POWER SHIFT

What do you do if fate sentences you to be the only child of a domineering mother and a father that runs off, leaving you alone to bear the brunt of her controlling personality, further exacerbated by loneliness? Well, you can stay and support her through her difficult time, or you can do what I did and leave her to get on with it.

This probably sounds more heartless than it actually was. My mother is a good person; she just has to control everything and everyone around her, and this makes living with her a challenging experience. To his credit, my father bore it for twenty years, up to the time I was eighteen and able to fend for myself, before deciding that enough was enough. I stuck it for another twelve months before leaving to join the merchant navy. I could have gone to University, but getting right out of the country seemed a safer option especially as my mother had been trying to direct my career so that I should stay in the neighbourhood, which would inevitably mean living at home for an indefinite period.

I softened the blow by saying that I would only sign on for a couple of years and that I'd be back before she knew it. This turned out to be truer than I thought, but at the time she was upset and couldn't understand why I wanted to go.

"You've got everything you need right here at home!" she kept saying. And in truth she was right; she looked after me very well, required little from me, other than obedience, and, if you ignored the control freak behaviour, she was good to be around. A brief pen portrait would be useful context here:

My mother, Diane, is now forty five, five-foot six and shapely, with wide hips, a flat stomach, moderate sized bosom and good legs, with slim ankles. Overall you wouldn't call her slim; there's a slight heaviness about her, so typical of mature Mediterranean women, from which ancestry she inherited her lustrous black hair and eyebrows. I don't think you'd call her pretty either but there is something about her full lips and dark eyes that is attractive. She dresses well, even around the house, and is rarely seen without make-up. Personality wise she is reserved and even a bit remote, although when she smiles, and her dark eyes sparkle, she lights up the room. Those same eyes are also effective in getting her way; a ten-second burst, accompanied by pursed lips, was always enough to ensure my compliance and I don't think my father offered much greater resistance.

I'm David; Dave to everybody but my mother. I didn't get many of the Mediterranean genes; I'm six-foot one, slim build and sandy haired, like my father. I'll probably have lost the hair by the time I'm thirty, like my father. At the time of writing I'm twenty-one and living back at home with my mother in a town in the North West of England. This story is about how I came to return to the nest and what happened when I did.

For two years after leaving home I served as an apprentice engineer, first on oil tankers, running between Bahrain and Milford Haven, and, later, on container ships, plying between just about anywhere and our home port of Southampton. It's a great life for a young, unattached male; little to do at sea, unless there's a breakdown, and visiting a dizzying variety of countries and ports. I certainly didn't have a girl in every port but I didn't do too badly. It is a crude truth that I was considerably helped by the size of my penis, about the only vaguely remarkable thing about me. I don't know who donated those genes but thanks, mate! Fully erect it's about ten inches long and almost six inches around the shaft, with a head the size of a small nectarine; even flaccid it's over eight inches. Inevitably, in the close confines of a merchant ship there are few secrets and I rapidly acquired the nick-name 'tripod'. Furthermore, my mess-mates delighted in explaining this soubriquet to young ladies that we met in city-centre or dockside bars and their interest was piqued sufficiently often to give me an enviable sex life. All in all, life couldn't get much better. Unfortunately that was all to change, brutally fast.

I've never been a big drinker, but I did tie one on to celebrate my promotion to Engineer Third Class. We were in Southampton at the time, in a graving dock having the hull re-painted and we celebrated in a seedy bar outside the dockyard gates. As all the talent in the bar was on a strictly pay as you go basis I returned on board when the bar closed; I didn't fancy going clubbing like most of my companions.

Ships in dock can be even more hazardous than ships at sea; snaking cables and hoses are there to trip the unwary and temporary lighting is often inadequate in revealing these dangers. To cut a long story short I tripped over a welding cable that had been left following a repair to a stanchion and plunged neatly through an adjacent hatch and down a ladder. Apparently I was quite lucky. My arms, thrust out instinctively, bore the brunt of the impact and where I could have fractured my skull or broken my neck, I 'got away with' two broken wrists and some cuts and bruises, including a spectacular egg-sized lump on my forehead. I also knocked myself out.

I came to early the next morning in Southampton General Hospital and looked groggily around. As the events of the previous night filtered through, I recognised the ship's doctor seated next to my bed.

"Ah, welcome back!"

"How long have I been here?"

