A Lovers Tale 2

An abused woman finds love and redemption in the arms of her son.

This story contains oral, vaginal, and anal sex. It explores themes that may be disturbing to some

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*****

A light cold mist fell, as I enveloped my shivering petite mother in my arms. I could feel her small breasts heave as she cried into my chest. Even in this moment of shame, her closeness is arousing. My hand slips down her side to her slim hip. I gently pat her behind. Through her tears, she looks up at me and smiles wanly.

My father stands stolidly off to one side. Like our lives for the past several years, he is at once a part of our tableau and distant from it. His sallow skin reeks of the rotgut whiskey that is his addiction. It is that addiction, and his penchant for likeminded whores, that is causing our humiliation. We were being evicted. In the space of ten years we devolved from a spacious home in an upscale suburb to a crammed bungalow to this vermin infested hovel in a crime ridden area of the city.

Through it all my mother stood by him. She endured the lost weekends when he went on drunken benders. She rationalized the cheap lipstick she scrubbed off his shirts and underwear. She excused his boorish behavior to our family and friends.

She even took a job cleaning rooms at the local no tell motel to make ends meet. Her ride to work meant taking two busses and a train. It took an hour and half each way. Yet she persevered. The stress took a physical and mental toll on her. She began walking with the slight stoop and downcast eyes of a person who has lost confidence in themselves. Her once stylishly coiffured strawberry blond hair now hung limply to her shoulders.

I seethed with rage as I watched my beautiful mother's spirit broken. I knew it was his failure not hers. It was because of his alcohol addiction that we were reduced to near homelessness.

Mom and I were as close as a mother and son should be. And like most boys, she was the object of my first sexual fantasies. However, our dire circumstances forced an additional closeness on us. It was a closeness brought on by a survivor's instinct. We were as two people stranded on a desert island. We needed each other to survive. We mentally and physically clung to each other in our despair.

By the time I reached 18 years old, my father's drunken verbal and physical abuse had broken my mother's spirit. She developed a nervous stammer and cowered in his presence. Paradoxically, I went through periods where I hated them both. He for abusing my mother and her for taking it.

He was always abjectly apologetic in the days after one of his drunken verbal and physical fusillades. However, the cycle repeated itself. That is until the night my anger overcame my natural respect for my father.

I heard mom's wail from my cramped bedroom in the damp basement. I knew it was my father abusing my mother. Again! A red rage welled in me. Barefoot, clad only in my boxers, I bounded upstairs and threw open the door.

My mother cowered naked on the kitchen floor in a fetal position, her hands and arms raised trying to protect her face. Next to her lay the rags of her old flannel nightgown. My hulking 6' 2", 300 pound father stood over her, his shriveled wet cock hanging limply through the opening in his boxers, his large hand raised to hit her again. Something in me snapped. In a blind rage, I charged across the kitchen floor and tackled him. We fell to the cracked tile floor in a heap with me on top.

I went medieval, pummeling him until he was bloodied and semi conscious cowering on the floor. A red rage clouded my mind and vision. My mother saved me from killing him. She wrapped her slim arms around my waist. She tried to pull me off him. My rage cooled as I felt her warm moist breasts against my back.

"Please Hank! Stop! Stop baby!"

I knelt over my bloody father, my fists still balled, adrenalin flooding my body. I felt her soft kiss on my sweaty back. Her arms circled and gently caressed my abdomen as she cooed soothing words. I felt the scratch of her pubic hair on my thigh.

"You bastard," I growled, "touch her again and I'll kill you."

I stood and stepped back allowing him to rise to all fours. He used the back of a kitchen chair to lever himself to his feet. Blood streamed from his nose and mouth, staining the front of his Carharrt work shirt. One eye was swollen shut.

"You bastard! This is my house. That useless bitch is my wife! Get out!"

Despite mom clinging to me, I swung and punched him in the gut. He explosively exhaled, stumbled backwards and fell against the kitchen door.

"John! Hank! Stop! Please stop!"

Mom stepped around and physically got between my father and me. When dad attempted to move toward us, she raised her tiny hand like a traffic cop halting traffic, her naked butt brushed against me.

"No John! You Leave! You both need some time to cool off."

"Fuck you! Fuck you both!" Dad hurled invective as he snatched open the kitchen door and stormed out.

