... I mean... jeez, ma!"
I let out a laugh, "Don't tell me that I'm embarrassing you that much?"
Jake turned his flushed face in my direction, "I'm not... well, maybe I am but anyway..." he flapped his hands and flopped back on the cushions.
"Decided to watch after all?"
"Ma, I haven't... and I can prove it!"
Before I could react, Jake lunged across me, scrabbling for the remote control. I grabbed it, giggling, and curled myself around it, drawing my legs onto the sofa.
"Oh no you don't!"
"Ma! Give it to me!"
"Shan't!" I giggled again.
"Then you leave me no choice!" With that I felt Jake's fingers digging into my ribs, tickling me for all he was worth.
I've been ticklish -- terribly, horribly ticklish -- ever since I was a little girl, and Jake's ministrations had me shrieking with laughter. But I've also been extremely determined. "Stop it!" I managed between yelps.
"Only if you give me the remote."
Jake began to tickle more of my sides and his right hand moved perilously close to a spot I have a few inches below my left armpit which, if tickled, drives me totally nuts. I squealed, giggles and wriggled for all I was worth, all the while desperately clinging to the remote. This was now a matter of principle -- and, I realised with a start, a matter of ignoring the growing sense of déjà vu that must have originated in my weird dream.
In the few weeks that Jake had been working on the building site his physique had developed rapidly, and with it had, apparently, come considerable strength. I soon realised that Jake could lift most of my bodyweight one-handed and all the techniques that I had used when we used to play wrestle when he was ten or eleven were no longer going to be enough for me to emerge victorious. But I was damned if I was going to admit defeat that easily.
Even through my giggles and my increasingly desperate attempts to hold on to the remote, I still managed to pretend I was winning the battle.
"Is that the best you can do?"
Jake's face was set in a determined grin and at those words, he flipped me onto my back before resuming the relentless tickling. "Just admit you're beaten, ma!"
"No way!" As another wave of laughter shrieked its way out of my throat, a tiny little alarm bell rang deep within my brain. When Jake had flipped me over, my skirt had ridden high -- very high -- on my thighs, and I remembered at the same moment that I was wearing absolutely nothing under the little strappy t-shirt.
These realisations were immediately followed by a stronger wave of that strange unease that I had felt on and off all day -- and to my shock, I realised that I was also beginning to feel the merest, faintest, tiniest traces of the other sensation I had awoken with.
When Jake tried to press home his advantage his lower body pressed up against the side of my thigh and my heart leapt into my throat. My boy -- my wonderful, loving, little boy -- had an erection. Before my mind could even begin to grasp what this meant, or how this was possible, those tiny traces of the excitement I had felt upon waking blossomed deep inside me. Without any possibility of control, I felt myself grow hot and.... and damp.
My shocked, automatic reaction was to wriggle back over onto my belly -- hiding my face in case my son could read the tumultuous thoughts that careened around my brain.
As I frantically tried to take stock of the situation I became aware that my skirt had ridden up even further -- that it was now, in fact, barely covering the cheeks of my butt. For a second or two I thought this would be enough to galvanise me into stopping the wrestling bout, of calling a halt to everything -- but my body turned traitor. The heat in my belly and groin grew hotter and with a sense of fascinated, scared excitement, I felt the wetness between my legs increase.
As I lay there, squirming this way and that, I became aware that Jake was trying to push me over onto my back once again -- and equally aware that he had one hand on the top of my right leg in order to achieve this feat.
His little finger was touching my bare flesh and even in my overwhelmed state I realised that my skirt must now be pushed up enough to reveal the skimpy panties I wore beneath it. As I tried to work out just what the hell was going on, his other hand pushed underneath me, the base of his thumb sliding across the underside of my breasts. I gasped, mind and body freezing for a few seconds.
Above me, Jake's movements had taken on a frantic edge. I could feel the tremors that raced through his muscles and despite what my mind was trying to deny, I couldn't help but simply know that the impromptu wrestling bout was exciting my son in a very sexual way. As if to prove the point to me, his next movement, trying to lever me over, brought his hips into contact with my side. Or more to the point, the rigid bulge in his shorts.
