Come and Sleep in Mummy's Bed

I hope this story works for you. I've looked at it and looked at it until my eyes have crossed, yet there, still, may be errors. If there are, forgive me, please.

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GA - Managua, Nicaragua. 1 March 2012.

It had to stop; what she was doing; it wasn’t right. In fact, Ingrid told herself, her mind working while her body automatically pulled wet laundry from the machine. What she was doing – had

been

doing consistently for a month – was just plain wrong. Worse than that, it was perverted.

Why then

couldn’t

she stop?

Because it felt good, gave her a thrill, aroused her. He gave her the attention she needed.

But, the internal berating continued. What she’d been doing was bad, so, so bad, and which is why it had to end ... Soon ... Today.

Outside, under a high, blue sky, while sunshine blinked diamonds through the leaves of the old oak, Ingrid, oblivious to the blare of the season, her mind still absent, pegged the damp, freshly laundered clothes to the line. A waft of warm air lifted the canopy of her button-down summer dress in a sensuous caress, soft and gentle like a lover’s breath. Ingrid longed for a lover to kiss her ... down there, to lavish her vulva with lascivious, licking attention. Aaron couldn’t be that lover; he

mustn’t

be that lover.

How had it begun, the flirting? Could it even be

called

flirting? – She didn’t think there was a name for what she did ... the things she did to her son; the teasing and exhibiting herself; the flaunting. Mind wandering as she pegged Ingrid reflected upon just when it had begun. She’d dimly become aware of Aaron’s interest – his

unusual

interest – in his mother a few weeks earlier. There had been no defining moment for hert; no time or event where she could say: Yes, that was when it started.

What had happened was more a dawning of realisation, a conjoined series of experiences which she became aware of over time. There had been the odd looks from the boy, more a young man now actually, but Ingrid still thought of Aaron as her boy, and she’d noticed how, when he thought she wasn’t looking, he’d stare at her with a ...

hungry?

... almost predatory expression – A disconcerting lupine gaze. Those lingering, flat-eyed, calculating looks had twisted Ingrid’s guts in a faintly familiar way, a way she dimly recognised but couldn’t quite place, like meeting a childhood friend whose name lay on the tip of the tongue, a haze of memory that refused to coalesce. He’d grown more tactile of late as well. There were the touches, like butterfly wings, on her arm as he spoke of his day at work or told a joke; where he reached out and lay a hand across her wrist or forearm, the pressure of his fingers remaining for several seconds longer than necessary to prove a point; his knuckles accidentally brushing against her breast.

And then there’d been the kiss that golden morning on the cusp of the summer solstice a few weekends since. Standing at the kitchen counter waiting for the kettle to boil, towelling robe belted loosely, and he’d come up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, leaned into her, his body curving against hers, and kissed the back of her neck. That feeling, the tickle and slither in the pit of her stomach ...

She recognised the feeling then. Desire. That was a defining moment for Ingrid, when it became sexual for her, but she couldn’t pin down the time it had begun for Aaron, and

why

he looked at her way he did.

On that Sunday morning, with her son’s breath on the nape of her neck, the feather touch of his lips upon her skin, Ingrid’s nipples had thickened and her sex had oiled, a gasp caught in her throat, her knuckles blanched, and her fingers gripped the counter-top. Aaron had released his mother just as the kettle shrilled.

‘Morning, Mum,’ he’d mumbled through a mouthful of cotton wool drowsiness.

Was it just imagination on her part though? Did she read it wrong? Ingrid couldn’t be sure, and of course to ask him outright ... No that course of action just wasn’t an option. The ignominy of her son’s incredulous, disbelieving ... shocked face, the chagrin, eternal embarrassment of

that

between them if she was wrong, misguided in some horrible way. Unthinkable.

Appalled at her own immorality, wanting to stop even before she’d begun – and just as powerless to desist after she’d started – Ingrid began to tease her son. Just to test him. That was all. Just to see.

With the washing hung out, regimented according to size and colour – such was Ingrid’s ordered personality despite her mind’s preoccupation – she wandered through the kitchen towards the living room of the house. The room, dressed by Ikea, registered not at all upon Ingrid’s consciousness; chairs and tables and bric-a-brac with names like Helvena and Ingstrod, acquired during the Great Transition made no impression, failed to dent the armour of the woman’s musing.

