The story continues. Check out Part 1 if you missed it, and then continue on ahead.

Enjoy!

—

So, the conversation…

I think I informed you about the kind of skill set my mom’s career requires. I don’t think I’ll have to speak that much more on it but what she does requires some informed knowledge of human anatomy and psychology in tandem with her interpersonal skills. So, at least as I experienced it, she approached the whole incident with a clinical efficiency but not with the kind of detached scientific analysis you’d expect from, say, your physician. Like I said, she’s a loving, warm, person. She has a way of drawing you in. And, as I said, she won’t blink at having a raw conversation even though she’s very tactful.

Anyway, mom came home. It had been a long, weird day, and she wanted to eat in the living room. That house had a sunken living room, it was one of the reasons mom had wanted it, and it had a way of making you feel that that room alone was somehow isolated from the rest of the house. So when she told me to set the largish coffee table we had in front of the sofa I knew that she had put a lot more thought into how she was going to handle what had happened than just trapping me into a dinner of Chinese takeout before I could disappear for the rest of the day.

She had brought home a lot of food and kept plying me with more and more; I knew the move was calculated but I also knew that she wouldn’t broach the subject while I ate so I let it be. I can’t say I felt trapped, but I was horribly uncomfortable. The meal had ended, I wasn’t full but I wouldn’t eat anymore. I have a nervous stomach when I’m anxious and when I get anxious I have some pretty severe reactions -that will be relevant later. We were both on the couch, sitting at a natural distance from each other, maybe six feet. She had a bunch of pillows propped against her back so she could lean against the armrest and face me. For a time we were both quiet, digesting, when she stretched her legs out on the couch and crossed them I knew she was about to start.

Obviously, I’m dragging this up from memory but I’m pretty sure this dialogue captures the spirit of the conversation.

Mom started right in:

“D’you wanna go first hun?”

Mom’s a smart woman. She’s able to spar verbally with virtually anyone and she normally appreciates appropriate sarcasm. I knew from the tone and the look on her face; the arched eyebrows and direct gaze, that she would only want straight answers from me. She wasn’t angry or anything.  At the time I realized the best way to get through this was to resign myself to having it; you know, just bite the bullet.

“Do we really need to talk about…you know?” Even though I was resigned to this conversation that doesn’t mean that I was willing to have it.

Mom only smiled. “Yeah hun, I think we need to.” She paused for a minute and then she ploughed straight ahead with that same smile. “Listen hun, you saw me naked and besides wanting you to be okay I need to know that you’re handling what happened in a healthy way.”

She tilted her head to me and leaned forward a little bit. Whenever we were having a serious talk she did that same move. I think it was done to make sure that I knew that my participation was being invited even though it was mandatory.

I didn’t really know what to say. I couldn’t lie about how I felt about seeing her that way; it had been thrilling. But I was ashamed and afraid, and she could sense that.

“M’okay,” I said. “I think I am, anyway.”

She nodded, giving me a searching look, wanting me to say more. She realized that I wouldn’t and smiled again. That smile, you’d need to see it to really appreciate it; you feel like you’re being lifted by it. It was hard to keep eye contact with her, seeing her naked, how I felt about it, how my body had reacted to it, and her insistence on talking about the whole thing.

She got up and moved closer to me. Whenever she spoke to me she touched me; an arm around the shoulder, a comforting hand on the back, that kind of thing. I felt her hand tip my head up from the chin. Eye contact is one of her biggest pet peeves. I remember that she looked into my eyes and face for a moment before going on.

“Don’t drop your eyes hun,” what I distinctly remember from this point is that she put her hand on my forearm. I know she meant it as a comforting gesture but I felt like I was being trapped a little. She might have sensed it but she didn’t remove her hand, instead she started to rub my forearm a little.

“You know that things like this happen when two people live together, right? It’s startling and I know it made you uncomfortable.”

“It was an accident,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say. I think I was talking more to myself at that point. I was only somewhat paying attention to what she was saying- mostly I was only aware of her hand on my arm and her proximity.

She smiled again, in an understanding way, moved even closer and held my hand.

“I know hun, I know, I thought you went outside and when I saw the look on your face, well….,” Mom dropped her eyes at this point and I knew then, right then, that she was looking for a place to begin on something bigger. Understand, I was very uncomfortable and the only reason I wasn’t climbing the walls was because I thought we were about through. I thought she had moved closer to give me a hug, that’s the way she normally ended long talks. So instead of being about finished, I realized that we were really just getting started.

