It started, well for me at least it did, when you were studying for your A levels, you were just over eighteen. You asked me to test you. I would spend hours in your room asking you questions on all the various subjects you were studying; perhaps doing the things a father should have done, but he had left us. When you had just become a teenager he had gone in search of perpetual youth. Abandoned us for his own ends, left us to search for his perfect life: being seen by others to still be young. He had gone to where the grass was greener, the skirts shorter, the stomachs flatter, and the legs longer and open wider. Yes, gone to the land where younger girls fell at his feet, because of his youthful looks or his turbocharged Bentley and platinum Amex? Who knows? It must have been a narrow choice for the Essex and London club land bimbos he fucked most nights.
We got used to being a couple. You still saw him and the one noble thing that remained of our mostly great marriage, was his and my intent to save you from the more extreme aspects of your parents divorcing. I never badmouthed him to you and I never stopped him seeing you, we totally ignored the court's access laws.
So we were together a lot; more than most mothers and sons. Unlike many, the divorce brought us closer together; closer than most mothers and sons. At first I, certainly, thought nothing of it, were just mum and son, weren't they all close and friendly like us?
I can remember, as clear as crystal, my first thought along the lines that society so frowns upon. Well I think I remember it, but the enormity of it, at the time, was so great I may have imagined or dreamed about it.
I was in a bathrobe, a dressing gown, a silk one, no buttons, just a tie round the waist; with plunging, narrow lapels. I had just showered. You asked me to help you with some school work. I came into your room. It was an airless room because, for some reason I never quite fathomed, you kept the windows closed and the door was usually shut. It smelt of you, it smelt of a man, it smelt, I suddenly found myself thinking as I saw your gaze run up and down me, of sex.
As I sat next to you, leaning forward, both of us staring at the PC screen, I was aware that the front of my robe was gaping, that my tits were hanging loose and that most of them were on view. I was also aware, that under the desk the outsides of our knees were touching. But what I was most acutely aware of was that I felt aroused.
Peter
When dad left, I felt abandoned - very much alone. I saw him regularly, but it didn't change the fact that he had left me, left us. I wasn't too popular at school; not to say I was unpopular, no one bothered me, but no one paid attention to me either. I wasn't that into sports and I really enjoyed studying, aspects of school life that doesn't make foe popularity.
I had no one really, no one to turn to, no one to guide and teach and help me. No one that is other than you, my mother. But that was fine, I felt cool with that. You were always there for me, always willing to listen, always kind and loving, always helpful, caring and considerate. I loved you, and we were happy.
But age has a way of separating a boy from his dear old mum. And naturally, as I grew up, I started thinking about girls and sex, and forgot about my mother.
Or at least, I should've. But I didn't.
At first, it was a mild interest, you'd bend over to pick something up and I'd check you out; you'd be getting out of the shower and I'd be around, chatting normally; I'd bring you breakfast in bed so I could see you in your nightclothes. I'd find any excuse to be around you, and as I smiled and chatted normally I'd imagine you taking off your clothes and kissing me.
Like all guys my age, I'd masturbate at night and fantasise about beautiful celebrities, girls from school and the English teacher every guy in my year had a crush on, but somehow I'd always end up thinking about you as I brought myself to eruption point. I'd imagine my lips on your breasts, my kisses on your neck, your soft naked flesh pressed up against me. The woman of my dreams was in the next room and I was too scared to do anything about it. But that woman was my mother. If I told her, she would think I was a freak. I'd have to live with dad. Or maybe they'd lock me away.
Was I sick?
Then, there was that night. I heard you getting out of the shower and called you into my room for some trivial problem with schoolwork. You entered my room, a silk bathrobe hanging casually over your slender frame, rubbing a towel on your damp, blonde, near shoulder length hair. You looked up at me and smiled warmly, your bobs jiggling around inside the robe, reminding that under it you were likely to be naked.
"What's up love?" You asked, and I very nearly told you, 'My cock mum, its sticking straight up my stomach.' But instead, I directed you to the PC and shared my problem. You sat next to me and stared at the screen as I stared at you. You were magnificent. Your gown had fallen open slightly, giving me a tantalising view of your breasts, the soft, pink flesh right to the edge of the nipple. I fought the urge to reach out a hand and touch you. But I had to do something.
Under the desk, I let my knee touch yours. It sounds silly now, but it was all I could think of. I had to touch you, and I couldn't think of any other way. You didn't move away, and I took that as a positive sign.
All too soon you had solved my problem and I had no other reason to keep your attention. You turned to me and smiled. For a heartbeat we sat, face to face, smiling with mere inches between our lips. All I had to do was lean forward.
But I couldn't.
"Well," you said. "I'm off to bed." You leant in and placed a very hurried peck on my cheek. Any slower and I might have 'accidentally' turned and let our lips collide. It didn't occur to me at the time that you might have known, and that you were facing the same temptation.
