Family Matters

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Babes

It was my eighteenth birthday, when Diane my mother pulled me close, unintentionally crushing her voluptuous breasts against my chest, kissing me on the forehead and both cheeks. It wasn’t the first time I recognised my mother as a woman who had other attributes, not associated with keeping me fed and healthy.

“Happy birthday darling.”

Later that day mother was working in the kitchen preparing food for the evening meal for us and my father, for when he eventually decided to come home from work. For the first time I moved in behind her pressing myself against her back, wrapping my arms around her waist to thank her for my present.

“I love you mom, you’re the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“Why thank you darling.”

That was more than my father ever said to her. Over the following years, at least once a day I’d stand behind her, my arms wrapped around her telling her how beautiful she was, and that I loved her dearly. I became fascinated by her, watching her breasts bounce around as she walked, and the movement of her ass beneath her skirt, like two puppies struggling to escape.

Aged sixty five, my father, Ken Carter, died, I was twenty one, my mother was obviously upset, but surprisingly not heart broken. Fortunately I was still living at home and between girlfriends. I spent a lot of time consoling her, cuddling and kissing her on the cheek, occasionally a quick peck on the lips or on her eyes to remove a tear. I would lie alongside her on the sofa with an arm wrapped around her waist and we would talk about the future. For the last few years and still was the main subject of my fantasies, never refusing my sexual advances. Gradually we got back to some kind of normality with me becoming far more attentive towards her.

I knew my mother was a lot younger than my father, she was forty when he died, but it wasn’t until we were sorting through his private papers that I began to discover the details of their terrible secret. Mother had gone shopping leaving me to sort through my father’s files, most of which she didn’t understand. One file I opened contained certificates, our birth certificates and one marriage certificate, missing was my parent’s marriage certificate. When I checked my birth certificate the details seemed fine, my mother was my mother and my father was my father. When I checked my father’s birth certificate that also seemed fine, although I never knew his parents, my grandparents. Things became a little weird when I checked my mother’s birth certificate, her mother, who I never knew, was her mother, and her father had the exact same name as my father. I checked my grandparent’s marriage certificate, the husband had my father’s name but the wife had my grandmother’s name, it was a little confusing to say the least.

Spreading the certificates out on the table I checked the dates against the ages. Checking the date on my father’s birth certificate against the date on what I assumed to be my grandparent’s marriage certificate, my father would have been twenty four, which the marriage certificate confirmed. So my father was also my grandfather. Working back, I calculated from her birth certificate that my mother must have been nineteen when I was born, therefore it would seem that I was born out of wedlock. What a bastard. Of course now I began to wonder just what happened, did he force her, was it rape or did she go with him willingly? What happed to my grandmother, did she die or did she find out what he had done, and left him? Were they divorced? But no matter what happened, my father could never have legally married my mother, consequently no marriage certificate.

That evening with my arms around her snuggled together on the sofa watching TV, I decided to broach the subject and ask her straight out if my father was her father.

“Mom was my father also my grandfather?” She shot bolt upright leaned away from me and looked me straight in the eye.

“What?”

“Was my father your father? Only I was checking the birth and marriage certificates and thought there was an error. It was all very confusing and the only way it made sense was if your father was also my father.”

She suddenly burst into tears, and ran from the room up the stairs into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. I gave her a couple of minutes, then followed her up. When I knocked on her door she told me to go away, not taking any notice I opened her door and crawled up beside her on the bed. She snuggled in close as I put my arms around her.

“Mom its ok, it doesn’t matter I’m just grateful for being your son.”

