It was not as though it was a love borne of any illicit, unmentionable experience; the truth of the matter is that, as it evolved, it more often felt like the most natural love one can have for another. But the moment the image of his mother’s lusty expression broke into his pre-orgasmic haze, he knew he was headed down a one-way road.
Cathy was not the type of woman most would rush to slap a complimentary label like “MILF” upon, yet if you were fortunate enough to become her friend, you would certainly regard her as your most beautiful, loving acquaintance. She had a smile that was to a room what sun is to rain showers; she so easily opened her heart to everyone she knew and, if she loved you, you felt immensely fortunate for it.
Though she was a wonderful wife and the most loyal of friends, the one calling Cathy felt most destined for was motherhood. That it took years to finally conceive (despite every effort and no sparing of expense) was certainly a factor in her unyielding commitment to her son, but in truth she was in love with him the moment she felt the first of his many boisterous thumps from deep within her loving, protective womb. By the time he was born, in her mind they were practically soul mates, and she began to turn toward the boy much of the love and affection once only reserved for her husband.
Under the unmitigated love and careful direction of his mother, Brendon grew to be a lively toddler, then an unrelenting child and, finally, a demanding teenager. And through it all, Cathy tended to his every want and need as though there were no other demands in the world. She simply gave him her everything and, even when it seemed her vessel was drained, she still offered more.
For his part, Brendon was not completely unappreciative of his mother’s devotion. Though he demanded so much time and affection from her, he did so knowing that she was the one person in the world of whom he could ask such things, and he loved and trusted her explicitly. But as he struggled through that awkward transition from foolish boy to respectable man, Cathy began to worry. He seemed to rely on her for nearly everything and showed no interest in progressing into a more independent lifestyle. She was as she had always been; she was his best friend and, perhaps, his only true friend. His world (when it did not center around himself) centered around her, and the older he grew, the more obvious it became.
It was with this realization that Cathy began to feel compelled to push her son away. It was an effort driven by the deepest devotion and best intent, yet to Brendon it came upon him as suddenly as a furious summer storm. It was not enough that he was suddenly dealing with the myriad changes a boy’s body and mind seem to waffle through, but he was now feeling a sense of alienation between himself and the one person in his life that might help him sort it all out. And it made him feel desperate.
For his seventeenth birthday, Brendon’s father was conveniently away for business, something that escaped the notice of neither son nor mother. Cathy went to considerable trouble to arrange a party, inviting both family friends and schoolmates alike in the hopes that Brendon might somehow suddenly forge a plethora of new friendships in the two or three hours of loud music, store-prepared cake and salty junk food. But it did not happen that way, and when Cathy put him on the spot by publicly asking him to invite his mates for an over-nighter, Brendon threw down his empty plastic Silo cup and stormed out of the room. As he angrily ascended the steps in pairs, he could hear the hushed giggles of classmates he knew would tease him the following school day, and he was pissed. God, was he pissed.
He slammed his bedroom door, lodged his desk chair across the room, and fell into his bed, and….he waited. He expected his mother to fly into his room right behind him, hastily delivering a string of adamant apologies followed by endless pleas for forgiveness. But she didn’t. He still waited, though, and the longer he waited, the angrier he became.
It was only an hour later that Cathy bid the final guests goodbye and began the process of locking up the house for the night, but to Brendon it felt like days. By this time he was angry, really, just to be angry... But it was more so a feeling that his mother didn’t love him like she used to that tore at his heart, and he was entirely unsure how to fix it. He missed his mother. She’d taken a day job in hopes of forcing him to fend more for himself, and it meant that the afternoons he once spent chatting away with her about everything that mattered to him (and often things that didn’t) were now spent in a lonely house which, with no one around, seemed to stifle him in a surround of idle quiet.
He was going to have it out with her, he decided, and he went into her room to sound off. She was still downstairs, however, but it mattered not. What he found, instead, lying at the edge of her bed, plucked his determination and carried it effortlessly into a strange, sensual new arena. Simply, innocently, absentmindedly, there lay a pair of black lace undies, and not the kind a boy imagines his comforting, kind, and nurturing mother wearing.
They were nothing more, really, than a patch or two of stretchable lace, and they appeared so diminutive that Brendon could hardly understand how they could possibly conform to the ample curves of his mother’s plump rear. He picked them up and instinctively brought them to his nose, and that he did caused a flush of both shame and arousal to permeate his nervous, curious constitution. The smell was inebriating, a musky mixture of baby powder and sex, and he closed his eyes and at once imagined them stretched across the folds of his mother’s mysterious, alluring womanhood.
