June 17, 1987 - Marjorie Hayward

It was supposed to have been a quick drive into the city this morning, a new hat, a cup of coffee - June Cleaver from the suburbs allowing herself a pleasant though pointless little adventure driving into the city all by herself. I remember it as a sudden, vague sense of foreboding, moments of trembling panic, a struggle for a reasoning calm. It hadn't this morning been anything more than a missed exit along the interstate on my way home, sighing annoyance as I'd taken the next exit, a turn or two at the end of the off ramp - and it had seemed a minute or two later that I helplessly and hopelessly lost in some other world rather than in one which might from time to time have been half noticed images on a television screen. I and everyone else in suburbia had known that exits south of the interchange led into a part of the city best avoided by naive innocents. And I certainly felt myself such as I turned at the next light searching with ever increasing desparation for an escape from inner city blight I had never before seen so closely, searching for on onramp to the interstate which would lead me back to my husband and children. It was yet another block of crumbling brick, vacant lots, idle people standing beside abandoned cars their attire anything from the colorful to that which I could only perceive as bizare and outrageous. It was young men and women with bottles in their hands, hilarity on the faces of some, others appearing as though engaged in loud and vehement dispute. It was all manner of primal, angry gesture suddenly become real and threatening in ways I couldn't before the moment have imagined.

I crept along another block all manner of frightening images coursing through my mind, urged myself again toward a reasoning calm. No one glanced any more notice toward my four year old Chevy than they did toward a comforting number of other cars waiting at the next light. It might even have been a moment's sighing mirth. I was indeed, I supposed, June Cleaver, a timid and naive innocent from the suburbs lost in a part of the city entirely incomprehensible to her. And with a trembling sigh, I decided on a right turn, decided a thirty seven year old housewife wouldn't attract a great deal of attention to begin with, no one paying my four year old Chevy more than a moment's idle notice. I glanced now toward a scene not remarkably different than any which might be encountered in the suburbs, wood frame houses, lawns, grandmothers and children in some of the yards. And I noticed in passing that it was a disturbing number of the houses with boards covering their windows, most of the others in dire need of paint, lawns covered with litter - another moment's shuddering panic lost in some entirely alien world. It's my daughter's high school graduation this weekend - and I drew a steadying breath, might have allowed myself a sighing chuckle. All I had to do was find my way back to the interstate.

I breathed another sigh of relief for a police car sitting at the curb, pulled my own car to a stop behind it, walked from my car to the police car's door.

"Can you help me?"

A young woman with pen and a metal clipboard in hand shot me a moment's scowling glance.

"What -?"

It had in the circumstances, I decided, to be nothing more than a barked, frightening "what?"

"Can you tell me which way -" and I flung startled eyes toward the street and a woman's voice raised in shrieking anger, a young woman with bottle in hand driving a fist into a young man's chest, a half dozen other people standing nearby in anything from angry dispute to raucous laughter. I flung my eyes back to the young woman in the police car, she aiming a glance of annoyance toward the melee a short distance down the street, tossing pen and clipboard aside, pulling her car into gear. I fell a startled step backwards as the police car shot from the curb, slowed another half moment a single yelp from its siren catching the attention of the combatants along the street.

And I stood in another bizare moment entirely by myself along some otherworldly streets as the police rounded the next corner and was gone. I flung my eyes back toward a brawl now involving a dozen people, young men with baseball bats in their hands, had heard language of the sort often enough in the past. And I gazed a final confused and wondering moment toward grandmothers and children on the lawns of several nearby houses who aimed glances of annoyance or amusement toward raised fists and cursing shrieks, the thing for me a trembling fright I couldn't before the moment quite have imagined.

I fell several steps backward toward my car, knew in some clouded corner of my mind that nothing I had ever seen on television or movie screens could have prepared me for the environment in which I had found myself in that seeming a sudden moment come from nowhere. I was Marjorie Hayward, not quite June Cleaver but close. "Damn it - " I might on occasion bark toward my husband or children - and a young woman a short distance down the street holding a broken and jagged bottle in her hand, thrusting it forward in cursing rage.

I finally turned toward my car, desparate for at least the semblance of a familiar and calming quiet. And I stood in numb, trembling confusion, at least four young men blocking my path to my car's door, young men running blatant, devouring eyes up and down my body, leering smiles on their faces.

"You lookin' mighty fine today, momma -" one pronounced.

They were twenty, perhaps five years older than my sons. I was quite accustomed to scrutinizing glances in the suburbs, couldn't deny that I had, just this morning, gazed the usual moment's scrutiny into a mirror. I'd gazed a long moment's vain pleasure toward a form fitting suit dress and curves which I'd decided could still be called voluptuous rather than mature. I'd gazed toward facial features which revealed thirty of my thirty seven years, shoulder length, auburn hair perhaps even hiding another year or two. I might just an hour ago on downtown streets have strolled along another moment or two in little less than giddy delight suspecting that he was twenty five, thirty at most, perhaps a lawyer or an accountant and a glance which had been anything from obvious to blatant.

And I'd suddenly found myself standing in otherworldly confusion, a startled step backwoods for glances of brazen, devouring scrutiny - the thing yet again seeming a single reeling moment come from nowhere, blinding terror for something which I couldn't believe was happening quite so quickly. It might have been a frightened smile toward young men standing in uncomfortably close proximity as I tried another step or two toward my car - and it's my breath wrenched from my lungs for an arm drawn about my waist, a writhing struggle to free myself and the struggle so strangely and entirely futile. I flung, I suspect, a protesting glance toward an uncivil affront never able to believe that it could be anything more than that. And I flung my eyes in another reeling and timeless moment toward young men and toward clawing hands, nothing more than another startled, not quite believing gasp wrenched from my throat for clawing hands on my body, my body wrestled away from my car in another incomprehensible half instant. It was one of the houses with boards covering the windows, a yard with unkempt shrubbery - another gasp, one awakening moment of sickening horror knowing that it was really happening. It was finally my hands thrust to theirs in flailing desparation, a primal scream in my throat - and the thing yet again a blinding half moment, clawing hands on my arms and on my legs, the ground beneath my feet gone, my body wrenched into a helpless void, falling through an unending, dizzying space. It was yet again my breath forced from my lungs, was stunned disbelief until it was indeed my body laying not on a comfortable and familiar mattress but slammed with brutal force onto the ground.

It was terrified flailing against clawing hands now lain to my body with a force suddenly seeming brutal and unrestrained, the scream finally there in my throat - and the thing just some new horror for a hand flung to my throat in another incomprehensible half instant. It was culminating, choking horror knowing it was their hands thrust to my clothing, my struggles primal, thrashing desparation to the limits of my strength and yet my struggles so entirely useless.

It seemed it was women's forms and voices suddenly appeared, seemed nothing more than amazed hilarity in their voices.

"What the fuck you guys doin -?"

"What the fuck it look like we're doin -?" an angry shrug from one of the men, the women's voices again, something about my shoes, my dress, my wristwatch - the thing that same disbelieving horror for clawing hands tearing my watch and my shoes away. I struggled again in ways I couldn't before the moment have imagined, struggled in blind, primal fury - and the thing yet again a finished horror to which I was so strangely and impossibly helpless. It was my body wrenched about with a force I couldn't have imagined possible, a hand yet again crushed onto my neck - clawing hands to the zipper on the back of my dress. It was my face buried into dirt, a gasping, choking struggle against the dirt - and yet it was my body once more become my entire existence, hands which weren't my own pulling the clothing from my body.

It seemed that I'd struggled a final moment and a final timeless eternity. And it yet again seemed a single instant come from nowhere, nothing more than a hand resting on the back of my neck a force against which I was so entirely, ludicrously helpless. I struggled again, an exhausted half moment - and a hand leaned onto my neck, almost a distracted reminder that I just hadn't any choice, must lay on the ground without clothing covering my body, must lay on the ground my body awash in brutal, agonizing sensation which I didn't recognize. It's another half moment's struggle, a futile attempt to regain reason and control - and it's yet again a flooding, pounding horror from which there just wasn't any escape.

"Look at that. She's pissin' on herself -" a voice raised in hilarity another moment, voices yet again raised in cursing dispute, my watch, my clothing and my shoes, my underwear.

"Them's mine, bitch. I'll stick you -" the women's voices fading into distance.

It was yet another half moment and timeless in ways I couldn't have imagined. It yet again seemed impossible that it could have happened so quickly.

"Man - that's high class -"

"That's a piece of ass some banker downtown gets -"

"That's my ass now-" a choking scream wrenched from my throat for a clawing, groping hand, my struggles yet again so entirely useless.

"You like that, bitch -?" a hand slapped to the side of my face - the thing a black oblivion of pain and terror from which I just couldn't escape.

I was Marjorie Hayward, might at a bridge table have performed an appreciative, sultry little dance for girlfriends declaring my figure youthful and declaring their loathing for me. I might still on occasion have glanced amused appreciation toward John for that in his eyes which wasn't in the least feigned. And still, I was June Cleaver who after an amusing little glance toward a mirror hadn't allowed herself more than moments of vain delight. I was a housewife in the suburbs, perfectly content as such. I could chuckle in amused mischief for the same in John's voice as he leaned and informed me that Mr. Arnolds and several other senior partners in the firm had spent most of the evening stealing gawking glances toward "my ass." And yet the term "ass" was still, after eighteen years of marriage, the ultimate in the risqué between John and me, he and I both standing in little less than aghast, red faced astonishment listening to rumors passed along in conspiratorial whispers. "Do you really think they are -?" I might giggle later that evening, though extramarital affairs and the like not quite comprehensible to either of us.

It was an unkempt lawn beside a vacate house, seemed some bizare mistake which shouldn't be happening to me - I a housewife from the suburbs of no extraordinary consequence whatsoever. I struggled another futile moment - knew in vague and clouded corners of my mind that I was entirely naked, mauling, groping hands crushed onto my body.

"Man, I gotta fuck that -" a hand once more crushed onto my neck with brutal, uncaring force, young men with that seeming an angry rage in their voices digging clawing hands onto that which I knew in those same clouded corners of my mind was just a body to them.

I suppose I hadn't even then actually believed that it could happen, the thing impossible, come from nowhere - and it seemed again a bizare half moment, a body crushed down onto my own until it was the ultimate in helpless, despairing anguish. It was my face even then crushed onto the dirt, choking cries wrenched from my throat for that which I told myself was nothing more than an unfeeling, pounding assault.

It was over - and it was yet again horror seeming incomprehensible, something which just didn't make sense.

"Bitch -" that same angry rage - a hand slapped to the side of my head, another dizzying, sickening eternity until I realized it was happening all over again - a body crushed atop my own.

"Yeah - fuck her - hurt her - rape the bitch -"

It seemed some blinding oblivion of raw, unrelenting agony, a hand clutching my hair, my head snapped back, pounded onto the ground. It was a moment's respite, a moment's exhausted struggle against hands pushing me onto the ground with a force I could never quite have imagined, a force against which I was so entirely and finally helpless. And it was yet again a crushing weight atop my body, was hammering violence, guttural groans from a vague distance and yet an assault which was ultimate and torturing. I heard choking gasps wrenched from my throat, just wasn't allowed more as I gave up entirely, lay in a helpless, brutal agony against which I just couldn't struggle any longer. It just never stopped, seemed an unrelenting eternity of pain and horror which was never going to end.

And yet it seemed another sudden moment come from nowhere. They were gone. I'll never know how long I had lain beneath unkempt shrubbery still not quite willing to believe that all of this was happening to me. I opened my eyes to a vacant house with boards covering the windows, settled my eyes back onto my body - the thing yet again primal, blinding terror. I was naked, alone - laying on the ground no real idea where I was. It was a gasping struggle for breath as I clawed my way toward the house, clawed my hands onto its walls. Just a glimpse toward the street, I decided, toward my car, toward my only escape from otherworldly horror. I struggled halfway to my feet - the thing just new, blinding terror. I flung myself back onto the ground, curled my body into my own arms. I was naked, alone, trapped in some otherworldly reality from which there just wasn't any escape.

It yet again seemed a single, timeless moment come from nowhere. The brawl down the street hadn't even ended.

"I'll cut you -" the young woman shrieked. "I'll slice that dick off - watch me, bitch -"

It's a scream thrust into my throat - my nails bitten onto my arms until it was nothing more than a choked cry. I flung myself against a vacant house's walls, hid myself behind unkempt shrubbery. It's yet again an agonizing, gasping struggle for every breath, my nails bitten onto my arms and yet my body trembling with a wild, uncontrollable violence I couldn't before the moment have imagined possible. It was yet again my body awash in some nameless, torturing sensation, a brutal, burning sensation shooting the length of my body which just wouldn't stop, gasping cries of anguish finally wrenched from my throat when it was yet again the last shred of control gone. I just had to lay there where I was, in the open rather than within the confining, concealing walls of a bathroom. I just had to wait as my body emptied, cries of primal anguish wrenched from my throat for voices from the street, threatening voices about me in every direction.

I waited, struggled for awakening reason - and it might almost have been a moment's hysterical mirth. It hadn't been anything more than a missed exit on my way home. June Cleaver thirty or forty years ago, if she drove, had probably taken the occasional wrong turn. I'd taken a wrong turn, had passed another nervous several minutes looking for a turn back onto the interstate, would never deny that I was timid, naive housewife though I'd supposed my trembling, foreboding fright driving streets on a mid sized city's south side must be perceived as ludicrous by anyone other than myself.

And it's a hysterical gasp wrenched from my throat. I'd been raped in a manner which couldn't, I supposed, have been a great deal more brutal. They'd taken my car with my purse in it, had taken every last shred of my clothing. I rested curled into my own arms against the wall of a vacant house, naked and trembling in paralyzed terror desperately hoping that no one in this inescapable world would find me.

It's a choking, anguished cry wrenched from my throat - my daughter graduating this weekend, my sons just hours ago at the breakfast table sighing an "oh mom" informed that they were attending whether they liked it or not. It was John a few minutes later touching his lips to mine as he left for the city bus stop, John protesting again that he didn't in the least mind taking the bus this morning. I'd walked from the house to the car a few minutes later and had found myself smiling in contented, perhaps even wondering ease. We were still in love with each other, still on occasion found that we were genuinely and romantically in love with each other. We had as often as any married couple might, I supposed, taken each other for granted on occasion over the past eighteen years. And yet there hadn't ever been any real question or doubt between us. There'd been moments of brooding frustration, John at forty years of age still from time to time edging eyes awash with anything from panic to sighing resignation toward my own, John admitting that he anticipated no further advancement in the firm - and moments of the sort just leaving us fallen into moods of close and finished intimacy. I genuinely couldn't have cared less that my family was destined to an existence which was mediocre to average. I'd just edged pleading eyes to his, I a housewife though still a woman who needed someone to love her, to guard and protect her - who still needed to see a moment or two of raw, outright liscivious delight in her husband's eyes. And I'd walked from the house to the car this morning my mood tranquil, contented ease.

It yet again seemed an entirely different would, an altered reality from which escape just wasn't possible. And still, I fought again for at least a moment's lucid reason. I pushed myself from the ground, clung to the walls of an abandoned house - stood entirely naked as I did so my body awash again in sensation I could only call sickening. It was loud, cursing anger from the street. I flung myself away from it, a blinding half dozen steps until it was my body yet again slammed onto the ground. I couldn't stop this time, couldn't allow myself the incapacitating paralysis. I had to flee even if I had to do so naked and alone. I pushed myself again from the ground, a corner of the house just another few steps away. I struggled for just the corner of the house, John, my daughter and my sons somewhere beyond that corner. I clawed my way past unkempt shrubs, their concealing cover a fleeting moment's relief even if an ensnaring, hardly negotiable maze. It was another stumbling step and was another moment's blinding panic, my eyes flung toward an entangling mass of shrubbery in which I'd found myself trapped, loud, angry curses from the street - I standing naked and alone and yet it wasn't the comforting, surrounding safety of my home in which I stood. I flung my hands to ensnaring, surrounding shrubbery, flung my eyes toward otherworldly streets and the sound of primal, unrestrained violence, glass being smashed, a dozen voices raised in angry threat. I flung my eyes yet again toward an entangling mass of shrubs in which I was trapped, writhed and flailed another blinding terrified eternity for escape, the thing even in the midst of another moment of incapacitating, paralyzing terror all manner of bizare, introspective imagining. She's Marjorie Hayward whose suddenly found herself trapped in an entangling mass of shrubs, Marjorie Hayward an eminently average housewife, apron about her waist as she waits at the door for her husband and children. She allows herself later in the evening idle moments of vain amusement, her attire perhaps modern and revealing though her demeanor little less than Victorian propriety. It might be a sultry little change of her posture only for her husband, conspiratorial delight in her eyes as she's informed that several of "the old geezers" have spent the evening gawking at "them," gawking as soon as her back is turned toward her ass. "John -" Marjorie Hayward gasps in amused mirth when informed by her husband that "they do bounce noticeably and exquisitely and walking away they are curves which are absolutely agonizing,"

- and Marjorie Hayward later that evening next to the bathtub allowing herself a half moment's glance toward the mirror, admits in sheepish corners of her mind that she's gazing indeed toward a figure which she herself sees as voluptuous hourglass allure, almost that impossible feminine ideal.

And I stood entirely naked, stood in trembling paralysis ensnared in unkempt, entangling shrubs. I was naked in ways I couldn't before the moment have imagined, naked and helpless as I stood out of doors, stood in a part of the city which was unrestrained, wanting violence. I struggled again for that fleeting moment's lucid, awakening reason - and it's just a gasp of primal terror wrenched from my throat. I had to flee. If they found me now I'd just be wrestled back onto the ground, a choking hand crushed onto my throat, my body assaulted, pounded mercilessly and brutally.

I fought with entangling shrubs, writhed for escape from them, flung my eyes toward the street when I'd freed myself from the shrubs. I collapsed again onto the house's walls, struggled toward the corner, would escape pursuers once I'd gained it. I crouched beneath another threatening mass of shrubbery - allowed myself a fleeting moment's reasoning pause. And it was angry male voices from the street, their words familiar enough and yet it was the same dizzying, blinding terror as I flung myself onto the ground. I would have to crawl in order to gain my corner of the house, perhaps a moment's safety and comfort on the other side of the corner. It's a writhing struggle beneath threatening shrubs, a moment's pause for breath - a gasp of primal anguish wrenched from my throat. I waited - naked and alone, crawling on the ground beneath the walls of a vacant house rather than lowering myself onto a chair at the kitchen table over a cup of coffee. It's yet again one fleeting moment's struggle for rational, lucid thought - and was yet again sickening, dizzying terror, voices now just paces away from me as I buried myself into my own arms.

"It was right here, I tell ya," a young woman's voice, "just some bitch in a dress suit but soon as they got her clothes off it was tits and an ass you wouldn't believe - get ya hard in a heart beat. It was Fat Mos, four of 'em - some more of 'em showin' when Janie and me left - probably fucked the shit outa the bitch for twenty minutes. You want the car you gonna find it on Sholare -"

"No one fucks the shit outa no bitch without my say," an angry male voice. "That car's mine and Fat Mos catchin' bullets and I'll fuck the bitch - I'll stick and gut the bitch -"

"What the bitch do -?"

"It's the principle -"

I waited, dug biting nails onto my arms as the voices faded. It yet again seemed alien, something entirely incomprehensible. I knew in rational corners of my mind that there were people in this part of the city who weren't different than people anywhere else. And I buried myself onto the cold concrete of a vacant house's basement walls, had just by chance and in that bizare and sudden moment come from nowhere ended in a part of the city and in circumstances in which no one was going to help me. It might again almost have been a moment's hysterical mirth. It's a gasp of primal anguish wrenched from my throat as I thrust my arms forward, crawled beneath overhanging, concealing shrubs toward the house's corner. I was Marjorie Hayward, naked, crawling in the dirt. I flung my eyes over my shoulder, angry cursing riot from the street but no one pursuing me at the moment - the sight of Marjorie Hayward naked and writhing in the dirt probably as exquisitely arousing as anything imaginable. And I rested again in gasping, trembling paralysis. It yet again seemed my body immersed in pounding waves of raw, terrifying sensation, a sensation which was nothing less the sexual in intensity and yet was sickening and horrible, something which was fear to physical extremes I couldn't before the moment have imagined possible. I rested again gasping for every breath, struggled for lucid reason - gasped again in primal, hysterical abandon finally realizing what was happening to my body, realizing that it was indeed my body fallen into something which might be called pleasure even in a moment of paralyzing, incapacitating terror. It might again almost have been some dazed, hysterical mirth. It was my body fallen into the throes of an orgasmic release and one which just wouldn't stop, a release of a hammering, pounding intensity I might never before the moment have believed possible.

I waited, another moment and another timeless, reeling eternity, finally flung my eyes forward, decided again that a moment's respite from the confusion and the horror must lay around the house's corner. I edged my body past overhanging shrubbery, pushed myself half way to my feet - clung to a vacant house's walls as I searched for pursuers. I flung trembling hands forward, to the corner - a gasp of primal terror as I wrenched my body around the corner.

I flung myself back onto the house's walls, opened frantic, searching eyes - saw nothing but more overgrown shrubbery wherever I looked, entangling masses of it in every direction. I waited, another moment and another timeless eternity, struggled for every trembling breath, struggled again for at least a moment's aware and lucid reason. It was still brawling riot from the street on the other side of the house, at least a dozen voices, everything from cursing anger to raucous laughter. But I had the house between me and the street now, my moment's respite from a blinding, incapacitating terror. I flung my eyes again toward that which appeared an impenetrable, wooded thicket, caught glimpses of brick and concrete beyond it. I struggled again for a moment's aware and lucid calm. It was a dog barking, perhaps voices on the other side of the wooded thicket, one or two cars on a street somewhere, sirens in the far distance.

I settled again into my own arms, crouched against the walls of a vacant house. I was Marjorie Hayward, naked and alone in some alien, entirely incomprehensible world. I was probably as timid and undemonstrative a creature as any who had ever lived, might at the community college which I had attended have attempted moments of daring challenge. "Why Marjorie - daring indeed -" a teaching assistant had chuckled in amused mirth toward June Cleaver presenting a paper which at least admitted the existence of social conditions in the inner city which should be recognized and perceived as disturbing even by "The Cleavers Living in Suburbia." A teaching assistant and a radical feminist urging me to pursue a career in journalism had finally sighed in resigned mirth. "You really are going to be happy, aren't you, Marjorie - a house, two point four kids, bridge every Tuesday with the girls -" a radical feminist and June Cleaver sitting over wine in the student lounge though I suppose even June Cleaver wasn't in the 70's exactly that which she might have been ten or fifteen years before. "Honestly, Jane - no - stop it -" I could sigh in little more than amused mirth for the pleading touch of another woman's hand to mine.

I was Marjorie Hayward, a thirty seven year old housewife who had driven into the city all by herself this morning. I'd bought a hat, decided that a cup of coffee downtown might be a pleasant little adventure. I'd settled back into the car, had pulled onto the interstate deciding on the corner market just a block from the house, hamburger and buns, catsup, nothing fancy this evening.

And it yet again seemed a single moment come from nowhere, a cry of primal anguish wrenched from my throat as I crouched naked and alone against the walls of a vacant house. It was clawing, groping hands on my body, my struggles against them so entirely futile. It had been my body slammed into the dirt, a gasping struggle for breath - until it was finished, culminating horror, something incomparably more brutal and horrible than I could ever have imagined it. It was pounding torture which just wouldn't stop, weight crushing me onto the ground, forcing me to endure it, giving me no choice. It was something being done to me, my struggles primal desparation to the limits of my strength - and I'm naked, helpless, weight crushing me onto the ground, crushing the breath from me as I'm raped - pounded with an angry, merciless violence which I just have to endure.

I struggled again for that moment's lucid reason, pushed myself to my feet, leaned another timeless moment onto the walls of a vacant house. I flung my eyes about a wooded thicket, searched for a path, anything. I finally pushed myself from the house's walls, stumbled forward a step or two - stood clawing my nails onto my arms as I flung frantic, searching eyes in every direction. I turned back toward the house, toward the street - and it yet again seemed a single, dizzying moment come from nowhere. I'm completely naked - and I haven't any idea where I am, know only that I'm alone in a part of the city where I'm a ludicrously naive and helpless innocent. I turned again, stumbled toward an impenetrable thicket and yet my home, my husband and children on the other side of that thicket. It was a path, I decided, at least something leading into an entangling mass of brush and shrubbery through which I must edge my body in order to find a way, any way home. I stepped into entangling brush and shrubs, writhed against jabbing, stabbing pain - finally raised and thrust flailing arms against it. It seemed again that half instant's bizare and fanciful imagining. I couldn't even cover my breasts with my arms - must abandon myself entirely as I fought my way through entangling horror. I stumbled on, another dozen torturing steps, decided again that there had to be a street, something, anything, on the other side of the thicket. I thrust myself on another step - a gasping cry wrenched from my throat as I writhed away from a piercing stab of pain. I flung my hands forward, was falling, breath yet again wrenched from my throat for my body slammed onto dirt.