“I want you to know that I’m not angry with you, I’m not uncomfortable with you, and that I’ll always love you, no matter what,” I remember her saying this and envisioning a fuse being lit. “I’m a woman and you’re a man, we’ve talked about sex before and,” my eyes dropped away again and she reached up again to bring my focus to bear on her again, “hey, hey, don’t do that, it’s all okay, I want you to look at me though when we talk about this.” Now most of this conversation I remember the gist of, but the next words she spoke I remember exactly.

“I know the way you looked at me when you saw me today. I did notice that you got an erection while you looked.” And the lit fuse exploded the bomb. I tried to pull away as gently as I could. She kept holding on to me. The look on her face was very intense. She was concerned, she wanted me to be okay, and she wanted to know what I was thinking about the whole thing.

“As I said, we’ve talked about sex before. So I know that you know that kind of reaction is perfectly natural. So is your…curiosity, about what a woman looks like. I’m not upset by it, if anything I want to make sure that you understand how your body reacted had nothing to do with you. The feelings, the thoughts you might have had, those are natural too. It just happened okay? Do you understand that?”

I said I did. I wanted out of that conversation so badly. I tried to get up. She wouldn’t have it. She held on to my hand and pulled me back on to the couch next to her.

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I think so,” of course I wouldn’t give her any other answer. I really couldn’t give her another answer anyway.  My mind wasn’t working right. And the thought of telling her about the thoughts that I had had that were supposed to be entirely natural were decidedly a non-option besides being antithetical to my main purpose of getting the hell out of there.

“Good,” she said. She had me by the arm and was pulling herself closer to hug me. That’s when it happened.

I mentioned before that when I get anxious I have something of an extreme reaction. It’s nothing debilitating. It never required any special circumstances to be made for me. In fact, it was so sporadic I could count the times that it happened on one hand. I don’t do well in crowds and in certain other situations, namely, when emotions or tensions are very intense or running high. I shake. Mostly in the upper body, it’s pretty noticeable and it rarely happens but sometimes it does. I get it from my grandfather. There’s a slight tick in my fight or flight response. I don’t take any medication for it anymore and when I did, it was only in response to the symptoms. Mostly, I was able to control it by using some breathing exercises. Mom taught them to me. I think what set it off, obviously, was the conversation we just had but when she pulled me close to her I felt the swell of each breast against my arm and I smelled the rose oil she always wore. It was the trigger. I started to shake and I was mortified, even more than when we were having the conversation. Mom felt it.

“Okay, okay, relax,” she had me lean forward and started to rub my back. It didn’t help. “You want your pills, sweetie? Where are they?”

I wanted her to go. I wanted to be left alone. But more than those things, I wanted to get myself under control. I was embarrassed, mortified, and uncomfortable. I felt weak.

“What do you want me to do, hun?” She felt guilty I could hear it in her voice.

My voice was shaking too. “G-g-give me a minute.” I waved her hands off as gently as I could. She moved away from me but she was still close. Her arms were crossed under her breasts and the look she had on her face…a mix of worry and guilt. I still feel bad about that.

I gripped the sides of the cushion I was sitting on and started to breathe deeply. Doing the same exercises I spoke of earlier. Eventually the shakes passed. I was exhausted. I fell back into the couch. Mom sat beside me, putting a tentative hand on my head.

“Baby, I am so sorry,” Mom’s never been a crier but she looked like she was about to. “I should’ve…, I don’t know…was I crowding you? I was wasn’t I? Hun, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have been so direct.”

“S’okay,” it was about all I could get out. I’ve never felt that drained before or since.

Mom pulled me into a hug on the couch. “You sure you’re okay? Are you angry with me?”

One of her arms was around my neck, the other was over my chest, grabbing me by the shirt to pull me closer; smothering me with the best of intentions.

“M’okay,” I said, “I’m not angry. Just a little tired…and crushed.”

She laughed at that and loosened her grip. “Sure you’re not angry?”

 “Yeah, I’m sure.” I could never be angry with her for long, and certainly not for this. Mom was still hugging me, kneeling up on the couch. She kissed the top of my head and let me go. We cleared the table, put the leftovers in the fridge, and then I said goodnight. That night I slept deep. I remember because I’m usually a restless sleeper, that night, I went down like I’d been dropped by a velvet sledgehammer.

The next morning was a little weird but soon enough we hit our normal stride. We stayed on in that house for two more weeks and then moved.

