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The Forbidden Shore

By: CPBaudelaire



Another romantic tale of a mother and son. If this type of relationship disturbs you, please read no further. This is not as ambitious nor as lengthy as "Beyond the Borderline," but is nevertheless a long story. As usual, the buildup is slow, so if you like your stories short, this will probably not be of interest. Your constructive comments and votes are appreciated as always. Thanks for looking.

All characters are over 18.

Thanks to LaRascasse for editorial assistance.

Home is the son, home from sea: 
His far-flung journeys ended, 
His desires pour burning on the shore 
The plunder of his secret heart.

(with apologies to A.E. Housman)

Prologue

It's October 14th and the eagles are here. It's just now getting cool enough that you can see your breath when the sun slips behind the Takhinsha Range. There are still a few patches of residual seasonal greenery and flashes of explosive deciduous color left in the landscape, but everything is now slipping inexorably into the sere, muted palate of oncoming winter.

We've been living near Haines now for the better part of ten years and I still am awestruck by the arrival of those magnificent raptors, numbering in the hundreds, if not thousands. They're all over the shifting, complex, watery web of the Chilkat delta, perched in every available tree branch, on the rough gravel bars of the waterway and in amongst the deadfalls lining the banks of the river. The few Grizzlies which have not already slipped into hibernation are with us as well, their hulking, shaggy company a constant reminder of how truly wild this place is. 

The eagles, the bears and I, we're all here for the same reason. It's the last salmon run of the year and the final chance to fill bellies and larders before the long winter. The Chum salmon are here for spawning, the final silvery visitors to the river this year. Serious snow could begin any day now and that means you have to hustle if you're going to be ready for the next cold, snowy six months.

I like coming out to the riverbank near dinnertime. Looking southwest, the Cathedral Peaks are backlit in brilliant orange and yellow as the sun drops below the ridge of the Takhinshas and if I turn around, I can see the early snow cover on the peaks of Mount Ripinski, extending along the ridge of the Takshanuk Range northwards to Tukgahgo Mountain. In the late afternoon, those newly born snowfields appear almost molten in the failing, late fall sun.

I doubt I'll ever tire of those sights, nor of the rhythm that the change of seasons and the pulsing flux of salmon in the river imposes on our lives. Such are the simple things I take the most pleasure from. I have everything I ever wanted or needed, right here in this unspoiled glacial valley.

It's at these times I often reflect on my journey to this place and count my blessings, being where I am and whom I'm with. I also often turn my thoughts to the dark times of my youth and how those shaped everything that followed. 

I'm not terribly introspective by nature, enjoying the cycle of my simple, day-to-day life most of the time. But I do occasionally wonder how I can distill what's happened in my past into some coherent picture. It's probably a wasted effort, for as the saying goes, "Man plans and God laughs." If there is one underlying theme in my life, though, I think it is secrets.

I believe that it's our secrets that make us who we are. Secrets of our own and those others withhold from us as well. How can you know who you are if those around conceal the past from you, even for the most compassionate of reasons? 

This story is about secrets and the power that they have, for good or ill. It's also about how sometimes, against all obstacles, the heart finds its way to the truth and how those secrets are then banished into darkness, rather than causing it. 

My life began with dark mystery and was surrounded by unspeakable deception, but along the way, those black ramparts were broken down and I found myself. 

I also found someone else, someone who I thought I knew, but that was only partly true. In that discovery though, the circle closed again and what started with secrets ended with one all over again. 

But for me, the ending secret is a great goodness. Most would never understand it, but that is not my concern. In telling my tale, I will share with you my most carefully hidden confidence and you can judge for yourself if it should have stayed buried within my heart. 

So, let us begin with the genealogy of concealment and deception...

Chapter 1

My name is Peter. Peter Heimdahl. Actually, It's Lars Peter Heimdahl, after my late, unlamented paternal grandfather. It was my Dad's idea and Lord knows, Dad always gets his way. Peter was the one concession to my Mom, Magda. That's the name of her late father, who she lost as a child. Magda Christine Heimdahl, nee Stenstrom, that's Mom. 

Like me, she doesn't really like her first name, preferring to go by Chris. Dad also must not like it, because he's never used it to my knowledge. Come to think of it, I don't really recall him ever calling her by her middle name, either. I think he believes her name is "Get me another god damn beer!" Well, enough of that. 

My so-called family has been living in or around Homer, Alaska since bestefar (grandfather) Lars' time, back in the late 40's and early 50's. While he was alive, he used to tell us about the times when there was no Highway 1 and what passed for the Seward Highway was a dirt track. This was back when Homer was a booming metropolis of around 350 souls. 

My grandfather had a brother, Olaf, who came with him from the old country, but he perished in the Good Friday earthquake in '64, swept off the Homer Spit and out to sea by a tsunami. His body was never recovered.

My father's mother is a void, a complete cipher. Her memory is as insubstantial as blown snow, dispersed into swirling nothingness. Dad never, ever talks about her. Depending on how you read the family tealeaves, either she ran away from my grandfather when Dad was around 6 or 7 years old, or she just...vanished. 

What I do remember from my own childhood is that while Dad simply refused to discuss her, the mere mention of her name was enough to send my grandfather into a towering rage, followed by the blackest, bleakest moods imaginable. In those states, I thing even Ingmar Bergman would have found bestefar Lars too depressing to be around. 

Knowing my father's side of the clan the way I do, I don't envision my grandmother's happy escape from this family. I suspect her unremarked absence conceals a dark secret, a terrible mystery. Whatever her fate was, I hope my bestemor sees from on high that her grandchildren are not like the man she married or the beast her son has become. 

For that, she would have my mother to thank. 

Since all I can offer her is this mental cenotaph, my monument for my grandmother is to simply remember her name, so she is not forever erased from memory. Rest easy wherever you are, Ulla Marie Henriksen. 

Beyond my paternal grandfather, I know next to nothing about my father's side of the family. Grandfather Lars and his brother, Olaf Heimdahl seemed to materialize in Alaska out of the arctic mist sometime after World War II and eventually found their way to Homer, of all places. It's been described in the past as "As far as you can go without a passport." 

I don't think I'll ever know the full story of how they came to be here, but I have a suspicion that the choice of the brothers Heimdahl to settle here was by design rather than chance. I've spent more than my fair share of time trying to understand my roots, but all I can say with even a modicum of certainty is that the Heimdahls, well, they simply aren't. 

I believe that the two brothers took the name of a town near their old stomping grounds as a surname of convenience. I suspect that, as the town of Heimdahl is slightly south of Trondheim near my mother's birthplace, that this is where the connection to her side of the family lies and where my name comes from. 

My grandfather and great uncle must have left Trondheim for good reason, though. There have been a few disquieting, cryptic clues among my bestefar's belongings. There's the old Luger, which by itself isn't particularly damning. But then there are the daggers, black-handled, with the Nazi eagle on the grip and the inscriptions etched on the still-sharp, cruel blades. One says "Blut und Ehre," or "Blood and Honor." The second is more disturbing: "in herzlicher Freundschaft, H. Himmler." 

I may only be a high school graduate, but between my rough translation and a basic knowledge of history, I have to wonder why my grandfater has a knife inscribed with, "In Cordial Friendship," from one of the most evil men to ever walk the earth. Then there's the scrap of an old uniform, with the sui generis skull and crossbones shoulder patch. 

No, you don't have to be a genius to figure out that my grandfather was not a nice man. He was a man of secrets, secrets of surpassing darkness. 

Just on this basis, I can see where my grandfather and granduncle would have needed to make themselves scarce when the war ended, but I have an inkling, a vague intuition that there's even more to this story, something even blacker than what can already be deduced. It's a notion that has troubled me in days gone by, but I have never felt compelled to look any further into those shadows of my ancestor's past.

The remainder of our family on my mother's side seems to be mostly living honestly as fishermen. It appears as though many relations of my mother have been making their living on the water of the North Atlantic from Stavanger to Trondheim for at least six generations. Although I've never been, I been told we have a whole flotilla of cousins, aunts and uncles once and twice removed still in that area of the Norwegian coast. 

As far as the rest of my father's family is concerned, ignorance is bliss. I don't want, never want to know more about them. I value my sanity and self-respect too much to follow that bloodline any further.

So, maybe not so much of a family, but definitely fishermen to the bone, for better or worse. Speaking for myself, I really don't have any deep affection for the sea, but fishing is what I know, like it or not. For reasons I'll explain later, I'm compelled to work with my father, and one way or the other, father always gets his way.

Mom doesn't talk much about her past. It makes me sad sometimes, that she won't share any of that with me, but I have deduced over time that her childhood was not a happy one. From what little I have been able to uncover on my own, I know that my mother's people were Sami, from near Trondheim, probably fisherman and trappers. She was raised by her maternal grandfather from the age of 13, after her parents died. 

She's never told me what happened to them. The memory is too painful, I suppose. I've always had a suspicion though, that somehow my father's side of the family was connected in some strange fashion with what happened. It's just a feeling I have, but I can't shake it.

I suppose the feeling of things being not quite right also comes from not understanding how Dad's side of the family reached out all the way back to Norway from the then-tiny backwater of Homer and somehow plucked Mom up and brought her to the United States. It just feels...off somehow. 

I've never had the courage or desire to push Mom to find out more. I desperately want to understand, but I long ago decided that it would have to be Mom who would make the decision to tell me.

I do know that she grew up poor and that it is likely that her marriage was somehow an arranged one. I don't know exactly how Mom and Dad ended up together, but she found herself married at the age of eighteen. About two years later, my brother Sig was born. Tack on another four years and you've got me. There was then another long gap and my baby sister Astrid appeared on the scene.

Mom became a naturalized citizen while she was carrying me. Her English is very good, but she still speaks with that wonderful, slightly musical Scandinavian lilt, her conversations still interspersed with Norsk vocabulary and expressions. Her sound of her voice is absolutely captivating. She could read from a phonebook and it would sound lovely. 

Although her accent and some colloquial expressions she uses betray her origins, she has adapted remarkably well to the U.S. of A. If not for her beautiful accent, there are times when you'd be hard pressed to tell she's not a typical suburban Mom. She's even picked up a lot of American slang. I don't know where she dug it up, but she seems to delight in calling me her "big lug."

When you live in the shadow of Gunnar Heimdahl, my father, there's not much in the way of room for anyone else on the stage of life. We're all bit part characters and walk-ons in a play totally centered around dad's life on the water, whether it's summer charter work, the odd run of halibut or cod fishing or crabbing through the winter. For him, it would be inconceivable and completely unacceptable for any of us not to totally dedicate our lives to supporting his work. That's how he is, intolerant, dictatorial, overbearing and just plain mean. I'm ashamed to call him blood.

My father is a big bear of a man in his fifties, about 6'4", with an impressive beer gut, long, lanky black and gray hair and a fearsome-looking beard. Powerfully built, he is still strong as an angry grizzly, but gradually going to fat. He has the coldest, deadest, pale blue eyes you'll ever have the misfortune to stare into. There's not much that's recognizable behind them, except when he's mad, which is pretty often. 

Then you can see the devil himself.

I've been working as a deckhand on Dad's boat, the Anna Katarina, since I was 18. I graduated from Kenai Peninsula High School on a beautiful, sunny June 9th day and on June 11th, found myself 50 miles southeast of Sitkinak Island on the Albatross Bank, nosing through fifteen foot swells and dense fog while fishing for cod. 

With the exception of breaks for maintenance, inter-seasonal downtime and the odd holiday, I've been on board ever since. I don't think that Dad really cares if he's back in Homer or not. He lives to be on the sea. I'd be surprised if he's actually in our house for more than twenty or thirty days out of the year, and then usually no more than five or six days at a time. 