I just waited, either another moment or another hysterical, anguished eternity. It was yet again incapacitating in ways I couldn't before the moment have imagined. I curled my body back into my own arms, flung my eyes about an enveloping mass of unkempt brush and shrubs. There were voices on every side of me now, muffled by distance and the concealing cover of the wooded thicket and yet the voices still alien, frightening in ways I could never quite have believed they might be. I might for fleeting moments have imagined myself resting in a wooded copse in the suburbs, a familiar and comforting world on every side. And it's voices in some direction suddenly raised in vehement anger of a sort which was yet again incomprehensible to me, language with which even I was familiar enough and yet its use here pervasive, all around me, on every side. I struggled with entangling shrubbery, pulled myself back to my feet, stood yet another timeless moment immersed in something I could only call a wash of surrounding, enveloping horror. And it was yet again a timeless eternity's bizare and frenzied imagining as I saw myself standing entirely naked in a wooded thicket, my arms raised in a struggle with stabbing, jabbing brush and shrubs. It's my breasts which aren't inordinately large or anything of the sort. And yet they're full, almost that voluptuously alluring feminine ideal - bouncing with a ludicrous fury. It's a writhing twist of my body away from jabbing, stabbing brush and shrubs - an imagining, almost liscivious glance toward a narrow waist and feminine curves which are broad and round to extremes I yet again had to see as a voluptuously alluring ideal - and I stood the thing yet again in immersion in dizzying, terrified panic. It wasn't now just a wickedly vain and imagining little dance stepping from the bathtub in the enclosed and safe confines of my house in the suburbs. I flung a confused glance about the wooded thicket, stumbled forward though no longer certain in what direction. It's jabbing pain, blinding panic, a moment's pause as I thrust my hands onto the trunk of a sizable tree. And yet there just isn't any respite from this confusing and dizzying horror into which I've been thrust in a single, bizare moment come from nowhere. I'm naked in ways I couldn't before the moment have imagined, am lost now in an impenetrable wooded thicket and yet voices seeming malice and threat in the near distance on every side of me. I stood another timeless moment leaning onto the trunk of a sizable tree, knew in clouded corners of my mind that I wasn't really all that far away from my home, from my husband and children, from an ordinary, usually pleasant even if routine and mediocre existence in the suburbs. And it's just another timeless eternity, a helpless wash of gasping terror. It's yet again my body immersed in pounding waves of loathsome, terrifying sensation, physical sensation against which I trembled with helpless, uncontrollable violence. I was Marjorie Hayward standing entirely naked in the middle of nowhere, my hands crushed to the trunk of a tree as I gasped for breath yet struggled to conceal myself from surrounding, threatening malice. There just wasn't any way out, wasn't any escape. Perhaps if I'd at least had clothing I could have stumbled on, found a way, any way - and it was yet again incapacitating, paralyzing terror of a sort I just couldn't have imagined. It was, even in the midst of that terror, every manner of bizare imagining coursing confused, frantic paths through my mind. I was still Marjorie Hayward, even as I stood entirely naked leaning onto the trunk of a tree in the middle of nowhere. It's my breasts heaving in shuddering, gasping violence - and it's that imagining and nothing less than blatant and liscivious glance toward the curves of my ass. I was Marjorie Hayward who attired in a suit dress might be seen as attractive rather than average - and it's a culminating, imagining glance even in a moment of paralyzing, sickening horror. It's young men on downtown sidewalks stealing glances. She's attired in a suit dress which is fashionable and revealing though a a dress which doesn't reveal everything, doesn't reveal curves exactly as they are. And yet - she's something entirely, inexplicably different without clothing covering her body. The notion of age just isn't there. She actually is everything young men stealing glances on downtown sidewalks had wanted and imagined her to be without her clothing. She's almost an hourglass ideal, her curves round and broad to every voluptuous extreme. She really is a happy and contented housewife even strolling downtown sidewalks, her attire perhaps modern though adequately concealing. She really is June Cleaver in demeanor and temperament even if fashion had changed so radically over the past fifteen or twenty years. And still, she allows herself on downtown streets fleeting moments, dares even if just in vague and ill defined corners of her mind pleasant little fantasies for some handsome young man's blatant and obvious glance. And even June Cleaver sharing a cup of coffee with an acquaintance from college days knows that it's blatant, liscivious scrutiny in another woman's eyes. A housewife from the suburbs sighs, a chuckling "honesty - stop it, Jane," a housewife from the suburbs perhaps allowing herself that same fleeting moment's fanciful imagining even in the company of another woman.

And I stood naked and alone in the midst of an enveloping, surrounding horror for which I just wasn't prepared, just couldn't comprehend. I leaned onto my tree in the middle of a thicket of brush and shrubs. It seems always and again one single moment come from absolutely nowhere. It was, later this morning, to have been laundry, a sandwich and a cup of coffee with the girls at noon. "Honestly - how dare you, Marjorie -?" and it might have been a liscivious little change in my stance though little more than a moment's appreciative mirth for their sighing, scrutinizing glances. It might have been the stove's burners and oven after lunch, a mundane though contented day not so different than most over the past eighteen years. It might have been a few more pages in the romance novel I'd been reading, a disapproving sigh for characters ending in bed with each other on a whim even if I had to admit myself as sensual, sometimes as excitable a creature as any. It might even have been something I could only call foolish and juvenile to every ludicrous extreme, a final moment's struggle and a resigned sigh as I admitted my wandering into my bedroom quite intentional. I was thirty seven years old, and had just discovered a month or so ago that sexual pleasure could be something a world more than just a strange and pleasant little warmth - had discovered that I was as ravenous and insatiable a creature as anyone, once every day for the past month or so sometimes not enough. It might be another moment's pretense and denial even after I'd lowered myself onto the bed, pushed a hand to touch of finished, caressing intimacy - and sometimes giving up entirely, admitting that my fantasy lover wasn't my husband who I sincerely and honestly loved. I might abandon myself to the ultimate, might decide it some altered reality in another world in which I could admit who my fantasy lover really was, could admit that I wanted something ultimately more than just an affectionate touch of his lips to my cheek - and the thing yet again anything from sighing mirth to disbelieving, wondering awe as I gave up entirely, admitted it he and I naked and in bed together, he and I writhing together, our bodies joined and one in the ultimate touch of intimacy - until it was culminating in ways I had never before known. I was thirty seven years old - and had just discovered what the ultimate sexual pleasure was. I hadn't just a month or so ago even known that it existed in anything other than academic corners of my mind.

I stood again in a bizare and sudden moment naked and alone, no real idea where I was, the thing yet again incapacitating, paralyzing anguish. It had been young men, even young women, had been a disbelieving horror for every last shred of my clothing torn from my body. It had been blinding, flailing terror and yet my body despite my struggles just crushed back to the ground. I'd struggled even then in primal desparation, had struggled for brutal, clawing hands on my body and yet I hadn't believed even then that it could really happen, hadn't believed that I wasn't somehow to escape that which I'd known was to be the ultimate horror - and it had seemed again that single moment come from nowhere, was weight and brutal strength, was battering, pounding horror from which there just wasn't any escape. I'd struggled even then, struggled for moments in hopeless, despairing exhaustion - and yet there just wasn't any escape, a body crushed atop my own, a body invading and assaulting my own. It had, even in the midst of a finished and ultimate horror, been another fleeting moment's search for lucid reason, any possible respite from an unrelenting agony. I'd told myself that I was being raped, repeatedly and brutally, had known in every tortured corner of my mind that it was as savage a rape as any imaginable. I'd heard the voice next to my ear in groaning anger. "Like it, bitch - like it up your ass -?" and I'd just told myself again that I was being raped, that there just wasn't any escape - and a hand slapped to the side of my face, the thing an oblivion of torturing agony until I'd yet again found myself struggling in frenzied desparation and yet knowing that was exactly what he wanted. It was my head slammed onto the ground, a hand slapping me again and again with merciless, unrelenting ferocity - choking screams and yet I hadn't even been allowed them, an arm around my throat when it was yet again hammering, pounding torture which I just couldn't any longer endure - and the thing yet again a pounding agony which just wouldn't stop, something which was being done to me again and again and I so utterly helpless against it. It was just some new horror when I realized it was one of the young men and me alone, a young man turning me onto my back, his embrace seeming almost gentle he drove his body into my own - the thing some culminating confusion and horror when I realized I had indeed wrenched my limbs about his body, my body fallen into the throes of a violent, pounding orgasmic release.

I buried myself onto the tree, a choking scream in my throat, the thing yet again primal, paralyzing anguish of a sort I couldn't even comprehend. It was yet again the most intimate functions of my body wrested from my control. It was choking anguish as I just had to stand there in trembling paralysis letting my own water run along my legs. It was yet again my body awash in pounding, physical sensation of an intensity I couldn't have imagined possible, the sensation fright, a helpless and primal terror and yet the sensation sexual. It was yet again my body fallen in a sudden moment come from nowhere into the throes of a sexual release which just wouldn't stop, something which was raw and pounding in ways I had never before known, something which I knew in confused, reeling corners of my mind was even the ultimate pleasure and yet was still a horror I just didn't want.

I just waited, leaned onto the trunk of the tree - flung my eyes in every direction searching for a house in the suburbs. It was Alicia idling into my room, a kiss to my cheek as I sat at the dressing table, Alicia flopping onto my bed.

"Mom - come on -" a plaintive whine though I chuckled in amused mirth for it, Alicia beyond the intimate confines of my bedroom quiet lady like propriety, sometimes outright staid reserve to a greater extent than even myself. I could easily place her on 1955 sidewalks in bobby socks.

"We'll see, Alicia -" I sighed though I'd relented already, would allow her to attend a school down state rather than the community college.

"Mom -" pleading arms around me, another kiss. "Come on - just say yes. You know you're going to let me. I know that devious little look -"

"Alicia - go away -" a sigh toward a young woman, however, rather than toward a girl.

"And you know you can trust me, mom, though I'm not quite certain I can leave such a ravishing beauty as yourself entirely unattended -"

"Alicia - will you go away and leave me alone -" though I sat at my dressing table my mood little less than giddy, girlish delight. My daughter was as voluptuous an hourglass beauty as any who had ever lived. And my own daughter after her usual scrutinizing glance had worn the same annoyed envy in her features, my daughter knowing herself a bit too voluptuous. "Oh mom," Alicia sometimes pouted walking at my side along the sidewalks, "I so hate you. You make me look like an absolute cow -"

It had been James later in the evening deigning me a moment's notice, though I hadn't the least doubt that it had been a genuinely loving little peck of his lips to my cheek. Most seventeen year old sons, I supposed in sighing mirth, had many more things on their minds than just their mother. And it had been another few minute's consoling and pleasant little mirth when Andrew had wandered into my room.

"Hello, mom -" and I leaned, let Andrew press an affectionate kiss to my cheek.

"Do you have your homework done, Andrew?" perhaps an edge of maternal authority in my voice toward my younger son though that little more than a facade.

"Yes, mom," a shy little smile - and it's a gentle mirth and yet it's almost a romantic little delight knowing that my sixteen year old son has fallen very deeply in love with me.

"Mom - you're so pretty -" Andrew lounging on my bed and perfectly content to do so for another half hour.

"Why - thank you Andrew -" I chuckled, changed the subject back to homework, plans for the summer - perhaps allowed myself another moment's introspective mirth. I was going to be utterly devastated when some teenage schoolgirl finally caught my younger son's eye.

"Mom - you really are the prettiest girl in town," a handsome young man now several inches taller than I was holding his hands to my waist, pressing a shy though adoring little kiss to my cheek - and I wondering even as I stood in Andrew's arms if I had fallen a little in love as well with a younger son so obviously and painfully in love with me.

"Andrew - now stop -" teasing protest in my voice for his compliments as we strolled arm in arm along the sidewalks, and an intelligent and perceptive young man after a sultry little change in my posture eminently aware that I was fishing for another compliment.

"Mom -" my Andrew chuckled, "Alicia's right. You make every girl in her class look like cows."

It seems always and again one sudden moment come from nowhere, torturing anguish as I stood naked my hands crushed onto the trunk of a tree in the middle of nowhere. I was entirely, brutally alone, a cry of primal anguish wrenched from my throat as I flung my eyes about the surrounding, immersing thicket of brush and shrubs in which I was lost. It was yet again an incomprehensibly timeless eternity's blinding panic and terror and the reaction of my body to that panic and terror something I just couldn't understand. I was yet again a ludicrously helpless and timid creature who had to stand in trembling, incapacitating paralysis, the thing that immersion in raw, flooding sensation not quite like anything I'd ever before known. I had often enough in the past in a moment of fright and panic recognized the sensation as sexual, sometimes intensely so. And I stood naked and brutally alone my body immersed in pounding waves of raw sensation, sensation which I knew was primal panic and terror wrenching choking cries from my throat, my cries just unrestrained, gasping anguish even as it was my body convulsing in hammering, pounding sexual release.

And yet I finally struggled again for just that half moment's lucid, awakening reason. I flung my eyes in every direction about a surrounding wooded thicket in which I stood - flung my eyes in searching desparation toward a house in the suburbs and toward a husband and children all of whom loved me, all of whom had held me in their arms many times over the years telling me that they loved me. It might even have been a moment's hysterical mirth for me, my family, if any such ever was, the Cleavers straight out of the fifties. I even dared a moment which I suppose June Cleaver might have had to face with a sixteen year old son though an intensely personal moment of a sort shared only between the two people involved - Andrew and I strolling together along the beach and my handsome young admirer as I brushed my hip against a jagged piece of driftwood flinging his hands to my waist, helping me onto the sand.

"Why thank you, dear -" I'd chuckled toward my valiant and handsome young rescuer as I rested an arm about his waist, an urging, caressing hand to his as he massaged a stinging little scratch on my hip - that same sheepish pause in the eyes of a younger son who was, at least for the moment, romantically in love with me.

"Isn't it such beautiful day, Andrew?" I'd tried a moment or two later, pretending interest in the caressing touch of his hand to a scratch on my hip, in waves rolling onto the beach - and struggling for a complacent calm. I'd rested at my Andrew's side my arm drawn about his waist with frantc strength, the warmth of his arm about my waist a supporting, comforting safety. I'd rested an urging hand covering his lain to an irritating little scratch on my hip - and I hadn't in another moment any more idea than he how to retreat from something so blatant and obvious. It was the sheepish embarrassment in my sixteen year old son's features which I had seen any number of times in the past when he had turned away from me, a moment's gentle amusement for me knowing why he had done do, perhaps even a moment's giddy, girlish delight knowing that my younger son could see me as nothing less than arousing. And it was he and I resting by ourselves on a secluded corner of the beach, neither he nor I knowing how to retreat this time. I pretended interest in his hand lain to a scratch on my hip - the word "ass" suddenly coursing frenzied paths through my mind, the caressing touch of my younger son's hand seeming something incomparably more than it had just a moment ago. I rested an arm drawn about his waist with pleading strength, my hand still lain atop his in gentle urging - supposed for another hysterical moment that my posture couldn't have appeared a great deal more liscivious. It had been a half minute's writhing in my son's arms for his caresses, my cheek touching his, a brushing touch of my breast to his chest, a leg lain to his and an urging hand yet again lain atop his until he hadn't any choice, must brush fondling caresses to my hip - could easily have brushed his hand onto the curves of my ass become his to fondle and caress.

I rested in my younger son's arms another moment, and just pretended another timeless, reeling eternity that I hadn't noticed anything else - hadn't noticed that my younger was holding me in his arms his body fallen into such obvious and finished arousal. And I hadn't at the time, I'd realized in another sudden and dizzying moment, any real idea what was happening to my own body. It had been another moment's confused, reeling panic - and I rested at my younger son's side frantically wondering if I should change my posture and knowing as quickly that there just wasn't any safe way to do so at the moment. I lay sprawled at my Andrew's side in a two piece bathing suit, one which Alicia had bought for me and dared me to wear - and I might just as well have been resting entirely naked in my younger son's arms, my bathing suit two pieces of impossibly clinging cloth which hid absolutely nothing. I glanced again toward the beach, toward rolling waves - and the thing yet another helpless and timeless moment, my Andrew fallen into such obvious and finished want for me - and I for another fleeting yet timeless moment desperately trying to hide that which I suddenly and finally realized was my own body fallen into a pounding, aching want I'd never before known in quite the same way or with anything close to the same helpless, almost irresistable ferocity. It had always in the past been a pleasant, perhaps an exciting little warmth, had in the midst of lovemaking sometimes been a strange and enjoyable little pleasure - and it seemed again a dizzying, reeling eternity like none I had even before known. It was a supporting arm drawn about my waist, a caressing hand to my hip - another half moment's writhing twist of my body and the thing a warm, helpless captivity, something from which I just didn't know how to escape.

"It feels - it feels a little better now, I guess, dear -" I finally tried.

"That's good, mom -" a sheepish tilt of his eyes halfway toward mine - my poor Andrew fallen into that which was such obvious and finished want, something which he just couldn't hide from me. And it might finally have been a half moment's reeling mirth for me. What would he think, I'd asked myself, had he known that he was cradling his mother's body in his arms she as well resting in a frightened, girlish panic for primal, finished wants she had never before known with quite the same ferocity - she not even daring another change of her posture knowing the want of her body built to a familiar enough edge and yet one which had never before seemed quite so immediate and threatening. It had just been my younger son messaging a mildly painful little scratch on my hip - and it all seemed one more timeless and ludicrous moment come from nowhere, my posture that which I'd yet again realized couldn't have appeared a great deal more blatant or enticing. My arm drawn about his waist, my body leaned onto his, it had been my cheek touching his another moment, my breath panting gasps for a stinging little scratch. It had been a pleading arm drawn about his waist until he'd held me closer, a pleading hand to his until he'd lain a hand to my hip with all of the finished, caressing strength I had wanted. And it had been brushing caresses of my breasts to his, a half minute's shuddering, writhing twist of my hips for a stinging little scratch - and I'll always wonder if I had known at least in some vague corner of my mind that it had been timeless moments of ultimate intimacy between myself and my own son. It had been both Andrew and I attired in ludicrously flimsy and clinging cloth, my attention genuinely directed toward a stinging little scratch as I'd sought his close and comforting warmth - and the thing seeming another bizare and sudden moment come from nowhere as I realized it hadn't for moments been anything less than my body touched to his in the ultimately intimate caress and the aroused want of my own body become a flooding, pounding ache of a ferocity I had never before known.

It was my own son cradling my body onto his - and the thing another bizare and sudden moment come from nowhere, my younger son now several inches taller than as I was, my Andrew a young man who I could only call exquisite, maddening beauty and allure - my Andrew fallen into such obvious and finished arousal and the aroused want of my own body yet again something I had never before known with anything close to the same immediate and desparate ferocity.

It wasn't, I'd supposed for another fleeting yet timeless moment, entirely different than it had been often enough in the past. Walking me to the corner store, my handsome young admirer declaring me "absolutely and without question, mom, the prettiest girl in the neighborhood," it had been a half moment's sultry little change in my stance. It had been the same often enough at a neighborhood dance - perhaps a moment's almost giddy, girlish delight knowing that my younger son holding me in his arms was still so violently infatuated with me. I could easily enough admit that I had fallen a little in love myself with my handsome young admirer, his shy little smile toward me leaving for moments in little less than a girlish swoon. It might even have been fleeting moments of ultimate imagining which I couldn't quite thrust aside. I'd wandered several times over the past year or two through his bedroom door at an inopportune moment, the moment supremely inopportune on several occasions. I'd gasped an apology, culminating, sheepish embarrassment in my poor Andrew's features as I'd retreated through the door - and I'd stood another timeless moment the thing something incomparably more than the sighing, resigned mirth it might have been in the past discovering that James and Andrew were becoming young men. I'd stood at the bedroom's door another moment - and I'd gazed another incomprehensibly timeless eternity toward my younger son laying naked on his bed, had stood at the door finally realizing that I was gazing toward a young man his body fallen into finished, aroused want - and a young man who I'd realized again was simply beauty and allure I could only call some blinding, exquisitely maddening perfection - and a young man who at least for the moment was in love with me, who walking me to the store just a few minutes ago had declared me "absolutely the prettiest girl in the neighborhood." I'd urged his arm about my waist, a sultry little change in my posture, another flirting little dance for him walking back into the house. I'd stood at the stove wearing a t shirt and a pair of Alicia's cutoff jean shorts, Alicia with the usual mischief in her features insisting that my attire didn't have to be June Cleaver's even if my temperament and demeanor was - and my handsome young admirer perfectly content to spend another half hour in the kitchen with me, my Andrew after a pouting inquiry on my part regarding his latest girlfriend insisting that I was still his girlfriend - and I'll always wonder if it had been a great deal less than another moment's writhing, outright liscivious dancing for my own son as I stood at the kitchen stove. I'd stood next to his bedroom's door in the hallway one final, timeless moment - had finally thrust those which I just couldn't deny had been culminating fantasies aside. It was little less than another moment's reeling confusion for me, perhaps even an moment's struggle for a lucid, reasoning calm - perhaps even another moment's almost girlish, swooning delight as I decided it all just a strange little fact of life. I had indeed, I decided, fallen a little in love with my handsome young admirer who was romantically, painfully in love with me - and I glanced again toward a pair of cutoff jean shorts which suddenly appeared almost as ludicrously revealing on me as they did on Alicia, admitted that my leaning and stretching for a tin of salt on a wall shelf must have appeared as blatantly liscivious a pose as any imaginable - my Andrew with that same sheepish pause in his features stealing from the kitchen a minute or two later. I'll always believe that I had forgotten the kitchen entirely when I'd climbed the stairs myself several minutes later and wandered toward Andrew's door - and I stood at his door another confused, reeling moment wondering if I should apologize to him again, apologize for a teasing little dance which couldn't have appeared anything less than enticing and arousing. And I stood at my son's door admitting again that I'd given myself up at least for moments to fantasies which I couldn't call less than consumating - and fantasies which had stirred in me as pleasurable a little warmth as any I had even known. I'd stood for a fleeting yet incomprehensibly timeless moment gazing toward my own son laying naked on his bed the ultimately intimate want of his body so helplessly revealed to me - had gazed that which I finally couldn't deny had been a moment's and. a timeless eternity's raw, abandoned want toward my own son.

And yet it seemed again on our secluded corner of the beach a single moment come from nowhere - seemed an entwining embrace of our bodies which I couldn't call a great deal less than consumating.

"It feels a little better, dear," I finally tried, pretended it my eyes directed toward a stinging little scratch on my hip.

"That's good, mom."

"Maybe - just another moment -?" and the thing a timeless eternity's dazed, reeling confusion - startled disbelief that I had indeed asked for another moment's entwining embrace in my younger son's arms. I rested an arm about his waist, flung my eyes toward some vague and unfocused distance - and the warmth of his arm about my own waist something I could only call capturing and maddening, the caressing touch of his hand to my hip leaving me fallen into a helpless abandon I couldn't before the moment have imagined. I pretended it all just a matter of necessity, gazed toward water lapping onto a secluded corner of the beach - and it yet again seemed one sudden moment, something which was so strangely and impossibly inescapable as I finally admitted the ultimate to myself, admitted that I was resting in my own son's arms having sex with him and sex which couldn't in every way of importance have been any more consumating. I pretended even then, edged my eyes toward water lapping onto the beach - and it's yet again a timeless eternity's bizare imagining, my younger son cradling my body to his own, the aroused want of his body so obvious, so close to my own body - my body leaned onto his and our bodies in every way which mattered joined and one in the ultimate intimacy - and the thing yet again some building, threatening pleasure of a ferocity I had never before known.

It was yet another moment's writhing in my son's arms, perhaps even an honest and genuine effort to escape something for which I just wasn't prepared - my body immersed in a wash of building, threatening pleasure I couldn't before the moment have imagined possible - and the thing just a sudden and excruciating want for something even more, something which I'd known in every frenzied corner of my mind was about to be culminating in ways I couldn't before the moment have imagined. And it was yet again that which I knew even in the moment I could never deny it, an act of culminating sexual intimacy with my own son. I pretended even in that moment, pretended that I hadn't noticed a caressing touch of my breast to his, a leg draped over his in writhing caress - pretended it in reeling corners of my mind a writhing twist of my body for a scratch on my hip until I couldn't again deny it the ultimate in intentional, unrestrained abandon. It hadn't again been less than a caressing touch of my body to my own son's, an ultimately intimate touch of my body to his which I couldn't again deny was consumating sexual intercourse in every sense of the word - and the thing yet again something for which I just wasn't prepared. I hadn't for another timeless and blinding moment the least idea what was happening - and had realized in yet one more incomprehensibly timeless instant that I was cradling my own son in my arms his body fallen into the throes of the ultimately personal release. I settled my eyes another timeless instant onto some vague and unfocused distance, rested an arm about my son's waist, rested in the cradling warmth of my son's arms - pretended it a twinge of pain as I crushed a hand atop his. I just waited - finally realized what was happening to my own body, wondered for one frenzied, reeling instant if I should just tell him - tell him that it was our bodies fallen together into the throes of the ultimate, sexual release. And it was yet again something for which I just wasn't prepared. I hadn't even had the least idea how long it was supposed to last - hadn't known that it would be wave after wave of raw, pounding sensation which just wouldn't stop. And it was yet again a moment and timeless in ways I could never have imagined - a panicking fright and some blinding, dizzying relief even as I realized I was cradling my own son in my arms my eyes flung to the most personally intimate release of his body. It might even have been a timeless moment's hysterical mirth for me. I just hadn't known that it was to happen again and again for my son as well as for me - hadn't known that culminating sexual intimacy could be both of our bodies fallen into the helpless, exploding throes of something which just wouldn't stop, something incomparably more than I could ever have imagined it.

