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The scenes are etched in my memory. I am on a sofa reading a novel. My nineteen year old son is in front of me reading a magazine. I am not reading but darting chances at my son. For the first time my eyes are seeing him as a sex object. Heinous thought no doubt but those who know my story may not condemn me outright, hopefully. After a while my son leaves for his room and I to my room. I bolt the door and lying face down on my bed I give myself up to some probing thoughts. At the end of an hour I come to the decision to seduce my son.
I am convinced that what I am proposing to do is natural. The Roman Catholic Church to which I belong leaves me not an inch to manoeuvre but the bible gives ample room. If Lot can have sex with his daughters and be blessed by God why not poor me have sex with my son? Adam’s children must have committed incest or else we would not be here; and Noah’s children too must have done the same. If God is against incest He would certainly have ordered Noah to take a few cousins with him in the ark. He did not which shows that under certain conditions God actually prefers incest. Yes, I am not venturing in loaded with feelings of guilt.
Though I was born to full blooded Portuguese parents I have never set foot in Portugal. I was born in Mozambique in 1975 the year that country split away from Portugal. My parents did not move to Portugal because no close members of the families of both my parents lived in Portugal but in Portuguese or former Portuguese territories. My parents had no difficulty in the beginning but by the time I was of school going age troubles started in the form of a civil war. My parents sent me to Goa which as a former Portuguese territory (till 1961) had a sizable ethnic Portuguese population. My father’s spinster sister took care of my schooling I spent my vacations in Mozambique.
The language we speak at home is Portuguese Creole, which is Portuguese enriched (some will say contaminated) by local languages. This hybrid language varies depending on the particular Portuguese territory. My language is a rich mixture of Portuguese with Konkani and Marathi from Goa and Bantu languages from Mozambique.
I married early. That was the norm in Mozambique both among the locals and the Portuguese immigrants. I bore a son within a year of marriage. Though Ricky, my husband, was only 20 he had a diploma in automobile engineering but as yet no steady job. We had a lucky break. My aunt knew a Portuguese man in Goa who had an auto repair shop he wanted to sell because he was getting too old to run it. She called to know if my husband was interested. Ricky took it up. Those years in Goa were happy ones with Ricky’s business prospering and our son Christy doing well in studies and in sports. We made yearly visits to Mozambique till our parents were alive and when they passed away these visits stopped and Mozambique faded from memory. It was to revive later under circumstances that no one could have imagined.
But bad days were ahead. Goa was not good for one reason—the celebrated feni, a strong drink fermented from the cashew fruit. Ricky got addicted to this brew. An assiduous drinker he developed cirrhosis of the liver and vomited blood and died when he was two years short of forty. At 34 I was a widow. The money we got from the auto shop that we had now leased was more than adequate. Christy, now nineteen, was undergoing a course in auto engineering and I had hopes of him taking over his Dad’s shop. But by the time a year has gone by after Ricky’s passing I was finding life a horror.
May be I was over sexed or may be I did not have the mental strength to rein in my desires but the fact was my body demanded sex so badly that I often spent sleepless night tossing about in bed. I could marry again of course but no proper offer came my way. One widower courted me but I did not expect a sixty year old husband to meet my requirements. He needed me for companionship but I needed more than that. Hindu’s form the majority in Goa and their religion does not permit remarriage of widows. There is thus a strong tradition of young widows going astray. I had thus to be careful lest the local men get interested in me. I was in a fix. I wanted sex badly and at the same time I was adverse to the usual channels available to widows to have their natural desires fulfilled.
I tried various methods of controlling my senses. I stopped eating meat and when that had no result I tried taking soup made out of the bitter neem leaves. It had no effect either. One afternoon an electrician had come home for some wiring repairs. He was a young handsome Marathi man of about my son’s age. He set my heart racing. I came to breaking point when he was up the ladder. Standing below I could see deep into his thighs. If he had been at ground level I would have hugged and kissed him. I ran into my bedroom and locked myself in. When he had completed the job he took leave of me from the other side of the closed door. lordbahis güvenilirmi As soon as I was sure he had gone I locked the front door and running to the fridge I took the trays of ice cubes and threw them into a bucket of water. I carried the bucket to the bathroom where I discarded my clothes and poured the ice cold water over my lower abdomen and vulva to cool the heat. It was on that evening that the scene described at the beginning of this article occurred.