Me, I get homesick sometimes. I'm always looking forward to getting back to our small place, even if only for a couple of days.

Mostly, it's because I miss Mom.

Why would a twenty four year old man, hardened by the better part of six years on the Gulf of Alaska and the Bering Sea feel this way? I'm no Mama's boy, but this woman has been the center of my life for as long as I can remember. 

She's the one person in the world I feel safe in showing myself to. I can and do tell her everything in those brief times we can be together. If I wasn't able to do that, I'd go mad; mad with frustration, anger and despair at the course of my life and the trap I feel myself to be in.

God forbid that I would ever let Dad have an inkling of who I really am, or what I truly think. My father is a hard, uncaring man. He drives all of us to the limits of endurance every day we're on deck, with no thanks or acknowledgment for work well done. 

He's crude, cruel and heartless, but also crafty and manipulative. He has a sixth sense for a person's emotional Achilles' heel and never fails to press home any advantage he gains from that knowledge. Even so, he knows me only a little better than any other member of the crew, except for one bit of extra knowledge. He uses that to keep me on the boat.

Dad knows how close Mom and I are. 

How could he not, even in the short times he is on shore in our home? He has never said or done anything directly or obviously, but through many veiled comments, innuendos and clever, half-finished remarks, he has managed to imply a clear, chilling threat to me. 

The events surrounding the departure of my older brother from the family still sting him, so the unspoken subtext is clear - stay with the Anna and everything will be fine. Leave if you dare, but then you'll have to "worry" about your mother's health. 

So, I stay. 

I stay through forty-hour stretches of hauling and setting pots, storms that would make Davy Jones himself puke his guts out and bitter, bone cracking cold. I stay, because I know my father is not a man to make idle threats. Once a warning is issued, he won't talk again - he'll act, and act with a cold ruthlessness that would take the breath away from a Mexican Cartel chieftain.

I've often wondered how it was that Mom ever came to be married to this brute. Knowing her as I do, her quiet strength, her determined optimism and carefully concealed, but fierce, courageous spirit, I can't even begin to comprehend what horrible twist of fate must have brought them together in the first place. Mom would no more willingly marry a man like that than she would cut her own throat.

When it comes down to it, I'm left with the forlorn hope that at some point in the past, Dad was a different person. If I'm going to be completely honest though, I think that's a fool's dream. The reality is more likely that for the Heimdahl men, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

At this stage, I have no real clue what keeps them together. It could be as simple as the fact that Mom could force the sale of the Anna Katarina in the event of a divorce. Given father's obsessive control of the family finances and his legendary iron-fist, I think this must be part of the explanation, but my gut tells me there's more, much more. 

In any event, when I think about Mom and Dad splitting up, I get a chill up my spine. I think that my father would never sit still for such a blow to his ego. And then, I inevitably think about the unacknowledged absence of my paternal grandmother. Beyond that point, I dare not let my thoughts continue. 

It's a bitter thought that it is fear alone that keeps Mom tied to my father. I sometimes fantasize that Mom must have a hold of her own on Dad, something that gives her some of her own leverage, something that keeps her relatively safe from the worst of Dad's temper and sadism. 

Whatever it is, I speculate that it must be a deep, black secret of the worst sort; the kind of hidden rot that a man like Dad would do anything to keep from seeing the light of day. Knowing Dad as I do though, I can't see him sitting still in the face of a threat of any kind - he'd much more likely take matters into his own punishing hands than sit still for any kind of blackmail.

So, I guess when it comes down to it, I really do believe that Mom has some way of protecting herself, which gives me a little comfort. Even so, I still wonder if Dad is just biding his time, weighing all of the variables and risks on the scale of his ice-cold heart.

When I lie in my berth on the Anna, tossed in my clammy, soggy bedding by rough winter swells, my mind often turns to this question. I worry that the marital cold war between my parents is inherently unpredictable, wherein the only stabilizing influence is that of mutually assured destruction. 

The detente Mom shares with him must be grounded in the mutual knowledge of some truly horrible secret, and I fret endlessly that if that secret exists, the threat of its use will eventually take its toll on her, dragging her down to his Stygian level. 

Worse yet is the idea that perhaps Dad has more to hurt Mom with than just his words and fists. Does she have some secret of her own, something terrible in her own past? 

I can't bear that thought.


The Forbidden Shore



Chapter 2

Dad makes the lion's share of his money crabbing, but like most everyone else here in these parts, he does other stuff in the off season to keep his cash coming in. So, in the summer we use a smaller boat Dad owns to ferry "sports" fishermen from the lower 48 out to the halibut and keep busy. Relatively speaking, it's a good break.

At just under 90 feet, the Anna Katarina is one of the smaller boats that crab in the winter. I don't need to tell you what that's like. Everyone's seen those reality shows, but they don't even come close to describing what it's like working for Dad in the Bering Sea in January.

We go through a lot of crew, pretty much turning everyone over every couple of years. Dad works his men to death and underpays them to boot. In the six years I've been working on the Anna Katarina, I've been bullied, coerced and shoved into the role of Dad's deck boss, simply because we can't get anyone else of experience. 

So, we have more than our share of greenhorns, slackers, malcontents and men on the run. It makes for poor performance, poor catches and a barely decent living in what should otherwise be a prosperous business. We've been doing okay the last 18 months since I became deck boss, not because I'm that great at it, but because I'm able to be a little bit of a buffer between Dad and the deckhands. That means I get most of the abuse, but I can deal with it. 

There were times when I was younger, working summers on the Anna, where I would come home sore all over, covered with more cuts, bruises and scrapes than I could count. When Mom patched me up, I'd just tell her that I'd fallen, or some other BS. But she knew, oh yes, she knew, even though she never said anything. 

She didn't have to. I might infer it from her carefully neutral expression, but she could never hide the sadness and unspoken apology in her eyes.

The one time she ever confronted my father about it, he got nose to nose with her and casually pushed her onto the sofa, saying, "Mind your fucking house, woman. Boy's gotta be made into a man. Kid's damn near useless anyway, needs to grow a pair and learn how it's done. That's my job and none of your goddamn business how I go about it. Cross me again and you'll regret it," he'd hissed, the devil in his eyes once more.

I never blamed Mom for not standing up to him, though. She's only about 5'8" or so and slender as a reed. Dad could have killed her outright with just one punch and he was certainly mean enough that I could see it happening. So Mom kept her peace and I kept mine too. 

In point of fact, Dad is just the kind of guy who would use a loved one to get back at anybody who dared to stand up to him, so the last thing I wanted was for Dad to take out any anger he might have had at me, on her. Even so, Mom was always there for me and I adored her for it, for her unconditional love and quiet courage and her belief in me, that I was a decent guy and wasn't going to turn out like my feared father.

One day, when I was fourteen, I found Mom crying in the bathroom, head in her hands. Unusually, Dad was home, a stripped turbine having forced him ashore. As usual, he took his frustration out on her. He was a master of verbal abuse and in actuality, had rarely ever raised a hand against Mom, but he had the harshest tongue I ever saw in a man. He knew just how to cow a gentle soul like Mom and flay her with cruel insults. 

I hugged Mom and just sat with her until she was able to compose herself. When her tears stopped, I asked, "Why is Dad so mean to you, Mom?"

I can still remember every word of her reply. It was the first time she had ever spoken to me as an adult, without any hollow reassurances or feeble excuses for Dad's behavior or his long absences. 

Harking back to the beloved Norse mythology she used to teach me when I was little, she said, "Your father has a black, angry heart. He's like a ravener, a berserker of Ragnarok. He lives for the pain he gives others and loves arguments and confusion. He feels chained to his existence, just as Loki was chained." 

"But I am no Sigyn," she'd added coldly. "I do not collect the serpent's venom in a cup to protect him. I do not shield him from the anger and hate that the world reflects back on him. Some day, a curse will fall on him, just as it did to Loki. Then where will he be?"

"I wish I had Mjolnir, Mom. Then I could be like Thor and teach him a lesson," I said bravely.

Mom startled at my reply and then grabbed me roughly by the arms, staring at me intently, fear in her face.

"Never, ever cross your father, Peter. He is a dangerous, cruel man and will not care one bit you are his son, if you anger him. It might even be worse because you are his family. Promise me," she pleaded, looking away, tears of worry in her eyes. 

"Promise me never to confront him. I couldn't bear it if he hurt you. It would break my heart, kjaereste sonn," she pleaded, hugging me to her breast with a shudder.

Now, I suppose most guys at that age would have been embarrassed to be held like that by their mothers, but it didn't bother me. Mom and I were close because of Dad. We relied on each other for comfort and support. 

At that time, my older brother, Sig, was already six months gone. Dad was expecting him on board the Anna the day after his graduation from high school. That didn't happen. After he walked off the auditorium stage with his diploma, he gave Mom a hug and kiss, clapped me on the shoulder, gave me a suffocating bear hug and told me to watch out for her. 

Then he took a suitcase out from under a tarp in the pickup bed and walked straight to a waiting taxi. 

"The airport," I'd heard him tell the driver. Less than an hour later he was in the air, bound for Anchorage. A month later he wrote Mom, telling her he had enlisted in the Coast Guard. He progressed quickly up to E-3, working the station at the Columbia River Section, down in Warrenton, Oregon. He writes to Mom fairly regularly, but we haven't seen him now for over ten years. Mom misses him a lot, but understands. She says he swore to her that he wouldn't set foot in Homer again as long as Dad was alive.

Of course, from that point forward, Sig was dead to my father as well. Predictably, he took out his anger at my brother's perceived treachery on Mom and me. To this day, Mom still has to hide his letters to her.

We don't talk about my baby sister, Astrid, at all. She died at the age of four, almost seventeen years ago, from acute lymphoblastic leukemia. She passed in the middle of King Crab season, while Dad was fishing for Blues up near St. Matthew's Island. Needless to say, he didn't make the funeral. It was just me, Mom and Sig. I guess he didn't have much use for females, beyond creating more sons for him to work to death. When little Astrid departed this world, she took a good chunk of Mom's heart with her.

Anyway, I never begrudged Mom's need to hold me or be close. If I'm going to be totally honest, I think I would have to admit that it was after that bathroom conversation with Mom that I began the slow, inexorable process of falling in love with her, even though I didn't recognize it at the time.





The Forbidden Shore



Hilda nodded her assent cheerily, flashing me a big smile.

"You're a good son, Peter. Your Mom needs a man she can count on to take care of her, and you fill the bill nicely."

I reddened and ducked my head and Mom took the opportunity to kiss my cheek again, making me blush even more. 

"My knight in shining oilskins," she teased, squeezing my thigh with a slight caress.

Suddenly, I had reason to be even more embarrassed - I started to get an erection, my cock slowly expanding and burrowing down my pants leg! I was initially mortified that Mom's touch had provoked such a reaction, and at first I dismissed the discomfiture out of hand, reasoning that six weeks on the high seas can do that to a fella. 

That helped me cope somewhat, but somewhere else, in a particularly deep and dark corner of my subconscious, I could hear another small voice whispering. That whisper floated just above the mental flotsam and jetsam created by my arousal, but for all of the softness of that little voice, its message ended up echoing in my head as loudly as a shout. 

I welcomed Mom's touch. It made me feel good. 

It made me want to touch her too, in ways no son should ever contemplate. 

I could be as consciously and appropriately upset as I wanted, that those thoughts were there, but the real truth was finally rearing its monstrous head, rising to the front of my mind for the first time after close to a decade of lurking. Those thoughts were proving difficult to deny, very difficult indeed.

