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She fell asleep in his bed, exhausted and deeply satisfied. She stayed there most of the night. As dawn broke, though, she awoke. After a little confusion about her surroundings, she realized that she was in bed with her son. Then she remembered her impulsive actions of the previous night, how they had played their dangerous game and then copulated so wantonly, and the first pangs of guilt assaulted her.
She recognized that she had done it deliberately, had let him persuade her. She had allowed him to seduce her. In truth, she had contributed as much to their questionable conduct as he had. She knew that. She could fool herself in the heat of passion, but not in the cool morning light.
In truth, she had seen it coming, even invited it, but not altogether consciously. She had deceived herself, allowed herself to indulge fantasies she never expected to come true, and now she felt guilty.
She had recognized for a long time that their relationship was not typical, and she was not entirely surprised by this sudden turn. Perhaps it had crept up on her, but she had not been totally unaware.
He had long been the man of the house. Yet, at least until very recently, she just saw it as an understandable dependence she had on him. She needed his companionship. She was fortunate to have him around to handle household chores suited to his youthful, male physicality and heedlessness about sweat and dirt. He played the manly role in domestic matters, but it was never remotely romantic, let alone sexual. Any impulse she might have experienced to view things otherwise never entered her conscious mind.
As the years passed, she admired how he grew into a man, how strong he became, how his body filled out and how he came, ultimately, to stand a head taller than she did. Nevertheless, no thought of him being a potential lover had ever crossed her mind until very recently. She experienced motherly admiration for her developing child, nothing more.
Yet, once he was away at college, and she found herself alone, she began to allow her mind to drift toward those kinds of thoughts. She missed him and did her best, when lonely, to conjure up his image, to make him somehow present. She would go to his room, sit on his bed, and gaze around at his things, connecting herself to him in her imagination. She found traces of his bodily scents in his clothes and bedding. These were especially effective in bringing him into her presence.
It was not until his 18th birthday, though, that sexual thoughts first started to percolate into her consciousness, the first time she allowed herself to contemplate, if only briefly and intermittently, the sort of thing that had suddenly happened last night. She remembered now that she had been thinking of him that day, of how she missed him, how she wanted to see him, to hold him in her arms. She wanted to kiss his cheek, show him how much she loved him, now a man rather than a boy. Then, in an instant, she envisioned herself moving her lips from his cheek to his open mouth, holding him tight, pressing her bare breasts into his chest, then lying with him, completely naked, coupling. It was just a flash, a brief daydream, but it had culminated in her hand moving to her groin before she came to her senses and reined herself in.
These kinds of flashes came to her repeatedly that day. She would see his photo on the wall or his bike in the garage, and thoughts would come to her of how handsome he had become, how some lucky girl would be the first to seduce him. The images quickly became starkly graphic. She’d picture him naked, erect, ready for love, masculine and desirable. Sometimes she imagined him lying with a pretty girl, one with firm, young breasts and a flat stomach. He would be holding her, making her ecstatic with carnal pleasures, and then the girl she saw would morph into herself, his own mother enfolding her arms around his waist, holding his naked body close, spreading her legs to receive him. It would be ecstasy!
She would only allow herself to indulge these pleasurable visions briefly, then she would force herself back to her senses and will the fantasies from her mind. Nevertheless, they kept coming back to haunt her, and she grew rather disturbed, frankly aroused.
As it was his birthday, she had to call him. That evening she shook the fantasies from her mind, picked up her phone, and called. Just mom calling to say happy birthday. She had no other purpose in mind.
When he answered, he seemed unusually happy to hear her voice. Perhaps because she had been primed by her earlier fantasies, despite her best efforts just to be mom on the phone, she found herself thrilled in a whole new way just by talking to him, thrilled in a way felt not just in her heart, but deep down in her sex. She kept him on the phone for most of an hour as she soaked up the feelings he evoked in her. She did her best, though, to mask what she felt, not to let him know of those feelings, which she regarded as inappropriate, maltepe escort even shameful, but also altogether tantalizing.
