Homecoming Son

We've all heard of the Oedipus Complex, right, when the boy desires his mother to the extent that he hates his father for the access he has to her sexually? I wonder what they call it when the Mother desires the son. Perhaps the Greeks even had a whole literature and mythology based around it -- like all those lost plays and works of philosophy, it just didn't survive all the earthquakes, wars and upheavals 2000-2500 years ago.

Anyway, I desired my beautiful son physically, mentally, spiritually. As a mother of course. I would lay my life down for him; as someone who carried him, nurtured him, lived with him, saw him develop from pretty, bright boy to dashing young man I would do anything for him.

And I did.

Jonathan's father, Oliver, and I divorced soon after our son was born, we remained friends, but couldn't live together. I had married Oliver as much to please my Dad as for his hunkiness, character, and girthy cock. Oliver, you see was a doctor and to my provincial policeman father infused with a great sense of social insecurity due to his poor upbringing, Oliver Granger was a son-in-law to be proud of and an introduction to the solid middle-class virtues of country club memberships, golf, and a kind of gardening that involved more than allotments. Being classed as an in-law of the same ranking as Andrew's circuit court judge Dad didn't hurt either.

Anyway, when you marry to please your Dad (who can never be pleased), things are going to go wrong. To be fair, I was surprised it didn't last longer. Oli and I remained decent friends, and he lived close enough to Jon and me, to be a good father as and when work and his other children later permitted.

I know every mother's biased for their children, Jon though, was truly exceptional. One of my boyfriends when Jon was a boy (he wasn't going to last, my Dad disapproved, because of the colour of his skin) said Jon was already Nobel Prize winner material. Something which thrilled me and also put a grey slice through my soul as it meant Jon's world could easily be so different and so far away from Montessori school-teacher mine.

Jon left for university at 18 and a half on a scholarship. He couldn't say no. I couldn't say no. He had his journey to take. His life to live away from me.

Luckily, all the local girls he'd been dating were going to be left behind. I didn't mind the idea of Jon having sex, (it's natural, right?), I just didn't think any of them were worthy of him. Jon kind of sensed this I guess, anyway he was always very careful not to be overly-intimate with them in my presence. It was always a deliciously erotic thrill though, to come home sometimes and find Jon and his girlfriend lying around, cooking, eating, watching screens, playing music and the delicious smell of their rampant rutting with all its musk still lingering in the air.

Girls loved him. I loved him. My bestie Nadine (she with the half-Thai husband and the non-my Dad obvs) once whispered in my ear, "have you noticed how they're all brunette like you?". It's just that I loved Jon more than them. Different. Better. More.

The days and weeks and months without Jon, even though we had Facetime, were tough on me but I had hardened my heart to his absence and well, now that he was away I could indulge more in my dating life. I preferred men, though women would do very nicely, thank you. It's just that -- story of my life (and I even flirted with being born again and Jesus because Lord knows I love me winning over a father figure) -- no one ever appeared to whom I could totally give my heart. Not even Jesus. And Lord knows Pastor Damian tried. I could have married him but it would have meant no more FKK holidays, saunas, beaches and general naturism. And doing the housework in the nude, I mean that's half the point isn't it? Why get your clothes dirty and sweaty when you don't need to? Old habits die hard. We both slept in the nude far more often than not, or at most nightshirts and socks if it was cold.

I got the sense that Jon masturbated last thing at night and first thing in the mornings. I did the hamper checks for cummy underpants and bed- and bathroom-sniffed for that sake-scented cum that like his Dad he had, and was often rewarded by its still palpable presence, but it didn't seem that he had any interest in my knickers, with or without the arousal trails that were often there. His sheets often had dried splotches of cum at waist-level, with several having seeped through to the mattress. My only guidance on masturbation when we talked about it the one time was, "it's lovely, we all do it, its sex with someone you love, but don't miss out on other things." We often did each other's laundry; he even gifted me with a set of lingerie for my 40th birthday, "to make up for all the kecks you've got me over the years, Mum" he said winningly as I unwrapped them from their ribboned package. If he'd got me handcuffs, well, that would really have been something because I had resolved to be way more sexually adventurous from that birthday on.

