This is a story about my relationship with my mother, the problems she was experiencing, how I thought to resolve those problems, and what happened in the end. I should start by explaining that although I loved my Mother very much, she was not an easy person to live with. She exhibited all kinds of strange behaviours I didn’t understand at the time, and it was only much later I came to realise those behaviours could be characterised as Neurotic.
I’m not a psychiatrist so that’s not a formal clinical diagnosis, but it was certainly the impression I was left with after living with her for many years. When I (later) looked up the term, I found Neurosis is defined as “a relatively mild mental illness that is not caused by organic disease, involving symptoms of stress (depression, anxiety, obsessive behaviour, hypochondria) but not a radical loss of touch with reality” (as distinct from ‘Psychosis’ whereby the sufferer looses the ability to distinguish between what is real and what is not).
My mother certainly displayed many of the characteristics of Neurosis listed above. For example, she always seemed to be ill and suffering from a variety of things that could never quite be pinned down, or ever got significantly worse (hypochondria). Likewise much of her behaviour was about controlling her world and ensuring she was always the perceived victim (obsessive behaviour). She was adept at manipulating me and others around by re-interpreting (and even reconstructing) events in a manner that suited her preferred vision. She always managed to cast herself as the poor, weak, (and usually unloved) old woman. She was never happy (depression) and continually complained about how people were inconsiderate of her needs, and even sometimes how they were deliberately ‘out to get’ her (anxiety).
She frequently exhibited a classic symptom described in psychology as the ‘Double Bind’ (as I later learned). This is where two opposing communications are provided at the same time making the recipient confused and uncertain. A simple example of a ‘double bind’ would be when I would ask mother how she was feeling, she would reply, ‘I am fine dear’, but this was said in a feeble and faltering voice indicating she was anything but fine. The double-bind tends to be used as a tacit strategy for keeping others off balance and maintaining control of situations. Many times my mother would say something (verbally) whilst clearly indicating (in a non-verbal manner) she didn’t believe what she was saying (another example was her frequent suggestion after dinner that ‘I’ll do the washing-up today dear’, whilst making it visibly clear she was struggling to lift herself up from her seat). This strategy would make her appear ‘brave and noble’, whilst at the same time making it obvious she was ill and suffering, and I should feel sorry for her.
To be frank my bloody Mother used to drive me up the wall! I spent years of my life trying to help and support her but nothing I did seemed to make any difference. She seemed ‘stuck’ in a time and place in her life, and my role was exclusively to listen to her troubles and take the blame. Don’t get me wrong, as I said I loved my mother very dearly, and all I ever wanted to do was help her and make her life easier, but I couldn’t seem to no matter how hard I tried. If was as if her neurotic behaviour served some purpose and she didn’t want to or didn’t know how to let it go.
However, despite the fact I was never able to provide any apparent solutions to my mother’s problems, she made it clear having me around helped in some way. I would listen to her whinging about the world without complaint, provide a sympathetic shoulder for her to cry on when she was miserable, and if she was really down I was the ‘dog’ she could kick. I was always there for her and it was clear she needed me in some way, so I could never abandon her, even if at times she was like an emotional vampire sucking me dry.
We lived in a small house in a rather old-world town in Lincolnshire in the North East of England. My Father had passed away when I was 12 years old, and my mother was never the same after he went. I was 19 when the events to be described here occurred. I had few (if any friends), I was a virgin, and I spent most of my time looking after my poor (apparently) sick Mother. She was 57 years old, no longer working, and surviving on the meagre amount my father left, plus a disability pension she was awarded because she was suffering from ‘stress’.
Despite her ‘illness’ mother was quite able to occasionally pop round to see her friends and go out shopping when she wanted. Indeed it was mostly when she was home that her apparent infirmities seemed to become manifest. She did the cooking, but everything else round the house was down to me. I was at college at the local Tech three days a week (studying Art and Design), but when I was home my days were filled with cleaning, washing, and caring for mother. That said she never appeared to acknowledge my efforts around the house. If she said anything it was usually a critical comment about something that was not ‘up to scratch’.
She was moderately short in stature (about 5.1) and relatively thin (possibly the result of her nervous condition) but not unsightly, and indeed there were photos around the house which showed she had once been quite attractive. She had a nice figure, brown hair (often in curlers), brown eyes, and full (even sensuous) lips. She had, however, let herself go, and when at home she spent most of the time wandering about in an old dressing gown. Her face was weary and worn and starting to show lines, but she always seemed to me like a potentially good looking woman, who, with a little extra work, could still be quite fetching. She didn’t really look her age apart from wrinkles on the back of her hands, which curiously enough now always remind me of her.
Perhaps that’s where it all started. It was only her and I in the house, and although I was her ‘punch-bag’ I was also her only companion. She would hold me sometimes, when the mood was on her, and cuddle me and tell me I was the only man she loved. It didn’t happen very often but there were those few times when she seemed to appreciate me being there. As I said she wore a dressing gown a lot of the time, and sometimes not a lot underneath. I confess it was hard for a pubescent and virginal boy not to look when the gown slipped and showed too much of her underwear. I never consciously thought about my mother in a sexual way, but some part of me was very much aware she was a woman and had ‘attributes’ that were both unfamiliar and interesting. In truth there were probably times when I was too close to her.
Looking back I think I was very confused by the situation. Mostly I felt trapped by a responsibility to look after mother (because in truth there was no one else), and I wanted to escape both that responsibility and her thankless behaviour, but there was another part of me who occasionally ‘enjoyed’ the intimacy of being near her. I was after all 19 years old and had normal sexual needs which I rarely even acknowledged let alone addressed. Although I’d not seen very much of her body, nor had any kind of inappropriate relations or even thoughts, there were moments when I looked more at my mother than I should, and I think I instinctively saw these opportunities as some kind of shadowy reward for all the anguish she put me through. As I said it wasn’t conscious. I hated being around her during the day, but in the evenings I didn’t seem to mind so much. Looking back I think it may have been something to with the fact she took sleeping pills for her nerves (and sometimes combined these with a small ‘tipple’ of sherry), making her unsteady in the evening, and less conscious of her attire. Her dressing gown wasn’t held so tight and I could occasionally see the edge of her bra or the cleavage of her breasts. Sometimes she would lie on the sofa and show an expanse of nylon covered leg. As I said I never did anything, except maybe look when I should have turned away.
