Here’s a story that’s been kicking around in my head for many years and finally decided it had to be written. I’m not sure what to make of it other than my reoccurring oedipal issues are back…lol.

I look forward to hearing your comments and criticisms, both positive and negative. As always, this is a work of fiction and all characters exist only within the confines of my imagination. Enjoy!


Maybe it’s my Irish blood that makes me an optimist — that helps me believe that no matter how bad things can get, there is always hope for a better day. I’m sure my Da would disagree. He was always a dark soul — morose and brooding and wishing he could return to the “Old Country” one more time. With his dying breath, he was grousing and complaining about the raw deal that life dealt him.

Maybe that’s why I married, Jimmy Halloran. He was the exact opposite of my father — a happy go lucky charmer and an up and coming police officer in the small city I grew up in on the Northeast Atlantic coast. He was always smiling and laughing and his brilliant blue eyes and easy smile literally charmed me out of my panties and off my feet. Alas, Jimmy was no great lover — I enjoyed the sex, but I always felt it was missing something and my orgasms were far and few between — not that I ever let him know. I made him think he was the finest lover in the world. In my optimism, I always thought he would get better at it.

I remained an optimist even when the marriage went sour. My Jimmy lost interest in me sexually after I gave him his long desired son, the apple of my eye, James. I think Jimmy had mother issues and gradually could not bear to be with me sexually after I gave birth and became a mother. In the end, when he was with me, he was completely impotent. He blamed it on me of course. I wasn’t woman enough anymore — I’d let myself go, were his accusations. I’d stand naked in front of my bedroom mirror and know that that charge was a bald lie!

I’m not an immodest person, but I know that I am a good looking woman that got as many longing glances from a man when I was thirty-five as I did when I was twenty! My bright red hair betrays my Irish heritage, red as a fire truck and hanging down in wavy tresses past my shoulders — a thick mane of red hair and my best feature. My face is pleasant enough, with brown-green eyes and pale skin and a wee, button nose. I’ve got a luscious figure that would tries to run to fat, but with lots of work and a hard life, I’ve kept the same twenty-six inch waist I had before I gave birth to my James. I am amply endowed in the tit department — with my heavy, teardrop shaped 38D breasts being what attracted my husband to me in the first place! I stand five foot, nine inches and I’m not ashamed of my legs, although Jimmy forbade me to wear a hemline above the knee.

All in all, I’m a fine looking woman most of the time. Of course, as things went bad between Jimmy and me, there were times I dare not leave the house for fear of someone seeing just how rough Jimmy treated me. Jimmy changed. His happy go lucky attitude vanished to be replaced by something angry and hard bitten. Maybe it was the job — I’ve no illusions about police work — Da was a beat cop for thirty years and many’s the night I sneaked out of bed and heard him pouring his pain out to my mother. What I didn’t know then was how bad a cop Jimmy had become…but that’s getting ahead of myself.

Maybe it was me — that having given him a son and now being a mother, he couldn’t bring himself to fuck me and he could never ask for a divorce and that in the end he was disappointed by James, a quiet and sensitive boy who was totally uninterested in his father’s obsessions with football and boxing. Jimmy declared his feelings often, “The better part of you, boy, ran down your mother’s leg!” The gulf between Jimmy and James widened over the years as James realized what his father was doing to me and resented it. Whatever it was that created Jimmy’s anguish and anger, it provoked in him a terrible hatred and when the hate grew too strong and he was liquored up, well — I wore a lot of sunglasses and long sleeve shirts and stayed indoors for days or weeks at a time.

By the time, James turned ten things seemed to grow worse with each passing day. Jimmy would stay away for days, even weeks at a time and then show up drunk and pissed and oh, Jesus, how he could make me hurt! One would think I’d relish his absence, but James and I lived in constant fear when he was gone of finally hearing his footsteps on the porch, the creaking of the front door opening and what he’d be angry about this time. I found no solace in the Church — my priest admonishing me to “Be a better wife to the man, Charlene! He deserves that much doing the job he does.”

