Secret No Longer Ch. 08a

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[ Dear Readers:

If you prefer to read episodes of this series without their predecessors, that’s fine and I hope you enjoy them that way. Just a heads-up, though: It’s not meant to be an anthology. All the episodes (except the first) build on those before them, so you’ll probably conclude some things differently from what was intended.

Some of our readers’ public and private comments touch on unmentioned matters, just a few of which are safe sex, STDs and common real-world consequences of things and events in the story.

Two chief rules in theatre are, first, everything on stage must have a reason to be there, second, everything that the action requires must be present, whether explicitly or implicitly. It’s not much different in written fiction. By the second rule, if a story does not get into some particular issue explicitly or implicitly (for example, indirectly through consequences) then it is irrelevant because the author deems it so and asks the reader to consider that issue adequately handled without mention. Sometimes action may be simplified a little from what is actually meant for the sake of smoothness and avoiding distracting details unnecessary for understanding the scene. A good author has respect for the reader’s intelligence and imagination and does not feel compelled to paint every scene with photographic detail.

In short, if it ain’t there, it don’t matter. Please remember that this is a story, not a case study or the news.]

Chapter 08a
Surrender: Jason’s Account

[ Special note to this episode:

It’s been a rather long time since the last chapter of this story was posted. Some of it was circumstance, some a simple case of that old devil, writer’s block. I hope things will get back up to speed now.

These events will be told through the words of Jason first, and then Linda, with some overlapping. In keeping with the established style of relating each chapter through one character’s words, this part of the story will actually span two chapters; so I’ll be numbering them as part a and part b of chapter 08. I’ll be submitting the two close together; with any luck, they’ll show up, if not simultaneously, then at least close to it. ]

Something was bugging Mom. Actually, something really bad was bugging Mom. Really bad.

I came back from class that day and I could see she had been crying. OK, well, that happens. Don’t we all need to cry something out now and then, even we too-tough-to-admit-it males? And at times like that it might be more important to have someone just to cry to than someone who thinks they need to solve your problem for you.

I knew that and I tried to be that someone. It seemed to be the right thing.

I had just plopped my back-pack on the kitchen counter when Mom ran up to me and grabbed me in a fashion not unlike the way a linebacker grabs a vulnerable quarterback. Once I had recovered my balance Mom started hugging me like crazy and crying like even crazier. I just hugged back and did all I could to comfort her, then gave her my promise that I was there for her anytime she needed more of the same. I just let my heart lead me. I think that’s what worked.

It’s a good thing she didn’t need someone to solve her problem because I hadn’t the slightest clue what it was.

After a couple of days she did seem to get better. I figured it was just one of those things that doesn’t really have a reason and does not really need a solution, just a little time and a little catharsis. Call me a sexist if you want to, but I think that happens to you women more than men. Or, at least, you admit it more easily.

As it happens, though, it most definitely did have a reason, and right at the middle of that reason, totally unaware of the fact, was I. I was soon to be made aware of it, and in a most dramatic, thrilling, and terrifying fashion.

It was about an hour before noon on a Saturday morning. I was headed to the kitchen to fulfill the destiny of all young men since the beginning of time: raiding the fridge. One hand grasped a chilled can of soda and the other a slice of cold pizza when I shut the door with my knee and suddenly saw something that very nearly caused me to drop both.

Mom was there, humming this sweet little song while she fussed about something on the dining room table. She had been dressed in her old favorite T-shirt and jeans when I came home, but now she was wearing this next-to-nothing little black blouse, so sheer that it was barely there at all, and those skin-tight, glossy black pants created by all the forces of Time and Nature for precisely one purpose: instantly transforming men of wisdom, integrity and discretion into howling horndogs.

Even despite all of those hard-to-believe events of the recent past, it seemed inconceivable that she had dressed that way for me. It was too radical, too far beyond anything I could bring myself to believe. Yet, with İstanbul Escort each passing second, my incredulity crumbled.

Oh, God, Jason! Your mother is trying to excite you. She’s trying to arouse you.

Jason, your mother is seducing you.

And she is succeeding.

