All I Got for Christmas

It was a flush, quaking type of rage that tickled the tips of my fingers, making them tremble, then clench into fists of their own volition. Opening and closing, again I tried to calm myself, the humiliation turning my cheeks to a crimson color, even though I stood in my bedroom alone, staring at the box with a simmering mixture of rage and embarrassment.

And something else...

How could she?

And then came the rationalization, the excuses that I always made for my mom's complete lack of boundaries. She had put me on birth control at sixteen, made sure that condoms always just happened to appear in my purse whenever I went on a date, but this...

On my bed lay the Hitachi wand.

Not one of those cheap, knock-off ones, the full throbbing, wall-plugged, pulsating power tools popularized by trashy romance novels and Sex and the City. It had just appeared, materializing on my bed as if some sick, sadistic S&M Santa heard about the problem with my chimney and decided to leave something that would stuff more than my stocking.

And that's what galled me, the invasion, the unilateral decision that like always, mother knew best just because she happened to write erotic fiction under the ridiculous psydonym Samantha Clementine.

I suppose I shouldn't complain; a statement that only invalidated all of my actual feelings about having a mom with enough free time to attend every PTA, every soccer game and theater camp, all while paying for private school and now college without batting an eye.

Only it was so suffocating.

I'm so sure it was worse for her, making do with evangelical ministers, parents who fervently believed that the sex encounters a woman endured should correspond perfectly with the number of children she bore. But why do parents seem to overcorrect in the opposite direction? Instead of sneaking out and relishing in the forbidden fantasies, it was like trying to fuck with my mother watching over my shoulder, her erotic advice echoing inside my head.

And yes, I've read her stories.

She encouraged it, often commenting that it was better I indulge in my curiosity through reading than watching the worst kinds of adolescent fantasies acted out in a way that was neither safe nor sensual. But after reading enough of her work, I can't say that I could truly distinguish the difference.

There were plenty of stories about women being taken by men in stereotypical scenes. The girl teasing and tempting the hired hand or uniformed man. The vampire or werewolf, transforming into an otherworldly monster with too big, too hard, and too virile cocks, rutting and ravaging her until the poor thing turned completely into a braindead sex monster.

These weren't so bad, the trite and tame seeming sterile in comparison to the heavy things of fetish and kinks. Keep in mind these weren't secret purchases. No, my mom was immensely proud of her work. Box sets decorated the shelves, and I was encouraged to borrow anything I felt ready to read.

It's how I learned about so many sexual things, finding out about cuckolding from my own morbid interest in the word, then reacting in stunned disbelief as I heard the tale of a mild mannered accountant's descent into the worst kind of sexual depravity. It starts with just harmless flirting, progressing to the point where the beta male allows one of his wife's many lovers to hold the key to his chastity contraption, only given permission to orgasm once a year on their wedding anniversary.

It doesn't stop there: whips and chains, gang bangs and orgies, fathers, sisters, and sons, everything except one category auspicious only in its absence. For in every steaming written word, there was no mother and daughter pairing, ironically my only respite in imagining any sexual scenario without picturing the wide hips and large bosom of my beautiful mom.

It was like every idea about any sexual situation came through forced footsteps in her wake. All the fun and excitement from tasting something taboo had been sullied by her suggestion, so many imagings of these blonde characters she wrote transforming into representations of her. No matter how she described it, I always pictured my mom, bent over and taken, presenting to gangs of pirates or vampires, each filling her with rope after rope of cum until she begged to be given relief.

So many times I would find myself worked up, bringing my body close to the edge, only to have my climax closed down by the image of her in my fantasy. Again and again, I wished there was some category she had left fallow, a little piece of pleasure I could claim just for my own. I would have gladly traded her father for mother, my dad passing before I could really even remember, but the damage was already done.

And worse, I'm sure if I confessed these unsolicited urgings to her, she would have understood completely, making me feel like an idiot for being so ashamed. But no matter what, I was sure the feelings would linger. Still she almost drew it out of me, so sachurine and soothing, getting me to accidentally confess my constant issues with climax without really admitting the root of my problem.