I pressed charges once, after a brutal beating landing me in the emergency room with three cracked ribs, a sprained wrist and a bruised kidney. For one fleeting moment, I thought I might be free of the man bursa escort — but that was the day I learned of the “thin blue line” where the police force protected their own. All that came of that was Jimmy getting a stern reprimand from his precinct commander about minding his personal life with more discretion and Jimmy teaching me that there is lots of ways to inflict terrible pain without leaving marks…at least those that could show. They say the police are better about dealing with spousal abuse these days — I hope so.

Still, I believed that someday, somehow, things could and would change for the better. James was fifteen when I first thought this happened. Jimmy was off duty and sitting in his favorite bar when one side of his face began to sag and he fell off his stool with a massive stroke. The doctors told me he would never completely recover — that he was likely remain paralyzed completely on one side, bedridden for life. Despite all the beatings, it broke my heart to see him so and I accepted my new role as his caretaker, one I would have worked at to my grave, but my troubles were just beginning.

Three months after Jimmy’s stroke, the city prosecutor announced the findings of a police corruption probe and at the heart of it was a small cabal of cops including my Jimmy. He had been neck deep in drugs, gambling and protection scams. He lost his pension/disability and his insurance. We lost our house and our car to something called the RICO statutes. Then it was revealed that Jimmy was also involved in prostitution, running a small string of women out of a sleazy apartment in the worst part of the city.

To add to my humiliation, it was to this apartment that Jimmy had leased for a year in advance where we were forced to retreat to when they seized our home. Can you imagine how it felt to clean that pit up? It was a miserably small one bedroom walk-up apartment on the fourth floor of an apartment building that we shared with drug dealers, hookers, and more roaches and rats than I ever dreamed could exist.

It was a crowded existence too. We had Jimmy in a hospital bed situated in the living room and I would sleep on the couch while James slept on a small bed in the one small bedroom. James and I learned to co-exist within the crowded place and of all the things I think I missed the most — it was having my own bathroom.

Medical bills drained what little savings we had left and we barely managed to scrape by. Jimmy needed around the clock care that we could not afford once his pension and insurance were lost and I couldn’t leave him to take a job to make ends meet. Thank the Lord Jesus for my son, James.

My sweet darling son, James — as good and smart and brave boy as ever lived. He bore the shame and hardship stoically, never speaking a word of complaint, never crying or whimpering. Even when he had to leave his good school and dear friends behind and move into another world of slums and poverty with a joke of a school, he was there for me, helping me deal with it all. And as we faced total and complete poverty, without a word, my sixteen year old son became the man of the house and went out and found a job. He stayed in school — knowing I could never bear it if he dropped out, but at four in the afternoon, he rode a bus down to a local textile mill and using a fake ID, got himself hired out as a common worker on the second work shift.

I honestly don’t know how he did it, but he did. James was a student by day and a factory worker by night, coming home to sleep for a few hours and then do it again. On Friday nights, he’d bring his check home and drop it on the kitchen table. Saturdays and Sundays, he found pick-up jobs to do to bring in much needed cash. And we needed the money. Jimmy was anathema to the city and any hopes from aid and relief agencies were dashed at every turn. When the system turns it back deliberately on you, there is no hope from that end. We barely had enough to pay the rent, buy Jimmy’s medicine and eat, but somehow we did it.

One might think at least with Jimmy being incapacitated, at least there was relief in one sense, but, now we had Jimmy with us 24/7 and his anger was still there, still palpable in his presence. His face was locked into a perpetual sneer and hatred blazed in his eyes. His ability to speak was almost gone, but he could make noises that we quickly were able to interpret as anger or annoyance and I swear upon my soul, a vindictive and self satisfied expression at us being trapped with him in this life.

Feeding him, cleaning his messes, showing him every kindness, it all seemed to enrage him further. He was like a cancer in our lives, slowly eating away our spirit. Over the next two years, my eternal optimism began to fade, especially as I watched my son sacrifice his youth for our well being. It broke my heart to see him come in night after night, exhausted and dirty and yet find the strength to smile at me, kiss my cheek and whisper, “I love you, bursa escort bayan Mom,” before collapsing into bed.

