It was the grandfather of all rugby tackles. I was running like hell, the ball tucked firmly under my arm – I glanced over my shoulder, to see a pursuer dangerously close, and then it happened. It was like the business about an irresistible force meeting an immovable object, except that it was more like one irresistible force meeting another.
He appeared from nowhere, head down, arms widespread, and we must have collided at a combined speed of about forty miles an hour. He bounced me into the bloke chasing me, who at that moment seemed to be made of concrete, and we all went down. I landed awkwardly, twisting my knee and spraining my left wrist, and at some point my head came into contact with someone's boot, or vice versa.
I blacked out for a moment, and then I was helped off the field and checked out for injuries. It seemed that there was no serious damage, although just about everything hurt, and I felt more than a little groggy. They strapped up my wrist and gave me a couple of aspirins, and then my mate Smithy drove me home.
He stopped the car and came round to the passenger door to help me get out, and then I saw my mother flying down the path towards us, her face registering her concern. She'd been doing some tidying up in the garden before the weather changed, and she was wearing cut-off jeans and one of my old shirts that was miles too big for her. Not very glamorous, but the jeans were cut off practically at the crotch, and several buttons of the shirt were undone, and despite my condition I noticed her breasts jouncing as she ran, the shirt opening to provide a generous glimpse of them, and what there was of the jeans seemed to be painted on her. Her dark shoulder-length hair swung as she ran, the sun picking out the auburn streaks, and her soft brown eyes were wide with anxiety, her full, sensuous lips parted as she panted slightly, her breasts heaving.
'What – what happened? What's the matter, darling?' she cried, taking me in her arms.
'It's all right, Mrs Foster – he's just had a bit of a bang, that's all. Nasty tackle, but nothing much wrong with him that a day in bed won't cure!' Smithy said cheerfully.
My mother looked at me doubtfully, stroking my face, then together they helped me hobble into the house – my mother's arm was around my waist, trying to support me, and I found myself staring down at the ample cleavage she was unconsciously displaying. I put my arm round her shoulders to let her think she was helping, although I was a good eight inches taller than her five feet six and twice her weight, and if I leaned on her fully she'd have collapsed (I had the advantage of another eight inches, but that's another story).
They got me into the living room and deposited me on the sofa, and Smithy said goodbye and made me promise to buy him a pint when I was up and about again, and then my mother knelt on the sofa and hugged me to her. Tears were running down her cheeks, and she stroked my hair.
'Oh, darling, when I saw you, I – I thought you'd been in an accident, or you'd been mugged or something! Don't worry, dearest, Mummy will look after you! You'll soon feel better!'
Normally, I hated the way my mother fussed over me, but now she was pressing my face against her breasts – those breasts again – and I could smell the soap she used, and a hint of her perfume – did she dab it between her breasts, I wondered? Almost unconsciously, I ran my hand up and down the back of her bare thigh, aware of its incredibly smooth softness.
Like most boys, I suppose, over the years I'd occasionally been aroused by my mother's body, either by seeing her at times partly, or even fully, undressed, or feeling her pressed against me when we hugged each other or fooled around, but I hadn't dared to try to take things further, but now, maybe it was because I was still groggy that I was suddenly intensely conscious of her sexuality.
We stayed like that for several minutes, and then my mother released me and smiled at me through her tears, but then her face changed again, and she touched my lips with her finger.
'Darling! Your lips are bruised! They're all puffy and swollen!'
I hadn't noticed, being more concerned with my other aches and pains, but then Mum lowered her head and brushed my lips with hers, so feather-light I hardly felt them, although I did feel them, and I felt a stir of arousal, and for a moment I tightened my grip on her thigh.
She smiled at me again. 'I can see you're going to need a lot of taking care of, darling! Now, you rest and I'll go and make a pot of tea – that'll make you feel better!'
My mother's cure for everything, from the weather to inflation, was to make a pot of tea.
When I saw Johnny being helped out of the car by his friend, I nearly fainted. I rushed to help, my heart pounding, and hardly heard Smithy saying it was all right, he wasn't badly hurt. I wondered if I should call the doctor, but I knew Johnny would say I was fussing, and be angry.
But when we got him into the house I held my darling close, knowing that I was being silly, but I also realised that I'd be able to look after him and care for him – in a way, I wished I could transfer his pain to me, but at the same time I wanted him to be dependent on me, and to need me.
Then I felt his hand on my leg, stroking me. It was wonderful – I thought for a moment I'd wet myself, so strong was the surge of desire that flooded through me. My darling's face was buried in my breasts, and I felt an overwhelming urge to tear off my shirt and bra, and offer him my naked breasts.