I'd almost gone there...

But then I'd probably have an erotic novel featuring the two of us lying on the bed along with the vibrator I deliberately said I didn't want.

I suppose I could say that my silence was an act of defiance. Only it was more a deliberate attempt to avoid the awkwardness of fighting about the sex toy that wouldn't solve my real problem. Of course, only after I saw my mother, her pouty lips unable to keep from twisting into a faint smile, did I realize that by letting matters lie I was condoning the gift.

Shuddering, I forced my eyes down from hers, lingering just a little on the tanned curves poking out from the top of her spaghetti top. It wasn't much, really only the tiniest amount of cleavage after changing from our Christmas out with grandma, and yet the size of her curves always seemed to stretch out whatever she wore. Then again, I'm sure part of it came from her sensual joie de vivre. As I thought of it I could think of nothing in her closet that came close to covering up that perfect hourglass frame, not even the odd bulky Christmas sweater.

Then I realized I was staring. Or rather we both did, my mom mature enough not to say anything about the secret X-mas gift still lying on my bed.

At least I'm certain that's why she imagined I was blushing.

My mind had started to wander, thinking about the breasts barely concealed underneath that top. Was it my imagination, or could I see the dark outline of those oversized nipples?

It was another thing so different and fucked up from my childhood. Mom never made me wear clothes as a child, and often didn't herself. She even used to take me to a few clothing optional resorts. I remember begging to go, never thinking there was anything unnatural about swimming naked until those awkward teenage years.

At school, I had been scandalized. I know everyone immediately associates nudity with sex, and certainly in our culture that makes sense. But with society so concerned about anything abusive happening, there was a certain amount of safety assumed in these places.

It's one of the things I'll admit my mother got right. Find people who are closed off from their sexality and any misconduct goes unpunished from fear of an uncomfortable conversation. At the lake, I got to see that not everyone looked like they were pulled from pornhub when undressed. Instead of pulling my body image issues from magazines and movies, I knew there was plenty to admire about myself in the mirror.

Even if I wished my chest looked half as full as hers.

I don't know how much that discrepancy influenced my decision to avoid any more AANR activities. I'm sure partially it came from wanting to fit in with my friends. But as a teen I remember truly believing my mom was noticing my breasts. Certainly she must have, only somehow I believed that she was disappointed that I wasn't nearly as desirable as her.

There was no big fight or awkward conversation. I just blew off the idea a few times and Mom took the hint. And just like now, I wondered how much easier it would be if she would speak up to ask me even something inanely innocent like I hope you enjoyed your gift. It would have made things a little less internally awkward if she would have known when I needed things forced out of me instead of just assuming I would ask.

I knew in my head I was being ridiculous, that really I just wanted reassurance she didn't know I had been looking down her blouse. Honestly, it wasn't that she was ever prying or awkward, it was more than she knew exactly what to say, anticipating every thought to leave me in a stunned, stupid silence. And wherever I managed to merely mumble or exploded in anger, her calm, understanding nature only made the contrast clear.

While I was gangly, small-chested, and uncomfortable, Mom sat stunning, beautiful, and completely confident in the silence. Even in that blouse and shorts, she exuded a radiant sexuality. It was something that I could never separate from my image of her, always thinking of her splayed out between the pages of some erotic ficition, even though I knew her writing and raising me had probably cost her countless romantic pursuits.

I caught my breath, my eyes peeking at her perfectly toned thighs and then up until I imagined what was underneath the v shaped crease in her shorts. I tried to pull myself away, not sure what to say, the same thoughts racing again until I thought I would actually scream out of the shameful things I was thinking.

Oh god, she knows I'm looking at her.

Fuck, she's totally sees me leering. She's going to say something, like why don't you take a picture so you'll have something to look at while you try out your new toy.

No, you're the only bitchy pervert who would think of saying something like that. You could probably say it. Tell her, say Mom I like your tits. I wish I could touch them again.

Would you hold me while I masturbate?

Oh god, I'm sick. I'm so weird, and she's so perfect!

