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Author’s note: This is a departure for me. A radical departure. As anyone who has read my other tales — here or elsewhere — will know, I’ve stuck to my female perspective at all times, no matter what the subject matter of the story. This tale, however, is something entirely new for me — something written from the male angle. So I guess this is an apology in advance! It was an idea that was requested of me from different sources, and one that increasingly intrigued me. I’ve not managed to find any quick routes into the male psyche, and I’ve had to rely on assistance from a couple of guys. They’ve been very keen to point out what guys definitely wouldn’t say or think in certain circumstances (thanks, sincerely), but the story is entirely mine and therefore entirely my fault. I really hope you enjoy it…
There was no epiphany, no flash of light or inspiration, no trigger pull that lead to a smoking (or at least, dripping) gun. No matter how hard I think about all that has happened, I can’t identify a specific time, date or event that brought about what occurred. Maybe — and this is just a speculative maybe, you understand — I was simply born with the potential hard-wired inside me and it simply took the passing of time to bring it to the surface. Maybe I just needed to grow up sufficiently to be able to recognise how I felt.
My mother is a dichotomy on legs. You see a ditzy blonde and are captivated my her infectious smile and sparkling blue eyes — and yet she is one of the shrewdest, deepest thinkers I have ever had the pleasure to meet (and I have spent the last two years at a very good university). You see a woman of average height, average build and average body shape, and yet one glimpse at her across the clichéd crowded room and you can bet your life on the fact that she is the most beautiful woman there.
Perhaps I’m biased, but I don’t think that there would be many of my wide circle of friends who would disagree too strongly. Even the openly gay ones. Or a lot of the women, come to that. My mother, Allie — Alison — captivates and enchants, intrigues and bemuses, and it has been a privilege to have been her son for two decades. And very much more of a privilege in the last tenth of that time. Let me explain…
I always knew that my mother was pretty, always knew that she was kind. What son — except a very unfortunate few — does not? My father was an absence rather than a memory, a loss — through untimely death — that affected my mother a lot more on a good day than it ever affected me on a bad day. But what happened between mom and me… well that could not be explained away simply as a result of her prettiness or loneliness or her engaging personality. Nor could it be explained by my age or my newfound maturity. Mainly because most of those things weren’t factors in my earlier years where all of this must surely have its roots?
What I’m trying to say is that this was a two-way thing and that it started in all probability before I was even born. An inevitability, if you like, and despite the fact that an argument like that could be seen as self-serving nonsense, I genuinely believe it to be true. Put it another way, I think I fancied my mother since I could first see her.
So, as I said, there was no single moment when the world shifted, or when reality became something different. My mom had always given me a warm glow when we laughed together, played together, just shared the same planet, and that glow was maybe more than just a mother-son bond. But that day when I came home from my first term at college was a real kicker.
For all her prettiness and good nature, and the lovely clothes she always seemed to wear, my mom was always shy and innocent-seeming behind closed doors. I was two weeks beyond my eighteenth birthday when I left for college and I had never seen more than the occasional bra strap or — shock-of-shocks — the very, very occasional glimpse of bra-cup down the front of a particularly loose blouse. And even that took some serious neck twisting. Putting it simply, I had never had a truly sexual thought about my mom — or at least, one that was backed up by anything more than a wild teenage imagination. And nothing seemed in any way different when I let myself back into our house that December afternoon. “Gordy! Welcome home!” Mom positively dashed through from the kitchen to greet me, arms wide and a serious hug on the agenda.
“Thanks, mom!” My gratitude was entirely genuine as I accepted the proffered hug, suddenly feeling the homesickness I hadn’t actually noticed for the past three months. “I missed you.”
She leaned back and looked me in the eye, “Same here, tiger. The place has been totally dead without you.” She glanced down at my bags, “And so tidy, as well.”
I laughed, “Sorry, but you did say that if I had any washing-“
Her finger to my lips quietened me, “And I meant it. Dump that lot in the washing hamper, the rest of your stuff in your room, and then come and have a coffee with me and tell me all about college face-to-face bahis firmaları so you’ve no need to skip over the bits you didn’t want anyone else to hear.”