And it seemed again some frantic need just to tell him - to tell him that he was cradling my body to his own my body as well awash in the throes of a released pleasure I had known existed only in academic corners of my mind - to tell him that he was cradling me in his arms the thing for me suddenly become a violent, exploding pleasure of a ferocity I yet again couldn't have imagined possible.

I'd just waited, rested in my younger son's arms - had known even in the moment that denial was impossible, had known in every frantic and anguished corner of my mind that it was yet my body entwined about my own son's in an embrace which I could never call less than consumating sexual intimacy. I'd just waited - and it yet again seemed one sudden and dizzying moment, my younger son holding me in his arms and the thing yet again something I couldn't quite have imagined it could be - the thing that which I just couldn't deny was a swooning, abandoned ecstasy to which it seemed I was entirely helpless. I was resting in a young man's arms, had just discovered what the ultimate pleasure was in his arms - and it seemed impossible for another incomprehensibly timeless eternity that existence could be anything other than my body cradled onto his, my body enveloped in his warmth - my body belonging to him finally and entirely.

I'll never quite remember edging my eyes to his, finally struggling for a moment's lucid, reasoning calm.

"Andrew -?" I finally tried, and it was yet again a half moment's dizzying, reeling confusion, something so entirely inescapable. It was my son edging frightened eyes to mine, my son knowing it had been my eyes flung to the most personally intimate release of his body. It was my Andrew waiting to hear scolding anger in my voice - my younger son never suspecting that it was all of the confused, frantic fright for me which it was for him. "Andrew -" I tried again, and pretended it again my attention on a scratch as I lay a hand to his in gentle, urging caress, "it feels better now, I guess -"

"That's good, mom -" the same sheepish tilt of his eyes toward mine.

"Thank you for helping me, dear."

"That's ok, mom -" he and I finally daring each other's eyes a fleeting moment - and I'll never really know why I couldn't stop, felt some frantic desparation to assure him that my mood was anything but scolding anger.

"Do you think it's just a scratch, dear -" my arm drawn about his waist with urging strength, my body curled onto his, a pleading hand to his.

"I think it's just a scratch, mom -" a shy little smile rather than fright, the adoring warmth I'd always seen in his eyes for me, perhaps even the flirting, conspiratorial little smile we'd shared so often in the past - and the thing for me another eternity's terrified panic like none I could ever have imagined. It was indeed all of the adoring warmth in my younger son's eyes which I had always seen - and it was still he and I resting in an entwining embrace which couldn't be called anything but blatant and liscivious. It was my arm drawn about his waist with frantic strength, a leg curled onto his, a brushing touch of my breast to his chest and my lips next to his as I pled my appreciation for his assistance. It was adoring warmth in his eyes as he cradled my body in his arms - and a brushing touch of my breast to his chest become his entire existence, a brushing touch of his hand to my hip - that timeless moment's dizzying terror for me knowing it his eyes buried to a ludicrous bit of flimsy cloth which could snapped away with a touch of his hand.

I'd stood any number of times at the kitchen stove wearing a pair of Alicia's cutoff jean shorts, hadn't thought my acceding several years ago to her lascivious little whims anything more than a moment's amused mischief. I was still by and large June Cleaver in temperament and demeanor even if my attire most certainly wasn't, though my attire no more outrageous, I'd noticed in passing, than that worn by most of the girls in 1980s suburbs with whom I shared coffee and sandwiches at noon. I'd begun paying my attire another moment's attention a few months ago when I'd stood at the stove in gentle amusement knowing it a stolen tilt of my handsome young admirer's eyes. It might even have been a sultry little change in my posture, a giddy little delight knowing that my infatuated young admirer had given up entirely, had at least for fleeting moments buried gawking, devouring eyes onto that which I'd lasciviously termed "my ass." It had sometimes been the ultimate in blatant, liscivious, abandon knowing that my younger son saw me indeed as feminine and saw me as a feminine ideal. I'd wandered upstairs not that long ago and had sighed the usual annoyed mirth for the rustle of a magazine's pages, two young men commenting blatantly and explicitly on the appearance of the young ladies explicitly pictured in that magazine. And I'd stood in another moment in that which I couldn't deny was a vain, giddy little ecstasy for Andrew's answer to James' teasing. "So - maybe I am a little in love with mom. And you gotta admit that mom without her clothes on is sexier than any of those girls. They don't even come close."

I'd sighed, chuckled - had wandered into my bedroom and had stood another blatant and liscivious moment in front of the mirror - admitted for another fleeting moment that my Andrew's wandering unexpectedly through my bedroom's door just a few day's ago had been something a great deal more than just startled fright. A young man who was romantically and painfully in love with me had gasped frantic apology as he'd stumbled back through the door. I'd stood indeed another moment in startled fright - and had realized in another sudden moment seeming come from nowhere that I was standing entirely naked next to my bed and standing in a swooning little ecstasy. It had been a young man's eyes flung for a helpless, paralyzed moment the length of my body in frenzied, devouring abandon - and I was still everything my handsome young admirer imagined and wanted me to be even without my clothes on, a young man so obviously and painfully in love with me discovering again that I was something inexplicable different, something inexplicably, incomparably more, without clothing covering my body. And with that I'd finally demanded a moment's reasoning calm of myself, had admitted that I felt an adoring, sometimes romantic little warmth toward a young man so obviously and deeply in love with me - had admitted that I was standing naked next to my bed giving myself up to all manner of liscivious little fantasies - had admitted for another fleeting moment that I was yet again standing in a wanting warmth I'd never before known with quite the same ferocity.

It had been an afternoon on the beach not so different at first than most others.

"Alicia - will you stop -" I'd sighed - my daughter seeing nothing but appreciative delight in my eyes.

"Mom - I so hate you -" genuine, pouting annoyance in the eyes of an hourglass beauty as voluptuously alluring as any eighteen year old girl on the beach. And yet the contrast between us was there and obvious as we strolled at each other's sides, Alicia an inch taller than me and a bit too "exaggerated." I was thirty seven years of age - and felt nothing less than ludicrous another few moments. The bathing suit Alicia had bought for me wasn't quite the string her own bathing suit was - and Alicia and I both quite aware that it was gawking, devouring twenty year old eyes directed as often as not toward me rather than toward her.

"It's no wonder Andrew's so madly in love with you, mom."

"Oh what d'ya know, Alicia -" my Andrew protested.

"Oh Alicia -" I protested as well, pulling my younger son's arm to my waist. "Andrew and I have always been sweethearts, haven't we dear."

"Sure we have, mom."

"Well, I'll leave you two sweethearts alone," amused mirth in Alicia's features as she wandered off.

"Shall we walk on a bit, dear?"

"Sure, mom -" and I suppose I'd known at least in vague corners of my mind that my Andrew's and my demeanor toward each other was knowing, almost conspiratorial intimacy as soon as we were alone with each other.

"All right, Andrew - who is she?" a nod toward the girl with whom he'd spent a few minutes.

"It's nothing serious, mom," he chuckled. "And besides - you're my girlfriend. You always will be."

It was a giddy little delight as I admitted I wasn't indeed ready to give him up yet - was that same romantic little delight knowing that it wasn't indeed anything serious between my son and a half dozen of his frenzied pursuers. It had been that which I will always believe had been a genuinely unanticipated and yet a very real, swooning delight when I'd discovered that I could still steal my Andrew away from his pursuers, a son toward whom I'd always felt a unique, fond affection gazing obvious and radiant delight for the prospect of a stroll along the beach with me.

And yet I'll always believe that I hadn't intentionally contrived for anything more than another few minutes' innocuous, idle mischief with my own son, a stroll onto a secluded corner of the beach knowing my bathing suit something markedly more blatant than I'd ever before dared - and it had seemed a moment come from nowhere, my son cradling my body in his arms, caressing a mildly painful little scratch - I intentionally asking for "another moment" in his arms even as I'd known it an embrace of sexual intimacy about to be culminating in ways I had never before known.

And it yet again on our secluded corner of the beach seemed a reeling, dizzying fright I couldn't before the moment have imagined - I a naive innocent never suspecting that an aroused, sexual want even after the ultimate release could be so unrelenting and insatiable. It was my son at my urging brushing a caressing, searching hand to a scratch on my hip, to a ludicrous bit of flimsy, clinging cloth which could be snapped away in another instant - the thing some dizzying fall through an endless void knowing that my own son is going to rip every last shred of cloth from my body. He's going to wrestle my body onto the sand - is going to maul and devour me with frenzied kisses and caresses - an agonizing, maddening young man allowing me no escape, ravishing me this time in wild, frantic, unfeigned lovemaking.

And with that, I searched again for a moment's reasoning calm, searched for escape from something which I'd never quite imagined could seem so entirely inescapable. It was indeed a timeless moment's dizzying, terrified, outright girlish panic resting in the arms of my own son - and it might as quickly have been that same hysterical mirth as I admitted that I was resting yet another fleeting moment in the arms of a young man who was maddening, agonizing beauty and allure - and a young man who was devouring me already and I waiting another moment and another timeless, frenzied eternity for my own son to claw a bit of light, flimsy cloth from my breasts and my hips, waiting for him to wrestle my body onto the sand, my body his to maul and devour as he pleased.

"Andrew -" I'd finally tried, had searched again for that one fleeting moment's reasoning calm, "would you have your father bring me a glass of lemonade."

"Sure, mom."

I leaned, touched my lips to his cheek, nothing more than that same sheepish little smile as he pushed himself to his feet, the thing for me some frantic though settling relief, perhaps even some resigned, sighing mirth. What would he think, I'd asked myself again, had he known that his mother hadn't indeed been about to scold him, that his mother had been resting a helpless, frightened captive in his arms - that his mother was waiting in a girlish, dizzying swoon knowing she was going to be attacked, devoured, ravished - and had never in her life wanted anything with quite the same frenzied desparation.

I'd rested by myself another few moments on a secluded corner of the beach - and it seemed yet our bodies entwined and one in an embrace of ultimate and finished intimacy. I'd searched again for a lucid and reasoning calm, had known all along that I and my younger son were exceptionally fond of each other. "Walk me to the store, Andrew," I could ask knowing that I would see assenting delight in his eyes. It was little less than giddy, girlish delight for me as I was led by the hand along the sidewalks, perhaps even moments of fanciful, girlish imagining in the company of my handsome young admirer. And still - it had been a moment in my younger son's arms on this secluded corner of the beach for which I just hadn't been prepared, a warmth not so different than it had been in the past - until I had rested in my younger son's arms finally realizing what was happening to me - and intentionally asking for just another moment in the arms of my own son knowing and admitting it a raw, flooding pleasure of a ferocity I had never before known, something from which I couldn't escape - and something from which I just didn't want to escape. It had been he and I wearing nothing more than swim suits, my own little more than clinging, ludicrous pretense - and it had been naked, finished warmth, another moments writhing in my son's arms, an entwining, caressing embrace of our of bodies - and the thing yet again seeming a single instant come from nowhere. I'd known in academic corners of my mind that lovemaking could be something more than I had ever before known. And I'd rested in my son's arms yet again not quite certain what was happening, not quite certain why I was pretending it pain which allowed me to wrench a frantic arm about his waist, allowed me writhing caresses of my body to his - and I yet again realizing and admitting that I was having sex with my own son, admitting that it had yet again been a moment's touch of our bodies to each other's which I just couldn't deny was sexual intercourse in every finished sense of the words - and realizing in that one blinding moment that it was our bodies fallen together into the throes of the ultimate pleasure and a pleasure of a ferocity I couldn't before the moment have imagined possible. It had been my son fallen into the throes of the ultimate release - and the release of his body pounding raw, violent sensation into my own, convulsing, hammering waves of sensation which were agonizing, torturing - and pleasure of a ferocity I hadn't even known existed.

I sat by myself another few moments on a secluding corner of the beach - and sat another timeless eternity in frantic, searching desparation. It had, I finally supposed, happened to a less blatant and culminating extent often enough in the past. "Come and help me, Andrew," I could request without the least hesitation as I stood at the stove preparing dinner. "So - I hear you're taking Sara to the dance? I guess I'm to be entirely ignored," a pouting glance. "Mom - I want at least two dances with you - and you will be absolutely the prettiest girl there." I could chuckle in amused delight, could urge his arm about my waist, could stand another ten minutes flirting with my younger son - would stand in genuine confusion wondering why I'd suddenly been abandoned by him - and a whispered gasp sometimes escaping my throat, that which I suspect had been a moment's sheepish fright in my features when I realized and admitted again that I had indeed "fallen a little in love" myself with my handsome young admirer. I'd stood for the possessing, owning crush of his arm about my waist allowing myself all manner of girlish little fantasies. "Then I'm still your sweetheart, dear?" A handsome young man touched his lips to my cheek, a shy little smile. "Mom, you'll always be my sweetheart -" and I'd stood again in a swooning little delight - and had finally stood by myself at the stove urging myself toward a reasoning calm. I'd even admitted that it had indeed, at least for fleeting moments, been an exceptionally pleasant little warmth for me as well. Perhaps it was even time to admit that I was flirting with my younger son to a brazenly greater extent than I had ever flirted with James.

And still - it had seemed on our secluded corner of the beach a sudden and reeling moment come from nowhere. It had been my body curled toward his own, an arm drawn about his waist, a pleasant, building little warmth for the caressing touch of his hand. And it had been another frantic and consumating tilt of my eyes - had been that which I can only call penetrating and filling, had seemed his body joined and one with my own in every way imaginable. It might even then have been another few moment's frantic denial, my eyes flung toward some vague and unfocused distance - and the word crashing into every corner of my mind. We were fucking, my arm around my younger son's waist, a caressing touch of his hand to my hip as I writhed in his arms - a final brushing touch of my breast to his chest and shuddering, writhing twists of my body as I'd known it all something I just couldn't stand any more, a raw, aching want built to a threatening edge I had never before known - and my arm yet again drawn about my younger son's waist with frantic strength, my eye's yet again flung in that culminating instant to that which had been his body become one with my own in an ultimate, finished intimacy. It had been my Andrew and I both wearing nothing more than flimsy cloth - and his body touching mine, penetrating mine - my son and one in the ultimate act of sexual intimacy. It had been my Andrew crushing a caressing hand onto my hip, my cheek lain to his and my Andrew hearing panting gasps for that which had indeed for moments been a stinging little scratch - and I sat by myself on a secluded corner of the beach finally realizing that I had indeed from the start seen moments of awakening panic in my Andrew's eyes yet again flung to a scratch on my hip. My younger son cradling my body onto his had fallen as well into another timeless moment's oblivion of raw, primal abandon, my Andrew awakening from that moment's oblivion and desperately hoping that I hadn't noticed that which had been blatant, sexual lovemaking.

It might as I sat by myself on a secluded corner of the beach almost have been another moment's bizare mix of despairing remorse and reeling mirth. My son almost from the start had abandoned himself every bit as frantically as I had to that which had been consumating sexual intimacy between us, had abandoned himself entirely to the shuddering, caressing touch of my breasts to his chest. It had been my Andrew as desperately and as frantically struggling for awakening, reasoning restraint. He couldn't have doubted that it had been a genuinely stinging little scratch on my hip, my arm drawn about his waist with pleading strength until it had been a hand crushed onto my hip in finished, caressing violence - and my Andrew awakening from a moment's and a timeless eternity's oblivion a raw, primal want - my Andrew resting an arm about my waist realizing that he had indeed drawn my body onto his with wanting violence, had edged his body onto mine - had penetrated me - was caressing me in as intimate a manner as was possible - and the thing for me finally that sudden and dizzying moment come from nowhere. It had been my Andrew desperately hoping that I hadn't noticed the finished, aroused want of his body for mine, that I hadn't noticed yet another moment's blatant, caressing touch of his body to mine - I resting in my Andrew's arms the aroused want of his body for mine become my entire existence, I resting in a young man's arms finally realizing that I'd forgotten about a scratch on my hip an eternity ago, realizing that it was the sexual touch of a young man's body to my own which had become my entire existence - finally realizing what had happened to my own body. He'd been my Andrew, my own son even in that moment - and yet it had been something which just wouldn't stop, had been nothing less than an aching, maddening need that even the cloth be gone, that it be his body thrust entirely into my own in the ultimate touch of intimacy.

It might indeed have been a final, fleeting moment's struggle for awakening reason on my part - until I'd asked for "another moment" in my son's arms - and never really knowing or suspecting that little more than another moment had been all I and my Andrew needed. I had indeed in little more than another moment seen some frightened despair in my Andrew's eyes, had known it something as imminent and culminating for him as it was for me. And it might again as I sat by myself on a secluded corner of the beach have been some hysterical, reeling mirth for me. What would my own son think had he known that a gasp for a twinge of pain had been a primal, abandoned scream wrenched into my throat, that writhing, shuddering twists of my body had been a struggle against agonizing, torturing pleasure I hadn't even known existed?

And even as it was, it had indeed been a moment's culminating knowing intimacy between us. He'd finally edged frightened, despairing eyes to mine, he resting in my arms his body just moments before fallen into the throes of the ultimately personal release which he just couldn't hide from me - and he'd seen nothing more than gentle warmth in my eyes as we'd rested another few moments in entwining embrace. It had been my younger son gazing sheepish yet adoring, burning warmth toward me, his arm about my waist and his hand lain to my hip another moment in gentle caress - and that timeless moment's raw, abandoned want I had seen in my younger son's eyes a moment I'll never forget. I rested again by myself in hysterical, reeling mirth. What would my younger son think knowing that I even in the midst of a terrified panic had abandoned myself to him entirely. My Andrew at my urging had lain a caressing hand to my hip a final moment examining a scratch - and had fixed devouring, wanting eyes onto the curves of my ass. It had indeed, I finally dared admit, been my younger son's arm about my waist with culminating strength, his hand lain to my hip and yet his eyes buried to bit of flimsy cloth he was about to claw from my body - and it had yet again even in a moment of reeling terror been my body fallen into wants I couldn't before the moment have imagined. It had seemed some aching, pounding desparation - a desparate need that it be unfeigned, naked intimacy this time, a need that it be

his body thrust entirely into mine in the ultimate touch of intimacy.

"Andrew -" I'd finally tried - and will always wonder how close I had come to gasping the words aloud to my own son - Andrew, fuck me. It had been his eyes flung to mine in awakening panic, my younger son realizing that he'd fallen again into an oblivion a raw, frenzied want for me. It had been our eyes buried to each other's another fleeting moment and another incomprehensibly timeless eternity, our eyes buried to each other's in knowing, reeling panic - and as good a means as any to retreat from that moment finally shooting into my mind. I'd asked for a glass of lemonade, my voice gentle warmth. He'd answered with that same shy little smile - and I'll always wonder if it had been one more fleeting yet timeless moment between Andrew and myself. I'd leaned, touched my lips to his cheek, a final conspiratorial smile between us - my younger son meeting my eyes knowing again that he hadn't seen the least hint of scolding protest in my features. He'd seen my eyes flung to his body in a moment of ultimately personal intimacy - and my arm just drawn about his waist with frantic strength, my hand lain to his with the same urging strength. He'd heard nothing more than gentle warmth in my voice for another few moments - and my younger son even as I'd touched my lips to his cheeks seeing little less than sheepish, girlish pause in my features - my Andrew holding me in his arms that final moment and knowing a shuddering little caress of my body to his something incomparably more than past, flirting mischief.

It had indeed been one final, timeless moment between us. It was yet another moment's sighing, resigned mirth for me as I admitted the obvious and the ultimate to myself. A young man who was violently, painfully in love with me had seen a frightened, swooning girl touch her lips to his cheek. And a young man desperately wanting to strip a bit of flimsy cloth from that girl's body had seen anything from fright to wild, waiting abandon in her eyes - had known a shuddering caress of her body to his something a world more than flirting mischief.

It had indeed, I finally couldn't doubt, been a moment's culminating, knowing intimacy between my own son and myself. It couldn't have been anything more than a minute or two in each other's arms on a secluded corner of that beach - and my Andrew knowing again that it had been our bodies entwined about each other's in naked, writhing intimacy, my Andrew knowing even if in not quite dared corners of his mind that something begun as a matter of necessity had become nothing less than frantic, abandoned lovemaking. It was my Andrew even as I'd pressed a final kiss to his cheek realizing again that he was holding me in his arms the finished, aroused want of his body for mine so helplessly obvious - and my Andrew for a helpless, shuddering caress of my body to his holding owning, possessing hands to my arms another moment and another incomprehensibly timeless eternity.

I can never doubt or deny that it was to be my own son and I on a secluded corner of the beach abandoning ourselves to the ultimate act of sexual intimacy in each other's arms. It had been my Andrew and I seeing the ultimate in each other's eyes, feeling it in the touch of our hands to each other's arms - my Andrew and I knowing it our abandoned pleading assent given to each other. And it hadn't in another startling and awakening half moment been a great deal more than the same conspiratorial mirth between us, a flash of our eyes toward a sudden burst of raucous laughter not that far away down the beach, my Andrew and I disentangling our hands from each other's arms remembering that we weren't even out of sight from a sizable crowd on the beach.

I sat by myself another few moments on that secluding corner of the beach, my mood anything from despairing remorse to wondering, disbelieving awe.

"Thank you, John," I'd sighed a minute or two later reaching for the lemonade - will never know why it wasn't more than a fleeting moment's sheepish fright for me and a fright he never noticed. "John -?" I tried, was, I'd realized, back in the fifties again as I searched for the words. "John - I think it - might be time - Andrew this time -"

"Oh Marjorie - already -? Isn't he still a little young -" my poor John most certainly the fifties in temperament. "I mean - I just got through - explaining things to James -"

"John - Andrew's a young man now too - noticing the girls - no longer afraid of them -" an amused chuckle toward my younger son now attracting the fawning attention of several girls his own age a short distance down the beach. "I do think it's time, John. Sooner or later he'll find himself in a situation where he doesn't know - how to stop -" and I sat another moment feeling as foolish and naive as I've ever felt in my life.

"All right, Marjorie. But - are you sure it's time -?" a final desparate plea.

"Yes, John - it's time -" though I'd supposed myself June Cleaver again realizing that I couldn't even tell John why I was in fact certain that our son was becoming a young man - a young man who knew what an aroused, almost irresistable sexual want was. It might even have been another moment's amused wondering mirth for me. He really was becoming an exceptionally handsome young man - standing on the beach paying attention to girls his own age rather than to me. And it was my eyes edged again toward John now sitting at my side - and my husband gnawing contentedly on his egg salad sandwich never noticing that which I suspect had been seething envy in my features gazing toward a handsome young man on the beach who wasn't in love with me any more, wasn't paying me the least bit of attention, had forgotten me entirely as the brazen little flirts vied for his attention.

"Marjorie - what happened -?" John noticing that which I'd supposed did appear to be a stinging little scratch on my hip.

"Nothing, dear," I chuckled. "Just that driftwood."

"Oh - poor Andrew. You know James and Alicia and their teasing - 'come on, admit it, Andrew, you were trying to kiss mom,'" my husband yet again edging pleading eyes to mine. "He is madly in love with you, you know, Marjorie, and you're a tigress when it comes to Andrew. You really do 'always take his side.' Don't you think it might be ok - just this time, if his mother - explained things to him?"

"Maybe - maybe you're right, John," a chuckling sigh toward appreciative relief in my husband's eyes as he directed his contented attention back to his egg salad sandwich.

---

I stood a final, timeless moment the rough bark of a tree trunk seeming an essential support and all I was ever to have. And I struggled again for lucid reason, my house, my family not really so far away - my younger son who was still violently, painfully in love with me and had just this morning pressed a shy little kiss to my cheek not really so far away. With a gasping cry, I finally wrenched myself from the tree, raised my arms, thrust my hands against an entangling mass of brush and shrubs. I just had to do so even if I was naked, had to writhe past surrounding, entangling obstacles in every direction.

And it was one more sudden and bizare moment, a final, desparate thrust of my body against brush and shrubs and they were gone. I stood in startled fright, flung my eyes about that which appeared to be the back yard of another house, windows rather than boards this time though the wood frame house in dire need of paint. It yet again seemed an environment which was entirely alien to me, a back yard with the rusting remains of a refrigerator, decaying furniture of various sort.

And I flung my eyes in that same terrifying instant toward a man who stood no more than paces away, this man older, a scraggly beard, jeans and a t-shirt though his appearance not entirely that which the streets had been. And yet I fell a half step back, a cry of choking terror wrenched from my throat. I stood again in a helpless paralysis like none I could ever have imagined, struggled just for breath - noticed in clouded corners of my mind his startled glance toward me, his eyes run up and down my body either another half moment or another incomprehensibly timeless eternity. I stood yet again curling myself into my own arms, my arms crushed across my breasts - and the gesture so ludicrously futile. It seemed again that I was naked in ways I couldn't before the moment have imagined.

