Milestones

This is my first ever submission and the first part of a three part story. Thanks go to CM for her guidance and encouragement.

Tom's Story-The Beginning

I love to lie here alone late at night and think about her. When I can't be with her I close my eyes and try to hear the sound of her voice, try to feel the velvet texture of her skin and the security of her naked embrace. After a while my memory takes me to the bed we share whenever we can and I touch myself as I relive those afternoons of sensuous pleasure.

I remember the feel of her perfect breasts against my lips. In my mind I kiss the skin softly and experience the thrill as her nipple stiffens to my touch. As gently as I can I scrape my teeth lightly over the hardening flesh, before sucking it into my mouth. She responds by opening herself beneath me and my penis enters the now familiar warmth of her.

With every slow stroke of my hand I remember making love to her. I am thinking about the grip of her legs across my behind and the feel of her arms across my back as I move inside of her. I remember how nervous she was about our lack of contraception after the first few times we did this. She knew there was still the possibility of us conceiving a child, but in these precious moments she ceased to care and would whisper to me how much she wanted me to fill her with my orgasm, how much she needed to feel my release flowing inside of her.

As I satisfy myself now I think of that amazing sensation as she cries out with her orgasm and I fill her gorgeous body. Afterwards we lie still and she kisses me gently and soothes me with the touch of her hand at my neck. I lie here now and remember that. I think about how our journey started. How she became my lover. My beautiful Catherine, my beautiful mother.

In everyone's life there are events which stand out as clear milestones along an otherwise featureless road. Those events change everything and define who we were in the past, who we are now and who we will be become. For our family such an event occurred on a winter afternoon that ripped a jagged slit through the fabric of our lives.

I was seventeen when my older sister was killed in a road accident as she drove home from university on a dark December afternoon. Until then, we had been a perfectly normal middle class family with a comfortable lifestyle and happy existence. My father's job in finance provided us with everything we wanted and my mother, Catherine, gave us all of the love and care that we could have needed. She was the focal point of our family unit, the one that kept the happiness flowing through every day we lived.

At 45, she was an intelligent and confident woman who had married well and then given up her own career to bring up two children and support her husband. She was still a beautiful woman and her blue eyes and figure hinted at the attraction she had held for my father when younger. Nursing two children and the years of family routine had dulled her shine slightly, but to me she was the most special and lovely woman in the whole world. Every boy would say that about his own mother of course, but I always felt that there was something inside of her that set her apart from the rest. I knew as well that there was something between us that meant I was closer to her than any of my friends were to their own mothers. I could talk to her about anything and when I told her that I loved her as I packed my things and headed back to boarding school at the beginning of every term, I always felt a deep twist of something that I struggled to define or understand.

When my sister Julie was killed it seemed to completely destroy my mother. My father and I were devastated of course, and the shock and grief that gripped us was a dark and never ending nightmare, a black hole that seemed inescapable for a long while. But all of us knew that my mother had had something taken away from her that no woman should have to lose. As the months passed following Julie's death she did her best to cope, but everyone around her could see that she was sinking. It was then that my relationship with her took on a new dimension. Perhaps it was the only way that she could find her way back from the darkness. Looking back on it now it seems surreal and strange. At the time however it seemed to me to be inevitable, as we crossed the line from being a loving mother and son to becoming a sexually loving couple.

It began on my first holiday home from university, shortly after my eighteenth birthday. I was starting my life again after the horror of my sister's death and had enjoyed my first term of study. It felt wrong to be rebuilding my happiness when it was clear to see that my mother was finding it impossible to rebuild hers. My parents' marriage was disintegrating under the weight of their loss and I felt a sense of guilt that I had found a way of moving forward when they had not. At least my mother had not. My father, I discovered later, had found solace in an affair with another woman. My mother on the other hand seemed to have been cut adrift in a sea of loneliness.

Looking at her on the first day of my return, I could still see the woman that I loved more than any other. She had shoulder length and slightly curled blonde hair that she usually wore tied back, letting it free only occasionally and in private. Her eyes were an incredible blue which seemed to look into the very soul of anyone she chose to make eye contact with. Her figure was still good for a woman of her age, with full breasts and neat hips, despite having delivered two children. There was something about her mouth and expression that set her apart though. Not classically beautiful but suggestive of a deep emotion and seriousness that I knew men found attractive. Several of my friends had commented on her looks and, as I grew older, I was beginning to appreciate what they could see. It was her personality that set her apart more than anything though. She was warm, clever and an excellent conversationalist. Although so much of that seemed to me have disappeared in the last year, there were still flashes in unguarded moments.

I was the opposite. Quiet and reserved, it annoyed me slightly that people regarded me as shy. My mother had told me that I was a good looking boy often enough. My 'beautiful boy' as she would call me. I had inherited the thick black hair and dark eyes of my father and, now that I had grown to her height, my mother would tell me that I was just like him as she embraced me and made gentle fun of my embarrassment at her attention. Occasionally she would tease me and ask me about girls. Although I always avoided the subject and brushed away her prying, the truth was that I had little or no experience and had never had a proper girlfriend or any sort of significant sexual experience.

