The Birthday: Part I, Fantasies
My mother's 40th birthday, just after I turned 19, was the most momentous event of my life, permanently freezing a kink in my brain that had been slowly forming for years. Earlier, in May, I was graduated from military school and that summer, thanks to my father's connections, I got a job as a gofer on a construction site in Washington, D. C. The salary was minimal but, because my father finally let me live with my mother that summer, I was able to save almost all of it.
Lest, dear reader, your image of an all-boys military school be from the movies, let me assure you that we were not divided into sadistic alpha males and wimpy, perverted underlings. Except for compulsory meals and athletic practice, we kept pretty much to ourselves. The atmosphere, of course, was pseudo-military: we were awoken by reveille--a recording piped through a loudspeaker--and sent to bed by taps; meals were in the mess hall, we washed and crapped in the latrine, and the dorms were called barracks. We all had ranks--the new students were called "plebes"--and the senior monitor, the equivalent of the class president in "civilian life," was a captain. Demerits were marched off carrying a heavy but useless wooden rifle. And, no, our food was not laced with saltpeter; a rigorous regime of athletics was supposed to do the trick. Such was life in a military boarding school.
And my fantasies there? Unfortunately, I can't mention them here, but a reader with any imagination can infer what they might have been for the story I am about to tell, but just after my 18
th
birthday, they took an interesting turn.
Just before the divorce, my father had a first floor addition built for my mother's mother. However, once my grandmother moved in and my father moved out, she became progressively ill and it became necessary to hire a live-in nurse to sleep near my grandmother. The nurse, whose name was Betta, was a big, not unattractive, woman, about 10 years older than my mother. About a year after the nurse was hired, my grandmother died. To my surprise, Betta did not move on to another job, but stayed and moved into my room that was upstairs, next to my mother's. My naiveté was shattered during the following Christmas vacation when, per the divorce agreement, I spent one of my free two weeks at mother's. Much to my chagrin, I was exiled to my grandmother's old room, downstairs, away from mother's bedroom. One night, late, I heard moans and soft voices coming from there. Because I was dying to see what was happening, I crept up the darken stairs and peered through a small opening in mother's door. There was mother, naked and smoking with her holder, her head propped up on several pillows while Betta, lying sideways on the bed, feasted on mother's pussy. At the same time, one of Betta's hands caressed mother's small breasts while with the middle finger of the other hand, gloved in latex and covered with Vaseline, moved rhythmically in and out mother's rectum. Mother seemed almost in a trance but kept crying, "Oh god, Betta, please, please don't stop." I came on the spot, clamping my hand over my mouth to stifle a cry. From that moment on, my fantasies began to involve Betta and my role in my fantasies became more active.
A typical fantasy now involved mother picking up an eager seducer at a high-class bar, a wedding reception, or a cocktail party. Any site with horny, unattached males was hunting grounds for mother. After being assuring by mother that her sexual tastes were rather unusual, the curious victim would consent to be tied up or strapped down to a table, depending on mother's mood. At this point Betta would enter and begin to flog the man with a cat-o-nine tails if he were tied to a rafter or with a barbed cane on the soles of his feet if he were horizontal. This would delight mother. She, of course, would be smoking with her holder while I ate her out. My favorite scene had the victim on his back with his mouth held open with a restraining device so that mother had a convenient ashtray. When mother finished a cigarette she would put it out on his chest and then turn to me to light another for her.
Part II: The agonies of flirtation
During the first two months of summer, mother's behavior drove me insane. Having discovered my cache of pictures of holder-smoking models torn from the pages of her discarded
New Yorkers
and
Vogues
, mother was well aware of my holder fetish and took every opportunity to tease and provoke me with her smoking.
My daydreams were always variations of Betta torturing either me or one of mother's pick-ups while mother casually blew smoke and flicked ashes into our mouths. My night dreams were somewhat different. Often mother and I were in a house with other people but when everyone else was asleep I would creep into mother's bed where she would let me kiss and caress her lovely breasts. In other dreams, mother would be straddling my chest and waking me by blowing smoke in my face.
Mother loved to sun herself on the patio behind the house and one Saturday, when I was off from work, she asked me to put on my bathing suit and join her. When I went out, mother was lying face down on a cot with her bra untied. "Please put some of this lotion on my back and legs," she asked, as she handed me the bottle.
