If you remember I left off my previous tale after Mother had shown me how 'exciting' a woman can be. If you also recall, I'd tried to minimise just how much I had been knocked out by her sexual antics, hoping to prolong the experience beyond one night. I'd been afraid if she found out I wasn't as 'gay' as she'd thought, she'd feel the job was done. But although she'd indicated to me at the time she was prepared to continue her sexual instruction, it was clear by the next day things had taken a turn for the worse.
I guess she'd mulled over what happened (and what she'd allowed me to do), and realised (perhaps for the first time) she was encouraging her only son to commit incest with his own mother ... and maybe that wasn't such a clever thing to do. She'd thought maybe she'd over-reacted to her suspicions of my homosexuality. Maybe if she'd just left things alone I'd have reverted to being a normal healthy heterosexual male. Certainly my apparent response to her advances, and to her revealing her body to me, indicated I was nowhere near as far gone as she'd thought. In fact it soon became clear she'd made a horrendous mistake. Rather than her advances turning me back into a normal 'male', maybe she'd done the complete opposite and thrown me off the rails good and proper.
As I have indicated, mother was never the sharpest knife in the draw, but she was at last starting to understand you can't offer your luscious body to your own son - you can't encourage him to cum in his own mother's mouth - without some consequences resulting. In my case these consequences can be summed up as a new and overwhelming desire to 'shag the living daylights out of her' at every opportunity!
At breakfast the following morning, for example, I'd sneaked up behind her whilst she was frying some eggs, slipped my hands under her arms and grabbed both her tits. At the same time I'd embedded my hard cock in the fold of her dressing gown. Looking back one could hardly call my actions 'subtle' or 'cautious' or even 'measured', and I guess a long night of dreaming about fucking my delicious mother in the mouth had proved too much for my normal reserved approach. All I wanted to do at that moment was rip her clothes from her body, throw her on the floor, and shag her for all I was worth! I wanted to enter her for the first time, to fuck her properly.
She, however, wanted none of it!
When I'd grabbed her breasts she was so shocked she'd actually screamed, and the two half-fried eggs in the pan did a double-somersault and ended up as new decoration for the kitchen tiles. She's spun round, pulled her gown tight across her body, and looked at me in sheer horror.
"PETER!" she screamed. "What are you doing?! What on earth do you think you're doing!?"
"Oh ..." I'd muttered. "I'm ... I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd mind. I thought ..."
"Well think again young man! I am not some TART you can grab whenever you want! I'm your mother for Christ's sake!"
I knew then that everything had changed. What had once been untouchable - and then as if by magic offered to me on a plate - had become untouchable again. Still, I did feel she'd over-reacted a bit. I mean I was only doing what I'd been freely encouraged to do the previous evening. It hadn't been wrong then; how come it was so bloody wrong now? I have to say I felt a bit pissed, and just a little justified for feeling pissed.
What I hadn't realised of course, was how turned on mother had been by what had happened the previous evening. After she'd gone to bed, she'd lain there and masturbated herself to sleep. But when she'd woken in the morning her lust had faded and been repressed, and (as lust often does) had magically turned itself into guilt. Ever since then she'd been castigating herself - flaying herself with an imaginary birch twig - and showing herself what a terrible thing she'd done. She was now explaining to herself in no uncertain terms that not only must she never let it happen again, but she must seek to undo the damage by pretending it never happened in the first place.
Complicated people women ... especially mothers!
Anyway, I was too young to realise any of this, so I just turned around and stomped off back to my room. Not only was I mildly offended at being shouted at, I was deeply miffed to realise I wasn't ever going to get another opportunity to see mother's tits, let alone get into her cunt!
But in the days that followed I couldn't quite let go of the memory of that incredible night, and I began to wonder if there was a way of turnings things around again ... of getting my hands back into mother's underclothing. There had to be some way.
Needless to say I masturbated furiously at every opportunity to memories of that night; to visions of her breasts and her stockings, and most of all to the sight of her mouth engulfing my cock. After a couple of weeks I convinced myself that so much masturbation can't be good for you, and the sheer single-minded intensity of my lust led me to believe I had to find a way back to her body (if only to stop myself going blind!). Time was not on my side, however. Father would be back in a month, and whatever I was going to try had to be done soon. If it didn't happen before dad came back, it would never happen at all. But after a couple of days of compulsive thought about the problem I started to come up with a few ideas.
II
Now if you remember my previous tale, I'm not exactly Attila-the-Hun when it comes to being bold and forceful. In fact I'm a bit of a wimp. My idea of standing up to mother in her authoritative mood was to go to my bedroom slowly (rather than instantly), and to stamp my feet a bit on the way up. Not very dominant I admit, but then this was the fifties, and if you remember I'd learnt to be passive rather than actively masculine. The point being my first ideas about getting round mum tended to follow this line. I thought maybe if I asked her nicely, or if I kept nagging her, she might just let me 'cop a feel' of her tits.
So over the next few days I tried to make peace with her, but at the same time let her know I still wanted (needed even) some 'sexual' contact. One of my first ploys was to beg her forgiveness (as if I'd done something terrible), burst into tears, and when she'd hug me to reassure me, my hand would tend to creep up around her breast area.
However we always seemed to end up with conversations that went something like this:
Me: "You don't hate me mum, do you? I'm so sorry. I just knew it was wrong ... but you said it was alright."
Mother: "No, I don't hate you Peter ... of course I don't. I know it wasn't your fault but it's done now so let's just forget about it."
Me: "But I can't forget about it mum, I feel so guilty. I ... I ... I'm so so sorry ..."
Cue the tears.
Mother: "Oh Peter, Peter, please don't. Here, give me a cuddle."
She would then take me in her arms.
Long pause.
Mother: "NO Peter, don't put your hand there. I've told you before, you must stop touching me! PETER, move your hand ... NOW!!"
My hand would drop from her breast ... usually on to her upper thigh.
Mother: "For God's sake stop touching me where you know you shouldn't. I'm your mother. You mustn't touch me like that. Please, Peter, please try not to do that anymore."