"We brought you in just before midnight. You've been out for almost five hours." He saw me looking down at my plastered arms and hands. "Clean fracture of both ulnas close to the wrist, some damage to the carpel bones and one or two fingers broken. You'll be in plaster for about eight weeks. I've spoken to your next of kin and she's driving down today to collect you. I gather she'll be here at midday."

"My mother's coming to collect me?"

"Yes, the hospital won't discharge you unless you've got somewhere to go and we can't take you back to the ship. I've checked with the purser, you'll be on medical leave until you get a doctor's certificate to say you're fit to return to shipboard duties. There'll also be a health and safety investigation; you'll have to make a statement at some stage." We talked a bit more about how I would cope and what help I would need over the next few weeks.

"I hope your mother's not squeamish - she'll have to take you to the toilet and bath you until the plasters come off." He seemed quite cheerful about the whole thing.

"Oh don't worry about my mother; she hasn't been in this much control of me since I was in nappies, she'll love it!" He sympathised but seemed restless to go and after some desultory conversation about the forthcoming voyage I suggested that I would be ok waiting for my mother and he departed gratefully.

I'd called my mother regularly over the past two years, even via the shipboard link, when we were at sea. I hadn't taken much leave but I'd spent the odd long weekend at home. A weekend was enough to satisfy filial duty but not long enough to give her a chance to get into her stride. This broken-wrist thing was a whole new ballgame. I would be entirely at mother's mercy for at least eight long weeks, and with the humiliation of having to be washed, dressed, fed and, ultimate humiliation, taken to the toilet. At least we had a bidet! I spent the rest of the morning glooming over the prospect and guessing which of her favourite lines she would use when she saw me.

My mother arrived just after 1pm. She came straight over and kissed me on the cheek.

"David, darling, sorry I'm a bit late; the traffic around the M25 was foul." Then, brightly, "well, look at you! What are we going to do with you?" Yep, that was one of my guesses.

"Thanks for coming down, mum. It's good to see you."

"Well I'm afraid I'm all you've got, so you're stuck with me." She smiled to take the sting out of this and her eyes sparkled. "At least I'll get to see you for a few weeks. I was thinking about it on the way down, I'll move you into the room next to mine so I can hear if you call me in the night and I'll adjust some of your old clothes so that they're easier for me to get on and off you." She talked on but I was tired and slightly woozy from the painkillers and my mind wandered. I found myself studying her as she sat next to me; smart, black trouser suit and heels and a white lacy blouse. Make-up expertly applied and hair gleaming. Yes, she'd have to look good to collect her son from hospital. I felt a bit uncharitable for thinking this, a feeling that increased when I noticed the fine network of lines around her eyes; I didn't think they'd been there the last time I saw her.

"When do we leave, mum?"

"Well I spoke to the matron and they'll be keeping you in overnight under observation, as you've been unconscious, so I'll stay in a hotel and we'll drive back in the morning. I've booked you in to see my doctor on Friday." I fell asleep soon after that and when I awoke in the early evening she was gone.

That night in hospital seemed endless. My wrists hurt, I itched all over and I couldn't get comfortable in any of the limited number of positions I could adopt. Sleep finally came in the cool of the early morning but was shattered by the usual hospital insistence on giving the patients breakfast at 6am. Not that you could be annoyed with the nursing staff, they were fantastic. A couple of them were absolute babes, too, and under other circumstances I might have tried my hand but my libido was at a low point. Mother arrived at eight o'clock and promptly drew the curtains around my bed:

"Right, let's get you dressed. Can you get out of bed by yourself?" I'd somehow thought the nursing staff would do this but mum had other ideas. Kicking off the covers I swung my legs and stood, feeling a bit weak. "Ok, let's get that shift off." Before I could protest she'd untied the laces at the back and pulled the garment over my plastered arms; there wasn't much I could do to resist, so I stood there helplessly, stark naked.

There was a silence for a second or two as my mum took in the size of what was hanging between her son's legs and it fleetingly occurred to me that she hadn't seen me in this condition since I was about five years old. Was it my imagination or was she blushing? She became very business-like:

"Right, sit on the bed and lift your legs." She slid on my underpants and I stood to let her pull them up, keeping her hands well away from my genitals and seeming to avert her gaze. Trousers followed and then a short-sleeved shirt which she'd had the foresight to pack. We hung around until the doctor came to formally discharge me and, with a warm thank-you to the nursing staff, we left the hospital for the journey home.

