1
Where to begin after a night like last night's? When I came to, Saturday, I should have been tired and sore. In fact I should have been ruined, being that my mother and I had fucked each other into the morning like old lovers, which we were -- no doubt about that!
Aside from the dull headache which only lasted about as long as the fifty push-ups I cranked out on the bedroom floor, I was wide awake and full of energy, surprised at myself evermore when I realised it wasn't yet half-past ten.
I heard Sara in the bathroom with the distinct snap of the shower cord sounded and the rush of a torrential downpour lashing the bath's basin hard, and then more acutely her feet creaking along the floorboards before she stepped under the shower head. I needed no encouragement. I was there in a shot, naked and willing.
Already mum was wet from head to toe behind the folding glass screen, hot water running down her fair-skinned curves in waving rivulets, her hair like molten gold as it slithered down her back and curled at the ends. I was treated to the whole godly view as I stood there in the doorway, my cock straining and rising to the occasion like a hydraulic crane.
The sensation of my body next to hers, and then coupled with hers is heavenly. There's little to no modesty there, just intimacy and security. In the throes of passion, making sex together when the animal takes over, every inch of flesh is fair game.
To see her naked, standing up, assuming a pose such as this -- twirling under streams of water and steam as she lathers her hair with shampoo and strains it, letting the soapy lather wash her naked form like milk -- she is the living Greek statue of a goddess, no gym membership necessary.
There is muscle and there is flesh and there is artistic structure and it doesn't conform to the glossy pink celebrity ink standard that boys will masturbate to until the day they realise they're lusting over narcissistic obsession, systematic starvation and emotional instability.
My mother is still my mother, but she's more than that. She's a woman in every, but she's more than a woman too. She's the golden motherly standard, the golden standard for beauty, and for sexuality, and to drink in such a sight is akin to drugging oneself to overstimulation.
Beyond the taboo of wanting her, and that of having her -- many times and for many years -- I now face the challenge of balancing the roles of loving son and lusting motherfucker, not to forget myself or what I love about her.
Sara flashed me a grin, which spanned from ear to ear when she saw me standing at full-mast and grinning back. Next thing I was in the shower behind her, and she was leaning back against me, as my soapy hands romantically slipped and slip over every hot wet curve, from her heaving breasts to her hips, and the generous V leading to that place I loved so much, between her thighs.
'You just can't help yourself can you?' she purred, her own hands roaming my muscular arms. She gasped and her whole body spasmed as my fingers found what they were looking for; that stiff little panic button located under the hood of the cockpit.
'No, but I can help you,' I teased, flicking the sensitive skin of her neck with the tip of my tongue before planting a kiss there. Her head rolled back against my shoulder, and another louder gasp came as she trembled against the gentle circling of my fingers around her clit.
'Oh behave,' mother chuckled and then hissed pleasurably through her teeth. So I took my roaming hand back north over her belly, but she immediately grabbed it by the wrist and put it back to work. 'I didn't say stop.'
This time I ran two fingers between her fleshy labia and melted into that slippery, silk vestige of motherhood -- met with a single breathless moan. My cheek was rested against hers then, as I gloated over the ample valleys of her soaked and glistening breasts. Feeling her breath against my mouth, now that she had moved her head so that she was looking up at me with glazed, lusting eyes, I craned my neck to move my lips to hers.
'I just have to,' I murmured before engaging her willing mouth with mine, withdrawing only once to say, 'I just want to snog you all day.'
'You're pleased to see me,' she said, a hand gripping my straining cock, and then we were at it again, pleasuring each other as we kissed beneath the steaming torrent.
'As soon as I try to get myself clean you want to make me get dirty again,' Sara chuckled some time later, looking up at me with love and mirth, her arms tight around my chest, squashing her beautiful body against mine. I loved to feel her breasts slipping and sliding up against me that way. The only problem, always, was that there was no place for my hard-on to go. But then, a wicked thought...
'Well I'm going to be a good son and let you get clean, for now,' I said, and then whispered in her ear, 'but only because I'm going to be cruel and make you wait until later...'
'You're just awful,' mum said, offering a mock scowl, before blushing and grinning again as I stepped out of the bath tub.
'The absolute worst,' I agreed on a gleeful whim and blew her a kiss.
2
I took us out to lunch in town that afternoon, while the weather was nice. It had been a while since I hit the city centre on the busiest day of the week for shoppers. I'd grown disdainful of it all the longer I spent time in my own company. Nobody wants to be alone any town, any afternoon, and for any reason.
Couples and groups walk with the enthusiasm of a funeral procession. To want to just go do your own thing makes you the arsehole that's always in a rush, always bumping into people, and otherwise always swearing under your breath when you're stuck in human gridlock on even a relatively empty street.
Today was my opportunity to become the pain in the arse that was causing the gridlock, taking his sweet-ass time escorting his date around, and it was the most wicked fun I'd had in a long time with my clothes on. Don't get me wrong, I have respect and manners for the mutually minded, but if you're like the girl we encountered that day with the face like a raging bull, you were in for an experience out of whatever way you were used to having.
Mum liked to visit the curiosity shops and little department stores, now rare, and kept alive by the alternative crowd who sought their shady corners to socialise from. I didn't believe she'd ever been to a shop that sold nothing but drug paraphernalia like bongs and pipes.
Already the owner/sales assistant didn't seem too thrilled that we were treating his lot like a museum, even though the place was a bit heavy on the Che Guevara and Bob Marley. Nothing like a bit of golden age communism to mellow your mother!
We were headed for the door, which I took the lead and opened for mum, when this wide-bearing, hoodie-wearing girl with black lipstick and metal in her face started whining about the fact she didn't need a man to open the door for her, that she was perfectly able to do it for herself. I couldn't believe my ears.
I turned to mum with a queer grin, then turned back to the girl, assuring her, 'I didn't do it for you,' blocking her entry while Sara came out from behind me with a polite smile. The girl tried to push past. I didn't let her. Instead I made a point to close the door again, until the glass pane was inches from her offended little upturned nose, so that she could open her own damned door.