Like I said, she was always so smart about stuff.
I guess if you forced my hand I would have to say that it was that very evening, sitting there sipping coffee across the table from mom when I could first identify a sensation that there was something directly attributable to sex in what I was feeling for my mom. It was a glimpse of — not even an intentional look at or for — white, shiny material between the front panels of her pale blue blouse.
It wasn’t as if I’d never caught the tiniest of glimpses of ‘nether garment’ material before while she was wearing it, but this time it struck a chord deep inside me. Sex sharp, maybe. It didn’t so much give me pause, or distract me, as fry a circuit somewhere deep inside my brain. My mom wasn’t just pretty, she was sexy… Without being aware of the transition at any level, I went from a doting, slightly sappy son, to a rampant young male faced with the tiniest fraction of heaven. To this day I have no idea what conversational topics where batted around for the next half an hour or so, but I can remember exactly what I glimpsed from time to time, and even how stressed my jeans felt as a result. And through it all, mom was still mom, never ‘a woman’, albeit Allie, Alison or ‘that cute bitch from down the road’.
The pale blue, cotton blouse was about as nondescript as they come (he said, attempting to describe it…), a traditional (I suppose) smart/casual female garment with a high collar, long, slightly loose sleeves, cut neatly but without specific emphasis on what it was covering. It had seven (visible) pale blue buttons running from the waistband of the darker blue skirt my mom was wearing, up to the collar of the garment, the top three of which were undone. This left a tantalising gap between the upper panels, revealing just an inch or so each side of the soft mounds that the blouse and its accompanying shiny white bra were otherwise covering. I couldn’t recall whether my mother ever wore a blouse open quite that far before or whether it was just the first time that my libido had been separated from her for so long that it now allowed me to look. Either way, look I did — as surreptitiously as possible, of course — suddenly scared to be seen even glancing in that direction.
It wasn’t exactly a hard-core view. It wasn’t even close to soft-core. But somehow, that tiny visible sliver of my mom’s breasts affected me more than my few evenings with a girl from my college, and more than all of the porn I’d ever viewed on my pc. Every time my mom changed position, twisted to refill the coffee mugs from the pot on the coffee maker, or — be still my hummingbird heart — bent to pluck something from her purse on the floor beside her, my heart raced as my eyes focused on how the view might have changed as she returned to her former position.
I knew, even as I was doing it, that there was something fundamentally… if not wrong, then strange, for sure… about how I was obsessing over these tiny peeks at… well at nothing very much, really, but I couldn’t have stopped myself on pain of death. By the time mom said she was ‘delighted to have me home, but too tired to stay awake another second’ and stood up in preparation for taking herself off to bed, I was in a highly agitated state. More precisely, I was rigid in my jeans, and had to feign tiredness of my own to ensure that I wasn’t made to stand up and hug her goodnight. Had I done so, I’m pretty sure you’d be able to pinpoint the exact second I did it by the records down at the local seismology centre — the explosion would have registered comfortably.
I waited until mom was safely tucked up in her room, then headed for my own bed as quickly and quietly as I could, where a technique known as ‘wanking’ was used to relieve the stresses that had built up over the past few hours. I started with the intention of distracting my evidently misfiring libido by focusing on a video I had watched a few (hundred) times of a young woman being… surprised my her boyfriend, but within a few seconds the only mental image that played across the screen in my mind was of the silky smoothness of a certain bra, and what that certain bra might be covering.
Day two of my trip home, or my trip into a different dimension, began with a jolt of wonder. As in, did I really think all those things last night? I wonder how that could have happened…? Quickly followed by another mental flash of silky white smoothness which almost lifted the covers off the bed. At least I knew I hadn’t dreamt the whole episode, but that left an extremely urgent question: What next?
I could hardly deny to myself that I wanted to see more of the same. And just ‘more’. Sure, it occurred to me that it might be thought of as ‘wrong’ or ‘weird’ or even plain old ‘depraved’, but I was smart enough to know what my mind was saying it wanted. I was also smart enough to know that there kaçak iddaa was a whole internet out there where any doubts I had about my sanity (or decency) could be answered.