But it didn’t seem to help, her sobbing persisted. I kissed her on the forehead and on the cheek gradually the sobbing subsided and she lay there cuddled up in my arms. I could feel her breathing as her breast rose and fell as they pressed against my chest, and the warmth of her breath. Even with all that was going on and how upset she was, all I could think of was sex, and yes I did have a hard-on although she wasn’t aware of my embarrassment. kayseri escort

Six months after my father’s death it was my mother’s birthday, by which time she had taken a rather menial fulltime job that was bringing in a little money. I had made the decision to seduce her, although I wasn’t quite sure how to go about it. My intuition told me I was already part way there, or at least in the starting blocks, because of all the love and affection I had bestowed upon her. She never declined my attention and I was now at the point where not only did she let me to pull her close, but would tip her head to one side allowing me to kiss and nuzzle her neck. At the same time I would reinforce the fact that I loved her, telling her she is the most beautiful woman in the world, which occasionally caused little giggles. From her reaction, I think she thought I was flirting with her, which I was.

The problem was, what birthday present could I buy her. Money was not a concern, but I wanted something that indicated how I felt, while hinting that I was romantically pursuing her. Lingerie was considered, but after some deep thought perhaps a little too personal, it was too soon and not very tactful. Now my mother’s closet left a lot to be desired, and I suppose married to a much older man wasn’t encouraged to wear nice clothes, she was a little on the dowdy side. I thought about buying a skirt and blouse, but not just any old skirt and blouse, a satin skirt probably a little shorter than she usually wears and a nice silk blouse. I could buy them for her to wear under the pretext of taking her out to a high class restaurant for a meal one evening. So that was my decision, however, I didn’t know her sizes, which meant diving down the laundry basket, probably over the weekend when she was out shopping.

Mother’s laundry basket was tucked in the corner of her bedroom, the fragrance from her cheap perfume drifting out as I lifted the lid. It was never a pleasant fragrance, never did liked it, although I would never upset my mother by telling her that fact, it was probably all she could afford since my father kept her financially frustrated. It gave me an idea to also buy her a nice bottle of perfume for her birthday, to complement a skirt and blouse, one that I preferred. Carefully removing her clothes from the basket ensuring they could be replaced in the same order, checked the sizes of her blouse, waist and length of her skirt, also noting the sizes of her underclothes. I felt sorry for my mother, her underclothes were getting old and tired, beginning to fray in places, where once they were white, now they were greyish, not quite as pristine as they once were.

Mother was a submissive and detested conflict, the kitchen was her comfort zone, an area which my father who had chastised her on a regular bases hardly ever entered. I spent time with her in the kitchen helping out, and it was there that I noticed those times when she stood at the sink her hands occupied, either plunged in water, washing or cutting up vegetables or fruit. It was at those times, with my father now just a memory; I decided to make my play. My mother had no family, no parents, and no siblings; maybe there were aunts and uncles unknown to us, living somewhere. Suddenly it struck me I could do or say almost anything to her, and there wasn’t a lot she could do about it. She could of course go to the police but that would create conflict.

That night while she was preparing dinner I nervously wrapped my left arm around her waist and my right arm a little higher around her body, resting my thumb against the underside of her bra encased breast. I moved in close behind her, fidgeting in such a way to disguise the fact that I was rubbing myself up against her. Through her blouse I could feel the thick seams where the two lower sections of her bra cup were joined together. My mother never mentioned the fact that my hand was indelicately placed or that I was rubbing up against her. Each day for the rest of the week I managed to repeat the scenario, although by the end of the week I was lightly flicking my thumb up to watch her breast jump a little. My mother still failed to react.

The following week becoming a little bolder I actually cupped the underside of her breast and gave it a little squeeze. Mother reacted.

“Bobby stop that, what do you think you are doing?”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes you are, stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“You know jolly well what you are doing, I said stop it.”

We went on like that for a couple of minutes while I still squeezed her tit and mother not mentioning exactly what I was doing. She stopped what she was doing and tried to pull my hand away from her breast. Our wrestling provided me with the opportunity to fully rub myself up against that wonderful ass, which I took full advantage of. Finally exhausted she conceded, overpowered and distraught she was unable to prevent me from cupping and squeezing both tits. She calmed down a little as I expressed my love for her, kıbrıs escort although I didn’t think she was too impressed at the physical demonstration of my love. We went through similar wrestling matches for a few days but she eventually conceded to my ministrations. By the end of the week she was allowing me to walk up behind her and cup her breasts knowing she was powerless. Up until that point there had been no threats made but that was about to change.