"Well - hello there -?" and I stood in dizzying confusion. It seemed nothing more than amused mirth in his voice.

I struggled again, gasped for breath - for words.

"Please - help me -" a choking whisper all I could manage.

"Well - certainly, miss -" a half step closer to me and I fell backwards in blinding terror, fell onto stabbing, piecing shrubbery, a choked scream wrenched from my throat. "Now miss - you can't be goin' back in there. You're all scratched up already -" and I stood again in trembling paralysis as he edged closer, a hand raised and lain to my arm.

I flung my eyes to the hand, flung my eyes back to his - struggled again in dizzying, confused terror.

"I have sons - a daughter - she's graduating this weekend - please -"

"All right, miss. Let's - let's us just walk that way -" a nod across the yard toward an old, rusty car, his hand now wrapped to my arm with urging strength.

I finally just fell forward, let him lead me toward the car - will never remember those dozen or so steps in anything more than dazed and clouded corners of my mind. And yet it seemed the first faint stirrings of hope even as it was primal, unrestrained anguish. It's my family finally drawing me back into their arms. Perhaps it could even be a quiet, placid life in the suburbs again, a morning of pain and horror somehow and someday to be forgotten.

He led me the final few paces toward the car, drawing keys from a pocket as he did so. I stood in dazed, reeling confusion another timeless moment as he opened the car's trunk - and it was yet again blinding, swirling terror, clawing hands thrust onto my body, my body wrenched about with a merciless, brutal ferocity I couldn't quite comprehend. It was yet again something I couldn't quite believe was happening to me, was terrified flailing against his strength - a gasp of new, dizzying terror wrenched from my throat as I realized he was indeed crushing my body into the car's trunk. I fought again to the limits of my strength, fought in flailing, thrashing desparation - and my body just slammed back down onto cold metal, tools and wrenches spread everywhere across the trunk of the car. It was my body crushed onto a crevice where a spare tire should have been, my hands flung forward a final time in terrified panic and yet the lid of the car's trunk crashing forward, slamming shut.

I'll never remember much of it. I was screaming now, screaming without restraint, screaming in finished terrified abandon. I was thrashing and flailing in the midst of a dark, confining horror, slamming my hands and my feet against cold metal oblivious to the pain. The car was moving, that just some new torturing terror as I thrashed about in abandoned violence, pounding with my hands, kicking with my feet.

It yet again seemed a bizare and sudden moment come from nowhere, a terror which was paralyzing, a gasp of primal panic jus t for breath. I wrenched my body about another final and futile instant - and there just wasn't any relief, nowhere to rest my body in this car's trunk which wasn't a brutal, unrelenting agony. It was suffocating horror, a gasping struggle for breath in an enclosed, confining heat. It was noxious, dizzying fumes, a flailing and yet futile struggle against them until it was yet again pain and anguish seeming something I just couldn't endure any longer and yet something from which there just wasn't any escape.

It was one fleeting moment's struggle for lucid reason - and even that now just futile and pointless. I was crying in finished, despairing anguish - was finally ready to believe that I wasn't indeed going to escape this time. It was yet again a single, timeless moment come from nowhere, had been a drive into the city this morning, nothing of any importance whatsoever - and it's suffocating, agonizing despair, an immersion in dark horror from which I wasn't going to escape.

And yet I struggled even then, struggled for one final moment with those who I so passionately loved. I'll never entirely know why it had to be Andrew, my younger son, to whom I fled in a moment of culminating, despairing anguish. It was Andrew and I stepping by ourselves from the train in Shelton, Andrew instructed by his father to look after me and my handsome young protector leading me along by the hand. It had been Andrew and I that evening settling into bed together at Aunt Vera's.

"Mom - you're so pretty -"

"Why thank you, dear. But - how about Sara Moore - not as pretty as her, I suppose -" teasing mischief in my voice though I waited, I admitted at least in corners of my mind, for more from my handsome young admirer.

"Yeah - Sara's nice, I guess. But she's not half as pretty as you are, mom. No one is."

"Why - Andrew - such a flatterer -" the moment gentle, amused mirth for me, perhaps, I could easily enough admit, a giddy, girlish, almost swooning delight. It had been moments of the sort the entire evening, Andrew perfectly content to lounge about for an hour with me in the room we shared whenever we visited my aunt Vera. Sitting at the dressing table, I'd chuckled in gentle amusement realizing again that it was going to be heartbreaking giving Andrew up to some schoolgirl beauty, far more so than it had been giving James away, James loving me every bit as passionately but a peck to my cheek and a "night, mom" quite sufficient for my older son.

"Now give me a kiss and go to sleep, Andrew -" and I wondered again what my younger son would think knowing that the crushing touch of his lips to my cheek stirred in me a warmth against which I sometimes had to struggle for a very real and a very long moment. I'd searched for a settling calm - and the thing wasn't, I'd supposed, anything more than a physical fact of life even after I'd given up and let him as I always did at Vera's sleep with his leg draped over my own. It hadn't, I'd told myself, been anything a great deal more than another few moment's gentle amusement for me - and all of the rest just there and just that which it was, the touch of my son's leg to mine as pleasant a little warmth and sometimes as fiercely arousing for me as it was for him. It was sometimes everything a moment on the beach had been - and was sometimes a hundred frantic resolutions just collapsed, a strange little despair as I brushed my hand to my body knowing that a moment's caressing touch was enough. It might even then have been another fleeting moment's fanciful imagining - I perhaps admitting a vague corners of my mind that I would gasp in helpless, abandoned assent as soon as he turned, wrenched my body to his own.

It was hot, noxious fumes, primal, unrelenting terror - and I'll never know if it had been there and then or a night a week or so ago, a shuddering tremble coursing the length of my body when I realized it was his arms drawn about my waist, the warmth as he cradled my body onto his all of the flooding, surrounding ecstasy I had known it would be. It was my younger son and I waiting another moment and yet he and I knowing it seemed consumating already. It was Andrew wrapping my body to his with frantic strength, he and I perhaps pretending another moment that we were just sleeping in the same bed as we always had at my aunt Vera's - and my son cradling my body onto his, he and I writhing together, hearing primal gasps wrenched from each other's throats. It's his lips crushed to my neck, my shoulders, until it's my hand flung to his, a pleading hand atop his until it's the nightgown pushed from my shoulders, his hand slid closer - gasps of shuddering ecstasy wrenched from my throat for a caressing hand lain to my breasts. It's unfeigned, liscivious abandon between us, my younger son caressing my nightgown onto my hips, to my waist, caressing the underwear from my body - the curves of my ass his to play with as pleased, to fondle and devour as I writhed for him - until it's he and I knowing it has to be more, he and writhing together in naked, entwining intimacy, he and I knowing we're writhing closer to each other, his want for me leaving me fallen into an aching, pounding want I'd never before known with quite the same ferocity. Perhaps it's a fleeting moments pause for me, perhaps even a half hearted struggle to escape the frenzied strength of his arms - and it's a gasp of blinding, relenting ecstasy for my body urged back onto his with culminating strength, the need of our bodies for each other's something we just can't resist - and finally - it's done, the finished, consumating touch of his body to mine all of the raw, satisfying ecstasy I had known it would be, the thrusting, pounding touch of his body to mine all of the abandoned violence I had wanted. Finally, I gasped as my younger son wrenched brutal arms around me, a young man throwing a clawing, groping hand to my breasts, fucking me with driving, hammering fury.

It was suffocating, noxious fumes - and yet it was one awakening, screaming moment.

"No - stop -" the words exploding, pounding from my throat - and it seemed one more hysterical, almost mirthful moment, some dizzying, tumultuous confusion. "No - stop -" I whispered as I might have just a week or so ago, a whispered "no" enough, I a housewife straight out of the fifties a whispered "no" to myself more than enough in a moment of sensual struggle - a whispered "no" enough even as I had to admit the consumating touch of my own son's body all of the raw, agonizing pleasure I had known it would be.

And it was noxious fumes, reeling, dizzying confusion - the want of my body for my son's a throbbing, pounding ache to every finished extreme. It was yet another moment's finished, falling abandon, my every secret, most intimate want - Andrew and I hiding nothing from each other, my younger son cradling my body in his arms, burying his eyes to mine yet knowing that it's my body aching for his, knowing that I'm as desparate as he that it be our bodies joined and one in the ultimate touch of intimacy.

And hadn't it happened? How could I ever deny that it had, again and again?

"Mom - come on - let's go bed -" my handsome young admirer pulling me from the dressing table, leading me by the hand to the bed - and my handsome young protector who was now several inches taller than I was leaning, pressing a shy little kiss to my cheek. I'd chuckled in gentle mirth, perhaps even in girlish giddy delight as I'd pressed an affectionate little kiss to my younger son's cheek - let him touch his hands to my waist - my breasts heaving in breathless fury for frantic pleading in his eyes. It's my son pushing his hands to my shoulders knowing already that I'm clothed in nothing more than a flimsy nightgown, my son pushing the nightgown from my body to the floor - frantic pleading in my own eyes as I stood naked for him my breasts heaving in shuddering violence. And yet there's never been any doubt between us, my Andrew knowing that I've been dancing for him for an hour now, showing him everything, the nightgown I'd chosen for him nothing more than a bit of flimsy pretense falling just to my hips and hiding nothing - my Andrew's every stolen glance a burning little ecstasy for me. I might even then have pretended it nothing more than a half dozen necessary steps from my dressing table in order to retrieve a glass of water on a wall shelf on the other side of the room - and it seems something from which I just can't escape knowing it's my Andrew resting on my bed, my Andrew perhaps struggling as well for restraint and finally just giving up. It's my Andrew flinging himself into a devouring abandon - and I'm helplessly aware of my body in ways I couldn't for most of my life have imagined possible. It suddenly seems my breasts bouncing with an exaggerated fury, even a purposeful effort toward restraint futile. It's nothing more than a half dozen steps - and it's that imagining, outright liscivious glance toward the curves of my ass, the word the only one which suddenly seems enough. It seems my entire existence has suddenly become feminine curves which I have to admit are broad and round to every voluptuously alluring extreme, I yet again helplessly and lasciviously aware of the writhing motions of my body with every step - and knowing again that it was my own son resting on my bed edging frantic, devouring eyes toward a form which he simply sees as a feminine ideal.

He'd led me to the edge of the bed, he and I perhaps pretending even then that it wasn't anything more than the innocuous, flirting mischief it had always been between us - and my son and I meeting each other's eyes, my son pushing the nightgown from my body knowing that I was pleading for him to do so - the thing my every cherished, most hidden and intimate want realized as my Andrew pushed the clothing from his own body. It was he and I standing our hands crushed to each other's waists, he and I even then knowing ourselves a mother and a son, he and never allowing ourselves the least pretense or denial. And it was yet again just that which it was as my younger son cradled my body in his arms, cradled my body onto his. It was pretense between us flung aside entirely, he and I standing naked in each other's arms our eyes buried to each other's and yet he and I knowing it the same desparate, aching want for both of us. It's my Andrew's arms wrenched about my waist with possessing strength, a fondling hand lain to my breasts, my breath explosive gasps for his touch. It's a hand slid from my waist to frantic, fondling intimacy. I'm writhing for him in gasping ecstasy, pleading for his searching, exploring caresses.

And it's yet again the ultimate intimacy between us. We've both any number of times stumbled onto each other at inadvertent moments, my adorable Andrew flinging startled and bashful eyes to mine as I'd stumbled though his bedroom's door - and never quite suspecting that I had stood a giddy schoolgirl gazing toward a young man who I saw as agonizing, maddening beauty - and he and I finally both naked, standing in each other's arms the ultimate intimacies of each other's bodies revealed to each other.

It was my son cradling my body onto his with frantic, wanting violence, that same edge of bashful reserve even then in his eyes for the aroused want of his body so helplessly and finally revealed to me. I'm his own mother even then, my son gazing the adoring warmth he always had toward me. And yet he can see me as a woman, has known it along a wanting warmth - and has finally abandoned himself entirely to the primal wants of his body even as we stood naked in each other's arms next to my bed. It was my Andrew cradling my body onto his, my Andrew burying his eyes to mine - and yet his entire existence the aroused want of his body for mine, an aroused want of finished, aching ferocity desparate for the intimate, surrounding warmth of my own body. It was my own son cradling my body onto his with frantic, pleading strength - and the answering want of my body for his just that which it was. I gazed all of the burning, adoring affection I always had toward my Andrew - and yet I stood in the capturing, confining warmth of a young man's arms, a young man fallen into the ultimately intimate want and the want of my own body a flooding, throbbing ache for the penetrating, falling touch of his.

"Andrew -" I finally whispered, he and I even in that moment a mother and a son and yet pretense and restraint just flung aside entirely. "Andrew -" I finally whispered in frantic pleading, "fuck me -"

It was my younger son lowering my body onto the bed, lowering his body onto mine, throwing caressing, searching hands up and down my body, watching me writhe and shudder in helpless, gasping ecstasy until he knew there just weren't any limits, knew that my body was his, had been his all along the moment he wanted me. It was Andrew edging a caressing, fondling hand to my breasts, Andrew who had stolen countless shy glances suddenly and again knowing that there hadn't ever been any limits, Andrew now hearing gasps of primal ecstasy wrenched from my throat as he touched me, caressed and fondled me with his hands, devoured me with his lips, my body finally his to search and explore in naked, unfeigned intimacy. It was blatant, unrestrained abandon between us, a knowing, liscivious delight, my body his to wrench about as he pleased. It was frenzied hands thrown from my waist to a touch of fondling, searching intimacy. It was my Andrew who had stolen countless glances, my Andrew who saw me as a feminine ideal - and the curves of my ass finally his to devour in warm, naked intimacy. I writhed for him, pled for his caresses, gasps of primal, abandoned ecstasy wrenched from my throat - until it was yet again the ultimate intimacy between us. It's my hands wrapped to his waist in frantic pleading - my Andrew letting me search his own body, letting me push a hand closer. It can't again be less than a moment's frantic pause between us, he and I knowing ourselves a mother and I son - and my Andrew for frenzied pleading in my eyes laying an assenting, urging hand to mine, my son letting me caress my hand onto his body in a touch of ultimate intimacy - my Andrew burying his eyes to mine the final doubts gone.

It was my son edging his body atop mine, my limbs drawn about my son's body with abandoned strength - my breath explosive gasps of ecstasy for the finished, consumating touch of his body to mine. It was he and I even in that moment burying our eyes to each other's, my son and I knowing it some desparate need that nothing be pretended or denied between us - and I flung my eyes to my son's body buried into mine, flung my eyes back to his - the penetrating, filling touch of my son's body all of the torturing, agonizing pleasure I had known it would be. It was nothing for another timeless eternity more than my son and I writhing together in gentle, touching caresses - and it was he and I hearing helpless, primal cries wrenched from each other's throats - he and I knowing again that it was pleasure of a ferocity which was possible only with each other. It was finally my own son wrenching my body to his with unrestrained strength, driving his body again and again into the warm flooding depths of my own, a young man fucking me with frenzied, wanting violence - and the thing yet again a pounding, exploding pleasure which just wasn't possible unless it was the touch of my own son's body to mine in the ultimate act of sexual intimacy.

It was black and dizzying confusion, an immersion in noxious fumes - and yet it was nothing more than a whispered "no" and that enough. It had indeed been a whispered "no" even as I knew it hadn't even been entirely vile and evil. It might between Andrew and me even have been something which in some other reality might have been called beautiful, my younger son so passionately and painfully in love with me and my son simply seeing me as alluring, arousing beauty. It hadn't ever been anything more than fleeting moments, a gentle amusement for me - and yet it hadn't sometimes been less than the ultimate wanting warmth in not quite dared corners of my mind. It had been a shy little glance from my handsome young admirer just now showing the first signs of maturity, a moment's crushing touch of his lips to my cheek - perhaps one more fleeting moment for me. It had indeed been moments of intensely personal intimacy between us, Andrew carelessly wandering through my bedroom's door at an inadvertent moment and the moment always a strange, almost girlish fright for me. "Andrew - knock next time -" I'd gasped, my younger son with a frightened, apologetic nod fleeing through the door. And I'd stood another timeless moment in sighing amusement, admitting perhaps in corners of my mind that Andrew stumbling onto me entirely naked was something incomparably more than James or Alicia doing so had ever been. Andrew was painfully, violently in love with me - and one inadvertent yet timeless moment had been enough. I'd flung my arms to my breasts, and the gesture so strangely and entirely futile if it was Andrew stumbling through door. I'd turned away from him, startled eyes flung over my shoulder toward his, my voice gasping protest - and I'd stood a minute or two later wondering if I had indeed performed a liscivious, writhing little dance just to be certain that I was still, even without clothing, everything my younger son wanted me to be. And I'd finally admitted at least in corners of my mind that a half moment had been everything a secluded corner of the beach had been. It had indeed been a moment's startled fright - and yet a timeless eternity's reeling, waiting abandon. It had been Andrew stumbling through the door - and a glance of dizzying fright toward a young man as I'd stood entirely naked the ultimate intimacies of my body revealed to him. It had been a frantic twist of my body away from his eyes, gasping protest about knocking next time - another dizzying, reeling eternity knowing that my appearance was something inexplicably different without my clothes on. It had indeed been a moment's startled fright for me. And it had been my every secret, not quite dared little fantasy realized, my handsome young admirer over the past several months stealing glances - and I in a sudden moment able to dance for him entirely naked, a writhing twist of my body until I'd shown him everything - shown him that I was indeed everything he wanted and imagined me to be.

Stop - I'd finally demanded of myself, had decided the moment not so different than that which any other mother and son might have faced. I'd leaned toward my clothing laying on the bed - and the thing that which it had been for the past month now, I thirty seven years of age and feeling anything from girlish to foolish, struggling for another moment or two and just giving up - giving in to the primal, intimate wants of my body and wants I had never before known with anything close to the same constant, irresistable ferocity. I'd struggled even then, had struggled to thrust threatening little fantasies aside - and it was my younger son taking me into his arms, lowering my body onto the bed - language of a sort toward which I had never before been wont suddenly coursing into every frenzied corner of my mind. He was fucking me, my adorable, absolutely maddening young admirer and protector playing with my breasts, a frantic, searching hand flung to the curves of my ass - until it was yet again he and I abandoning ourselves to the ultimate. It's his body one with mine in the finished touch of intimacy. He's teasing me, gentle caresses until it's my body awash with raw, flooding sensation, a torturing, agonizing pleasure of a ferocity I had never before known. He's fucking me with thrusting, unrestrained violence, driving his body into the warm, flooding depths of my own - and it's yet again something of a ferocity still seeming unimaginable, my body immersed in the throes of a pounding, agonizing pleasure - and a pleasure which just wouldn't have been possible with anyone other than my own son.

I stood at the mirror in my bedroom, decided my dress presentable - allowed myself another trembling breath or two as I struggled for a reasoning calm. It might finally have been a sigh of resigned mirth as I decided I was thirty seven years old and just going through some juvenile phase. Andrew walking me to the store earlier that afternoon, I'd urged his arm about my waist quite as I always had.

"Yeah - I guess I'll ask Sara to the dance, mom. But I want a dance of two with the prettiest girl in town too, just won't take no for in answer," an owning, possessing arm about my waist.

"Why Andrew - and here I almost thought I wasn't your sweetheart any more," a sultry little change in my posture.

"Mom - you'll always be my sweetheart -" the thing a girlish little ecstasy as we flirted with each other all the way back to the house - I even in my younger son's arms admitting for moments that I'd had a fantasy lover for the past month now and once a day with my fantasy lover sometimes not enough.

I'd stood another moment in front of my bedroom's mirror - and wondered if it had, just minutes ago, been anything less than frenzied, abandoned pleading in a flash of my eyes toward his. I was standing next to the bed, entirely naked - and the thing incomprehensibly timeless knowing it his eyes flung up and down my body in devouring intimacy, his eyes finally flung to mine - and the thing some helpless fall past every edge. It had been that same dizzying, reeling fright and yet it had been my body awash in raw, pounding sensation knowing it was finally going to happen, that it was finally to be my every secret and cherished little fantasy realized.

I'd stood another moment in front of the mirror that evening searching for a reasoning calm. It might again have been a moment's sighing resignation. It had indeed just happened in ways it never before had. I'd given up entirely this time as I'd settled onto my bed, had admitted it imagining glances toward my own son, had finally just admitted it my younger son's body joined with my own in the ultimate touch of intimacy - and my body immersed in the throes of an ecstasy which just never stopped, a pounding release of a ferocity which was little less than frightening.

"Andrew - come on -" Alicia's voice, another knock to his door.

"In a minute, I said -" and I stood at the mirror in my own bedroom the thing for me perhaps the amused sigh it might have been any number of times in the past. And it was something entirely different as soon as Alicia had stomped away. It's my younger son resting on his bed a few steps away from me - and it was that which it had been just a week ago at Vera's when it had been me backing carelessly through a door at an unexpected moment.

"Mom -" he'd gasped - he and I standing nothing more than a half pace from each other.

"Andrew -" I'd tried - had stood in as helpless a paralysis - and had stood for that fleeting yet incomprehensibly timeless moment in something I could only call a stunned disbelief. He was several inches taller than I was now, had been my handsome young admirer for quite some time - and was suddenly a young man who was agonizing, the most impossibly beautiful and perfect creature who had ever lived. It couldn't have been more than another fleeting moment - and I'd finally flung my eyes back to his.

"Andrew - I'm sorry. I never heard you come in - I should have knocked -"

"That's - ok, mom -"

It couldn't have been anything more than another half moment - and it was yet again paralysis not quite like any I could ever have imagined. We were standing a half pace from each other - and my hands for another imagining and dizzying half instant flung to my shoulders, to the straps of my nightgown.

I'd finally struggled for that half moment's reasoning calm.

"I guess I'll get ready for bed -" I finally tried - and it had yet again seemed circumstances from which there just weren't any escape. I stood with my younger son in the bathroom at Vera's attired in my nightgown - and stood yet another reeling eternity not quite certain how I was supposed to retreat through the bathroom's door into a bedroom in which Andrew and I were spending the night together sleeping on the same bed.

"Ok, mom -" a frantic flash of his eyes toward mine - and another half moment's embrace of our eyes that which I couldn't doubt was finished, knowing abandon between us. We'd flirted with each other on the train all the way to Vera's, had declared ourselves "sweethearts" with something close to mischievous amusement in our eyes. I'd protested myself "safe and secure in the company of my handsome young protector," my giggle little less than girlish as he lifted my hand to his lips. "My lady's obedient and devoted servant -" and it had indeed been little less than a girlish swoon as I'd realized again that I was indeed sitting in the company of an exceptionally handsome young man. And still, I'd decided our demeanor toward each other not so different than it had always been, my younger son and I always exceptionally fond of each other. It might have been moments of quiet, brooding pause for me on the train, perhaps even a trembling sigh as I yet again admitted the beach nothing less than consumating sexual intimacy between myself and my own son. I yet again had to admit that I had fallen "a little in love" with a young man in whose arms I had discovered what the ultimate pleasure was. I yet again, however, decided it all just some girlish phase I was going through at thirty seven years of age - decided it the same as I wandered about the bedroom Andrew and I shared at Vera's even if I wasn't quite able to thrust abandoned little fantasies entirely aside, not quite able to deny it a waiting little warmth knowing it was to be my handsome young escort and I sleeping in the same bed that night.

I'd genuinely thought myself alone in the house, had stumbled through the bathroom's door, a bathroom the size of a closet in which there couldn't be anything more than a half pace between Andrew and me - the bathroom's door at Vera's falling closed behind me and the thing an immersion in raw, wanting sensation from which I just couldn't escape. It had been my Andrew flinging startled eyes to mine, my Andrew standing naked and seeing my eyes flung up and down his body in blatant, devouring abandon. I'd flung my eyes back to his, gasped a few words of apology, had finally affected a demeanor of complacent ease stating that I was "getting ready for bed" - and another moment's embrace of our eyes incomprehensibly timeless. He stood a half pace from me, frantic eyes buried to mine and my Andrew knowing that I was standing a half pace away from him in a helpless, not quite lucid paralysis - my Andrew, even if in not quite dared corners of his mind, knowing the ultimate. My younger son who was romantically in love with me hadn't for at least a month now seen the least hint of protest for gestures of affection toward me, he and I both sometimes seeing moments of sheepish pause in each other's eyes - my Andrew for a teasing touch of his lips to my hand seeing little less than girlish delight in my eyes. And it was yet again one sudden moment come from nowhere, my Andrew standing naked and in a startled panic - and knowing even if in not quite dared corners of his mind that I was standing a half pace from him for a moment and a timeless eternity longer than he could ever have anticipated, my demeanor incomparably different than he might ever have supposed it would be in the circumstances - and my demeanor exactly that which he'd for so long now imagined and fantasized it might be. It was yet again something I can only call a fleeting yet timeless moment's consumating, knowing intimacy between my younger son and myself. It was my Andrew perfectly aware that I was his mother even in the circumstances, my Andrew a rational and intelligent young man realizing as quickly as I did that flirting mischief between us had sometimes been a moment's fall past a proprietous line. It was my Andrew perfectly aware that I now saw him as a young man, my demeanor toward him little less than pouting annoyance if he wasn't paying me sufficient attention, a girlish giggle for a conciliatory touch of his lips to my cheek and assurances that I was still his sweetheart. It was Andrew sometimes assuring me that it wasn't indeed "anything serious" between him and his current girlfriend - my younger son and I seeing another moment's knowing, sheepish pause in each other's eyes. It had been my Andrew and I knowing exactly what the word "serious" had meant, my Andrew knowing again that my demeanor toward him was that which it must be toward a young man who knew what sexual intimacy was - and my demeanor toward him that final half moment at the bathroom's door at Vera's most certainly that which it had to be toward a young man. It was my son standing naked - and my son seeing that in my eyes which had to have been feminine, outright girlish fright.