However things changed between mother and I after something occurred that made me question my understanding of her situation. It was a throw-away comment made by the man who came to repair our hot water boiler that changed things, and set me on a new (and controversial) path. The poor man was struggling to fix our very old and wonky system, which kept breaking down. He was trying to explain to mother how we desperately needed a new boiler, but she wouldn’t listen, berating him instead for not fixing it properly, and lamenting how the cold water was making her various illnesses so much worse and how it was all his fault.
Eventually he got it working after a fashioned. He warned us it would not last much longer, hurriedly grabbed his tools, and rushed out to escape my mother’s vicious tongue. I showed him to the door, and as he left he looked at me and raised his eyes to the heavens. “I don’t know how you put up with her,” he half-whispered. “What a neurotic old woman! What she needs is a damn good rogering!” And then he was gone.
I confess I didn’t understand at first what he meant by the term ‘rogering’, and it wasn’t until later I realised he was talking about sex. He was saying my mother was the way she was because she wasn’t getting enough (or indeed any) sex. It had never occurred to me before that a lack of a physical relationship might be the cause of her problems, but I suddenly equated all her symptoms with the concept of being frustrated. Could it be, I wondered to myself, that sexual drives are a form of energy that need to be expressed, and if blocked the energy ‘leaks’ out in other (perhaps entirely inappropriate) ways?
As you probably guessed (with me still being a virgin at 19), the events I describe took place many years ago, and I was not very sexually informed (lets be honest I was naive). But in those days things were very different. I’d had a few girl-friends, but in the early 60’s the female animal was still (mostly) the official guardian of moral values (not like today!). Sexual intercourse was a no-no, and even touching a girl’s breast was a privilege a boy had to earn. That said, I don’t suppose many of the young people today understand just how much joy a couple could experience just by kissing and cuddling all evening. There was a kind of innocent ‘bonding’ in those days entirely absent from many modern relationships. Back then full sex when it came was a ‘rite of passage’ (and the end of a very long road built of trust and belief).
Anyway my point is, I knew enough to understand what it meant to be frustrated. I was, after all, pretty frustrated myself! My sex life (whilst living with mother) consisted of snatched moments in the toilet, masturbating to smuggled pictures of women in exotic lingerie (usually stolen from mother’s Home Catalogues or very rarely a smutty magazine I’d found somewhere). I confess there were even times (when mother was out) when I’d open her underwear draw and gently finger her bras or stockings or suspenders (in those days female under-garments were much more complex… and far more interesting). I should add, however, that in the beginning it was the lingerie itself that turned me on, and not the fact it was my mother’s.
For many days after that engineer’s visit I thought about what he’d said, and what it implied. Since my father had died I’d only seen mother with one other man and that didn’t last very long. I wondered to myself why she had not sort to make other new relationships. Maybe in those days it was hard for an older person to meet new people (I mean it wasn’t exactly easy back then even at my age. This was long before the Internet!). So maybe she’d given up, and all that pent-up frustration was coming out in another way?
What followed started out as a sort of personal joke. Whilst considering how I might be able to help mother find a new and more satisfying relationship I suddenly thought to myself, ‘well maybe I should take the initiative… and seduce her myself’. I remember I laughed out loud. That would solve both our problems, I thought, and I had a momentary vision of holding my mother down and having sex with her on the cold kitchen floor. I chuckled again at the idea and immediately dismissed it.
But it didn’t want to go away so easy. That fleeting vision had made me hard, and it was like a seed that once planted grew all by itself, and the idea would never quite banish itself from the periphery of my consciousness. For a while it just festered there, popping up every now and then (usually when I was close to mother for some reason). But slowly I began to look at her differently. I couldn’t help it. She started to seem more attractive… and more desirable.
Then one day, while masturbating to a picture of a model in bra, pants and stockings (in the bathroom), I closed my eyes to come to a climax and the women in my mind suddenly turned from the young model in the glossy photo to my own mother, standing there before me in the bathroom dressed only in her underwear. I could see her dark nipples through her bra and her legs in brown stockings, forced into a taunt and elegant pose by the stiletto-heeled shoes she was wearing. The image in my mind, although unbidden, was strong and clear and my head fizzed with the power of it. I moaned and shot my load all over the bathroom floor. It was the most amazing orgasm I’d experienced. It was like somebody was clenching my balls very tightly, squeezing out every drop, and aiming my fluid directly at the mental picture of my mother standing there half-naked. Instantly I felt an immense sense of shame and guilt. How could I do such a thing? How could I fantasise about my own mother?
But despite my puritanical objections the guilt faded over time… and the fantasy grew. Eventually I found myself exclusively masturbating to visions of undressing and touching my mother. I knew it was wrong, but the power of that particular vision was so strong that when my sexual persona took over there was only one door it wanted to open.
How my fantasies eventually migrated into a plan to seduce my mother in real life I’m not sure. I think I just woke up one morning and it was there. It was a perfect idea. Having sex with mother would cure her neurosis, it would give her some joy and pleasure in life, and it would show her how much I loved her. Ok, so there was the side benefit of me getting my rocks off (and fulfilling my fantasies) but I was sure that wasn’t the important part. No, this idea was all about helping my mother through a difficult stage in her life and giving her what she really needed, and if I had to sacrifice my shame and guilt in the process, then so be it.
At least that’s what I told myself at the time (although even then I knew deep down it was really mostly about getting my hands on my mother’s body). What I didn’t see at that stage was the slightly darker motivation underneath the whole idea. I didn’t just want to fuck my mother, I also wanted to punish her for the way she’d treated me.
The only problem, of course, was how to make it happen. As you can imagine I spent a long time wrestling with that one. I went through all the options I could possibly conceive. I ended up with a long list of possible strategies, all of which I played through in my head (usually when I was masturbating, but sometimes in bed at night).