The fourth week I decided, instead of cupping the underside of her breast, I would cup and squeeze full on from the front. Thinking she had accepted the underside of her breast being touch and squeezed, approaching from the front would make little difference. Boy did I underestimate her. She lifted her arms to allow me to slip mine around her expecting me to cup her breasts, instead I went front on wrapped each hand around a breast and lightly squeezed. I even felt her nipples in the palm of my hands, and that was unexpected. She screamed at me.

“Get your hands off, what do you think you’re doing? You wouldn’t do that if your father was here.”

“You’re right I wouldn’t do this.” I grabbed her again, bending her slightly forward as I forced my groin against her ass, trapping her against the worktop. “If my father was here you would be a married woman, but since he’s dead you’re a single woman and a widow at that, and now you belong to me.”

“You have got to be joking now get off, you’re hurting me.”

Pushing with my body I bent her over further and squeezed both of her tits a little harder, she screamed at me to let go. Removing one hand from a breast I began to grope and squeeze her ass, she was off balance and unable to get a sufficient purchase to pull away from me. She panicked as I started to ease her skirt up from behind, she begged me to release her, promising not to take any action against me, or tell anybody what I had done. By that time my hand was under her skirt, sliding up her leg until I reached the fleshy part of her upper thigh, the area above the top of her stockings. Having burst into tears she was pleading with me to stop, as I slipped a finger inside the crotch of her panties. Through her sobbing she appealed to my sense of decency.

“How can you act like this when you say you love me?”

“It’s because I love you that I’m acting like this. I want you to be my wife, sleep together, make love, we should commit to each other in our own private wedding ceremony. I want to see you standing next to me in the most fantastic wedding dress.”

Mother seemed to be concentrating more on our conversation than my hand which was now totally in control of the situation, slowly creeping closer and closer to its target. My concentration must have also lapsed, and she must have been setting herself for an escape, because all of a sudden she pushed back and broke free. I don’t think I’ve ever been slapped around the face so hard; my ears were ringing for at least five minutes, with my face swelling where she caught me. It took me a minute or so to recover my senses and when I did she was still standing in front of me.

“If you ever do that again I will call the police.”

“You can call who you like, I’ll only deny it, it’s your word against mine, and I will tell them you are depressed because of the death of your husband. You have no family or friends you can turn to for support. What do you think the police will do? If I’m arrested, charged and go to court and end up in prison, what do you think your life will be like with all the reporters and news cameras camped outside your door? You would be much better off if we lived together. If you can never accept me as a husband I will leave and go and live elsewhere. Call me when dinner is ready I’ll have it in my room.” We never spoke for the next week in fact we never even made eye contact.

My company had recently acquired a failing financial services company in California, itself in financial difficulties, and had I been asked to head up the company to resolve their issues. Experienced in accountancy, I had drifted into the administration of failing companies but always as part of a team, assisting in the re-building and re-modeling, only this time I would be flying solo. Apart from a substantial increase in salary the contract stated that the company would pay my moving expenses and the rent on an apartment of my choice, up to what I considered to be a generous limit. Anything beyond their limit I would be liable for. I surfed the internet and printed off the information on several apartments which seemed suitable, and left the documents on my bedside cabinet knowing my mother would find them. During the week I phoned the various realtors who advertised the apartments, asking them questions, and making notes on each document, with arrangements to view them all the same weekend.