I didn't love my Mom, I was starting to love her. Like a man, like an ardent suitor. And suddenly, I wanted her, wanted her with a heated passion and desperate desire that threatened to sear away my entire conscience in a flash, leaving behind the scorched remnant of my soul, like the charred silhouette of a Hiroshima body shadow. 

I was in trouble; deep, dark, no-shit trouble and I knew that these new feelings that had surfaced could not be tucked away and forgotten again. Worse yet, I had to admit that a growing part of me didn't want those feelings to go away. It was as though I had taken a seed long-kept in storage and put it in warm, welcoming earth. It was going to germinate, going to sprout and grow, and there was nothing I could do to stop that from happening...no. 

"No it's not!" I thought, gritting mental teeth. "This is my Mom. Not going to happen. Can't happen. Out of the question. Slam that idea in a trunk, triple lock it and throw it in the darkest, deepest hole in my brain. Never again. No thoughts like that ever again," I ordered myself silently.

While those ideas ricocheted around my head like a stray bullet, I had a more immediate problem. 

Mom's hand was still on my thigh, lightly sliding over the rough fabric of my Levis. With the pattern her fingers were tracing, it wouldn't be long before she encountered my twitching divining rod. I'd be busted for good, my trip home over before it even started. I held my breath, praying that she'd stop soon, like anytime, like right now, like ten seconds ago...

Dear God, it's happened, fingertips right over my glans, my hardness so obviously there, with undeniable, lead-pipe certainty. But wait, no pause, no apparent recognition on her part. Maybe the slightest, barest slowing in her movements, but maybe not? 

She didn't notice? 

Impossible! 

I'm no porn star, sporting a gigantic, throbbing Kielbasa, but I've been told by more than one lady that my Maker was generous to me, providing that which would give any lover undeniable pleasure. There is no way that Mom could not recognize the obvious pulsatile contour in my pants leg, no way!

There, now, finally! She's stopped, simply resting her hand on my leg. No pulling back as though scalded, no sharp, shocked intake of breath, praise God. Fearfully, I darted a quick look to her face. Thank you Jesus, she's not looking at me, no embarrassed blush on her cheeks.

I heaved a sigh of relief and hazarded one more glance on her features. It was then I saw an expression on her face that I'd never encountered before. Her eyelids were slightly drooped and hooded, staring as though not seeing what was in front of her. And her lips, her moist lips. Where did that enigmatic, subtle, half-smile come from? 

Of course, I actually had seen that expression before, but never on my mother's face. I simply didn't recognize it for what it was. 

It was the look a woman has, just before she closes her eyes to receive a lover's kiss. 

That look lasted for perhaps five seconds and was then gone, dispersed like an evanescent morning mist.

I shook my head to clear my thoughts, but I couldn't escape the surreal feeling of what had just happened. I'd fallen down some twisted rabbit hole of longing and lust, ending up not in Wonderland, but some strange, steaming realm ruled by desperate, taboo desires and forbidden longings -a place my mind had never traveled to ever before, a place which I simply didn't comprehend.

I was snatched back to the here and now with a jolt, as Hilda pulled into the parking lot at First National, announcing, "Stop number one, Peter."

Mumbling a semi-coherent thanks, I half stumbled from the car, trying to surreptitiously adjust myself as I made my way to the entrance. Once inside, it took me a full two minutes to get my thoughts back on track. I found the bank manager, explaining that I wanted close out my old account and open a new joint account, one in my name and Mom's. 

My explanation was that Dad was so busy that he often forgot to send money to Mom, being out so much. I'm not sure if he bought my story, but he did as I asked, after lecturing how it might complicate our family's tax situation. I nodded politely and thanked him for his advice, but remained firm. I transferred over my old balance and took out about three thousand in cash. That left about thirty three thousand in the new checking. Well satisfied, I took a signature card from the teller, stating that I'd be back the next day with Mom's autograph. Grabbing up my complimentary counter checks, I hit the door.

As we headed back up Seward Highway, traffic was light, so we found ourselves at Alyeska Auto Salvage and Repair in just a few minutes. I tracked Bert down in the back of the shop and explained the situation to him. 

Bert's a fair man, truly one of the good guys. He didn't hold Dad's previous outburst against Mom or me, but he was kindly firm, stating that the repair would be a cash-only deal, with a hundred dollar deposit.

I took him aside and peeled three Ben Franklins off my bankroll, explaining that I'd take it as a personal favor if he'd send someone up to the house and tow Mom's beat up F-150 down to the shop today. I told him to give the old truck a thorough going-over and let me know what was needed to get it ticking properly and that any bills were to come directly to me before I went back to Dutch Harbor.

Bert gripped my arm and shook my hand, saying, "Chris is a nice lady and deserves better. It's good that her son is stepping up to take care of her."

Little did he know how I was now starting to think of other ways to "take care" of her, how willing I was to truly be the man she could trust and rely on for all things, for everything.

Back in the car, I put my arm around Mom's shoulders and kissed the top of her head. She smiled and snuggled up against me, saying, "I'm so glad you're home, Petey. I've missed my handsome young man, missed him so much."

"I wish I could stay longer, Mom, I really do," I sighed.

For the remaining ten minutes we spent on the highway, I mentally composed the speech I was going to give her when we got home, explaining how the new household finances were going to work. I gamed out several different ways of saying what needed to be said, but in the end, I decided to be direct and simple. By then, we had arrived at Chez Heimdahl.

Our house is a no-frills, pre-fab log home, done in the faux-alpine, rustic style that is quite prevalent in this area. For all its austere simplicity, you wouldn't think it belonged to a man who owned his own fishing vessels, but that's how Dad operates. Most of the money goes back into the Anna Katarina or his own accounts. 

Sure, running a crab boat is a high overhead proposition, but I know how much fuel costs, how much we spend on insurance, harbor fees, provisioning and maintenance. I have a pretty damn good idea how much money Dad has in his business accounts. There's plenty after operating expenses but even so it still only finds its way to Mom in miserly dribs and drabs. 

The house is a well insulated, but small split-level, with only three bedrooms and a detached garage. We heat primarily with a wood stove, just occasionally using an oil furnace during the coldest days of winter. The kitchen is rather cramped, with the necessity of keeping the washer and dryer there, but it feels cozy and simple. The appliances are base-model stuff from Sears, but do the job. That's a sore point with me, because I know how much Mom loves cooking and I know for a fact that Dad could afford something better for her if he wanted to. For all that, it's still my favorite room in the house, simply because Mom is usually there. 

It was at the kitchen table where she put my Band-Aids on, helped me with every subject from spelling to trigonometry, where she commiserated with me over bad dates and romances gone awry and where she shared with me her passion for Norse history and mythology. It was there, at five years old, in Mom's lap, that I learned of Midgard Serpent, Yggdrasil, the Bifrost Bridge and the worlds of the Aesir, Vanir and Jotnar, among others. She even taught me a little of the prose and poetic Eddas.

While I was getting settled into my room, I heard Mom call to me from the front door. When I got there, she was looking at me severely, hands on hips.

"What's all this, Petey? Dave from Bert's shop is here to tow the pickup. Did you go and do something behind my back? Did you?" she demanded.

"Guilty as charged, Mom," I smiled easily. "But before you go off the deep end, just hear me out. I don't want to be back out on the water next week, wondering about how you're doing. You need a working car. Hilda's not going to always be around to help out, bless her heart. What if there's an emergency? I can't do my job well if I'm worrying about you being stuck up here, so yes, I worked out an arrangement with Bert."

"You know how I feel about you spending your money on things that Gunnar should take care of, Peter. I won't have it, I just won't. I have my pride, you know. I'm not going to be supported by my own son at my age, dammit." Her words snapped as she voiced her displeasure, but I could tell her heart wasn't in it.

Tossing the keys for the Ford around Mom and through the doorway to Dave, I soothed, "I'm flush, Mom. Anyway, it's a done deal. You can pay me back later if you want. My interest rates are reasonable," I gently teased. 

"You're terrible, Peter. I didn't raise you to be throwing away your money like that," she scolded, trying to be severe, but ultimately failing, a gentle smile eventually blooming on her lips.

I closed the front door and watched Dave from the living room window as he hooked the truck up for towing. In a couple minutes he was gone and the first of my tasks was well on its way to completion. Mom came to my side and hugged me again.

"Thank you for looking after your old Mom, Petey," she whispered softly.

"Whoa, just hold on a second there, lady. Who are you saying is old? You're what, twenty-nine, right?"

"You are so bad, Peter! You know exactly how old I am! But thanks anyway," she laughed easily, arm encircling my waist. "Shameless flattery will almost always get you in my good books."

"Almost always?" I quipped. "Guess I'll have to work on my delivery, then."

"Shut up, you store dirittung," Mom retorted.

My norsk vocabulary was pretty limited, but I recognized the term. "Big brat?" I asked incredulously. "Now you've gone and hurt my feelings, kjare mor," I pretended to sniff.

"Oh, just shut up, you big lug."

"Ja, mamma."

Chapter 4

On that day, at forty-five years of age, she was and remained gorgeous in my eyes. Still lithe and trim, I doubted she weighed more than a hundred fifteen pounds. Of course, being my mother she had always been beautiful, but as I regarded her in the cool, fading dregs of daylight in the living room, I took stock of her looks in way I never had before. 

For the first time I could consciously remember, I stepped outside myself and saw her as a woman, a sensation that was at once exhilarating and extremely disturbing. Here I was, checking my Mom out, eyes gliding over her whole body, taking everything in, from her hair to her toes and in between. It was especially my appreciation of the "in between" that was truly unsettling.

As I said before, she is slender. Her facial features are regular, with high, gorgeously sculpted cheekbones and an aquiline nose bracketed by deep, widely spaced gray eyes. Her hair is lustrous and thick, raven black in color, shot through with a few random threads of gray, cascading with slight curling to the top of her shoulders. 

There were a few very fine crow's feet around her eyes and a couple of worry lines in her forehead. She looks at least five years younger than her age, and in the soft, wan light of advancing twilight, those characteristics were further softened, making her seem even younger. I always thought that if you set a head and shoulder picture of Mom side by side with Cate Blanchett, you'd think you had found that actress' dark, elder sister. But that's just my very biased opinion.

As I appraised her figure, it seemed to me that her breasts were probably perfect, generous single handfuls and rode proudly on her chest, without any evident sag. Her stomach had the slightest of gentle swellings as it smoothly coursed down to the juncture of her thighs, an inevitable consequence of childbearing. Her hips appeared surprisingly slender, but not boyish, gently curving and just prominent enough in the right places to let you know that you were looking at a real woman, someone who had brought three children into the world. As I stared at the juncture of her thighs, I actually began to salivate, God help me. 

While I took in these newly appreciated sights, I struggled within myself to contain the rising tide of desire I was feeling for this very attractive woman. I was holding on for dear life to the last shreds of my filial affection, when I considered her bottom. At that moment, it was all over - I was a goner.

Magda Christine, my confidant, my nurse, my loyal supporter, my friend, my muse, my beloved mother, had a marvelous, simply stunning ass. It was iconic, sculpted by the gods, a true monument. It filled out her jeans superbly, full and womanly, but without any obvious sag. It was mobile, perfectly contoured, wondrously pear-shaped. It was magnificent and suddenly, I was now lost, irrevocably set adrift on a sea of love and lust. 

I was rudderless and the compass of my conscience had broken. 

Have you ever seen how a fault line moves? It creeps along, millimeter by millimeter, year after mundane year. Small cracks appear in the roadways, walls and buildings that are astride it, but things look only subtly different and then only to the trained eye. 

Then one day, it ruptures without warning, seemingly for no clear reason. Suddenly, it lurches feet or yards instead of fractions of inches, shearing, rising or falling, and with that displacement, all those familiar, ordinary structures, those comforting, secure landmarks of our daily existence which were laid across its path are turned into so much rubble, the landscape altered forever.