I lay there quietly, checking the clock to make sure that mom would have left for work by then (I had apparently slept for ten hours straight), before pulling on a tracksuit and switching on my pc — an old friend that had witnessed more scenes than I would be comfortable even talking about to like-minded male teens. Within an hour I had got as many answers as my fevered brain could handle, the most significant being that my newfound interest was extremely distant from being uncommon (it almost seemed like the opposite was true and that I had been a bit weird up until now to not find my own mom an object of sexual attraction). I also had an erection that felt as if it were permanent, and which alarmingly failed to significantly reduce in intensity even after a long session in the shower.
Many of the sites I’d visited were full of ideas about which sexual positions my mother would prefer us to adopt, but I was more interested in realism than tawdry fantasy, and it was actually a voyeur site that gave me my first clues about how to proceed with my much more realistic goals.
A visit to my mom’s underwear drawer, where a particularly sheer bra delayed matters for twenty minutes while my left wrist received another workout, gave me some more clues about what I might realistically expect to see if success came my way, and after that I spent a frantic few minutes rummaging through various drawers until I found what I was looking for. Given that I’d never seen a stitch-ripper before and was working from internet illustrations, I think you will get the idea that I was a man on a mission. With the little tool safely in hand, I proceeded to the wardrobe.
Mom had been a creature of habit in terms of her modes of dress before I left for college, and nothing appeared to have changed to judge by the contents of her wardrobe. Knowing her, she would have gone to work wearing a business suit, this time of year jacket and trousers rather than skirt, over the top of a smart light blouse. She would come home and change out of the suit into the sort of skirt she’d had on the previous evening, and a clean but often worn blouse. Because of the architectural specifics of her bedroom, the wardrobe was deep rather than wide, with her clothes hung from front to back in the order that she would normally wear them. Right at the front when I opened the door was a blouse that I was almost completely certain she would change into as soon as she came home that day.
If my actions sound like those of a desperate young man, then you wouldn’t be at all wrong in thinking it. I admit it. For the best part of two decades I’d lived within a breath of what I now knew I wanted to see, and I’d done nothing. I hadn’t even realised! Sure I was desperate. But not dumb.
I plucked the blouse off of its hanger and laid it on the floor after first holding it against my chest and counting the buttons. I took the protective cap off the stitch-ripper and bent the third button from the collar over until the little cotton threads that held it onto the blouse were exposed. Not allowing myself to think of anything except the website’s explicit and detailed instructions, I inserted the ripper between two threads and gave a light tug. With a barely audible snap, the thread broke, and I repeated the action five more times — until three-quarters of the eight threads were broken. To finish the task, I rubbed the side of the blade against the remaining two strands, further weakening the button’s hold on the material, then re-hung the doctored garment before my shaking hands could no longer manage the task. Another visit to the underwear drawer and bathroom, and I was as calm as I could reasonably expect to be.
Stage two of my new and frantic campaign saw me repeat the button weakening process on the next ‘casual’ blouse in case my mom skipped the normal rotation for some reason — we all need a backup plan — and then I turned my attentions to the bathroom door.
It was, I admit, something of a risk sabotaging both clothes and the door but trust me, desperate times call for desperate measures, and if the worst come to the worst and suspicion fell on me, I could claim almost twenty years of impeccable behaviour as a witness to my innocence. Just so long as I didn’t start referring to them as those ‘two stupid, fucking, wasted decades’.
The door proved much easier to doctor than the blouses with the additional bonus of me being able to test the effects of my tinkering. Even the search for the tools that I needed for the task was easier than the hunt for the stitch-ripper, plus I could actually recognise what a screwdriver looked like without recourse to half a dozen diagrams. Within fifteen minutes, I had taken off the door lock and handle mechanism, snapped a spring, and returned the metalwork (‘furniture’ the article called it — you learn something new every perversion) to kaçak bahis its original position. Now, when the door was closed and the locked turned, although it felt like an internal mechanism secured the door, a simple twist of the handle gained access to the room beyond. The bathroom beyond.
