My name is Alice, and I want to tell you how, after years of fear and loathing, I finally found sensitive love.
He had given a gasping moan as he pumped the last of his semen into me and began to relax. Now I held his head to my breasts and stroked his soft brown hair.
It was done now, and guilt and recriminations were useless. After all, what should I do? Go to a psychiatrist and say," I've engaged in abnormal sex with my son?" Why abnormal when we had both longed for this fulfillment, and enjoyed each other so much?
Or perhaps I should go and confess to a priest, "Father I have sinned with my son; grant me forgiveness"? Forgiveness for what? Love that had overwhelmed us both to the point where we undertook that most loving of acts between man and women, to couple in the act of sex?
No, I would face the consequences of our sexual union without seeking either help or forgiveness.
If I did need to justify myself I would say, "I have suffered from sexual fear and deprivation for so long, and now I have found a sensitive lover."
God knows! I was so young, so very young when they raped me and made me pregnant with him!
To this day, I have never been sure how many of them took me that night. Possibly eight, but I'm not sure because I was so bewildered and horrified at what they were doing to me I was in no condition to count.
I had just gone to the corner shop for mother. It was dark and they sprang out of a car and pulled me into it. There were two in the back I know, because I fought with them, and I could see two in the front seat.
They took me to a deserted park, and there was another car with more of them. They ripped off my clothes and I screamed, "I'm a virgin, I'm a virgin, please don't hurt me." They laughed at me and put some sort of tape over my mouth and held me spread-eagled.
The first one entered me brutally, tearing my hymen apart with an agonising thrust. As he finished, I heard one of them jeer. "Look what the bitch has done to you, you're covered with blood."
The one who had just finished kicked me in rage and I heard him say, "You dirty slut."
After that, one followed another. I gave up struggling and hung whimpering in a morass of pain. As I have said, how many of them there were, and how many times each of them took me, I don't know. It seemed to last forever.
When they had had enough they got into the cars and left me. I pulled off the tape they had put across my mouth and tried to rise, but my legs would not support me. I crawled with blood and semen dribbling out of me, until I got to the roadside, and there I was eventually found by a couple driving by.
There followed black and ghastly nights and days. There was the hospital and police, examinations, tests and questions – endless questions. They made me feel as I had set the rape up. I seemed to have entered a nightmare world. In the end none of my assailants were ever caught.
Starting to come out of this darkness, I received counseling, but finally it was my parent's love that brought me through. I clung to them at that time, and when I was told I was pregnant, it was their support that allowed me to decide I would not accept the abortion that I was being pressed to undergo.
Quite why I refused the abortion I have never been clear about. Perhaps it was some mad idea that out of the pain and suffering something good and innocent might emerge. Whatever the reason, from the time I held Edmund in my arms, I have never regretted my choice.
My parents continued to be supportive, helping me in the early stages of motherhood, which by all accounts I was far too young to undertake. My son was six years old when I finally moved into a flat with him. From that time on we have lived together with no other person.
The terrible sexual assault gave me a very negative attitude towards sex and men. Although I had what were no doubt honourable approaches from men to take me out, I always shied away. The friends I had were all women, and if I was invited to a married woman's home, I maintained a polite distance between her husband and myself.
The love I had to give went to my son who, although male, did not seem to come into category of one to be rejected. As he entered puberty, I was proud and rejoiced at his development into a fine looking young man.
In the early stages of his adolescence, he became very shy, hiding his bodily changes from me. This reticence on his part made me all the more curious to see the transformation. Despite or perhaps because of my terrible rape experience, I had never seen a nude male, and I was interested. I tried to see my boy undressed, as I had seen him when he was little.
The glimpses I got of him inclined me to think how beautiful his body was. By his mid teen years, he looked strong and well shaped, and his genitals were, I thought, fully developed. I knew he was experimenting sexually with girls from his school, and I thought, "Lucky girls."
It was around his mid-teens that the tables were turned on me a little. I noticed him looking at me in that speculating manner I had observed in other men. Somehow, he managed "accidentally" to enter the bathroom while I was showering or in the bath. He also made similar accidental entries to my bedroom, excusing himself with statements like, "I just came in to say goodnight."