To begin with there was the straightforward version. I could leap on mother, tear at her clothes, fumble at her breasts, whilst at the same time swearing my undying love. It might work… if she was in the right mood, but it didn’t seem very likely. If not maybe I could drug her. After all she did have some sleeping pills, so perhaps I could slip her a slight overdose? Once she was unconscious I could drag her across and into my bed, and try to set things up so it looked as if she’d come to me. When she woke up I’d make out I was (reluctantly) fondling her tits only because she wanted me to. It seemed like a promising idea, and I even toyed with the thought of maybe poking her while she was still out for the count (you know, just to get the hang of it). But in the end, however, I wasn’t convinced she’d fall for it.
Then there were the more psychological approaches. I could imply I was going ‘gay’ and I needed help to get back on the straight and narrow (being gay was a no-no in those days). You can imagine it can’t you, with me fluttering around doing my best ‘fairy’ impression, and all the time implying that mother could solve the problem if she would just take me to her bed for the night, and show me the joys of illicit sex (or indeed any sex!). The problem with this one was mother might just accept my new sexual orientation and wish me well, which would leave in the embarrassing position of having to keep up the act ad infinitum.
On the other hand I could go with the “I have this unhealthy compulsion” strategy. It would start with me admitting I was sexually attracted to mother. I’d blame her for letting me see too much of her naked flesh (which to be fair she hadn’t), and indicate that my fantasies about her ‘body’ were becoming dominant in my head (which by then wasn’t so far from the truth). I’d tell her how frustrated I was becoming and how I was losing control of myself, implying if she didn’t let me play with her tits right there and then I’d probably go out and assault some poor old lady (which wasn’t true of course). But then I realised she’d probably just call the doctor and get him to give me something to control my ‘urges’.
Maybe I could try something similar. The “I love you too much mother” ploy, with the implication I’d become obsessed with mother. This obsession, I would subtly suggest, was now so deep that it would affect my future life forever… unless it could be overcome. Indeed I would have to carry around this ‘torch’ for my mother for always, whilst at the same time ‘crippled’ by the guilt of my incestuous desires. I would make it obvious the only way to overcome it, and save me from a life of misogyny and despair, and the inability to ever have a girlfriend or wife, was for mother to ‘get em off’ and let me ‘give her one’ right there and then (using a slightly different terminology of course).
Now these were all good ideas and yet I wasn’t convinced I could carry any of them out in practice, and I was forced into thinking how I might reverse the situation. In other words, how could I make her want me! Not a lot of options there however. I suppose I could try getting her drunk and merry and gay and (hopefully) sexually receptive, but it didn’t seem very plausible. To be honest mother was a bit of an old-fashioned ‘stick-in-the-mud’, and the chances of awakening her hidden physical needs enough to overcome her moral aversion to having an incestual relationship with her own son, seemed a trifle unlikely.
Eventually I was so desperate I even considered some very ‘out of the box’ ideas. Maybe I could get some training in Hypnosis, and put her to sleep, under the guise of helping her relax. Then I’d give her the post-hypnotic suggestion to come naked into my room at night and leap on me. It was a good idea (for a fantasy anyway) but I would need training and it would take too long. Another one was to sneak in her bedroom with a mask on and tell her that her son owed money for unpaid bets, and I wanted payment in sex or he’d be taken away and ‘punished’. But I guessed she’d probably know it was me.
The truth is I was much too young and far too naive to ever have to courage to try anything like I’d described. The ideas were great fantasies and fuelled many masturbation sessions, but they were not in any way practical and I knew they were never going to leave the safety of my mind. That said, all those fantasies eventually affected me and my behaviour, and made something different and slightly darker happen.
In truth my obsession with my mother’s body began to consume me and I couldn’t stop it ‘leaking’ out into the real world. It began with me watching her more intently and looking for chances to see more of her ‘flesh’. I tried to spy on her in the hope of seeing something. I’d go unexpectedly into the bathroom when I knew she was there. I even tried looking through the keyhole in her bedroom door right after she’d retired for the night. None of these attempts were particularly successful, but they were indicative of the fact I was becoming more fixated on mother and more excited about the whole idea. I began to masturbate more frequently, and imagine ways to catch her without her clothes.
Increasingly I found myself in her bedroom when she was out. Feeling her bras, fondling her stockings, and exploring deep in her underwear drawers. I found a white bone corset with clips hanging down for stockings. I wasn’t quite sure how it worked, but to me it was exotic and thrilling. I pulled it around my waist and tried to imagine my mother wearing it.
Gradually these visits ramped up. Once I waited till mother had just left, stripped myself naked and went to her bedroom. I put on one of her old-fashioned pointed bras, stuffed it with panties to make it look real, and groped at it as if it contained authentic breasts. Then I slipped on one of her suspender belts and carefully rolled a pair of stockings over my legs. I stood in from of the mirror imagining this was my mother I was seeing. Then I lay on her bed and started fondling my own legs, running my hands up and down mother’s stockings. I was entranced by the feel of the nylon. It was so incredibly exciting I couldn’t stop myself from ejaculating there and then. But afterwards I was shaking uncontrollably, part from excitement, part from fear of getting caught, and hurriedly I put everything back and tried to clear up my mess. I was sure however I’d left some dried semen on one of her nylons.
But it was in the evening time I made my most significant moves. The dark hours just before bed had always been the most sensual, with mother sitting there (or lying on the sofa) half asleep. She’d always looked ‘vulnerable’ but now that vulnerability seemed exciting. The first time anything actually happened was on a Friday night. She’d been out playing bridge with some of her ‘old crony’ friends. Usually in the evening she worn a white linen nightdress under her dressing gown, but if she’d been out she’d often just take off her skirt and top, not bother to remove her nylons, and then just cover herself with the gown.
