Using Mom to Stay Warm

First things first - it was cold.

It was way, way too cold for Mom and me to be at the cottage in mid-November, but we were not here by choice. Circumstance forced our hand when Dad up and left to the Bahamas with his secretary a few months back, leaving Mom and me to pick up the pieces of our shattered life, with nothing but each other for comfort. It was sad, but we were already in the process of healing by the time the realization kicked in - we had to close the cottage for the winter.

Our cozy, quiet bungalow in Muskoka was not suited to handle the cold season. Water lines could burst, pests could take nest, among a slew of other things that would turn the cozy summer home into a money pit. Winter was already rearing its ugly head and showering us with more snow than we were prepared for, so time was not on our side.

We had never done it ourselves before, so it took some time and a

lot

of YouTube videos before we felt comfortable calling it 'closed'. We went at it for a few days, and by the time we were done, we were saying goodbye to a very, very busy weekend.

Come Sunday night, Mom was running through the checklist with her dirty blonde hair tied up in a high bun. She was using two pens of identical make; one to check boxes off the list, and another to keep her hair in place. A couple of loose strands dangled in front of her eyes that she was too preoccupied to fix, but it gave her a small-town-librarian vibe that I found surprisingly alluring. What can I say? Mom looked damn good!

Mom had hardly aged a day since I was born. At least, that was true up until Dad left. The weight of such an ordeal was starting to show itself on her face in the form of subtle wrinkles, though the stress lines were instantly outmatched anytime a smile brought out her two deep, gorgeous dimples.

I was much taller than Mom, who stood at an adorable five-foot-nothing on a good day, so most of the chores went in my direction. We truly looked like we were from different species. I was tall and muscular with short, tousled brown hair, while Mom was a miniature blonde Barbie with some pudge to her curves. She had gained a little bit of weight after Dad left, but it only served to bring out her more dominant features.

For a woman her size--heck,

any

size--Mom was gifted with an incredible bosom. Her breasts had always been large, but I didn't fully take notice until I turned 18 and began to see her as a real woman, rather than just my mother. Every day since, had come with at least one scolding from myself,

"Don't look at your Mom's tits!"

And every day, I would fail.

I could not stop myself from zoning out to the image of her boobs bouncing around under her braless t-shirt; a style she adopted more and more as she got used to Dad's absence. Maybe it was an act of rebellion, maybe she was trying to attract a man who liked big tits, or maybe, she simply hated wearing a bra and was tired of putting on airs as age crept upon her. Whatever it was, I was happy to reap the benefits.

I often wondered if this commando style had been adopted through her entire wardrobe. Did her underwear meet the same fate that befell her bras? She did not have a bra on at the moment, so it was possible she had also chosen to forgo the security of underwear altogether. A man can dream, I suppose.

I tried not to think about it too hard, to save myself from getting a boner midway through our busy schedule, but the thought, nonetheless, burrowed into my head on more than one occasion.

Namely, when she put down her checklist and bent over to examine a cupboard for perishables. This caused her sweatpants to ride up between her legs, where they formed to her plump bottom like wallpaper. Try as I might, I could not spot the outline of anything remotely resembling underwear.

"It doesn't sound like you're working, honey." Mom teased, with her head the knee-high cupboards, her voice echoing throughout the small wooden box. She was rummaging through them, looking for any food that would spoil over the winter, and I was eagerly watching her from behind.

I'm not lazy; I had a bird's eye view down the back of her pants that revealed a healthy portion of her pudgy ass cheeks, and I could not bring myself to look away. If I could only reach my hand under her and feel them for myself, I would die a happy man.

I shook myself from the fantasy of fondling my mother's ass. "Well, Mom, that's because I'm--uh, supervising."

She pulled her head out of the cupboard to glare at me. "You'll be supervising my darn foot up your butt if you don't friggin' get to work!"

Darn, butt, friggin. All of these were common replacements that Mom put in place of cursing--a practice she was avidly against.

"Okay, okay," I grumbled. "I gotta make sure the shed is secure, anyway. Might as well do that now."

I turned to face the blizzard, but something gnawing in the back of my brain demanded to be said. "Mom?" I called to her.

