Mother

I had one foot on the bottom step toward the Promised Land when Mother’s call found me.

“Frank, are you home?”

I froze. She must have heard the front door opening; that was the only part of my entrance that I was not able to silence because of how persistently loud the locking mechanism was. Perhaps she locked it upon return in order for it to rat me out when I arrived. I decided to avoid drawing her wrath and to go and greet her. It was better that I found out now of any changes in our relationship because of the new mores.

Her voice came from the living room, which I had seen to be empty when I tiptoed past it. She must have been in her office beyond.

I braced myself for what I might or mightn’t see. Mrs Evie Oliver was a single mother of two, one birthed, one adopted, both raised predominantly by nannies, grandparents, and a few competent babysitters, before promptly learning to keep the house on our own. Mine and my adopted sister’s early autonomy meant that Mother never had to juggle career and household as much as other mothers her age. The years of toil and suffering were conspicuous in their absence, leaving her body and mind youthful and responsive. This year she was Top Dog in her company, and had started seeking a suitable mate to replace Father. This meant she was home more of the time, and the extra care she took of her physical form meant I had prolonged exposure to a beautiful woman, several times a week, under the same roof. Now there was a chance I would spend that amount of time with the same woman in a constant state of partial undress.

Mother had indeed been in her office. She was standing in front of the door, holding it with one hand behind her, as if ready to slip back inside and pull it almost shut if she thought I wasn’t in the flat after all. She never closed it properly, which is why there was no aural warning in the sound of the lock turning before she called me.

“Frankie boy, come here, give us a kiss and a hug, I haven’t seen you all day.” I took a few steps across the room but she sauntered over to me herself. Her private parts were just as naked as those of almost all other women I had seen, and especially distracting. She had modest breasts; at least compared to Carmencita or the girl near the lockers, but her every movement sent them a bobbing excitedly. Also, she was trimmed down below, clean shaven labia crowned by a small patch of hair on her lowermost abs. Mother’s assets stole my attention, and I failed to anticipate her next move, even though she had spoken what I should have taken as prior warning. She pressed her lithe little form against me and kissed me on the lips as if embracing a lover. I was so taken aback I couldn’t bring myself to return the kiss, and when she pulled back I was struck at how much smaller she was than me. I had not been so physically close to her since I was a very small child, and it was jarring to discover that I was now a larger creature than the being who birthed me.

“You taste a little off, dear,” Mother said, “is everything all right?” and then she put a hand on my forehead as if to see whether I was feverish.

A soothing calm washed over me and briefly drowned my thoughts. It mellowed the wear on my limbs from carrying the weight of my schoolbag and heavy outerwear, and put fullness in the pit of my stomach where hunger would have been making its first complaints. However it soon petered out into nothing, and when it drained it was as if I had suffered two stress-filled days without interval instead of only one.

I stood there for a second or two, blinking at a strange question and a headache, until it came to me. Mother tasted a little off. She and Carmen both did. They tasted like each other. And the calming wave in the aftermath of her kiss was of the same nature as the high I felt after Carmen locked lips with me. More importantly, the effect was considerably lesser. I had not noticed it during the kiss, and I recovered control quickly afterwards. There was no frenzied rush to follow the call of lust or phantom amorous sentiments.

“I feel fine, Mum.” I said.

“You’ve had sex then, Frank?” she asked.

“Mother,” I insisted, trying to feign annoyance, “of course I had sex today. I fucked Carmen.”

“You fucked her eh? Did she kiss you at least? What’s she like?” She put her hands on her hips, and gave me the sternest look she could give while facing upwards. I couldn’t tell her I had avoided the snogging.

“Of course I kissed her. She’s very kissable. I kissed her lots, Mother. Don’t worry about it.”

“Hm.” She shrugged, “Must just be me then.” And then she muttered, trailing off “I can’t get a decent lay at the office... but what was she like? I want to know.”

I tried to ignore her frustrated digression and gave my vaguest description of Carmencita’s goods. I didn’t want to offend Mother by highlighting the multiple size differences between her and my classmate, but she pressed me for details, and surprised me, latching onto her rival’s grooming habits.

“And you really don’t mind a bushy cunt?” It was more a statement than a question, but I responded anyway. I could tell her a partial truth: that I didn’t give a rat’s anus about Carmencita’s bush – but I couldn’t tell her that I couldn’t afford to care because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.

“I really don’t, Mother.”

She stared at me for several seconds, but I gave her nothing more. She dropped her stern stance and slackened her arms, sighing.

“I’m sorry for gruelling you, dear. It’s just a little unusual to my ears. I wish my men were as liberated as you. One of my most boot-licking lackeys snubbed me this afternoon for my itty bitty landing strip. The way he’d been slaving for me before you’d have thought he would eagerly munch my carpet every day for his promotion. And I think I’ll likely promote him anyway. It’ll save me getting my hopes up...”

As she vented and ceased directly soliciting me I was without cues as to how I should present, so I stood there awkwardly. When she ran out of steam she noticed me again, she grabbed my hand and guided it to her crotch, pressing my fingers against her smooth slit.

“Darling, tell me, my pussy is nice isn’t it? It’s soft, warm, and wet inside like any other pussy, isn’t it? Am I missing something? Is it something other than my little bushy patch? Why won’t the men my age fuck me?”

I surprised myself when I found I knew what to say. This was exactly like other conversations my mother and I had had before, and probably occurred with my adoptive sister. She frequently would come to me with frustrations over her social life in a professional context, wondering what was so strange about her. I often had to spell it out to her, that she wasn’t inherently a strange woman, but that she occupied a place in society that, for some, it was still jarring for her to be in. I think she probably understood already, but wanted to hear it from someone else. In the absence of a partner, that was me. The difficulty was now to adapt the rhetoric to fit sexual shenanigans.

“Mother, they most likely fear you, you’re the Boss. You’re the Supreme Authority, the Ace, Grand Maester, Head Cheese, whatever you wish to call it. What if the dude fails to make you come? What if he leaves a bad taste in your mouth? What if he does anything to you less than perfectly satisfactory and you decide to hold it against him, just like you would for any other job? If he already dislikes bush then he’ll use that as an excuse to back out.”

As I spoke she smiled, and started bucking her hips against my hand. I wanted to tell her to stop, to say ‘what are you doing you’re my mother!’, but I couldn’t do that. I had to maintain my improvised persona from the morning right into my homestead. I pretended to be emboldened and said “I think your pussy is exactly as soft, warm and wet as the hairiest and bushiest I have had the pleasure of touching so far.”

Her reaction to my last phrase told me where this was going, and I was able to suppress all resistance when she gave me a tug toward the couch and to get closer to her body. As she melted against me and fondled me through my jeans I felt my cock swelling regardless of my more moral thoughts. I realized then I had been primed for incestuous sex since witnessing the Twins go at it after lunch.

Mother pressed her face against mine and I kissed her back. The taste was on her lips, on her tongue, everywhere in her mouth, and stuck out like refined salt. It completely failed to break my focus this time.