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Coming Home to Mom
So, I suppose most girls would be a little wary of talking to their moms about sex. If you’ve read what went before, you know my family’s a bit unusual. Mom and Dad are kind of hippyish, and they had brought us up believing that sex was natural, a thing body did. Without the weight of social shame burdening the concept, it also lost some of that illicit shine that made it so tempting. My mother had encouraged me in my decision not only to hold on to my virginity until I found someone who would make my first time special, but also when I found that someone, to go full bore. Nothing we want is ever given to us; we must work for it, reach out and take it, and sometimes, that means going out on a limb. I’d waited until after I had graduated, as hard as that had been with all the temptation around me and chosen carefully from a very short list of candidates; at nineteen, I had been confident that any resistance to my advances would swiftly collapse.
So now I am coming home from a day and a night spent with the guy I had chosen, our neighbor up the way, Dr. Neil Dodd. A sex ther****t, or he had been, before he’d retired. That stretches the idea of luck, even to my mind, which usually doesn’t stop to consider deeper questions. Right now, as I walk home home under the clear blue skies and bright sun of a Mississippi summer afternoon, I’m dreamily reliving moments of that time. Mississippi is hot and muggy, and summer is like a sauna in the outdoors, so that any walk of more than a couple of blocks leaves you sweating buckets and feeling in need of a shower, but I’m dressed in only a thin cotton sundress, naked underneath it, and not caring at all. When I get home, I’ll probably ditch the dress and just stay naked. Nudity is not a big deal in our home – bodies are bodies, we’ve all got them – and while we do have air conditioning (life in the South is impossible without it), it’s not uncommon for us to lounge around in the altogether.
Our house is good for this kind of thing too – it’s kind of setback in this explosion of overgrowth. I think Mom – or maybe Dad, he likes plants – deliberately encouraged the plants to grow like this, as it screens the house and the yard from outside view. I must push past ferns and things – I don’t know plants, but they have big waxy leaves – to get to the front door. The backyard is fenced, but the fence is similarly lined with big leafy plants. Maybe my parents always wanted to live in a jungle, and this was the closest they could get.
Mom’s waiting at the door. My mother is an Amazon. I’m tall for a girl – five eightish, or so, I never really paid much attention – but I’m kind of on the slender side. I curve nicely, full at the breasts and hip, but overall, I’m rather slim. Mom, on the other hand, is tall, period – six feet, and big in proportion, with a large-boned, powerful look to her. She keeps in shape, and the athleticism on her — she looks like a Greek goddess descended to Earth. If she weren’t gentle as a spring rain, she’d be terrifying. Avalonia Grace Mist is a walking refutation of the current beauty trends of stick-figure supermodels, and men still sweat and stare when they look at her.
Hell. I sometimes sweat and stare when I look at her. She’s wearing a tank top with the words HOT MAMA stretched over her breasts, each of which is probably the size of my head and are kept perky and alert through some arcane means I’ve never been able to guess – she denies surgery vehemently – and little shorts that leave the smooth, tanned and toned expanse of her legs bare. She is power and beauty in one package, and I admit to jealousy…as well as attraction. I stop in front of her a moment, startled by how strong the second is. I guess it’s always been there, a little bit – but this time, that attraction sends a spike through me that leaves me immobile for a second.
Mom comes forward and hugs me, her arms almost as powerful as Neil’s, and I hug her back, laying my head on the incredible pillow of her bosom. Her smell is nice, too – earth, and sweat, and flowers. It’s too warm and sticky to be all clingy, though, so the hug is brief.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Mom asks as she lets me in. The shock of AC makes me shiver, though the house is only slightly cooler. I leave my shoes at the door and set the basket nearby.
“I think I want a shower first,” I say with a smile, and reach down and pull my dress over my head, folding it over one arm, and fluff my hair with my free hand. “The big one open?”
“Sure,” Mom says. “I can take another. We can talk in there.” She güvenilir bahis grabs a couple towels from the linen closet as we walk through the house, and she ducks into Dad’s room to let him know I’m home and safe.