I struggled again for that half moment's awakening reason, pretended my mood complacent ease, perhaps even gentle warmth when I finally turned toward the door. Even that was a final moment's knowing, abandoned intimacy between my younger son and myself, my Andrew standing naked and seeing nothing more than pleading affection for him in my eyes, my Andrew's eyes awash with frantic relief and all of the adoring warmth I always saw - and he and I for one more timeless instant seeing nothing less than the knowing, conspiratorial mischief which we'd seen in each other's eyes for months now.

I'd finally turned toward the door, lay a hand to the knob - and the thing seeming some bizare conspiracy intended to render me a helpless, fainting captive, the thing all of the sheer terror which a culminating moment on the beach had been. I tried the knob another half moment and just gave up, might have had to wrestle with that particular knob in Vera's house another half minute, a knob which Andrew could manipulate with a deft touch of his hand.

And I stood another timeless, terrified eternity attired in nothing more than a bit of flimsy silk which Alicia with the usual mischief in her features had presented me. It was a bit of ludicrous pretense which I would never have dared had I known I wasn't alone in the house - a bit of ludicrous pretense which covered nothing more than it had to and hid absolute nothing from my son standing a half pace behind me - my son who with a brush of his hands was going to slide a bit of flimsy silk from my hips onto my waist, was going to wrench my body back onto his, his arms flung about my body with unrestrained, capturing strength, my Andrew allowing me no escape as he thrust his body into mine in raw, frenzied need.

I struggled for a lucid calm, gave up on the knob, turned back to my son who could open the door for me with a touch of his hand.

"I can't - open it -" I tried - buried my eyes to his.

"I guess I can open it, mom -" my Andrew standing in helpless fright - and seeing as terrified a fright in my own features.

I struggled again for something, anything - and finally just lay a pleading hand to my son's waist knowing there just wasn't any other way.

"Can you open it for me, dear?"

I told him everything, I suppose, as I fell back onto the wall, my Andrew leaning toward the door - my arm drawn about his waist as he had to edge his body onto mine in a bathroom which just wasn't large enough for both of us. I'll never be entirely certain why I had to tell him everything - had to tell him that I would give him my body the instant he asked for it. He finally lay a hand to the door's knob - and the thing a bizare mix of terror and dizzying, abandoned ecstasy as he struggled with a stubborn door knob, flung panicked eyes back to mine - my son standing in a finished, aroused want, a want which I knew was a desparate, aching need for the intimate warmth of my body surrounding his. It was my son burying despairing eyes to mine, my Andrew so helplessly unable to hide the most personally intimate want of his body - and it was that same frantic need just to tell my own son that it was my body fallen into a flooding, agonizing want for his, an aching need for the penetrating, filling touch his body to mine.

"I can never open that door either -" I finally tried, perhaps a gentle smile, my Andrew gazing frantic relief, perhaps even the adoring warmth he'd always gazed toward me.

"Maybe I can try it again, mom -" my Andrew answered.

I nodded - and I stood my arm drawn about his waist with pleading strength. I was indeed his own mother quite as I always had been - and yet it was my Andrew genuinely and passionately in love with me - and my nightgown something which I would never have dared had I known I wasn't alone in the house. And it was my Andrew simply seeing me as he had for months now, my Andrew quite as I had sometimes giving up entirely, admitting that it was me toward whom he was gazing in moments of imagining abandon, admitting that it was me toward whom he gazed even he gave himself up to the primal, aroused want of his body.

And it seemed again a bizare moment come from nowhere. I cradled my son's body to my own attired in nothing more than a bit of flimsy silk, nothing more than a teasing facade. It's my breasts revealed to my son exactly as they are - a caressing touch of my breasts to his chest as I stood backed onto a wall a cradling arm about his waist. I'd stumbled into the bathroom at Vera's and had flung startled eyes the length of my son's body - and I'd stood in a bit a flimsy silk the ultimate intimacy of my own body revealed to my son. It might even a have been a moment's hysterical, reeling mirth - my son and I in a moment come from nowhere discovering that our hair was still the same color.

It might as I'd finally turned toward the bathroom's door knob even have had a moment's outright liscivious abandon for me, the nightgown in which I was attired falling just to my hips and hiding absolutely nothing and I deciding there just wasn't anything I could do about it at the moment anyway. I'd reached for the knob finally admitting that I as well was entirely naked, my curves revealed to my son exactly as they were - the thing a wash of surrounding enveloping warmth knowing it was my body at least for another moment become my son's to devour as he pleased - the thing a giddy little ecstasy knowing that I was everything my son wanted and imagined me to be. And it was dizzying, confused terror as I remembered that it might be a half minute's struggle with the bathroom's door at Vera's - and it was some blinding wash of raw, pounding sensation knowing that it was finally going to happen - a young man who I'd just discovered was agonizing, maddening beauty and allure standing naked a half pace behind me.

I'd turned back to him - and will never know to what extent it had all been intentional and contrived on my part. I'd flung my eyes toward that which was indeed a ridiculously confining passage at the bathroom's door - had lain my hand to my son's waist deciding there just wasn't any other way, deciding it had to be a writhing, caressing embrace of our bodies - decided it had to be that even as we both stood a half pace from each other naked and trembling. I'll always believe it had been a very genuine struggle for restraint on both of our parts - and just can't deny that it had been my every secret and most cherished little hope realized, my son even in a moment of startled fright seeing me as nothing less than arousing. It was my Andrew perfectly aware that I was his own mother, pretense and denial suddenly and entirely impossible - and it was that for my Andrew which it was for me, nothing more than moments and yet an incomprehensibly timeless eternity. It was my Andrew standing a half pace from me, I attired in a nightgown which didn't even conceal the ultimate intimacy of my body from him - I for so long now my Andrew's fantasy lover and restraint in a sudden moment come from nowhere just not possible. It was my Andrew genuinely struggling for restraint, genuinely seeing me as his own mother - and it just didn't make any difference, I simply a woman for my own son and a woman for whom he could find himself falling into the ultimate, primal want.

And I couldn't finally deny the ultimate wants of my own body - my own son standing naked a half pace from me, my son seeing me as nothing less than arousing - and the thing seeming something I just couldn't any longer endure, an agonizing need that it be his body inside mine in the ultimate touch of intimacy. I'll always believe that I felt even in that moment all of the gentle, adoring warmth I had always felt for my younger son, could readily admit that it had always been a unique, fond affection between Andrew and me. And yet it had been that sudden moment come from nowhere - my eyes flung to those of a young man who was passionately, painfully in love with me - and my entire existence the aroused want of a young man who was agonizing beauty and allure to every inexplicable extreme. He was my own son even in that moment - and it just didn't make any difference, the aroused want of his body stirring in my own an answering want of a ferocity I couldn't for most of my life have imagined possible, that agonizing need that it be his body inside mine in the ultimate touch of intimacy.

I'll never quite remember backing onto the bathroom's wall, edging an arm about my son's waist as he edged his body onto mine, finally reached for the door's knob - a futile struggle with the knob and my arm drawn about his waist with frantic strength as he flung his eyes back to mine.

I cradled my son's body to my own, stood my own body trembling with helpless violence - and just can't deny that it been my body belonging to my own son in finished, sexual intimacy. It was my Andrew trembling as well, telling me that he could try the door again. I'd nodded - my son seeing me trembling, wrapping frantic hands to my arms - the thing for me a reeling oblivion of warm, capturing ecstasy. It was my Andrew and I gazing toward the door from a confused corner of our eyes - and he and I in that same instant standing our eyes buried to each other's still not quite daring to believe that it had happened. It was his hands wrapped to my arms with frantic strength, the crush of my arm about his waist every bit as obvious and blatant - the thing my every secret and cherished little hope realized for my son gazing raw, abandoned want toward me, my son knowing in one sudden moment that he just wasn't going to stop. I'll never be entirely certain why I just couldn't demand that he do so - just can't again deny that I didn't want him to stop, that I'd given him my body the instant he'd asked for it.

I'll never quite know why we both waited one final, timeless moment. It was my Andrew and I standing our eyes buried to each other's, he and I standing in trembling, naked embrace. It was our eyes buried to each other's and yet our entire existence the pounding, aching want of our bodies - and my arm drawn about my son's waist with obvious and frantic strength as I cradled his body to my own. It was my son knowing that he'd flung himself past every abandoned edge, his hands crushed onto my arms with blatant strength, the door forgotten as he gazed raw, abandoned want toward me. It was the naked touch of my breasts to his chest become his entire existence. It was finally a woman who cradled him in her arms - the ultimate intimacy of a woman's body his entire existence - and it might finally have been a half moment's reeling, hysterical mirth for me. It was my Andrew flinging his eyes again to mine, standing again in a reeling panic realizing that the touch of his hands to my arms was brutal, demanding strength - my Andrew standing in a reeling panic just not able to believe that it had been my arm wrenched about his waist in obvious and blatant assent.

"Andrew -" I finally tried - and even a genuine struggle for a moment's reasoning pause seeming ludicrously futile. I was cradling my son's body to my own, my lips all but touching his. "Andrew -" I tried again, a frantic search for anything - perhaps something like a mirthful sigh as I just flung myself on, "if you want to try the door again -?"

It was yet again frantic relief in my son's eyes, the same adoring warmth - a final moment's helpless abandon my Andrew at least for another fleeting moment finally daring to believe that which I'd made so blatantly obvious - my Andrew knowing in every frantic corner of his mind that he needn't have stopped, that he could have pushed his body into mine in the finished act of sexual intimacy the instant he'd wanted to. It was my Andrew finally daring to believe that it had indeed been my arm wrenched about his waist in obvious and blatant assent, that it had been my eyes buried to his and my eyes awash with frenzied, abandoned pleading.

It was finally a moment's awakening reason for both of us. He reached again for the door, a half moment's struggle with the knob this time, the door opening - and it was yet again paralysis I couldn't before the moment have imagined as I stood backed onto the bathroom's wall, an arm lain to my Andrew's waist - the naked warmth of my son's body leaned onto mine something incomparably more than even the beach had been.

"Thank you, dear -" I tried. "I guess I'll go to bed now. Are you coming to bed, Andrew -"

"Yeah - I guess so, mom -"

It was a moment's caressing touch of my hand to his waist in which I told him that nothing had changed between us, that my affection for him was all of the gentle, adoring warmth it always had been. It was Andrew finally and again burying adoring eyes to mine. And yet it had to be more between Andrew and me, he and I both perfectly aware that we'd been flirting with each other for at least the past month now, had sometimes traded smiles of knowing, conspiratorial mischief. I could, dancing with my younger son, assume a stance which was little less than liscivious teasing as he declared girls his own age plain and ordinary as soon as I'd walked onto the dance floor.

And it had to be something ultimately more between us as we stood that final moment at the bathroom's door at Vera's, my Andrew and I because of walls to our backs finding ourselves in a bizare and sudden moment standing in a naked embrace from which escape just wasn't any longer possible. It was something for which all manner of fantasizing over the past month hadn't even prepared me. I hadn't at least for the past month been able to deny that I had fallen "a little in love" with my own son, couldn't deny that I was sometimes allowing myself fantasies which were consumating - and I stood at the bathroom's door at Vera's my arm lain to my son's waist, nothing indeed in some ways changed between Andrew and myself. It was he and I seeing the same adoring warmth in each other's eyes, my Andrew and I a mother and son who'd never doubted ourselves exceptionally close to each other, he and I dancing in each other's arms and my stance for a bashful, flattering comment regarding my appearance a half moment's outright lascivious writhing. It had in that bathroom's doorway at Vera's been a caressing touch of my hand to his waist, my Andrew hands wrapped to my arms in gentle warmth, he and I perhaps pretending with some frantic desparation that it wasn't a moment between us so different than moments of the sort had been in the past - and my Andrew and I in that sudden moment come from nowhere standing again at the bathroom's door at Vera's in naked embrace, the heaving touch of my breasts to his chest so obvious and inescapable. It might almost have been another fleeting half moment's outright blatant and liscivious abandon for me, my appearance so entirely and inexplicable different without clothing covering my body, the notion of age just not there - the thing for me another half moment's reeling ecstasy knowing that I was everything my Andrew wanted and had imagined me to be. And it couldn't as quickly have been less than another moment's fright in my son's eyes, my Andrew naked - and a bit of ludicrous silk already pushed aside by a writhing little dance at the bathroom's door, my Andrew burying his eyes to mine and yet his entire existence a touch of his body to mine which was naked, intimate warmth already - my son standing in my arms the aroused want of his body yet again a helpless, desparate ache needing the finished, surrounding warmth of my own body.

I'll always believe that a caressing touch of my hand to his waist had been a genuine struggle to escape that which couldn't for either of us have seemed less than consumating already, will always believe that it had been uncomplicated, adoring warmth in my son's eyes as wrapped owning hands to my arms. It might even then have my Andrew and I wanting and needing nothing more than another moment's knowing, conspiratorial intimacy in each other's arms, he and I a mother and a son never doubting it a close and unique affection between us, I a mother who with blatant mischief in my eyes could assure my son that I was still his girlfriend - and it was yet again one sudden and timeless moment. It was my Andrew standing in aching desparation for the intimate warmth of my body, my Andrew holding his hands to my arms knowing again that he just couldn't stop - and I just can't ever deny that it had been my body offered again to my own son, that I had just stood another moment and another abandoned eternity my body to be given to my own son in the ultimate act of sexual intimacy - and the want of my body for his yet again something I couldn't before the moment have imagined, the thing something which I just couldn't stand any more, an aching need that his body be inside mine.

I'll never quite know why I could finally demand another moment's reasoning pause of myself only after I'd buried assenting, pleading eyes to his. I tried a gentle smile toward my younger son.

"I guess I'll go to bed now -" I repeated - and something which I suspect was foolish and girlish in my features to every ludicrous extreme.

"Ok, mom -" gentle, adoring warmth in his eyes, perhaps even an edge of sheepish though settling amusement as I finally edged my body through the bathroom's door - perhaps even another moment's conspiratorial abandon in a flash of our eyes toward each other. I'd countless times over the past few months proclaimed my Andrew an exceptionally handsome young man who would catch any girls eye, had sometimes allowed myself a moment's flirting mischief in the company of an exceptionally handsome young man. And my demeanor stepping from my son's arms at the bathroom's door must have appeared girlish to every obvious extreme. It couldn't have been less than another moment's culminating embarrassment for my Andrew as I stepped from his arms - my Andrew naked and the ultimately intimate want of his body so helplessly revealed to me. And it was my Andrew in that same moment seeing a girl who had just stepped from his arms standing another moment and another timeless eternity in an entranced, breathless daze. It couldn't have been less than another devouring flash of my eyes the length of his body, my eyes this time flung for a helpless and timeless moment to the ultimately personal intimacy of a young man's body - my eyes flung apologetically to his and yet the moment just that same knowing, almost mirthful conspiracy between us. It was my son knowing that his own mother even in an ultimately intimate moment was standing in startled, little less than swooning disbelief for a young who was the most impossibly beautiful and alluring creature who had ever lived.

It was both my Andrew and I as I stepped from his arms struggling for a reasoning calm, he and I indeed a mother and a son stepping from each other's arms - and my son and I knowing again that it had been a half minute, perhaps even longing, our eyes buried to each other's and yet our entire that which was to be our bodies joined and one in the finished act of sexual intimacy.

I'd wandered that evening at Vera's toward the bed, had pulled the covers down, had lifted a glass of water from a wall shelf, had stood another few moments in a not quite lucid daze - had yet again struggled for a reasoning calm as my younger son wandered through the bathroom's door wearing the gym shorts he'd worn the last several times we'd visited my aunt Vera.

"How was your day -?" I'd begun as I always did.

"Ok -" a sheepish little shrug.

"Just ok -?"

"This and that, I guess."

I'd decided anything more was indeed impossible at the moment, had pretended it my complacent attention on a glass of water - will never quite know why I'd glanced toward the wall mirror a moment later. I'd genuinely thought myself alone in the house when I'd finished unpacking the suitcase, had drawn a bit of flimsy silk into my hands deciding on a moment's vain mischief in front of the mirror. "Come on, mom," both Alicia and Andrew had protested in teasing mischief placing the nightgown in the suitcase at home. "You gotta at least take it."

I stood, I yet again realized with that half moment's glance toward the mirror, entirely naked next to the bed in which Andrew and I slept at Vera's - and decided again in something close to sighing, resigned mirth that there just wasn't anything I could do about it at the moment. I noticed my son settling onto the bed from a corner of my eye, pretended it again my attention on my water - and yet another glance toward the mirror something which I can never deny had been intentional liscivious abandon, a glance toward the mirror just to be certain that I hadn't mistaken anything - that I was indeed standing entirely naked next to the bed on which my Andrew had settled. I edged my eyes back to my water glass - and will never quite remember those two or three steps toward a wall shelf. It hadn't, I suppose, been anything more than a half moment's writhing little dance placing a water glass onto a wall shelf - and it had been another timeless eternity's fall past every abandoned edge, the leaning, stretching pose I'd assumed for him that which I'd known would display my form to it's every alluring advantage - my form, I'd known and admitted even in the moment, just that which it was. And I'd known the thing even in the moment my every secret little fantasy realized. I'd stood countless times at the kitchen stove knowing it a stolen little glance - and I stood in that sudden moment come from nowhere behind a closed bedroom's door clothed in nothing but a bit of flimsy pretense, was finally able to stand naked for my own son knowing again that my form was just that which it was and that which my Andrew perceived it to be. It's a nightgown which is teasing illusion, my Andrew for moments able to see me standing fully clothed at the kitchen stove, his glance imagining abandon. And it's finally behind a closed bedroom's door my Andrew knowing again that I'm something inexplicable more than can be supposed with imagining glances, my form a voluptuous, hourglass ideal to every curving, alluring extreme and something for which the notion of age just isn't there.

I stood a moment and a timeless little eternity at the wall shelf never denying that I was finally standing entirely naked for my own son behind a closed bedroom's door, my Andrew finally allowed unrestrained, devouring scrutiny rather than a fleeting moment's startled glance. And I just flung myself again into a mood of abandoned resignation. It had all just happened, hadn't even been entirely intentional on my part. And my Andrew was a young man now - and my Andrew just a young man who saw his own mother as the feminine ideal. It had indeed not that long ago been argumentative vehemence in my Andrew's voice as he'd declared me "sexier" than young women pictured in a blatantly explicit magazine - and I suppose I wanted again just one more sensual and ultimately abandoned moment with a young man for whom the thing was something even more than just sensuality. He was my Andrew who was, at least for the moment, romantically in love with me - and I wanted one more moment of romantic, cradling warmth with him - a moment in which he knew again that I was indeed that feminine ideal which a young man had always imagined me to be.

I'd finally placed my glass on the wall shelf that evening at Vera's - and had turned back toward the bed deciding again that I just didn't have any choice but to do so, had turned back toward the bed flinging myself again into a finished, undoubted abandon. I'll never be certain what I had been expecting turning toward my own son knowing that I was naked as I did so - and it was yet again something I could never quite have imagined it - something more than I could ever have dared hope for. He gave up after nothing more than a half moment's frantic struggle. It was nothing less than a frenzied, devouring flash of his eyes - and that which hadn't been anything more than two or three paces toward the bed yet again seeming incomprehensibly

timeless dancing for my own son and everything I had wanted it to be in my every liscivious little fantasy. I genuinely hadn't for years now glanced more than moments of amused vanity toward mirrors, had thought it just a strange and pleasant little fact that my breasts were still some voluptuous ideal, the notion of age just not there. And it had yet again behind a closed bedroom's door seemed a single, reeling moment come from nowhere, a helpless and obvious flash of my son's eyes - my breasts my entire existence in ways I couldn't before the moment have imagined. It had, not that long ago, been my Andrew declaring that I was "sexier" than young women pictured in a blatantly explicit magazine. "Mom's," my Andrew to my giddy, swooning delight had declared, "might not be as large as Alicia's or even Sara Moor's, but I'll bet ya anyone on the beach is gonna stare at mom's first. Her's are just - what a picture or a statue should be, not just a magazine."

I fell the final pace toward the bed, stood another timeless, not quite lucid eternity in frantic debate - and it had yet again been reason and restraint flung aside entirely. I'd just settled my body onto the bed even as I'd known I was naked as I did so - had known in every frenzied corner of my mind that I was settling my body onto a bed at the side of my own son and the aroused want of my body yet again a throbbing, pounding ache desparate for the penetrating, consumating touch of his.

"Oh - it's always so cold in here -" I'd tried, had pretended it all not so different than countless evenings in the past at Vera's, had curled my hands onto the bed sheets - and I'll never know how long I had waited even then, my Andrew resting at my side wearing gym shorts, the finished want of his body so helplessly obvious - his eyes flung with helpless devouring abandon to the ultimate intimacy of my own body.

I'd finally drawn the bed sheets over my son's and my own body. It had been my Andrew and I finally daring each other's eyes, another sheepish comment or two about aunt Vera's dinner, gentle, settling smiles toward each other.

"Oh - it's so cold -" the bed sheets edged over my shoulders - another moment's reeling debate and I decided it again not entirely different than it had been often enough in the past. I had, any number of times walking from one side of this bedroom to the other, caught myself performing liscivious little dances knowing that Andrew laying on the bed was stealing glances of devouring scrutiny. And I rested again entirely naked at my son's side in bed, a bit of flimsy silk bunched about my waist - admitted again that I was finally and intentionally flinging myself over every abandoned edge. I genuinely hadn't, I suppose, known that I couldn't settle my body onto the bed without a bit of flimsy silk working it's way onto my waist - and I'll always wonder if I had hesitated another moment or another timeless, reeling eternity before I'd reached for the sheets. I'd done so, I finally admitted, only when certain that it was his eyes edged toward my body in helpless, devouring abandon. I'd pretended I hadn't noticed that I was entirely naked as I'd reached for the sheets - and the dance I'd performed for my own son a writhing twist of my hips closer to his, the want of my body for his an agonizing ache even after I'd pulled the sheets over my body.

I rested at my son's side in the bed we always shared at Vera's, struggled again for a reasoning calm.

"Any mischief today with your uncle?"

"Just the pool hall. I think he had a couple more whiskies than usual at Al's."

"Or Lord," I sighed - and rested in bed at my son's side finally settling at least for moments into a complacent calm - will never know how it could in another moment or two be the flirting mischief it always was between Andrew and me.

"Now stop -" I giggled.

"But you are, mom - a princess in a castle -" that the subject of the last poem he'd written for me. It was all of the gentle, intimate warmth it had always been between my younger son and myself, a visit to Vera's a pleasant little adventure always ending with Andrew and resting at each other's sides in bed, sometimes for the past year now a teasing touch of our legs to each other's even before we'd fallen into sleep. And it was yet again something incomparably different than it had ever been in the past, a few moment's quiet until it was Andrew and I stealing a glance and catching each other doing so - and the thing yet again constant and unrelenting in ways I'd never before known, a fall to some threatening edge as I admitted that I was waiting for consumating sexual intimacy with my own son.

I'd finally that evening at Vera's clawed my nails onto my arms, leaned as I always had in the past.

"Good night, dear," a touch of my lips to his cheek.

"Nite, mom -" a touch of his lips to my cheek - and the entire night yet again that which I can never deny had been consummating sexual intimacy between myself and my own son in every sense of the word. I'd turned my back toward him, rested at his side another few minutes knowing again that I'd flung myself past every abandoned edge. It might indeed have been inadvertent, a bit of flimsy silk bunched to my waist as I'd settled my body onto the bed - and it had been some timeless and unending fall from a cliff, my son knowing that it had in the bathroom been my eyes flung for a blatant, devouring moment to the ultimately personal intimacy of his body - and I just minutes later edging my body toward his, leaning until I'd known it his eyes flung to the ultimately personal intimacy of my own body - and the thing yet again something from which escape just wasn't possible. I'd rested my hands curled onto the bed sheets - and my eyes yet again flung to my own son's body, my Andrew resting at my side wearing gym shorts and the aroused want of his body for mine a helpless pounding ache desparate for relief. It had been the bed sheets forgotten - had been that unending fall from a cliff knowing that I just wasn't going to stop this time, knowing that an obvious and pleading glance of my eyes toward his would be enough - and my Andrew flinging eyes awash with raw, attacking abandon to mine.