"Rachel, do you want to get the rest of your things from the car?"

Saved, again by her otherworldly sense of charisma. I wished I could say it, could admit the strange thoughts I never seemed able to push from my head. And though she seemed to know everything else an eighteen year old girl might need to know about her blossoming body, I still had these unwelcome thoughts too perverted for her to possibly anticipate.

Fuck, it was too perverted for her to even write about.

I slunk away, feeling sheepish and awkward. Sure, she knew what I was thinking, and unable to stop myself no matter how hard I tried to wrench the thoughts from my brain.

She knows you're about to go to your room and masturabate. That's why she's given you the excuse. And it's no big deal, she won't know that you've been picturing her undressing. That you've been making every excuse to rush home early so that you can catch her naked.

It wasn't something I really could admit to myself, only that the thought of stumbling in and seeing her had stayed in mind after catching her naked in the living room. I didn't see much, just a flash of her nipples and the bottom cleft of her cheeks. The balls of her feet had been pressed up against her buttocks, showing just enough.

Mom said it was her bisexual posture that made her unable to sit still.

Even so, I barely caught a glimpse of her breasts behind the heavy paperback. It wasn't like the movies when the character is so startled she clutches the tome against her curves. She shifted a few times, giving me more or less of a peak. But Mom didn't seem startled or nervous. She just smiled up at me, asking casually about my day as though she wasn't completely naked on the couch.

I talked until I ran out of things to say.

A few days later, I realized she must spend most of my time at school wearing nothing or next to it. Maybe even masturbating while she wrote. Without thinking about the reasons why, I ditched practice, trying to recreate the moment. Realization only dawned with my disappointment at finding the house empty, self-loathing seeping down the beads of a cold sweat, and I resolved not to repeat the embarrassing effort.

In my head, I repeated familiar rationalizations like a mantra, returning with an armload of presents and trying to force my eyes from her figure.

I was her only child, the sole object for her undivided love and attention. She had those looks that were undeniably alluring, and given her occupation and advocacy, of course I would associate sex with my mother. Plus it wasn't like I had much else going on, without a boyfriend or even a prospect, I was probably just attaching a bunch of misplaced romantic attention to the nearest viable option, my libido unable to have any real regard to what was actually acceptable.

And really, so what?

Mom wrote dozens of works pseudo-incest. The inability to actually act an idea can sometimes make the fantasy all that more enduring. Maybe in time, when I didn't have to rivet my eyes onto the carpet to ignore my mother's breasts, I might even indulge in reading some of the mother/daughter stories written by her competitors.

Then again, wouldn't that be just as wrong?

Hurriedly walking to my bedroom, I had the wild idea of asking my mom to write an erotic fantasies about the two of us finally talking through my lingering looks over the past few weeks.

Would she do it?

Would I open up the next novel, and read about her, listening to me calling out her name as I orgasmed while she crouched against the wall, as eager to hear me play with my new toy. Her characters so often embodied her attitudes. So she might sit me down, slowly start explaining the birds and bees to her daughter, then offer to answer any question.

I would give her just enough, hinting at feelings I thought she would never understand. Mom would nod, waiting to speak, forcing my anxiety to spill out the unknown meaning behind my desires. And while I was completely awash that terribly waiting, wondering if my confession created a sudden and understandable chasm between me and my closest confidant, she would pull me close, letting her full lips meet mine.

Her hand, more experienced, would gently cup then squeeze my smaller tits. Mom would coo, whispering sweetly how she always preferred small, thin frames, making me forget about how much I looked like a Nordic Pippi Longstockings. She would tweak and twist my nipples as she kissed down my neck, pulling up my sweater, and hopefully taking the small, barely full bra off without seeing how little cleavage spilled out from the cups.

Her head would drop down to my clavicle, kissing and caressing the small little lifts below my breasts, pushing them up so that she could suck greedily as each. Mom would bite, just a little, then move her hand down between us so that her elbow seemed to be the phallic shape between us, a snake, its head sliding around between my thighs.

