Everyone who knew Ralph was stunned by his sudden death in his mid-fifties. He was an active and apparently fit man right up until the time he sank a twenty-foot putt to complete the last round of golf he would ever play. He felt a momentary sharp pain in his side as he bent to retrieve the ball from that last hole, and he felt increasingly ill as he walked with his playing partners back toward the clubhouse. Halfway there he stumbled and dropped to his knees on the walkway. His friends helped him to a bench on the clubhouse veranda. An ambulance crew took him from there to the hospital, where the Emergency Room staff did all they could to deal with his massive heart attack. Ralph died less than an hour later.
His wife Paula had rushed to the hospital as soon as she heard the news. She had been able to speak with her husband briefly before he was gone. Their son Charley, who was now 22 and no longer living at home with his parents, arrived too late to say his goodbyes to his father but he was there to comfort his mother and to take her home. Charley stayed at home with his mother for the few days it took to make the funeral arrangements and to help Paula get started in the routines of her new life as a widow.
Paula seemed too stunned by her husband's death to be doing much serious grieving. Her eyes welled up with tears at the funeral, but Charley never saw her openly crying. He intuitively felt that this was psychologically unhealthy for her, but he knew that people deal with grief and loss in their own ways. Perhaps she would grieve more deeply later on. Perhaps time was all she needed to heal her wounds and let her get on with her life.
On the weekend following the funeral, Charley again visited his mother to see how she was coping. He noticed immediately that her suffering had become more evident and was taking some disturbing forms. She would spend hours in her room alone, crying over family album pictures or over her husband's clothes and other personal belongings. She had relegated his golf bag and clubs to the basement but, oddly, the putter he had in his hand when his heart failed him now rested on a pillow on what had been his side of their bed. Maybe Paula needed some contact with the thing her husband had had his last real contact with, and of course she knew how much he had loved the game.
Charley decided to stay with his mother for a day or two, just to keep an eye on her. Living alone didn't seem to be working out too well for her just yet.
In the middle of the first night he'd slept in his childhood bedroom for a long time he was awakened by the sound of his mother crying in her bedroom. He went to her door and listened there for a moment. Then he opened the door and stepped into her completely darkened room. He waited until her sobs subsided before he let her know that he was there.
"Are you OK, Mom?" he asked. She made no reply, although she was clearly awake. Charley moved closer to the bed. "I heard you crying. Do you want to talk?" She said nothing.
Charley sat on the edge of his mother's bed for a moment. She lay on her side, facing away from him. He laid what he hoped was a comforting hand on her shoulder. She took his hand in hers and held it so tightly that it actually hurt him, but of course he couldn't tell her that.
"Just stay with me awhile, dear," she said, relaxing her grip on Charley's hand somewhat but not releasing it. "I'm still not used to being alone in this bed."
"I'll stay as long as you want me here," he said.
"Then you'd better make yourself comfortable," she said. "Move that damned golf club out of the way and lie down where your father would be if he was here." Charley did as she asked, lying on his side facing his mother's back as he assumed his father would choose to sleep. Her body would have spooned snugly against his if he had been closer to her, but he was sure that snuggling up to her in any sort of sexual way was not what she would want him to do.
The two of them lay side by side in silence. Paula kept her son's hand firmly in her own. Some minutes later her breathing became deeper and slower, and Charley realized that she was dozing off. He planned to let her sleep for a short while, and then he would free his trapped hand and return to his room for the remainder of the night. Paula made things a bit trickier by moving her hand down her front, taking her son's hand with it, to where they both came to rest just under the swells of her unrestrained breasts.
This was becoming more awkward for Charley. His eyes were now fully accustomed to the darkness, and he began to feel uncomfortable in a familiar and pleasant way that was entirely inappropriate to this situation. He could make out the curves of his mother's hips and buttocks in her full length nightgown. He inhaled her various smells and found them disturbingly arousing. His hand, still held in his mother's, was now lightly in contact with the undersides of her breasts. He was getting horny. Horny was something he knew that he should definitely not be. Not now.
Oh, shit. He was getting a hardon. Soon it would need to be touched somehow. He needed to free himself and get back to his own bed. There he could get his mother out of his perverse mind, replace her with some celebrity slut who was better suited as a fantasy fuckmate for him, and jerk off until a big cum would put his disgusting horniness to bed for the night.
But apparently his mother wasn't about to release his hand. In fact, she had moved her own hand more fully onto her breasts. She seemed to be caressing herself in her sleep, taking his hand along for the ride.
To make things worse, his cock was now fully erect. It was pointed right at his mother's bottom cheeks. Its head now actually touched the warm fullnesses of her generous ass. Charley couldn't back away from her, because she was now holding his hand firmly against her boobs. He shifted the position of his cock, trying to find a way to make it poke less embarrassingly against the fleshy globes of his mother's bottom. At that precise moment she shifted her hips and accidentally helped him to achieve what he was trying to do on his own. This meant that the tip of his cock was now lodged comfortably in the crease between her buttocks. He was no longer pressing rudely against her. Now she was unconsciously pressing rudely against him.
Charley wasn't fully in control of what happened in the next few minutes. Paula continued to sleep soundly, her breathing deep and even. But her nipples seemed to have become stiffer because of her self-fondling of her breasts. Her hips remained essentially motionless, but the muscles in her bottom cheeks seemed to alternately grip and then release the knob of his cock.
He gave up trying to think about his favorite celebrity sluts, or even about the more fuckable females of his acquaintance, and accepted the fact that it was his own mother that he was in intense sexual contact with, however unconscious she might be of that fact. He loved this woman, and he was becoming increasingly aware of how sexually exciting she could be. He just didn't know how to keep something bad from happening to her here.
When he felt his cock grow and harden even more, and the rush of cum rising up from his balls could not be held back any longer, he grunted "Oh, shit!" and let his orgasm have its way. He tried not to think about the mess the forceful spurts of his cum were making on his own boxers, on his mother's nightgown, and on his parents' bedsheets, and he was aware that those three disaster areas had not occurred to him in the correct order of their importance.
He'd just have to think of a good explanation for it before morning. Good luck with that, he told himself. There was no way she could fail to notice it, but he had felt powerless to keep it from happening.
Fortunately, Paula let go of Charley's hand and moved away from him soon after he'd finished cumming. He eased himself out of her bed and tiptoed back to his own room. He tried hard to feel guilty and disgusted with himself for what he'd just done, but he didn't. He couldn't. And why should he? He was just behaving as nature intended young men to behave in such situations, and his mother had made it virtually impossible for him to detach himself from her before his damaging cum flood arrived.
And it felt damned good. Thank God he hadn't fucked her. He'd just made a mess of her backside and everything in its vicinity. A shower and a laundry load would solve everything for her. Well, everything except the inexcusable fact of her son having befouled her sleeping body. That wasn't going to be so easy for her to wash away.
Charley had a horrifying momentary image of his late father chuckling at Charley's predicament. Was this one dumb mistake going to haunt him for the rest of his life? Fuck!
* * * * *
Breakfast the next morning was surreal, it seemed to Charley. Not only did his mother make absolutely no mention of the events of the previous night, but she acted as if it had simply not happened at all. This did not, however, come as a relief to Charley. His mother knew very well the positive effects of skillfully employed Maternal Psychology. By not helping her son to atone for his gross misbehavior, she was forcing him to simmer in his own guilt and to find some way to straighten matters out for himself.
Hey, maybe she really didn't care about the incident, thought Charley. Perhaps she thought that a 'wet dream' had accidentally caused him to stain her gown with a substance which she would know could only have come from him.