As for my love life, well, it's not that I'm demanding, give me a handsome, hunky, sensitive guy and we'll be in bed soon enough, given that I'm not ungood-looking, but you know, hardly any of them fit into the life that Jon and I had and we were both sensitive about having the right kind of father in our lives. And let me not kid ourselves, a woman in her 20s to 40s with a live-in son, isn't high on the list of requirements by dating men.

I was always discreet in my dating life, not wanting to ever confuse Jon with different men in quick succession. When I did the Tinder, Bumble, Hinge and Feeld plays they were always when Jon was with his grandparents or Dad or excursions away. (Bonus points BTW guys, to those of you who can tailor your profiles over the different apps.) There were a couple of serious relationships: Andrew, and then Michael, who lived with us for a while, and Jon got to see me in connubial bliss and I was heart-broken when I split up with them (full disclosure: I wanted perfection, I guess, and any small fault became a wedge that fissured us). Even more full disclosure, and this came only after some talking therapy, it was the fact that these men were not my Dad that did for them. I always felt I needed to prove that I was good enough for my Dad, and anyone that wasn't like him -- aloof, cold, temperamental, occasionally rageful, hard to please, devastatingly handsome even well into his 60s -- just wasn't for me. It hit me hard when I finally realised how big a part my Dad had played in my dating life. It accounted for so much. I hated being so vulnerable to him, and yet I lived for his kindnesses and love. I guess I'd given my Mum such a hard time over the years too, just because I felt in competition with her. The Greeks do have a name for that Complex, don't they!?

And tempted as I was to do more than doctors and nurses with my brothers, and Chris the younger one, sometimes made me ache in yearning for his male-model beauty, we never were too intimate because I realised how, in being so close in looks and aspect to my Dad, they were not him.

Fucked up much, me? I don't know.

Thing is, with Jon being away at university, really away, and not in a 'come home for the weekends to do the laundry and get fed' way, there was a big yawing emptiness in my home and my heart that was reaching out to be filled.

Jon had taken up rugby seriously in his last years at school and though I was terrified that he'd get hurt, and would much rather he stuck with his tennis or cricket, the fact that he trained so dedicatedly while keeping up with his studies made me very proud. And the skin-tight Under Armour gear he wore objectively made me swoon.

So how did all this yearning, all this desire, get consummated? Did it ever? Yes, it did. And I still can't believe it.

The nights grew longer, the air got colder, Jon sent photos of him playing rugby in layers of long sleeves and tights and beanie and I got on with work, prepping for another Christmas and the year's school play, a mash up of Mother Goose and the Jack and the Beanstalk. Nadine and I and Lena would get together once or twice a week and do what all women in their 40s do -- drink, eat, complain about various men at work and the women who let them get away with things, relationships (other people's), and the general state of the world and the change in the prices of things.

I was in the bath, enjoying a lovely end of the week Lush bath bomb soak, wine on the tub ledge, music playing on the little waterproof speaker, when the door, which wasn't locked, just shut, flew open. I sat up startled, and yet reassured almost at the same time. It was Jon, rushing in and unbuttoning his jeans.

"Mum, sorry, I've got to pee, I've been holding it in for hours, the train loos were packed and then the station toilets and I didn't want to miss the bus to get here... Sorry, I've just got to." He barely looked at me as he sat down on the commode situated at the tap end of the bathtub, (like a good boy since he was high enough, he always sat down so as to minimise splash back and bowl misses) and let fly.

"Ooh, that feels good," he said. The smell of his pee, potent not pungent, piercing through the herby steam of my bath water. The bubbles weren't quite covering me as well as they had done at the start.

Jon'd seen me naked in the bath before of course, no big deal, but not for some time, and I certainly hadn't seen him from this angle for years. His bare thighs and right buttock in profile. I had a vague wish I'd trimmed my pubes; I was glad I'd painted my toes the day before.

"And?"

"I wanted to surprise you, our away game this weekend has been cancelled because of the hard ground, and given that Monday's a non-training or tutorial day, I thought I'd come home and spend the weekend with you." He grinned. "And I've brought some laundry, if that's OK." He blushed. Boys will be boys. He must have peed for at least 30 seconds, before tapping his penis to shake off the drops, taking a tissue to wipe off the tip (good boy) and stood up, trousers round his ankles. He shuffled over towards me and kissed me on the forehead and rubbed his knuckles on my cheek, the way I've done to him a thousand times, ten thousand times to show love.