Sweat streamed down my body, soaking my underwear. As I attempted to follow him, mom turned and wrapped her arms around my waist, her head lay against my belly. Only her clinging to me prevented me from following him.

With the crisis behind us for the moment, mom began to cry uncontrollably. I wrapped my arms around her naked warmth and pulled her tighter to me. As I gently kissed her bruised forehead, her nakedness pressing into my body aroused me.

"I've failed him as a wife. He needs me and I can't help."

"Mom! Stop! You owe him nothing! You have to stand up for yourself!"

I was embarrassed that as she clung to me, I was again aware of the scratch of her pubic hair on my thigh. Even sweaty and bruised, her heady fragrance filled my nostrils.

Mom, looked up at me, her eyes red rimmed and wet. Her gamin like face always reminded me of a young Audrey Hepburn.

"We'd better get cleaned up." As her arms dropped from my waist, she looked down at my semi erect manhood and then quickly turned away.

I watched her still shapely 42 year old behind as she hurried down the hall to the bathroom. She was like a porcelain doll with full womanly hips. They swayed deliciously as she moved.

She returned wearing one of dad's old shirts and carrying towels and the first aid kit. She moistened the towel in the kitchen sink then knelt in front of me. As she washed my scratches and bruises, she made tutting sounds. I flinched as she washed a particularly angry bruise.

For the first time in weeks, a genuine smile played across her face.

"You want mommy to kiss it and make it feel better like she used to." She said teasing me as she dabbed.

I laughed then grimaced as the movement caused me discomfort.

"I don't know! We're both a lot older now. Those magical kisses might not work."

Mom stopped, balled her fists and sat them on her small hips.

"Oh! So now I'm too old," she said in mock anger.

"Mom, you know I didn't say you were too old. You're twisting my words."

She surprised me when she leaned forward and gently kissed the bruise. Her hands left her waist and grasped my waist as she kissed the bruises on my chest. Her kisses were feather light, barely touching my angry bruises.

My cock began to harden as she kissed my lower chest. I felt her freeze then pull back. "Perhaps we should stick with the towels and ointment."

I felt the heat rise in my face. "Mom, I'm..."

She brought one finger to my lips and pressed lightly. "Shush! It does this old girl good to know that at least one man finds her attractive." She looked at me doe eyed. "My hero," she whispered.

My voice squeaked when I tried to speak. I cleared my throat.

"We need to get some ice on your bruises, mom."

I took the towel, rinse it out and filled it with ice from the refrigerator. As I applied cold compresses to mom's bruises, I could see they were turning an angry black and red. She whimpered as my ministration caused her pain.

"I'm such a baby!"

"You are my mommy baby," I whispered as I kissed her forehead. "I...uh...need to open the shirt to clean your other wounds."

She nodded her agreement. My fingers were like thick sausages as I fumbled with the buttons on the shirt. Her eyes were unreadable as they went from my hands unbuttoning the shirt to my face. She blushed when I opened dad's shirt.

Her nipples were hard, erupting from her pink areola like coral erasers. A pattern of bruises covered the area under her small breast, across her small womanly belly pooch to the forest of her reddish pubic thatch.

Despite myself, I was aroused, my cock pressing against the slit in my boxers. I was living a pubescent dream seeing the object of my fantasies partially naked in front of me.

Mom flinched and groaned as I cleaned her bruises. "Should I kiss your bruises to make them better?"

Before she could answer, I leaned down and kissed a particularly angry looking bruise on her abdomen. I felt her trembled as I moved to another lower down bruise, my hand resting on her quivering belly. I was a man possessed! Her heady aroma was like a drug. She grasped my head in both of her small hands, pulling my head away.

"No Hank! No! We...we mustn't! I'd better finish."

"Are you sure you don't want me to kiss your bruises like you did mine?"

For a moment we stared at each other. When mom finally spoke her voice was quiet.

"You know I do! You are my knight in shining armor. But they are things we cannot do!"

"Mom," I said gently, "I understand!"

Her voice was weak, quavering.

"I'm...I'm sorry! I'll take care of the rest. It's not proper for a son to take such intimate care of his mother's body."

Her hands still held mine pressed to her quivering abdomen. I would learn later that our closeness, not the cold compress caused the quivering.