I guess if I get my looks from anyone, it’s my Dad. He’s like me – a couple inches taller, but slender for a guy, though wiry might be a better word – he’s stronger than he looks. He comes out to greet me and wraps me up in one of his hugs that makes you feel like everything else in the world is just gone, just you and him and the love enfolding you both. I get my hair from him, red and wild and untamable, though he keeps his short while I grow mine out down past my shoulders despite its unmanageability. He’s in a T-shirt and shorts, plain, and his hands on my back are warm, and I close my eyes and breathe in the scents I will always associate with safety and love: his cologne, leather and smoke and pine, and him, musk and sweat and skin.
We separate after a few moments, and Dad looks in my eyes and smiles.
“She told you,” I tell him with a smile.
“She told me,” he agrees, his voice an almost boyish tenor. He kisses my forehead. “So long as you are happy, Arcadia, we are happy for you. Love is a thing that only grows when given; sex is just a means of expression.”
My parents are amazing, did I mention that?
So, I mentioned the “big shower”, and I suppose that deserves some explanation. My mom built it; she’s good with her hands and likes to do things, and as big as she is, she wanted a shower where she could have a bit of breathing room. She might have overdone it just a tad. We have a room in our house that is one enormous shower. Multiple heads, tiled floors, and off to one side, even a tub if you want a bath that’s built into the place. The drains in the floor could probably handle a flash flood, and there are vents near the top, just under the roof, to let out steam when you take a hot shower. As hot as it already was, I plan to settle for lukewarm, since I can’t stand cold water on my skin.
Mom strips off just outside and we both get in under a head for each of us, and I just let the spray run over me. Mom apparently chose colder than I did, because her nipples – wide and brown and the size of – well, I don’t know, but they’re big – tighten up and pucker, and she gives a little shiver. I spend so much time watching her, as the water plasters my hair down to the only time, I will ever be able to pretend like I can do something creative with it, that she finally arches an eyebrow at me and says, “Kady. Are you going to tell me about it?”
I shake off my stupor and laugh. “Sorry, Mom. Distracted by the sexy.”
“Aren’t you sweet. Tell.”
And so, I do. I don’t leave anything out, either. I don’t feel like there’s anything I should leave out, nothing I feel ashamed of. Mostly I end up describing how everything felt – I guess that’s where my focus is, and where it’s always been: sensations, feelings. My dad explores inner worlds of mind and spirit; my mom builds and makes things. In a way, I suppose I landed somewhere in the middle, or maybe everyone my age is obsessed with what their body can do.
She listens to it all, as we soap and cleanse ourselves, and then we towel each other dry. There’s a bench in the shower room too – maybe they modeled it on a gym shower, or a sauna? – and we sit there, seeing no need to dress, talking.
As I reach the end of the tale, Mom purses her lips. “It sounds like you had a very good experience, Kady. I’m glad for you. I’ve wondered if a good woman isn’t exactly what Dr. Dodd needed.”
“Thought about it yourself?” I ask, innocently enough.
“Your father and I have discussed it,” she answers calmly. “We do have an open marriage, Kady, even if we’re rather picky about who we open it to. Neil is a good man, but I feel, and your father agrees, that what he really needs, none of us could provide – he needs a partner, a new woman in his life. We could provide him with – well, to be crass about it, relief – but that’s all. You, on the other hand, gave him an experience many men dream about – the time and opportunity to deflower a willing virgin. It speaks to something primal in men’s natures, something deep and a****l. It’s hard to ignore, and it will give his ego a boost. Maybe now he’ll have the confidence to go out looking again.”
I consider that thoughtfully, running a brush through my hair. Mom clicks her tongue and tells me to turn around, and then she starts brushing my hair. I heartily recommend this experience to anyone: having someone else türkçe bahis brush your hair is so relaxing, and very intimate without being sexual.
Or, at least it shouldn’t have been. After about the third time I shifted on the seat, rubbing my thighs together to try and cool the itch between them, my mother pauses and asks, “Kady? Are you all right?”