Thursday evening while packing a bag my mother turned up at my bedroom door wanting to know what I was doing. There were tears in her eyes as I informed her that I would konya escort be away over the weekend, and would not be requiring any meals. Monday evening when I returned she was there, not saying a word just followed me into my bedroom, giving me no time to put my things away or organize myself. God she looked a mess, her eyes were red as if she had been crying all weekend, her clothes were all crumpled, probably slept in them, and her hair all tangled. She wore no makeup not that she ever wore much. With her head bowed refusing to look at me she sat on the bed.

“What is it you want of me, is it a whore you want so that you can sleep and have sex with me anytime, is it just lust with you?”

While hanging my clothes in the closet, with my back was towards her I was unable to see her reaction to my reply.

“Of course I lust after you, have done since I have done for several years, and yes I do want to sleep with you and have different kinds of sex, all the time. If you consider that makes you a whore then I’ll treat you like a whore, if that’s what you want, but most of all I desperately want you for my wife. I want to see you in a beautiful wedding dress, go through a marriage ceremony and have a honeymoon. Okay so we won’t be legally married, that doesn’t matter these days, lots of people live together. We both know its illegal, and it’s not as if this is all new to you, because you have been living a lie all these past years. You will just be jumping from an old man to a young man, well the young man will be jumping you. I know you can keep a secret if we don’t tell anyone, who will know?”

Diane was in floods of tears because of the way I spoke; they say the truth hurts. “We could move away, my company has offered me a new position in California where nobody knows us. One thing you should consider, if, by the time I take this new position we are not a couple, I will not be taking you with me. Since dad became sick and could no longer work, I became the breadwinner, so if I leave you here on your own how are you going to manage?”

“You would leave me here, on my own? How can you be so hurtful towards me and make me suffer in this way? I never realized you could be so cruel, and to me your mother, who for years you have been telling me how much you love me.”

“It’s true you have been hurt, how else would you have known of my feelings for you if we had continued the way things were. Just by putting my arms around your waist and nuzzling your neck, would you have eventually fallen in love with me? Would you have turned and kissed me, let me caress your body, taken me to your bed? I don’t think so. If you hadn’t struggled and fought, instead accepted my caresses, love would have developed between us and things wouldn’t have turned out as they did. Romance could have blossomed and our transition from the mother son relationship to lovers could have been exciting. If you were me, explain just how you would approach the problem and expect you to fall in love with me and consent to become my wife? What do you think would happened if I had been married with a family when dad died, would you have expected to come and live with us? It’s fortunate for you that I never married, only because there was never anyone that I loved as much as you. If you do decide to become my wife, then you will act as if you love me unreservedly, even if you fake it.”

There was a long period of silence while she must have been considering how my approach could have been more acceptable to her and still end up as lovers, finally she said “You wouldn’t mind me pretending to love you?”

“It wouldn’t be my first choice, and I’m not saying I wouldn’t mind, but I would accept it.”

For the first time after entering my bedroom she raised her head and looked at me. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

“Oh no, you’re not putting this on me; you decide what you want, you make a decision whether you want to be fucked or not.”

“Please Bobby don’t use that sort of language in front of me.”

“At work they call me Rob, and from now on you call me Rob or darling, don’t ever call me Bobby again. Oh and as far as my language goes, the point I’m making which brings it down to our basic relationship, you are to decide whether you’re prepared to let me fuck you or not. When you have made up your mind what you want to do, you can let me know, until then for god sake go and do something to yourself, so at least you look like a woman, you look bloody awful. I never want to see you looking such a mess like this again.”

Her head dropped again apart from when she walked past my closet door and caught her reflection in the full length mirror. I heard the shower running just as I finished putting my clothes away, then movement in my mother’s bedroom as I sat in the sitting room relaxing in a chair. It was nearly two hours before hearing her footsteps clopping down the stairs; which sounded as though she was wearing heels. Ten seconds later the door opened and she just stood there like a picture, framed in the doorway waiting for a comment from me, all I said was “wow” she looked fabulous. I stood as she slowly walked towards me, knowing at that moment she was mine, mine to do with as I wished, expecting her to slip into my outstretched arms for a passionate embrace.

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