"Jane is coming for dinner, tonight, Tom," my mother said to me as I walked into the kitchen. "She"ll be here about 7:00."
"What are we having?"
"Stew."
Jane is my aunt. She's also my mother's twin sister. They're identical. That is a problem for me because they are both beautiful. My aunt got a divorce a short time ago. She's living alone. The divorce was difficult and bitter and she often talks about it.
My mom's name is June. She's a nurse at the biggest hospital in the city, and works different shifts. It's unpredictable when she will be home. Jane has an apartment close by. It's on the way to the park where she jogs so, sometimes, when Jane stops by and I'm home it's just the two of us. We've become good friends.
I'll be going to college in the fall, leaving home for the first time. Mom will be alone for the first time, too, since dad died two years ago. Since that sad time we've grown much closer.
Our relationship changed, it seems to me, when I was 16 or 17, when she started treating me more as an adult. She is interested in lots of things and talks to me about them. Our conversation is never boring. And, of course, she has also talked to me about sex, how she said she needed to have this conversation with me, how I am becoming a young man now, and how she understands (not!) what is going on with me, and, firmly, about the need to show respect for girls, and about how to avoid getting one of them pregnant.
I can't take my eyes off her when she is talking, her eyes looking at me and then down and to the side, then moving around, as she follows her ideas, her full lips forming the words, her bright teeth, her clear sincerity I listen although I almost can't hear her.
I'm grateful for her being so open with me. These conversations changed everything. Gradually, my mother seemed less a mother than a friend, one grown-up talking to another. I was thankful for the compliment.
The kitchen opens to the living room There's a circular table at one corner where we eat, some couches and chairs, a fireplace, the television set and stereo, windows looking out at the lake, the mountains in the background.
"Good, " I said. I patted her on the back, a stroke, actually, from her neck down her back, and then went to the couch and turned on the TV.
"She should be here soon," my mother said, brightly, over a clatter of dishes and pans. She wanted her sister and me to be friends. "She likes you, Tom, I know she does, and she needs a friend."
I was thinking of my hand on her back. It was just casual, but I was conscious of the stroke, and the wide band of the bra strap when my hand crossed it on its way down, my thumb tracing the little nubs on her backbone. I'd stopped at her waist. But I knew I'd wanted to go further, to keep going down, more or less by accident. She was wearing a blouse and a short skirt. No panty hose. Her lovely legs bare. The thought of my hands sliding down to her ass, holding her cheeks, pulling her to me. But I banished the thought.
"I know, mom. I like her too," I said staring at the moving pictures on the screen, thinking about the touch of my mother, thinking about her perfume, about how easy we are with each other, about how easy it is to talk to her, and how she looks at me, her face alight with love, interest, attention. About how she touches me, my arm, my back, how we hug and how I feel her breath on my neck, her breasts, feeling their fullness against me, and my hands on the curve of her back, pulling her to me, and how she moves into me, with no resistance, melting into me, pulling me to her, and the kisses, on her cheek and, lately, short kisses on her mouth, on her soft lips, and how they yield and open slightly. And we have been this way for months, the kisses getting longer, gradually getting more intense. She doesn't seem to notice that I get hard when this happens. I know we have thought about it. About what it might be like.
"Tom?"
"Yes?" I look at her. She has full auburn hair almost to her shoulders. She's about 5'7", slender, with an athlete's body, square shoulders, breasts that she is proud of, probably a c or d cup, a slender waist, and the beautiful bottom I can't help noticing. And terrific legs. To my eye, she is beautiful, with clear skin, lively brown eyes full of humor and intelligence that look directly at me when she wants me to understand that she wants me to understand. She has a lovely mouth, not too wide, with full lips and good teeth that I'm lucky enough to have inherited. This sounds too good to be true, I say to myself, but it is. My mother really is this good-looking.
"Would you set the table, please?" she asks me.
"Sure" She was looking at me, her face smiling its radiant smile. I felt such an attraction to her, to her person, and I walked over to her and took her in my arms and kissed her on the cheek and then on the mouth, just a short kiss, but I was getting used to kissing her and it felt very good. She didn't seem to mind, and kissed me back.
While I took out the silverware she poured us each a glass of wine. "Jane feels bad, Tom."
"She always feels bad, she's always singing the blues," I said, and regretted it because I sympathize with Jane. I was setting the table slowly, taking my time, taking sips of wine, talking to mom about work and my new school term coming up, and then stopped and walked back into the kitchen. Mom was at the stove, stirring the stew. I don't know why but I walked over to her and put my hands on her shoulders and kissed her neck.
She craned it to me and said, "Tom, don't do that to your poor mother."
"You're just too nice. I like you," I said to her. "And you look great."
She turned to me and put her arms around my neck. "And you're my fine son in whom I am well pleased." She grinned and I kissed her again, but this time a little longer, her wonderful mouth on mine, open a little, our tongues just touching barely, and she again melted in my arms and her breasts pressed against me.
She pulled her head back, looked at me and smiled, but she didn't pull her body back. I was hard and she felt it. "Tommy!" she said. My hands went down her sides and I could feel the sides of her breasts on my way down. "Tommy!" The wine had gone a little to my head and I moved my hands up to her breasts, cupping them, feeling their fullness. "Tommy, stop that!" she said.
I was surprised at my boldness and passion. I was rock hard, pressing against her. "What are you doing, you naughty boy?" she said but said it in a loud whisper and I heard the tension in her voice and I knew she liked it, liked the touch of me against her, my hands on her breasts. She pushed away from me, her face flushed. "Tommy. I'm your mother." I moved back, embarrassed. I was hard, my cock jutting against my pants and I saw her notice.
"Sorry mom, the wine, I guess."
