Always Is a Long TimeAlways Is a Long Time


I went to call him in for a meal. He was doing something with one of the cars in the garage. There was a door leading from the house into the garage and without any attempt to be silent I opened it, and was about to call out, “Come and eat,” when I heard a rhythmic gasping noise.

Puzzled I walked into the garage. Richard was working, or had been working, on the car farthest away from me, a gift from his father and me for his eighteenth birthday. The family car for a moment blocked my view of Richard, but walking a few paces I stopped. I could see Richard.

He was half sitting on the bonnet of his car and his arm was pumping up and down as he emitted gasps and groans. One more step and I could see what he was doing; he was masturbating.

He had his eyes closed and he was obviously so engrossed in his self stimulation he failed to hear me.

I stood stock still, fascinated by what I was seeing. I knew he masturbated frequently because I had to wash his sticky handkerchiefs, but I had never seen him, or any other man for that matter, in the act of self relief.

As I watched his movements became more rapid and suddenly he gave an extra loud groan and great gobs of sperm began to shoot out of him. The first ejection shot out several feet to be followed by less violent emissions that seemed to gush from him.

I was captivated by what I was seeing. I know many people are either disgusted by masturbation or talk about it derisively. I think this is to cover up a sense of guilt about their own masturbating habits. I on the contrary, found watching Richard quite delightful; he was clearly lost in his world of erotic fantasy and I wondered who it was he envisaged as he pumped out his semen.

As the first explosion of his sperm was emitted I had flash across my mind, “If only George could….” That was too dangerous a thought, so I squashed it.

Richard approached the end of his orgasm as the last droplets of semen fell to the concrete floor. He leaned further back on the car bonnet breathing heavily, his eyes still closed.

I slipped quietly out of the garage, waited a couple of minutes, then opened the communicating door called out that his meal was ready.

When Richard came in I looked at him and saw he had a dreamy look in his eyes. “Still recovering from his orgasm,” I thought.

He washed his hands at the kitchen sink and as he turned to come to the table George, who had been working in the study, entered. For a moment they were side by side. There was George, slightly paunchy and balding, his usual good natured grin on his face; and there was Richard, young, muscular, lithe and slim, his dark hair slightly dishevelled looking relaxed with that distant look still in his eyes. I felt a slight ticking sensation in my clitoris.

After the meal and during the evening I began to get signals from George that he would be requiring what he called his “ration” that night. The signals were as usual, an arm round my shoulders as we watched television; getting me a cup of coffee or drink when it was normally left to me; his conversation interspersed with mild endearments like, “Sweetheart” and “Dearest.”

In bed it was business as usual, and I do mean usual. A grab for a breast; a brief period of kissing and then a feel to see if I was wet enough for him to enter. I was always wet enough, but what he didn’t know was that on the nights I suspected he would want his ration, I always applied a lubricant before getting into bed as his “love play” did nothing to arouse me.

Then he was pushing up and down in me grunting and groaning. It was always the same, except this night was different. I actually got wet with my own lubricant which made things rather slippery when added to the applied artificial love juice. In addition, and to my amazement, I had my first orgasm with George in I don’t know how long.

George was equally surprised and commented, “Sweetheart, you were really going it tonight, was I that good?”

I made some complimentary remark about his “love making,” but failed to tell him that all the time he was fucking me I had been fantasising Richard.

Don’t get the wrong impression. George is a good man and a generous husband and father. It is just that for him sexual intercourse is little more than a release of his banked up sperm. The idea that two people could enjoy each other’s bodies somewhat more extensively than we did had never occurred to him. When at times I had made suggestions about having some more interesting love play, he chuckled and said, “We don’t want to be bothered about that. I like to get straight to the action.”

So there it was, and like a lot of other women I had a kind husband and a hopeless or careless lover. From time to time I had toyed with the idea of taking an illicit lover. I knew I could because I had received a number of offers of “meaningful relationships.”