We had a five-hour journey and mum was a confident and competent driver so I could relax in the passenger seat with my thoughts. I had dreaded being dressed by mum, and it had been pretty embarrassing, but her reaction to my nakedness was more unexpected; it just never occurred to me at the time that she'd never seen a penis anything like that big before.

Back at home, further and worse humiliation was to follow. Shortly after arriving I said I needed the toilet:

"Well, I'm not surprised after a five-hour journey. We'll use the one upstairs; the downstairs cloakroom's a bit cramped." In the bathroom mum unbuckled my belt and unzipped my trousers, pulling these and my underpants down to my ankles, and again averting her gaze as her head passed close to my genitals. I sat back down on toilet seat, my penis hanging in the pan, and managed to pee successfully:

"Ok, I'm done." Mum pulled up my underpants and trousers and washed her hands, remaining silent. Downstairs in the kitchen I felt I needed to say something:

"Look mum I'm really sorry to be a burden like this; I think it's pretty awkward for both of us. Would it make sense to get in some professional help?"

"Don't be silly, they cost a fortune and besides there's nothing awkward about a mother helping her son." So that was that. I surrendered myself to enduring this embarrassment and hoped it would get easier with time.

That night I had trouble sleeping again. It was a hot night, one of the first of the summer, and my arms ached abominably; after thumping around the bedroom for an hour or so my mother appeared in the doorway in her dressing gown, a black silk kimono with a golden dragon embroidered on the back. "Lie back down, love." She'd brought a cold flannel and used this to cool my brow. It felt wonderful and relaxing. She went to the bathroom to refresh the flannel but by the time she came back I'd fallen into a deep sleep.

The morning brought another sultry day and my first bath. Alongside taking a shit, this was the one I'd been dreading. Having taken off my pyjamas mum helped me into the bath to make sure I didn't wet the plasters on my arms. She kept up a dialogue as she washed my hair and face, dabbing tenderly at my various cuts and bruises. Helping me to stand she soaped my torso. As she moved lower I was in a state of acute emotional discomfort, almost fearing the touch of her hands on my penis and scrotum and, irrationally, averting my head too. She soaped me quickly and thoroughly, pulling back my foreskin to wash around my glans. One crumb of comfort was that I was so embarrassed that I didn't get an erection at her touch; that really would have been excruciating. A final dunk in the bath and the job was done, except that she now had to towel me dry and dress me and feed me. And then guess what? I needed to take a crap. The day was just getting better and better.

That first week was the worst. With repetition, even the bizarre becomes commonplace and I think we both started feeling a bit more comfortable with the situation; we even started joking about it. At the same time the pain from my wrists was receding and I was able to help myself to a limited extent, for example by feeding myself (although proper meals still needed to be cut up).

By the end of the second week things were definitely looking up, but there was another problem. It was dawning on me that mum was spending more time washing my penis than she had in the early days. At first I dismissed this as a fancy but one morning in the bath she held me halfway up the shaft and stroked her soapy hand two or three times over the head of my cock, where once would have sufficed. Having noticed this, I began to feel some stirrings in my groin. Oh god, I thought, I must not get an erection. In desperation I willed myself to remain detached and think about anything other than my mother's hand on my cock. Nothing doing! I had begun to feel myself swelling when mum abruptly stopped and helped me to sit down and rinse off.

"Do you mind if I soak for a bit, mum?" By this ploy I intended to wait until all was quiet below before emerging to be dried off.

"Well I'm a bit pushed for time this morning so I'd rather you didn't." With a supreme effort of will I stayed quiescent while she dried and dressed me, relieved at having avoided the absolute last word in awkward moments but aware that with my returning libido I would need to develop coping strategies. However, the next morning all was lost, mother had painted her nails red.

I was totally dumbfounded; I couldn't recall having seen her wear nail varnish before. The trouble is that it's a big turn-on for me; I've always liked a lady with painted nails and mother's fingernails were well shaped and carefully varnished a deep red. There was no way I was going to be able to suppress an erection with my mother's scarlet tipped fingers sliding over my shaft and the anticipation only made things worse. Pretty much as soon as I stood up in the bath and she took my penis in one of her hands it started to grow. As she pulled the foreskin back gently with her other hand it reached full erection status, a proud ten inches of rigid manhood. I was mortified.