I think she must have had a drink or two while she was out but she still took her sleeping pills. The net result was she lay on the sofa and drifted off to sleep. I looked at her laying there snoring gently. Nothing of her body was showing apart from a small gap in the gown revealing her knee and a tiny bit of thigh. I sat there for a long time just staring at that gap. And then I did something I most definitely shouldn’t have done. Slowly and gingerly I moved over to the sofa and knelt down beside her. Convinced she was deeply asleep I gently lifted the edge of her dressing gown up and over.
I rocked back on my heels is awe and fascination. One leg was revealed all the way up to her waist. My eyes travelled up from her nylon-covered knee and thigh and feasted on a dark brown multi-layer stocking top and the white flesh above. My heart was pounding as I studied the way the suspender was attached and clipped to the stocking top. I had no idea why but it seemed like the most erotic thing I’d ever seen. Then my attention was drawn higher to her white panties and the way they dived inward between her legs making a sharp ‘V’ shape. Immediately above the V of the panties lay a low smooth mound (which in those days I didn’t really understand). It fascinated me and I had a sudden urge to run my fingers over it, and feel its shape and texture.
I didn’t however, and my eyes simply travelled further up over her stomach to the bottom of a barely revealed white bra. For a long time I just looked. I was shaking with a combination of lust, fear, and excitement. Steeling myself I smoothly lifted the gown back further over her breast. It wasn’t big but the bra she was wearing made it seemed pointed and sharp. I can’t adequately explain just how much I wanted to wrap my hand around that breast and feel and fondle it.
But then mother stirred in her sleep and I panicked.
I grabbed at her dressing gown, half pulled it over, and scrambled back into my chair. In the event I don’t think mother would have woken up if I hadn’t been so scared and clumsy and noisy. But wake up she did. She turned on to her side and opened her eyes. By then I was back sitting down, but I felt both guilty and fearful and I was sure it showed in my face. She was groggy at first, but then she lifted herself up on one elbow and gave me a strange look. Then she looked down at herself and seeing there was too much of her legs and stockings on show, she pulled her gown back over. I don’t know what I expected to happen next, but after a moment she just lay back down and closed her eyes.
I sat there with my heart racing wondering if the sky was going to fall in. But it didn’t. A few minutes later mother yawned, mumbled something about going to bed and pulled herself up off the sofa. She pulled her gown tight about herself and headed for her bedroom door, but as she went she glanced back. Her face was blank however and I couldn’t read what she was thinking.
For the next few days I kept my hands, my eyes, and my cock away from anything to do with my mother’s body. She said nothing about that night, but I couldn’t get it out of my head that something had changed between us. She was ever so slightly different. She seemed vague and slightly distant, and yet at the same time not nearly so obnoxious or critical. Normally I was always in trouble for not doing things up to her standard, not dusting properly or leaving marks on the washing up, etc. Now she said nothing, even if it was obvious I wasn’t doing my job properly.
The next weekend she went out again and it was like a carbon copy of the previous Saturday. She even ended up on the sofa once again fast asleep in her dressing gown. I must admit I sat there for a long time struggling with myself, torn between lust and fear. I wanted to look again at her stockings and the flesh above but I was terrified she would wake up and find me leering over her. I just couldn’t make the move I wanted to.
Then something happened to break the spell. Mother, who had been lying on her back breathing softy, made a snuffling noise and turned on to her side, but as she did so she moved her left leg out from under the dressing gown revealing itself to me in all it’s stocking-clad glory. I thanked the Lord under my breath for his generosity and slipped off my chair. I knelt once again in front of the sofa and I lowered my head as much as I dared till my eyes were barely inches from the top of my mother’s now exposed stocking top.
I had no idea why her stockings fascinated me so much. It was true I’d been sexually ‘raised’ on a stream pictures of half-naked women who almost always wore stockings, but that didn’t quite explain it. There was something inexplicably erotic about the smoothness of the nylon, and how it gently turned darker by degrees into the stocking top, and then how that top was suddenly transformed into white flesh at the top of the woman’s thigh. Maybe stocking-tops were guardians or door-wardens of a holy site (no pun intended), or maybe a beautiful ladder that men were invited to climb, if they were brave enough, in order to gain their ultimate reward. (Sorry, forgive me for musing about my own psycho-sexuality). It’s enough to say this 19 year old virgin was completely lost and entirely entranced by being so close to the top of his mother’s stockings. I was absorbed in the wonder before me, and my head was drawn further and further down till I could almost smell the fabric of the nylon. But my vision was so engrossed in exploring the material I failed to notice something rather important.
My mother’s eyes had opened and she was watching me intently. When I eventually looked up and saw her watching I froze solid in shock and dismay. I was caught red-handed, the guilt of my lust written all over my face, and my shocking incestual desires fully revealed.
I had no idea how she would react or what would happen… something terrible at the very least. Maybe she would scream and shout and rant and rave at me. Maybe she would strike me, curse me, and eject me forever from her house, or maybe she would call the police and have me locked up! I genuinely had no idea what would come next. But what did happen shocked me to the core. She continued to look at me for the briefest of moments and then closed her eyes and went back to sleep.
III
I don’t think I’ve ever been so frightened in my life as when I saw mother looking… and her passive reaction stunned me. For a few moments I could not move. I was rooted to the spot. Then hurriedly I got up and ran to my bedroom, dragged off my clothes, leapt into bed, and pulled the covers over my head. I lay there shaking in shock and fear. My interest in my mother’s sexual merits at it’s lowest ebb. I wished and wished I’d never has those feelings, that I’d never thought of my own mother in anything other than a familial way.
But as time passed, and I lay undisturbed in my bed, I began to wonder exactly why she had not reacted. Had she not noticed? Was she still asleep but with her eyes open? Was she waiting till the morning to chastise me? Why had she not simply exploded with anger and rage at seeing her own son lusting after her? Gradually I began to calm down and relax into sleep, and I have to confess (to my eternal shame) as my mind retreated into unconsciousness it’s last images returned to visions of mother lying there exposed in her underwear.
The next morning I remained in bed till the last possible moment. Eventually I had to had get up, and I admit I was terrified as I went into the kitchen and saw mother making some porridge.
“Morning,” she said in her normal, slightly disdainful, voice.
“Morning Mom,” I half whispered.