Having read in magazines some of the consequences of these relationships I had always rejected the offers. I bursa eskort bayan gathered that such relationships tend not to last for long and usually end when one or the other of the partners start to demand more than the other is prepared to give. For example: “Leave him/her and come and live with me.” I had no intention of leaving George, but I did want more gratifying sex.

In the following days I found myself watching Richard more closely than usual. Increasingly I found myself weighing up his sexual potential. I realised that I knew nothing of his sex life.

When he was a little boy we had always been very close. When he got to around thirteen that closeness began to evaporate; to embrace or kiss him was to get the response, “Don’t mum.”

Puzzled at this changing relationship I resorted to books and magazines to try and find out why the change. Amid the surfeit of often confusing information put forth by the professionals, I gathered that during childhood boys often have a relationship with their mother that has a sexual content. When they get a bit older they realise that mother is not available, so they seek other sexual relationships.

I was consoled at the apparent loss of Richard’s previously demonstrative affections by the knowledge that this was what was supposed to happen. I did, however, miss the cuddles we once enjoyed, especially when he had joined me in bed early in the mornings.

Now I began to wonder what “sexual relationships” he had entered into. Prejudiced as I might be as his mother, as I looked at him now with a female’s eye for a sexy male, I found him not wanting in that department.

“Surely,” I thought, “he must be getting his sexual satisfaction with someone”; yet if he was, why the need to masturbate?

I resorted to the professionals again only to learn that both men and women, even when they are getting sexual gratification with a member of the opposite sex, or with the same sex for that matter, will sometimes masturbate for the sheer pleasure of doing so. I even discovered that a man and woman lying together would often enjoy masturbating.

On gaining the latter piece of information I found myself smirking sardonically. Often after George’s unsatisfactory copulating, and when I was sure he was asleep, I would have to use a little self relieving. “Huh,” I thought, “That’s a man and women lying side by side, but one’s dead to the world and the other’s masturbating in isolation.”

My beginning to review Richard frankly as a sexual object brought about some subtle changes in my behaviour. I started to take more care over my appearance. Of course, I told myself I was doing this for my own benefit, but a wicked little demon inside me kept whispering, “No you’re not Brigid.”

Normally careless about my hair, I took my hairdressers advice as to what cut would best suit me. When Richard saw it he said, “Mum, you look terrific. That cut has taken ten years off you.”

On the other hand, George failed to notice until I drew his attention to it. He glanced up from the newspaper then said, “Very nice,” and went back to his paper.

Clothes were another thing I had let go over the years, but now I splashed out and got myself some new ones. This time I was guided by the girl who served me and her first suggestions I rejected as “too young” for me.

“But madam can’t be more than thirty,” she protested. I took this to be sales talk, but at forty one to be told you look thirty is a compliment hard to resist. I bought a couple of items at her suggestion wondering if I should live to regret it.

My next port of call was a beautician. I had splashed out money to the point where I did not care any more. This time I had a very pleasant surprise.

The young woman who attended to me was apparently not given to a sales pitch. She firmly made the point that I hardly needed her ministrations.

“I think madam should use makeup very sparingly,” she warbled. “Perhaps a different shade of lipstick and just a touch of eye shadow and liner; certainly no pancake makeup, since madam has excellent skin.”

I was much relieved by this absence of the hard sell until, after purchasing a few items of makeup as advised, I saw the bill. At that point I felt I would rather have had the hard sell. I think I might have been the victim of reverse psychology.

On presenting myself that evening with my minimal makeup and one of the new garments, from Richard I got the acclamation, “Mum, you look so se…so terrific.”

I decided to be bold and said, “Did you mean to say ‘sexy’ Richard?”

“Well, yes, I suppose I did.”

“Good; then in future, say what you mean first time.”

We burst into laughter.

George, even under the enthusiastic prompting of Richard later that evening, managed to look away from the television set long enough to say, “Yes, very nice sweetheart.” Then he went back to his favourite sit com. Given his less than appreciative response to the new me, I bursa otele gelen eskort bayan decided not to tell him what the bill had been.