You might have put together by now that I don’t always …ever…think before I speak. I say what I’m thinking, and my thoughts aren’t usually particularly deep. I’m a creature of the immediate, the present, and the sensual. So, it should be no surprise at all when I answer my mother with, “I’m getting turned on.”
A pause. I can’t see my mom’s face, but she’s got a very expressive voice, rich and warm and low for a woman’s, a smoky sexy contralto, and there’s amusement in it when she says, “From telling the story?”
Now it’s my turn to pause. Okay. I must confess something here. I’ve always been aware that my family is strange, and me, maybe even more so. From the time I was aware of sexuality – our parents explained it to us while we were young, maybe a little earlier than most parents do – I was aware that normal society has rules about sex. Most of these rules are privately ignored, but publicly upheld, because society, normal society, is more about image than substance. I also knew that I didn’t believe in most of those rules. They key one here, being i****t. Out there, it was treated with a kind of horror. Our family hadn’t ever discussed it, and sometimes, this seems bizarre to me, as we talked about everything else.
But when you reveal something, you’re used to keeping to yourself, you never know how the other person will react, and when it’s someone close to you, even the bonds of familial trust aren’t enough to make you feel safe revealing it.
I pause long enough that my mother says, “Something else, then.” She folds her arms around me, pulling me back against her, so I feel her breasts pressing into my back, and her wet hair – dark blonde, almost brown – falls over me. “Kady,” she breathes. “Arcadia Glimmer Mist, there’s nothing to fear, okay? The body reacts, sometimes without the mind’s desire. Was it me, brushing your hair?”
I give a tiny little nod. I’m breathing in the smell of her, surrounding me, warm skin on my skin, feeling her nipples press into my back, and my hands come up to lay on her forearms where they cross over my belly. I’m breathing a little faster than normal, and that makes her smell dizzying.
“It’s just physical -” she begins, and I think I surprise the both of us by shaking my head. She’s silent for several moments, and then, just as I think I might start crying, I’ve offended her, I’ve ruined everything, she says, “Oh.” and kisses my neck. “Were you afraid I didn’t like girls?” she asks.
“No,” I manage, though my throat is not cooperating right now. “I don’t want to hurt Dad.”
That is what had been bothering me, really. I considered seducing my Dad at one point, before settling on Dr. Dodd. It was the idea that I might offend Mom that had stopped me. Open marriage or not, I know they discuss everything between them.
“Oh, honey,” she says, and pulls me tighter. Her lips find my ear, and I shiver. “Outside,” she says, “sex between blood relations has a bad reputation because it can be used in power plays. Sex is a tool, like any other. Used wisely, it can build and grow and be a force for positive change. But like any tool, it can be misused, and when that happens, it hurts people. But I trust you, and I trust Connor, and I trust Justice. And all four of us are adults, capable of making our own decisions, and bearing the consequences of those decisions.”
A moment of levity, and I take it, “Does that mean I have your permission to chase Dad and Just?”
Her answer isn’t a joke. “Of course, dear. But don’t be hurt if they say no. And don’t become so enamored of your immediate surroundings that you forget the world outside. There are a lot of people out there, Arcadia. Sometimes it’s best to leave home before one gets too settled. But let me assure you – Connor won’t be hurt by what we do here. If we do anything. Do you want to?”
I lean my head back against her shoulder. “Yes,” I say, feeling a thrilling sort of helplessness.
“Mmm. Bisexual then,” Mom says, as her arms unfold around me, and her hands stroke my thighs. God it feels good.
“I think,” I say, and take a deep breath as my mother’s fingers trail up my inner thighs, as I spread my legs open for her touch, “I think I might just be sexual.”
