It started, well for me at least it did, when you were studying for your A levels, you were just over eighteen. You asked me to test you. I would spend hours in your room asking you questions on all the various subjects you were studying; perhaps doing the things a father should have done, but he had left us. When you had just become a teenager he had gone in search of perpetual youth. Abandoned us for his own ends, left us to search for his perfect life: being seen by others to still be young. He had gone to where the grass was greener, the skirts shorter, the stomachs flatter, and the legs longer and open wider. Yes, gone to the land where younger girls fell at his feet, because of his youthful looks or his turbocharged Bentley and platinum Amex? Who knows? It must have been a narrow choice for the Essex and London club land bimbos he fucked most nights.
We got used to being a couple. You still saw him and the one noble thing that remained of our mostly great marriage, was his and my intent to save you from the more extreme aspects of your parents divorcing. I never badmouthed him to you and I never stopped him seeing you, we totally ignored the court's access laws.
So we were together a lot; more than most mothers and sons. Unlike many, the divorce brought us closer together; closer than most mothers and sons. At first I, certainly, thought nothing of it, were just mum and son, weren't they all close and friendly like us?
I can remember, as clear as crystal, my first thought along the lines that society so frowns upon. Well I think I remember it, but the enormity of it, at the time, was so great I may have imagined or dreamed about it.
I was in a bathrobe, a dressing gown, a silk one, no buttons, just a tie round the waist; with plunging, narrow lapels. I had just showered. You asked me to help you with some school work. I came into your room. It was an airless room because, for some reason I never quite fathomed, you kept the windows closed and the door was usually shut. It smelt of you, it smelt of a man, it smelt, I suddenly found myself thinking as I saw your gaze run up and down me, of sex.
As I sat next to you, leaning forward, both of us staring at the PC screen, I was aware that the front of my robe was gaping, that my tits were hanging loose and that most of them were on view. I was also aware, that under the desk the outsides of our knees were touching. But what I was most acutely aware of was that I felt aroused.
Peter
When dad left, I felt abandoned - very much alone. I saw him regularly, but it didn't change the fact that he had left me, left us. I wasn't too popular at school; not to say I was unpopular, no one bothered me, but no one paid attention to me either. I wasn't that into sports and I really enjoyed studying, aspects of school life that doesn't make foe popularity.
I had no one really, no one to turn to, no one to guide and teach and help me. No one that is other than you, my mother. But that was fine, I felt cool with that. You were always there for me, always willing to listen, always kind and loving, always helpful, caring and considerate. I loved you, and we were happy.
But age has a way of separating a boy from his dear old mum. And naturally, as I grew up, I started thinking about girls and sex, and forgot about my mother.
Or at least, I should've. But I didn't.
At first, it was a mild interest, you'd bend over to pick something up and I'd check you out; you'd be getting out of the shower and I'd be around, chatting normally; I'd bring you breakfast in bed so I could see you in your nightclothes. I'd find any excuse to be around you, and as I smiled and chatted normally I'd imagine you taking off your clothes and kissing me.
Like all guys my age, I'd masturbate at night and fantasise about beautiful celebrities, girls from school and the English teacher every guy in my year had a crush on, but somehow I'd always end up thinking about you as I brought myself to eruption point. I'd imagine my lips on your breasts, my kisses on your neck, your soft naked flesh pressed up against me. The woman of my dreams was in the next room and I was too scared to do anything about it. But that woman was my mother. If I told her, she would think I was a freak. I'd have to live with dad. Or maybe they'd lock me away.
Was I sick?
Then, there was that night. I heard you getting out of the shower and called you into my room for some trivial problem with schoolwork. You entered my room, a silk bathrobe hanging casually over your slender frame, rubbing a towel on your damp, blonde, near shoulder length hair. You looked up at me and smiled warmly, your bobs jiggling around inside the robe, reminding that under it you were likely to be naked.
"What's up love?" You asked, and I very nearly told you, 'My cock mum, its sticking straight up my stomach.' But instead, I directed you to the PC and shared my problem. You sat next to me and stared at the screen as I stared at you. You were magnificent. Your gown had fallen open slightly, giving me a tantalising view of your breasts, the soft, pink flesh right to the edge of the nipple. I fought the urge to reach out a hand and touch you. But I had to do something.
Under the desk, I let my knee touch yours. It sounds silly now, but it was all I could think of. I had to touch you, and I couldn't think of any other way. You didn't move away, and I took that as a positive sign.
All too soon you had solved my problem and I had no other reason to keep your attention. You turned to me and smiled. For a heartbeat we sat, face to face, smiling with mere inches between our lips. All I had to do was lean forward.
But I couldn't.
"Well," you said. "I'm off to bed." You leant in and placed a very hurried peck on my cheek. Any slower and I might have 'accidentally' turned and let our lips collide. It didn't occur to me at the time that you might have known, and that you were facing the same temptation.
You stood, and bade me goodnight. I smiled, and reciprocated, leaning forward casually and praying that the desk would hide my erection.
You left, and the atmosphere went with you - the tension, the lust, the heat. I turned my TV on to hide the noise and fell to my bed. My hand went to my boxers as I thought of the feeling of your knee against mine.
After I came, I had a moment of clarity. Our knees had touched, you hadn't pulled away; I was tempted to kiss you, and you had awkwardly pecked my cheek. For the first time I began to consider the possibility that you felt for me the same way I felt for you.
The thought alone was enough to make me rigid again.
Cat
Since becoming a grown woman, I don't think I have tried to pick up a man or, as more commonly said, I don't think I've tried pulling a bloke. Partly, because for a lot of that time I was happily married partly, because I haven't needed to, they have pulled me, and partly because I haven't wanted to; I find it rather distasteful.
So when I realised that I was nearly trying to pull my own son, I went into the most enormous depression, which lasted for weeks. I don't recall why I suddenly started looking at you differently; I can't remember why I began seeing in you a different light. Yes of course I still regarded you as my child, as my son, but also I looked at you as a man, as another person, oh God yes, I at last had to admit it, as a lover.
The trauma was enormous, the guilt was stupendous. What sort of person am I, what type of mother am I, and what sort of woman am I? Those questions were with me through those last few months of you being a schoolboy. I pondered them endlessly as you finished your exams, took the long summer holiday and then prepared yourself for Durham University with four straight As and A stars. I was so proud of you and so ashamed of myself.
I thought of hardly anything else as so many little things happened. Things I think I really made happen. Actions and gestures I took. Views and glances, exposures, little touches, innuendos and double entendres. Small at first, nothing too obvious. For fuck's sake how could I be obvious, I was doing them to you, my son? Why was I doing them? There was no way anything could ever happen. It was so wrong, you were well adjusted and I was normal. Wasn't I? And normal mothers didn't think such things let alone do them, do they? No, mothers don't fuck their own sons, well not from where we come from at least.
It wasn't every day or even each week that something happened, between us. But was it really between us? Surely it was only me, not you? Wasn't it?
It was irregular, infrequent and usually mostly unplanned. A word, a glance, a touch, seeing you in your bedroom, in your bed or walking around scantily dressed, could trigger something in me. As could me being in a robe and it gaping so you could see my breasts. In a way that was nothing new. Since you were a baby I had always sunbathed topless on Spanish beaches or around Greek swimming pools. But that was different. Flashing parts of my tits at you at home was intimate; exposing all of them on a beach was impersonal.