As he lent over to kiss me, Jon's cock was in my direct eye line; thick and todgery, a little wine-sack pouch holding his balls, groins, testicles and penis all honey-hair and furry. His father and I didn't want Jon circumcised when he was an infant, at least not with Jon not having any say in the matter, and even though I prefer the economy and sleekness of the circumcised, compared to the irregularities of the hooded penises I have known and seen, Jon was lucky in having a very pretty uncut penis.

It might be the days and nights of weeks and months and years of being single but give me a dildonic cock and I'm a happy girl. Give me...Jon's. There I said it.

"Best of all, Mum, I'm going to cook dinner for you. Must be ages since you've had a proper feed, look, you're all skin and bone," he laughed, the sly one, calling attention to how he had obviously scanned my body and yet showing the concern of a loving guardian.

"And you're still my little boy no matter how big you are." Mumsiness 101, needing to be said a minimum of every two and a half months as all you Mums and sons know. "Now get your pants back on and let me stay here a while longer. You can shower after me if you want."

"I'd jump in with you, like the old days," he said more quietly, "but dinner's gotta get done, we're having beef steak risotto, I brought the steaks with me." One of his favourites, and something I came up with when he was younger.

I thought about trimming my pubes once he'd left but I thought it didn't matter anymore and I didn't want to spend time on doing them when I could be with him. I didn't blow dry either.

I came out to the living-dining room of my/our flat, turbaned up and towelling gown over night dress, warm socks on. Jon at the stove, the comforting smell of warm stock filling the air.

I came up behind him and gave him a hug. It was really him, and he was really here. "20 minutes, Mum, can you take care of the rice, while I go for a quick shower?"

"Sure, baby," I pinched his bottom, (firmer than ever), as he stirred some stock into the rice before going.

A light snow was falling outside, it was cold enough to already be gathering on our windowsills. I shivered in reflex, and then flushed with joy at knowing that Jon was here with me.

I could hear him singing in the shower, nonsense varsity songs about drinking and winning. He came out barefoot, in uni sweatshirt and lounge pants.

Dinner was great, the steak strips rare and blood-runny, the rice firm and buttery with a great salad with vinaigrette. Jon said he was making dinner for me but you know how it is, I did a fair amount of sous cheffery too. He did do all the washing-up though, credit where credit's due.

I was mellowing on the sofa, half a glass of wine and chill music on, under a blanket when Jon came and sat down, drying his hands on his pants.

"Shall we watch a movie?"

"Sure," he said. "I normally watch porn before sleeping, but I don't know if --." I punched him in the arm.

"- our tastes are gonna be the same, Mum. I've heard you MILF-types like to watch gay men go at it whereas we men like to watch MILFs."

"So that's what university has taught you."

"It's stress relief and helps me to sleep, and you know, I'm careful with girls there Mum."

"Haven't you met anybody?"

"Nobody special. I don't want to join up with someone and lose the chance to be with someone else because I know how territorial girls can be. I'd much prefer it actually if I had a girlfriend from off-campus."

"Why's that?"

"We wouldn't have to be in each other's hair all the time, and she'd be like kind of a shield for me from being tempted and distracted away from sport and studies -"

I punched him again. "- Studies and sport."

"And it would make our time together that much more special, absence and everything making the arse grow juicier."

"Well, that's one way of looking at it. So, Netflix it is, then."

"Sure. Have you seen 'Squid Game, the game show'?"

"OK, let's."

I lifted up the blanket for him to scoot in and snuggle up behind me lengthways on the long sofa.

The show was fine, interesting, alright, it was the cosiness of warmth and cotton and wool, and the way his curves fit mine, his chest covering my back, his left arm on mine that was winning me over. I heard Jon's gentle breathing in my ear, feel his fingers caressing my forearm, his hips firm on my bum.

"I'm going to take this off." Minus bathrobe it was just me in my nightdress. My feet were nice and toasty now too, so I slid off my socks. I drained the wine glass, took a mouthful of water and turned to look at my beloved boy before making myself comfy again. I kissed him on the forehead and stroked his cheek with the back of my hand. "I'm glad you're home."

