Mark tried not to shiver as his mother leaned heavily against him, tried not to enjoy the softness of her body or the flowery smell of her hair. Tried not to get a hard on again. She looked up at him, smiling, and giggled drunkenly as he fumbled with her keys and opened the front door. "You're so sweet to help me home," she said, then lifted up on her toes to kiss his cheek dangerously close to his lips.
"Mom, you're drunk," he said, more to remind himself than her, to convince himself that she was flirtatious because of the liquor and because she was angry at Dad. "I couldn't let you drive home like this. Come on, let me get you inside."
She giggled again but let him guide her through the doorway into the spacious parlor at the front of the house. As he closed the door he couldn't help watching the sway of her ass as she staggered away from him, letting his eyes roam over her mature body appreciatively. How long had he had fantasies about her? A very long time, he reckoned, but there was a vast difference between fantasy and reality. Or so he'd always thought.
Mom had arrived at his house late that afternoon, face wet with tears, and had thrown herself into her son's arms sobbing. The story had come out of her in fits and starts, mostly because she was ashamed. It wasn't her fault Dad had cheated on her, and he'd slowly convinced her of that fact as she lay against him on his ratty sofa looking so demure and lovely in her skirt and silk blouse, rubbing her pantyhose clad legs against his, letting her son brush her graying locks away from her face streaked with mascara and smudged lipstick.
When had it changed? After her third drink? The weeping had stopped and comforting hands had become slightly exploratory. Only slightly. He wasn't brave enough to make a move on his own mother, and he wasn't sure it was something she'd want anyway. She was upset about Dad's infidelity, a woman on the rebound, and he had no right to use that for his own pleasure.
He laughed at himself. No, his mother was far too conservative to entertain fantasies of incest the way her only son did. Even drunk as she was, that was too unbelievable.
And yet there she was leaning against the doorframe making eyes at him, smiling as if she could read his thoughts. "Tell me I'm beautiful," she said.
"Of course you're beautiful, Mom," he said promptly. "I keep telling you that. You're the most beautiful woman I know. That I've ever known. Dad's a bastard for wanting anything less than perfection."
She giggled and blushed slightly. "I know it's a lie," she said, "but I love hearing you say it. I'm too old to be beautiful anymore."
"Now you're the one telling lies, Mom," he said. "I can't believe you don't realize how sexy you are."
"Sexy?" she asked, smile flickering. "You think I'm sexy?"
He swallowed hard. He hadn't meant to say that. "Uh, yeah Mom," he said, trying to think of ways to downplay his slip. "How could any man not think so?"
"But you're my son. You're not supposed to think I'm...sexy."
"I'm your son, but I'm still a man. I'm allowed to see how hot you are, I'm just not allowed to act on it."
She stared at him for a long moment, and he could almost see the wheels turning in her head. He felt heat on his face as his secret shame flushed his skin. Drunk she might be, but she wasn't stupid and she was sure to deduce her son's illicit desire. If she could bring herself to accept that such a thing was even possible. He hoped not.
"I'm, uh, going to go change. Don't leave yet, okay?" she asked.
"Sure, Mom."
She disappeared down the hallway leaving her son to sag heavily against the wall, his heart hammering. He told himself just how stupid he was to slip up not once, but twice. She was drunk, though, and there was a good chance she wouldn't remember it. Even if she did, he told himself, he could convince her she'd misunderstood and she'd believe it. What mother wanted to believe her twenty-six year old son had the hots for her? Really?
And it was strange that he did, he told himself. As a teen just learning to spank it and dream of sex, it had been natural for him to fantasize about the only woman he knew intimately. He imagined it was that way for almost all boys. As he'd grown older, Mom had moved to the background of his dreams, replaced by cheerleaders and models and starlets. When he'd finally gotten his hands on Playboys he'd almost entirely forgotten his fantasies about his mother.
Almost.
When he went away to college and began having sex, something had changed. He still lusted the girls his age, still chased them and bedded them, but he missed his mother and somehow that slowly translated into desire. After that first year, seeing her again was like a physical blow, as if he was seeing her for the very first time. Seeing her as a woman and not just his mother. He still remembered that day, the way she'd worn her raven hair swept back in a ponytail to leave her pale round face exposed and devoid of makeup. Her bright brown eyes had shone with such love for her only son.