When they finally had to say goodbye, she felt profoundly needful, highly aroused. She immediately went to his room. She pulled down the covers and lay, face down, on his sheets, her head buried in his pillow, breathing him in. Her hand slipped down into her panties. She felt compelled to masturbate, to get it out of her system.
After gaining momentary release, she went on to spend the night there, lying in his bed, wishing he was home, wishing he was with her. When she awoke the next morning from some deeply unsettling, highly erotic dreams, she was not the least surprised to find herself in his bed. She lay there troubled by the wrongness of her thoughts, her desires, and determined to repress them, push them out of her mind. She made the bed, pulled the covers tight, and left his room. She reminded herself that she was in control.
She became stoic and mentally disciplined. She would not let herself indulge these fantasies any further. She skillfully kept her unwanted thoughts at bay. But they were still there, nevertheless, in her mind’s secret places, lurking, awaiting their chance to overwhelm her.
In fact, she did manage not to think about it much at all until the day he came home, until he was near, physically present, and, she kept thinking, of age. She was dismayed each time her thoughts drifted so, but the disturbing, sexual fantasies remained near, always on the edge of her thoughts, always there, always beckoning her conscious mind to come their way, to give in to her growing desires, to indulge herself, to love him fully.
He had been working out at school, she noted when he first arrived. He had changed, hardened, become yet more a man. She admired him, she had to keep reminding herself, as a mother. She was merely appreciating how handsome he was, how capable and fit and mature he’d become even in his short absence.
Yet, as the hours and days passed, she let those carnal thoughts slowly seep back into her consciousness, let them give her little, sexual thrills. She would catch him looking at her with what she thought might be desire, and her own desire would flare up. Surely, he could see it too, though she did her best, she thought, to deceive him. Nevertheless, she allowed those thrilling thoughts to excite her, let them tease and titillate her. She toyed with those thoughts, as if she was indeed in control. She played with fire, and, in a flash, the flames engulfed her. She had succumbed to the temptation of illicit sex with her son.
Now, in that cool morning light of the next day, she was dismayed at herself. Now she repressed the joy that the two of them had shared when she gave in for just those few wanton minutes. It was happiness that tried and failed to percolate into her consciousness, satisfaction and love that she kept at bay. She felt terribly guilty and chided herself for her behavior.
She quietly slipped out of his bed, trying to leave her guilt behind, under the sheets with him, hidden. She went to the bathroom and showered. She cleansed herself. She washed her vagina with extra care, thinking about his seed in there, washing it away tenderly, but thoroughly.
After she showered, she set out to have a normal day. She was determined to put her error behind her and have a normal day, a normal life.
But, what about him?
He was disappointed to find her gone in the morning. When he awoke, his first thought was to take her into his arms and express his love for her again, to share their joy at how their relationship had changed, had become so much more loving and wonderful. But she was not there for him.
He got up and slipped on his pajama bottoms and went looking for her. He found her in the kitchen.
She did not look up when he entered. She stared at her coffee and forced herself to say good morning. It hurt her even to speak. She struggled not to love him too much, not to be elated at his presence, not to jump up and hug and kiss him, kiss his lips, hold his firm body close to hers, celebrate their new relationship.
He noted her attitude and was crushed. He had wanted to hold her in his arms and express his love, now consummated. But he sensed her coldness, that the fire had died down, was back under her control, carefully managed in conformity with social expectations rather than their mutual love. Their glorious night had collapsed into an empty morning.
He was disappointed and hurt, but he was also in love. He had always loved her and had struggled of late with what he had considered inappropriate aspects of his love. Finally, though, he came to acknowledge and accept his feelings for her, even to embrace them. Since that liberation, he had overtly fantasized about what might be possible, how he might turn her toward him in the same way. Somehow, he sensed that it might be possible, that she still did, deep down, share his feelings, escort maltepe his desires. Something told him it might be so.
