This story is almost entirely concerned with mother/son incest. If this subject offends you, please read no further.
All characters in this story are aged over eighteen years. And they are purely imaginary and bear no relationship at all to any persons either living or dead. They are entirely the product of the author's fevered imagination.
I would also like to thank my editor, Hatsuda, for his patience and skill in polishing the sometimes rough edges of this story.
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To say that the funeral was highly stressful was a gross understatement. My father's death was unexpected; a sudden, massive heart attack took him at 60. I sighed, but I knew the obsequies wouldn't last forever, and then we could get back to something roughly approximating normal. Families—funerals have the capacity to create either closeness in shared grief, or highlight divisions. In ours, the divisions ran deep. My father's family, particularly his mother, had never approved of his marriage, believing that he had married well below himself.
I knew this was pure, unadulterated snobbery, and I also knew the reason he had married her. My mother, Claire, had been stunningly beautiful, and at forty-four, still was. She was tall, probably 5'8", with long, thick dark hair with auburn highlights. Her oval face was unusually regular with dark brown eyes, rather deep set, over high cheek bones and framed by long, thick eyelashes. Her nose was what is often called "celestial", with just the slightest uptilt and thick, almost "pouty" lips, her skin a pale, flawless alabaster, all balanced on a long, slender neck.
This all led to high-set 36B breasts (in my adolescent fantasies, I'd checked out the laundry basket), age now adding the slightest sag. A tapered waist with a smooth, well rounded bottom leading to long, long well shaped legs and small feet completed what I had always seen as a mouth-watering ensemble—even though this was my mother. But in addition, as an extra "veneer", my mother was supremely elegant. She moved gracefully and wore clothes as if she was a professional model. And all this was complemented by a soft, warm contralto voice that could still send shivers of pleasure up my spine.
I supported my mother through the funeral. Her tears suggested a grief almost palpable, but, at the same time, I felt it was not totally convincing, and to my professional eye there was something almost theatrical about it. She held herself rigid and aloof from everybody, including me at this point, as if determined not to let her true feelings show. I knew that my parents' relationship was strained, but he had been the apple of his mother's eye, and I recognised that my mother needed to show appropriate respect to avoid family conflict.
Nevertheless, this was strained to the limit when my grandmother, dressed entirely in black, caught up with me after the service. She ignored my mother, but addressed me in her most patronising voice, "Ashley, I shall want to speak with you about the family trust."
"For heaven's sake, grandmother, we've just buried your son, my father and my mother's husband. The last thing I care about at the moment is the family trust."
"Very well, Ashley, I shall put your insolence down to grief and I will see you in the near future." She stalked away, ramrod straight.
After the funeral a buffet meal was provided in a somewhat strained atmosphere before everyone dispersed, and I imagined I could hear the sighs of relief. I drove mum back home and she changed from her dark suit into rather unexpected jeans, tee shirt and flatties. Mum had a part-time job as a receptionist at a large medical practice, but was taking some time off following her husband's death.
"I know this may seem disrespectful of your father, Ash, but I'm not going to be a hypocrite. We had drifted further and further apart, and I'm not going to go into extended mourning for him. I'm so sorry if this shocks you, but ..."
"No, mum," I was quick to respond. "I know dad had become difficult, moody and demanding. If you want total honesty, I'm surprised that you stayed with him over the last few years."
Mum smiled, on reflection, a relatively rare phenomenon of recent times. Her smile lit up her whole face, warm and sensitive, and carrying a message of love and acceptance.
"Thank you, Ash. I've missed you so much since you've been gone and I've felt so isolated. Do you think you would be able to stay here for a day or two just while the stress dies down a little?"
"Mum, it will be my pleasure—if for no other reason than you are a superb cook."
The smile again, although this time with a decided twinkle.
"Oh, so that's all I am to you, a convenient provider of free meals?"
I growled deep in my throat and jumped towards her; mum squealed with delight and ran off. Thinking about that little incident later, I don't know what would have happened if I'd caught her.
I quickly settled in to my old room. The house was also closer to my practice (I'm a psychologist) than my unit, and mum's cooking was a definite bonus. I enjoyed her company, too, and she seemed to be emerging from her shell, even becoming playful and giggly.
After about a week, I decided I probably needed to return to my own unit, and said as much to mum.
She pouted. "Must you, Ash, I have so enjoyed you being here? I feel I can be myself around you, something I never managed with your father, particularly after you moved out."
I struggled with my own feelings. Mum's presence and light heartedness had been a balm for my own sorrows. In my case, it wasn't related to Dad's death, but three months before that event I had gone through a painful divorce. Sarah and I had split bitterly over the revelation that I was "shooting blanks" and couldn't father children. She was a model, a beautiful blonde making money hand over fist, but she made no secret that she wanted to start a family. The sex had been great, but nothing came of it and she wasn't prepared to let it go at that. We had some wounding arguments that led to the divorce court, but as her income was higher than mine, and I wasn't particularly interested in sordid money-grubbing, we walked away with what we each had.
"Yes, mum, I need to sort myself out, but to be perfectly honest, I'm going to put my unit on the market. Too many memories of Sarah, so I need a fresh start."
"Yes, honey, I can understand. I must admit I've thought about downsizing to something more suitable for a single woman, but ..."
Here she stopped and looked at me intently, rather as if I was a specimen under a microscope.
"Ash ... Ash, I've just had an idea. Why don't you move back in with me permanently, or at least until you've found yourself somewhere else to live that suits you properly?"
"Mum, it's a very tempting offer, but I can't impose myself on you like that, because of all the added work around the house and having a twenty five year old slob under your feet all the time."
"Now listen to me, young man." My mother's attempts at severity were never very convincing. "Firstly it is not an imposition because I invited you. Secondly, you need someone to look after you; you're not eating properly and not getting enough sleep. And thirdly, I won't charge you any rent, so you'll be financially better off as well."
"Yes, mummy," I said with obvious mock humility, and she couldn't stop the laughter bubbling out.
"Oh you. But at least give it some thought."
"I don't really need to think about it too hard, mum, and if you're sure you're okay with it, I'll take you up on your offer, although I will have to go back for a few days to get the unit on the market and clear out all my junk."