And that was it! No screaming or shouting. No anger, no telling-off, in fact no riposte of any kind. It was as if it never happened.
For the next few days I tried to act normal as possible. No close cuddling my mother, no visits to her underwear draw, and definitely no staying up late in the hope she would lie on the sofa and reveal something. Oddly though mother was still much more friendly and less abusive than usual. It was more as if I’d done something right and not something disgustingly wrong. That said, I counted myself lucky and had no intention of pushing my luck.
I guess it was about three or four days after the above events I noticed something unusual. My mother started wearing stockings all the time, not just when she went out. I knew they were stockings because they were seamed and they looked shear. I’d seen her wear these before but only on high days and holidays when she went visiting. Seeing her in them all the time was both unusual and (dangerously) provocative.
It started early one morning. I’d just got up and I remember her standing there in the kitchen doorway as I came round the corner. She was facing into the kitchen and bending over slightly and my eyes were drawn immediately to the perfectly straight seams down the back of her legs. Even with all my self-depreciation, and my stringent resolve never again to look at mother in a sexual way I was immediately hard at the sight. Slowly she stood up straight and continued whatever she was doing, and I just stood there imagining my way up her legs to the top of those seams. Then she turned suddenly around and looked at me and I’m sure I blushed bright red.
I hurriedly went on into the lounge, on the left before the kitchen, my eyes down on the ground. Again she said and did nothing out of the ordinary even though I was certain she’d seen me looking. I was sure her dressing up meant she must be going out somewhere but she didn’t. In fact she started to wear those wonderful seamed stockings every day as if it was totally normal. However as much as they fascinated and attracted me I kept my distance.
That’s not to say there were not strange thoughts and wishful suspicions wandering around in my head. Why the seamed stockings I kept asking myself? Was she wearing them for me? Had she seen what I liked and was she giving me some kind of adult ‘come-on’? Or was it just a coincidence and I was reading my own lustful desires into her actions?
The answer came soon enough but not in any way I could have guessed.
It began about 10 days after my ‘escape’ from mother’s eyes (or that’s how I thought of it). It had started as a perfectly normal Saturday. I was at home all day (as normal at the weekend). Mother stayed late in bed (also as usual) and I made her breakfast and took it in to her on a tray. She said nothing and I left immediately and began my regular cleaning and tidying of the house. Mother got up late and seemed oddly grumpy. She was especially critical of my attempts at cleaning, moaning about how dusty everything was. At length, after a considerable period of being berated by her nagging complaints, I offered to dust all the ornaments ‘properly’.
It went well for about half an hour, as I worked my way around the room, until I inadvertently dropped one of mother’s prized ornaments off the mantelpiece and it smashed in the grate.
She went spare!
“You stupid useless boy!” she screamed. “You can’t do anything properly can you. I don’t know why I put up with you. Here I am all alone and ill, and what do you do to help me … nothing! All you do is hang around the house like the lazy little brat you are. You can’t do anything right. You can’t even dust something without breaking it! That was my best miniature vase. It was priceless to me! If I was well I’d do it all myself, but I’m not, you know I’m not, and I have to rely your on stupid selfish incompetence.”
It continued like that for a while, with increasing fury and it seemed over-the-top even for my mother. Finally she calmed down and was silent for a moment. Then she looked at me with fire in her eyes.
“You’re so slow and so stupid,” she said slowly. “A weak snivelling little boy with no idea about life. You need to grow up and act like a man!”
It was an odd comment and I tried to splutter an apology, but she ignored me and got up from the sofa and went to her bedroom and shut the door. I sighed a deep sigh of relief and went back to my cleaning duties, although with a great deal more care not to drop anything else. I didn’t want to have to endure another outburst of mother’s intolerant fury.
All was quiet for the next twenty minutes or so and I had just about finished the dusting when I heard mother call out from her bedroom. Her voice was no longer angry but calm and seemingly normal.
“Michael,” she said. “Come and see me when you have a moment.”
I put down the duster and walked to her door, It was slightly ajar so I pushed it open and went in. To my surprise mother was in the process of removing her skirt. It was unzipped and halfway down as I entered.
“Don’t bother to knock will you!” she hissed. “Can’t you see I’m getting changed?”
I half turned to go back out.
“Wait!” Mother said in a commanding voice. “It doesn’t matter, you’re here now.”
Then as I watched she lowered her skirt, folded it carefully and lay it on the bed.
I could not believe what I was seeing. There was mother without her skirt on, showing her stockings and suspenders, without trying to hide anything from my eyes. On her top she was wearing a white ribbed jumper which only came down to the level of her panties, leaving everything below open and revealed. As she bent forward to lay the skirt down gently on her old double-bed I could not help staring at her legs. They were slender and surprisingly appealing, and she moved with a grace entirely uncharacteristic of the mother I thought I knew.
Then she turned round to face me, beckoned me over to her side, placed her arms around my neck, and gave me a gentle peck on my cheek. “I’m sorry I was so angry before,” she said softly. “I know you do your best. Now give Mummy a cuddle.”
I slipped my arms around her waist and cuddled her for a moment, all the time acutely aware of the fact she was without her skirt. I was looking down at her legs and stockings even as we embraced and I could not stop myself from becoming hard. Then I was appalled as she suddenly pulled me tight, and my hardness was against her tummy. I was terrified she would feel me and I tried to squirm away. It only lasted a moment and then she released me and indicated I could go.
I made quickly for the door, but as I reached it she spoke again.
“You’re a good boy really. Aren’t you Michael.”
I turned to reply and was immediately stunned by her pose. She stood there, legs slightly apart, hands on her hips with elbows outwards, and head slightly tilted to one side in a sort of questioning stance. I nodded responsively at her, whilst at the same time trying to keep my eyes up, and not look down at the way she was displaying her stocking-clad legs. Needless to say I failed miserably. She looked so damn sexy like that and I simply couldn’t help but stare down at her nylons.
For a moment there was silence, and then she said softly, “You like mummy’s stockings don’t you?”
My cock was hard but my mouth was dry. I had no idea how to reply, and I just stood there looking at her.