When he had first returned home for the break, he saw how she regarded him differently, as a man, more an equal. He sensed it and worked to draw it out of her. He made a point of going shirtless, noting how she gazed at his body when he did. He could see that she liked the way he looked. He deliberately walked around the house in his boxers, right under her gaze. He teased and tested and brought out her hidden feelings slowly, patiently. When he sensed that he might have opened her enough, have loosed the cap on her bottled-up passions, that he had eased it off just enough that he could hear her emit little sighs of escaping ardor, when he thought he had opened her enough, he drew her in to him, into his room, into the massage, into the explosive escape of their imprisoned desires.
Now, she was guarded, cautious, aloof. She felt burned and sat there, ashen, the fire all but gone. Her “better self” took over, a vigilant protector of virtue, keeping a watchful eye on the smoldering coals in her groin, squelching each flicker, each spark, determined to snuff it out.
How could he now fan those embers without provoking her, without causing her to rise violently and stomp them out, extinguish them altogether? He had broken through once. He had but a couple of days to do it again, but now his job would be even harder. She now knew her own vulnerability. He had to be patient, restrained, ever close, but always keeping his distance. He had to be subtler still this time because he knew she would be reactive to any remotely overt provocation.
He went to her, bent over at the waist, and kissed her on the cheek. “Good morning, Mother.” Formality seemed wise.
“We have to talk.”
“What we did.”
“What we did?”
“We made love.” It was a bold move, but she had broached the subject and he wanted to redefine their relations.
“We should not have done that,” she said, evenly, but firmly.
He parried with false remorse. “I’m sorry,” he lied.
Her reaction was predictable. She teared up, then tried to console him. She took his hand, looked into his hurt eyes, and reassured him. “I love you more than anything,” she said, standing to take him protectively into her arms. She held him, fearing the danger of the embrace, then kissed his forehead, like a regular mother, before letting him go, turning away to busy herself with things that she needed to get done.
She decided to drop the subject altogether. It was done. It was over. It was history.
The day proceeded somewhat tensely, though. He took a course of vaguely aloof solicitousness, a manly attitude. She remained confused. He knew what he wanted. She thought—told herself—that she wanted to be a normal mother. She was going to make every effort to be a good mom. She baked cookies.
He did chores all day, all the chores that needed doing. He caulked and secured, and cleared, and put away, and generally got the place ready for winter. He changed the filter in the furnace. He cleaned the gutters. He did all the things that wanted doing because he had not been around and she was reluctant, or unable, or was simply waiting for him to come home and do all these manly things.
They each spent the morning thinking. She about how to undo the damage she’d allowed to happen. He about how to overcome her objections.
He went in for lunch, and they ate quietly, pensively. She said little and just watched him. She could see he wanted to say something. It made her apprehensive. She feared how his words might affect her, make her sad, or worse, make her weak.
Finally, he put down his fork, took a drink of milk, then fixed his eyes on hers. “I know you’re upset. I am sorry.”
That made her sad.
“I just want you to know … to understand … to understand some things,” he continued.
She was about to cry.
“I am sorry you are upset, but I am not sorry for what happened.”
He paused for several long seconds, carefully choosing his words, his tack. Finally, he decided to be direct. “It is something I have wanted for some time.”
He paused and let it sink in. She was caught off guard and taken aback. She had been telling herself it had come from nowhere, that they were both just vulnerable last night for some unknown reason, but, no, that wasn’t really the case she well knew.
“I have … I have wanted that to happen for some time now, Mom, probably longer than I even know. Anyway, I’m sorry. I can’t help it.” He paused, gathered his thoughts, fought back the tears that welled in his own eyes. “I was so ashamed when it first came to me,” he said with some lack of honesty. It was manipulation, pure and simple.
And it worked. It hurt her, made her want to protect him.
He realized that he was getting somewhere, but still had a long way to maltepe escort bayan go, and it would not be easy. “It’s kind of hard to explain,” he said, pausing to think. He felt that he needed to put it into context, make her see it as utterly compelling.