She was a bit shorter than him and the welcoming hug had been a bit awkward as she vanished into his wide embrace, nestling against him so perfectly that he wanted to just pick her up and run away with her. Mom had thrown her arms around him tightly, squealing in delight at his return, extolling how he'd grown into such a young man in only a year, all while her son became exquisitely aware of her softness, her roundness, the feel of her hips against his and the press of her breasts into his chest. If only she'd worn something other than tight jeans and a t-shirt, if she'd had on shoes instead of sandals so he couldn't have seen her cute feet and pink-painted toenails, if only he hadn't seen her in that moment as being just as cute and adorable and as desirable as any of the college girls he'd lusted after.
He got a hard on, and she noticed. There was a flicker of surprise in her eyes as he blushed and they both realized the other was fully aware of the situation. Then she had to step away so Dad could shake his hand and pound his back. When Mark looked again at his mother she was luckily looking away, and he saw that her nipples were hard.
That had been it for him. A summer at home was torture. She kept her distance, dressed modestly, and nothing changed in their relationship. The next summer she was happy again to see her son and again he boned when they hugged, but that time she hadn't pulled away so quickly, and the second summer she wore shorts more, spent more time with her son. And the next summer was even better. Graduation put a damper on what he'd hoped would blossom into an incestuous love affair. He went to work, moved away, and that had been that.
Until now. In the five years since he'd finished college he had done well for himself, too busy working to date much, too busy lusting his mother to lust anyone else. At least there hadn't been many women to complain that he spent too much time with his mother. No one to ridicule him for being a momma's boy. Mom had enjoyed the companionship too, he believed. She had plenty of girlfriends, of course, but she always had time for her son. And instead of getting over his sinful crush on her, it had only gotten worse. No matter how he tried to convince himself that he wasn't in love with her, that he didn't really want to ruin their close relationship by fucking her, he knew the opposite was true.
She'd been gone over fifteen minutes and Mark snapped back from his reverie with a start. "Mom?" he called. "Are you okay?"
"I'm in my bedroom," she called back. "Come here a minute, will you?"
Swallowing nervously, Mark made his way down the hall to his mother's open bedroom door. What he saw made his chest tighten. Mom stood in front of her full length mirror admiring herself, turning this way and that, and when she noticed Mark she turned to him beaming. "See?" she announced triumphantly. "I'm still the same size I was when I got married."
"Yeah," Mark said with a dry mouth. His mother was in her wedding dress, the same silky ensemble he'd only seen before in photos, and she looked stunning. It was a bit old-fashioned with large, puffy shoulders and a wide skirt, and while the bodice pushed her small breasts up into a respectable display the cleavage was hidden behind a gauzy covering thick with lace. Long sleeves ended with little straps that ran through her fingers to keep the cuffs down. Her feet were hidden beneath billowing folds. The dress hugged her round hips, squeezing her into an hourglass shape, and as Mark stared at her he felt a stirring in his pants.
"My god," he mumbled. "Mom, you look incredible."
"Really?" she asked, her face scrunching up adorably. "You don't think it's weird that I wanted to put on my wedding gown? I thought it might be weird."
"No, Mom. Not weird at all." He stepped into the room, aching to reach for her. "Maybe you should let Dad see you like this. Remind him that he married such a beautiful woman."
"Fuck him," Mom said, surprising him with the use of foul language. "He's a cheating bastard and I don't want him anymore. I want..." She faltered, her eyes glazing as she stared into the distance momentarily. Her focus snapped back on him and she looked away quickly. Mark felt his heart pound in his chest. He felt light headed.
She turned to look into the mirror. "How can you think I'm pretty?" she asked.
Mark moved to stand behind her and tentatively put his hands on her upper arms, gazing over her shoulder into her reflection. "How could I not?" he countered.
"I mean, I'm your mother. Are you attracted to me, Mark?"
He swallowed hard. "Yes," he said, admitting it. He watched her closely for a reaction but there didn't seem to be one. She stared distantly at herself a moment longer then pulled away.
She began opening drawers on her dresser. "I didn't love your father when we got married," she told him. "My best friend had gotten married and I was jealous. I goaded your father into proposing. And I got pregnant right away with you." She pulled a wad of white material from a drawer. She closed the drawer and walked toward the bed. "I think I came to love him over the years, but not the way he wanted. Not the way I wanted, either."
"You've told me this before," Mark said, watching her. She sat down and shook the wad, and it became a pair of sheer white stockings.
"I know," she said. "But I've never told you...Mark, I'm so confused. I've only ever loved one man in my entire life." She looked into his eyes and he suddenly realized just who that one man was. He thought his heart would explode. She held out the stockings shyly. "Help me get these on?" she asked.