“Well!” mother said sharply.
“I…” I began. Then it all came out. “Yes Mummy,” I whispered. “I like them very much”.
She smiled a strange sort of smile and dismissed me with a wave of her hand. I went out and sat straight down on the sofa in the lounge. My head was spinning. What had just happened I wondered? What did it mean? Where would it lead? I think I was shaking at little, but more with excitement than fear. This was my fantasy starting to come true. My mother clearly understood how much I was attracted to her (or to her legs anyway), and more importantly, much more importantly, she didn’t seem to mind. I just sat there with a feeling of anticipation, knowing instinctively this wasn’t the end of the story but just the beginning.
Some time later mother emerged from her bedroom, now fully dressed again. and seeming to act as if nothing had happened. I confess I was slightly disappointed. I obviously had no idea what was going to happen but I think I’d expected (or at least hoped) for something more significant. But the day went on as any other Saturday. Mother made dinner, I cleared up, doing the washing up and tidying the kitchen. Then we both sat down to watch the television. Neither of us said anything though, and there was a slight air of tension between us.
It wasn’t until late in the evening things changed. Mother went to her bedroom (as she normally did) to take off her day clothes and put on her dressing gown. She came out shortly afterwards but something was very different. She had indeed put on a dressing gown but not the thick cloth one she usually wore. Instead she was dressed in a lacy nylon gown that was virtually transparent. I could clearly see the outlines of her underwear through the material. The dark brown of her stocking tops and the white of her brassiere poking sharply through the nylon. I also noticed she was wearing make-up, eye-liner and lipstick, making her look younger and more attractive.
She went to the sofa and sat down. She patted the cushion next to her to indicate for me to join her there. I didn’t need a second invitation and I move out from the armchair and immediately sat down beside her. She lay back into the sofa, turned and smiled at me. For a while she was silent, and then she spoke.
“Have you ever been with a woman?” she asked in a soft voice.
Being both naive and inexperienced I didn’t know what to say (indeed I wasn’t entirely sure what she meant).
“I’ve had a couple of girlfriends …” I offered, my mouth dry and croaky.
“And you’ve been with them?”
Still uncertain I said nothing.
“I mean have you slept with them?” Mother said slightly impatiently.
Shocked by her directness I simply shook my head.
“I see,” she whispered. “So you don’t know much about women?” She smiled at me as she said this.
Again I just shook my head.
“But you fantasise I suppose? Play with yourself while thinking about girls?”
This was too much. I was immediately embarrassed and looked away. How could she ask something me like that. Suddenly I just wanted to escape.
Mother laughed with a sort of joyful merriment. “Don’t be embarrassed Michael. All little boys do it. It’s quite normal and nothing to be ashamed about.”
She reached over and took my hand, lifted it up and placed it on her knee, under the nylon gown. “Does that feel nice?” she said still smiling broadly.
I turned back to her, still mortified by what she’d said, but also excited at where she had put my hand.
“You like stockings don’t you?” she whispered. Then she drew my hand upwards till my fingers were touching the suspenders links on her stockings.
I’m sure she could tell from the sudden wonder in my eyes that I did. However I was remained anxious and uncertain, and I didn’t move my hand or try to feel her leg.
Still holding my hand over her stocking tops she leant close to my ear and whispered so softly I wasn’t sure I was hearing right.
“Is it stockings you like,” she murmured. “Or is it just mummy’s stockings?”
Even though the anxiety and uncertainty and excitement was clouding my brain I recognised the importance of this question. I knew clearly what she wanted to hear.
“It’s you Mummy,” I croaked. “Just you.”
“Oh my beautiful baby,” she cried, and pulled me over and pushed my head against her chest. “Mummy loves you too baby! Mummy loves you too!”
Then she lifted my head back up and looked straight into my eyes. “You want to touch me,” She whispered. “Feel my legs… run your hands up and down mummy’s stockings?”
I nodded, and my hand began to explore the feel of the nylon on her thigh. It moved around in a circular motion, my fingers occasionally scrapping against her suspenders. Then I slipped my hand over her stocking tops and touched the bare skin above. It felt magical and unbelievably erotic. My fingers moved to feel the suspender clips holding her stockings, and then slid downwards to momentarily brush her the area between her legs.
As I did this her hand landed on my thigh, and she leaned forward and whispered to me again. “Do my stockings make my little boy hard?”
Without waiting for an answer her fingers brushed up against my rock-hard cock and I could hear her sigh. Then, as I continued to explore and absorb the feel of her legs, her hand moved and moulded itself over my cock, slowly embracing it and curling her fingers, as best she could through my jeans, all around my rampant beast. But as her hand gripped and began to move slowly up and down, it was all too much for me. With a grunt and a jerk I simply could not stop myself from ejaculating into my pants.
I pulled away in horror. “Oh my God I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I said in a panicky voice, watching a dark wet stain slowing growing under her hand at the front of my jeans.
“It’s ok,” she said smiling, but not moving her hand from over my penis. “You’re young and all this must be very exciting for you. Don’t fret yourself.”
Finally she lifted her hand and indicated towards the hall. “Go on,” she said. “Go and sort yourself out.” I got up and made hurriedly for the bathroom. But as I was going I looked back, and saw with surprised mother lift up her hand to her nose and sniff the dampness on her fingers.
In the bathroom I washed myself and then stuffed both my underpants and jeans into the washing basket. I covered myself with a towel and went out. For a moment I wasn’t sure what to do or where to go. My head was spinning and I think I felt more embarrassed than anything else, but I was also thrilled and excited by what had just happened. As I came back into the hall I heard mother call to me.
“Go to bed dear. I’ll pop in and say goodnight in a while.”
I turned and headed back to my room.
IV
Once in my bedroom I got undressed. Mother had indicated she would be coming in later to ‘say goodnight’, and I wondered whether to get naked in my bed or put my pyjamas on. I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and climbed into my pyjamas. I slipped into bed and lay there wondering what, if anything, was going to happen next. I was still awed by the fact my own mother had touched my cock. Ok I hadn’t lasted very long (that’s a bit of an understatement), but the fact is she had actually started to masturbate me. She’d let me feel her stockings and then played with me! I mean what more could a young man ask of his mother? I knew full well, even if nothing more ever happened, that was a very high point in my life (well my sex life anyway).