That evening as I sat watching my son the thought that he was someone who can satisfy my sexual urges first occurred to me. I am sure it was the Marathi electrician who had triggered this change for he somewhat like my son in appearance. I decided to seduce my son.
But how does a mother go about seducing her son? I thought about it and it was clear that first I had the task of making him look on me not just as mother but also as a person he can make physical love to. This may appear a stupendous task but man being what he is it may not be as difficult a task as one may suppose. But how? That was obvious too. I must dress provokingly and look for signs in him of sexual excitement. I can proceed further only after he softens.
I closed the door of my room and undressed to nakedness. I saw myself in the full length mirror. People consider me good looking. I have a fine figure too with good sized breasts, narrow waist, and broad hips. My vulva is puffy. That is the term my husband used to describe it. He set great store by it. Often he would lie with his head between my thighs admiring my vulva. He would touch and fondle and eventually lick me to great orgasms. But of late I have not been caring for my vulva. My husband liked it smooth shaven. Now that he was gone I just trimmed it. If my son has inherited that particular gene of his father’s he would like it smooth too. Thereupon I shaved myself to glass bulb smoothness. I retrieved a loose sleeveless shirt from the bottom of my dresser. I had discarded it years ago because it was not modest. The neck was not daringly low but the sleeves openings were broad, very broad. I nicked an inch on each side to them broader. I wore it and examined myself at all angles. If I bent down with arms away from the sides of the body my breasts were almost totally visible. I made a further selection of tops and skirts as well as panties. Yes, panties; my son has some up-skirts coming his way curtsey his Mom. I was confident that he would respond.
Christy leaves for his workshop at ten. After the diploma course he is doing his internship. He comes to the breakfast table at about nine. I wore my enhanced sleeveless tops, a thin light blue skirt and dark blue panties. I examined myself in the mirror. The blue panties were visible under the thin skirt. I know that panties unaided by anything else have the power of inducing erections in men. I awaited the arrival of my son. He duly came and sat for breakfast which for him was the heaviest meal of the day. He is a slow eater and that suited me. I will have ample time to display myself. I placed a puri on his plate and scooped a spoonful of mashed potatoes from the vessel on the table and jerked it on to his plate. I darted a glance and I saw his eyes on the breasts that must be very visible through the loose sleeve opening. Puris are his favourite breakfast. Slowly and steadily he will consume a dozen or more. I can fry them one by one and every time I served I can display my breasts. As the breakfast proceeded I could see him enjoying the show. His body language was pretty explicit and he was squirming away trying to hide his erection.
Eventually breakfast was over. He had tea and was ready to leave. We hug before parting but today we hugged with greater warmth. It was a tight embrace and a cheek rub, no kiss. Was I feeling his erection? I have never felt his genital bulge before but was it because I was not looking out for it? Was I pressing my pubis against his and was he counter pressing? I like to think it was the case but I was not sure. I went about my chores with the jumpy heart of a teenager in love.
I had plans for the evening. My top this time was with sleeves but the neck line was low. I wore skirt that was more opaque than what I wore in the morning but with a hemline that came to about mid thigh—and no panties.
Dinner was usually rice and fish curry. Goa is famous for fish recipes. Christy likes fruit and ice cream for dessert. I gave him a good helping with lots of papaya cubes. Mango he likes best but it was not the season for mangoes. We sat opposite each other in the front room sofa that was deep and sinkingly soft. He read a recent splashy auto magazine. (He has other magazines with girls on it but they are under his mattress.) I took up a Mills and Boon. I was holding the book but not reading. I became engrossed in plotting my moves. I was changing my position ever and on. I discarded the slippers and tucked my feet lordbahis yeni giriş up. I was darting glances at my son. He was getting excited. My skirt was short and he could see most of my thighs. I moved again exposing my vulva for a second not more. I could see my son feasting his eyes on mother’s nakedness. I moved again with eyes on the book so that he could have his eyeful without fear of my knowing. I spread my thighs slightly and then as if suddenly aware that I was exposing myself I straightened and pulled the skirt down.