That's what I felt like in that moment in the living room. In the space of a few minutes, I went from having a vague, moderately inappropriate crush on my mother to mad, irredeemable obsession. 

I wanted her, wanted her more than anything in my entire life. Not just to bed, but to have, to hold and to comfort. 

I finally realized, in a seemingly sudden fashion, that I was undeniably and completely head over heels in love with the one woman in the whole world I could not possibly have.

Mom spoke then, breaking the thrall of my revelation. She must have mistaken my vacant, poleaxed expression as fatigue, because she drew me to her.

Slipping her arm around my waist, she pulled me towards the kitchen. "Come with me, Petey. Let your mom get you a nice, hot cup of coffee. You look like you could use it."

Tightening her arm further, she firmly steered me into the kitchen and sat me down at the table, her hand briefly caressing the back of my neck before she turned to the counter. I barely suppressed a shiver at her brief contact. Suddenly the room felt stiflingly hot and my heart was racing uncontrollably.

Turning from the coffee pot, a mug in each hand, she gave me the Mother Look, exclaiming, "Peter! You look flushed! Are you coming down with something?"

Setting our drinks down hurriedly on the table, she put her hand on my forehead, murmuring, "You seem a bit warm, honey. I'll get you some Tylenol."

As she started to leave, I reached out and put my hand on her hip, halting her rush to the medicine cabinet. "I'm okay, Mom, really. I just need to peel off a layer or two here."

"You can't fool your Mother, Peter," she scolded. "You're definitely running warm. You better not be trying to sneak a case of the flu by me! And right before Christmas, too!"

"Honest, Mom, I feel just fine," I protested. 

"Anyhow, if I'm running hot, it's from being around you," I teased.

"Peter! There you go flirting with me again, you bad young man!" Mom blushed, eyes downcast. "You're embarrassing me," she said quietly.

Sensing I'd gone a bit too far, I stood up and drew her in for a hug, kissing the top of her head. She smelled of strawberry shampoo and Dove soap. "Sorry, Mom. Just having a little fun, that's all."

She relaxed, snuggling in against me, a small sigh escaping her lips. Without any conscious thought, my hands seemed to drift from her back down to her hips, pulling her closer. I found my face slowly dropping past the top of her head. It seemed as though I was powerless to prevent the very inappropriate kiss I was about to deliver to the nape of her neck. 

I was no longer in control of my actions. 

It didn't help in the least that Mom also seemed to be losing herself in the moment as well. While my lips were inexorably dropping towards her neck, she seemed to be molding herself against me and I sensed the light pressure of her pelvis against mine. I was about a second and a half from The Kiss That Must Not Happen when Mom seemed to come to herself. With a slight shudder, she sighed and pulled away. 

I thought I sensed the merest trace of reluctance on her part.

At that moment, the microwave dinged, Mom's coffee now reheated. When she sat down with me, I decided now was as good a time as any to explain my earlier business at the bank. I reached into the pocket of my fleece vest and put the counter checks on the table, sliding them over to Mom.

"What's all this, Peter?" she asked, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"It's our new bank account, Mom," I replied, holding her eyes with mine.

"What do you mean, OUR account?" she exclaimed.

"Just that, kjaere mor," I soothed. I always used my limited vocabulary of Norsk when I needed to sweet talk her.

"Peter, you are so full of dritt!" she spat, slapping her hand on the table. "Why did you do this?" Even then, I could tell her sharpness was more in exasperation than real anger.

I took her hand in mine, gently running my thumb over her knuckles. "Because I don't want to worry about you, Mom," I explained, softly. "I'm fed up with the way Dad treats you and I'm not going to let it happen any more. Period."




The Forbidden Shore



"You can pay me back whenever you want. When Dad sends money, just transfer it over - remember it's OUR account. I'm so damn busy I don't have time to spend it right now anyway. This way you can get necessary things when you need them, not on Dad's BS say-so."

Squeezing her hand tightly, I said seriously, "Look Mom, when I'm running the deck on the Anna, I need to be on top of my game. If I'm worried about what's going on back here, I can't concentrate. That's not safe, either for the deckhands or me. Doing this gives me one less big thing to worry about. Besides, I also like the idea of you having a little folding money, being able to do stuff like taking Hilda to lunch at Amy's Tavern or going into Anchorage for a girl's day out."

Mustering my most persuasive tone, I pleaded, "Look, if you like, think of it as my Christmas present to you, okay?"

Abruptly, Mom burst into tears and pushed her chair back, rushing to sit in my lap, hugging me fiercely.

"Oh, Petey, you're so good to me, I can't stand it! What did I do to deserve such a wonderful son?" she snuffled into the crook of my neck.

I simply sat there and held her, savoring our contact, waiting for Mom to turn off the waterworks. I was well pleased with myself, my mission an unqualified success. Of course, holding this lovely woman in my lap inevitably led to certain...results. As I became hard beneath the weight of her shapely ass, I knew that my little secret wouldn't be so little or so secret in a matter of moments, but Mom showed no signs of vacating my lap.

I was nearly certain that she could feel my erection pressing on her behind, but she still made no sign and gave no indication of wanting to get up. Just when I thought I was going to have some very embarrassing 'splainin' to do, my stomach growled. Mom chuckled and wiped her tears with the heel of her palm, giving me a radiant smile that just about put me into fibrillation. Then she tweaked my nose with a laugh and got up, her hands lingering slightly on my thighs as she pushed off.

"Men and their appetites!" she teased with a twinkle in her eye. "Something always needs fed!"

"Appetites?" I thought to myself. "Plural?" Was Mom really playing that game with me? I asked myself.

Smoothing her pants as she stood, she reached for the coat hook and her parka.

"Are we going somewhere, Mom?" I asked in confusion.

"Well, my wonderful boy, there's not much in the cupboard. I figured we'd borrow Hilda's car and get something to eat in town, pick up a few things for the rest of the week."

I stood and perused the near-empty pantry and checked the refrigerator, smiling to myself as I tallied the inventory. "No need tonight, Mom," I grinned, taking her hand again. It seemed I was looking for any excuse to touch her and be close.

"We've got Campbell's, bread and cheese. Would you make me a TCS and tomato soup?" I gave her my best smile and Winsome Little Boy look. "I'd rather just stay here with you and sit by the fire."

Mom smiled and got a little misty. "My boy wants his favorite lunch, does he? Well, I suppose I could make that happen."

"Takk, mamma," I said, leaving a lingering kiss on her cheek. "Elsker deg."

"Love you too, you big lug. Now, when was the last time you had anything to eat?" she asked severely. 

"I had a bacon sandwich and some coffee about 6 this morning."

"And nothing since?" Mom was scandalized. "Jesus, Peter, you need to take better care of yourself than that," she scolded.

"Ja, mamma," I said contritely.

A full can of soup, liberally dosed with butter and three TCS later, I sat back from the kitchen table, replete and very content. Mom joined me with her own sandwich and we shared a couple of sliced apples with the last of the cheese. Life was just about perfect.

Later, when we snuggled on the sofa, in front of the fire, Mom squeezed me affectionately and said, "Just because I fed you doesn't mean you're out of the doghouse, young man. You've been a very irritating person today, first with the car and then with the checking, but I suppose I'm going to have to forgive you...eventually. But I do want to set up some ground rules with you tomorrow about the money," she said firmly.

"Mom, you know I trust you completely. There's no need for that."

"I'm dead serious, Peter. I know you trust me. That's not the point."

"Then what is?" I asked, puzzled.

"What you did, Peter, it makes me feel...funny. Really good, but funny and a little uncomfortable, too. I just feel like I want to talk it out, so there are no misunderstandings."

I decided a light touch was called for. "What, don't you like being a kept woman?"

"Peter Heimdahl!" she gasped, color rising in her cheeks. "You are such an absolute brat!" she fumed, slapping my shoulder.

"Ow!" I bellowed, pretending agony. "My Mom is beating me! Help! Help!"

We both dissolved in laughter at that point. I rolled off the sofa, pulling her down with me. I landed on my back, her full length laid out on top of me. Greatly daring, I hugged her close and gave her a brief kiss on the lips. For the merest fraction of a second, it seemed like her lips slightly opened to me and then she rolled off me and stood, offering up a hand.

When we both sat back down on the sofa, Mom snuggled under my arm and put my hands around her waist and then put her arms over mine, saying, "Hold me, Peter. Hold me please."

I let my head loll to one side, ear resting on the top of her head, savoring the moment. We both nodded off in short order.

Some unknown time later, we were awakened by one of the burned through logs in the fireplace collapsing, a shower of sparks rushing up the chimney. I got up to stir the embers and put some more wood on the glowing coals, Mom stretching luxuriously. When I rejoined her, she snuggled back down with me, slightly startling me with her own light kiss on my lips. She prolonged it for a brief moment, just enough to set me flushing once more.

"I wish we could stay here all night," she sighed.

"Who's stopping us?" I asked, my heart accelerating again.

Sighing again, Mom touched my cheek and placed a finger on my lips, preventing me from talking. "It's not a good idea, sweetheart," she said softly. "I might forget who I'm with."

I began to speak, but Mom shushed me with more pressure from her finger and I subsided back into the cushions, ten thousand questions and impulses rushing around in my head. She sat up and regarded me with a strange stare, at once equal parts of motherly affection and...longing?

Removing her finger from my lips, she gave me another kiss, but this time very definitely lingering beyond any "proper" duration. Her lips parted oh, so slightly and I was stunned to feel the tip of her tongue on my lips for an indescribably wonderful moment.

Then she stood fairly abruptly, saying, "I need time to think, Peter. See you in the morning." 

She walked quickly to her bedroom, casting one more inscrutable look at me over her shoulder, leaving me poleaxed on the couch. I heard her door close and then, most unusually, the lock being set.

Chapter 5

I got up from the couch and squatted in front of the fire, morosely stirring the glowing embers in front of me. I was so hard in my jeans it was quite difficult to hunker down and tend to the blaze. My balls felt like leaden cantaloupes, aching in the confines of the tight denim. I couldn't ever remember such feelings. 

While the warmth of the hearth washed over me, I thought, "What does the locked door mean? Is it a simple need for privacy? Could Mom be doing something naughty in her room? Was it that she didn't trust me not to try and slip into her bed tonight?" 

That thought rankled. I wound never do anything Mom didn't want or ask for, never. Didn't she trust me?

For a moment I toyed with the notion that it was because she couldn't trust herself, and then I got a grip.

"Don't be an idiot, Peter," I thought. "Your little brain is making you big-time stupid."

Still, I had felt that our simple dinner and evening together was magical. There was something in the air between us and I had a steadily growing feeling that whatever "it" was, "it" went in both directions. 

My mind ran in aimless, dithering circles, bouncing between poles of horny optimism and abject despair. Now with Mom's abrupt retirement to bed, I had the feeling of sand running through my fingers, escaping my grasp forever.

I put the fireplace tools away quietly, taking care not to rattle them and disturb Mom. I took myself to bed, wearily collapsing in beneath the covers, still wearing my long underwear.

As tired as I was, no amount of sheep counting or mantra chanting could bring me the welcome oblivion I needed so acutely. The memory of Mom's last kiss replayed itself over and over again in my head with high definition clarity and before long, I had a problem that demanded an immediate solution. I was so wound up, once wasn't even close to enough. I innundated the inside of both of my socks, my orgasms absolutely tectonic in intensity. Even then, I slept poorly.





The Forbidden Shore



I smiled back in the most sinister fashion I could muster, saying, "Disrespectful and now insolent to boot. I'm going to enjoy putting you in your place, you bad girl!"