I took these "visits" without comment, letting him see me in whatever state of undress I was. In truth, I think I rather enjoyed letting him see my body, especially as I knew it was worth seeing. Also, I think I wanted to experience a male response to my female physique, and felt safe with him.
He seemed fascinated with my breasts, and one day, unexpectedly; he asked me what size bras I took. I told him 38D, and he smiled. On an another occasion soon after, he began to question me about women's physical anatomy, especially the reproductive part of that anatomy.
Given that he must have seen some of his girls' bodies, I was puzzled as to why he was trying to see my body and why he was asking me these questions. At that stage I took it to be a general curiosity about women, and not especially focused on me.
The realisation that it was not quite such a general curiosity came about through a visit to a fairly remote beach. There was not a soul in sight, so when we changed we simply stripped off and put on our bathing things. At one point when I was naked, I saw Edmund looking at me, and being nude himself, I saw his penis rise like a great tower.
"My God, I thought, I'm turning him on." This thought gave rise to a disturbing outcome for me. Fortunately, a woman's sexual arousal is not as visible as the male's. I felt myself getting wet between the legs. I hastily put on my bikini and fled into the water and began swimming. Edmond followed me in.
There were no further developments at that time and nothing was ever said, but I had received the warning signal. My son found me sexually desirable and I him. I talked to my self very severely, raising all the usual points on this subject – incest, law, morality, social disapproval, consanguinity.
This self-lecturing may have done something for my intellect, but it did not help my emotions. Living alone together, and being very tactile and affectionate, we were often in physical contact. Now I began to notice that when we touched or hugged, I could feel his hard manhood, and was aware of a throbbing in my clitoris. At times when he was not present I would think about him, and experienced a heavy ache in my genitals and lower abdomen.
Other signs that at the time seemed incongruous caught my attention. Instead of spending lots of time away from the house as he had during his early and mid-teen years, he began to be at home a lot more. I noticed that the handkerchiefs he handed in for washing were often caked with dried semen, and patches of his discharge also appeared on his bed sheets.
It seemed that he had given up coupling with his girl friends, and was masturbating heavily instead. "Why?" I asked myself. I thought I knew the answer, but still tried to hide it from myself.
Apart from my self-lecturing, I had another problem to be faced and dealt with. No man had entered me since I had been raped, but that terrible night was now almost nineteen years behind me. Whilst I shall never forget that dark ordeal, its psychological effects had diminished, and now, in my thirties, I began to feel the absence of a loving sexual relationship.
The lack of such a relationship was clearly nothing to do with my ability to attract men. I had had enough approaches over the years to reassure me that I was desirable. Yet, all these approaches I had repelled because I simply could not bring myself to trust a man. I realised that this was irrational, but I had been so psychologically and physically abused, I seemed to freeze every time a man drew near to me.
There was one male that did not produce this response in me, and that was my own son, Edmund, the forbidden male. In any case, I was obviously much older than he was, but then, not as old as some of the women young men seem to desire these days. "Could I…?" "No I mustn't. I will not."
Although I did not give it any thought at the time, looking back I can now see that a crisis moment had to come. Edmond and I could not go on living in close proximity, constantly being sexually aroused by a desire for each other, without something finally giving way.
The critical moment came one night as I was preparing for bed. I had just finished my shower, and had gone to my bedroom wearing only my bathrobe. I sleep naked, and was in the process of removing the robe when Edmond tapped on my door and walked in.
I still had just taken the robe off and was holding it in my hand. Edmond stopped short, gazing at me. It was the clearest view of my body he had ever experienced and in a stifled voice, he gave his usual excuse, "I just came in to say goodnight."
He approached to give me his usual goodnight peck on the cheek. I drew the robe up to my body in a half-hearted attempt to cover myself. He was wearing only the thin shorts he usually wore in bed, and I could see his potent erection.
There was a sort of clamoring in my head. I felt that this was the moment of decision, that we had played for long enough and I could not bear the sexual tension between us any longer.
I knew he would not risk the initiative so, as his lips approached my cheek I moved my face so as to plant my lips on his in a sort, lingering kiss. I was not experienced in deep kissing, so my kiss at that time was probably no more than an exceptionally warm motherly kiss. What I did next was, like my kiss, not born of experience, but was born of female instinct. I pulled my lower abdomen against him and started to rotate my hips.