Such a lot of thought this was, compressed into a few seconds. I still doubted my grip on my snacks and set them down before I ended up with a nasty clean-up job.

“Hi, Mom,” I sort of croaked.

“Hello, dear,” she replied, easily and sweetly, with no sign of surprise at the sound of my voice. So she was perfectly aware that I was there, wasn’t she? No chance at all that she might not have intended for me to see her this way. I silently processed that information and pondered its implications for several seconds. Or maybe hours; I wasn’t sure.

“Hi, Mom,” I repeated, stupidly forgetting I’d just said that. Mom raised her eyes.

“Hello, dear, again,” she replied. She was enjoying this.

“I was, uh, just getting a snack.”

“Thanks for clearing that up, Jason. I was wondering what you were doing taking a soda and some pizza out of the fridge.”

One of the problems that arise when your brain turns to oatmeal is that you do and say stupid things. Another of the problems that arise when your brain turns to oatmeal is that you do and say even stupider things trying to fix the stupid things you just did.

“Yeah, well, glad I could. You know, like, glad you’re not…bleah!” Jason, forget trying to be clever, idiot! Just shut up, pick your tongue up off the floor, stop wagging your horndog tail, get back home and devour that snack in peace.

Excellent advice, that. In response to the wisdom of it I, well, stood there. It was taking all the mental effort I could dig up just to keep from staring at her like a frickin’ wooden Indian. I distinctly remember reaching vaguely in the direction of the snack I had retrieved and picking up the soda can, and failing to invest the minimal cranial overhead necessary to determine if it was the soda or the pizza, biting into it. Good thing Mom wasn’t looking this way at the time. At least, I don’t think she was.

“Jason, dear, do your mother a favor, will you? Get the nice tablecloth out of the hall cabinet?”

“Sure, Mom,” I mumbled, glad for a request simple enough to penetrate the vacant recesses of my former intelligence. The task forced my eyes to focus elsewhere but on the Angel of the Dining Room and with that, a little sense returned. In a moment I had returned with the tablecloth.

“Help me open it, dear,” she said with a sweetness I don’t think I’d ever heard before, at least, ever heard directed at me. As we arranged the tablecloth I saw her momentarily standing directly between me and the living-room window, in profile. The graceful curvature of her body, and her breasts in particular, were in crisp, sharp silhouette, accented by the dimmer light that revealed a hint of the color of the flesh beneath the gossamer blouse. The nipples shot forth against the light and the nearer one was outlined so clearly that I could see not only the nipple itself, but the very surface and texture of it. The blouse was not concealing anything, and Mom’s purpose for choosing it was overcoming my disbelief more and more by the moment.

I was starting to lose my sensibilities again.

As Mom moved about the table to arrange the items on it, her simple movements were executed as if by a skilled and talented ballerina, at once gently feminine and searingly erotic in their simple grace. Guided by a natural and unfettered eroticism I was never meant to witness for myself, even the simple act of walking was reminiscent of a Latin dance, full of the sensuous undulation of the hips characteristic of it that is so famously seductive. She stood back, looking at the table, but really looking at me, apparently pleased with the reaction she was getting.

In spite of my deepening trance I was actually recovering some clarity. I became less like a stammering schoolboy and more like the sensible adult I was (Don’t say it; don’t say it…), able to let myself fall under this spell and yet be a part of it as well, regaining the power to understand and choose my actions.

Suddenly Mom took my hand and led me in the direction of the garage.

“Jason, dear, I need some help in here,” she said. I now could hear a new quality to her voice, a tinge of breathlessness, and her movements were suddenly far too energetic for the mundane task she had mentioned. She went to the side of the garage with some high, sturdy shelves used for general storage.

“Get the stepladder, will you?” I brought it to where she stood. “I need something off that top shelf, so will you please hold the ladder steady for me?”

“Uh, sure, Mom,” I mumbled, still aware that I wasn’t fully back on track yet. Mom mounted the ladder and I took hold of it. Despite that it wobbled quite a bit, and I suspected that Anadolu Yakası Escort Mom was putting some effort into exaggerating the instability.