"No worries," Mom replied smugly. "I'm your Mom and I can read you like a book. I'll see it coming from a mile away."

"We'll see about that," I grumbled, returning to my chopping duties, planning my retaliation.

As we progressed through our preparations, we chatted about nothing and everything. By mutual, silent consent, we said nothing about Dad or the Anna Katarina. Mom caught me up on local gossip and news and shared Sig's latest letter. 

He was doing very well for himself, having recently been promoted from E-3 to Petty Officer Second Class, skipping a whole grade. That came along with a bravery commendation for a particularly difficult rescue on the Columbia Bar. We were both thrilled, but at the same time, Mom confessed that she worried about him a lot. I reassured her, saying that I thought he'd be doing less of the dangerous grunt work with his new promotion.

A bit later, I had my opportunity. Mom was turned away from me, attending to the mushrooms she was sauteing. I took the opportunity to dip a spatula into the mashed potatoes I had just finished and when she turned around, I bent the handle back and let fly.

The gob of potatoes arced gracefully across the kitchen, landing with ICBM precision on the exposed skin of her upper chest, just above the last button of her plain, white blouse. The big, sticky white blob immediately slipped beneath the fabric and into her cleavage. 

I couldn't have planned it better if I had walked up to her and placed my starchy payload by hand. Mom stared at me, her eyes wide with the shock of my sneak attack.

She was beside herself, sputtering with indignation and embarrassment, as the white goo flowed down her chest.

"Oooo, you are so dead, Peter!" she squealed. "I'm gonna skin you alive, den lille dritt!"

"Tsk, tsk," I teased. "Such language from my sainted mother! My sensitive ears are bruised and burning, I tell you. Bruised and burning!"

"Du er dod kjott, buster, dod kjott!" she muttered.

"Dead meat?" I feigned shock. "You'd call your own flesh and blood dead meat?"

"After that little stunt, very definitely!" Mom scolded furiously.

"Did I ever tell you how sexy you are when you talk dirty, Mom?"

"Ooooh, that's it!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands up in disgust and resignation. "I'm getting changed. It's all inside my bra now!"

With that, she turned on her heel and strode from the kitchen.

"Lucky potatoes," I muttered to myself.

"What's that?" Mom shot back over her shoulder. "I didn't hear you, Peter. What did you say?"

"I said, 'Sorry about the potatoes,' Mom."

"In a pig's eye, young man!" she snorted, disappearing up the stairs to her bedroom.

Five minutes later, she returned, wearing a thick, evergreen turtleneck.

Taking in her new top at a glance, I quipped, "Taking no chances this time, I see."

"That's enough, Peter," she said firmly, but with a twinkle in her eye. "Enough horsing around. We've got a dinner to finish cooking."

"Yes, ma'am, right away, ma'am," I replied, saluting her for good measure and coming to attention.

Mom glared at me for a moment and then her features softened. She came forward and wrapped her arms around me in a big hug, burying her face in my chest, inhaling deeply.

"It's good to have my son home for Christmas. I've missed you so much, Peter!"

I hugged her back, careful to keep a small distance between us. It seemed that now any touch from her was enough to light the fuse to my trouser rocket and I didn't want her to feel how erect I was.

"Me too, Mom. I wouldn't miss this for anything."

Completely unexpectedly, she gave me light kiss on the lips and returned to the counter. I hastily turned away to conceal my raging boner and got back to work as well, my cheeks flushed and color high. My pulse was off the charts.

Throughout the rest of the morning and early afternoon, we continued, working in a silence that was not exactly tense, but somehow anticipatory. We shared few words as we worked, but both found reasons to pass close to one another, an occasional lingering touch to arm or waist occurring with increasing frequency as we prepared our feast.

Finishing our cleanup, we found ourselves at the sink, hips touching. Without thinking, I put my arm around Mom's waist and pulled her against me. She sighed and drew closer, slipping in front of me. I surged within my pants and was preparing to separate from her, when she sort of molded herself against me, back to front, relaxing completely. She placed her hands over mine, which were now locked around her waist, fingers interlaced over he abdomen. It felt soft, smooth and sensuous.

There was absolutely no way she could be unaware of the baseball bat I was poking against her lower back, but she said nothing, her hands lightly resting on my own, squeezing slightly. With a sigh, she turned and gave me another light kiss on the lips. I felt like I was floating three feet above the ground, when she broke the spell and my embrace, turning to me.

"What do you say to a game of cribbage, Petey? Loser does the dinner dishes, okay?"

"I hope you've got some gloves in the kitchen," I teased. "I wouldn't want you to get dishpan hands."

"So that's how it is, eh?" Mom shot back. '"We'll just have to see about that, min fin sonn."

"So I'm your fine son again, then, am I?"

"Don't let it go to your head, you big lug. I'm still going to beat your pants off."

"And if I beat yours off?"

"Not bloody likely, Peter."

Before I could censor my thoughts, it slipped out. "That would be quite a sight."

"Peter Hemidahl! Watch your mouth! I'm your mother!" she gasped, blushing furiously.

I was mentally slapping myself instantly for the slip. 

"Sorry, Mom, it just sort of slipped out. I didn't mean to be a smart-ass, honest. I'm sorry," I said contritely, crimson from embarrassment and from revealing my inner thoughts.

"Just you watch yourself, young man. I suppose your old Mom should be flattered, but that comment is over the mark. A girl might get the wrong idea around you." 

"Now, behave yourself and get the cards," she said smiling, lightly slapping my arm. "I'm going to show you who's the boss around here."

In the space of those few words, I went from chagrined and mortified to confused and a little bit elated. There had been times in the past when I flirted fairly outrageously with Mom, seeing how much I could embarrass her, but I had never made such an overtly suggestive remark to her before. As much as I was kicking myself moments ago, I now also felt somehow excited. For some reason, I sensed her reaction seemed less outraged and more... pleased, somehow.

I steeled myself mentally to guard my tongue as we sat down to play. I was doing pretty well for the first few hands and seemed well on my way to avoiding cleanup duty, when I happened to glance up. Mom was frowning, concentrating on her cards, absently pulling at her lower lip in the cute way that's always driven me crazy. Unable to help myself, my eyes flowed over her form again. 

Then it hit me. I did a double take, frankly staring this time, as I confirmed my suspicion. I was certain now. Mom wasn't wearing a bra under her turtleneck! 

I could see the faint outline of her nipples through the fabric of her top and they seemed to become more prominent as I stared. I became aware that I had been staring at her breasts for some time and broke my gaze, flushed and apprehensive. I quickly glanced up at Mom to see if my ogling had been noticed. I wasn't sure, but it seemed like I caught a slight suggestion of Mom's own eyes quickly moving to concentrate again on her cards. 

Then I saw that same enigmatic half smile and lowered eyelids from the car and my cock surged like a fighter jet on afterburner, going from slight chubster to throbbing and leaking in about one minute. I did my best to concentrate again on my own cards, but failed miserably. 

Carefully sneaking one more glance, I caught Mom looking at my bulge again. She bit her lower lip and then her eyes quickly returned to her hand, but I could see a flush on her cheeks and forehead. She licked her lips, unconsciously, it seemed.

Well, from that point forward, I was toast. I was so turned on I couldn't add 2 plus 2 and I was afraid if Mom so much as looked at me again, I'd spurt in my pants. I felt like a fourteen-year-old dumbass, completely flummoxed and tongue-tied. Needless to say, she mopped the floor with me.

"What's the matter, Peter?" she teased. "I expected a better challenge out of you. You're off your game tonight."

"My beautiful opponent kept on distracting me. I couldn't concentrate."

"Sweet talking your Mom is not going to get you out of this one, sonnen min."

"You cheated."

"Me, cheat? I did no such thing!" she squawked indignantly. "How could you say such a terrible thing about your mother?"

"You used your feminine charms to distract me. I was helpless against them."

"You're incorrigible."

"I'm also hungry. Shall we see if the turkey is ready?"

"Yes, let's do that. Cheater, indeed!" she snorted as she got to her feet. I stood and she slipped her arm around my waist, pulling me close. We walked to the kitchen, hip to hip. It was the most natural, wonderful feeling I ever experienced, two pieces of a long-separated puzzle finally put together. I was as happy as I could ever remember. 

I was also hard. Oh God, I was so damn hard. 

I didn't know what was going to happen between us, but my level of anticipation was beyond describing. When Mom's arm came away from my waist and briefly but clearly deliberately brushed across my ass, I just about lost it then and there. I could barely resist the temptation to sweep her into my arms and run to the bedroom.

Chapter 7

Our Christmas Eve dinner was just about perfect. I couldn't remember a time where I enjoyed a holiday meal more. Without the overbearing storm cloud of my father's presence, we spoke as we hadn't for... well... almost forever. Our conversation was wide-ranging, hugely entertaining and entirely adult. I gained a new appreciation for my mother as a well read, intellectually vibrant and spirited woman. I suppose I had imbibed from that stream of appreciation subconsciously in the past, but now, with it laid openly before me, it was revelatory. 

Underneath all that was a...something. Something that hung in the air between us, like a live wire, a sense of shiver-making anxiety, of waiting and expectancy that made me tingle from head to toe. I could feel it with granite certainty. Somehow I knew that things were changing between us and that soon, very soon, things would never be the same again.

Apprehension and all, I wished I could bottle the moment, preserving it forever.

It was at this point that I came to a decision. 

Having already crossed the Rubicon in finally acknowledging to myself that I wanted my mother, it wasn't that big a stretch to say to myself, "I don't just desire her. She belongs to me and I'm going to have her. And I'm going to keep her."

We conversed and mildly flirted long into the evening. When the candles on our small table began to gutter, I made to get up and clear the table. Mom stopped me, placing her hand on mine, saying, "It can wait, sweetheart. There's something I've been meaning to talk with you about. Let's go sit in the living room."

We sat on the sofa and Mom took my hands in hers, looking at me intently. Taking a deep breath, she looked at me somewhat apprehensively, saying, "I've something important to show you, Peter. I hope you won't be angry with me, but I need to do this."

"Mom, there's nothing you could possibly do that would make me angry," I protested.

"Well, I guess we're about to find out, " she said resolutely. "Wait here, Peter. I'll be right back."

Mom got up and went to her bedroom. Mystified, I sat back and waited for her to return. After a few minutes, she was back, handing me a letter. I did not recognize the return address or the sender. I gave Mom a quizzical glance and extracted the single sheet of stationary, scanning it quickly. It was from a big publisher, one I'd known of for many years. When I began reading, my world shook down to its foundations.

"Dear Mr. Heimdahl," it began, "I am in receipt of your manuscript entitled 'Inside Heart, Inside Passage.' First, let me congratulate you on what is undoubtedly one of the best novels I have read in the past five years. It goes almost without saying that we at McDowell House would be delighted and thrilled to publish this work. I am given to understand that you have onerous work obligations related to your family business and that reaching you may be difficult, so I have taken the liberty of sending this letter to you in the care of your mother. Abigail Hester, an old classmate of mine, has assured me that this will be the best way to reach you at this time."

"Of course, there is considerable preparation still necessary for the manuscript and we must find a suitable editor for you to work with as well. We are prepared to offer the sum of $75,000 for the rights to this work and hope that you will seriously consider our offer of publication. I can be reached at the numbers listed on the letterhead and look forward to your prompt reply."

"Again, let me offer our congratulations for an outstanding creative effort. It is a rare pleasure indeed, to read such a polished work from such a young talent." 

Sincerely,

Belinda Thornburg-Hall, editor in chief.

"Mom?" I croaked, throat tight. "When...how...why?"