Son was finding his erection a nuisance. He was moving this way and that I suppose to reduce the pressure of his somewhat tight khaki shorts on his hardened penis. I started reading without of course knowing what I read. The time was ripe for the last show. This time I sank into a corner of the sofa that with much use had deepened. I tried to get up. I slipped back. Then with an effort I kicked my legs up and for a moment my legs were up in the air with thighs spread and vulva thoroughly exposed. I jumped out. Christy got up to help and must have had a close view of Mom’s vulva. He was cross eyed; may be it was my imagination.
The next morning I had the evidence that son was not only aware that Mom was seeking intimacy but he was also in the same frame. This is what happened. After breakfast when he took leave of me we hugged. Today it was not a perfunctory hug. We held tight to each other like lovers and we rubbed cheeks and we kissed but only on the cheeks. But most important we pressed each other at the pubis and he proudly and defiantly rubbed his erect penis over my vulva. Yes, he did that and in a manner that one cannot mistake. We parted and he no doubt owing to shame left without a second glance. I came in and collapsed on the sofa. My trembling legs did not have the strength to hold me up. My mind was in a whirl but on one point it was clear: I was successful in lighting the fuse. The explosion is certain in a day not more. How it will happen I had no idea. I had no plans but to play by the ear.
Christy was due back only late in the night for he was going to Bombay. At least once a month on a Saturday he went to the metropolis to buy car parts. I heard him open the door minutes before midnight. He would get up late Sunday being his off day. I got up early as usual, had my breakfast and awaited his arrival at the breakfast table. It was past nine when he appeared clean shaven and fresh after a bath. I was clean shaven too but that of course he had no means of knowing.
Bombay toast was on the breakfast menu. Bombay toast in other parts of the world goes by the name French toast. He liked them some with pepper and some sweet. I serve him hot from the pan. My open sleeve top was on duty that day with no bra of course and I had a mid skirt on and with no panties. It was thrilling to wear ultra thin cotton skirt and not have a back up. So thrilled was I that I could feel moisture in the vulva.
Each time I came to the table with the toast balancing on the ladle I could see him darting glances at the sleeve. His penis was erect but he seemed not to mind it. After three or four visits I wanted to catch him ‘red handed’ as it were. On the pretext of arranging the table I stood from where he could best see my breasts and mumbled a song to give him the idea that I was absorbed in my work. I darted a glance. His concentration was so totally on the breasts that he was unaware of the surroundings. I kept looking at him fascinated at his large orbs soaking in the sight of his mother’s breasts. He glanced up, met my eye, turned away and blushed scarlet.
“My darling boy you should not be stealing glances at my breasts. It’s yours. You have played with them a few years ago. You can now. Come on touch them.”
He was intensely embarrassed but when I requested him once again he put his hand hesitantly through the sleeve and touched one, and then he touched the other, and then emboldened he grasped one and softly squeezed it. His emotions became too much. He embraced me and buried his face in my breasts.
“Mom,” he said, “I have been a bad son. I have wrong thoughts about you.”
“No, my darling,” I said, “you are a young virile man and I, though your mother at 34 I am young too. Is it not proper that we should seek satisfaction from each other rather than you go to the horrible one night stands and I to some drooling fat money lender?”
“But the bible says it is sin,” he said.
“Don’t go by what people say,” I said, “but by what people do. Our prophet Lot had children by his daughters. Did God punish him? No, he blessed him. Adam’s and Eve’s children must have had sex amongst themselves, and maybe they had sex with their parents too. That is how we came into this world.”
I held him by the hand and led him to my bedroom. I undressed him. He stood passively as I did so. I tapped his turgid penis and bent down and kissed the rose. I then removed lordbahis giriş my top.
“Now son you must remove your Mom’s skirt,” I said. He pulled the tape and the skirt fell off. He gasped.