"Oh - it's always so cold in here -" I'd mumbled - and will never know how long I'd waited even then pretending that I hadn't noticed the nightgown bunched about my waist, pretending my scrutinizing notice on the bed sheets - finally pulling the bed sheets over my son's and my own body yet never quite remembering doing so.

It had finally been a few minutes settling calm, quiet conversation, a touch of our lips to each other's cheeks - and I rested at my son's side in bed supposing he had to have seen something more, something incomparably different in my features for an affectionate touch of his lips to my cheek. Perhaps we had indeed finally spoken every last intimacy to each other. Perhaps he had indeed seen anything from reeling fright to wild, pleading assent in my eyes as he'd touched his lips to my cheek. I'd genuinely for moments attempted to thrust all manner of threatening images aside, had almost convinced myself that it was nothing more than the innocuous warmth it had always been at Vera's whenever Andrew and I had settled into bed together for the night. And it just seemed again one sudden and bizare moment come from nowhere. I was settled onto the bed for the night with a young man, a young man finally daring a sheepish little smile toward me - a young man who I had just discovered was agonizing, maddening beauty and allure to every perfect extreme. I'd touched my lips to my Andrew's cheeks knowing my younger son romantically, violently in love with me - and knowing as he returned my kiss that it was still his body fallen into a mature and finished aroused want. And it had yet again been pretense and denial become impossible, all manner of resolutions collapsed. It had been that same oblivion of reeling, dizzying fright - had yet again been my own body fallen into wants of a ferocity I couldn't for most of my life have imagined possible. It had been my younger son touching his lips to my cheek - and had been some culminating fright for me knowing that I just wouldn't again have stopped. I'll always wonder if it had indeed been a half moment's unfeigned, frenzied pleading in my eyes. And I couldn't any longer deny the ultimate, my younger son touching his lips to my cheek - and the want of my body for his constant and unrelenting, something to which I'd abandoned myself entirely. It had been my eyes buried to my own son's a final half moment and the words there in my throat - please - have me.

I'd finally struggled for that half moment's reasoning calm, could yet again in settling amusement admit that I had fallen "a little in love" with a handsome young admirer so obviously and violently in love with me. I could rest at my younger son's side in bed at Vera's feeling a giddy, girlish delight for another poem he had presented me just that afternoon - and I wondered again if we were bothering to hide the least bit of anything from each other. "Why Andrew, long auburn hair hanging over her shoulders in beautiful, flowing waves -?" and the dance I'd performed for him sitting at the dressing table that afternoon a moment's outright liscivious writhing, my handsome young admirer resting on the bed with a sheepish smile in his features - and I wondering if he'd seen that which must suddenly have appeared every bit as sheepish and outright girlish in my own features.

I'd settled into bed with him at Vera' deciding as I had so often over the past month or so just to wait for a settling, reasoning calm, he and I both knowing why we weren't playing with each other's legs as we had countless times in the past. I'd struggled again for reasoning restraint - and had finally and again just flung myself past every abandoned edge as I'd lain on urging hand to his arm.

"It's so cold in here, Andrew. I don't know why Vera has to turn the heat so far down -"

He drew his arms about my shoulders and my waist, let me back my body onto his.

"Ok, dear -?" I whispered.

"Sure, mom. It is cold -"

I'll always wonder if it had almost happened that night. I'd writhed closer to him never quite daring to believe that it could be anything more than the gentle, perhaps pleasant warmth it had been often enough in the past. And another half moment's writhing was enough, he and I just not stopping, my son and I knowing that our embrace this evening could be close, cradling warmth which was something incomparably more than it had ever been in the past. It was my Andrew's arms drawn about my shoulders and my waist with a finished, capturing strength, something incomparably more than I'd dared hope for, my younger son and I writhing together, stopping for a moment only when it was my body cradled onto his with frantic, unfeigned violence. It yet again seemed one sudden moment come from nowhere - a blinding, dizzying ecstasy even as it was an oblivion of despairing, culminating fright when denial wasn't again possible. I'd given my body to my younger son entirely, had pretended it a search for warmth and had known it in another timeless instant nothing less than abandoned, sexual lovemaking - my hands clawed onto his with frantic, assenting strength knowing that he as well just couldn't stop. It was finally my every secret and longing hope realized - a blatant, wanting crush of his lips to my shoulder an agonizing ecstasy. It was my Andrew's arms drawn about my shoulders and my waist with obvious, wanting violence - his hands clawed onto my shoulder and my waist, clawed onto a bit of flimsy silk to be ripped from my body entirely - and it might finally have been that same hysterical mirth. I searched frantically for some way to tell my inexperienced lover that my hands clawed onto his had indeed been frenzied, abandoned assent - searched frantically for some way to tell him why it had been my body trembling that final moment with unrestrained violence, I as desparate as he that a bit of flimsy silk be torn away entirely. And it was my Andrew cradling my body onto his with finished, capturing violence and yet my Andrew resting in a terrified panic for just a blatant touch of his lips to my shoulder.

"That's nice, dear -" I whispered, pretended it all just another moment's writhing search for entwining warmth, my Andrew finally and again cradling my body onto his with finished, capturing strength.

And it was yet again something which I just couldn't as little as a month ago have imagined possible - my body for just a wanting touch of a young man's lips to my shoulder and the cradling, capturing warmth of his arms wracked in exploding waves of hammering, torturing pleasure - a pleasure which I just couldn't deny I had intentionally sought this time and a consummating, released pleasure of a ferocity which I knew again was possible only in the capturing, confining arms of my own son.

I'd flung every last pretense aside that evening at Vera's, flung myself the entire night past every abandoned edge. I just couldn't deny that I had yet again engaged in an act of consumating sexual intimacy with my own son - and I just edged my body again onto his, pled for my Andrew's arms about my shoulders and my waist, plead with my hands for a cradling embrace of my body to his - never for an instant denied that it was my body given to my own son in whatever manner of intimacy he wanted. And even as it was, I just couldn't deny it intentionally consumating again in every sense of the word. It was my younger son cradling my body onto his, knowing that I wanted him to do so, knowing that it was past limits flung aside - and the thing for me just as it was some raw, unrelenting wash of sensation, an immersion in surrounding, enveloping pleasure of a ferocity I had never before known possible. It was my Andrew settled back into an idle calm, cradling my body onto his with owning strength - he and I deciding again that we were just sleeping on the same bed as we always had at Vera's. And it was yet again a pleasure I can only call agonizing knowing that the naked warmth of my body curled onto his was all of the outright liscivious delight for him which it was for me. It was gentle, stolen caresses, a touch of his leg to mine which wasn't more than it had been often enough in the past. And it was yet again something incomparably more than it had ever before been, my body his entirely in finished, naked intimacy, my body his to fondle with his own until it was yet again agonizing, torturing sensation built to that strange and threatening edge. I covered his hands with my own, pretended it a writhing search for his warmth as he drew his arms about my body with owning, capturing strength. And I couldn't that evening even force a choking cry of pleasure entirely back into my throat when it was yet again my body fallen into the throes of the ultimate sexual release. I just rested in my younger son's arms supposing he knew again that our embrace was something very different than it had ever been in the past, supposing he finally dared believe at least for fleeting moments that our embrace was caressing, fondling lovemaking. I supposed it my younger son cradling my body onto his daring for fleeting moments to believe the ultimate, my Andrew remembering that it been my eyes flung for a timeless yet blatant moment to the ultimately personal want of his body - and remembering that it had just minutes later been a writhing little twist of my body closer to his even as it was his eyes flung to the ultimately personal intimacy of my body revealed to him.

It had, that night at Vera's, been yet another writhing twist of my body as my younger son cradled me in his arms with all of the capturing strength I wanted -

- and the words yet again pounding their way into my throat - Andrew - you can have me - any time you want me.

I stood another moment at my bedroom's mirror in a house in the suburbs. We'd been a mother and a son for another week our demeanor toward each other not so different, we'd supposed, than that of any other mother and son - my Andrew and I just pretending that a night at Vera's hadn't been so different than any in the past. And still, I'd known exactly why I was exercising caution closing my bedroom's door that week knowing that a closed door in our house was enough, was always respected. And it had yet again just a week after a consumating evening at Vera's seemed all manner of frantic resolve collapsed entirely, my Andrew wandering through a door I'd forgotten to close and discovering again that I was everything he wanted me to be. It hadn't even been a bit of flimsy silk covering my body this time - and just the touch of his eyes as I stood naked and dancing for him next to my bed leaving me fallen into a finished, agonizing want. I stood at my own bedroom's mirror - and he's naked, resting a few feet away from me on his bed - my younger son maddening. agonizing beauty as it's his body fallen into finished, aroused want, my Andrew quite as I just had giving in to the primal wants of his body. He as well had allowed himself images only in vague, not quite dared corners of his mind - until he as well had just given up entirely. She's his own mother standing a few paces away from him next to her bed - and yet she's something entirely different without clothing covering her body, the notion of age just not there. He sees a girl standing next to the bed even if she is a girl whose curves are a round, hourglass allure, almost that impossible feminine ideal. She's standing in helpless fright next to her bed, turns away from him - and yet she doesn't flee, her eyes flung over her shoulder to his, her voice sultry protest and that in her eyes which he knows is giddy delight. He sees a girl who standing naked next to her bed is dancing for him, a moment's protest and yet her stance nothing more than sultry teasing. She's his own mother again - and yet he'd cradled her body to his own just a week ago knowing that it had been something a world more than just a search for close, entwining warmth. He'd wrapped an owning arm about her waist, had touched a pleading, wanting kiss to her shoulder. It had indeed been her body crushed onto his in shuddering, writhing caress - and a touch of her hand to his just frenzied pleading rather than cautioning restraint or anything of the sort. He'd never allowed himself any real pretense or denial, had held his own mother in his arms throughout the night - and had yet again given up entirely. He'd touched a hand to a bit of flimsy silk bunched at her waist - had flung himself on into finished, blatant abandon. She was entirely naked, her body curled onto his - her curves an agonizing feminine ideal and his to play with to fondle as he pleased - until he had heard a choked gasp wrenched from her throat, her body curled onto his another few moments in writhing, shuddering caress. He'd struggled even then for another moment's settling calm - and had cradled his princess in his arms, his princess who belonged only to him. He'd shuddered just that afternoon in sheepish pause finally realizing that the poem he had written to his own mother had said something incomparably more than he'd genuinely intended to say. He'd edged his eyes toward hers as she sat at the dressing table reading the poem, had known that he must see aghast affront in her eyes for that which was all there in between the lines. "Why - Andrew -" his mother had indeed protested - and nothing more in her features, he'd finally realized, than the adoring delight he'd always seen. He'd just declared his own mother the most beautiful princess who had ever lived - sensuality there in between every line and sensuality which he'd realized again his mother understood - and she at her dressing table protesting it with nothing more than a teasing little glance, a change of her posture which was all of the flirting mischief it had always been - and her demeanor the entire evening something incomparably different than he'd ever before seen. She was his own mother knowing that he was passionately, painfully in love with her, knowing that a poem had been he and she residing in some other world and in some other time, his mother knowing the fantasy's every intimate conclusion - and he cradled his mother's body onto his own knowing again that he hadn't mistaken a thing, knowing again that that he and his mother for at least the past month had spoken every last intimacy with a moment's embrace of their eyes. He yet again allowed himself the ultimate - his mother naked, letting him cradle her body onto his with finished, owning strength - his mother struggling as well for another moment's pause and yet doubt long since gone. The evening might indeed have been the matter of a sudden and genuinely inadvertent moment - and yet it had been he and his mother in the bathroom flinging their eyes to each other's knowing that a moment's writhing, caressing embrace of their bodies at the door had left them standing in the ultimately intimate embrace. It had been a bit of flimsy silk pushed aside - and he'd flung his eyes to his own mother's as he'd stood in aching desparation for the finished, intimate warmth of her body. It had been his mother trembling in obvious helpless violence - and her arm drawn about his waist with frantic, unfeigned strength, her eyes buried to his - the thing just that which it was. It had been his mother hiding nothing from him, she wanting his body inside of her, wanting it with all of the aching desparation he'd felt himself. It had been a few more minutes settling calm, he and she resting in bed, pretending it not so different than it had always been - and he was cradling his mother's body onto his knowing that it was her body given him to caress as he pleased, knowing that she was answering his every caress as he cradled her body onto his with unfeigned, frantic violence - knowing that it was his mother yet again crushing pleading, assenting hands onto his, writhing with him in unfeigned, sexual lovemaking for as long as he wanted to do so. It's yet again that which it has to be, moments of quiet pause, a bizare pretense - until he'd known again that his own mother wanted his arms around her with unfeigned violence, wanted to rest naked in his arms her body drawn onto his with capturing, brutal strength - until he'd known again that his mother as well just couldn't stop, was giving her body to him entirely and without limit.

I stood at my mirror in a house in the suburbs pulling my dress into order. He rested on his bed a few feet away from me, had dared the images only in vague corners of his mind - until he as well had just given up entirely. It had been his own mother standing entirely naked next to her bed - and he'd just pushed the door closed, had fallen forward. It was his mother hiding nothing from him, letting her hands fall from her breasts, turning back toward him even is it was the ultimate intimacy of her body revealed to him. He'd just pushed the clothing from his own body, stood a pace from his own mother and yet it was his body fallen into finished aroused want for hers. He knows again that she's his own mother - and knows she's his helpless, docile captive. She stands her breasts rising and falling in shuddering fury, flings her eyes again to the aroused want of his body. There just isn't any doubt remaining, she his own mother and yet she just can't hide a thing, pretends it her eyes buried to his and yet the aroused want of his body become her entire existence. He might in the past have seen her sigh in annoyed amusement - and knows again that it's all changed now. He knows she's standing in helpless, transfixed abandon, her eyes for another paralyzed eternity awash with unfeigned, frenzied pleading. It had indeed been a moment's struggle for him, might a week ago have been a startled and frantic attempt to escape something so blatant and obvious - until it had been his own mother gasping a startled apology, she for another timeless eternity just standing there as helplessly unable to retreat. And he'd just given up entirely, must stand nothing more than a pace from her the aroused want of his body revealed to her, the aroused want of his body for that flash of her eyes become a helpless, pounding ache to every finished extreme - and that flash of her eyes speaking every last intimacy. She's his own mother flinging her eyes back to his. And she as well just can't any longer hide the ultimate intimacies. She's wanted him all along, wants now exactly that which he wants. She's his own mother standing another timeless moment in a helpless paralysis, standing her eyes buried to his - and he knows finally and without the least doubt that she'll gasp in assenting abandon for a pleading crush of his hands to her waist. Perhaps it will be her hands lain to his arms in fainting protest, a frightened, writhing twist of her body - and she stands again a helpless, docile captive for an arm drawn about her waist with pleading strength, her breasts heaving in shuddering fury for a hand slid from her waist to caresses of searching, fondling intimacy. She's his own mother even then - and she gasps in trembling want as her body is lowered onto the bed. He's flung pretense and denial aside entirely, she his own mother - and her arms drawn ab out his waist with frantic pleading until it's his body lowered onto hers, a gasp of primal ecstasy wrenched from her throat as it's their bodies joined and one in the ultimate touch of intimacy.

I'd stood at my bedroom's mirror finally struggling for a reasoning calm. I'd walked downstairs a few minutes later, had wandered into the kitchen, had decided again that it was just some juvenile fancy which would pass. I'd stood over pots and pans at the stove, had glanced sighing amusement over my shoulder toward my daughter and my sons engaged in sibling bickering.

And it had seemed some entirely different atmosphere when Alicia and James had wandered through the back door.

"How was your day, Andrew?" I'd tried, a glance over my shoulder.

"Ok, mom," a shy little smile - and I'd turned back to the evening's dinner knowing that it was every last shred of clothing stripped from my body - and wondering as I leaned onto a shelf for a ladle if my doing so had been anything less than the liscivious and writhing little dance I'd performed for him a week ago at Vera's.

Stop, I'd finally demanded of myself, urged myself toward a settling calm.

"Just ok, dear -?" I'd chuckled as I'd handed my younger son a muffin hoping for the chattering conversation we usually shared.

"Yeah - ok, I guess - this and that -" a helpless little shrug. And I suppose I just gave up for the evening, decided it had indeed to be one of those evenings in which my younger son and I couldn't even quite meet each other's eyes. I leaned at the table, handed him the muffin - and it might have been a moment's sighing, resigned mirth for me. I hadn't ever paid "them" a great deal more than a moment's vain, satisfied attention - and "they're" suddenly bouncing with a ludicrous fury as I walk from the stove to the table. It was my clothing yet again gone entirely as I leaned and handed Andrew a muffin, my breasts my entire existence - and Andrew just minutes ago discovering again that my appearance is something inexplicably different, inexplicably more once my clothing is gone.

It had seemed something in the air between Andrew and me which I'll never entirely comprehend. I was entirely naked for him the entire evening - and the passionate, romantic ardor of his love for me hadn't changed in the least. And it was Andrew knowing again that he'd stood at my bedroom's door flinging devouring eyes up and down my body, and knowing again that I'd just stood a few paces away from him at the edge of the bed my protest nothing more than sultry teasing. It might in the kitchen a few minutes later almost have been a half moment's amused mirth between Andrew and myself, I this time standing helpless and naked and not allowed retreat - and my younger son remembering that I'd made no attempt whatsoever toward retreat, had just stood entirely naked next to my bed letting him run devouring eyes up and down my body for as long as he wanted to.

It was Andrew and I in quiet, subdued moods that evening listening to everyone else's conversation at the dinner table, and Andrew for some idle query from his father regarding school or something of the sort finally daring a glance toward me and I toward him - and I sat at the dinner table the thing yet again that which I could only call consumating. It was a strange and helpless little desparation. I longed to provide my younger son some consoling, sympathizing warmth - almost longed to tell him that I as well just couldn't help it, was sitting at the dinner table every bit as tongue tied. It yet again seemed something inexplicable in the air between my younger son and me, my poor Andrew so desperately trying to hide that which was his body fallen into a helpless, aroused want for me - and I finally admitting that it was yet again every last shred of my clothing stripped away for my younger son even as I sat at his side at the dinner table - and almost wishing I could tell him that the aroused want of my body had yet again become all of the aching, unrelenting ferocity his own arousal was.

And it had again almost seemed some bizare little conspiracy that evening its purpose to render my younger son and me hopelessly entwined and bound in each other's presence.

"And I want my radio back, Andrew," pouting annoyance in Alicia's voice. "He wouldn't answer his door for twenty minutes, mom -" knowing accusation in Alicia's features.

"Yes, dear - of course," I sighed - my poor Andrew pretending his attention on his potatoes. I yet again longed to provide him some consoling sympathy - longed to tell him that that I as well had succumbed to the most intimate wants of my body.

"He was probably writing another poem," accusing mirth from James, "the prettiest mom in town -"

"And you always take his side, mom. Dad, you better watch out. Mom and Andrew are sweethearts."

A distracted chuckle from John, his attention divided between his potatoes and an insurance sales contract.

"Mom's your sweetheart, Andrew -"

"Oh what do you know, Alicia," my Andrew finally protested. "And mom doesn't always take my side -"

"Yes she does, and she's your sweetheart -"

"And you were writing her another poem, Andrew - a princess in a castle -"

"Honestly - both of you -" I sighed toward Alicia and James. "And so what if Andrew and I are sweethearts. We can be sweethearts whenever want, can't we, dear -?" a mischievous, conspiratorial glance - a caressing touch of my knee to his.

"Sure we can, mom -" Andrew and I sliding our hands into each other's beneath the table.

"Well I still want my radio back -" Alicia pouting toward her potatoes.

"A big policy dad -?" James as well loosing interest in Andrew and me - Andrew and I free to meet each other's eyes in conspiratorial mischief, the usual caressing embrace of our hands and a teasing touch of our knees to each other's - my younger son and I wrapping our hands onto each other's another half moment and another timeless, reeling eternity. It was his hand wrapped to my own with finished, intimate strength - an embrace of our eyes and the crush of our hands to each other's timeless in ways I couldn't before the moment have imagined. It was our knees lain to other other's, he and I caressing each other - he and I meeting each other's eyes even in the midst of unfeigned, sexual lovemaking. And it was yet again something from which my younger son and I just couldn't escape - denial and pretense suddenly and again just not possible. We'd slept in each other's arms a week ago pretending it nothing different than it had always been - and we just couldn't again deny that it had been our bodies entwined about each other's in unfeigned sexual intimacy. It had been my Andrew cradling my body onto his, another moment's stolen, caressing intimacy between us - until it had been my body wrenched onto his with sudden and culminating strength, my body wrenched onto the aroused want of his own body, my son in that sudden and culminating moment abandoning himself to frantic sexual writhing and knowing in every despairing corner of his mind that he had wrenched his own mother's body onto his in order do so. And I'd left him in no doubt that evening a week ago, had clawed his hand from my shoulder to my breasts until it had been my son knowing again that it been my assent given to him all along.

It was finally at the diner that same struggle for a moment's reasoning calm - and it was yet again a timeless moment's confused, paralyzing fright. It was Andrew refusing to release my hand, a raw, frenzied abandon in his eyes, a blatant, wanting touch of his leg to mine - my Andrew's eyes awash as quickly with awakening, terrified panic knowing the thing exactly that which it had been just a week ago. And it was my hand crushed back into his, my leg lain to his - a glance of frantic pleading toward my younger son until it was he and I meeting each other's eyes the pretense gone. It was my younger son and I sitting our hands crushed onto each other's with unfeigned violence, the thing for me that same frantic desparation that every last doubt be flung aside. It was my hand wrapped to my younger son's with urging strength, that same desparation to tell him that I hadn't felt anything like affront even for a gesture of unfeigned want toward me - and it was my Andrew's hand urged onto my leg, my hand atop his, conspiratorial abandon in my eyes for a caressing touch of his hand to my leg. It was my Andrew and I yet again resting in helpless paralysis, denial and pretense just not possible. It had indeed just a week ago been a half moment's startled fright for me - my Andrew in that one, sudden moment just giving up. It had been my son ripping a bit of flimsy silk from my body entirely, a startled gasp wrenched from my throat, perhaps even a half moment's startled struggle for escape - my body just wrenched back onto the aroused want of his, my body pounded with unrestrained, frenzied violence. And I sat at the diner table crushing my son's hand onto my leg with pleading strength, pleading for his caresses - nothing more than conspiratorial abandon finally settled into my eyes.

It was another half moment's stolen glance about the diner table, Alicia playing with her potatoes, James and his father examining papers - Andrew and I free to fall back into each other's eyes.

I leaned, finally tried a sultry little smile for my younger son - my Andrew and I agreeing together to pretend it nothing more than the affectionate mischief it had always been between us.

"So what if they think we're sweethearts, Andrew. I'll be your sweetheart if you want me to be."

"You always were my sweetheart, mom - you always will be."

It was another conspiratorial little smile between us - and it was yet again a fall past every edge.

"Then you really do think I'm pretty, dear?"

"The prettiest girl in town, mom - my princess. You always will be -"

It was my hand lain atop his, another moment's brushing caress to my leg - and I'll never entirely know why it couldn't be just another moment's conspiratorial mischief between us, why Andrew and I just couldn't stop. It was my younger son sitting at my side that same shy pleading in his eyes, perhaps even still an edge of sheepish embarrassment for his body fallen into a helpless and finished aroused want - my Andrew knowing that I saw everything in the pleading embrace of his eyes to mine. And it was yet again our eyes buried to each other's in intimate, unfeigned abandon. It was an urging hand atop his, he and I pretending it just another moment's knowing mischief between us for the hem of my dress pushed up my leg - the thing a dizzying falling abandon for every last intimacy spoken between us without pretense or denial. It had been Andrew just minutes ago wandering through my bedroom's door, Andrew knowing that he had stood a helpless, timeless eternity flinging his eyes the length of my body as I'd stood naked next to my bed - my younger son knowing that my protest hadn't been anything more than a sultry little pout, knowing that I hadn't made the least attempt to retreat from him, had just stood naked next to my bed letting him devour me as he pleased, for as long as he wanted to. It was Andrew and I sitting at the dinner table, his hand wrapped to my leg, my hand covering his - and it yet again seemed inescapable fate between us, my younger son and I for the past week daring a moment of ultimate intimacy only in corners of our minds - and he and I in a finishing moment at the dinner table knowing again that we'd stood at a bathroom's door about to edge of bodies together into the finished act of sexual intimacy. It had been me wandering through a door just a week ago - my Andrew standing naked, a pace away from me the most personally intimate want of his body revealed to me - and my son knowing that it had been a frantic flash of my eyes, my eyes flung back to his - my demeanor gasping apology rather than amusement or anything of the sort. It had been another moment and another timeless eternity's helpless paralysis. I just hadn't known how to retreat from a young man who I'd discovered was agonizing, maddening beauty and allure - and my younger son knowing that I hadn't wanted to retreat from him, my younger son finally knowing that I'd felt all along everything for him which he felt for me. It had been a moment's startled fright for both of us - another moment's writhing, caressing embrace of our bodies at the bathroom's door, perhaps even a genuine and frantic effort toward escape - and it been my younger son and I in a moment come from nowhere knowing that it was to be our bodies edged onto each other's in the ultimate act of sexual intimacy. It had been my Andrew and I flinging our eyes to each other's knowing that a bit of flimsy silk had been pushed aside, his body already touching mine in finished, naked intimacy - and he and I trembling in each other's arms yet never doubting that it was to be our bodies edged into finished sexual intimacy. It had been my Andrew's hand collapsed onto my shoulder, my arm drawn about his waist with frantic, unfeigned strength - our eyes buried to each other's and yet our entire existence a touch of our bodies which was to be consumating - and my Andrew at the dinner table wrapping an owning, possessing hand to my leg the final doubts gone. It might almost have been that same bizare, hysterical mirth - my Andrew spending a night stealing caresses as he cradled my body onto his, desperately wondering if I wanted that which he wanted - my Andrew at the dinner table wrapping a frantic hand onto my leg knowing that I had answered his every caress, knowing that it had been sexual lovemaking between us the entire night - my Andrew at the dinner table seeing that in my eyes which I just couldn't hide from him any longer. It was my Andrew knowing again that he'd finally abandoned himself entirely to the most personally intimate wants of his body. He'd known even in the moment that he'd ripped a bit of flimsy silk from his own mother's body, had abandoned himself to frenzied sexual writhing even as he'd known he was crushing his own mother's body onto his with brutal, unrestrained violence - and my Andrew awakening in the morning to the naked warmth of my breasts crushed to his chest, my body curled onto his - my son and I allowing ourselves another hour before we'd finally pushed ourselves from each other's arms - my Andrew even on the train back home never seeing anything more than knowing, conspiratorial abandon in my eyes.