I wasn’t actually certain I’d ever have the nerve to walk into the room knowing my mom was inside and quite possibly undressed, but I knew myself well enough to know that if the blouse thing failed my desperation levels would give me the courage.
I was all set to enter the world of the mega-perv and there was still five hours to go before mom was due home. Time enough for another trip to the underwear drawer…
Despite what I’m about to say, I’m not a shallow person. I didn’t so much not think about what I was doing that day, as not allow myself to think. There was a part of me, deep down, that had been awakened, and I knew myself better than to try to suppress my feelings. I was mad at myself as well — after all, I’d had countless years to enjoy things, and I’d not so much as noticed my true feelings.
Did I wonder whether it was my time away at college that had changed my perspective? Did I consider that I had broadened my experience and tastes since I’d been away? Did I think about those and a thousand other possible causes for my new emotions?
Yes, yes and — guess what? — yes. But no matter how hard I tried to figure out the cause, I kept coming back to a bright, shiny, all-new, universal truth. I truly felt as I did, no matter who the object of my desire was. Also, I was now desperate. Also, I didn’t actually know exactly what I wanted other than ‘more’.
By the time I heard the key in the front door lock, I was all thought out and just sat staring at the kitchen table. There was no processing power left in my brain save for the mission that I had prepared so deviously for, and a big part of that mission was to appear just like normal.
“Hi, mom! Want a coffee made for you while you change?”
She appeared at the kitchen door, a fraction of a second after her smile, “Oh, I’ve missed this, or, roughly translated, yes please.” She turned and made for the stairs, calling back over her shoulder, ” You had a good day, Gordy?”
That, I thought, remains to be seen. “Not bad, mom.” Not trusting myself to speak more as a fit of shivers threatened to overtake me, I switched on the coffee maker. Now that the time had arrived, I was beginning to have serious doubts about a certain doctored button.
Overhead I could hear the floorboards creaking as my mom made her way into her room, followed by the wardrobe door opening, more creaks as she changed, and yet more as she made her way back out of her room and onto the stairs. Given that there had been no moans of annoyance, I gathered that my sabotage had not yet been discovered. I was almost hoping that it would maybe not work at all. Almost.
I was pouring the coffees by the time my mom showed her face back in the kitchen after what sounded like a detour into the little room next to the living room where here computer was set up. “Good timing, mom.” I handed her a cup, risking a glance at the front of her blouse. The doctored button was the last one currently done up, so any doubt I’d had about my attempted sabotage was washed away.
Mom took the mug from me and sipped, “Oh yes, I may have to keep you locked up here come the new year. I genuinely had forgotten how nice this was. Thanks.”
A slurp of my own drink helped cover the embarrassed snort, “It’s a pleasure,” I managed, “Nice to have someone around to appreciate the gesture.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re not short of company around the campus.”
“Maybe I’m just fussy,” I said.
“Well you can afford to be, a good-looking guy like you.”
Mom’s words were nothing more than a variation of her usual ‘feel good about yourself’ mantra that she good-naturedly trotted out to me, but their effect on this particular evening felt far from normal. “Must be the good genes from you.” I turned away as blood started to race from under my collar, heading for my cheeks.
Mom laughed, “Oh very cute. I see that you’re still doing well with your charm lessons, no matter that you need a credulous audience for that line to be believed.”
I stayed facing away, “And you’re still great at fishing for compliments!” I set my mug down.
“No fair!” Another laugh was followed by a finger poking between two of my ribs, “I am not an angler!”
I spun and poked mom just as she had done to me, “And taking advantage of my ticklishness is hardly fair, is it?”
She clattered her mug onto the counter, a giggle sending my blood pressure soaring, “Stop! Along with genes, good or bad, you get your ticklishness from me as well!”
My ears were spinning, I swear, as excitement threatened to overwhelm me. I made to prod my forefinger between her ribs once more, but mom took a quick step back, her hands rising to fend me off. The doctored button popped noiselessly from the blouse and my heart threatened to pop as well. From two hundred beats per minute, my heart-rate came close to doubling when I realised that mom hadn’t noticed. And close to quadrupling when the blouse gaped wide and low.
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