Thanks to Cantdog for the editing help.
Maternal incest is a strange malady.
A person you've loved deeply since his birth, one you've caressed, kissed and hugged, has grown into a strong, handsome young man.
The way he sometimes looks at you or the occasional hug that lasts a little too long instinctively warn he may be seeing you as a woman, not just his mother. The attention, subconsciously, flatters you, makes you feel younger, more attractive.
Unaware of purpose, you pay closer attention to your appearance around the house. You welcome the intimacy of a casual touch or the stir in your stomach when his eyes remain a little too long on an exposed expanse of thigh!
This is the beginning of the spiral and this is the beginning of my story.
"Forty-something, the sagging years!"
That unpleasant little fragment created itself in my head this morning as I was getting ready for my niece's wedding. I had been a bit despondent ever since the invitation made me realize that time was slipping past me. More than my fortieth birthday, the marriage of my niece brought home the fact that I wasn't exactly a spring chicken anymore. In spite of the happy, celebration atmosphere I felt depressed and unattractive.
Naked after my shower, I looked into my mirror and saw an aging woman with large sagging breasts and a protruding belly. With little effort I could twist enough for the mirror to verify the existence of crease lines at the bottom of my ample butt cheeks. Everything seemed to be going south, literally!
The contents of my lingerie drawer did little to lift my spirits. I never considered myself anything more than average; the daughter of a farmer, attractive but neither beautiful nor sexy. The drawer reflected my mediocre self-image. It contained a sea of white cotton; cotton under-wired brassieres, full cut white cotton panties and even my garter belt was uninspiring white cotton. The few "slinky" items purchased over the years had been strictly for my husband's pleasure, my role not much more than his mannequin.
I finished dressing in flesh colored hose, white garter belt and underwear; electing to go without a slip because it was very warm for early May. The cotton print dress was gathered at the waist creating a full, almost crinoline-like skirt that would block the light. Thankfully, with the aid of under-wire and the fluffy skirt, the prim mirror image was a slight improvement over the naked lady. I turned my attention to my vanities lips, nails and hair.
Nature had blessed me with thick, healthy, red hair. It remains the feature I like most about myself, although lately, I've had to give the color a small assist now and then. My mouth is very full and fortunately none of those little vertical lip lines have appeared. Both mouth and well manicured nails are usually painted a bold red. They clash with the copper colored hair but my skin is pale and lightly freckled, allowing me to pull it off.
The final inspection before leaving revealed a full-bodied, mature, well maintained housewife and mother, modestly dressed. Red nails and lips were the only hint of adventure.
"What youth has given, age taketh away," came another un-summoned thought.
I couldn't shake the feeling of being frumpy even after my husband donated the obligatory compliment and Max, my son, said I looked "hot".
The ceremony was over and the reception winding down. I was sitting outside on the clubhouse deck sipping wine and talking to friends. Approaching the table, my husband announced he was wanted at the hospital and had to leave. I was left to find a ride home.
Max had ridden with my nephew Nick and four other friends. His car was full but Nick offered to take me if I would sit on Max's lap.
"I've sat on your lap plenty of times," Max said, grinning. "Besides, it's only twenty miles."
I accepted, not giving it much thought except what the police would say if we were stopped.
We squeezed into Nick's top down, restored convertible with Max and me in the middle of the back seat, one young man on either side of us and three more in the front seat. I sat squarely on Max's lap, the backs of my thighs pressing against his and my bottom fully against his groin. I was leaning back against my son's chest and his arms were around my waist with hands clasped loosely over my belly. Off we went!
As we reached highway speeds the wind blew my flounced skirt up in my face exposing my legs. I quickly pushed the skirt down. Max saw what was happening and clamped a hand on each of my thighs, just above the knee, to hold the skirt down. It was well after dark but, judging by their expressions, each of the boys in the back seat was treated to a good view of my upper thighs if not my underpants. The rest of the trip they were very vigilant in observing the action of the wind on my skirt.
Their interest in my exposed legs stirred some inner feeling. My ego responded by telling me maybe I wasn't related to the frumpy older woman I had seen in the mirror that morning. I continued to monitor the young men from the corner of my eye and was rewarded by the knowledge that they both checked out my breasts and legs several times.