Jimmy slowly got worse — another major stroke rendering him completely incapacitated. His mind was intact and full of the hate that was so evident in his eyes as he angrily glared at me all the time. Still, I persevered and tried to hope for a better life. All that sustained me was the love I had for my son and the love I knew he felt for me. The world might kick us down, but we clung to each other as we struggled to rise back up.

Things changed one Friday night in May, shortly after James turned eighteen. It had been a long day. Jimmy had discovered he could still spit and had spent most of the day amusing himself by trying to spit at me while I fed him or to let it drool from his mouth so I had to clean it up again and again. It was after midnight and having finally seen Jimmy off to sleep, I had changed into my ratty old nightgown when James came through the door, carefully and quietly setting his lunch pail down at the small table in the kitchenette. Not sparing his father more than a cursory glance, James made his way to me and gave me a quick hug and a kiss and whispered, “How are you, Mom?”

I gave him a weary smile and shrugged my shoulders as I replied, “I’m fine, sweetie — he was the usual.”

James nodded, he understood. He tried to give me an equally weary smile, but it only flickered across his lips before disappearing. His eyes stared into mine for a moment, glanced downward quickly and then back to meet mine — his eyes seeming to be so much older than a young man should be. I stiffened suddenly as I realized his downward glance was at my chest and I blushed as I realized that my gown was gaping open and my tall son could look down at my exposed braless breasts. I quickly moved to pull the nightgown closed and whispered, “Sorry, James,” in an embarrassed tone.

My son sighed and nodded. “It’s okay, Mom.” He started to say something, but stopped and said, “I’m whupped, Mom — I’m gonna rack out.”

As he passed me, I reached out and touched his arm. “Son, are you — is everything alright?” My fingers closed and not for the first time was I surprised at how muscular he was — his arms were well defined — not simply the well toned muscle of youth, but the hard muscle of a working man. I felt him shiver slightly.

“I’m fine, Mom — just a long night at work. All I need is a good night’s sleep.”

He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead and whispered, “I love you, Mom.” and slipped off to his room, pulling the door shut behind him. My heart ached for my son and I felt so helpless to ease his weariness and pain. I went about finishing getting ready for bed.

I was about to turn out the light when I heard a commotion outside down in the street. From my window, I couldn’t see anything and I moved to James’s bedroom door and knocked quietly. “James, is everything all right?” I said as I opened up the door. My son was sitting in the window, his room dark. From the dim light from outside, I could tell he was wearing only his boxer shorts. Even though he was partially in shadow, I could see how my son was indeed a man — a well muscled man. I confess my heart beat a little faster and why not. James was handsome and I was still a relatively young woman of forty-three and it’s only reasonable to have a slight physical response to a beautiful, barely clad man…even if it was my son.

“James, what’s going on?” I said softly as I crossed the room coming to stand by his side. “Who’s making all that ruckus?”

I peered over his shoulder and saw three young couples dancing and laughing their way down the street — the young men in tuxedos and the ladies in long formal dresses complete with corsages. The answer hit me like a blow to the stomach even before James could get the words, “It’s Prom night,” past his lips.

Now I thought I knew what was bothering James and I felt the guilt flood over me. I’d been so focused on dealing with my husband I’d forgotten all about what should have been one of the most special nights for my son before he finished school. The tears began streaming down my face as I wrapped my arms around my son from behind and hugged him as I sobbed, “Oh my darling boy. You’ve missed your Prom! I’m so sorry!” I hugged him tight to me, pressing my aching bosom against his bare back.

James let out a sigh as I cried, ashamed of myself and hurting for my son. “Damn your father for all he’s done! You don’t deserve this. I shoulda done something!” I sobbed, hunching myself against him.

My son sighed again and slowly turned in my embrace and I became acutely aware of my breasts, nipples hardening, sliding across his body, his flesh separated from mine only by a thin, threadbare cotton gown. It sent a shiver through my body — a sensation I rarely felt anymore…a sensation that ended in a growing warmth between my legs. James put his arms around me and escort bursa hugged me back and we embraced tightly there on the window sill, James’s face pressed into the soft pillows of my tits, murmuring in a strained voice. “I don’t mind, Mom. It’s okay. I love you and I’ll do whatever it takes to take care of you!”