It was some 30 minutes later that mother came to my room. She knocked at the door (which surprised me), entered and came over to my bed. To my dismay the see-through gown was gone and the old cloth dressing down was back. She sat down on the edge of my bed and looked at me with a strange, rather sad, expression.
“I’ve come to apologise,” she began. “I can’t believe how I took advantage of you. You’re a young man with raging hormones and it’s only natural for you to look at a woman’s underwear, but I allowed your natural interest to stir and awaken my own frustrations. It’s a terrible thing I’ve done and I only hope to God I haven’t damaged you in some way.”
“No, no…” I stuttered. “It’s not a problem I didn’t mind mother, honest.” I had a sudden vision of all my fantasies for the future disappearing in a puff of smoke.
“I know you don’t mind,” she went on. “But you don’t really understand what I’ve done. I’ve engaged in an incestual relationship with my own son. Not only is it morally wrong and illegal, but it will warp your natural development. You should be out enjoying yourself with young women, not with old women, and certainly not with you mother!”
“But mom I wanted to… to be with you. It’s ok really. In fact it was great.”
Mother smiled a weak watery smile. “I understand that it excited you sexually, of course it did, but it is very wrong, evil even, for a mother to seduce her own son. I am appalled by my own actions. After all you have done for me… being here to help me, putting up with all my awful moods, and never complaining, and now I have used you to fulfil my own lustful needs. Don’t you see what I have started and how much you will have to pay in later life for my… my selfish desires.”
“But I wanted it,” I said again, desperately trying to save a situation I’d dreamt about for so long from disappearing over the horizon.
“I know dear,” mother whispered, patting my head.” But I woke your sexuality and misdirected into something bad and entirely inappropriate. That I could do such a thing is beyond belief, and I will never forgive myself. The truth is since your dad died I’ve found it hard to cope with life. I’ve been angry with the world and everyone in it, and I guess I’ve taken it out on you; mostly because you’re the only one around; the only one I have left. But now… now I’ve tried to use you to replace a part of my life I miss very much.”
She sat there looking at me with a look of sorrow and misery on her face. “I think you know what I mean. But using my own son to excite my long-dead desires is… well it is a shameful thing to do.”
I was devastated by this sudden change of heart, and my mind raced, frantically searching for some way out, some argument I could use to change her mind and stop this unexpected catastrophe from ruining all my hopes. I’d dreamed about having a relationship with my mother for so long, and now my dreams and fantasies were running away like water down the drain.
Then it hit me. The answer was not some fiendishly clever ploy or plot to convince her everything was alright. No, maybe the answer was to finally tell her the truth.
“Now listen mom,” I said taking her hand. “I have a confession to make. This is not about what you’ve done at all, this is about me and what I’ve done.”
She looked at me questioningly.
“I’ve been obsessed with you for a long time now. In fact I’ve been trying and trying to think of a way I could get close to you. What happened wasn’t the result of what you did at all. I’ve been loving you and lusting after you for over a year now. What happened today was the answer to my prayer, a fulfilment of my greatest fantasy.”
She looked at me in surprise. “But why?” she said softly. “Why would you want an old woman like me?”
“Well,” I began, “I guess I’ve seen for some time now how unhappy you are and I wanted to help. I thought about helping you find a new partner, but then I realised it would make me jealous (ok, so I was stretching things a bit). I realised how much I loved you and I wanted you for my own. But I couldn’t tell you, I was too afraid. I never thought you would understand, so I’ve been living with these desires for a long time now, and I guess they must have become more visible than I intended.”
Mother looked at me almost in wonder. She appeared to be trying to take in what I was saying.
“I know it’s wrong,” I said, “but I can’t help it. More than anything in the world I want to be with you. None of this is your fault. You didn’t do anything except respond to how I was feeling… how I am feeling. I love you mother and I want you so much.”
“But,” she paused. “It will damage you if I… if we do anything.”
“No,” I said. “Any damage of the kind you mean was already done a long time ago. I did it to myself. What’s more that damage will remain and have a long lasting effect on my life. There is only one way to prevent that from happening.”
I think she knew what I was going to say but there was doubt in her eyes. Luckily for me (if you remember) I’d already worked my way through this situation in my fantasies, so I knew just what to say.
“If I have a relationship with you, then that part of me will be fulfilled. I will then eventually move on, grow and develop, and become a normal man who once had a wonderful secret he shared with his mother. But if things stop now I will be unfulfilled, and part of me will be always be wanting something I can never have. That is the real danger… where the real damage would be done.”
Ok so I’d given it my best shot. For a while there I think I even convinced myself. But the real question was, had I convinced my miserable old mother to hit the sack with her randy son?
She looked at me thoughtfully for a long time, as if she was going through my argument in her mind.
V
There was only a small bedside light glowing dimly in my bedroom, and it made the room seem small and intimate, like mother and I were encased in a kind of warm and shimmering bubble, far away from the noise and bustle and problems of the real world. She was looking at me, and I at her, but both of us were seeing the other in a new way. Walls has come down, and for a moment I could feel just how much she wanted to hold me, and I guess she could feel just how much I wanted to touch her. That kind of honest longing is hard to resist… whatever the consequences.
Then, to my eternal joy, mother slipped off her dressing gown and pulled my head down to her bosom. I snuggled in to her for a moment, then I lifted my head and both my hands slid up and encased her bra covered breasts and gently fondled them. The bra was white and padded and very sharply pointed, and my fingers tingled and twitched as I groped at the material. She made no attempt to stop me. Instead she reached around behind her back and unfastened her bra. As she pulled it away, I suddenly discovered my hands were full of the soft warm ample flesh of her naked tits. They weren’t huge, but they filled my palms in a way that was infinitely satisfying. I bent back down and took one of her nipples in my mouth. It was long and hard and dark, like some mountain peak, and I suckled it as if I was still her baby. She sighed ever so gently.