It was he and I sitting next to each other at the dinner table, had been the moment's conspiratorial mischief it had been countless times in the past - and his hand wrapped onto my leg with unfeigned violence and yet it was just my hand crushed atop his with urging, assenting strength. We'd both pretended it nothing more than the flirting mischief it had been often enough in the past - and my Andrew knowing again that I just couldn't stop any more than he could, my body his the instant he asked for it. He could wrap his hand onto my leg for as long as he wanted to, knew that there just weren't any limits - knew that it was an act of unfeigned sexual intimacy between us and knew that I was assenting to it - knew that it was everything for me which it was for him.

It was half a minute - perhaps even longer. It was Andrew and I perfectly aware that it was the rustle of papers on the other side of the table, James and his father engaged in a lively debate over insurance. It was Alicia tapping a fork to her plate in boredom.

And it was Andrew and I become lovers in every possible sense of the word. He was my younger son who was violently in love with me - who had seen anything from teasing protest to giddy delight in my eyes for his hand lain to my leg in searching, fondling caress - the thing in one more sudden moment something incomparably more than mischief. He'd countless times imagined that I must sooner or later rest a helpless. docile captive for just an unfeigned, pleading touch of his hand - and I just couldn't escape, couldn't retreat, my hand lain to his, my younger son knowing the moment everything he could ever have imagined it.

It might indeed finally have been a fleeting moment's pause on both of our parts. And it was yet again culminating in ways it had never before been, my younger son knowing the touch of his hand to my leg unfeigned sexual intimacy - knowing that I as well had fallen past a finished, abandoned edge, my younger son seeing that in my features which was raw, sexual want to every blatant extreme.

It was finally just he and I awakening together, he and I sitting at the dinner table pretending again that it wasn't anything more than the flirting mischief it had always been between us. It was finally my hand lain atop his in gentle, pleading restraint - and my Andrew and I even then just wrapping our hands about each other's our caresses mature, unfeigned lovemaking.

"Oh you two -" an amused sigh from Alicia, "always whispering together - sweethearts again -"

And it wasn't even then a great deal more than conspiratorial mischief between Andrew and me, perhaps another half moment's knowing, sheepish embrace of our eyes as we disentangled our hands.

"Yes dear, of course " I sighed and chuckled toward Alicia, Andrew and I returning our attention to our dinner - and it seemed yet he and entwined in frenzied, abandoned lovemaking. It was John, Alicia and James sitting next to each other as they always did, shifting alliances and intimacies of various sort. It was Andrew and I sitting next to each other as we always did - he and I who could sometimes chatter away with the rest of the table settling back into quiet, subdued moods, a sighing, chuckling word or two toward the others who yet again gave up and were more than content to ignore us.

It had been Alicia and I that evening puttering away at the dishes, another distracted few minutes lounging in front of the television.

"Honestly -" I'd sighed and chuckled for Alicia's and James' risqué little comments regarding an innuendo laden television show, had shaken my head in frowning disapproval as I'd wandered again through the living room's door toward the stairs - and wondered again if that evening was something I could only call fate conspiring to thrust my younger son and me into entangling, inescapable embrace.

"Hello, Andrew," I'd tried.

"Hi, mom."

"Would you like to come up and talk for awhile?"

"Sure, mom," a familiar ceremony performed, my younger son and I daring sheepish smiles toward each other climbing the stairs at each other's sides quite as we had countless times in the past - and the thing that evening yet again seeming some bizare and inescapable fate. It was my Andrew as usual on a summer evening wearing nothing but gym shorts. I'd changed into a t shirt and a pair of Alicia's cutoff jeans which appeared almost as liscivious on me as they did on Alicia - had told myself while changing that I'd worn shorts on summer evenings all my life, my acceding to Alicia's liscivious little demands regarding my apparel nothing more than innocuous mischief. I'd been Alicia's doll to attire according to her liscivious little whims for at least the past two years now. "Come on, mom," everyone in the house including John demanded.

"How was your day, Andrew?" I tried as we climbed the stairs.

"Ok, mom -" and I just gave up entirely, walked with my younger son up the stairs admitting that my life for at least a month now had been one secret, cherished little fantasy forever darting into every corner of my mind. It might be a teasing little dance for him as I pushed the bedroom's door closed - and my younger son and I knowing with a glance that it was the same thought raging in every frantic corner of our minds. It was my Andrew knowing all along that he had but to wrap pleading, capturing hands to my waist, my Andrew as I pushed the clothing from my body for him knowing that I'd desperately wanted to do so all along. It was finally and again to be he and I standing naked together behind a closed bedroom's door, he and I even then a mother and a son quite as we always had been. And it just didn't make any difference. He was very genuinely in love with me, had indeed struggled as well for reasoning restraint - and had just given up. It was just that which it was, my Andrew able to see me as a woman and seeing me as an alluring, arousing ideal - my Andrew's want for me as I stood naked for him letting him wrap owning, capturing hands to my waist just that which it was - my Andrew's want for me a helpless and finished ache of his body for the intimate, surrounding touch of my own body. He was, even then, my own son holding frantic hands to my waist, a son I had always adored with a burning, possessing affection. And yet he was a young man for me, a young man with whom I could sometimes stand in a helpless, girlish abandon - my own son simply the young man who had awoken in me sexual wants of a ferocity I had never before known - and he and I to stand behind a closed bedroom's door finally abandoning ourselves to that which was just possible. I was his own mother even as he lowered my body onto the bed - and it was just my son and I knowing it seemed the same agonizing need for both of us, a need that it be the ultimately intimate touch our bodies to each other's.

I'd climbed the stairs with my Andrew that evening even a moment's genuine struggle for a reasoning calm seeming futile in ways it never before had. I'd supposed my demeanor no different than it had always been, supposed no one would have seen anything more than a mother and a son walking up the stairs together in a house in 1950 suburbs even if fashion had so drastically changed since then. And it's all the matter of another half moment, I as I always did climbing the stairs a half pace in front of my younger son and I entirely naked as I did so, the jean shorts to which I hadn't paid a great deal more than amused attention over the past two years suddenly and again covering nothing more than they had to and form fitting to every revealing extreme. It just can't be anything less than a dance of outright liscivious writhing for my Andrew who with a glance can strip the clothing from my body entirely, my Andrew who knows exactly and intimately that my appearance without clothing covering my body is everything he imagines and wants it to be.

I found myself wondering for another fleeting yet incomprehensibly timeless moment if it had been anything less than a knowing romance between myself and my own son for months now. It seemed, climbing the stairs with my Andrew, that which several entire weekends over the past six months had been, John down state attending an insurance convention, Alicia and James after an affectionate touch of their lips to my cheek off on some weekend adventure - and my Andrew wandering into the kitchen deciding to my giddy, girlish delight that I belonged to him for the weekend.

"Come on, mom - you promised -"

"Andrew - it's Friday night. I'll be fine here by myself. You and Sara -"

"Mom, I can take Sara out any time. I want a date with my sweetheart tonight."

I'd known even months ago, I suppose, that I would have been heartbroken had my adamant young pursuing not pressed his suit.

"Andrew - I'm not even dressed -"

"Mom - it's a drive-in movie. You're fine as you are and you'll be the prettiest girl there."

"Oh now stop -" I'd sighed and giggled, a liscivious little change in my posture even I stood in cutoff jean shorts suddenly become lasciviously form fitting and revealing.

And still, I'd sighed that evening several months ago little more than mirthful amusement as my handsome young escort led me to the car's passenger door, that another moment's amused mirth. I'd finally at thirty seven years of age learned how to drive a car, had finally passed the driver's test when my younger son providing me instruction had decided that I at least stood a chance. John, after I had backed a second time over a garbage can, had been more than happy to place me in Andrew's custody behind the wheel of the car. My younger son after I had obtained my driver's license still, however, restricted my use of the car to sedate lanes in the suburbs, decided that I might be ready for more congested streets and highways in another month or two.

"Yes, of course, dear," I'd sighed and chuckled toward my handsome young escort and protector as he settled me onto the car's passenger seat - my mood girlish delight as I decided an evening with my son a pleasant little adventure. It might, even months ago, have been another moment's wondering amusement - my younger son now a young man and my demeanor toward him long since become that which it must be toward an escort and a protector who in more than a few ways was a great deal more "worldly" than a naive housewife from the suburbs. "Oh now stop - both of you -" I'd sighed and chuckled toward both John and Andrew, John requesting that Andrew look after me while he was away for the weekend, "and for God's sake don't let your mother get into any trouble with the car."

It had been my handsome young escort settling me onto the car's passenger seat that evening several months ago - and I'd noticed as long ago as then, I suppose, that fleeting moment's devouring scrutiny in my younger son's eyes as I'd settled onto the car's seat wearing jean shorts. It might even have been another liscivious little dance for my own son, a moment's vain delight knowing that my Andrew gazed as long a moment's helpless, devouring notice toward my legs as he might have toward his current girlfriend's. I hadn't hesitated that evening, however, to attempt another moment's protest as Andrew guided the car from the driveway just to be certain that I was still my son's girlfriend.

"Mom - I want you all to myself tonight. I'll call Sara next weekend."

I'd sighed, chuckled - and had admitted it a giddy, girlish little delight seeing that same shy though adoring warmth in my Andrew's smile. It might even have been another moment's introspective wonder as I admitted that I was going to be heart broken when I no longer saw a romantic warmth in my Andrew's eyes. And still, I hadn't again that evening several months ago hesitated in the least, had allowed myself all manner fanciful, romantic imagining in the company of my handsome young escort.

I'd allowed myself moments of the same at the drive-in. And I'd gazed in another moment toward a movie and a heroine who in temperament and demeanor wasn't so different than June Cleaver until she was yet again pushing the last of the clothing from her body. I was quite as aware as anyone, I suppose, that movies today were a explicit to every uninhibited extreme.

"Oh - honestly -" I still, however, gasped.

"Well - it is the eighties, mom," my son chuckled, "and June Cleaver was a very pretty woman. Now they just show you - exactly how pretty she was -"

"I should say they do -" I sighed and chuckled, and gazed again toward that which had indeed been a very entertaining and moving romance, wondered how explicit that which was obviously to be another consumating love scene was going to be. And I sat with my own son gazing finally toward yet another five minute portrayal of lovemaking which I could readily admit was entertaining to every arousing extreme, a younger man and an older though obviously attractive woman with whom he was in love naked and in bed, his lovemaking passionate kisses and caresses the length of her body until it was an ultimately explicit portrayal of lovemaking in every possible pose and position.

"Honestly -" another disbelieving gasp.

"Well - this is the one you wanted to see, mom. And I did warn you -"

"I suppose you did, dear," I sighed and chuckled, little more than amused mischief that evening in a flash of our eyes toward each other's. I was still, I suppose, that which everyone in my family including Andrew proclaimed me to be, a housewife from the fifties in temperament and demeanor who'd been misplaced in time. And I sat again with my own son gazing toward an ultimately explicit portrayal of naked lovemaking. He had indeed, I finally sighed in resigned mirth, warned me that this movie "would probably have a bedroom scene and they show everything today."

It will never fail to amaze me that my younger son and I driving home that evening could fling ourselves right back into flirting mischief.

"Mom - come on," my Andrew insisting as he handed me a packet of french fries. "Your figure's still prettier than any of the girls here."

"Oh - now stop -" a liscivious little change of my posture, a shy little smile toward me - and I'd sat with my younger son that evening a few months ago finally demanding at least a moment's quiet, introspective pause of myself. The entire evening, I'd realized, had indeed been a giddy, girlish delight for me, moments of fanciful imagining with an entrancing young man who still presented me romantic little poems every few days - a caressing embrace of my hand to his and a caressing touch of my knee to his for a compliment regarding my figure - and my Andrew and I an evening as long as a few months ago in bed with each other another fleeting yet incomprehensibly timeless moment. It had been my son and I eminently and rationally aware that we'd been each other's sweethearts the entire evening, he and I allowing ourselves all manner of brazen, flirting mischief - until it had been a t shirt and a pair of jean shorts torn from my body, frenzied kisses and caresses the length of my body until it was our bodies entwined about each other's in naked, abandoned lovemaking. It had been my Andrew finally flinging sheepish eyes to mine - might have been another fleeting moment which I could only call inescapable. And yet I hadn't again that evening a few months hesitated - my Andrew seeing nothing more than knowing, sheepish mischief in my own eyes as I drew my hand from his.

We'd both, I suppose, just decided it a moment's idle even if ultimately knowing mischief between us - and my son and I encountering each other at the stairs an evening a few months later even a moment's genuine struggle for reasoning restraint seeming futile in ways it never before had. I'd finally and readily admitted myself climbing the stairs that evening in a not quite lucid daze, struggled again for a moment's genuine calm as I walked with my younger son through my bedroom's door. I pushed the door closed - and that a culminating moment's reeling oblivion of confused, startled fright, yet another moment's struggle for at least a reasoning calm. I just left the door closed, settled onto my chair at the dressing table my doing so finally a moment's respite from that not quite lucid daze. He'd just fallen onto the bed as he always had. I drew the pins from my hair as I always did, passed that seeming another half moment with a hairbrush in my hand - and it was exactly that which the beach had been, my younger son and I in nothing more than ludicrous moments finding ourselves in circumstances from which we just didn't know how to escape. It should have been he and I falling easily and comfortably into chattering conversation. And it was my younger son edging his eyes toward the window - my son knowing that he could pull me onto the bed with him the instant he wanted to - my Andrew fallen into that which was such obvious and finished want, he so helplessly unable to hide the aroused want of his body from me. I sat at my dressing table searching for a word, something, anything - and I sat in a dazed reeling panic daring nothing. He rested on my bed, a pace away from me, a young man wearing nothing more than gym shorts, a young man who was blinding, maddening. I struggled again for at least a moment's reasoning calm - and I just sat at my dressing table immersed in a wash of raw, enveloping sensation which I'd never before known in quite the same way. I couldn't finally deny or pretend anything, Andrew my own son resting a pace away from me on my bed - and the want of my own body become that which I just couldn't deny was a throbbing, pounding ache to every finished extreme. And yet it was something even more than that. I had but to push myself from my chair, push the clothing from my body - knew that it would the surrounding, enveloping warmth which the beach had been, something impossibly, inexplicably capturing for the cradling warmth of my own son's arms drawn about me. It would be that which a night at Vera's had been, an unrelenting wash of raw, agonizing pleasure for my son cradling my body onto his in naked, surrounding warmth. And it would finally be that which I just couldn't deny I wanted with a constant, aching desparation, would be our bodies entwined about each other's in a naked, finished warmth, denial and pretense gone. It would be something which was a wash of surrounding, enveloping ecstasy - and it would this time be that pounding ache relieved for the penetrating, filling touch of his body to my own.

It might have been that same reeling, hysterical mirth as I sat at my bedroom's dressing table. It hadn't been more than a half minute this time. He was my own son resting on my bed a pace from the dressing table - and I sat with my hairbrush in hand knowing that I for a glance from him was going to rip every last shred of my clothing away.

I sat at my dressing table another timeless moment a hairbrush in my hand - will never quite remember turning, grasping my younger son's hand into my own.

"Andrew -" I tried - and I sat again in a reeling panic - hadn't the least idea what to say - hadn't any real idea why I had turned and taken his hand into mine.

"Mom -" pleading eyes flung to mine, "mom - I just - I just can't help it -"

"Andrew - I know -"

"I just - I just want to make love to you, mom. I just always do - every time I look at you. You're the most beautiful woman - just the most beautiful woman there is - anywhere -"

I crushed my hand onto his - just hadn't expected the words as he'd spoken them - just hadn't expected that which said it all.

"Andrew -" I tried - and just struggled on, "Andrew - I know. It - happens sometimes -"

"Then - you're not really angry with me, mom -"

"No, Andrew -" a gasp of frantic mirth. "No Andrew - not really - not at all. It's - a part of life. Someday - you'll get married -"

"Maybe - but there just isn't anyone else like you, mom -" and it was his hand crushed to mine with frantic strength - was that for me which I just couldn't deny was a swooning relief for a pleading hand still crushed onto mine. It was just too soon to stop, my Andrew and I knowing we had to say more to each other. It was both he and I frantically searching for restraint - and he and I knowing again we'd long since flung pretense and denial aside entirely.

"Andrew -" I finally tried, "of course I'm not angry with you. I've never been angry with you - not for a moment -"

"I just - do think of us as sweethearts sometimes. There just isn't anyone else like you, mom. And - it's always me and you doing something - and I'm only happy when I'm with you. It's Dad dancing with Alicia, and James and Dad talking - but it's always you and me, mom, and I'm happy when it is. Sometimes I even pretend that we really are sweethearts - like at dinner just now - you're just the most beautiful woman there is -"

It's a moment's reeling pause for both of us - Andrew and I knowing again that the dinner table had been something a world more than mischief between us.

"It's - ok to pretend," I finally tried, "sometimes - a little. Sometimes I do -" a caressing touch of my hand to his - and I struggled again for lucid reason. It was my younger son and I crushing our hands onto each other's with helpless, frantic violence - my Andrew seeing all of the fright in my eyes which he'd seen a week ago - and my Andrew knowing that he could pull me onto the bed with him the moment he wanted to, knowing that I just wouldn't resist. It was my Andrew knowing it was yet again the ultimate intimacies spoken between us, my son seeing me even in that moment as his own mother and yet knowing his want for me the ultimate, my Andrew knowing that he wanted consumating sexual intimacy with me. It was my Andrew seeing that which had to be reeling ambivalence in my eyes - and knowing it my eyes buried to his in frenzied, pleading assent.

I rested at my dressing table my hand given to my own son in helpless, finished abandon - and just decided on one more moment's struggling pause, searched for anything.

"I - just pretend we're sweethearts too - sometimes -"

"Do you, mom -?" adoring warmth in his eyes.

"When we're walking to the store -"

"And I'm holding my girlfriend's hand and she's the prettiest girl by far in the neighborhood -"

"Now stop -" a teasing caress of my hand to his.

"And when it's you and me alone in the kitchen, mom - and you're standing at the stove - she's just my girlfriend standing there. Sometimes it's even a little story. It's you and me - just living somewhere else, maybe a hundred miles away in our own little house -" an amused shrug and yet the touch of his hand to mine never less than owning, possessing strength.

And it was yet again that evening something I can only call inescapable, something from which we just didn't know how to retreat. It was my younger son sitting on the edge of my bed his hand yet again wrapped to mine with abandoned violence. I'd listened to his idle imagining with gentle, entranced warmth in my features - until it yet again seemed a single moment come from nowhere. It was my younger son remembering that he'd lived this moment any number of times already, he sitting on the edge of my bed taking his hand into my own, he and I finding some way to reveal our most intimate wants to each other - my Andrew urging me into his arms and I a helpless, docile captive as he pushed the clothing from my body. And it was indeed his hand finally wrapped to mine with frantic, urging strength - the thing for me an undoubted fall past every edge. I'll never be entirely certain why I just could stop, will never deny that I just hadn't. He was my own son fallen into every manner of mature, violent want for me - and it was just that which I couldn't deny had become my every secret and cherished want as well. It wasn't in some ways different than it had always been between my younger son and myself, Andrew and I always exceptionally fond of each other - I sometimes sitting an hour at my dressing table in gentle, entranced warmth for my Andrew's idle musing, sometimes sitting in a girlish, giddy delight for a handsome young admirer expressing a romantic affection for me, all manner of sensual little fantasies. And it was yet again something incomparably more than it had been in the past, just a minute's quiet, pleading conversation between us - a young man wanting to cradle me in his arms and he and I knowing again that it had to more than just that. It was my Andrew wrapping my hand into his, had been a few moment's quiet though entrancing warmth between us, perhaps even a genuine struggle for reasoning restraint - and it just seems one more sudden and helpless moment, my Andrew and I resting our eyes buried to each other's knowing that we're going to push the clothing from our bodies, knowing that we're going to settle onto the bed with each other the pretense this time abandoned entirely. It was my Andrew crushing his hand onto mine the aroused want of his body for mine so helplessly obvious - and it was reasoning restraint flung aside entirely as I admitted it an aroused want of my own body needing the penetrating touch of his, an aroused want become a throbbing pounding ache and yet my wants something inexplicably more than just that. It was yet again that which I just can't deny it had been - my body given to my own son entirely and without limit, my body his to search and devour as he pleased. I wanted it to be that which the beach had been, that which an entire night of cradling, entwining warmth just a week ago had been - yet the thing finally and again to be pretense and restraint flung aside entirely. It was my Andrew as I sat at my dressing table crushing his hand onto mine with helpless, frantic strength, my Andrew who could see me as a woman, who could sit at the kitchen table glancing blatant, devouring want - and I wanted to lay naked on the bed for him, wanted his hands on my breasts, his hands run from my waist to caresses of searching, fondling intimacy - wanted it to be my body finally and entirely his as it was our bodies to be one with each other's in the ultimate act of sexual intimacy.

"Andrew -" I finally tried - will never quite remember edging my hand from his, "let me finish my hair - and we can talk some more -"

"Sure, mom -" and even a moment's pause just seeming consumating, knowing intimacy between us, some frantic ambivalence, neither my Andrew nor I knowing for another timeless moment if we could stop. It was a caressing touch as I drew my hand from his, a writhing little dance on my chair as I turned back to the mirror, the flirting mischief it had been countless times in the past - and a final moment's sheepish embrace of our eyes, a struggling little smile in my features speaking every last intimacy. I just couldn't stop, had to tell my younger son that I wasn't angry with him - and I just couldn't stop there, had to tell my Andrew that he had never mistaken a thing. And a young man who had spoken the ultimate intimacies aloud rested on my bed knowing that he still hadn't seen the least hint of protest in my features. I'd just asked for another moment with my hairbrush - and my Andrew resting again at my side knowing that my pushing the bedroom's door closed had been intentional and obvious, my Andrew seeing again that half moment's sheepish abandon in my eyes as I'd drawn my hand from his.

I turned back to the mirror, and supposed that just the best I could do for the moment. It was finally something closer to the usual affectionate conversation between us, the weather, plans for the summer - another moment's sheepish yet culminating embrace our eyes. I turned again toward the mirror, toyed with the hairbrush - and it might have been another moment's culminating, abandoned despair. I'd never have stopped had he refused to release my hand this time, had rested a timeless moment at my dressing table knowing it his eyes awash with raw, frenzied want for me, knowing he was going wrench my body onto the bed - and it had seemed just for the caressing touch of his hand to mine a finished, unifying intimacy of every possible sort. It had been Andrew wrapping his hand to my own, my younger son who I'd always loved with a frantic, burning passion. And it had been my Andrew who was so painfully, romantically in love with me wrapping a caressing hand to mine - and it had yet again seemed one, sudden moment come from nowhere. It might again almost have been some reeling, hysterical mirth for me. What would he think, I'd asked myself, knowing that an answering, caressing touch of my hand to his had been something a world more than just assent, that a touch of his hand to mine and a moment's raw, unfeigned want in his eyes had left me fallen into another incomprehensibly timeless eternity's frantic, abandoned imagining. I'd asked for another moment with my hairbrush, had edged my hand from his - and had gazed raw, wanton abandon toward an agonizing young man whose body was mine to slam onto the bed, my body flung atop his until it was he and I clawing each other's clothing away.