“I don’t think that’s going to work, Jason,” she said. “Suppose you just hold onto me instead.” I was starting to get the picture now. She had risen up the steps until her hips were at the exactly level of my face. I wrapped my arms around her legs, just below her butt.

Ordinarily I would certainly have made sure I kept my face to one side or the other, well away from her private regions. Now, though, the increasingly circuitous pathway Mom was traveling seemed unmistakably aimed in precisely that direction and I did not avoid nestling my face right into her pelvis. My nose was pressed right into the crotch of those splendid pants, and thus, I knew, was gently brushing her clitoris, and I could not help moving slightly, trying to touch and caress it as best I could with the hard ridge of my nose. I must have succeeded because I felt a shock wave travel through her body at my touch, and with it, a sharp intake of breath. The faint odor of arousal was already well noted, and my own reaction was almost fully realized within the confines of my jeans.

“Hmm, hmm, now where is it? Where is it?” I heard her say, the way nobody does when they’re really looking for something. It was a game now, a sweet game, a game that had taken on a life of its own, slowly seducing us both.

“I have no idea, Mom,” I said, pressing my lips to her pussy so the vibration of my voice would impinge directly upon her clit. The ultra-thin fabric of those pants did nothing to attenuate the force and another wave of excitement flowed through her body, accompanied by yet more acceleration of her breath. I felt her hips thrust forward slightly, pressing harder against my face, then rock back and forth automatically. The natural cue came home to me and I extended my tongue toward that expectant clit, delighting in the way I could actually slightly penetrate the folds of her labia through the thin fabric of her pants. My heart was pounding now and I could hear the rhythm throbbing in my ears. My own breath sharpened and I redoubled my lingual attentions to her clitoris.

With the first touch of my tongue a sharp whimper escaped her lips and her breathing doubled in speed. The forward-and-back rocking of her hips grew and widened as she followed her reflexes to maximize the stimulation of my tongue. With every movement, every sound, I felt waves of sweet, driving pressure capturing my entire being, driven by the growing certainty that a secret, terribly beautiful dream would remain a dream but a few minutes more. The aching between my legs as tumescence battled with denim billowed into furious flame.

“Jason…Jason…yes…there, yes…oh!” Her words struggled to emerge from the now-furious panting of her breath, and with that, the transition was made real, the transition from the little game that had brought us to this place into the full yielding to the desires that had wrought it. Those strained monosyllables marked the end of all pretense. I was making love with her, giving my own mother oral pleasure in the way only lovers do.

The gasps and moans grew faster, ever faster, until the signs of imminent climax rose up. I heard her breath catch and I worked my tongue to take her to her peak. Frantic gasps transformed into a kind of muffled scream as her orgasm took hold of her. Her body vibrated with wild impulses, vibrating me with them, until their gradual subsiding brought the sudden relaxation of her whipcord-taut muscles. I’m glad I had a firm hold on her because that was the only thing keeping her from falling. Thus we remained for a long while, a long, sweet while as she regained her breath and her strength.

I felt her movements signaling that she was ready to descend from the ladder and I released my hold, supporting her as her wobbly legs had some unusual difficulty with the process. She reached the floor and turned her eyes to mine, and in the time our eyes locked we spoke to each other in words without sound or spelling, the words of lovers whose silent language touched places beyond the reach of voice or pen.

Wordlessly, she lifted my shirt from my chest. I felt her fingers fuss with the buckle of my belt and then the zipper of my jeans. Her hands slid them and my shorts away, and as she did, I sensed no hesitation as she brought her fingertips into contact with my tumescent cock and, unhurried, traced its length and girth with them. At that, her unabashed caressing of her own son’s erect penis triggered another moment of disbelief, but only that, a moment.

Presently, the task of disrobing me completed, she she took my hand and led me back to the house, into the guest room wherein she and Jannie had so excitingly conducted the affair whose discovery had started all of this. Unashamed of my nude body and the rampant erection pointing skyward from it, I sat on the edge of the bed. Üsküdar Escort Softly, with slow, measured movements that spoke of strong intent, she placed herself beside me.

