It had been a very long time since I had been to the house; what was once at least a yearly trip with the family had become a sporadic event at best once I entered my college and then working years, and many of the objects I had run into during my walk around had triggered old memories, good and bad. When I got settled in front of the fire with my drink I noticed something sitting on the white marble mantle above that really took me back, an 8X10 picture taken on my high school graduation day. I’d had various photos taken that day, at the ceremony itself, at the reception party my family had thrown for me afterwards, by myself or with my friends, etc, etc. This one stood out for two reasons, the first being that it was a wider, full body shot as opposed to the other pictures that day which were almost all close-ups, and the other being that only had me and Mom in it.
It wasn’t the greatest shot, and for a moment I wondered why Mom, who did all the decorating in the house, would choose to feature it in such a visible spot, and then I chuckled to myself as the reason dawned on me, because it was likely one of the few photos taken that day that showed off her outfit from head to toe. Yes, she could be that vain at times, but frankly I couldn’t blame her as my eyes traveled up and down her elegant form. She was wearing a long, navy blue dress, covered with sequins that make it sparkle in the light. The front featured a sharply plunging neckline, enough that I have no doubt she’d turned many a head that day, as I’m sure the spaghetti straps that left her willowy shoulders and back exposed had also done. And if that wasn’t enough to take your breath away, the side slit on the left that went all the way to the top of her thigh most certainly would have.
I took the photo from the mantle and lay down in front of the fire with it and my drink, replaying some of the memories I carried with me from that day. The thing that surprised me the most was that I had absolutely no recollection of Mom’s outfit. She’d always had this uncanny ability to go to an event like this and look hot without looking slutty. That was something I wouldn’t be able to appreciate back then; sure she was pretty, I knew that, but beyond all I could see was “Mom” and nothing else. I saw the photo with different eyes now, however, and as I studied every sensual curve the thought took hold of me that countless men must have lusted for her that day, perhaps maybe even some of my friends, undressing her with their eyes, and that I had remained oblivious to all of it. That didn’t say anything bad about me though. In fact, if anything, that kind of naiveté made me a good son, as boys aren’t supposed to look at their mothers like that anyway. How quickly I had changed these past few weeks, however, as I could now sense those same feelings of excitement churning inside me that I was certain most men had experienced seeing her that day.
Then another thought hit much harder as I realized that this photo was taken right in the middle of those days when Mom had created those flurry of drawings featuring her and I having sex. Looking at the photo of us in my hand and knowing that was so surreal all I could do for a moment was pretend that it wasn’t us, that these were two other people I was looking at.
The more I looked at the picture, however, the more I began focusing on this younger version of myself. I was eighteen in the photo, meaning it was taken six years ago, but the difference between me and the young man in that photo made it seem like far more time had passed. I was just so immature back then in every way. How Mom could ever find herself infatuated with the guy in this picture was beyond me. Sure, I’d say I had better than average looks, and being on the fitness kick I was at the time had a leaner, more muscular body, but even in terms of appearance, I’d say I’ve improved overall since then. Muscles or not, I still had a more boyish physique, and since then I’d filled out my frame a lot more.
Besides, it wasn’t just the physical changes I’d undergone since then, it was everything else too. The boy in that picture was still a virgin; in fact his sexual experience with girls hadn’t gone further than the last one who’d given him his first blowjob. He was a walking bag of hormones, not the patient, giving type of lover that an experienced, older woman like Mom would expect. It was bad enough that her eyes had clearly wandered away from Dad, but for her to set them upon the dumb kid I was looking at in the photo was beyond explanation.
Nevertheless, I found myself trying to cobble together some possible scenario between us, trying to guess what could have happened, and since my mind had been brought back to the night of my graduation I decided to use that as my starting point. From what I recall, Dad had gotten a bit food poisoning and ended up turning in very early that night, and the guests, well, they did their best to keep celebrating with me, but it was a clear downer that Dad wasn’t there so many of them left early. At the end of the night, I remember sitting on the living room couch with Mom. We talked and joked around, with her doing her best not to make me feel like the party hadn’t been ruined with Dad and everyone else leaving so soon. It was good, life was good, and I felt happy.
So what if it had happened right there? It would have been the perfect time, if there was such a thing, for Mom to make a move on me. I imagined her dropping in small flirtations as we talked, and finding ways to make our interaction gradually more physical, like putting her hands on me here and there or maybe hugging me. But in the end, that final barrier between parent and lover would be have to be crossed. I imagined what it would have been like if she’d found the courage to do so, pressing her lips cautiously but passionately into mine. I could picture what eighteen year old me would have thought; of course there would be an element of shock, but for the most part I’m certain I would have been immediately consumed by the excitement of the moment.
It’s a sad thing to admit, by I know there wouldn’t have been any filter, moral or otherwise, that would have made me stop her or even want to stop her. And it wasn’t one of those things where one person exerts their power and authority while the other meekly submits, the type of dynamic that often leads to tragedy in stories like this, but because of the fact that I was so ridiculously horny at this age that there would be few, if any, women I’d rebuff, even my mother. So it made no difference if she was married, or that her husband happen to be my Dad; I wasn’t seeing anyone myself, but I doubt that would have stopped me either. If a woman wanted to fuck, even one I wasn’t particularly attracted to, then I was down for it.
We’d kiss again and again; not that I was the greatest at it, but once again with this being Mom I’d be way too scared to try anything more than what she had started before she’d pull away and, in the most coquettish voice ask:
“Want to go upstairs, James?”
I’d slowly nod back, “yes,” and probably for the first time realize that there was an element of danger to what we were doing with Dad still in the house. We had a large, winding staircase leading to the second floor. Taking a sharp right at the top of the landing would lead down a long hallway the ended with my parents’ bedroom, while turning left would take you to my room. I was always glad that having our rooms so far away meant that I never had to deal with the possibility of hearing my parents having sex, or any other uncomfortable situations like that, but of course I also appreciated the relative privacy it gave to me on my side of the house. I knew Dad had gone to bed early, and was likely still sleeping soundly now, but was it really safe enough for us to try something like this? I hesitated for a moment, knowing I would have to completely trust Mom’s judgement on this one, before once again being overwhelmed by the excitement that I was probably going to lose my cherry tonight and that I couldn’t wait to get started. And with that I took the outstretched hand she offered me and let her guide me up the stairs, following behind like a loyal puppy dog as she took us back to my room. I could feel the energy building up in me, my heart already pounding and the blood frantically rushing to fill my cock. Minus any fears of getting caught there was no doubt I wanted this, and wanted it badly.
We’d get back to my room, standing in mostly darkness but illuminated just enough to see one another from the moon and other light shining through the window. Once again I’d be like in a deer in headlights; this wasn’t some Casanova that Mom was bedding tonight and if she wanted this to happen then she was going to have to take the lead. And with that, I’d feel her fingers gently undoing the silk tie she’d been so proud to give me as a gift for the day’s event, followed by the artful removal of the accompanying silk shirt she’d picked out for me to wear for the day. The moment wasn’t totally surreal, as plenty of times over the years Mom had helped me get dressed or undressed, but none of those times had been sexually charged like this one. The feeling still didn’t really hit me though until she undid my trousers and slid them off, allowing her to finally notice my tented underwear.
“My, someone’s feeling good today,” she’d remark with the sliest of grins. Mom came right up against me, standing only a few inches away, and I looked down and watched as her fingers expertly hooked the waistband on either side of my briefs and slid them down before stepping away and playfully adding:
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to take care of your socks, dear.”
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