"Me too, Mummy."

We spooned. Just a millimetre of cotton between my body and his. His heat flowing into me, mine going back to him even hotter. Whoever was dying or about to die on TV I wasn't paying attention. I pushed back into Jon's body with my thighs, bum and back. I wrapped his feet between mine. Was that an erection I felt behind me?

"I'm going to switch the TV off, Mum." The glow of that gone, we just had a room candle and the luminous glow of electronic clocks and dot lights of various appliances to see by, reds and greens and oranges all piercing the dark.

He put his left arm all the way around me and drew me close. It felt so good. My head rested on his right arm. Intimate intimacy.

"Mmm, I might just sleep here tonight, baby, I'm so sleepy already..."

"Sure, Mum."

I genuinely did nod off, even amid all the arousal, I was just so at peace, so contently cocooned under the blanket in Jon's arms. I awoke maybe moments, maybe minutes later. Jon's left hand was on my bare belly, one of his fingers somewhat in my belly button. It had been one of his favourite places to explore when he was a child, and for a while he even thought that was where babies came out of their mothers from.

What? His hand was on my bare belly? That meant that my nightdress must have ridden up high enough to expose a lot more of me. The whole of my left leg and pretty much all my bum was bare, I could feel his cotton lounge pants and what was the ridged knob of his erection along my lower back.

It was he who was breathing heavier than me now. The broadening stretch of his left hand touched the underside of my breasts. Jon made caressing swirls with his fingertips, tingling me along all the swells and rises of my tits. He brought his left leg over mine to completely wrap me in his embrace. With his heel and calf he was starting to lever my legs apart.

"My Mum," he husked in my ear. He was placing the gentlest of kisses, just touches with his lips and tongue on my earlobe and the side of my neck. Did he know they were major erogenous zones of mine?

"My love," I breathed back.

Jon's fingers had more of my tits under them now, doing practically a recon for lumps and bumps. His right arm was still under my head, or I knew what that could have been doing. As it was, his right hand was stroking the top of my head, something else he knew I loved doing to him when he was sleeping beside me.

This was either going to lead to an agony of frustration or it was going to be one delicious continuation of our love.

I chose love.

I swivelled and turned to him, looked my beautiful son right in the eye. He held my gaze confidently. I swallowed, breathed deeply, and said to him, "take it off." As Jon took his sweatshirt off I gathered my nightdress and lifted it over my head.

I pressed my bare chest to his, my cheek to his, and kissed him long and hard and deep. I kissed him like he was The One. And it was our first time. Which it was.

He was/is a pretty good kisser. Our tongues danced together, tingles all the way, and it was the best kind of kissing, when you're so in tune with the other that teeth and noses don't get in the way and it's all tongues and lips and breaths and moistness and finding fresh places in each other.

Jon held me, I held him, I moved my way to be on top of him, and his hands stroked up and down my sides, suave-ing the sides of my breasts and the swell of my bum. I could feel his erection underneath my belly, a pressing at the top of my mons.

I flexed up a little and pulled his hands on to my tits and pressed them on; my nipples were big and firm in the gaps between his fingers and -- good boy -- he squeezed them just right. He flicked them with his thumbs and shimmers of joy went down to my pussy.

"Suck them, I loved it when you suck them," I told him. Jon did as he was told. With enthusiasm. If I had any milk he would have drained me dry and with each suck and nuzzle I was reminded of not only how fulfilled and, dare i say it, aroused I was as a mother when breast-feeding. Now he alternated his sucking of my tits, squeezing one when sucking the other, at times trying to get both nipples into his mouth at the same time.

His legs were either side of mine, so that his ankles were inside mine and I realised he was pushing my legs well apart. As he did so, his sweatpants slid lower and lower on his midriff as my naked body poured down his chest. I scooted back up to kiss him and then lay my head on his chest, breathing deeply. We were both sweating. I toyed with the hairs on his chest.

"Oh, baby," I purred.

"Oh Mummy," he gruffed, "I love you."

Well, duh, right?

I could feel the upper line of his pubes on my lower belly, his hands now on my butt cheeks, his thumbs making little circles, each outward brush see.