‘That’s it,’ she muttered. ‘No more. It’s done ... Finished.’ Settling into an armchair, resolute, Ingrid stretched her legs, critically appraising the light, golden hue of her tan before running her fingers through honey-blonde hair. Vanity had seeped into her character since Jack had gone; the errant husband’s desertion turning Ingrid into a cliché: The gym, the boob job, the dieting. She shook her head while reaching for her cigarettes, a singular vice left over from her previous life. Lighting one and blowing a stream of blue smoke towards the ceiling, Ingrid continued her litany. ‘I’m a mature, independent, modern woman,’ she affirmed out loud. ‘I have a successful business, I’m attractive ... Sexy, even.’

So why can’t I get a man?

Although, she thought, face souring at bitter memories, getting a man wasn’t the problem, she had no trouble attracting them, the issue seemed to be finding the right man. Her son, she concluded, most definitely wasn’t the right man. ‘No more nonsense,’ she decided, emphatic.

So why did desire slither in her guts – deep in that indefinable, visceral place?

She thought of him, remembered what she’d seen, and tendrils of lust fingered lightly at her sex. It had been this way since the evening she’d watched him, clandestine, with a voyeuristic thrill hot in her belly. Spying on her son, in secret, one night on the landing, her face pressed to the door jamb, the urge to masturbate became an almost constant companion. She hadn’t meant to spy after coming across Aaron’s partially open door, which he’d formerly kept resolutely closed to debar maternal snooping, but something made her stop. She’d sensed a change in the atmosphere, almost as if the house whispered a secret, and she’d crept stealthily along the landing, closer to her son’s room.

And there he’d been ...

Ingrid moaned as her insides clenched and warmth infused her sex. Unable to resist the overwhelming urge to touch herself, she crushed the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray and unbuttoned her light, cotton dress. Sprawling in the single seat, buttocks precipitous at the cushion edge, she opened her legs to accommodate her probing digits.

‘Oh fuck, no,’ she whispered to the Swedish decor. ‘I’m going to go to hell for this ...’ Ingrid moaned a low, desperate growl when her hand slid beneath the elastic of her underwear and her fingers found the gooey folds. ‘That’s nice,’ she purred, eyes closing as she fingered her clitoris. ‘So bloody nice ...’ Grunting at the sparking from that slippery, sensitive nub, electric pulses that tingled and buzzed, Ingrid gritted her teeth while her face set in a grimace of lewd concentration. ‘Come on, baby,’ she coaxed, slipping into the thrilling, illicit fantasy, ‘show Mummy the hot stuff. Show Mummy what a big boy you are now ...’

In her mind, the dreamplace of half recall and half fantasy, Ingrid saw him as he’d been, with the door to his bedroom ajar while he, naked and hugely erect, tugged in frantic urgency. Ingrid remembered the cold wave of shock, her disbelieving eyes bulging and her jaw slack when she’d first realised what her son was doing.

‘Make it spit for me,’ she urged the recumbent figure in her head. ‘Come on, pull it and squirt that hot baby-juice for Mummy.’

The woman’s fingers moved quickly. She hissed, frustrated at the restriction of her panties against her hand. A sharp, rasping rend ended that issue and the gusset flapped loose. Ingrid’s labia gaped, swollen with desire. She moaned, widening her thighs as she scrunched lower in the chair, fingers squelching into her opening.

The fantasy son turned his face to look at her as she stood framed in the open doorway. She saw his face, shocked at first, crease into a smile. ‘You,’ he said. ‘You’ve come to me.’

With the hem of her skirt hiked around her hips as she fingered her sex, her dream-self spoke: ‘Yes, baby, I’ve come to you. I’ve been watching you.’ Ingrid thrust her hips forward and held herself open to his gaze. The thrill of his eyes staring at that place ...

The woman groaned when Aaron lifted his erection from where it had dropped against his flat stomach. His languid stroking of its length and the hot stare held her enraptured. ‘Do you want Mummy to suck it?’ she asked, moving into the room, skirt still held high so the boy could see her juice-smeared mons. She murmured: ‘Let me suck you, you can come in my mouth; on my tits; in my hair, or ...’ she paused, adding lewdly, ‘you could squirt into my cunt ...’

In reality, in the living room, Ingrid squirmed against the seat. Her hips jerked, thighs shivering as the glorious wave crashed and foamed. Out loud, she blurted, ‘I’m coming. Oh yes, I’m coming. Fucking coming ...’

Braless in deference to the warmth of the day, her free hand mauled at her breasts – the superb example of an expensive surgeon’s craft. Ingrid squeezed and massaged her tits, mewling and groaning and spitting obscenities in the soundtrack to her climax.