She had been sitting on the side of my bed, and even as I was tweaking her nipple with my tongue, she lifted herself up a fraction and pulled back the bedcovers. I felt her tugging at my pyjama cord, and then dragging down my pyjama bottoms. My mouth left her breast and I lay back in the bed. I think I expected her to begin to touch my penis, fondle it or something, or maybe even lay on top of me. But what happened next left me surprised and shocked. Her left hand took hold of my rock hard cock and stood it upright, then she bent down, and her mouth opened wide and entirely engulfed my penis. As I watched my not insubstantial cock disappear entirely, I confess for one brief moment I thought she was going to bite it off!
Then her lips and tongue embraced me gently in a soft velvet purse, and her mouth rippled and flowed and massaged my penis, and firecrackers stared to go off in my head. I’d never felt anything like it in my life. It was smooth and soft: it was gentle and loving: it was warm and caring. It felt like she making love to my penis with her tongue (which of course she was), but the words ‘making love’ suddenly meant something different. I guess before they’d always meant ‘sex’, and ‘sex’ had always meant a sort of lustful rush to climax. But this was so different. There was no rush here, no hurried journey to some pre-destined place, no mountain-top that had to be reached. I guess it’s hard to explain in words. (If you’ve been there you know what I mean, if not, then go there!). She was loving me with her mouth, what else can I say.
As I lay there, taking in an entirely new set of feelings and experiences, my growing desire was not just to get more of the same (and make this go on forever), but to try and give back some of what was being freely given to me. I thought I loved my mother, but now I wanted to learn how to make love to her.
But then the sheer lustful pleasure of what she was doing to my cock overtook everything else, and I knew I was going to cum again. I tried to warn her, to pull back and away. “I’m cumming mummy,” I whispered, assuming she would lift her head and stop. But she didn’t. Instead her head pushed down forcing me deeper into her mouth, and at the same time she sucked harder and rougher at my cock. With a moan of infinite pleasure I thrust my bottom upwards and ejaculated deep in her mouth.
She gobbled and sucked at my penis swallowing as much of my fluid as she could. Then she lifted her head and smiled at me. I watched in awe and fascination as dribbles of white string leaked from the corners of her mouth and hung down like baubles on a Christmas tree. She lifted back bits of dripping cum with her fingers and returned them back into her mouth. I was stunned, shocked even, as I watched her avidly devouring my semen. I think that was my first real lesson of what it was like to be with a mature sexually liberated women. After rubbing her face clean with an arm of her dressing gown, mother took my hand and pulled me up out of bed. “This bed is too small,” she said softly. Then she led me across the hall into her bedroom.
She stood me by her big double bed and slowly stripped me naked. She seemed take pleasure in my nakedness, touching me here and there and running her fingers over my body. Then she stepped back and slipped off her dressing gown. We looked admiringly at each other bodies for a moment. Her breasts hung slightly but not enough to be unattractive. Likewise her tummy was rounded but not fat. To me, seeing her this way, was my fantasy come true. She was attractive, exciting, damn sexy, and in my opinion she was also beautiful.
“Undress me,” she whispered, “but you can leave my nylons on if you want.” She was smiling at me with a cute come-hither smile that I’d never seen before. She stood there calmly waiting, so I bent down and slowly and carefully removed her panties. As I pulled them down and she stepped out, my face was level with her sex. It was covered in lightly coloured hairs, and gave off a strange but not unattractive odour. I leant forward to kiss it, and as I did so her hands dropped down behind my head and gently pushed my mouth closer. I snuggled my face in for a moment to the mystical area between her legs. It was warm and damp and curiously alluring, but at that time I had no clear idea what to do. Back then I knew virtually nothing about female anatomy. Then she released me and I stood up.
I confess I was hopelessly out of my depth. I had no idea exactly what was going to happen next or what I should do. I think my uncertainty and sheer naivety must have showed in my face because mother lent forward and gently kissed my lips. “Relax,” she said softly, “mummy will teach you all you need to know.” Then she lay me down on the top of her bed.
“First,” she whispered, “we need to get this little beast back to attention.” She knelt down beside the bed and without another word took my limp cock back in mouth. Being the age I was it didn’t take long for my ‘Percy’ to respond in the desired manner. Even though I was quickly hard again she continued suck me rhythmically for some time. Eventually she lifted her head and leant forward to kiss me. It started as a gentle kiss, but then her tongue forced it’s way into my mouth and suddenly she was kissing passionately. I could taste and smell the scent of my cock and my semen on her mouth, and I found myself responding to her with equal passion.
I confess my memory of things start to blur at that point. I think I was starting to loose myself in a way I didn’t understand. I have brief images rather than detailed memories. I remember how mother’s eyes looked as we broke the kiss. They were hazy and far away, as if she was drifting to another place. She looked drunk (but that’s not really the right word) and lost in some kind of mystical joy. I remember her climbing on top of me and inserting my penis up inside herself, and how that made me feel. She moved up and down slowly at first, but then faster and faster like a cowboy riding a bronco, and I felt myself responding instinctively to her rhythm.
As we made love she would occasionally lean forward and whisper words of love, telling me how wonderful I was and how much she really cared for me. At other moments she would lean back upright and squeeze her legs together and ride me for all she was worth. And then quite suddenly her body seemed to go rigid and she cried out as if in terrible pain or ultimate joy. She squeezed me so hard at one point I felt as if she were trying to crush me. Then she fell forward on to my chest and showered me with endless kisses.
As you may well imagine things changed after that night. Eventually we moved in together and our relationship continued for another 15 years, before my mother sadly died. I guess there are a lot of questions to ask about how having regular sex with my own mother affected me… and her. Well all I am going to say now, is that it did me no harm. Indeed it taught me so much about women, in a safe secure environment (if you know what I mean), and led me eventually to a new happy relationship.
As for Mother, well her neurotic behaviour ceased. Indeed the only time she got angry was when I was too shy to share with her my sexual fantasies… or let her act them out for me.