On my second day home I found out how difficult it was for my mother to cope. I had been out to see a friend and when I came home the house was in darkness. It was late evening and I knew that my father was out at some function or other but was surprised that there was no sign of my mother as I entered the house. It was when I went upstairs that I found her. She was in Julie's bedroom. The room had stayed virtually untouched since her death and, although my father had argued that it should be cleared, my mother had insisted that it should remain as it was.

Seeing the light from the lamp in Julie's room, I walked in slowly and quietly, not wanting to intrude on any private moment. I saw my mother sitting at the dressing table. I could see, fresh from her bath, she was dressed in a towelling robe and that, for the first time since my return, her hair was down. She was looking into the mirror and could see me standing in the doorway. Without turning round she smiled and looked at me through the reflection. I walked across to where she was, not sure what she was doing or why she was there. As I stood behind her our eyes made contact as she looked back at me through the glass. She reached one hand behind her to take mine and she pulled it to her mouth kissing it gently, as she had sometimes done when I was a child. She held it there for a few seconds and then released it. I rested both of my hands on her shoulders and asked her if she was alright.

She began talking to me. Inconsequential things about where I had been, how I was finding the work at university, anything but telling me the reason why she was sat alone in this room. I answered as best I could, not wanting to cause her any distress. After a few moments she said something that took me by surprise.

"Tom, did you think Julie was pretty?"

It was such an unexpected question that I paused before I could find my reply.

"Of course she was mum, she looked like you, how could she be anything else?"

"No, I mean really, do you think she was a pretty girl?"

"She was beautiful mum, everybody thought so. And I mean it when I say she got that from you."

At that she turned to me and looked up into my face. She reached up and put her hand to my cheek. She didn't smile at me, just looked at me for what seemed like an hour but must have been no more than a few seconds. Neither of us spoke, but for that instant I knew that I could feel that bond between us that we had always enjoyed from my earliest years. I suppose I was relieved that after everything it was still there and felt reassured that it always would be, although at the same time I felt a slightly strange sense of it being somehow different now to how it had been before. The sound and lights of my father's car entering our driveway seemed to explode into the stillness of that moment. My mother stood up to leave the room and I switched out the light and closed the door behind me.

In the days that followed things went on as they had before. My father continued going to the office each day and my mother spent most of her time alone in the house. I did my best to keep her company and to do some sort of studying. It was a strange atmosphere as we all went about our daily routine. All three of us trying our best to live our lives without doing or saying anything to catch at the scars that we knew were a long way from healed.

The thing that changed everything was when my mother told me about my father's affair. That conversation threw me into a maelstrom of emotions that blew away the previous certainties of my life. It was so unexpected that it affected me almost as much as Julie's death. I don't know what my mother's motivation was in telling me, but it left me feeling a sense of betrayal that I struggled to come to terms with. Once he knew I was aware, he talked to me about it and tried to make me understand his point of view. I didn't hate him but I hated what he had done and what he was doing. More than anything, I couldn't understand how he could continue with it knowing what it would do to my mother. I can see now that it was crutch for him. He needed something to help him feel normal again and maybe screwing his secretary was it. Looking back now I can forgive him that, but not the fact that he was prepared to do it under the nose of my mother.

A few days after I found out my mother kissed me for the first time. That sounds ridiculous, given that she loved and nurtured me my entire my life. This kiss though was different and it did something to change the nature of that special bond between us. My father was at an evening business meeting and was not expected back until late. There were of course an increasing number of late evening meetings and overnight trips. Using these codes and tacit understandings seemed to me to be ridiculous given that we all knew what was happening, but perhaps my mother hoped that if she didn't make a fuss then the whole disgusting thing would disappear.

We had eaten together and were sharing a glass of wine. My mother didn't like me drinking and warned against letting that sort of thing interfere with my university work, but that night she seemed to want me to relax in this way. I was sat beside her on the sofa and she was paying me the sort of attention she sometimes did when I knew she wanted to feel close to me. I was getting too old for it, but if it made her happy then I was prepared to let her do it. I was lying with my head against her chest and she was stroking her hands through my hair, asking me the usual questions about my studies and girls.

Maybe it was the wine, but I felt the need to make her feel secure. I wanted to take away any vulnerability that she might be sensing. Offering her any sort of emotional protection was a new experience for me and I wasn't sure how to say things properly. I told her that I was too caught up in university to bother with girlfriends and that, anyway, she was the only woman that I wanted to be close too.

She laughed. A gentle teasing laugh and it was so nice to see it. She turned my face up towards hers and called me her beautiful boy. As she brushed her lips over mine I initially accepted it as one of the million moments of tenderness we had shared in the past, as any mother and son would have. But then she kissed me again. This time her lips parted slightly as they connected with mine and I instinctively opened mine in response. The feel of her warmth and softness stung me like no other sensation had ever done before. It wasn't desperate or aggressively sexual, but the fact that she was kissing me in this way sent a wave of dark pleasure through me that shocked me.