Her orgasm cooled, her cunt ceased its convulsive clenching around her fingers, which were smeared to the knuckles as she lay in a splay-legged sprawl; an ungainly, bedraggled heap, vulva smeared with goo, fighting for breath.

Ingrid opened her eyes.

And found she was no longer alone.

*

Aaron knew exactly when it started. For him the moment came when his mother, one Thursday night, following yet another debacle of a date, arrived home, upset and close to tears.

The door had slammed shut, disturbing the youth from his video game. ‘You’re back early,’ he’d called from his room. Perturbed by the lack of response, unusual for his mother not to reply, Aaron left the game and went downstairs. He found Ingrid in the kitchen, a glass and an open bottle of vodka on the counter while she drew vehemently on a cigarette. His mother’s distraught expression and the generous measure of clear liquid in the glass worried Aaron. He felt a flicker of alarm. ’What’s up, Mum? he asked, eyeing the bottle.

‘Nothing, baby,’ Ingrid replied, trying a brave smile for size and finding it too large. Her lower lip trembled. She took a deep drag on the cigarette, immediately followed by a three quick swallows of the liquor. As if surprised by the tumbler’s sudden emptiness, Ingrid blinked several times, staring at the glass stupidly.

‘Something’s up, Mum,’ Aaron persisted. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be drinking that stuff as quick as you are.’ Ingrid tilted the bottle towards the glass. Vodka glugged to the half-way point. ‘Has someone upset you? What is it? Tell me, Mum ...’

‘It’s nothing, Aaron, really. I’m just being a silly old woman. Leave me alone; I’ll be OK in the morning.’ The smile, more a rictal grimace, stretched her face before dying quickly.

In the past Aaron had shown little in the way of filial piety, his mother, even after his father’s departure, had always seemed strong, assured and in control. He’d observed the usual duties, her birthday, Christmas, that kind of thing. To Aaron she was just ... well ... his mother. He loved her, sure, but she’d never given any hint, any reason to doubt her ability to cope. He’d rolled his eyes at the gym obsession, the dieting and the constant experimenting with her hair during the Great Transition phase of her life, post-husband. He’d been mortified at the boob job however – his friends and colleagues had been very vocal on that subject. But now this, this was something new.

‘Seriously, Mum, tell me. What’s wrong? This isn’t like you. It isn’t like you at all.’

‘Oh, Aaron,’ Ingrid sighed. ‘Why can’t I just find a man?’

Aaron scraped a high-legged stool from in front of the breakfast bar. He hefted himself into it and yanked another seat out for his mother. ‘Sit down, Mum,’ he instructed. Ingrid, after a moment’s deliberation, lifted herself onto the chair. Her skirt rode high on her thighs, attracting merely a glance from her son. They were his mother’s legs and were of no interest to Aaron. Not yet anyway. ‘You’ve got loads of men after you. You’re always out on dates, socialising,’ he continued.

‘That’s not what I mean, Aaron.’ Ingrid extinguished the cigarette and immediately lit another, delicately placing the filter between her lips and firing up her lighter. Exhaling, she added, ‘I go out, sure. I have a little fun, but nothing happens,’ she appended hastily and tapped ash into the ash-tray. ‘I might flirt a bit but I’m not ...’ She shrugged. ‘I’m not ... Well, you know.’

Aaron nodded. ‘I didn’t think you were, Mum.’ Not that he’d given it much thought. Some things were just best off left alone. His mother’s dates and what she did or didn’t do were not his concern.

The glass met Ingrid’s lips. A small sip this time, Aaron noted with relief.

‘I know I look good.’ The woman’s eyes levelled with her son’s. ‘That isn’t vanity, not at all. I know I’m looking good, especially for forty-three. Sure, there are younger girls out there that I couldn’t compete with in the looks department, but that isn’t what I mean, Son, what I mean is I can’t find a man, the right man, not one who just wants—’ Her head tilted to one side, she sucked at the cigarette and grimaced. ‘—you know what I’m talking about, you’re twenty-one,’ she said after blowing smoke at the ceiling. ‘They just want me for ... for ...’

‘Sex?’ Aaron supplied.

Ingrid nodded, her hair waving softly as she did. ‘I’d just like to find someone who’ll show some respect, treat me right, maybe even love me eventually.’ Her eyes rolled hugely in their orbits. ‘But all I attract is ...’

‘... Dickheads?’ Aaron furnished.

Ingrid laughed, a loud Ha! that ended in a stifled snort. She grinned. ‘Exactly. Dickheads.’