“You must have had glimpses of it,” I said thrusting my pelvis forwards. He blushed again. “Touch it.” Hesitantly he placed his hand on the pubic mound. “Go down.” His hand was on the cleft. “Cup it with your palm.” When he did so and his face was so close to mine that both of us acting as if on cue embraced and kissed for the first time on the lips. It was a passionate kiss with lips on lips and his bare penis grinding my bare vulva.
I sat on the edge of the mattress and threw a pillow on the carpet. He knelt on the pillow and closely examined my vulva. He spread out the lips and ran up his fingers on the edges till he came to the clitoris. He gently touched the clitoris.
“May I kiss it,” he said.
“Certainly,” I said. He kissed and then with tongue tip he touched it. “Lick,” I siad. He rested his knees on the pillow and encircling my thighs each with his arms he licked my clitoris. To give him good access I used both my hands to spread out the lips. I was so hot after my long starvation that the sensitive spots were all on the surface and in quick time I climaxed.
“Come up son, enter me my darling son, I cannot wait.” I said.
I lay back with thighs spread and he came on top his large penis dangling over me. I caught it and took it to my vaginal opening and he pressed and it slipped in with no effort at all. What were my feelings as I lay with my son on top of me with his large penis deliciously stretching the vagina his whole body had once traversed? Anguish that I was breaking a taboo that beats all other taboos to nothing? No way. I was smug in the belief that I was a blessed woman.
His ejaculation coincided with my climax. It was a monster. I got it three times. We lay in a close embrace savouring the warmth in silence. May be I snoozed. I was suddenly aware that the tip of his hard penis was probing the region of my vulval cleft. I looked up at him and smiled. I turned on my back and we had it again. Christy’s turn over time was very short no doubt because of his tender age. We had it many times before we were aware that we had missed lunch and were close to tea time. There were stains in several parts of the sheet. I wondered what the washer woman would infer from it. I removed the sheet and wetted it. We had fresh bed linen for our after tea activities. We stained several sheets in the ensuing fortnight.
Even when he was inside me I never lost the feeling that he was my son and he in turn he never lost the feeling that I was his mother. He was always on top and I loved the close embrace. Any other posture would have been inappropriate in a mother son union. It was a glorious fortnight. And then came the time for reckoning.
On the fourteenth day I should have had my periods. I am usually regular. I did not. The next day, the next, and next there was no sign. It was worrying time but not unduly so. Terminating pregnancy in India is easy. I could not in Goa of course but in Bombay where no one knows me. But deep down in my heart owing possibly to my Catholic upbringing I had misgivings. In the event my son decided for us.
“What’s the matter Mom,” said my son on the fifth morning. My attempts at acting as if nothing has happened were apparently not successful.
“I am missing my periods,” I said. He stood looking blandly, and as the import of the statement sunk in his eyes twinkled with mischief and then he smiled one of his special smiles.
“You are pregnant Mom,” he said and he hugged me and we kissed. He then kissed my lower abdomen and said, “It’s my baby, Mom, our baby. A baby brother or sister” He never ever referred to the baby as his child. It was always his brother or sister. He was excited as any newly married man. He sternly, almost angrily, refused termination.
“So you want your mother to face the wrath of friends and neighbours?”
“Not if we move back to Mozambique,” he said. His answer was so prompt that I wonder if he had thought of the possibility of pregnancy and was planning for it. If he had it must be surprising in one so young.
“Mozambique?” I said. I could not make any connection.
“Yes, Mom. My training is almost over; I can work there. I believe there is a great need for auto mechanics in that country. We tell them that you lost your husband a month ago or better still we can marry. Oedipus did that didn’t he?” I laughed out loud.
“You are a silly fellow,” I said, but his other suggestion was practicable and in the event that is what happened. He became mechanic is a firm in Mozambique and owing to his skill soon became one of the three head mechanics. My abdomen swelled up and my pregnancy proceeded smoothly which considering that the interval between my first and second was twenty years was surprising. My son was even more attentive to me then his father was. We had sex regularly till my seventh month. But every day he insists on seeing me nude and he measures my abdomen for size. He also likes playing with the abdomen running his hands over it as if it was a basket ball. The day for delivery was approaching.
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