Okay...I'm back - it has been only four months or so, but it seems alot longer. This story is somewhat autobiographical although nothing so bad has happened to me in real life, but I hope it catches the spirit of the last several months. It is also the first time I've tried to break down the so called "Fourth Wall," and I'm curious as to your impressions. Remember, it is a work of fiction. (However, all stories mentioned within are part of my writings here at Literotica.)
Enjoy and please fire off those comments - your feedback is what inspires me the most.
I splurged on a taxi ride from the bus depot, staring at my home town with the same eagerness and sense of wonder I'd had on the seven hour bus ride up Interstate 75. Who knew that two years of staring at gray concrete walls would leave someone so starved for color? Even the garish, neon colors of the fast food restaurants looked good to me. Focusing on the passing scenery also helped occupy my mind and help me to not think about how nervous I was. Of all the people I had to face now that I was free again, Mom would be the hardest.
The taxi pulled up in front of my mother's home – the house I grew up in. A modest tract house in a huge neighborhood filled with identical houses, each now made distinctive by forty years of passing time. Trees towed overhead – trees that had been saplings when I was a young child aching for trees big enough to climb.
I paid the driver and slung my duffle bag over my shoulder and began to walk up the sidewalk. The front door opened up and behind a screen door stood my mother and I paused, uncertain whether or not to continue.
Mom looked pretty much the same as the last time I'd seen her, just before the trial began. Mom was fifty now – I'd missed her birthday by three months. She wore her years well, her fair skin almost without flaw and wrinkles. The drab housedress she had on seemed to make her look dowdier than she really was. Mom has a matronly figure – big bosomed and large shapely hips and although she is thickening in the middle, she still has a curvy, reubenesque figure. Mom had her hair cut short, almost in a pixie cut and only her hair betrayed her age and perhaps the stress of the last few years as her black hair was liberally laced with gray. Mom's dark brown eyes glistened wetly as she looked me over like I was a stranger.
Mom opened the door and gave me a nervous, uncertain smile before she said, "Well, John, come on in."
I got my feet unstuck and came on up the sidewalk and onto the porch. I felt my throat trying to close and barely was able to stutter, "Hi, Mom." I tried looking her in the eye, but I felt my face flush and embarrassment flood over me. I wanted to turn around and run like hell. The only problem was I didn't know where else to go.
Mom's troubled smile stayed on her face, but she reached out and squeezed my shoulder and then leaned in and said in a voice as choked up as mine, "Welcome home, son." She used her hand to propel me forward and I stepped into the house of my youth, looking much as it had when I was a child, big, overstuffed sofa and chairs, a relatively new television and pictures of family – Mom, Dad and myself at various stages of my youth. There was an empty space on one wall that was lighter than the rest roughly the size of a picture or to be more precise, a wedding portrait. I gave thanks for small mercies.
When the door was closed, I dropped my duffel bag to the floor and turned to face Mom who was studying me intently. Silence and tension filled the air as Mom looked me over. Mom reached out and ran her fingers through my hair. She smiled again, more sad than nervous as she said, "You're going gray, son. You've got more gray than me now."
I shrugged, still not sure I could open my mouth without breaking down and bawling like a baby Mom stepped closer until she was almost in my arms and said, "Are you okay, John? All that time...all that happened, are you okay?"
I took a long, stuttering breath and as I let the breath go, I replied, "I'm fine now, Mom...now that I'm here." And then I started to cry and Mom's arms were around me and we were both crying and I never felt so glad to be somewhere in all my life.
After we both ran out of tears, Mom told me to take my things down the hall to my old room and get unpacked and cleaned up while she got dinner together. Wiping my eyes, I could only nod and do as she asked me to.
As I walked down to my old room, my head was full of churning emotions. Embarrassment still threatened to overwhelm me even as I struggled not to let my body react to being embraced by a female...any female in over two years, but especially by my mother. I let my mind turn to recent memories of being on the inside to quell the erection that was half-formed in my slacks.
I tried to focus my attention elsewhere and found distractions in my old bedroom. At age thirty-three, I had been on my own for almost fifteen years and Mom had long ago turned my old room into a guest room. My sports memorabilia, kung-fu posters and twin bed had been replaced by a queen size bed and a mature and tasteful bedroom suite. As I put away my few possessions into a bureau drawer, I realized how dispossessed I was...my history in this room erased like my life had been.
Back downstairs, having washed a day's travel off me, my mood brightened considerably as Mom demonstrated that one thing had not changed and that was her cooking. To most folks, I reckon that meat loaf and mashed potatoes wouldn't be that big a deal, but most folks never had my Mom's meat loaf and mashed potatoes, topped off with a big slice of her pecan pie! After more institutional meals than I ever want to remember, Mom's cooking was pure ambrosia and I made a pig of myself while Mom looked on with a pleased expression on her face.
Still, there was a distance – a gulf between us – something that etched tension on Mom's face as she rambled on about family doings that I'd missed over the past few years...a something that both of us seemed reluctant to bring up.