"I don't mind," I croaked. My dick ached from being so hard. I could feel the wet dampness of my precum soaked boxers against my thigh. Mom's face colored as she saw my hardness.

She pulled my hand from her abdomen to her mouth and kissed it again.

"I'm going to bed."

Mom rose, modestly pulling the front of the shirt together and holding it closed with her small delicate hands. My father's huge shirt hung loosely to her ankles. She looked for all the world like a waif, her eyes large, dark and luminous.

"You are not going into HIS room! He will only abuse you again when he comes home."

"I have to," she said sadly, her eyes flicking from my crotch to the floor. "That is my place."

I scooped her feather light body up in my arms. My father's large shirt billowed out, my hands ended up on the bare silken skin of mom's thighs just below her butt.

"No mom! Not tonight! You'll stay in my room where I can protect you."

"No baby! That would not be proper."

She weakly resisted, but I prevailed. She wrapped her arms around my neck and laid her head on my shoulder. The warmth of her breath on my chest sent chills through my body as I carried her downstairs to the only refuge we had.

"I really shouldn't! He will get angry," she murmured as she clung tightly to me.

"Mom, I don't give a damn about him getting angry! And I promise you, if he touches you again, I'll kill him!"

She never returned to her marital bed. Even when dad ultimately returned home. After several days, he launched into a tirade, citing his right to sleep with his wife. When he balled up his fist and attempted to grab my mother, I stepped between them.

"If you touch her...!"

He took a step back and scanned my face with his rheumy eyes.

"Fuck you both,' he growled and skulked off to his bedroom.

In later years, I realized the tableau was almost primeval. I was the young warrior, assuming control of our small tribe. I claimed the old chief's place and woman. When he skulked off to his empty bed, he tacitly accepted my primacy. He could stay. He was still my mother's husband and my father. However, he was no longer the man of the house.

Sleeping with my mother in the small twin size bed was an awkward. It was inevitable that we saw and felt more of each other's bodies than a mother and son normally would. However, over time we grew comfortable seeing each partially dressed, and on a few occasions, naked.

We were not lovers. Not in the physical sense. But we were intimates. At night, we clung to each other in the dank cold of the basement, under ragged blankets and whispered of better times. We cuddled for warmth, mom's small body pressed into mine with my arms around her.

There were difficult moments. Inevitably, I would wake up to my morning wood poked against her small shapely behind. Mom was sanguine about that. She would reach between us and smooth my t-shirt she used for a nightgown. Other times, I would wake to find my large hands covering her small shapely breasts. We both smiled nervously and pretended nothing untoward happened.

Soon we grew accustom to even this nocturnal intimacy. We cuddled without shame. In her sleep, mom would press against my morning wood. Her hands would cover mine cupping her breasts. Again, we were not lovers but intimates.

We never crossed the line into a full blown sexual relationship in the two years since dad and I fought. I wanted too. Sometimes I pressed the issue, dry humping mom's ass while massaging her breasts. Mom would moan, grinding her bare ass against me as I caressed her breasts and pulled on her nipples.

If I tried to enter her, she would scoot away.

"No, Hank! We mustn't! That would be wrong."

"But mom! We both want it!

"We can't, baby! We can't! I am your mother and your father's wife. We cannot commit incest and make a cuckold of your father. I think too much of him to betray him like that"

We shared what some might consider an unusually intimate relationship for a mother and son. It would take the humiliation of homelessness to push us into the ultimate taboo.

***

My thin cotton dress was moist from the mist, as the sheriff's deputies stacked our belongings on the curb. Our neighbors peering through their windows exacerbated the humiliation. After years of financial setbacks, punctuated by stints in alcoholic rehabilitation for my husband, John, we were losing our last refuge. I hated the place with its vermin and grimy windows. It was, however, our gathering place, our cave sheltering us in a hostile world. I buried my face into the only safe place left, the crook of my son's strong arm.

It had finally come to this. We are homeless. Despite what my son tells me, I know it's my fault. I tried to be a good wife, to be supportive of my husband. My failure to be a good enough wife has brought us to this. After 25 years of marriage, with the lone exception of my loving son, we have lost everything.