By this time I knew without a doubt that I was attracted to her. I wasn’t obsessed about it though. For me, she was a very attractive woman and the fact that she was my mother…well, that’s how my specific kink developed. I don’t know if it was the fact that those feelings were taboo, it may have been; it certainly added a lot to my fantasies of her but honestly I think it was mainly being the person that she was. I did everything I could to keep my interests hidden from her of course. In the end, she made the first move; but I’m getting ahead of myself.

We were living in a nice suburb, spacious ranch homes, picket fences you get the picture, the kind of place where 50’s domestic idealism hadn’t quite rolled away yet. Anyway, as I said, life was pretty much normal. I had a car, I had my coursework, I had a job, I had my share of housework to do, and sometimes I had a girlfriend; the key word being sometimes. We were both pretty busy but we still ate at the same table whenever we could.

We lived there for a while. Like I said, mom always had a large circle of friends. She made friends with great ease. Virtually all of them were women her age or a little older. Some of them were pretty attractive. One of her friends, we’ll call her Livia, was very attractive. She was built like Mom, only in smaller much more petite portions. I think she looked a little like Jessica Lange. She was older than Mom by about 10 years. Anyway, I could usually count on them being over on the weekend. They’d all go out for drinks, they’d come back sometimes to our house, they’d play poker or talk. Mom would have barbeques sometimes and the hens would bring their husbands. Usually, I’d always help mom set up and get out while I could. Some of her friends were cool but all of their husbands were douchebags.

One Saturday, I was helping her get ready to receive her friends. I always ran the barbecue for her when she had people over. Normally her friends, the wives, stayed inside with Mom for a while, setting up the food they had brought, turning the kitchen area into a buffet while the husbands came outside to talk to each other or to me, mostly to give me completely unsolicited barbeque advice. Mom came outside to bar tend at the small minibar on the patio which brought almost everyone out of the house. She knew I really didn’t like these people and was normally pretty cool with me leaving after the meat was done.

I brought the last tray of meat inside and went up to my bedroom to change clothes. As I was coming downstairs I heard people arguing on the front door step. I knew it was Livia and her husband, we’ll call him Foster. I think everyone knows a couple who shouldn’t be together at all. Mom admitted to me that she couldn’t stand Foster and that she only liked Livia some of the time but excluding them from an invitation wasn’t possible. She worked with Livia- technically Livia was a little higher in the pecking order. She lived in the same neighborhood as Livia (two blocks away). The conjunction of office and social politics always made sure Livia and Foster got an invite.

I didn’t open the door on them in mid-argument. I didn’t eavesdrop either. I didn’t have to eavesdrop; they were that loud. They were pretty notorious for causing scenes at parties, picnics, any social engagement. Their arguments were really torrid, real Desperate Housewives meets the Sopranos kind of shit. Some people actually had them over for that reason; to add a little drama to their dinner parties. They both stepped out on each other. I was never around for those arguments but the stories of them made the rounds.

Most of what they were saying was indistinct but Foster’s last words were pretty clear: “I won’t be gone long enough for you to suck anyone off but I’m sure you’ll try anyway.”  She said something like, “Fuck you,” I couldn’t tell. I started to back away from the door thinking that there was no way she’d want to come in right at that moment but the doorbell rang. I felt sorry for her so I went ahead and opened the door.

If she had been crying or was upset, you couldn’t tell, big, warm smile, dry eyes. She was wearing this gauzy, low-cut sundress and strappy, high-heeled sandals. I guess she was wearing it to intentionally piss her husband off. Anyway, I helped her bring her food inside. She was all smiles, like I said. We had this long kitchen counter that all the wives had set up their dishes of food on to create this buffet. I was holding Livia’s crock-pot while she cleared a space for it. We were on opposite sides of the counter no one knew we were inside. I was taller than she was and she had on this amazing, low cut dress. So yeah, as she was moving stuff around I was looking down her top. She wasn’t as ample as Mom, but that’s a tall order for a lot of women. Still, she was very attractive with nice C-cups and tan lines. I remember the tan lines the best because there was such a contrast between this deep golden caramel color of her tan and the pinkish cream color of her flesh. Yeah, I was really looking. That’s how I got caught.