Mom shooed me away when I offered to help her with the dishes, instead insisting I keep my seat and drink another glass of her sun tea while she cleaned the kitchen up. A lot of awkward silences ensued before Mom finally worked up the courage to ask me, "So, John – is it all that over now? You don't have to do anything else?" Mom's shoulders shook as she spoke, facing away from me as she washed dishes. There was fear and worry in her voice.
I made sure I had my voice under control before I replied, "It's done. The conviction is being expunged from the record despite the district attorney's objections. The appeals court's ruling is final and I won't face any further charges." I didn't know how relieved I was until I said it aloud and could hear it in my voice.
Mom's body shuddered with what I hoped was relief as well and then she said, "What about you and Lisa? Have you talked to her? Is there any chance..."
She left the rest unsaid as I let out a weary sigh. "No, Mom, we're done. The divorce was final over a year ago. Her lawyer told my lawyer that she wants nothing to do with me. The shysters are working out a new settlement on the sale of our house now." I shook my head in disgust. "I just want to move on, Mom. I've had two years to fall out of love with Lisa. I'm not pissed at her any more. I just want to rebuild my life."
Mom turned and looked at me – the pain and confusion as evident on her face as it had been two years ago when I'd asked her not to attend my trial. I could see the struggling emotions on her face as she replied softly, "I'm so sorry, John. I wish – maybe if I'd done things differently after your father left us..." She ducked her head and spun around – not fast enough for me not to see the tears.
I wanted to go and wrap my arms around my mother, but I was frozen in my seat, feeling frustrated and impotent and embarrassed. I could hear the inadequacy in my voice as I said, "It's not your fault, Mom. It's no-one's fault."
That was a lie of course. All of this was my fault. Almost three years ago, my then wife, Lisa went and found religion in a big way. Then already knowing my predilection for internet pornography, Lisa did some snooping on my laptop and discovered my secret life as Ahabscribe – writer of incest fiction. Along with my many stories, Lisa found other folks' stories and my collection of incest cartoons, hentai, and explicit photos and videos. And she went insane over it.
Lisa decided I was some sort of child porn purveyor despite the complete lack of actual child porn and she turned my laptop over to the local police department which agreed with her that I was some kind of sick pervert and before I knew it, I was under arrest and completely disgraced. I lost my job, my friends gradually faded into the woodwork, especially as the incestuous nature of my writing and collection emerged.
Lisa began divorce proceedings even before the trial began. My pride in my writing struggled with the sudden embarrassment of being portrayed as the "Incest Pervert" in the local media and worse of all – I hated the attacks and recriminations thrown at my mother as ugly speculations were tossed her way. The last time I had seen Mom was just before the trial when I had insisted she not attend – to distance herself from me for her own well being.
The trial was a slam dunk guilty verdict. Despite not finding one piece of actually illegal material, I was found guilty of trafficking in illegal pornography and sentenced to twelve years in prison. With a final swing of his gavel, the judge finished destroying my life and off to a Georgia penitentiary I went.
For the next two years, my lawyer worked towards an appeal while I counted the days inside a minimum security facility. Two weeks ago, my conviction was overturned and the prosecuting attorney censured for not exercising proper perspective for whatever that might be worth. As I sat there in Mom's kitchen, I knew that there would a coming settlement for wrongful conviction, but due to the lurid nature of the charges, my lawyer predicted it would be a pittance compared to what I'd lost.
Suddenly I realized Mom was standing over me, her hand on my neck as she again repeated that she was so sorry – "If I'd raised you better...if you'd had a father here, maybe it would have been different."
I broke free of my enervation and came to my feet and in a teary voice repeated, "Mom this isn't your fault. This is all on me. I never dreamed my feelings and fantasies would cause you this kind of pain!" I wrapped my arms around Mom and pulled her tight and for the second time that day we shared a good cry, embracing tightly. Despite my guilt at the pain I had caused her, part of me was aroused by the situation. I could feel Mom's heavy breasts, restrained by her bra, heaving against my chest, creating in me feelings that I hadn't allowed myself to feel in years. I felt myself hardening as Mom's belly bumped and pressed against my groin area. My head started to spin as I felt myself grow light-headed in my excitement.
Mom, I think, must have felt my growing arousal too as she abruptly broke our embrace and stepped away and around the table, wiping her eyes as she moved. She laughed half-heartedly and said, "You must think I'm ridiculous carrying on this way."
I let out a shuddering sigh and sat back down, trying to hide any evidence of my erection as I rubbed my eyes, my face wet with my tears. "No, Mom. It...I know it had to be tough on you – all the embarrassment of having a pervert for a son and it all being on television and in the papers."
Mom's face reddened a bit and she frowned as she replied, "No, John. I know you're no pervert. Things get...well, they get confusing." Mom turned away and went back to her dishes and things went very quiet for a bit. Finally, Mom glanced up at the kitty-cat clock on the wall, its tail and eyes moving as they had when I was a little boy. "I think the Tigers are on the television tonight. Why don't you go watch while I finish up in here?"