The fact that I cling to Hank instead of my husband in this moment of stress and humiliation says a lot about the state of my marriage. I have failed in my wifely duties. I stand apart from the husband I failed and shamefully seek the comfort of my son's arms.

Hank and I grew closer after he and John had a big confrontation a few years back. John came home drunk, reeking of whiskey. I was unable to sleep, worried that he might come to harm. I was sitting in the kitchen in my flannel nightgown when he finally stumbled in.

Relieved, I stood and went to him to greet. He reeked of stale alcohol and cheap perfume. He turned his head away as I stood on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. He placed his large rough hands on my shoulders and pressed me to my knees.

I knew what he wanted. I did it often. It was my duty. Our entire sex life was me giving him blowjobs. It was nearly ten years since we had any other sex. I did not mind. Not really! My religious upbringing said I was his helpmate.

I sucked hard, trying to get him an erection. I really tried. My jaws ached from my efforts. He finally pushed me away and slapped me across my face.

"You useless bitch! You can't even suck a cock!"

He grabbed my nightgown in the collar lifting me off the floor. The cheap material ripped and I fell to the floor naked. I saw stars as my head bounced off the floor. John tossed the ragged remains aside. I lay in a fetal position as he rained blows on my body. I must have screamed for him to stop. I don't really recall. The blow to my head when it hit the floor left me groggy and disoriented. As I drifted in and out of consciousness, I heard an animal howl. John let out an explosive exhale and went flying across the kitchen.

Through a red haze, I saw Hank take John to the floor. He straddled him and pummeled his head and body. John tried to fight back but at 6' 1" 210 pounds, my 18 year old son was younger and stronger. The ferocity of his attack was at once frightening and, shamefully, arousing. The two men in my life were fighting over me. Thinking back, that was the first time I saw Hank as man who was also my son. At some visceral level, I knew I was the prize to the winner.

My nipples were painfully hard. I felt a tightness in my chest and wet a warmth between my legs. It was shameful. My son and my husband were fighting and I was getting aroused. Naked, I struggled to all fours. The warmth in my sex permeated my body.

Even as I feared he might do mortal harm to his father, I watched my virile son protect me. My heart beat faster. Not with fear now, but at how the muscles in his arms, bare back and sinewy thighs moved as he defended me. His ear length dark hair wetly framed his face as he pummeled John. His face, twisted in rage, excited me.

I shook myself out of my disgraceful reverie. I crawled to where they fought and wrapped my arms around Hank's back trying to pull him off his father. As my face was pressed into his sweating body, his intoxicating animal like scent invaded my nostrils.

"Please baby! Stop before you kill him! Please!"

It was not my strength but my Hank's acquiescence that caused him to stop beating his father. Breathing heavily, Hank rose to his knees. John cowered on the floor. He had pulled himself into a fetal position with his arms protecting his face.

I will never understand the impulse that made me kiss Hank's sweaty back. As he stood, I stood with him, my nude body pressed into his back. My arms, wrapped around his waist, felt the ripple of the hard muscles of his abdomen as he stood. I could feel the back of his thigh on my sex. I shivered, my pussy wet with my unconscionable lust for my son. His perspiration moistened the front of my body.

Shameful sensations coursed through my body as I clung to my son. My nipples ached from being so hard for so long. The acrid odor of his perspiration filled my nostrils. It excited me and involuntarily I pressed my privates against his thigh.

After John left, over my half hearted protest, my son scooped me up and carried to his bedroom in the basement. I never left.

Since then, John stays out days at a time drinking and I sleep in Hank's room. I constantly worry about what might happen to him on one of those benders. His sallow skin and labored breathing suggest he is not well. He has begun to not bathe. He only shaves sporadically. I know it's wrong. However, I am happy that at night I now inhale my son's manly fragrance instead of my husband unwashed body or smell his fetid breath.

I know it's wrong to be this close to my son. I know polite society would condemn the fact that I sleep in my son's bed caressed by his strong youthful arms. However, what am I to do? In his arms is the one place I feel safe and loved.

At first, it was disconcerting to wake up wrapped in his arms with his hand cupping my breast and his erection pressed against my behind. My Christian upbringing reinforced by memories of my bible thumping parents, screamed at the impropriety. I rationalized our intimacy. I accepted the impropriety.