"Yes, honey?" Her head popped out of the cupboard. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, I just..." I chewed the inside of my cheek. "I'm sorry this weekend wasn't everything we thought it would be. I wanted to spend, like,

one

day packing up. I didn't think I would take so long, I wanted to give you a bit of fun this weekend and I feel like I blew it."

Mom stood at attention, her mothering instincts kicking into overdrive, as she swayed towards me. The rotation of her hips as she floated towards me was hypnotic; Mom moved like an angel. I challenged myself not to stare at the wobbling wagon she dragged behind her as her toes pitter-pattered across the carpeted floor.

"Honey, listen to me," she began, taking hold of my hands and folding them over her clenched fist, which she then held over her beating heart.

I rarely had an opportunity to be this close to her breasts, and every impulse in my brain was screaming at me to dig in face first. "No matter where we are, no matter what we're doing, I'm happy if I'm doing it with you."

"Promise?" I grinned like a goofball. Nothing could beat a pep talk from Mom.

"Everything I need is right

here

." Mom kissed my knuckles. "Okay? Now, go close that shed so we can get the heck out of this place!"

The worst part about winter is having to suit up just to leave the house. I donned my oversized jacket and large, clunky boots and prepared to face Mother Nature. The path I had shoveled to the door of the shed was already piling up again, so I followed my footprints from previous journeys to reduce the effort it took to trudge through the frozen wasteland.

I locked the shed and made sure it was sealed up to prevent any miscreants from taking shelter inside. It was one of the last tasks we had to do, with one exception.

"Jacob? Are you ready yet?" Mom called to me, before I got back inside.

I could barely hear her voice over the whipping winds that kicked snow in my face like cold sand. I battled through the torrential snowstorm to find Mom inside with a glass of exactly what I was hoping for -- alcohol.

I shook my head like a wet dog and flung chunks of half-melted snow onto the floor.

"As if I didn't just vacuum?" Mom gasped. "You're so lucky you earned enough credit this weekend for me to forgive that little transgression."

"Oh, boy. I wonder what else I can get away with," I smirked.

Mom poured us two heaping shots of vodka. "Don't push it, honey."

I picked up my glass and we clinked them, downing the gasoline in one quick gulp.

I know alcohol doesn't actually keep the body warm, but it sure felt like it did.

"Ugh, yuck!" Mom grimaced. "Well, the edge has been taken

way

off. I can't wait to get home and relax, but this is a darn good start."

"Agreed. I just want to get away from all this snow!" I considered pouring myself another shot, but the idea of driving home drunk in bad weather was terrifying.

Mom practically read my mind, which was not unusual for her. "Are you sure you're okay to drive? I'm happy to--"

"Yes, Mom." I rolled my eyes. "I promised I'd drive home so you could sleep in the car. That's what I'm gonna do."

Mom scanned me up and down like she was trying to visually detect any signs of impairment, but came away satisfied with her search. "If you say so, honey."

"I do say so." I boasted confidently. "Now get that fat butt in the car so we can get going!"

Mom scoffed. "Excuse

you

, young man. I remember somebody being awfully fond of this big butt when they were little!"

She was right, and she often reminded me. I had been quite a touchy-feely kid and she, being a world-class enabler, suffered the brunt of that. As a child, I was always hugging, smooching, playing bongos on her juicy butt cheeks, and peeking up her skirt. All the not-so-normal things that mothers put up with for their sons, right? We were physically very close, and always had been, but that had to change as I got older.

It might be cute when I didn't know any better, but that bled into adulthood in ways that became increasingly inappropriate. As far as I was concerned, I didn't have any problem being close with her, and she seemed similarly at ease with it. The only thing keeping us apart was the obvious social stigma.

Speaking of social stigma; Dad had never been fond of our connection. He did not like how grabby and cuddly the two of us were. Whether it was jealousy, or discomfort at what other people would think, I never found out.

We grew so close, with so few boundaries between us, that the few times Mom caught me masturbating, it always ended with us laughing it off. I knew I should feel ashamed, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't excite me a little to show off to Mom how much I'd grown.