I was not particularly troubled by George’s lack of enthusiasm about his wife’s apparent attractiveness. He would get his “ration” and be happy.

Crudely I thought, “I might just as well be a hole in a beetroot for all he cares.”

You see, I had got to the point where I had the courage with my demon’s prompting to admit that it was not for George I tried to make myself an object of sexual desire. I was trying to impress Richard.

Having got to the point of virtually admitting I wanted sex with my own son, I returned to the experts. I had understood the stuff about boys desiring their mothers and then giving up, what I wanted to know was did mother’s desire their sons or was I a sexual sociopath?

The experts seemed more reticent on this subject. There were a few cases of mother’s seducing their young sons cited, but these seemed mainly to be single parent mothers or women urged by their husbands or lovers to engage in sex with the young boy. As I fitted neither category I was left uninformed.

In the process of searching for this information I did learn one thing. Lots of older women sought sexual relationships with young men, and young men often desire older women.

In the case of the women it seems they like the young men because they are more virile and teachable. In the case of the young men it can be a bit more complex.

Some liked older women precisely because they were willing to teach them about satisfying love making and proved more dynamic sexual partners. Others sought older women as a sort of mother substitute. They not only got satisfying sex, but also they felt safe with the older woman and received maternal as well as sexual love. The desire for the maternal aspect was linked to an unsatisfactory relationship with their real mothers who withheld the affection their sons wanted.

Not knowing who Richard’s sex partners were I had no idea whether they were younger or older women. I tried to work out whether I had been an unsatisfactory mother, and came to the conclusion that it was Richard who had rejected my affections, not the other way round.

I still tried to tell myself that all this research on my part was purely out of academic interest, but that demon inside me kept shouting louder and louder, “No it’s not, Brigid.”

Finally the demon won and I frankly admitted to myself that I really was lusting for my own son. That admission, however, got me nowhere. Richard had never shown any sign of reciprocating my feelings and I didn’t have the courage to initiate anything.

So I went on hankering after him, getting wet between my legs looking at him when he wandered round the house clad only in shorts, and becoming increasingly irritable. I decided that there was absolutely no hope that I could enjoy Richard, sexually speaking. Then one of those accidental events that often prove a turning point occurred. For once in a blue moon George had decided we should go and see a film together. The evening we were due to go to the cinema he announced that he couldn’t make it.

“Sorry sweetheart,” he lamented, “I’ve just got to go and see an important client.”

I suppose I could have made a fuss but knew that it would be pointless. George would still go and see his “important client.”

George, no doubt trying to console me, suggested that Richard might like to go with me. I had some reservations about this because I had a strong feeling that an evening in close proximity to Richard in the dark of the cinema might mean a misery of wet thighs.

George, however, not knowing how I felt about going out with Richard, took it upon himself to ask him.

“How would you like to take your mum to the cinema?” he asked. “I can’t make it, and she was looking forward to going out.”

Richard looked wary; “Who’s paying?” he asked.

“I am of course,” replied George, taking out his wallet.

“Okay then,” responded Richard, but with no great enthusiasm.

I began to feel like an unwanted cow at a cattle auction and almost called the whole thing off. However, since it was a film I had wanted to see for some time, I suppressed my female ego and off we went.

We were about twenty minutes into the film when my hand brushed against Richard’s that was lying on the armrest. A delicious spear of pleasure darted through me and I felt that ticking sensation in my clitoris which with increasing frequency I was experiencing in Richard’s presence.

I let my hand lie on his, waiting for it to be rejected. Instead I felt Richards hand turn and his fingers enmesh with mine. After a few minutes there were gentle throbbing pressure passed between us as our hands heated up. I leaned towards him to let my head drop on his shoulder, and again, there was no rejection.

We stayed like that for the bursa eve gelen escort rest of the film and I must confess if you asked me what the film was about I would be hard put to tell you.

Coming home in the car Richard was driving. I cursed the vehicle’s manufacturer for not providing the old type of bench seats. With those seats I could have sat close to him and continued to rest my head on his shoulder. As it was, with the bucket seats, the best I could manage was my hand on his arm.