I toyed again with the hairbrush, our conversation not so different than it had been countless times in the past - my younger son and I flirting with each other in nothing more than another minute or two.

"Andrew - now stop -" I gasped again as I had often enough in the past as he declared that I really was the prettiest girl in town - and it's a teasing flash of my eyes toward his, a liscivious little change of my posture just to be certain that he saw nothing like protest in my eyes - my younger son and I remembering for another timeless moment that I'd intentionally and blatantly pushed the bedroom's door closed - my Andrew and I knowing again that this was the evening it was finally to happen. I turned toward the mirror, supposed for another moment that my demeanor hadn't been blatantly more obvious than it had been in the past, supposed my asking my own son if he thought me pretty just innocuous mischief no different than that in which any other mother and son might engage - and that just another moment's confused reeling mirth as I sat at my dressing table. My Andrew resting at my side on the bed was quick, perceptive intelligence, had for years now known the instant I had that some gesture of affection toward me had been a step over some indefinable yet obvious and blatant line - and it was my Andrew resting at my side on the bed knowing again that it had been my hand just minutes ago crushed onto his in violent, pleading assent.

I sat at the mirror another timeless, helpless eternity toying with my hairbrush and just not daring to stop doing so. It was my Andrew and I together behind a closed bedroom's door, had been another few moment's genuinely innocuous mischief between us - and it's my Andrew resting on my bed and my body awash in raw, unrelenting sensation. I'd decided already that I was just going to push the clothing from my body this evening as soon as I pushed myself from the dressing table, admitted that I had quite intentionally pushed the bedroom's door closed. Just the sound of the door's closing had been a moment and a startling, timeless eternity, a flash our eyes toward each other's for something entirely unprecedented - my Andrew and I knowing from the start that we'd walked together into my bedroom the same primal thought crashing into every corner of our minds.

It was noxious, poisonous fumes from the car's exhaust, a hot, confining horror against which I struggled a final moment in anguished desparation. And it was yet again my younger son who cradled me in his arms with frantic violence, I so desperately needing him to do so. I was naked, alone in ways I could never before have imagined - and it was just that which it was. And it wasn't in itself entirely bad, Andrew so passionately in love with me and sometimes just finding himself fallen into the primal want as we rested at each other's sides. It was sometimes his want for me stirring in me an answering want which could seem almost irresistable, Andrew and I perhaps visiting an aunt, an exciting little adventure - he and I sleeping at each other's sides in the evening and I for just a touch of his leg to mine sometimes giving up entirely. It was my most secret, most cherished little hope - my son and my handsome young protector to discover that I wanted so much more than just a touch of his leg to mine, that I wanted more even than just an owning, possessing arm drawn about my waist and my body curled onto his - my Andrew to discover that I so desperately wanted exactly that which he wanted himself. It was my younger son resting on my bed as I pushed myself from the dressing table - and was yet again just that which it was as I pushed a t shirt and jean shorts from my body, danced naked for him this time without the least pretense. It was my Andrew simply seeing me as I could readily admit I saw myself, the notion of age just not there as soon as I'd pushed my clothing away - my body for just the unfeigned, devouring touch of his eyes awash in raw, dizzying sensation. It was pretense between us finally and entirely impossible. I was standing naked behind a closed bedroom's door, dancing for own son, writhing twists of my body until I'd shown him everything knowing that I was simply that which I was for him, his every image of a feminine ideal. It was finally the ultimate intimacies spoken between us, my Andrew for a pleading touch of my hand to his pushing himself from the bed, holding owning hands to my waist. It was our eyes buried to each other's and yet it was the ultimately personal intimacy of my body revealed to my son, my Andrew burying his eyes to mine and yet knowing it the most personally intimate want of my body for his. It was my son for a pleading touch of my hands to his arms pushing the clothing from his own body - and it was yet again just that which it was. We were mother and son, stood our hands crushed onto each other's waists pretending nothing. It was my Andrew as affectionately fond of me as he'd always been, but it just didn't stop there, my Andrew holding frantic, capturing hands to my waist, my Andrew simply able to see a woman with whom he had fallen romantically in love - and my Andrew's want for me simply that which it was, that which was just possible. It was my younger son and I standing in each other's arm, our eyes buried to each other's - and yet my Andrew and I knowing our entire existence become the ultimately intimate want of our bodies, an aroused want of a ferocity we felt for no one but each other. It was my Andrew and I knowing again that it was just possible - and he and I settling together onto the bed, he and I finally knowing that finished, sexual intimacy with each other was a raw, agonizing pleasure which just wouldn't have been possible with anyone but each other.

No, I whispered - and a quiet, whispered no even as I struggled against hot, poisonous fumes suddenly seeming enough - seeming enough in ways it never before had.

And still - it had indeed happened, pretense and denial impossible. I'd spoken the words aloud, had spoken them to my own son. I sat at my dressing table toying with my hairbrush, my Andrew resting on the bed at my side - will never deny that I had flung myself that evening over every abandoned and irrevocable line. My son and I had at least another hour or two to be with each other behind a closed bedroom's door - a closed door in our house always respected.

And it had that evening yet again seemed some bizare and unrelenting conspiracy against my younger son and myself.

"Mom -" Alicia began, a knock at the door, "there's a fire somewhere. Dad's leaving now - says he'll call in the morning if he's not home by then."

"Thank you, dear," I'd answered, had held the hairbrush in my hand another reeling moment. I'd finally just pushed myself from my dressing table - will never quite remember turning toward the bed. "Do you want to sleep with me, Andrew?"

He'd buried his eyes to mine, nodded. I'll always believe that it had been a moment's very genuine struggle on both of our parts to pretend it all nothing different than it had been countless times in the past. And it was young man who was quick, perceptive intelligence pushing himself to his feet - and a young man for whom I simply felt an agonizing, unrelenting want wrapping pleading hands to my waist. It was my Andrew wearing gym shorts - his want for me a finished, helpless ache of his body for the intimate warmth of mine. I stood wearing a form fitting t-shirt and jean shorts - and a struggle for restraint futile, a young man holding frantic hands to my waist and my posture docile, pleading assent.

"Mom - I can't just sleep with you. You know I can't. I want to make love to you - I just do. I love you like I always have - but I dream about you day and night. You're all I ever think about -"

I'll never quite remember falling that half pace forward, letting him cradle my body onto his with frantic, owning strength.

"Andrew -" I tried - and there just wasn't anything there. My son had to say it for both of us - the thing for me a helpless captivity and an adoring, abandoned warmth as he did.

"I just do, mom. I just want to hold you - and I want to make love with you -"

It was he and I resting our eyes buried to each other's in frantic pleading. I'll always believe it had been a search for restraint even in that moment, the words spoken aloud and that perhaps enough - and my son and I just leaning together, our lips touching each other's, the warmth of his lips touched to mine something incomparably more than I could ever have imagined it. It was he and I even in that moment never quite daring to believe that it could be anything more than a gentle touch of our lips to each other's, my Andrew and I knowing ourselves a mother and a son, knowing it with some inescapable clarity even in the midst of a searching, caressing touch of our lips to each other's. And it was yet again something I could never have imagined it could be, that helpless, falling abandon for my son knowing my wants everything his were - my son burying his lips onto mine in frantic, devouring intimacy, cradling my body onto his with unfeigned, frenzied strength. It was my arms flung about my son's body with unfeigned pleading strength - until it was yet again every pretense and doubt gone. It was our mouths buried onto each other's with devouring violence. It was my Andrew and I allowing ourselves a breath, a half moment's waiting quiet - and he and I desparate for each other, desparate again for each other's intimate warmth. It was my Andrew and I burying ourselves into each other with frenzied violence, searching each other with our lips, with our tongues, wrenching each other's bodies into brutal, maniacal embrace when it yet again had to be our mouths buried onto each other's in raw, frenzied want for each other.

It yet again seemed one sudden moment come from nowhere, my son and I edging our eyes to each other's - my son and I and I falling frantically into each other's eyes the moment all of the frightening panic it had to be.

"Andrew -" I tried, searching for anything - will never know how I could just fling myself on. "Andrew - do you like kissing me -?"

It was the same wash of frantic relief in his eyes - the same burning, adoring warmth.

"Yes, mom -"

And we stood our arms drawn about each other's waists another timeless, waiting eternity. I hid absolutely nothing from my son this time even in the midst of that which had to be a helpless, despairing remorse for both of us - that which had been a kiss of abandoned passion become something which neither my son nor I could deny was consumating in every way which mattered. It was neither my son nor I able to deny anything this time, my son and I burying our eyes to each other's knowing a kiss had become sexual intercourse between us in every finished sense of the words - and my son this time holding me in his arms every pretense and doubt impossible. I was giving him my body entirely for the caressing touch of his body to mine, was writhing with him our bodies touching each other's in sexual intimacy - and my son and I just never stopping, he and I hesitating another fleeting moment yet he and I never for an instant denying that we were a mother and a son resting in an embrace of unfeigned, sexual intimacy.

It seemed that same sudden and culminating moment come from nowhere. It had been my Andrew burying his mouth onto mine in unrestrained want for me - had been my son become mine to search and fondle with my lips, with my tongue, his warmth mine to devour in a raw, unrestrained frenzy. It had been my arms wrenched about his body with frantic. unrestrained strength, his body slammed onto mine - had finally been a half moment's quiet pause and yet my body immersed in a wash of raw, agonizing sensation in want of something more, something ultimate - the thing yet again a bizare and sudden moment come from nowhere, my son cradling my body onto his own, the touch of our bodies to each other's that which I couldn't even in the moment deny was sexual intercourse in every way which mattered - my son and I writhing together in the ultimate act of intimacy.

It was another timeless moment - and it was that which I'd known even in that moment was my every secret hope and want realized. He was my own son cradling my body onto his own with brutal, unrestrained strength, giving me no choice but to rest in helpless captivity as he abandoned himself to his want, using my body to do so - and I just can't deny that it had never for an instant been anything other than my arms drawn about my own son's body in frenzied, pleading assent.

It was my Andrew and I standing in my bedroom our arms clawing violence about each other's bodies, my Andrew and I seeing that which had to be despairing remorse in each other's eyes - and my Andrew and I just not stopping, our eyes buried to each other's even in the midst of unfeigned, abandoned lovemaking. I hid nothing from him this time, just let the primal gasping cries explode from my throat as they would. It was yet again the fleeting moment's startled pause for my son which it had to be, and the words exploding aloud from my throat - "Andrew - don't stop -"

It couldn't have been anything more than moments, wasn't anything more than a caressing touch of our bodies to each other's. And it was my Andrew and I hearing helpless, primal gasps wrenched from each other's throats, he and I knowing we needed nothing more than another moment. It was he and I abandoning ourselves together to the culminating wants of our bodies. It was a knowing despair even in that moment, my Andrew and I allowing ourselves no pretense or denial whatsoever. And yet it was that which we knew was our every cherished little hope and want realized. It was my son cradling my body onto his with frantic, owning strength, the heaving crush of my breasts to his chest his entire existence. It was that same frantic need for me that nothing be denied. I flung my hands to my waist, drew a t shirt from my body, pulled my bra away - buried my eyes to my son's as I urged his hand onto my breasts. It was my son yet again drawing my body to his with frantic, unrestrained strength, my Andrew flinging a hand from my waist to a touch of fondling intimacy - and my mouth buried onto his another timeless eternity until his caresses were all of the searching, devouring intimacy I wanted. It was my Andrew and I yet again flinging our eyes to each other's, my son and I knowing it some desparate need that nothing be denied, he and I a mother and son even in the midst of unfeigned, sexual lovemaking. It might even have been another fleeting moment's bizare and reeling pause, my Andrew and I just a mother and a son who had always been exceptionally close to each other, a mother and a son who knew their love for each other a fanatical, adoring affection. And it was my Andrew and I burying our eyes to each other's and yet our entire existence a caressing touch of our bodies to each other's which was finished sexual intimacy in every sense of the word.

It wasn't anything more than moments - and it was culminating in ways it had to be for my Andrew and me, was long and timeless in ways I could never have imagined possible. And it was finally pretense and denial just not possible between my son and myself, he and I hearing helpless, primal cries wrenched from each other's throats - he and I knowing it our bodies fallen together into the throes of a pleasure which was ferocity neither of us had ever before known. It was my own son cradling my body onto his with unrestrained, frantic strength, my son and I writhing together in a culminating frenzy of raw, abandoned want - the thing all of the torturing, agonizing pleasure which I'd known it had to be in my Andrew's arms.

It was my Andrew and I that evening standing our hands clawed onto each other's arms another few moments and another helpless, timeless eternity - and I yet again just flung myself on knowing the words would be the wrong ones even as I said them.

"I'm going to take a shower, Andrew - get ready for bed -" my hands frantic pleading strength to my son's arms even as it was pretense and doubt flung entirely aside. It was my Andrew knowing that I needed his arms around me throughout the night, my Andrew needing my body to cradle onto his - my son and I seeing anything from amused mirth to despairing fright in each other's eyes. We'd walked together through my bedroom's door knowing it the same thought crashing into every corner of our minds. And yet neither Andrew nor I had genuinely anticipated that it could happen, had genuinely thought our speaking our most intimate secrets to each other a struggle for reasoning restraint - and it was my Andrew and I standing in each other's arms yet again realizing that we'd flung reason and restraint aside entirely. It had been my son and I seeing nothing less than frenzied relief in each other's eyes, he and I knowing that just a caressing touch of our bodies to each other's had seemed a needing ache relieved. I was my Andrew and I knowing again that it had been our bodies fallen together into the throes of a violent and timeless ecstasy which had yet again been something incomparably more than we could ever have imagined possible - and my son and I burying our eyes to each other's knowing even that just wasn't enough for us. It was my son and I knowing that we just couldn't stop, my Andrew and I knowing that it was be finished and ultimate sexual intimacy between us as soon as we settled together onto the bed.

"Mom -?" my Andrew whispered, holding me again in his arms with frantic desparation - "mom - I want to hold you tonight, - I have to hold you. But - like I said in my poem - you know what I meant -"

I'll never entirely know why I just couldn't stop, finally and without the least pretense gave my body to my own son in frantic, pleading abandon. I lay an urging hand to his, crushed his hand onto my breasts.

"Andrew -" I whispered, "I won't get pregnant. I can't get pregnant again."

---

I opened my eyes, the sickening fumes gone - and it was just some unrelenting, ongoing horror I couldn't before the moment have imagined. I edged my eyes toward my ankles and my wrists, duct tape biting onto them, my arms suspended over my head, bound to a pipe. I edged my eyes about a room with paint flaking from concrete block walls, a few pieces of decrepit, unvarnished furniture - a table on the other side of the room at which two young men stood packing plastic packets containing a white powder into cardboard boxes.

It was little more than a choked gasp escaping my throat, a half moment's writhing struggle against duct tape binding my wrists to a pipe. It yet again seemed that I was naked in ways I couldn't before the moment have imagined, two young men noticing my writhing struggles glancing inspecting scrutiny yet little more than wondering mirth in their voices as they turned back to their work.

"Fuckin' Bill Coops -" one began. "A naked woman - bold as brass right up the stairs -"

"Who but Bill Coops'd think it. Shoulda give him two quarters for her - just on principle -"

They appeared to be finished with their packing, turned their attention again toward me.

"What the hell we gonna do with her anyway? We sure as hell can't take her back out the door -"

"I'm gonna fuck her again - be even more fun with her awake and squirming, knowing she's gettin' it -"

"Ain't time, remember? We gotta dump her -"

"Dump her - where -?"

"How 'bout that -?" one of the young men glancing toward a window through which he was tossing empty boxes.

"You kiddin' - that's a long ways down -" though it was yet again hilarity in their voices.

I struggled again in confused, reeling terror as the young men approached, one of them with knife in hand slashing the duct tape from my wrists. I struggled in thrashing violence for brutal, clawing hands lain to my wrists and ankles, my struggles so entirely futile as I was dragged across the floor toward the window. It yet again seemed one bizare moment come from nowhere. I was a housewife from the suburbs - and I'd been carried naked into an abandoned building somewhere in the city, had been sold to drug dealers who'd decided to dispose of a body by just tossing it out a window. It might again almost have been some hysterical mirth even in the midst of screaming, blinding horror.

I opened my eyes - and it was a timeless eternity's excruciating agony, that same struggle just for breath. I waited, the worst of the agony passing. I struggled again for a fleeting half moment, felt little more than a culminating, despairing grief knowing that both of my legs were broken. I flung my eyes about a pile of rotting garbage on which I lay, flung my eyes about metal walls and the open sky above my head. A trash dumpster - the thing for another timeless moment almost that same hysterical mirth.

I struggled again - drew breath into my lungs.

"Help me -" I cried to the limits of my strength - and it yet again all seemed so entirely and impossibly futile. I couldn't even scream, agonizing pain and a dark oblivion enveloping me for just the effort.

I flung my eyes again about piles of rotting garbage in which my body was surrounded and enveloped not quite certain what I was searching for. I thrust my hands about the garbage, closed a hand onto something - drew a notebook with a pen lodged in the metal binder from the garbage.

It's a gasp of choked, hysterical anguish wrenched from my throat.

'June 17, 1987 - Marjorie Hayward,' I wrote - and decided again that I was a housewife from the suburbs, June Cleaver, perhaps, would just write a few more lines if there was time.

I'd opened my eyes again a few minutes ago, another moment's excruciating pain which passed. It's seagulls over my head, massive piles of garbage spreading off into the distance in every direction. I flung my eyes toward the sound of roaring engines somewhere far above me - another shower of garbage raining down, this time only a few yards away.

I've been crying for a few minutes, a despairing, unrestrained anguish. I haven't, I've decided, a great deal more to write. I suppose I hadn't believed that it could actually happen quite this quickly, had even in moments of primal, screaming terror supposed that I was eventually to escape, to find my way back into the arms of my family and a mediocre though quiet and contented existence in the suburbs. And it had seemed one brutal disappointment after another, feeble screams as I'd lain in a trash dumpster, no one hearing them over the roar of a truck's engine. I'd tried screaming again this morning just after dawn - had passed another hour in primal, abandoned anguish listening to the roar of engines somewhere above me.

It seems again that one bizare and ludicrous moment come from nowhere. I think it's just an hour or two after noon. The bulldozers on the cliff above me had fallen silent for an hour.

I'm Marjorie Hayward, had driven into the city all by myself this morning - yesterday morning, I guess. And it was, I suppose, just one wrong turn after another, an unlikely and yet a steady and unwavering progression along a path on which I just happened to encounter a string of people wont toward anything from uncaring apathy to outright, malicious cruelty.

It is now, I suppose, despairing, hopeless anguish as I wait to be buried alive in garbage raining down from above.

"Stop -" I just whispered to myself for giving in to that hopeless despair - just a quiet whisper yet again enough in ways I couldn't before the moment have imagined it might be.

It's yet another moment's hysterical mirth for me. I'd managed to clutch my precious notebook in my hands ever since I'd found it in the trash dumpster. I will, I've decided, rip the pages out, consign them to the winds while there's still time to do so. I'm not entirely certain why.

It's yet again been another timeless few moments in the midst of poisonous fumes. I can finally, I suppose, admit that I had fallen very passionately and painfully in love as well, had fallen in love with my handsome young admirer who at least for the moment was very passionately in love with me. I don't even have pretend or deny any more, Andrew and I mother and son - and there simply hasn't been any doubt between us for at least the past month, possibly even longer than that. And I now understand exactly what my final, whispered "no" in the midst of noxious, poisonous fumes had meant. It's even now difficult to say "no" to something which I now know I can have if I want it. I could, I suspect, have him back even now if I wanted to - and know that it will be something incomparably more than I could ever have imagined or fantasized it. He's genuinely convinced himself that he just can't fall in love with anyone but me, spends his days and his nights dreaming about me. It hadn't ever been anything more than an occasional glance between us, I "so pretty" and perhaps a sultry little change in my stance, nothing more outrageous than one might have seen on a television screen twenty or thirty years ago. And I'd passed yet another day in a house in the suburbs admitting in not quite dared corners of my mind that I and my younger son were exceptionally fond of each other, perhaps even daring a secret, cherished little fantasy and admitting in those not quite dared corners of my mind that I was spending my days waiting, hoping - knowing that sooner or later it was just going to happen. I might still at times have pretended it all just a romantic little adventure, Andrew and I living together in a little house somewhere in some other world. And all of the rest was always there, quite as it had so obviously been there between the lines in the poems he'd written for me. I was spending my days in a house in the suburbs waiting - and knowing that it was my younger son and I already seeing helpless, assenting abandon in each other's eyes. It could be nothing more than a touch of our hands to each other's, he and I even in that moment a mother and a son quite as we always had been, a touch of our hands to each other's the flirting mischief it had been between us for so long now. And it would be Andrew and I needing another half moment, a knowing embrace of our eyes. I'd allow myself no pretense or denial even then - even as I pushed the clothing from my body, edged pleading eyes again to my own son's eyes. And he'd known all along that I was as romantically and as violently in love with him as he was with me - and had known all along that an obvious and pleading touch of his hand to mine would be enough.

And it had been that sudden moment come from nowhere, even the poisonous fumes gone. It hadn't even been entirely and wholly vile and evil, my younger son and I discovering that we were so much more alike than we could ever have imagined. We'd discovered that our "affair" with each had been going on for months now. We'd both tried to put a stop to it - and had just given up, night after night. We were mother and son - and I don't think there has ever been any two human creatures more passionately in love with each other. It hadn't ever been anything more than moments between us, a stroll hand in hand along 1950's sidewalks, my handsome young man leading "the prettiest girl in the neighborhood" along by the hand - and he and I in a sudden moment come from nowhere just giving up, he and I simply two people discovering that we just hadn't mistaken a thing - and discovering that it was something incomparably more than we could ever have imagined it. It was noxious fumes, a black, hopeless horror - and my younger son wrapping pleading hands to my waist, I as well just giving up. We hadn't even in that moment the least doubt that our love for each other was all of the gentle warmth it's always been, he and I a mother and a son who were exceptionally fond of each other - and all of the rest just there while convention and restraint was gone. It was my younger son and I resting naked together on the same bed and just discovering that it had been possible all along, and discovering that it was something between us which it couldn't have been with anyone but each other. And it was something incomparably, inexplicably more than just our bodies become one in the most intimate manner possible. It was indeed all of the raw, agonizing, outright torturing pleasure we had known it would be. It was my body his to search with his hands, was maddening, agonizing bliss for me knowing it the same for him, knowing that I was a woman who for whatever reason he saw as feminine beauty which was an alluring, arousing ideal. It was yet again the ultimate pleasure - my younger son's body one with my own in the most intimate manner possible, he and I caressing each other in the most intimate manner possible. It was he and I abandoning ourselves to every manner of blatant, outright liscivious delight. It was my younger son clawing a hand onto my breasts, throwing a hand from my waist to a touch of searching, fondling intimacy. It was my son abandoning himself to his own frenzied wants, pounding his body into mine with unrestrained violence - the thing for me an agonizing, torturing ecstasy of a ferocity which just wouldn't have been possible with anyone but my own son. It was quiet, gentle lovemaking, he and I naked, our bodies entwined about each other's in frantic, clinging embrace, our bodies joined and one in the most intimate manner possible. And it was yet again the ultimate, culminating pleasure, his body fallen into the pounding, exploding throes of the ultimate release - and the thing for me yet again a released, agonizing pleasure which for whatever reason just wasn't possible unless it was the touch of my own son's body to my own.

And it was yet again something incomparably, inexplicably more than just that. We were mother and son - and it was just that which it was, just a fact - not even wholly and entirely vile in evil just in itself. It was indeed a conscious choice on both of our parts, imagining glances in not quite dared corners of our minds - until it was my younger son and I knowing ourselves just two people who at a certain point in time could become one in a manner which just isn't explainable, our bodies one with each other's in the ultimate act of intimacy - and yet our hearts, our souls, our entire beings one - now and forever.

No - I whisper - and know now what it means to do so - know why I still have to do so - even at this moment - as long as it's my heart still beating. It's another moment's bizare mirth. I have to whisper my no if for no other reason than the simple fact that I'm married, am June Cleaver who is heartbroken knowing and admitting again that she's given herself up for the past month or so to one act of adultery after another. And it's a strange little resignation, finally a moment's tranquil calm - even as it's wondering awe finally knowing how easy it would be just to say yes to my wants one final and irrevocable time. All of this garbage would be gone. I'd have what I've so desperately wanted for so long now - could have the entire world lain to me feet now if I wanted it - at least for a time.

It's time, I suppose, to consign these pages to the winds. I'm laying here naked with two broken legs half buried in rotting piles of garbage. I do feel a surrounding, enveloping, burning love for me. But I don't, I suppose, want to write a great deal more, don't want to suppose myself anything more than a frail human creature whose said no to and hopes she's overcome the one final obstacle presented her.

---

A derelict gulping from a bottle in a brown paper bag read a word or two on several scraps of paper he'd lifted from the ground. Shrugging, tossing the scraps of paper into the breeze, he turned his attention back to his bottle.