Her laugh güvenilir bahis siteleri is low and thrilling, and I whimper as her fingers touch my clit. God, it feels like a pebble, hard and hot and huge as she strokes it gently with her finger, and I melt back against her, making helpless little keening noises. Meanwhile, she’s making soothing sounds, whispering my name, telling me to let go. There’s a brief awkward moment where we shift positions, so that I am sitting with my back to her between her open thighs, feeling her against my back – I swear she is so much bigger than me I could almost rest her massive breasts on my shoulders – her lips in my hair, her muffled voice a hum in her chest that reverberates through to me, her fingers performing a delicate little dance, her left hand on my clit, her right stroking the undersides of my breasts, occasionally running gentle fingers over the nipples.
It’s sweet, and gentle, and soft, and the buildup is slow and agonizing. I keep wanting more, crying for it, begging with bucking hips and mewling gasps, the clutch of my hands on her tanned thighs, the contrast of my pale skin to her darker flesh somehow an even greater turn-on, and I feel her own heat rising where she is pressed against my lower back, becoming damp and slick there, her voice deepening with her own arousal, and her smell rising, of sex and earth and life.
And finally, when she slides two fingers in, hooking upward with her thumb on my clit, finding that magic spot inside, I erupt with a choked scream of release, fingernails digging into her thighs, and she hisses behind me, but my orgasm has all my attention as I slowly come down, Mom’s hands bringing me down slowly and gently, shuddering and breathing, relaxing.
Only then do I notice the blood on my mother’s leg where my fingernails had cut her.
“Oh god!” I shriek, sitting up suddenly, staring in horror. “Mom, I’m -”
“It’s okay,” she assures me, enfolding me again and kissing my cheek. “I’ve done worse to myself shaving. That was beautiful, Kady. Thank you for sharing that with me.”
I twist in her arms and kiss her mouth, drinking from her, still eager and hungry despite my release. I turn almost completely around, breaking her embrace, kneeling between her spread thighs on the bench, throwing my arms around my mother’s neck and sucking at her full lips, her long, mobile tongue. I want my mother, and the thought sends little shivers down my spine. She laughs into my mouth as I push her back to lay on the long bench, and I suck on her neck as her hands stroke along my back, scratching lightly with her short, blunt nails. One hand reaches out, grabs a towel, and she takes a moment to make herself a pillow, propping her head up so she can watch me, as I crawl down her body, tasting her skin with little kisses, licks, and the occasional bite.
Her breasts fill my hands, more than fill, overflow them, and I bury my face between them, tasting the skin between and breathing in the clean, soapy smell, before finding the nipple as I haven’t done since I was still an infant. She sighs, then, as I curl up on her, and her hand rests on my head, stroking gently. It’s a sweet moment, and one I treasure, but I want more.
The muscles of her stomach flutter and jump as I trace my tongue down them and reach her pelvis; her thighs spread for me, and I stroke the soft skin on the inside, soft and warm now, almost hot, as I stare at her core. My mother shaves clean; some preference of my dad’s, I guess. She is open to me, her lips full and wet, and I kiss her bud at the top, and she shivers, and then I am tasting my mother, tasting another woman for the first time, and I am immediately intoxicated by the scent and flavor: rich and dark, thick and savory. Her hands, like Neil’s when I took him in my mouth, tangle in my hair, but she massages with her fingertips, rubbing my scalp, while I revel in her taste and smell. Her hips rise and fall and slow undulations, and she murmurs my name, amidst sighs and long breaths. I can feel the fluttering in her thighs, the tension in her hips and stomach, and when she comes, it isn’t loud or startling, but a sudden exhalation and shudder that goes all the way through her. My mouth floods with her moisture, and I drink ecstatically. Finally, she tugs on my hair, indicating she’s had enough, and I crawl up her body to lay upon her, as she wraps her arms around me and kisses the top of my head.
“Good?” I ask her, closing my eyes as my head is pillowed on those magnificent breasts.
“Very,” she murmurs, in an utterly relaxed sort of voice, then laughs. “We might need another shower though.”
“In a minute,” I say sleepily. If she says something else, I don’t remember it, because I fall asleep like that, in my mother’s arms, sated, warm, and safe.
I have come home, indeed.
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