There are elements of truth in this little tale. The broad outline of the deeds has been embellished for dramatic purposes. The names have been changed to protect the guilty. Enjoy! And VOTE!
*****
With their arms entwined around each other's waist, John and Carol Drake stood in the door of their Georgian waving at the last of the departing mourners. Carol's head rested on her son's arm. The tragic death of Allen, John's father and Carol's husband, hit them hard. Less than a week ago he was a seemingly healthy 50-year-old. Then, while sitting at his desk at work, he keeled over. The staff of his business called 911 but by the time the EMT arrived, it was too late.
As John closed the door, Carol slumped against him and began quietly crying. He wrapped his arms around her plump body and pulled her to him. Her head rested against his broad chest. He could feel her breasts pressing into his abdomen.
"Mom, I'll be here for you. It'll be hard but we can get through this together."
"I know, baby, but you have your own life. I'll manage."
"I took a few weeks off. Come on, lets sit down. You must be exhausted."
John guided his mother to the large mosh pit sofa in the media room. It fronted the 72" flat screen television where his father indulged his love of sports. A fully stocked wet bar sat at right angles to the wall where the TV hung. The sofa was C shaped with the middle of the C filled by a large hassock and end tables on either end.
Carol sat down on one side of the C and scooted across, resting her back on the sofa while her legs were extended in front of her on the hassock. Aware that her black knee length dress rode up to mid-thigh, she tugged ineffectually at the hem.
"John, would you fix me a drink, please! Bushmill's on the rocks"
"Mom, be careful! This is your second drink and you haven't eaten."
"I know, Johnny! I'll eat later. Now I just need a drink to relax!"
At 6' 2, 210 pounds, thirty-year-old John was built like his father. He looked down at his petite 48-year-old mother. The stress of the last few days aged her. The crow's feet at the corner of her eyes and the deep furrows at the corners of her mouth were more pronounced.
He smiled as she tugged at her hem. His mother was a modest person. However, he recalled growing up and hearing her and his father going at it in their bedroom. Belying her demure public persona, judging by her profane cursing and screams, she was a tiger in bed.
As he opened the 750-milliliter bottle of the potent Irish whiskey, the old saw came to mind. His mother was a lady in the streets and a whore in the sheets. He smiled as he added ice to two rock glasses and filled them with the alcohol.
In his teen years he had the usual sexual fixation with his mother. He ruefully shook his head as he recalled trying to peek and see her naked. He was away at college into his second relationship before he reconciled his incestuous lusting for his mother. He still found her alluring.
She gained a few pounds over the years, mostly in her behind and hips. However, they served to make her not heavier but curvier. Her breasts, he guessed she was a C cup, had a decided sag but only added to her curviness.
Carol watched her son fix their drinks. As always, she marveled that this handsome sexy young man was the issue of her womb. While his father was a rotund bear of a man, John was tall and athletic. He was an empathetic caring person. In some ways he was the antithesis of his hard driving father.
He was highly successful in his own right. He taught Business Principles in a prestigious university. Though it hurt when he graduated college and decide to live in California, she was proud that he stood up to his father. Allen wanted him to work in the company IT business.
"Thank you, baby!" She took the glass and took a deep gulp. Carol swallowed hard, daintily covered her mouth with her finger tips and then finished off the drink. She held the glass up and shook it.
"Wow! You had better take it easy! That stuff will go straight to you head."
"I hope it does! I need something to ease the pain of your father's death."
John took a sip of his drink, sat on the end table. He took his mother's glass back to the bar and refilled it. He paused. He looked at his mother. He grabbed the ice bucket and filled it. He took the ice bucket, his mother's refill and the bottle of Bushmill's back to the sofa. He handed her glass to her. Then he sat the ice bucket and bottle on the end table next to him.
"Part of dealing with lost is moving on! Socialize! Meet people! Perhaps one day finding someone to fill that hole in your life."
"What your father and I had was special! I'll never replace what we had."
He slipped off his coat and tie then kicked off his well-shined grey loafers. He sighed heavily as he sat next to her.
"Is that it," Carol said devilishly, "I thought I was going to get the full strip tease."
"Careful, Old Lady! I might do the full monty!"
"Promises, Promises!" Carol kicked off her high heels and let them drop to the floor. She playfully slapped her son's arm when he raised a suggestive eyebrow. "Stop it! Besides, you don't want to see this old wrinkled body!"
John sipped his drink. It was good to see flashes of his sassy mother. As she lay her head on his shoulder, he wrapped his arm around her, his hand rested on her black nylon thigh high stockings. Nocturnal hamper diving in his teen years revealed she usually wore thigh highs. It became a fetish of his to have his girlfriends wear them during sex.
Carol took a hefty sip of her drink. She reached over her son and sat the glass on the table. She lay her head back on his chest and began crying uncontrollably. John was caught off guard. He pulled her to him and held her head against his chest. As he stroked her back, his hands slipped to the soft mound where her back ended and her behind began.
"MOM! It's going to be okay! I know you and dad had something special. But life goes on!"
With one hand, he stroked her fragrant greying hair. His other hand caressed the upper curve of her behind. He read somewhere that the touch of someone who loved them could ease the pain of grief. As his hand stroked her thigh, her dress rode up exposing the brown flesh between her thigh high stockings and the bottom of her boy shorts. He felt awkward as his hand ended up on the bare skin of her thigh.
"I know, Johnny, I know! I'm just overwhelmed by the suddenness of it all."
Carol sniffled. She buried her face in her son's chest. She inhaled his manly scent. He was her refuge. She was aware of the impropriety of her son caressing her bare thigh. However, it was comforting, reminding her of sitting on this same couch with Allen while he caressed her behind. She reached over him, only dimly aware that her breasts drug across his chest, picked up her glass and drained it.
John took her glass, added a few ice cubes and filled it to the top. He also freshened his drink. "Hey, you're not a crying drunk are you," he teased trying to cheer her up.
"No! Not usually. It's just...well...I think about what life will be without him and I get sad."
