This is a story that starts with me. But it's not about me.
Back in the middle of the last century I was just an average guy growing up in an average east coast town. There was a lot going on back then. You've probably heard about it. Be that as it may, this story isn't about any of that either.
It's about her. You see, in my town, no other woman came close to her astonishing beauty, her intelligence and grace. Even her distinctive accent, her manner of speaking set her apart from the rest of us. They said she was like a fish out of water, that she didn't belong there. The truth is she was a swan, quiet and elegant on a little pond of noisy geese. She was a treasure and they knew it but, by God, they made her suffer for it. We'll get to that later.
Most of all it's a story about love, her love for the one she cherished most but could never fully possess. You might appreciate it. I hope you do but in the end it doesn't really matter, because this isn't written for you. It's for her.
For Jacqueline.
...
As every young boy does, I had always thought of her simply as "Mom". She was the ever-present, often invisible force that kept my small world in orbit. If trousers needed mending, they were mended. If they needed washing, they were washed. If they came home in tatters, stained by bleeding knees, they were taken away and the wounds were healed with stinging iodine and a loving kiss. She was always there. She was the hand I held as I took my first steps, the tear-stained cheek I kissed as I boarded the train for college.
There came a time - I can't tell you precisely - when I began to see her as more, as a woman, a sexual being. What I do remember is this: we were in the library. It might have been after the required "Saturday Night Bath". I was in my standard-issue flannel pajamas and we were curled up together on the sofa. There must have been a less-than-interesting program on the flickering, grey screen of our new television because I was concentrating on her breasts: a supple, rolling landscape barely concealed by the chiffon nightgown and peignoir she was wearing. I turned and rested my cheek against them. She responded by slouching down to offer me a more comfortable position. I remember it well: they were firm yet soft, warm and comforting. I tilted my head and felt them move against my face.
Fascination must have eventually overpowered discretion because she swatted me away and made me sit up again. No words were needed, message received. But as I retreated I saw two very noticeable bumps underneath the thin, silky fabric.
...
As my late teen years approached, I was increasingly captivated by her sexuality, realizing that not only was she my mother but also a very beautiful woman. She was tall, long-legged and shapely. I was the envy of my over-sexed adolescent friends. They would often come to the house, feigning interest in me but actually focused on her, hoping for a brief glimpse up her skirt or, the Holy Grail, down her blouse, events about as rare as snow in the Sahara. It didn't matter all that much - they were just as happy to simply watch her walk by, or bring us cold drinks on a hot day.
I felt protective of her but eventually even I began stealing glances, especially through the double doors of her bedroom as she dressed for the day. She was a stay-at-home mother but made a point of always being properly done up: sometimes slacks (quite controversial at the time) and a stylish top; sometimes a dress, or blouse and skirt - often worn with hosiery and heels. I too was expected to follow the dress code. Housecoats and pajamas were forbidden during visiting hours because "One never knows who might suddenly appear at the door."
Which reminds me of an argument we had during my rebellious period. As a lazy teenager, sometimes all I wanted to do was sleep in and spend the rest of the day camped out in front of the television. It was seldom allowed.
"Bradley, get off your derriere and do something constructive."
"Aw Mom, c'mon. Everybody else gets to."
"Yes, well, you're not
everybody else
, are you?"
"No, you always make sure of that!"
"I'll have none of your cheek, young man."
"There, see? You did it again!"
"What do you mean?"
"You keep using weird words like that. Why can't you be like the other moms? People always talk about you, you know, about how you seem to know about everything, about the way you talk, that accent. They say you don't belong here."
I knew I'd gone too far. Tears welled up in her eyes.
"I can't help how I was raised, Bradley! I wasn't born here, I didn't go to school here. I'm well aware that I don't fit in. You have no idea how difficult it has been for me -- to try to lose my accent, to learn how to use the 'proper' words. If you only knew how it feels to be laughed at by other people if I happen to use a word I grew up with! One would think that after all this time...!" She turned and ran out of the room, dabbing her eyes. I jumped up and followed her. She was in the kitchen, leaning on the counter, head down.
"I'm sorry Mom, I shouldn't have said that."
She looked out the window. "Sweetheart, if you could understand how hard it is sometimes..."
I put a hand on her back. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. People just aren't used to it, that's all."
"You'd think after twenty bloody years they would be!"
"Well, maybe you could explain..."
She cut me off: "The only explanation anyone needs is that I wasn't born here but I've done my best to fit in. That's all anyone needs to know."