Then it happened, the epiphany, the defining moment for Aaron. Ingrid, holding the smouldering cigarette elegantly aloft, leaned her torso towards her son. As her body bridged the gap between them Aaron looked down into the tight groove of his mother’s cleavage. Sensing Ingrid’s intention – wanting a hug from her son; some reassurance and comfort – he slid off the stool to make the embrace less of a contortion. His mother lithely jumped down from her own perch and they stood face-to-face, her forehead level with his chin. Again his eyes flicked to the dizzying décolletage. Aaron recalled the shape of her legs as she’d slid onto the stool, and, for the first time really recognised his mother as a corporeal entity, a three-dimensional woman with thoughts, feelings and emotions.

Great tits and legs. Damn, he thought, Mum’s pretty sexy ...

When his mother finally leaned in for his embrace, Aaron was surprised to feel, as his arms automatically encircled her, just how fine and delicate she was. His hands slid down the xylophone of her ribcage, coming to rest on her narrow, tapered waist just above the flare of her hips. Her breasts squashed into his chest and, for an instant, as the scent of her perfume, shampoo and tang of tobacco hit his senses, he experienced an almost overwhelming urge to nuzzle at his mother’s neck. He imagined, for a fleeting moment, a heartbeat or two, perhaps three, kissing her on that place between neck and shoulder; thought, momentarily, about licking her throat, sliding his tongue over the jut of her chin, and kissing her mouth.

What would her tongue taste like as he pushed his own between her lips? Would she squirm against him – grinding her sex against the front of his jeans? Would she lift up that pink sweater to reveal those tits, hefting the heavy ripeness in her palms and smiling as she offered her teats to his mouth?

The carnal imagining lasted for just a moment, that’s all it was, a brief flick of an eyelid, a scrap in time.

Confused by the strength of his emotions, and embarrassed at the sudden, savage erection, shockingly suffused with white hot desire, Aaron abruptly broke from the embrace.

‘I ... Sorry, Mum,’ he spluttered.

Ingrid’s eyes were wide with surprise. ‘What’s wrong, baby?’ she asked unaware, in a voice full of maternal concern.

‘I have to pee,’ Aaron flustered. It was the best he could manage at the time. ‘Sorry ...’

He fled the room, leaving his mother to stare after him, bemused. He left her to her vodka, her cigarettes and her musing.

After the scene in the kitchen, Aaron found his thoughts crammed with his mother. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, couldn’t help daydreaming about her body. He thought constantly about what she’d look like naked, how she’d taste when she kissed, and was her pubic bush left natural or was she clean and smooth down there? He made up excuses to be in the same room as her while she worked on clients’ accounts in the evenings. The video games were forgotten, all Aaron wanted to do was watch his mother’s face as she concentrated on the columns of figures, her spectacles perched endearingly on the end of her nose. Occasionally she’d look up from the papers, fixing him with her pale-blue gaze and smiling brightly. ‘Make us a coffee, there’s a love?’ she’d ask, sparking up a cigarette and following him into the kitchen to where he’d hurried, like an eager puppy hoping to please her. Then came the darker times when he thought about her as he lay in bed. Then, as his fist inexorably gripped his erection, Aaron imagined all kinds of lewd and depraved scenes, scenes in which his mother stared up into his eyes as she knelt before him, her lips stretched tight around his girth, with him gushing hot semen into her throat. In those fantasies she invariably gagged and coughed and spat thick dribbles of gloop that cascaded over her chin to dangle in long, stretchy ropes. Strands that trembled and swung as she moved, and which, inevitably, spattered down onto the smooth skin of her breasts.

Then one day something shifted. His mother, the tightly wound accountant, changed. There was the afternoon, one Saturday, a scorching hot day, when his mother decided, of all things, to wear a hot-pink bikini bra and a pair of denim cut-offs that were so worn they were bone white, frayed at the edges, and brief enough to make the eponymous Daisy Duke blush.

‘Hello, dear,’ his mother had grinned when Aaron appeared at the doorway between kitchen and garden. ‘Glad you’re up. You could help me do some tidying in the garden.’ Aaron gawped open-mouthed with surprise and arousal at the brevity of the shorts and how they moulded to his mother’s backside. ‘It’s a lovely day outside,’ his mother had trilled. ‘It’d be a shame to waste it.

Her tits, he thought. Look at her tits. Fuck I’d just love to stick my cock between those big beauties and—’

‘—Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to help?’ Ingrid had called, interrupting Aaron’s internal appreciation of her assets. She then turned and, with what could have been a deliberate provocation if Aaron didn’t know better, bent and presented her derrière to her son’s view.