To be honest we were always much too close, Mother and I. When I was six years old, just before she kicked him out, my Father got angry with me for some reason and called me a Mummy's Boy. I didn't understand why he thought that was a bad thing. Anyway, Mother wasn't about to put up with anyone trying to come between us. He had to go.
That left the two of us, alone in a large house on the edge of a small town in the middle of nowhere. Mother had a couple of relationships with local eligible bachelors, not to mention with one or two of the local married men, but nothing that lasted.
Looking back now I know that she must have been bored out of her mind, and to deal with it she drank a little bit too much. As for me, I was painfully shy and awkward, and hopelessly unpopular at school. I never had a real friend and absolutely never got anywhere near having a girlfriend.
Neither of us fitted in, but we always had each other. "It's the two of us against the world, Tommy" she told me one day as she held me tight, crying about something, and that suited me just fine.
As time went by our bond just got stronger and stronger. In particular, Mother had an almost magical ability to know exactly what was going on inside my head. If I felt sick, if I had a bad dream or was upset about something, I didn't have to say a word – she always knew, she always came to me. And whatever it was she kissed it better, stroking my hair and murmuring sweet, soothing words of love into my ear.
But the years passed and eventually that summer arrived, the one between me turning eighteen and going away to college. Actually I was dreading it – leaving home and moving hundreds of miles to a new town where I could meet lots of interesting, attractive new people and be unpopular with them too. I just accepted it as something that had to happen, another ordeal that I had to endure.
And although she ddn't say anything I knew Mother was terrified of being left on her own. As the summer went on she got more clingy, more needy, always wanting hugs and cuddles and kisses. Then it happened. During these displays of affection from Mother I started getting unwanted, but utterly unstoppable, erections.
It's difficult to believe now, years later, the power of the desperate, painful, crippling yearning for sex of my virgin teenage self. The overwhelming strength of that desire set against the total absence of any chance of it being satisfied was too much to bear. Frequent masturbation stopped me exploding but didn't even take the edge off my need to merge with warm, soft female flesh.
Even so, this whole new reaction to Mother worried me. I thought about it, and as I did my attitude towards her transformed. For the first time I tried to imagine how she must look to the rest of the world. She had a few signs of wear and tear around her eyes and lips, but fewer than most other women in their early forties. Her hair, cut short now into a bob rather than the long tresses that I remembered from childhood, was still a lovely honey blonde. Her eyes were still icy blue. She worked hard to keep her tall, willowy body slim but nicely curved. She dressed proudly, in ways that showed off that body - apparently for nobody's benefit but her own.
It dawned on me why the men in town always seemed pleased to see her but their wives never did. Because if she wasn't Mother, if she was a stranger I'd seen in the street or on a bus, I would have wanted her. I had a thing for older women by then anyway, and yes - I most definitely would have wanted Mother.
From that point on I couldn't define her just as Mother anymore. She was a real, living, breathing woman. And despite my guilt and shame at what I was feeling I would never try to fend her off, never be the one who brought any physical contact to an end. I would just make sure that she didn't feel my hard cock pressed against her belly when she hugged me, and arrange my body and clothes to hide my erection when we curled up together to watch television.
Late one night, only about a week before I was due to leave, we were sitting on the sofa watching a movie, as we often did. Mother's head was resting on my shoulder and her arm was linked through mine. We'd both had a few drinks and I dozed off. When I woke Mother's hand was resting on the inside of my thigh. She had never put her hand there before.
I tried to cover up the bulge that grew in my jeans and we sat in silence until the movie's end credits rolled. Mother turned off the TV, her hand still on my thigh. "Tom" she said "It's time we had a talk." My heart sank. "You do know you don't have to go away, don't you? You're so worried it's breaking my heart, baby, but there's no law that says you have to go to college if you don't want to. You can always stay here and look after me."
I'd been expecting this all summer. She was smiling and trying to sound light-hearted but I could see the desperation in her eyes. I gave her the speech I'd prepared for the occasion – I would miss her too, but I had to leave sometime and I would be back during the holidays. And anyway, what would I do if I stayed at home?
I could tell she was disappointed. She looked into my eyes, now with a serious, grown-up expression that I couldn't fathom but that made me feel nervous and even more aroused at the same time. "Well then" she said slowly, with a husky, shaky voice, "even if you don't care about looking after me, I could still look after you".
Something was wrong. A woman shouldn't look at her own son the way Mother was looking at me, shouldn't talk the way she was talking. The hand on my thigh started moving upwards very, very gradually. I couldn't hide my erection now – no matter how hard I wished it away, it just wouldn't go.
I couldn't do anything except stare back into Mother's eyes as she reached down and pinched the zip of my jeans. "Mummy knows what you want, Tom" she whispered, as if she was sharing a secret "I always know, don't I?"
Maybe I should have stopped her, should have said something. But my mouth was too dry to speak, my arms wouldn't move. She pulled down my zip agonizingly slowly. She kept her eyes fixed on mine, staring deep down into them, as I felt her long, cool fingers slip inside my shorts, curl around my hot, aching cock and ease it out into the open.
I gasped and jerked, but still couldn't speak. My cock had swollen bigger than I'd ever seen it before, and Mother gazed lovingly at it as she ran her fingertips up and down the shaft and around my balls - oh so gently - as I began to squirm and wriggle. But I didn't tell her to stop. She leant her head down as if to get a closer look at what she was doing to her young son, but then her lips parted and I realised what she was going to do next. At last I heard myself mutter "Please Mother... this shouldn't happen..."
I wasn't sure I meant it though. Of course Mother knew that I didn't mean it at all - she ignored my muttering and devoted herself to my cock. First she licked it, slowly and softly to begin with then harder and more urgently as she started to make hungry, kitten-wants-the-cream sounds that mixed with my own moans. Finally Mother's mouth moved over the head of my cock and down, and up and down, over and over again, and she sucked me hard, and I was lost in a world of sensation and ecstatic pleasure that I can't describe.
