It was my eighteenth birthday, when Diane my mother pulled me close, unintentionally crushing her voluptuous breasts against my chest, kissing me on the forehead and both cheeks. It wasn't the first time I recognised my mother as a woman who had other attributes, not associated with keeping me fed and healthy.
"Happy birthday darling."
Later that day mother was working in the kitchen preparing food for the evening meal for us and my father, for when he eventually decided to come home from work. For the first time I moved in behind her pressing myself against her back, wrapping my arms around her waist to thank her for my present.
"I love you mom, you're the most beautiful woman in the world."
"Why thank you darling."
That was more than my father ever said to her. Over the following years, at least once a day I'd stand behind her, my arms wrapped around her telling her how beautiful she was, and that I loved her dearly. I became fascinated by her, watching her breasts bounce around as she walked, and the movement of her ass beneath her skirt, like two puppies struggling to escape.
Aged sixty five, my father, Ken Carter, died, I was twenty one, my mother was obviously upset, but surprisingly not heart broken. Fortunately I was still living at home and between girlfriends. I spent a lot of time consoling her, cuddling and kissing her on the cheek, occasionally a quick peck on the lips or on her eyes to remove a tear. I would lie alongside her on the sofa with an arm wrapped around her waist and we would talk about the future. For the last few years and still was the main subject of my fantasies, never refusing my sexual advances. Gradually we got back to some kind of normality with me becoming far more attentive towards her.
I knew my mother was a lot younger than my father, she was forty when he died, but it wasn't until we were sorting through his private papers that I began to discover the details of their terrible secret. Mother had gone shopping leaving me to sort through my father's files, most of which she didn't understand. One file I opened contained certificates, our birth certificates and one marriage certificate, missing was my parent's marriage certificate. When I checked my birth certificate the details seemed fine, my mother was my mother and my father was my father. When I checked my father's birth certificate that also seemed fine, although I never knew his parents, my grandparents. Things became a little weird when I checked my mother's birth certificate, her mother, who I never knew, was her mother, and her father had the exact same name as my father. I checked my grandparent's marriage certificate, the husband had my father's name but the wife had my grandmother's name, it was a little confusing to say the least.
Spreading the certificates out on the table I checked the dates against the ages. Checking the date on my father's birth certificate against the date on what I assumed to be my grandparent's marriage certificate, my father would have been twenty four, which the marriage certificate confirmed. So my father was also my grandfather. Working back, I calculated from her birth certificate that my mother must have been nineteen when I was born, therefore it would seem that I was born out of wedlock. What a bastard. Of course now I began to wonder just what happened, did he force her, was it rape or did she go with him willingly? What happed to my grandmother, did she die or did she find out what he had done, and left him? Were they divorced? But no matter what happened, my father could never have legally married my mother, consequently no marriage certificate.
That evening with my arms around her snuggled together on the sofa watching TV, I decided to broach the subject and ask her straight out if my father was her father.
"Mom was my father also my grandfather?" She shot bolt upright leaned away from me and looked me straight in the eye.
"What?"
"Was my father your father? Only I was checking the birth and marriage certificates and thought there was an error. It was all very confusing and the only way it made sense was if your father was also my father."
She suddenly burst into tears, and ran from the room up the stairs into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. I gave her a couple of minutes, then followed her up. When I knocked on her door she told me to go away, not taking any notice I opened her door and crawled up beside her on the bed. She snuggled in close as I put my arms around her.
"Mom its ok, it doesn't matter I'm just grateful for being your son."
But it didn't seem to help, her sobbing persisted. I kissed her on the forehead and on the cheek gradually the sobbing subsided and she lay there cuddled up in my arms. I could feel her breathing as her breast rose and fell as they pressed against my chest, and the warmth of her breath. Even with all that was going on and how upset she was, all I could think of was sex, and yes I did have a hard-on although she wasn't aware of my embarrassment.
Six months after my father's death it was my mother's birthday, by which time she had taken a rather menial fulltime job that was bringing in a little money. I had made the decision to seduce her, although I wasn't quite sure how to go about it. My intuition told me I was already part way there, or at least in the starting blocks, because of all the love and affection I had bestowed upon her. She never declined my attention and I was now at the point where not only did she let me to pull her close, but would tip her head to one side allowing me to kiss and nuzzle her neck. At the same time I would reinforce the fact that I loved her, telling her she is the most beautiful woman in the world, which occasionally caused little giggles. From her reaction, I think she thought I was flirting with her, which I was.
The problem was, what birthday present could I buy her. Money was not a concern, but I wanted something that indicated how I felt, while hinting that I was romantically pursuing her. Lingerie was considered, but after some deep thought perhaps a little too personal, it was too soon and not very tactful. Now my mother's closet left a lot to be desired, and I suppose married to a much older man wasn't encouraged to wear nice clothes, she was a little on the dowdy side. I thought about buying a skirt and blouse, but not just any old skirt and blouse, a satin skirt probably a little shorter than she usually wears and a nice silk blouse. I could buy them for her to wear under the pretext of taking her out to a high class restaurant for a meal one evening. So that was my decision, however, I didn't know her sizes, which meant diving down the laundry basket, probably over the weekend when she was out shopping.
Mother's laundry basket was tucked in the corner of her bedroom, the fragrance from her cheap perfume drifting out as I lifted the lid. It was never a pleasant fragrance, never did liked it, although I would never upset my mother by telling her that fact, it was probably all she could afford since my father kept her financially frustrated. It gave me an idea to also buy her a nice bottle of perfume for her birthday, to complement a skirt and blouse, one that I preferred. Carefully removing her clothes from the basket ensuring they could be replaced in the same order, checked the sizes of her blouse, waist and length of her skirt, also noting the sizes of her underclothes. I felt sorry for my mother, her underclothes were getting old and tired, beginning to fray in places, where once they were white, now they were greyish, not quite as pristine as they once were.
Mother was a submissive and detested conflict, the kitchen was her comfort zone, an area which my father who had chastised her on a regular bases hardly ever entered. I spent time with her in the kitchen helping out, and it was there that I noticed those times when she stood at the sink her hands occupied, either plunged in water, washing or cutting up vegetables or fruit. It was at those times, with my father now just a memory; I decided to make my play. My mother had no family, no parents, and no siblings; maybe there were aunts and uncles unknown to us, living somewhere. Suddenly it struck me I could do or say almost anything to her, and there wasn't a lot she could do about it. She could of course go to the police but that would create conflict.
That night while she was preparing dinner I nervously wrapped my left arm around her waist and my right arm a little higher around her body, resting my thumb against the underside of her bra encased breast. I moved in close behind her, fidgeting in such a way to disguise the fact that I was rubbing myself up against her. Through her blouse I could feel the thick seams where the two lower sections of her bra cup were joined together. My mother never mentioned the fact that my hand was indelicately placed or that I was rubbing up against her. Each day for the rest of the week I managed to repeat the scenario, although by the end of the week I was lightly flicking my thumb up to watch her breast jump a little. My mother still failed to react.
The following week becoming a little bolder I actually cupped the underside of her breast and gave it a little squeeze. Mother reacted.
"Bobby stop that, what do you think you are doing?"
"I'm not doing anything."
"Yes you are, stop it."
"Stop what?"