I dropped it -- I knew her early life was off-limits. We hugged and I went upstairs to change. It
was
strange that she never talked about her past, always saying it didn't matter, that the here and now was more important. It was a mystery I had lived with all my life.
Anyway, back to my story...
Some days she would head out on her own, leaving me alone at lunch or after school to deal with my increasingly sex-obsessed thoughts of her. I'd steal into her bedroom, open each drawer of her lingerie cabinet and run my fingers over the brassieres, panties and stockings to feel the softness of the fabric, to imagine my hands on her silky legs or satin-covered breasts.
I have to confess that more than once I was so aroused by the idea of touching her that I wrapped my hardening cock in a pair of her panties and within a few minutes was heading to the bathroom with a handful of my cum.
As I think back to that time, I realize that she might have been giving me her own signals of attraction. I recall several times catching her, seemingly by accident, in various stages of undress as I passed by her open bedroom door. She would be sitting on the edge of the bed, drawing stockings up her legs, or sitting at her dressing table in just a skirt, no blouse. She would always let out a yelp and try to cover herself but I think we both knew it happened too often to always be innocent.
I don't know if I've ever told her this: one day near the end of high school there was a turning point for me. I was getting ready for school that morning, about to head downstairs. Once again, her door was open. She was standing in her nightgown, in front of that big bay window.
As I passed by, she called out and turned in profile to me as I stopped at the door. The bright light silhouetted her so completely that I could see every subtle curve and line of her body through the thin silk of her gown. She must have noticed me staring at her, especially her breasts, yet she stood there for just a moment longer than necessary, then turned to the bed.
"Sweetheart, be a dear and help me with the bed, would you please?"
We tugged and smoothed the sheets and blankets together, tucking corners and fluffing pillows but my mind and eyes kept drifting to her. She was stooped down low, handling the bedclothes. The neckline of her nightgown gaped open so much that her breasts were in almost full view. I couldn't help but watch as they hung down, swaying as she moved. Only the last inch of them was hidden. How I longed to see them! She must have sensed I was looking because she occasionally brought a hand up to close the gap. But then a moment later she always let go and allowed her gown to fall open again.
She didn't say anything at the time, didn't scold me for my obvious attempts to see her breasts. When we were done I remember that her cheeks were flushed as she straightened up and thanked me. I left the room, sweating, trying desperately to conceal my erection. I'm not sure if she noticed but as soon as I left I went and spent a long time in the bathroom. It was then that I vowed to someday, somehow, see them in all their full, naked glory.
...
I know she remembers this: it was my second year of college. By then I'd had some awkward, fumbling experiences with sex. It was the typical learning environment, both in and out of class. I was no longer a virgin but so far the process had been very limited.
It was the beginning of the summer break. I was back from school, goofing off, sleeping late whenever my part-time job allowed - the typical college boy being a pain in the ass around the house. Dad was away on business -- again. I was heading for the bathroom. Her bedroom doors were wide open and I could hear her in the closet, sorting through her clothes, getting dressed. I mumbled a "Good Morning" to her. There was a brief silence and then she called to me. When I walked into the room she was peeking around the edge of the closet door. She pointed to the bed.
"Sweetheart, be a dear and bring that to me please?"
There was a brassiere laying there. I remember it being a white satin one, one of those new push-up styles. Instantly my mind flew back to that day when we made the bed together. I pictured her pulling this bra up over her breasts, filling it with the part of her body I had always wanted so much to see, to touch.
I picked it up and brought it to her. I was still a step away but for some reason she didn't wait. She reached out for it and at that moment her breast slipped out from behind the door into full view. She felt it happen and with a gasp she instantly covered herself but it was too late. For the first time, for however briefly, I finally saw one of her breasts, nipple standing erect on her smooth, porcelain skin.
She quickly tucked in behind the door and once again reached out for the bra. Looking away, I slowly placed it in her hand. She asked me to wait a moment and disappeared behind the door. There was a quick rustling of fabric and then she opened it wide. She stood there with her back to me, holding the bra against her breasts, the clasp undone.
"Hon, would you mind doing me up please?"
Mind? How could I possibly mind?
I took the opportunity to study her body, my eyes slowly drifting downward to her hips. She wore a girdle, a tight white sheath that accentuated her luscious curves. The attached garters held silk stockings up her long, slender legs. She was already wearing a pair of white low-heeled pumps. Her erotic beauty instantly brought the blood to my groin but there was more. A thrill went up my spine.
Could it be? It was!
She had not yet put on any panties. Her bare bottom peeked out from under the girdle.