The unfamiliar pressure served to free my mind from its temporary suspension, jolting me into full awareness -- an awareness that included the realisation that the left strap of my t-shirt had been shifted off my shoulder and below my biceps. If Jake managed to turn me over again now, there was a very real possibility that my left breast would be half-exposed -- or worse.
Just as this realisation dawned, I felt another wave of the dream-unease. It was all too much, too fast and my sanity-preservation system kicked in.
With a cry of "Ok! You win!" I pushed the remote control -- which I had still somehow held onto -- into his belly, pulled the strap of my t-shirt back into place and with my third hand (or so it seemed) yanked my skirt back down my legs. I flipped myself over and into a vaguely upright position and then pushed Jake backwards.
My son stumbled and caught his balance, his face suddenly alarmed. I had been about to berate him for taking things too far, but the sight of that look -- a mixture of sorrow, regret, hurt, surprise and frustration -- held my tongue in check. Whatever it was that had just happened -- and I already planned to have a really long think about that later -- Jake was still my son, and I adored him. To see him looking in any way hurt cut straight to the maternal strings.
I did what any mother would do. Okay, I did what any confused, surprised mother would do. I just pretended that nothing untoward had happened.
"Okay, Jake -- you win! You're getting way too strong for me these days."
"Win?" He looked perplexed for a moment before his eyes turned down to where he was holding the remote control, "Oh... oh, right, yes!"
Somehow, despite the fact that we were both breathing like steam trains and were both sporting evidence of sexual excitement, we managed to turn the conversation into something vaguely resembling normal life. I told Jake that he could now watch what he wanted. Jake told me that it was okay with him whatever I watched. I pointed out that in the scuffle, the fashion programme had ended. He offered to get me another drink. I said that would be a great idea. Jake said he had to go to his room straight afterwards to read up on something. I pretended that he was going to his room to read up on something despite seeing that the bulge hadn't disappeared.
Finally, I was on my own, another bottle of Chablis rapidly disappearing, and I started to try working out what had really happened.
I sat there for almost two hours trying to come to a conclusion that didn't involve my son lusting after me in a very un-son-like manner, and equally trying to convince myself that the whole idea hadn't excited me in a way that I'd never felt before.
By the time I eventually dragged myself off to bed -- Jake had apparently taken root in his room -- I still hadn't managed to attain either of those goals and with no other options available to me, I decided that I would try to research the whole mother-son thing the next morning.
I awoke on the Saturday morning from another dizzying dream and just like the previous day I was left feeling slightly disoriented, slightly uneasy, and more than a little horny. Given that Jake would be at home this morning, I tried to resist the temptation to provide myself with a little light relief from that particular feeling, but the intensity of the sensation was just too strong. I would never be able to think straight feeling like that, so I eased myself back into the pillows and allowed my fingers to work their magic.
A few minutes in to a reverie which, surprisingly, had nothing to do with the events of the night before, I was briefly interrupted by the not-so-gentle slamming of the front door. As this was followed quickly by an equally loud clatter from our front gate I was able to deduce that Jake had taken himself off for the morning. I returned to my sensual daydream with renewed ease of mind and a few minutes later allowed myself the luxury of an unrestrained howl as I climaxed hard.
Suitably relieved, I took a leisurely shower and spent a few minutes choosing what I should wear. The early-morning relief had, unlike the morning before, left me feeling calm and, in an odd way, refreshed. By the time the shower was done, the events of the previous evening had taken on a quality not unlike the previous night's dream -- ephemeral and hard to grasp.
At some point during the previous twelve hours my mind had decided that it was doubting itself -- maybe exaggerating the intent behind Jake's wrestling due to some lingering effect of the weird dream that had dogged me all Friday. Surely, I reasoned with myself, the simple fact of the contact between us had brought about his state of tumescence? Wasn't that perfectly normal for red-blooded males of his age?