Her hands gripped mine tightly, her lower lip trembling with barely suppressed anxiety. "Is it okay, Peter? Are you angry? I feel so guilty that I did this without asking you."

I sat silently for several minutes, torn by indecision and doubt. The idea of Mom having read about all of my veiled, secret longings, fears and guilt, it was overwhelming. But then I thought, after the past three days, she probably already knew how I felt about her, so what was there to hide any more? Taking in a deep breath, I squeezed her hands back and swallowed with difficulty.

"It's okay, Mom. When did you know about it?"

"It was entirely an accident," she explained, a quaver still evident in her voice. "It must have been two and a half or three years ago, a little while after you bought that old laptop. You had been using over Christmas and when you went back out for the start of Opie season, you left it behind."

"I didn't think much of it at the time, but you left it out on your desk and eventually the battery ran down. When you called to say you were coming back for a visit, I went to straighten up you room and change the linens. I noticed the laptop, unplugged on your desk. I thought I would do you a favor and recharge it so you'd be able to use it when you got home."

Taking a deep breath, she continued, "So, I went scrounging around your pig sty and eventually found the power cord and plugged it in. When it rebooted, there was a message from the word processor, saying that it had auto-saved your document because of low battery power."

"I snooped, Peter," she said, eyes downcast. "I know I shouldn't have, but I wanted to know what it was you were writing that made a file that was almost 2 megabytes."

"So I opened it. And I started reading and then I couldn't stop! It just sucked me right in and grabbed me by the heart and throat. It was so good, Peter, I couldn't believe it was my own son writing this incredible story!"

"I was so proud of you, Peter, so proud! I think that overrode my common sense. I started peeking regularly as you worked through it. Then when you were done and just threw it in the closet, I was heartbroken. Such talent and you just tossed it aside and went back out on that shitty little boat!" she hissed venomously, startling me with her profanity.

"I felt certain that this was good enough to be made into a book, but I had no idea how to go about that. So, I looked up Miss Hester and showed it to her. It absolutely astonished her, Peter. She agreed that it HAD to be published, it was that good. She said she had a sorority sister from college who worked at McDowell and asked if she could send it to her, so I said yes!" Mom concluded somewhat defiantly, daring me to disapprove.

"So here we are," I said softly. "What happens now?"

"I want you to publish it, Peter," she all but ordered. Her tone brooked absolutely no argument. "I've been in touch with a literary agency in Seattle and they're dying to represent you. I want you to let them negotiate a deal with McDowell. When that's done, I want you off that boat. Whatever you get for the deal, it should be enough for you to stop fishing while you write your next novel!"

"But Dad..."

"Screw your father and that piece of shit boat!" she said fiercely. "This is your chance for a real life, Peter. You'll never get a better one. If you throw this away...well, you deserve what you get, working with Gunnar."

"But Mom!" I practically shouted. "What about you? Who knows what Dad might do if I leave? I won't let anything happen to you! I couldn't stand that!"

Mom put her hands on my shoulders, peering deep into my eyes.

"Look at me, Peter. Look at me," she commanded. "As soon as I know you're free and clear of that man, I'm filing for a divorce. I'm no fool, son. I know him better than you do. I'll be long gone before he's even served with the papers."

"But where will you go? What will you do?"

She reached up to stroke my cheek, speaking quietly. I shivered at her gentle, sensuous touch. "That's for me to decide, darling son. Don't fret about it. I'll make it work so you won't have to worry about me anymore."

"So do we have an agreement, Peter?" she asked seriously. "If you get a publishing deal, you quit the boat, become a full-time writer, okay?"

"You have to absolutely promise me that you'll make arrangements to get out of Homer, the minute I make the deal though, okay Mom?" I insisted. "In fact, I want you to start getting your ducks lined up right after New Year's, all right? I'm sure you can count on Hilda for some help, too." 

I got up from the sofa and began to nervously pace the living room. So much had changed, so quickly, that I couldn't take it all in. The possibility of a life away from Dad, my finally acknowledged feelings for Mom, the uncertainty of what her plans might be, it was all too much to process, especially stuffed full of holiday food and the better part of a full bottle of wine. I simply couldn't make heads or tails of what I could or should do.

I think Mom sensed my growing disorientation, because she stood and took my hand, leading me to the foyer closet, saying, "Lets get a little fresh air outside Peter, clear our heads a bit and then we'll talk some more."

Chapter 8

Nodding dumbly, I put on my parka and helped Mom into hers and we exited through the sliding glass doors onto the back yard deck. 

Standing in the lee of the house, I could hear the wind rushing through the fir and pine trees surrounding our lot, not a whisper, but not a roar, either. As the wind coursed over the roof, it swept a galaxy of tiny ice crystals into the air in front of us, making it scintillate faintly with the reflected light spilling though the doors and windows. The air was cold, but its bite was mild out of the direct path of the wind. As we stood next to each other, clouds of our breath condensing around us, I looked up.

The sky was moonless and dark, the stars indistinct as a shroud of high cirrus clouds scudded from west to east. Gradually, the clouds dispersed before the wind, revealing the broad, nacreous swath of the Milky Way and the diamond-hard stars of Orion, Cassiopeia, the Big Dipper and the Pleiades. Between the razor-sharp celestial backdrop and the swirling ice crystals in the air, it was hard to know where the sky began and ended. It felt as though we were suspended, frozen in space and time.




The Forbidden Shore



Then, almost miraculously, the sky changed. A green, silvery and purple glow slowly appeared above us, gradually and gracefully coalescing into a dancing, shimmering curtain of light. It played directly overhead, slowly and inexorably expanding, lengthening and flowing to stretch nearly across the entire horizon to the north of us. 

Mom's hand found mine and soon my heartbeat was dancing in time with the aurora above us.

"It's strange," she said, gazing upwards and quietly musing. "But there is very little in the legends or the Eddas about the nororljos, or their significance. There's one explanation though, which I always liked. This legend says that the northern lights are reflections. Reflections of the glow of the armor the Valkyries shining as they gallop across the sky..."

"That's beautiful," I whispered back, pulling her closer.

Mom turned her head up to me, the boreal light dancing in her eyes.

"Kiss me, darling," she whispered hoarsely. "Please kiss me, Peter."

That look was there again on her face; the same moist lips, far away gaze and hooded eyes I saw in the car on the way back from the airport. That look was there. 

It was there for me. 

I felt like I had simultaneously grabbed a high voltage electrical wire and been struck in the head with a baseball bat. My mind and body vibrated like an overstretched guitar string.

"Mom?" I croaked, unable to fathom my great good fortune.

Placing her arms around my neck, she crossed her wrists behind my head and drew me down, whispering, "We both want this, my love. Don't keep your mother waiting. Don't be shy, son. Kiss your momma."

As I surrendered to the long-desired inevitable, I licked my lips. They cooled immediately in the frigid night air, but a moment later, they were warm again, oh so warm. Our lips seemed to part in unison and our tongues found each other in a blink, coiling like amorous serpents. She tasted faintly of dinner and the last dregs of Riesling, hot, wet and unaccountably sweet. 

We continued for an indefinable time, lips gliding and pressing, tongues twining with increasing urgency as I drew her to me in a ferocious embrace. Time passed us by. Our first lover's kiss was over a minute (or was it a decade?) later. We pulled apart, our breaths exploding from our chests into condensed clouds of desire, shot through with the windswept ice crystals floating around us. It seemed that we had both held our breaths for our entire lives, until we finally found each other for that first real kiss.

"Jesus..." I whispered. 

Mom smiled and cupped my cheek in her hand, drawing me down again to her lips. As our tongues dueled once again, she moaned into my mouth and her hands slid down from my shoulders to my butt, pulling me against her.

Taking my own cue from her actions, I brought my own hands to cup her cheeks, pulling her even more tightly to me. Her ass was marvelously taut and supple against my grasping fingers, wonderfully warm and firm. My head spun and I felt dizzy as the sensation of caressing my own mother's perfect ass overloaded my senses. 

I was holding a firm, fleshy miracle in the palms of my hands. 

Her limbs slightly parted and surrounded my leg. Instinctively, I flexed my knee, pushing my thigh into her crotch. She began slowly rocking against me, a small whimper escaping her mouth.

She moaned again into my lips and then tore hers away from mine. Her color was high and her eyes were feverishly bright as she looked at me.

"Inside! Oh God, Peter! Inside!" she gasped.

Without conscious thought, our lips joined again, Mom's mashing into mine so hard she almost bruised me. Arms around one another, we half-stumbled to the sliding glass doors and I fumbled for the handle blindly. My heart thudded heavily in my chest as we nearly fell back into the living room.

We practically tore our parkas off one another and in seconds our lips were again fused together, at the same time my hands found her breasts and hers glided over my hardness, scrabbling desperately at my length through the rough fabric of my Levis. 

When her fingers began searching for the buttons of my fly, I groaned into her mouth. The whole universe collapsed into a singularity of lust, encompassed entirely by the sensation of her hands working into my pants, her tongue intertwined with mine, the heft of her breasts and hardening of her nipples beneath my grasping fingers. 

My pulse roared and thundered in my ears like Victoria Falls and suddenly, there wasn't enough air in the entire house to fill my gasping lungs.

Eventually, Mom succeeded in opening the front of my jeans. As she slid them down to my ankles, she dropped to her knees in front of me and I was totally paralyzed with expectancy and incredulity, finally understanding what was about to take place.

My boxers bulged out luridly in front of Mom's face. When she ever-so-lightly ran her hand across my hardness, I shuddered with anticipation. When she pulled the front of my underwear down, I bounced into full view like an obscene Jack-In-the-Box, pulsing and dripping. 

Even though she knew what was coming, I think she was still taken aback by the sudden appearance of my hardness and its size. 

In that moment, Mom looked up at me, an expression of startled wonder and burning lust on her face.

"Faen!" she exclaimed.

When her bare hand closed around my cock for the first time, my knees nearly gave way as I reflexively bucked against her smooth, warm grasp.

As I stood there with my pants around my ankles, cock bobbing in time with my pulse, Mom took me gently in hand. Her warm, soft touch was nearly unbearable. She cupped my balls with one hand and traced her fingers along my shaft, carefully inspecting my length by eye and braille. When her thumb passed over my slick glans, I almost lost it, wracked by a deep shudder of pleasure.

"My God, Peter. It's absolutely magnificent," she sighed dreamily. Almost as an afterthought, she murmured as though to herself, "And hard. Jesus, so hard. So hard and so BIG, so big for, for... me!" Her voice took on a rising note of wonder mingled with triumph.

Then she chuckled throatily and added, "I named you well, boy."

I was struck dumb, the intensity of my pleasure and emotions carrying me far beyond the capacity to think or speak. I could barely nod in acknowledgment of her praise.

Turning her attention back to my groin, Mom gently pulled my steel into a vertical position and gave the underside of my shaft a long, lingering and languorous lick, from base to crown. Again, my legs almost gave way and I moaned.

"Ahhh, Mom! So good!" 

"Lovely," she murmured. "Jeg elsker din kuk." Kisses rained down on my entire length and then another amazing, long lick that ended with her tongue swirling over my glans. 

The moment I felt her moist suction on my head, I was gone, blown completely beyond the horizon of lust and into the abyss of pure pleasure. I went over the edge so quickly no warning was possible.

"Ohhh, God! Mom!" I practically screamed.

To say I came is...inadequate. My eruption was like the transcontinental Super Chief, bursting from a tunnel in a cloud of superheated steam, whistle screeching like the damned. It was a liquid broadside from a 100 cannon ship of the line, all smoke, fire and deafening thunder. It was more pleasure than a mortal frame could endure and remain sane.