“I know that I have felt almost like a husband to you in many ways since even before Dad left. I remember times that you two would be fighting, and I would want to protect you and comfort you. I wanted to be the man that he was not for you.”
She recalled those sad days and felt vulnerable. She remembered how he would comfort her in her despair, how he would sit with her and hold her hand and just be there for her. “But you were so young. You weren’t …”. She could not finish the thought.
He read her mind. “No, mom. It wasn’t anything sexual, not then. But it wasn’t just like being a kid either. I felt different, more important than just a son, maybe. Like you needed me, and I promised myself that I would always take care of you. That always made me feel better, taking that responsibility, knowing that I could take away some of your pain and make your life less miserable, more hopeful, safer.”
His words were shaking her. “I see,” she said, trembling. These revelations touched her deeply. They did make her feel hopeful and safe, but also nervous. She worried that she had done wrong by him, that she had leaned on him too much, had used him to replace some of what she lost in the divorce. She needed to clear it up.
“It wasn’t … sexual, though?”
“No, it was not. Not for a long time. It was intimate. It was a deep commitment that I had to you, but it was never about sex. Not back then anyway.”
“So, uh, so when?”
“Well, not really until I went away to college, got out of our routines and into a different environment where I could think differently. You called me on my birthday, I remember, and I felt a strange need to see you, but I couldn’t. I had some pictures of you, though, so after we said goodbye, I pulled them up on my tablet and started scrolling through them. As I did, I started thinking about how beautiful you are.”
He saw it and smiled inwardly. “As I looked at those photos, I began to realize something deeply buried that I never been aware of, never even thought might be. I realized that I was attracted to you in ways that sons are not supposed to be attracted to their mothers.
You know, over the years I had seen you many times without all your clothes on. It never meant anything. I was just a kid, really, despite these other feelings, this sense of responsibility and obligation.
“Then, there I was looking at photos that evoked a new kind of love in me. It was one vacation pic in particular that hit me. You were lounging by the hotel pool in your bathing suit. It was a one-piece, but it showed your curves beautifully. You looked … well … really sexy!”
She gulped. She was stirred by his revelations, by his declarations of her sex appeal.
He studied her face for a moment, then continued. “You were wearing big, dark sunglasses and looking glamorous. Your skin glistened in the hot sun. The bathing suit showed your cleavage quite nicely, and your long legs flowed out the other end, beautiful and sexy, and that image struck me hard. I wanted to see more, imagined myself seeing more, seeing what was inside that bathing suit, between those legs, that seductive body, that beautiful gateway to your deepest love, all of it. I couldn’t get it out of my mind after that.”
“You didn’t –” She could not complete the thought.
“No, mom, I didn’t. I love you too much. I would not do that. I would not settle for getting off on a fantasy,” he said rather bluntly. “I would truly make love to you or nothing.”
She had mixed feelings about what he was telling her. Her mind lingered on the idea of him relieving his own sexual tensions. She pictured him, alone, naked, hard. The memory of his hardness, his desirable, lusty hardness was fresh. She pushed those thoughts aside as best she could and listened to him carefully.
“I realized then that I had to do my best to win you. I had to try to show you how much I love you. It was pretty much all I thought about after that. I had to force myself to think about my studies and get my homework done. It was a tough couple of months.
She was intrigued at the idea that she was the object of such strong desires. She had not really felt desirable—or desired—in a long time. It was gratifying. It was arousing. She did her best to conceal her emotions even as she felt the yearning wetness in her vagina.
“Then, finally, I got to come home for a few days, and I just had to do what I could,” he continued. “Then, last night happened!” He smiled at her happily, thinking about his triumph of the previous night. His eyes sparkled. His joy moved her.
For her part, though, she could not acknowledge to herself just yet all that she was feeling. She stared into the distance, contemplating.
He gave her a few minutes to reflect, then pushed on. “Mom, I’m sorry, but I can’t help what I feel. At first, I was ashamed, but I couldn’t help it. I realized that I was in love with you. Helplessly in love.”
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