(Note to those who don't like long, full stories: Save yourself the aggravation and don't read this one. It's very long.)
Prologue
I buried my wife today. We had fifty-six great years together. Our love for each other never wavered. Oh, I'm not saying we didn't have our differences of opinion and our fights, but nothing that was serious or that threatened our love for each other or our marriage. She was ninety years old and quietly passed away one day sitting in her rocker on the front porch of our house looking out to the sea.
Our daughter, Stephanie, our only child, was besides me when we laid my wife to rest. Also in attendance was Stephanie's husband, their children, my grandchildren, two young men and a young woman and their spouses, as well as their children, five great grandchildren in all. And, of course, many, many people from the town were there, too.
It was a sad occasion, of course, but we all die eventually and my wife had ninety good years—except, maybe, for one or two when she was very young. She was well-loved by her family and friends and we will all miss her so very much, I more than the others because, you see, my wife was also my mother.
Neither our daughter, nor anyone else, ever knew that and, hopefully, never will, not that my Rachel and I were ashamed of being mother and son... and married. But we decided not to complicate our daughter's life with our unconventional love and marriage. I'm seventy-six years old, fourteen years younger than my wife, my mother, and should have at least another ten years left, maybe more.
What follows is the story of how I came to fall in love with and eventually marry my mother. Not that we stood before a preacher or a justice of the peace or had a piece of paper giving up permission to marry. We married each other in our own ceremony using our own words when we were far out to sea sailing our way to a new life and a new beginning.
This is our story.
Chapter 1.
Rachel gently massaged her son's feet as a snow storm—not quite a blizzard—raged outside the house. It was a habit from when he was little and had a hard time going to sleep. Rachel would rub and squeeze and massage his little feet. He would giggle at first then drift off to sleep. The fact that Jacob was now twenty years old didn't seem to matter to either mother or son. She enjoyed doing it as a sign of her love for him. He enjoyed it as a sign of their close bond, because it brought back pleasant memories, because it felt good, and also because he was in love with his mother and loved her touching him, even if it was only a foot massage.
Of course, he would never admit to any of his friends that he let his mother massage his feet on a nearly nightly basis. He knew they would think that just a little strange. And then there was another problem, something he'd never brought up to his mom. Well, really he couldn't. For the last couple of years, quite often, not every time, but often enough, his mother's loving touch on his bare feet would give him an erection.
He had one now and, but for the baggy sweatpants and sweatshirt he was wearing and a strategically place pillow, it would have been quite apparent. Even then he had to be careful not to shift his body too much. He would be mortified if his mother realized that her son was sporting a stiffie... just for her.
Jacob loved his mother. He knew that without a doubt. But it had been just a couple of years ago that he realized that he was also in love with his mother. That's when he started getting erections when she massaged his feet.
He knew that he shouldn't be in love with his mother but as much as he tried to deny it, to tell himself that he was just overly fond of her, it didn't work. He was in love with his mother and that was why he had a very erect erection right now.
God, how he wanted to expose his hard cock to his mother, have her be happily surprised and to have her place her lovely gentle hands around it, to squeeze it and stroke it. He fantasized about her sucking his cock, coming in her mouth, licking her pussy and, of course, fucking her. Oh yeah, he masturbated nearly every night with the so forbidden but oh so delightful images of embracing his mother, kissing her, fitting his hips between her thighs, sliding his cock into her pussy, and making love to her. His fantasy-driven ejaculations were strong, intense, body-shaking. He imagined having her every way he could think of. And, of course, in his fantasies his mother was a willing and eager lover, desiring him as much as he desired her.
His body gave a little involuntary shiver of lust as images of making sweet love to his mother ran through his mind. He would definitely masturbate again tonight.
"Are you cold," Rachel asked.
"Uh, no, Mom. It was... I don't know. My body just kind of did that by itself."
Damn! I'm going to have to be more careful, Jacob told himself. He did love his mother and he definitely didn't want to do anything that would shock and embarrass her... or worse, horrify her.
Rachel and Jacob were in the great room on the couch. Quite often they would be in her bedroom suite in their Uncle Joe's mansion, watching TV there while Rachel massaged her son's feet. But tonight, as for the last several nights, Uncle Joe was in the hospital and the prognosis didn't look good.
Jacob was stretched out on the couch with his head resting on another pillow at one end. His mother was sitting at the other end with both of his feet in her lap as she massaged first one then the other. There was a nice fire in the glass enclosed fireplace. It cast a merry light into the room as the wind went from a barely audible moan to a howling crescendo then to a mournful sighing. They had given up on trying to watch TV. There was no signal, probably due to snow covering the satellite receiving dish.
It was dark now and they could no longer see the snow gusting and blowing outside the diamond-shaped leaded windows. The only other light in the room was a small lamp on the end table beside Rachel.
"You were born on a night like this," Rachel said, looking at the dancing flames in the glass of the stove.
She turned her head to look at her son and smiled, remembering that night. She had told him the story many times before so she wasn't going to repeat it again.
"Yeah, Mom, you had come to live with Aunt Edna and Uncle Joe." Jacob smiled back at his mother.
He knew the story well. Aunt Edna and Uncle Joe were his mother's great aunt and uncle and his great-great aunt and uncle. Edna May Smithfield, nee Landers was the aunt of his mother's mother, his grandmother, who he had never met and probably never would.
His mother came from a small town in Arkansas and her father was a cotton farmer. He and his wife were also very religious. One might say severely religious. When they found out that their only child, Rachel, had been playing doctor with two of the neighboring farm boys—brothers—and had gotten pregnant, all hell broke loose. His mother's father had beaten her until her mother had thrown herself bodily on top of her.
Of course, her mother was extremely disappointed in her daughter. The scandal was all that she could think about and how the other church ladies would cluck and sigh and say how sorry they were. It was decided that they should send Rachel to Aunt Edna, if she would have her.
Edna Landers had left that small farming community as soon as she could. She went to college, became a professor of art history at Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois. She had married a rich industrialist—of course he wasn't rich at the time, although he was on his way to becoming rich. Edna was considered a snob back in that small town. One who didn't want to be associated with her family and community and her humble beginnings.