If I didn't know any better, I would have thought that her surprise interruptions were becoming more frequent. Her impulse to hurriedly close the door and look away grew faint, and I wrestled with the little voice in my head that told me she was lingering on purpose for a longer look. The idea seemed insane to me, but all the evidence pointed me to one obvious, albeit ludicrous explanation-- Mom liked my cock.

Based on the stories told by my friends, getting caught in the act should have been a traumatic event. For me and Mom, it quickly became a go-to target of teasing whenever she wanted to give me a hard time.

"I'm going to my room to study,"

I would say.

"Okay, honey. Try not to rip your dick off while you're in there!"

Mom would reply.

I never said it was highbrow stuff, but it made us laugh.

A couple of times, I even tried to level the playing field by catching Mom in the act, but she never once dropped her guard.

Years ago

, after she'd recovered from a good chortle in response to seeing my preferred use of a tube sock, I had made a comment to the tune of, "What are you laughing at? You do it, too!" Quite the accusation to launch at one's own mother, but I was not thinking straight.

"I sure do, honey." She had said in a tone of voice that still rattled in my brain from time to time. "But when Mommy does it, it's a lot more romantic than a tube sock."

I had rolled my eyes and spoke without thinking. "Yeah, right. I would love to see that, Mom."

"Oh, you--" She had been a deer in headlights, mulling over my request like she needed to process what she had heard. "You... want to watch me do that?"

It got awkward real fast, but Mom's devilish grin on the way out told me that she hadn't been too disturbed by it. Knowing her, she was thrilled to twist the knife and have a bit of fun at my expense. I, however, had beaten myself up about it for weeks.

Not my favourite memory to revisit.

The snow beat down on us on the way to the car, filling every nook and cranny of my jacket with bushels of cold, fluffy cotton. I could not see the van from the end of the walkway, and was forced to follow Mom's faint silhouette through the blinding blizzard.

I trained my eyes on her gigantic bottom, watching her waddle to the car, while I trailed behind her like a lovesick puppy dog. My arms were full of knick-knacks to return to the city, and they were piled so high that I had to strain to see over the top.

"Just a few more steps, almost there," Mom chirped. "Last time I'll ask; are you

sure

you don't want me to drive?"

"I'm sure, Mom." I waited for her to crack the trunk, so I could dump the items inside.

In our ineptitude, we had decided to rent a large white van to pack stuff into to take home. When we got to the cottage, we found that there was not that much to transport, so the cost of the van was essentially a total loss.

As a joke, I suggested sleeping in the back to make the most of the rental, but Mom pointed out that we would surely freeze to death once the sun went down. "I don't plan on using my son to stay warm; that's why our ancestors invented fire," she had quipped.

I didn't think that was the precise reason our species had adopted fire, but I lacked the fortitude to argue. I was already shivering from the short walk from the cottage to the van and did not want to be outside for a second longer than necessary.

Malicious winds whipped against my nose and turned it a miserable shade of pink. Every snowflake was a little piece of sandpaper that chewed away at my skin, leaving it raw in its wake. They threatened to grate me down to nothing if I did not take shelter.

In my arrogance, I had neglected to bring a hat... or a scarf, or mittens, or... yeah, I was really unprepared. Thankfully, the sleeping bag I owned was rated for extremely cold temperatures, so at least my slumber had been comfortable all weekend. I had invested in it years ago at a huge discount and used it ever since.

The lining came with some kind of thermal reflectors that made the inside of the bag function like a greenhouse. It trapped heat, but I found that it worked poorly if I wore clothes inside. At home, I always slept with a t-shirt on, but in the bag I had to strip down to my underwear to make the most of its heat-recycling features.

The cottage had enough sheets and comforters for an army, but there was something uniquely homely about sleeping in the same sack I'd used for the better part of a decade, so I always brought it with me. Mom, on the other hand, didn't even own a sleeping bag.

We were woefully unprepared for a blizzard of this magnitude, thanks to a pathetic reading of meteorological charts by our local weatherman. The longer we waited up north, the worse the drive home would be.

We would stay the night in Muskoka if we could, but anything that produced heat had been stripped down and shut off for the winter. We were left with the choice between a small shack that would soon be as violently cold as the air surrounding it, or a tedious drive home amidst a furious snow squall.

We chose the latter, unaware that in doing so, we were taking the first of many steps towards permanently changing our relationship.