Utterly enthralled by the opportunity to experience something that had once been so intimately associated with his own mother’s heady form, he placed them over his soft, boyish features; a mask of lace and cotton to encapsulate him in the aroma of the very essence from which he was born, and as he closed his eyes, he began to wonder.
'What does it look like? How does it taste? Is it shaved? Is she large down there from giving birth, or is it tiny and tight, like all the guys say pussy should be?'
As these thoughts turned and twisted, furiously, through his consciousness, he began to move his hand down the front of his trousers absentmindedly, and soon he’d let loose the whole of his now-tumescent cock and stroked it freely. As he did, he imagined his mother lying on that bed, covered only by those black lace panties, sensually beckoning him toward her warm, willing flesh. In a moment’s time, the rush of orgasm began to rise within him, and, in a fluster of heavy breath and racing heart, he quickly pulled the panties from his face. With them now as his palate, he stroked into them the sketch of his own seed, as he grunted, in both fury and favor, the one word he never should:
“Mommmmmmy….”
And as his mind pulled itself up from the orgasmic black into grey, Brendon was immediately aware of a change in the room. Something was not as it had been. Something was different. He looked into his hand and what he saw sent another flicker of arousal seething deep into his blood, but that wasn’t it. His hand fell to his side as he looked out toward the hall and saw, standing grey as a ghost, his mother…his beautiful, confused, horrified mother.
“Mom, it’s not what it looks like!” he yelled, and threw her panties down, away into the corner, as if he could then avoid having her know for sure what he’d done. He braced himself for a whirlwind of angry words, but she stayed silent. He searched her eyes wildly, desperate for some indication of what she was thinking, how she was feeling, what she would do. But he couldn’t read her, and it only fueled his fear.
“Mom, say something!” he begged, and sunk down the side of the bed and to the ground like a deflated beach ball.
She only put her hands over her mouth, as if to avoid having to speak the horrible thoughts that raced through her mind. He began to cry, for he knew damned well what it meant. If he’d been concerned she loved him less before, it was nothing to what he imagined now. He looked up at her with a pained, impossible expression, as his mind ground down to find something to say that could possibly make this right. It had nothing. All he could do was cry, and somewhere in the depths of his mind, there was a dissonance. How could something that felt so incredible one moment lead to such pain and regret the next? He was sobbing so furiously that he could hardly catch his breath, and in a moment he began to hyperventilate.
“Mu-mu-mommm…I..c-c-can’t b-b-breeeeeathe!” he cried out in between each stiff, deliberate wheeze. She rushed to him, took him to her, and wrapped her arms around his head in an effort to comfort and console him.
“It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay! Mommy’s not upset with you! I love you, Brendon, calm down now. Calm down, baby. Calm down.” Her words were so soft and soothing, a stark contrast to the cacophony of bitter gasps that pushed and pulled between his teeth, and it soothed him.
Soon, his breathing slowed. This is what he needed. She loved him, no matter what.
As the two sat in stillness with the quiet drone of a ceiling fan lulling them from the hall, there were few words that could leave the lips of either. Brendon considered several, but he finally realized all he could do was be honest.
“I love you, mommy.”
“I love you too, Brendon. More than life itself, and I always will.” She pulled him into her as she said this, and in an effort to get comfortable, his chin slid down to the pert mound of her left breast. They sat silent for a while.
“I think I love you differently than you love me,” he said finally, and crooked his head enough to be able to see her face without removing his from her bosom. He was going to tell her things now, and he wanted to be able to gauge her reaction as he did.
“Brendon, love doesn’t have boundaries or limitations. You either love or you don’t.”
“Well, I understand you feel that way, but I think I love you in a way you don’t love me,” he said cautiously, “and I don’t know what to do about it.”
She was quiet for a moment, and Brendon correctly assumed it was an effort to collect her thoughts and choose her words carefully.
“I know you don’t know what to say, but I’m just going to help you understand me better. I love you like dad probably loves you. I don’t know why, but I get excited by you, you know, sexually. I know I’m not supposed to. I know you’re my mom and that it’s awful. I know you probably don’t love me the same, because you know now, for sure, that I’m a freak. I know that—“
“Brendon, haven’t you listened to me? Love doesn’t have such limitations. I either love you or I don’t. And I do.” She looked down at him intently, into his eyes, and wiped a tear from his ruddy, flushed cheeks.
“Could you love me the way I love you?” he asked, but with the fear and trepidation he felt welling up and seizing hold of his throat, it barely came out as a squeak.
She hesitated, but then asked, “How do you mean?”
Brendon was suddenly aware that if all the thoughts and feelings he was experiencing were able to swirl together into a mass of ectoplasmic energy, it would probably resemble something like The Big Bang, and this didn’t help him at all.