"How 'bout I make this a massage," I responded.
"Oh, that would be wonderful," she said.
I began by gently caressing her elegant neck. As I slowly worked my way down her back, she murmured, "That feels so good. I love your strong hands." I stopped low on her back, at the spot--that irresistible spot!--where her cheeks began, and then moved on to her legs. How can I describe the thrill I felt when she slightly spread them so that I could oil the inside of her thighs? As I finished she announced, "Now it's my turn. On your side, but first give me a light." I watched, hypnotized, as she slowly inserted an unfiltered Pall Mall into her holder and handed her lighter to me. "Sweetie, you're trembling," she laughed. "You're not cold, are you?" Clamping her holder between her teeth, she poured oil into her palm and rubbed her hands together. But rather than start on my back, she began to rub my chest and stomach with her left hand. At the same time, she took a deep drag, blew smoke into my ear, and whispered, "You have such a beautiful body, sweetie. I love it." My swimming suit was bulging my now which provoked another mouthful of smoke in my ear and a pseudo mocking reprimand from mother. "You are such a naughty boy. You're still not too old for your mother to take you to the woodshed."
"That would be interesting," I managed to mutter.
"Or maybe I should ask Betta to do the honors while I watch." With that, mother took another deep drag, tilted my head toward her with her left hand, and filled my mouth with smoke. That was too much. I shot off. "Oh dear," mother sighed, "I'm afraid you've had a Pall Mall moment. You're so sensitive. We're going to have to do something about that little problem." And, indeed, she and Betta did on mother's soon-to-be birthday, in a most unbelievable way.
Part III: The Birthday Present
The sexual tension between mother and me was unbearable. She knew just how to bring me off with her teasing and innuendos. In a typical scene mother would ask me for a light, take a deep drag herself, and then pass the holder to me with a smile, saying, "Wouldn't you like to take a drag, Sweetie? No? Then why don't you let me fill your mouth with smoke so you can taste what I taste." That would be enough to make me explode and mother, in her strictest, mocking reprimand, would declare, "We're never going to be able to get any further if you don't learn to control yourself."
"Get any further?!!, like me feasting on your pussy,?" I thought.
All I could think of at work was mother's upcoming birthday. "I've got to do something very special for her," I thought. I had heard of a place a little below Washington, overlooking the Potomac, where there was outdoor dining and dancing. Ideal. Just mother and me in a romantic setting, and when I announced, "Mom, I'm taking you out for dinning and dancing on your birthday," she was ecstatic. But what kind of present could I buy for her?
About three weeks before her birthday, as I was pouring through her latest
New Yorker
, looking for pictures of glamorous models smoking with elegant holders, I saw the perfect gift. Tiffany's of New York had an ad that featured, among other expensive jewelry, a six-inch cigarette holder with a gold stem and a black cup and mouthpiece. "A touch of elegance for the woman who smokes," the copy read. The holder and its silver case came to $119.00. Plus, the ad said, the buyer could have the inside of the case engraved with up to ten words at two dollars a word. "I-love-it-when-you-smoke-with-a-holder" I counted on my fingers. Although I was paid only the minimum wage on my summer job (and I wasn't even worth that), I had now socked away over $150 because I was staying at mother's. Thus, $119 was something I could swing. A letter with a money order was off to Tiffany's the next day.
Waiting for the big night was agony, but come it did. When mother emerged from her room early that evening she was stunning. She had chosen a Gypsy outfit with large circular gold earrings and sandals that laced up around her ankles. Her midriff was bare but what really took my breath away was the turban she was wearing. Why my start? Because the beautiful, sadistic, holder wielding Madame Lynx always wore a turban when she tortured poor Steve Canyon. Did mother have any idea that this was the comic strip that had enflamed my youthful imagination? Probably, because I remember that I had tucked away a few of my favorite strips in my collection of ads featuring holder-using models.
On the trip to the restaurant--naturally, I drove--mother's intoxicating perfume and her little attentions nearly made me wreak the car. "Oh Sweetie," she whispered in my ear, "you don't know how thrilled I am to be on a date with such a handsome man." This was followed by a stream of warm smoke in my ear and a squeeze of my arm and leg. "This is going to be such a special night, I know it," she'd purred, running the tip of her holder--her magical, hypnotic holder-- through my hair. I don't know I was able to keep from creaming on the spot.
