Paul Larsen felt really sorry for his mother, Imogen.
Now twenty and about to start his junior year at Lorimer College, Paul had spent the last two years watching his mother remain in a profound depression after leaving her husband, Magnus. She had never really given Magnus—or Paul or his sister Kristen—any compelling reason for her breakup; she had muttered something about trying to "find herself" and needing to get away from a domineering spouse, although from Paul's perspective his father was just a naturally dominant (not "domineering") man who was in no way cruel or impatient with those around him. In fact, it amused Paul to see how much of a teddy bear Magnus could be around Kristen, who seemed to be able to wrap her father around her little finger.
And Paul had never noticed his father treat Imogen with anything other than old-world consideration and courtesy, even if his large physique, deep bass voice, and determination to get things done in the most efficient way possible might have come across to others as vaguely imperious or commanding. Okay, sure, Magnus wasn't exactly a feminist, but he was no ogre, either.
Meanwhile, Imogen had lapsed into a kind of moping melancholy that was a radical transformation from what Paul remembered growing up. Then, without being exactly perky, she had been warm, cheerful, tender-hearted, and affectionate to almost everyone. Sure, she was a little on the timid and meek side, avoiding conflict or argument or loud, obnoxious people who didn't know how to shut up; but she seemed deeply in love with her husband, almost worshipping him in some ways—in spite of the fact that, for most of the years they were married, she earned a larger salary than he did, as she ascended up the corporate ladder to be a mid-level executive at a bank. Magnus couldn't have been less concerned about this, since he was devoted to doing good, careful work whether there was money to be made by it or not.
Anyway, it didn't seem as if Imogen had really done much to "find herself" in the past two years. As she trudged every week to and from her not terribly stimulating job, she didn't seem to go on any dates at all with other men, only seeing (very occasionally) a small cadre of female friends, several of whom were also divorced, from whom she no doubt elicited mutual sympathy for their plight.
Initially Paul wondered whether his own presence in the household—they had had to occupy a relatively small apartment, since Imogen had magnanimously allowed Magnus to keep their big house, most of which she had paid for—had been a factor: she certainly wouldn't have wanted to bring a man over while her adult son was in the place, let alone spend the night with him in her cramped bedroom while Paul was in his own bedroom right next door. But she could have gone to the guy's place, couldn't she? Paul, who had bedded down with a few girls at college over the past two years, wasn't exactly a stranger to intimacy (although, truth be told, both he and his bedmates were really looking more for fun than a deep emotional relationship), and whatever minimal embarrassment Imogen might have felt at spending the night away from home with a man wouldn't have been enough to deter her from the fairly imperative need for regular sex.
Paul, in fact, had reached the stage of not being able to fathom how
anyone,
man or woman, could go an entire two years without intercourse. He had learned that women were just as ardent as men, and just as liable to becoming irritable and crabby if they didn't receive stimulation at frequent intervals.
Of course, a conversation of this sort wasn't something he could have with his own mother, even if both of them were now full-fledged adults. He couldn't just say, "Come on, Mom, you need to sleep with someone!"—could he? Anyway, it had become clear that his mother was one of those women who needed to feel emotionally close to a man before they could expose their bodies to him.
Paul really didn't know exactly how to react to the breakup of his family. Paul—who was all set to take a dorm room at Lorimer—didn't really have much of a problem staying in the small apartment Imogen had rented and commuting to college. In some strange way it made him feel like the "man of the house"—or even . . . No, he wouldn't think of that.
The two years spent with his mother were actually pretty nice, even though he missed his dad and sister, neither of whom he saw very much. The two of them quickly got into a comfortable rhythm; and the only bad thing, from Paul's perspective, was the way Imogen kept moping around as if the world was about to end. Damn it, why didn't she go out more? There were plenty of online dating sites where she could meet perfectly respectable guys. After all,
she
had been the one to separate from her husband—so why was she so glum when she should have felt a sense of liberation from his "domineering" ways?
This was the scenario when Paul came home from the college library one Saturday afternoon.
*
Imogen herself had spent a lot of time running errands, and seemed pretty exhausted. She liked taking afternoon naps on weekends—she said they were a way of clearing her mind and rejuvenating herself. Paul could see the sense in that, although he wasn't one to take naps.
So it surprised him a little when, from her bedroom, Imogen called out: "Paul, why don't you come and take a nap with me?"
He peeked into his mom's bedroom and saw her lying on the bed in one of her thinner and frillier nightgowns. There was a curious expression on her face—weariness and also that habitual melancholy, but also a kind of suppressed excitement.
"You really want me to, Mom?" Paul said nervously.
"Only if
you
want to," she replied, as if girding herself for a rejection.
"Sure thing, Mom," he said. "I'll be happy to."
He walked stiffly into his own bedroom to change—or, rather, to strip. He actually didn't even have much in the way of nightwear, so if she balked at his near-nudity he wasn't exactly certain what to do.