I didn’t notice that she had been standing still for a while. When I did look up she had on this very sly, very subtle smile. She didn’t say anything at first but patted the place she cleared on the counter for me to put down her crock-pot. I did and when I looked up her smile had turned to a smirk. I had no idea what to expect. When she took out her phone and started to text the only thing that I could think of was that she was telling her husband what had happened. So at that point I started to edge away from the counter toward the hallway to leave. Livia held up one finger while she was looking at her phone, I stopped moving away. I was in shock at the moment. I was afraid of getting my ass kicked by a pissed off husband but I was more afraid of being at the center of a huge, embarrassing scene. Her phone chimed once, she read the text and slid it into her purse and pulled it over her shoulder. She saw the look on my face and laughed.

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna bust you,” she said. Livia looked outside and saw Mom pouring drinks at the center of a large crowd around the minibar. No one was looking or coming toward the house.

“You have an upstairs bathroom, don’t you?” I could only shake my head yes. I was so relieved. She asked if I could show her to it and I just nodded again like an idiot. I guess an 11^th hour reprieve would have that effect on anyone.

On the way upstairs I said, “Sorry about before,” and I muttered something about how I was being rude. Livia laughed again, I remember that there was this chord in the sound of her laughter that was like electricity; it gave me goose bumps. She put her hand on my upper arm and said, “Sorry, huh?” It wasn’t sarcasm, only honest amusement. I repeated that I was, and for my part, I was about 60% sincere about it. Livia didn’t say anything but smiled widely at me.

When we got to the bathroom I turned around and was about to leave but she reached out and held my hand and pulled me around to face her.

“How old are you?” she asked.

I told her.

“Good,” she said. Livia pushed the door open with her butt and drew me in with the hand she was holding. “Close the door, cutie.” I was on autopilot. I had no idea where this was going. I think the only reason I wasn’t shaking like mad was because I was mostly over that condition and that Livia exuded this sense of control. I only had to let her take charge to relax into the situation which is what I did without even really being aware of it. She was going to use me and I was blissfully oblivious to the fact.

Livia put her purse on the counter and took out her phone. She turned to me, and how she did this still amazes me, pulled off the straps of her sundress and in one fluid movement stepped out of it and kicked it to the side. She was completely bare. She was older than Mom but she was still really put together well. Her breasts sagged a little but they only looked like ripe hanging fruit to me. Her belly was flat, not puffy like Mom’s. She had nice, toned thighs and her tan lines looked incredible.

She put her hand on my chest and tapped it to get my attention.

“Listen __________ (my name), I won’t fuck you or suck you because you’re _________ (my mom’s name) son. But we can have some fun, here,” with that she turned around with her back to my chest. She pulled her hair to one side of her neck and then reached up and behind her to pull my lips to her neck. She told me to suck and I did. With my face planted on her neck her free hands took mine.

She asked me if I was right handed, I said yes thinking that it was a weird question until she pulled my hand down around her front. My left hand she placed across her breasts. I started to fondle her. I didn’t have a girlfriend at the time but I wasn’t completely ignorant. I was cupping her right breast tweaking her nipple with my thumb and forefinger. She told me that she wasn’t going to break so I went harder. Livia exhaled loudly and started to moan gently. She was grinding her buttocks into my hard-on, moving them side to side, up and down, gyrating in alternating circles at different speed. My hand had slipped between her legs to the slick cleft of her vagina and I started to trace up from more or less the middle of it to the top to find her clitoris.  The feeling of her pubic hair scratching against my palm was incredible. I was by no means skilled or knowledgeable at the time but she sensed my intent. She said “here sweetie,” and put her hand over mine, placing her fingers over mine to show me how she liked it. She groaned and left my hand to work saying “rub harder.”    

At some point she groaned for me to hold her tighter. I felt ourselves start to tip back. Livia had put one high heeled foot on the edge of the counter and was tipping us back intentionally. “Slip your fingers into me.” I had to tilt back from the waist and use my other arm to hold her up to do it by holding her up from the left buttock. As I said she was petite. Anyway, I was lost in her, in the moment; the only thing that brought me out of it was the sound of a clicking shutter. At some point she had gotten her phone and reached between her legs to take I don’t know how many pictures or how many minutes of video of her pussy being worked over by my hand. I set her down and our eyes met in the mirror. I can’t say that I was shocked. I know I wasn’t mad, I think I expected this kind of ending.

Livia put her phone back in her purse and leaned back into me looking at my face in the mirror. She reached back to take my hands and started to grind into my hard-on with her butt again.

“I’m going to send that to him during his lunch break on Monday. Don’t worry he won’t know who it is. There’s like 15 other suspects here today. He wouldn’t think that I’d do this with you.” She laughed reached up and patted my cheek.