My son raised his head and I could see the tears in his eyes as he continued. “I don’t care about all that stuff, Mom. All I want is to take care of you, Mom!”

“And you do, James, my dear son, you do,” I whispered. “But you’ve had to sacrifice so much.” I leaned down and kissed his forehead. “I love you, too!”

Suddenly it seemed much warmer in the room and despite the heat, I shivered again. It dawned on me that a handsome, strong man had me in his arms…and a barely clothed man at that. It felt good to press myself against all that hard, warm flesh and I had a terrible urge to look down between my son’s legs and see if he was responding the same way to his mother’s embrace and the thought stunned me! I let my arms fall away and slowly stepped away from him, now incredibly embarrassed. My arms went up and crossed as I didn’t want my own son to see his mother’s thick nipples hard and trying to poke through her thin gown. James let me go reluctantly, a frown crossing his face as he stood up, his arms still momentarily held out.

I trembled as I saw it then. Partly in shadow, but distinct nevertheless, my son’s erection stood out in his boxer shorts! I started to speak and stopped and then whispered in a voice full of strained lust. “You are all a mother could ever hope for, James, my sweet. I’m so proud of you. Get some sleep, dear.” I turned and fled the small room, rushing to the little bathroom and locked myself inside.

I felt all churned up inside — angry at Jimmy for our situation and ashamed at myself for not figuring out a way for James to have a better childhood and aroused as I hadn’t felt in a long time and ashamed of that since it was my own son that had turned me on! I could hardly believe the sudden urges wracking my body, spreading my legs wide as I sat on the toilet and finding my hands down between my legs, rubbing my suddenly wet pussy for several seconds before I realized what I was doing. Fresh tears streamed down my face and I silently cursed Jimmy for putting us into this terrible situation that could lead me to such lurid thoughts.

I had myself a good, long cry and then wiped my eyes and got up. I hurt and ached for my son’s plight and my own lonely existence, but knew there was nothing to do but go on. Life is what life is, all we can do is try to survive it day by day!

I came out of the bathroom and as I passed by my son’s room I heard him cry out, “Oh, God, Mom!”

I responded completely on motherly instinct, hearing pain and distress in my son’s voice and burst into his room without knocking. “James, what’s wro-…” I stopped, stunned by the scene before me and rooted in place from shock.

James was stretched out naked on the bed, his boxer shorts on the floor. His right hand was wrapped tightly around his cock…his hard and bigger than I would have ever believed possible, cock! My son’s eyes were closed and he was covered in sweat and his fist was stroking that long shaft and squeezing that huge, plum colored head and he groaned, “I love you, Mom! Fuck it…fuck me, Mom!” It wasn’t pain I heard, but passion! James was so deep into his fantasy that he didn’t realize I was even in the room.

At that moment, understanding and revelation exploded within me — I suppose it was what they call an epiphany. My head spun as I let the truth burst free within me and assimilated what I had forced myself to never acknowledge.

My son and I had been thrust together into this hostile and crowded environment for two years and in my loneliness and misery, I had denied what should have been obvious. In the span of a heartbeat, a million images of my son looking at me…not just as his mother, but as a woman, a weary, but attractive woman…seeing me in that threadbare and worn nightgown night after night or in a slip and bra as we wiggled past each other going to and fro that tiny bathroom, or asleep on the couch, gown accidently pulled up, exposing my long legs and God knows what else, returned to my mind and I realized with amazement that each glance had been filled with love and more…with a young man’s hungry lust.

And now a million returned glances exploded in my memory — a million moments of desire and longing for my son’s ever maturing and handsome body, a hard and chiseled body that housed a heart that put me first above all else — a heart that truly and completely loved me! And I knew…I knew the real truth — the truth that I had denied every single day for years while I toiled to take care of the sorry son of a bitch I had married, the truth that was real source of my optimism, the wellspring of hope that allowed me to get up everyday and keep going. I loved this boy, my son. I loved him as a mother and I loved him as the man I wished his father had been. I loved James and I wanted and needed him.

“James,” I said softly as he masturbated, still moaning “Mom,” over and over.

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