My first fusillade caught her completely by surprise, spraying hotly across her cheek and the bridge of her nose, several pearly droplets also landing in her bangs as she jerked slightly and blinked in surprise. Just as quickly though, she clamped her mouth over the head of my cock, sucking and swallowing furiously as I spewed molten lust, her cheeks alternately collapsing and ballooning as I spent myself utterly. 

The world went away for a while, my existence contracting down to the incredible spasms of pleasure wracking my body and feel of her mouth on me as she murmured wordless encouragements around my throbbing shaft. From a continent away, I could faintly hear somebody crying out piteously, "Mom! Mom! Oh Jesus, Mom! Oh, Mooommmm!"

At some point, time resumed its normal course and I felt one final suck on my now exquisitely sensitive head. With that last jolt of pleasure bordering on pain, my legs finally did give way and I collapsed onto my knees in front of her.

I'll never forget the look she gave me at that moment. I could see the flash of unquenched lust in her eyes, but at the same time her face composed itself into a look of serene happiness and satisfaction, mixed with motherly pride.

"Jesus, Peter. I had no idea I was exciting you THAT much," she chuckled, half-scolding me.

Wiping my milkiness from her cheek and forehead with her finger, she sucked it off her digit with relish, finally pulling it from her mouth with an audible pop.

"Dee-lish," she said, laughing wickedly at my pole-axed expression.

"The most and best cum I've ever tasted," she stated matter-of-factly, adding further to my astonishment.

Along with the return of my ability to speak came embarrassment at my lack of control. I sat heavily on the floor.

"Sorry, Mom," I croaked, cheeks red. "It felt so good, I couldn't help myself."

Lowering herself into my lap, Mom put her arms around my neck and kissed me gently but thoroughly. I could taste my saltiness.

"That's the idea, lover boy. You're supposed to lose it when momma sucks that wonderful cock of yours. I take your lack of control as a very, very big compliment."

"Thanks, Mom," I said, giving her a big hug. "It was amazing. I've never, uhm, lost it like that before."

"Ooof! Watch it there, you big lug. Don't squeeze so hard!"

"Sorry again," I mumbled. Then it all hit me all at once, the enormity of what had just happened between us. Yet again, I seemed robbed of any ability to express myself.

"Mom..." I began awkwardly.

"Shhh, my darling boy," Mom said gently, putting a finger to my lips. "I know. I've known for a long time, maybe even longer than you knew yourself." 

"I love you too," she said quietly.

We shared another lingering kiss Mom's fingers looping around the back of neck, eventually finding their way into my hair. Our kiss intensified further and then we were apart, gasping for breath. Mom then stood abruptly, pulling me to my feet. Another kiss and her hands found my balls, cupping them gently.

"Take me to bed, Peter," she whispered urgently. "Take me now," she pleaded, her fingers again finding my resurgent hardness. 

Stepping fully out of my pants, I quickly pulled my shoes and socks off and grabbed her hand, leading her up the stairs to the master bedroom. At the threshold, I swept her into my arms and carried her giggling to the bed, her arms around my neck.

Setting her on her feet, I kissed her again. When we broke apart, gasping, Mom anchored her fingers in the hair on the back of my head, drawing me close. 

"Do you want to undress your mother, Peter?" She asked throatily.

I was beyond all words, beyond any ability to think. All I could do was nod like a demented bobble-head.

"Well then, what are you waiting for?"

I didn't know. What I did know was what I wanted now, so badly it burned like molten iron in my groin and brain. I was consumed by my need and Mom could see the want in my eyes.

What I wasn't prepared for though, was how much my hands shook as I reached to the front of her pants. I wasn't all thumbs, I was all toes. Nothing worked. My fingers trembled and were nearly useless. After a century or two of painfully humiliating fumbling, I was able to finally release the button and get down to business. 

The raspy buzz of her zipper coming down suddenly seemed as loud as a chainsaw and I realized that we were both holding our breaths.

Pulling them over her hips, I moved with near-frantic haste, only to be stymied when I realized her shoes were still on.

"Fuckitall," I muttered under my breath. Mom balanced on one leg as I tried in vain to jerk the pants leg over her shoe, nearly toppling her in the process. By now I was nearly catatonic with desire, my fine motor skills deteriorating by the second as my brain burned.

Eventually, I solved the mysteries of shoelaces and successfully consigned Mom's jeans to the far corner of the room, crumpled in a heap. As I disposed of her Levis, Mom pulled off her turtleneck smoothly and stood before me, wearing only a pair of very modest, high-cut cotton briefs. Her dark thatch showed through the panties as a vague, smoky shadow and I could see an enormous spot of dampness in her gusset. 

Those plain fabric panties with a huge wet spot were and remain to this day the most exciting, incredibly sexy thing I've ever seen. 

As she stood before me, her nipples hardening from the cool air and her excitement, I could only gape. Her eyes held mine briefly and then she dropped her gaze, blushing deeply at my lustful, intense scrutiny.

My breath caught in my throat and it felt like there was a python wrapped around my chest. "God, you are so beautiful," I finally husked. 

"Really?" Mom asked, suddenly looking vulnerable, uncertain and absolutely adorable.

"More than you could possibly know," I gasped, finally remembering to breathe.

Taking her shoulders, I gently pushed her back to the edge of the bed until she sat on the edge. Kneeling in front of her, I grasped the sides of her panties and slowly pulled them over her hips, revealing her magnificent, unruly bush. Placing my palms on the inside of her thighs, I gently parted her legs. Her skin was smooth, hot and flawless.

At first, she blushingly resisted the pressure of my hands, but I was not to be denied. Finally, she relaxed, reclining onto her back, with her legs dangling over the edge of the bed. It was then that her prize finally came into full view. 

Her labia were thick, prominent and slick, her inner petals slowly blooming into view, deep, almost purple-pink in color. It was the most exotic, enticing and alluring she-orchid I had ever seen, and I was drawn to it irresistibly. 

As my lips found the junction of her thigh and pelvis, moving to her center, she gasped and tensed for a moment, flinging her forearm across her closed eyes.

"Oh my God," she sighed. "Oh my God, Peter...nobody...ever..."

Her words cut off with an indescribable moan as my tongue centered itself in her divine groove and licked, slowly and firmly from perineum to nubbin. When I found her small pearl of pleasure with my lips and flicked it, ever so lightly, I drew another sharp gasp from her and then her hands were anchored in my hair, urging me onward.

"Yessss," she hissed, "Oh yes, baby. Please. Oh God, please, yes! More! Please, please, more!"

As I lapped her juices, inwardly I was dumbfounded. Nobody had ever eaten Mom? Never? It seemed incomprehensible that no man had ever sampled her. 

The only thing I knew as my tongue delved within her for the first time was that I now was savoring the nectar of Elysium. Nothing in all my previous experience came even close to my mother's honey and at that instant, I knew two truths.

I knew that I would never, ever tire of her taste. Never. I also knew that I was going to give her my all. I would stay between her thighs until I had her screaming for mercy. One, two, ten orgasms, it didn't matter. I wasn't going to stop until she bodily forced me away from her magnificent cunt. 

In that moment, I was completely addicted. Cocaine? A slap and a tickle. Heroin? A fucking after-dinner mint. What I felt, what I now desperately wanted was as far beyond simple desire as a hawk soaring above a buzzing gnat. In that moment, I knew, knew that my need was carved into the marrow of my bones, a novel part of myself that was as a new vital organ, which I would now die without.

I was riding a wave of the most intense, intimate pleasure ever known, mainlining the concentrated essence of absolute love and total lust. The fire that was now coursing through my veins would remain there burning until the last breath of my life.

I was now in a place where time had no meaning. There was only her wetness, smell and taste. My entire existence began and ended between the soft, smooth creases of her thighs and pelvis. I was vaguely aware of the spasm of her thighs around my head and the crescendo of moans and shrieks of pleasure as she came on my tongue, but that was the background to the overwhelming overload of her scent, wetness and slickness.

Eventually, she pushed me away, almost roughly. It could have been a few minutes later, or sometime next week. She grabbed my hair and pulled my face away from her slippery lips. I was coated with her essence from eyebrows to chin and it was the best feeling in the world.

"Jesus Kristus," she exhaled, her voice hoarse. "What the fuck did you just do to me, Peter?"

Hearing Mom swear like that made me shiver with delight. In all my years, I had never heard my beloved mother drop an F-bomb. Somehow, it didn't seem coarse or cheap. It wasn't crude or rude. It was...strangely intimate, like she shared something secret with me. I made me feel even closer to her.

I lifted my head up and crawled on top of her, my cock trapped between our bellies, throbbing like an obscene missile.

"I just loved you the way you deserve to be loved, Mom. I wanted you to feel special, the way you made me feel special," I murmured.

Running her fingers through my hair, Mom kissed me softly but thoroughly, a gentle, satisfied smile on her lips.

"You made me feel like a queen, sweetheart," she sighed contentedly.

"MY queen," I corrected with a grin.

"Your queen," she echoed, nodding her head happily.

Reaching between us, she found my shaft, her eyes widening slightly as she felt my resurgent steel again. 

"My goodness, Peter. How did it get so hard again, so fast?"

"It's the company I'm keeping. I'm with the sexiest girl on the planet," I said softly.

"You're very sweet, but you need your vision checked, darling."

"My hard-on, my call, Mom," I grinned, grinding myself on her belly.

"You're impossible, but I love you, Peter," she sighed.

I slid down her abdomen, my cock finding the small valley between her thighs.

"I want you so much, Mom," I whispered back.

"Then take me, Peter. Please, honey, take me now," she pleaded, her eyes now hooded with lust. "Be inside me, son. Pul mora di," she pleaded.

She opened her thighs and I rose up on my elbows, watching her face intently. I slowly thrust my hips forward. As my helmet touched her lips for the first time, her breath caught in her throat and her arms tightened around my shoulders. Slowly, as I pressed home, I slid down the groove between her nether lips to the opening of her portal, at last ready to go where no son should ever be.

For a brief beat, I stayed poised at her gates of paradise. Our eyes locked, recognizing the enormity of the moment and time stretched, a month passing between heartbeats. Then Mom smiled, her hands sliding down to my ass, pulling me forward and into heaven.

As I sank into the center of her slickness, I was astounded by her tightness and heat. It felt like I was entrapped in a buttery, superheated vise, and when I slowly pressed forward, Mom's eyes went wider and wider, her mouth opening in a silent "O" of incredulous pleasure.

Then, I could go no farther. Mom looked at me, her face feral, eyes as big as saucers.

"Oh my God, Peter," she whispered. "Oh God. So fucking big, son. Pikken din er sa stor, so good..." her voice trailed off, her lower lip trembling.

I could spend a year trying to find the words to describe how I felt at that instant, buried to the hilt in the most forbidden place in the world. I'm an erstwhile writer, but I'll be damned if I know how to find the language to describe the feelings. 




The Forbidden Shore



There simply isn't a vocabulary for it. There are no adjectives, no superlatives, no paeans, no poems, not even whole novels that could encompass the feelings that come along with returning to the place of your birth as a full man.

My world changed irrevocably, one moment as expansive as the sky and then contracted and ultimately distilled to just us. Armageddon could have been occurring just beyond the edge of our bed and I would have been oblivious.

Then I began to move. With the first stroke, Mom's legs came up and wrapped around the back of my thighs. With the second stroke, her arms tightened around me with more strength than I thought she possessed. With the third stroke, her lips parted and an inarticulate groan escaped. With the fourth stroke, her fingers hooked into my skin. With the fifth stroke, she met me with her own, vigorous counterthrust, her legs coming up to wrap around my hips.

As we settled into the rhythm of our incestuous waltz, Mom began a litany of sighs and exhortations, in time with my thrusts.

