Author's Note: The author heartily condones fantasy in all its forms and offers this story in the hopes other will enjoy it as just that. All the characters herein are over the age of 18. This is my first story of this sort, so feel free to send me comments and criticisms. Thanks!
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You have to understand, everyone knew my mother cut from a different cloth. To be honest, she was simply odd. She floated through life with a dreamy look in her eye, often losing track of conversations she was in, breaking in with a non sequitur. Mother had a classical body, a true old-fashioned blond bombshell--a bit like Mae West, though not quite as chesty. She exuded warmth that often confused strangers, as she'd start talking to them as if they were old friends. She had a kind of madness, a craving for affection and attention that could be extremely trying on my brother and me, even when we were small children. We learned early to tolerate her, enjoying the attention she lavished in us even as she sometimes acted more like a demanding child than a proper mother.
"Proper" was certainly not a term many would use to describe my mother. She often walked around the house nude or in a thin robe or wrap. We lived in a grand two-storey house in a wealthy suburb, with a large yard and high fences and shrubbery that provided a great deal of privacy from our upright neighbors' prying eyes. Mother would often stroll in the garden naked and convince my bother, father and me to skinny dip at night. We didn't socialize much with the country-club types that lived around us and mainly kept to ourselves. Mother thought they were too uptight and they, frankly, found her dreamy exuberance to be unseemly.
Mother had few notions of personal boundaries or privacy and seemed to always want attention of some sort. Sometimes, we'd be in our rooms, reading or doing homework, and she'd call us down to join her as she sat before the fire or watched television. If we demurred, she'd almost insist, making us feel guilty for not spending time with our "old mother." Inevitably, we'd cave in because it was easier to appease her and spend half an hour sitting with her than seeing her mope about because she was unattended.
When I was young, I really didn't mind. I can remember the warmth of her body as she draped an arm over either of us. It was so natural; we didn't think anything of it. The three of us would just be nearly naked and warm together on the couch, watching an old movie until we fell asleep or my father came home. My mother would tell him to join us, but he'd usually have more work to do, and would retire to his study as she held us close, stroking our hair and bodies.
She bathed with my brother and me regularly, and often got my father to join us. He was more timid, but he would join us as she asked. My mother would soap us up, playing with us. She would soap my father too. I can remember watching her kneel in front of him in the big bath tub, washing up and down his legs, then to his penis, which rapidly hardened. My mother would point it out, much to my father's chagrin. She laughed and splashed water up over him. He sat back in the bath, shaking his head, but smiling.
I slept in my parents' bed ever since I could remember. Not every night, of course, but often. I can remember, as a child, when my parents would kiss and hug right next to me. Now, in retrospect, I realize they also made love, though they tried to hide it a bit, I think, at my father's insistence. If it had been up to him, they'd never have been so open around me, but there was no saying "No" to my mother. She believed it was natural, and would kiss and rub him until he was too worked up to resist. He tried to be tame about it, but I can remember the looks of ecstasy on their faces as they made love, covered by the sheet or blanket. I can remember one time in particular as I watched and my father—I know now—had just come, and fell forward to rest against my mother. She looked at me and squeezed my hand and smiled. "Isn't it wonderful?" she asked giddily.
As my brother and I reached our teens, our father was away on business more often and we'd be alone in the house with Mother for weeks. It was a strange, liberating time that marked a change in our household. It wasn't that our father was in anyway repressive, single-minded, or cold. But he did serve to restrain our mother somewhat. There were times when you could see mind beginning to launch into some fanciful idea, when he'd catch her eye and hold it for a minute, then her smile would fade—just a bit—and she'd nod knowingly.
But without Father there, Mother fell into her full self. She hardly ever dressed, and even then it was only in flimsy robes or a long tee-shirt. She insisted that I sleep with her and often tried to coax Liam to do so as well, though he took on a bit of Father's shyness and would refuse. Though she was always physically affectionate, her hugs, kisses, and caresses became more frequent, warm and prolonged. For example, once I came home from school, and she greeted me at the front door in her short, silky kimono. She wrapped her arms around me and pulled me close as we stood in the foyer. I felt her large, soft breasts press against my cheeks as she squeezed me tight. It was like she hadn't seen me in weeks.
"Wow, Mom, what's this for, something happen?" I asked.
She laughed, kissed my cheek, and then planted a firm kiss on my lips. I smelled her perfume mixed with alcohol, and she looked into my eyes, holding my face in her hands. "I just needed to touch someone!" she laughed, a bit abashed. "I felt like I was going to burst!"
We laughed at that, and she pulled me inside. "Quick!" she cried, "Let's tub!"
"I was going to watch TV," I complained. But she brushed this aside.
"Come spend some time with your old mother!" she laughed. "Mommy's been lonely in the house all day." She made a playful, pouting expression that made me laugh. It was like I was the parent and she was the kid demanding attention. So, like my father, like my brother, like all that felt the force of her desire, I relented with a smile.