I'd always been highly sexed – very highly sexed. When I was a girl at school, long before I knew what sex was all about, I loved letting boys – and other girls, sometimes – kiss me and feel me, and I masturbated constantly.
I hadn't had sex for a couple of months, and I suppose I was frustrated. The last time had been wonderful, though – I'd given myself to a married couple for a weekend while Johnny was away playing rugby, and they'd used me as a sex slave, keeping me naked the whole time and using me whenever they wanted ...I'd used my mouth on both of them repeatedly, and the man fucked every orifice I had, plus making me use my hands and breasts, and she'd fucked me with a strap-on dildo ...
I'd seen Johnny masturbate a couple of times when he was in his teens. The sight of him rubbing his penis was almost too much for me to bear – I longed to do it for him, and much more besides ... As the years passed, I 'accidentally' let him see me naked a few times, hoping that it would make him want me. I'd have lain down on a bed of hot coals if he'd wanted me to, and submitting to him sexually would have been an unspeakable joy, letting him do whatever he wanted to me, but at the same time I was afraid he'd be shocked and repelled, and in any case one day he'd grow up and leave me.
But playing rugby gave him a beautifully muscular body, and wonderful legs like tree trunks, and sometimes I'd get wet just looking at him When he started to go out with girls, I was overwhelmed with jealousy, imagining him having sex – fucking – them, and I'd masturbate wildly, visualising that wonderful penis of his plunging into their young bodies, while they didn't realise what a treasure they had between their legs, thinking of him as just another fuck ...
I told my darling that I'd make him some tea, and went into the kitchen. While the kettle was boiling, I leaned against the sink and unzipped my jeans. I forced my fingers down inside my panties – the jeans were old, and very tight – and fingered myself for a few minutes. I was soaking wet, and I imagined that it was my darling son's fingers that were toying with my clitoris ...
I opened my eyes to see my mother bending over the coffee table. The shirt had dropped away from her body, and there were those breasts again, seemingly trying to burst from her half-bra. She smiled up at me, seemingly not noticing me staring at her breasts, and then she handed me a cup of tea before settling beside me with her own cup and saucer, snuggling against me, her legs tucked up between us.
She asked me to tell her what had happened, and I gave her a blow-by-blow – literally – description of what I remembered. Her concern was written all over her face, and she stroked my cheek. It seemed natural to put my arm round her (which brought her cleavage into prominence again), and rest my other hand on her bare thigh.
I settled back, my eyes closed, enjoying the feel of my mother's softness, and the warmth of her body. I felt her breath on my cheek, and then her lips, while she whispered that she'd take care of me and that I'd soon feel better.
We sat like that for a while, and then Mum said she'd run me a hot bath, and after I'd had a good soak I should go to bed for a couple of hours. It seemed like a good idea, although I was reluctant to let her go. It was wonderful holding her like that –once or twice before I'd got the feeling that she wouldn't have objected if I'd kissed and fondled her properly, but I told myself I was fooling myself, because she was my mother, and mothers didn't let their sons do things like that to them – or did they?
But Mum got up and kissed me on the forehead and said she wouldn't be long, and I closed my eyes again, thinking of how her body had felt cuddled against me. When she returned, telling me that my bath was ready, I had difficulty in getting to my feet – I'd stiffened up, and just about everything ached. Mum saw the difficulty I was having, and she put her arm round me again and supported me towards the stairs.
She got me into the bathroom and started to help me to get my clothes off – my sprained wrist made it awkward, as well as painful, to manage on my own, and anyway it was nice having her fuss over me. When we got down to my underpants she hesitated, but I pushed them down as she helped me to step out of them, and then I was naked.
Suddenly I wanted her to see me naked, and I made no attempt to hide myself as I gingerly climbed into the bath, my mother's arm round me, and feeling my penis start to harden. The water was very hot, and I lowered myself into it carefully, with Mum bending over me, and again I got a good view of her breasts. I settled back, holding her hand, and she perched on the side of the bath with our hands resting on her bare thigh.
Again I closed my eyes contentedly, but when I half opened them I saw Mum staring fixedly at my groin, her lips parted and her free hand inside her shirt, feeling her breast. When she saw me looking at her she snatched her hand away guiltily, and she asked me if I could manage to wash myself, or did I want her to help me.
The thought of what she'd been doing and now her hands on my body prompted the only possible answer, and Mum slipped down onto her knees and started to soap my chest and back. She'd rolled up the sleeves of the shirt, but it was trailing in the water anyway, and then one sleeve came unrolled and dropped into the water. She sighed in exasperation, and then unbuttoned the shirt and slipped it off her shoulders before tossing it aside.
'You don't mind, do you, darling? It's just getting in the way ...'