Mom was already deep into her book by the time I slumped into the driver's seat. I kicked off the snow that was caked to the bottoms of my boots and slammed the door behind me, sealing us away from the dreary outside world.

"Don't move a muscle, I got it," I taunted her. "You better be tipping me for this whole endeavor."

Without looking up from her book, Mom said, "Don't marry the first one who asks."

"Wow. Thanks for that." I rolled my eyes, as she chuckled sheepishly. "And they say waiters can't survive on tips alone."

"On my tips they could, I bet." Mom closed her book and pushed her reading glasses down her nose. "I'm very smart, after all."

"Listen to you, Nostra-Mom-Us." It wasn't a great pun, but I was proud of it. "Are you ready to go?"

"I've got everything I need right

here

." Mom repeated her words of comfort from earlier, with eyes peering at me over the top of her page.

I hit the ignition and spun the tires in the snow for a second before they finally found traction. Neither of us said it, but we were both worried about the safety of the journey home.

I played some music from my phone, since the radios were all down from the weather. I was surprised to see Mom jamming along to a couple indie hits that weren't usually her speed. The calming tones of Bon Iver serenaded us as we plowed through the blizzard. For a moment, I was convinced that the misery following us for mile after mile was nothing to fear. This self-assurance was, in part, what caused me to eventually drop my guard.

I didn't notice the black ice in time, but that's the problem with the treacherous stuff. It's under your wheels before you see it coming, and before you can hit the brakes you're already spinning out.

I hit the frozen patch with too much confidence, and the icy road was happy to humble me. As I made a slight turn around a large upcoming bend, we hit the frozen landmine and lost control immediately. I cursed like a sailor, and it was one of the few times in my life where Mom was too busy shrieking to call me out for it.

The ABS kicked in, but it wasn't enough. The hulking vehicle spun in a full circle, sailing across the sea of ice and slush that coated the asphalt. With what little control I had, I tried to steer us towards the nearest streetlight a few dozen feet away.

Mom was clutching the "holy shit bad" above her window with white knuckles, watching in horror, as we flew towards the outer lane of the highway with the steel barrier in our sights.

It was one of those moments where you

know

you're going to crash, so you start thinking about how bad it's going to be before you even hit the wall. We weren't likely to die, but I prayed we would walk away without any broken bones.

The impact itself only lasted a couple of seconds, but it dragged out like a dream. I must've hit my head when we crashed because I don't actually remember colliding with the wall. I came to with my head on the steering wheel, a cold wind whipping against my face, and Mom in an abject panic.

"Oh my

god

, honey. I thought you were dead!" Mom cried, with her arms around my shoulders. She was still shaking me even though I was starting to wake up.

"You can't get rid of me that easily," I groaned. I took stock of the interior to assess the damage. The driver side window was smashed open, letting the frigid air invade the once warm cab, but the other windows were holding up with the exception of a few large, daunting cracks. The driver door was crushed against the barrier outside, so I could not get it open. "Are you all right, Mom?"

Mom was breathing heavily, but seemed physically okay. She did a quick pat down of her vital areas to confirm nothing was out of place. "I-I think so? Just a little bit shaken up, honey."

We both turned our attention to the broken window. "What are we going to do about that?" She pointed a shivering finger to the shattered glass.

"I don't know. We have to get a tow truck, but in this weather, I don't know how quickly that would happen." I sighed, feeling very defeated.

To my dismay, but not my surprise, a quick call to the tow company confirmed that they would not be able to reach us for several hours. When I told them I was in Muskoka, they all but laughed in my face.

Apparently, the farthest towns had been hit the worst, with anything north of Barrie trapped in a complete whiteout. It was late, we were far away, and they were understaffed. It was hopeless to think we would be rescued, and the operator hinted very strongly that we might have to sleep in the car overnight.

I hung up with a heavy heart weighing me down and tried to spin the dire situation into something positive for Mom's sake. "Well, the good news is that we're gonna have a ton of quality time together."

Mom asked what I meant, and the horror that crept on her face told me what a poor job I did at softening the blow. "

All

night? What the heck are they talking about? It's freezing, and our window is broken! They

have

to come!"