My pulse leapt wildly. I thanked her in silence, then reached out and placed my hands on her shoulders, allowing our bodies to touch in a way gentle and familiar, not yet sexual, taking some moments to find a safe starting point, reassuring to each of us by its safety. I allowed this connection to solidify for a moment, then raised my hands to her forehead, very gently arraying my fingers across the arch beneath her hairline and down the sides. I had observed this particular touch many times through the telescope as Jannie had used it to initiate their sex; thus I knew it was a particular pleasure for Mom. For the moment her body actually relaxed and her breathing slowed as she surrendered to that special touch, descending into a gentle trance that grew and enveloped her more and more by each second, and which beckoned to me to follow.

My fingers then descended, softly brushing the sides of her face, continuing to her neck and returning to her shoulders. I did not pause there, though, but instead continued the downward movement, downward from her shoulders. The slowing of her breathing reversed and once again she began the climb toward excitement. There was not the slightest sense of apprehension coming from her.

With that, we had reached the threshold of the next milestone. I had stated an intention and she had silently accepted it. Thus granted permission, I began fulfilling it.

The course of my fingers had led to the first softening of the flesh beneath, marking the outermost boundaries of her breasts. Without hesitation I continued on my course, fingertips now all touching breasts, proceeding until they felt the sudden firmness of her nipples mixed with the gentle abrasion of the blouse. Even though this was not the first time I had touched those sweet breasts in the recent past, this was an entirely new and fresh step for us both, much more intimate, more deliberate, more shared. Fingers traced the outlines of the nipples and moved on, now tracing the undersides of her amazingly firm bosom, until, after another brief pause, I lifted my hands from her body.

Mom allowed herself some time to cling to this feeling, then opened her eyes. She faced me and smiled. She rose, taking a stance directly before me, just a few feet away, just far away that I could easily gaze upon all of her, head to toe.

Her fingers raised and touched the first button of her blouse. At first contact she stopped and locked eyes with me again. In this powerful and primal mode of communication she was speaking to me, telling me that this simple contact of fingers and a button was not just the perfunctory matter of undressing, but rather a declaration of the intention to expose herself to me, to remove a symbolic division between us in the form of that diaphanous blouse, thus to emphatically abandon the protection of clothing and leave herself open and vulnerable, not only willing, but desiring, the penetration of a man into her vulnerability.

A tiny motion and the button unfastened, and with that, the fabric relaxed. She paused again, those eyes still linked with mine, the way a skilled toastmaster pauses in his speech to grant his listeners the time to absorb the significance of a point that has just been made.

Her fingers now touched the second button. Again, that perfectly timed pause. How could I have known that my own sweet mother was also a seductress par excellence, a stunning virtuoso of the art? In whatever way she had learned her technique, she had gained full command of it and its power, and thus, command of the man to whom she chose to direct it, who, at this moment, unbelievably, was I. The button opened, the fabric relaxed further and there was then another pause. So she proceeded until no more buttons remained to open.

The blouse now lay softly against her, unbuttoned but still draped over her breasts. That pause again, a temporal division between the preparation to discard the protective garment and the actual execution. I stared, mesmerized, as she drew the blouse open, shrugged it from her shoulders and dropped it, never disconnecting her gaze from my own eyes, somehow imbuing even that simple act with purpose.

“Look at me, Jason. Look at all of me. Do I attract you?” Her breath was once again irregular, as was mine.

“More than you can possibly imagine, Mom.”

“I am so very grateful. If my attraction is a gift to you, you may be assured your receiving it is every bit as much a gift to me.”

This was not the language of mother and son; it was the language of lovers, lovers immersed in the kind of enveloping trance that redefines language and thought, where words do not inform, but rather stimulate, conveying, not fact, but feeling, primal, lusting, animal feeling. In this state, this room, this house, the very world itself, ceased to exist, replaced by a dreamlike, fairy-tale paradise, one which we were blessedly free to define in whatever way we liked.

And so, sliding sweetly and effortlessly into our own special space, my mother and I discovered each other in a Paradise all our own.

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