I felt the gentle flick of her tongue against the inside of my lip and then the sharp thrill as the tip passed lightly over mine. She held me there for a while and then broke momentarily before repeating what she had done. Afterwards she pulled me close to her again and neither of us spoke. Eventually she told me that I should be heading up to bed. She smiled at me as I went and bid me goodnight. It was just a moment and just a kiss, but it was a milestone that stands out from my past like no other.

Two days later my father left for yet another overnight business trip. My mother decided that she and I should spend the entire day together. I would be heading back to university at the end of the week and she said that she wanted to make the most of me while she had me to herself. We drove out to the coast as she had loved to do when Julie and I were small. We walked for miles. Just the two of us enjoying a brief window of early winter sunshine.

As we walked we stayed close together and she seemed happy. For a while she took my hand. Pressing her palm into mine and wrapping her fingers within my own. I marvelled at the simple wave of warmth it gave me and felt disappointed when she broke free to run back towards the car as the rain started to fall.

We ate ravenously when we got home. Both of us exhausted and famished thanks to the exercise and air of that beautiful day. When it was time to go to bed she asked me if I would sleep beside her. She told me that she didn't want to sleep alone and then added as a joke that she wouldn't let any of my friends know about it. We both laughed and then she asked me again, more seriously this time, and I realised that she really did not want to be on her own.

I hadn't slept in her bed since being a child and as I made my way up to get ready it felt strange to be preparing to share that space with her. She stayed downstairs, busying herself with the business of tidying and checking doors, while I washed and then got into bed. I didn't switch the light on but lay in the darkness, listening to her as she washed and gargled in the adjacent bathroom. Lying there in just my shorts I felt nervous, although I wasn't sure why I should. I thought of our kiss the previous evening and had an unusual sense that I was sharing something that was new and different.

As she entered the bedroom she stood to the side of the bed and I looked at me as she undressed. She untied her hair and let it fall across her shoulders and then removed her clothes. Even in this simple act she was, as in everything, careful and elegant. She pulled her blouse from the waist band of her skirt and then reached to the side to unzip it. She slid it down over her hips, removing her tights and underwear in the same movement. She turned from me as she unbuttoned her blouse and I saw her reach expertly behind herself to unhook her bra as she removed her upper garments. As she turned back to me to make her way to the bed, I caught a short glimpse of her completely naked body. I knew she was perfect. Her breasts were still full and round and her slender waist gave way to the flowing lines of her hips and legs.

As she got into the bed I made to turn away, not wanting to embarrass her by looking into her face, but she turned her back to me more quickly and told me to cuddle her as she snuggled into me. She drew my arm around her waist and she held it to her as she pressed herself into me, stealing the warmth from my body and sucking it into her own. We lay like that for a little while, on our sides like spoons with her bum pressed into me. She placed her hand over mine and held it to her. I could feel the soft flush of the skin of her stomach and the gentle scrape of her nails as she stroked them over my hand. Almost without thinking, I began to follow her gentle stroking motions by tracing my touch back and forwards across her skin.

"That's nice" she whispered sleepily as I brushed my fingers as softly as I could, aware that the feel of her pressed to me was causing me to become erect. She must have felt it but, as I tried to move back gently back from her, she simply pulled me closer. She began to guide my hand and I understood that she was enjoying the feel of my touch. I knew that it was wrong of me to be taking pleasure from the sensation of the gentle pressure of her body against me, but I seemed incapable of controlling the gentle sensation as it rippled through me.

Although it was barely perceptible, I could feel her moving in a slight and tiny rocking moving as she pressed herself into me. Under her unspoken guidance I made slow motions as I caressed her. She led my hand down slightly and the very tips of my fingers made contact with the softness of the hair that spread up from below her waist. I felt a new sensation. It was as if she was sharing some secret with me that nobody else could see or taste and I marvelled at the experience.

After a minute or so she drew my hand back up to her stomach and our movements ceased. As my arousal faded it was replaced by a feeling of safety and love as we lay together. I listened to the dying noises of the outside world as we both drifted off to sleep.

My father came home the next day and it seemed as if things were changing. He and my mother looked to have found a way to come to terms with the status of their lives and were learning to function with some sense of normality, despite the situation. They still shared a bedroom, regardless of my father's affair, and this was something that I had never cared to question in my own mind.

My feelings and thoughts about her were jumbled. When we were living the routine of each day, I could see my loving and protective mother, the one who had always been there to look after me. And yet at other times I thought that I could see something else. Sometimes, I would look up from a book I was reading and find her watching me. She would make eye contact without smiling and then look away. At other times, when my father left the room for instance, she would touch my face and give me a fleeting kiss on my face, as if trying to send me some conspiratorial signal that only we understood.

I knew that I wanted to be close to her more and more. I think I knew also that I was taking myself emotionally to a place that should have been off limits. I couldn't stop myself from thinking of her as something more than my mother. Some nights, like I suppose any teenage boy, I would masturbate as I explored the mental fantasies that arose from my increasing awareness of the opposite sex. I shocked myself as I let her seep into these images. Afterwards I would feel shame and disgust, but I couldn't block the thought of her naked body pressed against me or the thought of her touching me and the sense of her mouth against mine.