"Oh God, Peter, Oh God! Yes! Oh God!"

Much, much sooner than I wanted, our lover's canter morphed into a full-fledged gallop and I could see the end looming. It was at once something I wanted more than my next breath and at the same time, wanted to hold at arms length, prolonging our moment together forever.

Mom was now almost chanting beneath me, alternating "Oh God!" with "Oh, Peter!" as our thighs slapped together loudly and wetly. By now my own control was reduced to tatters and I slammed and thrust into Mom with all my strength, making her grunt beneath me.

"Knull meg, knull meg! Fuck me, Peter, fuck me!" she began repeating in time to my thrusts, over and over.

Abruptly, her eyes opened wide and she began shrieking at the top of her lungs, "Peter! Peter! Oh God, Peter- I'm cumming, I'm cumming! Peeeeeeter!"

Then I felt her clamp around me and her eyes rolled back into her head. At that moment, I was beyond all control and I began spraying myself into my Mom, my lover. 

I came with a force like I had never experienced before in my entire life. My cum seemed to burst from me like a column of water hitting a hydroelectric turbine and it felt as though I had gallons to give her. My detonation was so intense that it seemed as though I should be smelling burned hair and gunsmoke.

Then I was suddenly limp as a flatworm, totally spent, nerveless and boneless. Lifting a pencil would have been beyond my strength, as I collapsed onto Mom.

I came to my senses at some point, the universe reassembling itself into something resembling actual existence. For a while, time wasn't measurable, but then reality asserted itself in the form of Mom kissing me tenderly and passionately, her breath labored.

"That was wonderful, Peter, but if you don't get off me soon, I'm going to suffocate," she chided me in a strained voice.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry, Mom!" I apologized, hastening to move to her side.

Mom immediately snuggled beneath my arm, her head resting on my chest.

"Your heart is beating so fast, darling, so strong..." she whispered.

Still stunned by the intensity of our lovemaking, it took a few moments for me to engage my brain and make a response. Even then, as lucidity returned to me, I had great difficulty expressing myself.

"Mom," I began, my voice no better than a croak, "That was...that was...just...amazing," I concluded lamely.

Sighing dreamily in assent, Mom said, "It was the best, Peter. The best ever."

"I knew I wanted to be with you, Peter, but I had no idea, darling, no idea at all that it could be so good with my own son," she said, her voice full of wonder.

"How do you feel?" I asked, suddenly taken with the irrational fear that we wouldn't be together again.

"Well loved and VERY well fucked," Mom said with a warm smile.

"And you're okay with this?" I asked uncertainly, "With...us?"

"Jesus, Peter, what do you think?" she asked with a note of affectionate exasperation. "I just committed one of the biggest no-no's in western civilization. I've sucked my son off and let him eat my pussy. I just fucked him, and cheated on a psychopathic husband for God's sake. Don't be an idiot."

I smiled a little uncertainly at her sarcastic rebuke and then Mom seemed to see something more in my question.

"What's on your mind Peter? What's worrying you?"

Finally giving voice to my insecurities and uncertainties, I blurted it out in a tumbled rush, "It can't be anyone else now, Mom. Being with anybody else...it wouldn't be the same. It couldn't possibly be as good as what we just did, and it wouldn't be, well, it wouldn't be... you."

"I want to be with you always, Mom," I said softly. "Nobody else. Just you and me."

Mom smiled gently and touched my cheek, a tear running down her own. "You're my sweet boy, Peter. You're also my sweet man now. Do you really think this was just a horny roll in the hay for me?"

"I've been falling in love with you for quite a while now, just like you have with me. We wouldn't be where we are now if I didn't feel...that way about you too," she said, taking my hand in hers.

"Good!" I said with great relief. Some uncertainty crept back into my voice when I asked, "What's next?"

"First we get some rest and then you need to put that wonderful polse back inside your momma. It's been so long," she sighed, grinning wickedly at the same time. "It's been so long since your Mom has been properly fucked. You need to do right by her and show her how much you love her."

Doubts and fears now behind me, I grinned back, saying, "I'm a good son. I always do what Mom asks me. Because I love her."

Mom heaved a happy sigh and snuggled in close and I put my arms around her. She was asleep in moments, a small smile on her lips. Soon enough, the sandman threw the big switch in my head and there was warm, comforting blackness. If I dreamed, I don't recall what.

Chapter 9

Somehow, sometime, I made the transition from dreamless sleep to waking dream, as I awoke the exquisite sensation of moist lips gliding over the head of my penis. It was as near to pitch black as possible outside, the stars obscured by heavy scudding clouds and the air disturbed by a steady wind that whistled shrilly as it knifed through the trees surrounding the house and swirled in the eaves. Had I been alone in bed, the sound alone would have been enough to chill me to the bone, but I was warm, oh so warm as my mother wrapped her mouth around my cock, licking and sucking with abandon.

For someone who seemed to have been largely celibate for an unconscionably long time, Mom's ministrations were artful and incredibly arousing. As if reading my thoughts, Mom paused in her tasks, lifting her head to regard me affectionately. She then spoke for the first time, her eyes bright. 

"Hello, love. Is Mommy's boy all awake now?" she asked throatily. "I hope you like having your cock sucked. I've been missing this for so long and yours is just so...perfect. I just can't resist it," she whispered, blushing endearingly.

All too quickly, she had me bucking my hips involuntarily and she ended up spitting me out, choking slightly.

"Whoa, easy there, cowboy!" she coughed. "I don't want you going off prematurely."

"Sorry, Mom," I apologized sheepishly. "You're just too good at that."

"Thanks, honey. That's a real compliment. Now that I have your attention," she giggled, "It's time to put that nice stor kuk of yours to good use."

With that, Mom swung her legs over me, grasping my cock at the same time. She settled onto my lap and set herself on my hardness, taking me inside in one long, continuous, exquisite impalement.

With a satisfied groan, she settled her weight on me fully, eyes twinkling.

"You got to pound your momma earlier, Peter. Now it's time for me to return the favor," she said gleefully, an impish gleam in her eyes.

As she began her ride, she rose languorously, tightening her muscles as she ascended, pausing at the apex of her motion to just hold the head of my cock inside her. She then lowered herself again with agonizing slowness, clearly savoring every inch of my penetration.

The sensations were a beautiful torment to me. "All yours," I moaned. "I'm all yours, Mom. Fuck me."

"That's right, Peter. I'm going to fuck you now. You just lay back and let 

Mom do all the work, beautiful boy. Let Mom fuck her sweet boy."

When you're out in the real world, chasing girls (and hopefully catching a few), you get a sense sometimes for what a particular lady might be like in bed. Some women have an in-your-face "x" factor, something about their bearing, speech or attitude that immediately speaks to a voracious appetite for sex. You just know somehow that they will be dynamite in the sack.

I've had a few of those kinds of girls in my bed and it can be incredible. But that's not what I like best. What I like is finding the gal that surprises the heck out of you when she finally lets her hair down, the quiet one that lets all restraint and inhibition fly out the window of propriety once they get naked with you.

It struck me as I watched Mom ride me, completely abandoning herself to our lovemaking, that my beloved mother had that latter quality in spades. I think some of it was our already close mother-son relationship and a healthy dash of the forbidden, but I could just tell by watching her that Mom loved to fuck. Her wanton gyrations on my cock, her little gasps and yips of pleasure and most of all, the lustful stare she fixed on me as she rode told me in no uncertain terms that I was with a very sensual woman who took no prisoners in bed.

It felt like I had won all of the lotteries in the world at one time.

These thoughts flashed through my mind in a matter of seconds and then I was back in the moment, captivated by the bouncing of her breasts and the sheen of her juices on my cock, as she rose and fell on me.

I couldn't stop touching her everywhere. I palmed her still pert and firm breasts and she smiled and sighed. When I flicked her erect, pebble hard nipples, she crooned with pleasure. When I slid my hands to her flanks, sliding them down to her silky ass, she moaned. When I gripped her cheeks tightly and pulled them apart, she growled and ground down on me so hard, I thought for a moment I'd snap off inside her.

Then, greatly daring, I did something I had never done before with any woman. It wasn't anything that I had consciously thought about in the past, but it seemed somehow right with Mom, to be able to touch her everywhere.

Sliding my right hand over the smooth globe of her left buttock, I scraped my fingertip across her little brown asterisk. 

The effect was immediate. Mom's eyes opened wide and she groaned, "Oh my God. OhmigodPeterwhat'reyoudoingtome?" 

Taking that as an invitation to further exploration of her most secret place, I wormed my index finger into her rubbery tightness.

"Peter!" she cried. "Oh God honey! Peter! Oh, FUCK, yeah! Yes! Yes, baby! Do it! Dooo it! Dooo meeeee!"

As I began pistoning her back channel, she suddenly crushed herself down onto my cock, grinding her pubis against me in a furious attempt to stimulate her clit. I felt her telltale tightening around my shaft and my invading finger and she began shrieking out her climax.

"Ahh! Ahhh, Peter! Yes! Yes! Oh God, my ass, yes! Yesss, babeeee!"

Then she was flooding me with her juices and I couldn't hold out any longer. I pulsed inside her once, twice, three, four times, the pleasure so intense that it was almost cramp-like in its intensity. 

Mom then collapsed on me, breathing like a spent triathlete, her face and chest flushed deep crimson. I simply held her to me as her breathing gradually slowed and I slowly slipped out of her clasping cunt, our combined releases completely saturating my groin.

It felt heavenly.

We lay just like that, close and silent for maybe ten minutes before Mom finally stirred, whispering in my ear.

"You are a very nasty lille dritt, Peter, touching your mother that way. A very dirty boy, you are."

"I had no idea you liked having something up your ass, dear mother," I teased back, lightly caressing her pucker again with my fingertip.

"You bring out the worst in me, you perverted young man."

Daring hugely once again, I held my breath and asked, "Would you like me to fuck you there some time?"

I could almost feel Mom blush as she burrowed her head in my shoulder, embarrassed by my extremely intimate question.

Almost inaudibly, she whispered in my ear, "Yes. Dear God, I must be mad, but I think...yes."

"You tell me when, Mom. I'd love to do that with you, but only if you're really sure."

"I think I really do, Peter, but I'm scared. You're so damn big, I'm afraid you'll split me in two, but I still think...God, I KNOW I'm mad to want this, but it seems somehow right to be with you, uhm, that way," she said with a blush.

In a voice that was barely detectable, she confessed, "I've never done that, you know."

I was dumbfounded. Mom was so uninhibited in bed with me and she so clearly enjoyed my frisky finger, that I assumed she was, well, experienced that way. With me, she seemed so genuinely adventurous that it never occurred to me that she was, in fact, still a virgin in one respect.

It was then that the enormity of my suggestion, what I was asking of her, hit home. I hugged her close.

"No worries, Mom," I said gently. "We'll talk about it again some other time. You can tell me when you're ready. I won't do ANYTHING that you don't truly want."

"You're my queen, Mom," I added softly. "I'll only ever do what pleases you and makes you feel good."

"And if I completely lose my mind and decide I want that monster up my rasshol?" she whispered in my ear.

"I'll be very, very gentle, but you don't need to decide a single thing right now, pretty lady. We'll put it on the "backside burner" for now."

"You are a very nasty son and your puns are horrible. But I still love you anyway."

"And I love you too, Mom," I replied, rubbing my finger across her pucker one more time. "Every square inch."

"Brat," she murmured again, her eyes drooping with fatigue.

"Time for your beauty rest, Mom," I whispered, kissing her forehead. I pulled her to my side and put her under my arm again. She curled up with a contented sigh and was fast asleep in moments. I followed her quickly into dreamland.