Her fingers narrow, exploring the glistening part of my pussy, finding me pliant, my legs bowing out to accept every inch.

Two, then three digits pushing their way past the folds of my pussy. I writhe, trying to wiggle myself closer on her hand. I need it, thriving and flush with the fantasy, wondering if it could possibly be enough just to read about my mother lowering down her head, making me wait as the warm breath tickling my clit.

Her tongue would graze me gently, then I would buck my hips up, trying for more and more until my hand interlocked around her head, thighs squeezing against her ears to direct my mother into the final pose of absolute ecstasy.

Could she have known my thoughts? Inside my head, each incestous instance throbbed loud each to send out a cloud of steam like a cartoon character. It seemed impossible that I was anything like subtle or secret, my only hope that my mother took my demeanor as mere embarrassment about needing to use that special Christmas gift.

She didn't react visibly, and yet retreating down the hallway I had the sense that her eyes were following me with the practiced leer of the experience libertine. I was a baby deer emerging from the woods; thankfully she didn't dare spook me. I shut the door, leaning my back against it as though expecting her to huff and puff the wood from its hinges.

I caught my ragged breath racing up against my heartbeat, my temples pounding until each thought seemed to spill over the next. Yes, there was the shame, the self-loathing, the creepy, icky feeling that seemed to drip down from my vagina, but compared with the passion of desire, what else could I do?

I clutched my knees to my diminutive chest, against wishing that I more resembled my mom as I hyperventilated. Flushed, the thoughts continued beyond control, each memory of my mother naked billowing up together into one carnal collage around a single instance.

I imagined myself coming home, sitting next to her naked body, and leaning my head against her bosom. She would reach down in between my legs, touching down below the trimmed mess of blonde hair to touch me in just the right place...

I tore at the box, ripping out several plugs in my haste to find an open outlet. The wand would never fully charge, but that didn't matter. The head sprang to life, shaking and whirring as loudly as a lawnmower. I had a second to be self-conscious at the sound, a moment where I imagined that the sputtering of the device would echo out into the hallway, filling Christmas night with a cacophony of sex noises.

Then I didn't care.

Of course, she got me the gift. It would be easy to blame my indiscretion on her, as though she would be just as glad as any other parent on Christmas to hear my screams of delight. It was wrong, and yet not entirely so. Above the sounds of the vibe, I imagine a soft set of footsteps in the hallway we shared, and wondered...

Wanting it to be true.

It was too much. I pulled my leggings and underwear down to my ankles, unable to finish the motion before pushing the spongy head of the Htachi against my clit. Pleasure, almost too intense, rattled up through my spine and against the door, causing it thump loudly against the hinges.

Through nervous breaths, I listened for more footsteps, not out of dread, but in anticipation.

I wanted her to be there. I pictured her stripped down to nothing, pressed against the wall, listening for the sound of my pleasure. I thought of her fingers in between those long legs, remembering how I used to shave my pussy to look like hers before the painful dots of razor burn ended that fantasy. I imagined I could hear her pressed against the other side of the door as my bare ass rocked back against it, responding to the toy clenched between my thighs.

She was so close, barely on the other side of the door, listening to her daughter ramp up against the throes of ecstasy. I had been here before, with boyfriends and my own hands, only to have the same squeamish thoughts forced the fantasy to end.

This was different.

Now that she was the focus of attention, her nipples pressed against the side of the door, her imagined pleasure at mine the driving force of orgasm bliss. Part of me wanted to throw open the door, even just a little to add something special to the illusion, and yet I couldn't bring myself to take the chance at shattering the scene.

I could see it so perfectly in my mind, rising up with the increasingly muffled moans. I was on the edge, needing just a second, just a touch, just one last push before the heavy steady hammering against my clit struck the perfect chord.

And I thought of catching her, those puffy nipples peeking out behind the paperback.

Did I scream?

It was impossible to say, without the stifling inhibition of shame, my first orgasm overthrew every one of my senses. I don't mean to dismiss the utter euphoria; the pleasure was intoxicating enough to envelop every nerve, as though the last few years of denial had simply been building to this powerful precipice.