I only nodded like that was a good thing. It was of course, but standing there with what felt like most of my blood and nearly all of my waking consciousness in one part of my body my only desire was to fuck her or get off or both. Livia knew exactly what I was thinking. She turned around to me and guided me back to the toilet. “I’m not gonna leave you hanging ________.” She checked her phone quickly.

I remember she gave me an appraising look and ran her hand over the hard lump in my pants. “I think we have just enough time,” she said. Her whole manner changed. Before she had been flirtatious and sensual now she was more business-like but even more sensual; it was odd. “Take off your pants,” she said. Livia was standing right in front of me and reached down to take my chin in her hand. Her grip was firm, just a touch before painful, she looked right into my eyes and said: “Remember what I told you before. I won’t fuck you or suck you, okay? So don’t try to put it in me. Don’t beg either, I fucking hate that. But I will take care of you.” She wasn’t mean about, just forward.

I had to have looked completely ridiculous; shirt on, pants down around my ankles, sitting on the crapper with my wiener waiting for lift off.

Livia had me shift forward and lean back so that she could straddle my thighs without being over my groin. She reached down and filled her hand with my cock and started to rub it all over her slit.

“Sit right there ______,” she said, “I know what you want to do but you won’t do it, will you?”

I didn’t answer right away. I don’t think I could’ve answered at all. She was still wet; the feeling of that labial slickness, how it left a trail of wet warmth wherever it touched me….there was no way that I could have even begun to answer any question. However, since I didn’t answer, she stopped rubbing me against her.

Her head was right beside mine and she whispered into my ear, “You won’t do what you want to do, right?”

I shook my head no and kind of gasped “no” even though I wanted to do that thing to her; which was to fuck her, to grab her, force her down on my cock and thrust into her until I blew inside of her.
“What do you want to do?” she whispered into my ear again. Her breath was hot on my ear and my neck and she had started to bite and suck on my neck. “Tell me, what do you want to do to me?” Of course, it’s obvious to you at this point that she was playing with me; control and denial of pleasure, that kind of thing. I was only answering questions. I would have told her anything; anything at all to make sure she didn’t let up with that delicious friction she was making so I told her what she wanted to hear.

I was gasping for breath, so I breathed out “I wanna fuck you, fuck you hard…” Yeah, not exactly genius and not at all erotic but it was an honest sentiment. In response Livia moved in closer and placed herself so that she was holding the length of me right against her slit. She had to hold on to my shoulder with one hand and had to have me hold on to her with my hands on her sides. Livia curved her hips forward and upward so that the length of my erection was right against her slit. She began to move up and down against me while her hand worked the tip of my penis, bringing her fingers and thumb across the tip. Every time she did that I got a jolt that nearly unseated both of us from the pot. Livia knew she was on the clock though and kept at it; faster and faster until the inevitable happened.

I thrust up hard and lifted her up. Livia said “Jesus,” not from her sudden elevation though; she had struck oil in a big way. I was really embarrassed. She had been cogent enough to realize I was on the verge and had pointed my dick back at me but she didn’t know how copious the result would be.

She held her hand up to me, fingers splayed, it looked like she had been handling a large garden slug; the look on her face was delighted revulsion. “That’s a lot,” she said, “seriously, that’s a lot.” I didn’t know if it was a compliment or not so I apologized. I didn’t know what else to say. She shrugged; going right to the sink to clean up. When I got up I realized that my shirt had caught most of it. Livia was practically done cleaning up. You couldn’t even tell what she had been doing literally seconds ago. Her face wasn’t flushed. Her sun-dress was immaculate. Even her attitude betrayed nothing; as dryly personable as she had been on the doorstep.

I was still in the process of collecting myself when she was about to leave.

“Hey,” she said. “Remember…” and she put her finger on her lips.

I nodded. Who was I going to tell?

“Remember to change your shirt too,” and with that and a smile she was gone.

I got myself to my bedroom and cleaned up quickly. I was a little panicked. I didn’t think she’d tell Foster who the hand had belonged to but being with them both in the house with Mom and all of her friends was decidedly not to my liking. In my hurry, I left the tell-tale shirt on the floor.

I was almost to the front door when Mom spotted me from the kitchen.

“I thought you left.”

“Nope, not yet,” I was edging toward the door.

“Did you let Livia in?”

“Yeah, I’ve gotta go now okay?”

“Alright, alright, hold on,” she gave me a hug. “Be careful,” she said. “I’ll save you a plate.” I felt her looking at me even as I was leaving. You’ve probably guessed that she had her suspicions…

—

TO BE CONTINUED