Imogen's bedroom was dark as he entered it, and she may not have noticed what he was wearing—or, rather, not wearing. Her eyes were already closed, and as he got into his usual position, head between her breasts, he felt a little ridiculous, as his calves and feet extended so far below her that he had to bend at the knees to accommodate himself on the queen-size bed.
Imogen wrapped her arms languidly around her son as she exhaled; she already seemed on the point of falling sleep. Presently Paul noticed that her breathing—which he could feel brushing the hair on the top of his head—had become soft and regular; and he also noticed that every breath raised those breasts up to his face like luscious balloons. When he looked up at her, he saw that she really did seem to be asleep.
The nightgown she was wearing had a scooped neck that revealed a disturbing amount of cleavage. There was a slight sheen of perspiration on her upper chest, and its faintly sweet odor made Paul almost dizzy. Certainly,
he
wasn't going to get any sleep here! One of his arms had gone around Imogen's neck, while the other was resting on her hip. As his breathing became ragged, he took that hand and placed it gently over one breast. It was clear that she was not wearing a bra underneath.
He swallowed heavily. There was no way he should be doing this, but it was as if he was being commanded by a force outside himself. He took the neck of her nightgown between his thumb and index finger and brought it gently down. After what seemed like excruciating minutes, one breast was suddenly exposed.
He thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
It was exquisitely round, firm, and shapely, and the brown nipple was protruding and seemingly swelling before his eyes.
Didn't that only happen when a woman was . . .?
It seemed almost sacrilegious to touch it, but he couldn't help himself. He placed his hand ever so gently on that maternal breast, and the feel of it almost made him cry out: it was so much nicer and lovelier than the breasts of the three or four young women he had bedded down with in the past. The only way he could describe it was that this was a breast with
character.
Pulling himself back gently, Paul now made the same effort to expose the other breast. The pair of them, now bare in front of his eyes, seemed far more than the sum of their parts; and, what's more, they no longer seemed like his own mother's breasts, but like the Platonic ideal of every woman's breasts. Here, in essence, was the very epitome of these wondrous objects that could both nurture the growing infant and also feed the spirits of the grown man. For the first time in his life, Paul came to the full realization of the extraordinary capacity of a woman's breasts to serve as a placid haven of peace and security to weary and frazzled masculinity: their rondure, their texture, and their symbolism all united in being the place where a man could go to achieve serenity from a turbulent world.
And now, with a quick look up at her face to make sure she was still asleep, Paul placed his lips gently around one of his mother's nipples.
There was, of course, no way he could remember being suckled there as a baby; but that firm, swelling nub, once it made contact with his mouth, stimulated him more profoundly than anything he had ever experienced. And the stimulation was such that he almost unconsciously brought a hand down to his underwear and stripped himself in a swift motion.
Equally unconsciously, as he placed his head firmly in between Imogen's breasts and sucked and nuzzled with increasing ardor, he raised up the hem of her nightgown so that her legs were exposed—and when his burgeoning cock touched the firm flesh of her thighs, he thought he might explode on the spot.
He wasn't certain how much higher he dared to raise up that nightgown. He kept peeking at Imogen's face. He had noticed that a little moan had come from her closed lips when he had placed his lips on her nipple, and now he saw that she was smiling softly, although her eyes remained firmly closed.
As he continued to pull up the hem of her nightgown and stroke the flesh of her thighs, he expected to encounter her panties—and was stunned to find that she wasn't wearing any.
His first contact with his mother's bare bottom sent him into transports—how smooth, how soft, and yet how shapely it was! The bottoms of his previous lovers couldn't hold a candle to it. His hand thoroughly probed both cheeks, and he detected another moan, now from her open mouth, emerging from Imogen—a moan that found an echo in one of his own. And yet, it wasn't entirely a moan of purely personal pleasure; rather, it was an acknowledgment of the exquisite beauty of the creature he was lucky to call his mother.
Omigod!
he thought.
How far dare I go? More to the point, how far will I
not
go?
As the thought of ultimate union flitted through his mind, he was well aware that full pleasure for both sides depended on the female being suitably prepared. And so, as the soft moans continued to proceed from his sleeping mother's mouth, he gently urged her to lie on her back—and, strangely, she herself parted her legs as if in anticipation of what was to follow.
It took Paul quite some time before he could bring himself to explore that most forbidden area of his mother's anatomy—the place where he himself had emerged into life some twenty years ago. But some force seemingly external to himself appeared to be driving his hand down to investigate the space between his mother's legs—and, without much surprise, he found that there was already a lot of wetness there.
At the moment, all he could do was part the labia and coat his own fingers with her juices; he didn't yet have the courage to touch that all-important focus of a woman's passions. But, as he noted how the fluid kept pouring out of her, and as he saw her face take on a little frown that seemed to signal the need for ultimate relief, he knew there was no holding back.