My thoughts wandered to the back seat that was the bench type and I fantasised that Richard would stop the car in some secluded spot and take me on the back seat. Unhappily he did not stop until we got home.

He stopped the car before taking it into the garage to let me out. I took a daring plunge and leaning over him said, “Thank you for taking me, darling. I’ve enjoyed being with you very much.”

With that I kissed him softly and let my tongue flicker over his lips. I sensed a response from him and I let the kiss linger. His lips parted and I slipped my tongue into his mouth.

When we broke from the kiss he gasped out, “Oh mum that was too much.”

I did not know how to interpret his words so not having the nerve to press things further I got out of the car and went into the house. Richard should have followed me soon after, but he didn’t. I started to think something might have happened to him, so I went through the door communicating with the garage. The gasping sound I heard before came to my ears.

The garage was dark so I could only see a dim outline of Richard, but it was clear what he was doing. Had I the courage I would have gone to him and said “Put it into me, Richard,” but I had no such bravery.

I stood there and putting my hand up my skirt and slipping down my panties, I masturbated with my eyes on the dim outline of Richard.

Fortunately I came before he did and having stifled my orgasmic cries, I hurried back into the house.

“My God,” I thought, “I turned him on”; then cursed myself as a gutless fool for not going to him when I had the opportunity.

After while Richard came into the kitchen where I was sitting at the table waiting for him. He had that same distant look in his eyes I had observed the first time I had witnessed his masturbating. He slumped down at the table and gave me a dreamy smile.

I had spotted George’s brief case and lap top computer in the hall so I knew he was home and had probably gone to bed. That being so, no matter what Richard and I might be feeling and wanting, there was no chance of anything happening that night.

I said, “I thought we might have a drink before we go to bed, darling.”

“Good idea,” he replied, “I’ll get them.”

He returned with the drinks and sat at the table again. The dreaminess seemed to have gone from his eyes and he looked across the table at me as if he was trying to bore into my head to find out what was there. I think I must have been doing the same to him. Richard was the first to break the silence between us.

“It was a lovely evening, mother, could we do it again some time?”

“Of course,” I replied. “It was the best evening I’ve had for a long time.”

“If…if we do go out together again…do you think we…we…er…”

“What darling?” I asked with difficulty as a lump seemed to have formed in my throat.

Richard turned his eyes away from me saying, “Oh, nothing, just a silly thought.” He finished his drink and went on, “I’ll get off to bed.” He came over to me and kissed me on the lips very tenderly and left the room.

I sat steeped in feelings of anger and deprivation. Anger because I might have had the experience I was longing for and I had thrown it away through cowardice. Deprivation because for all my masturbating I still hungered for him.

I clambered into bed beside a snoring George and wept myself to sleep.

That a new phase in my relationship with Richard had taken place became evident over the following days. It was in part rather like a return to when he was a young boy. Then he would always kiss me goodbye when he left for school and when he came home. He was always ready for a hug and a confidential chat. As I have said, this was lost when he entered puberty.

Yet it was not exactly a return to that sort of affection. When he kissed me now it would linger with occasionally his tongue flickering over my lips, or mine his. We pulled our bodies close and sometimes there was a hint of our hips rotating against each other. It seemed however, that neither of us could bring ourselves to take the final step.

Opportunities for that final step came fairly frequently as George was out quite often seeing clients during the evening. Even when he was home he was so absorbed watching television I sometimes thought Richard could have raped me in front of him, and he wouldn’t notice.

There came a time when I could stand the sexual tension between Richard and me no longer. I knew I had to act. I had to know finally whether Richard wanted me enough to copulate with me, or whether he would reject me.

I chose a time when George was away interstate seeing clients for a few days and Richard was not snowed under by his studies. I asked Richard to take me to a concert to which he agreed. I prepared myself very carefully.

Bir yanıt yazın

E-posta adresiniz yayınlanmayacak. Gerekli alanlar * ile işaretlenmişlerdir