"Christ, mum I'm really sorry!"

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about." She circled my helmet and lightly drew her hand back down the shaft, "particularly in your case. I thought this would happen sometime, it's perfectly ok." And it was. After that I got an erection every time mum bathed me and nothing more was said, except that she seemed increasingly fascinated by it and spent more time washing it as the days went by. It was a long way from a hand job but I have to say that after the first shock I started to enjoy it and looked forward to my morning bath. Mum for her part continued to wear nail varnish and I half suspected that it was just for my benefit.

That summer was unusual in England in that the sun shone in a cloudless sky for days on end and temperatures soared. Hosepipe bans were imposed and there was talk of rationing water through stand-pipes in the street, as had been done in 1976. It was hot at night too. My bedroom window was open fully and mum put a fan on my chest of draws, which helped, but my wrists under the plasters had started to itch insufferably and although I could move about more easily, and even clumsily pick things up, there was still a lot I couldn't do. One of the things I couldn't do was masturbate. I'd tried a few times but I couldn't grip my cock properly with the plaster on and if I tried to use both hands, my arms soon ached with the up and down motion. All this meant that I spent a lot of each night tossing and turning, my penis rigid and my balls full, or trying to settle my mind by reading.

I did a fair bit of thinking too in the small hours. There was no doubt that my relationship with my mother was different to how it had been in the past. Yes, she still dictated almost everything to me and had her own way in most things, but the physical closeness of the last three weeks seemed to have softened her, somehow brought out her femininity.

I have to say I liked the change; she was more approachable and our enforced intimacy allowed us to discuss things I wouldn't have dreamed of talking about with her a few months ago. She asked me about girlfriends and I got the impression she wanted to hear about the physical details. Gradually it began to dawn on me that my mother was developing a curious fascination with my penis. At first my reason said 'don't be daft', she's your mother. But when I started really thinking about it, I was surprised to find the idea was attractive rather than repulsive.

One night, when I'd been home about seven weeks, it was particularly humid and still, the curtains hanging open and limp at the window, the fan making scant difference to the temperature in my bedroom. I had thrown off the sheet covering me and was wearing only pyjama bottoms, which my mother insisted on putting on me regardless of the obvious unsuitability of night-wear in seventy degree heat and eighty per-cent humidity. It was 3:30am and I was reading a novel by the light of a bedside lamp when there was a gentle tap on my door.

"I saw your light was on under the door. You must be horribly uncomfortable in this heat. Is there anything I can get for you?" Mum came to sit next to me on the bed, she was wearing the black silk kimono again, wrapped tightly around her and giving silky definition to her curves.

"I'm fine, mum, thanks anyway." With some dismay I felt stirrings in my loins and my penis starting to engorge. I needed to get rid of my mother before she noticed. I did consider covering it with one of my plastered arms but decided that would probable just attract attention to it. Mum however wasn't ready to leave:"What's that you're reading?"

"Just a detective novel. It's not great; I was thinking of turning to the last page to see who dunnit and saving myself the bother of reading." Mum smiled and stroked back a strand of her jet-black hair behind one ear. This artless and feminine gesture sent blood pulsating into my cock and, fully erect, it rose to form a large and obvious tent in my pyjamas, which my mother would see as soon as she turned her head slightly, which she now did. There was a silence for a space of about five seconds. She seemed to be gathering herself to say something:

"David, I'm guessing you haven't been able to," she hesitated, "to relieve yourself since your accident." I glanced quickly at her face but it was in shadow, the bedside lamp cast only a small pool of light.

"No, I can't, not with the plasters on." There was another silence. The tension was palpable. We were both very still. My mother broke the silence with a faint gasp, as though she were taking a plunge, but said, quite calmly and slowly:

"Would you like me to help you? I will if you want." My throat felt constricted, my heart raced, my cock was so hard it was almost painful.

"Yes, if you wouldn't mind," I croaked. Mum didn't answer. Rising she disappeared for a minute or two, returning with a towel, which she placed over my stomach, and a tube of lubricant. Without ceremony, she untied the drawstrings of my sweat-dampened pyjamas and peeled them, revealing my erection fully and irrevocably. Squeezing a large dollop of lubricant onto her right hand, my mother smeared it over the rigid head of my cock, stroking the glans with her thumb, before circling the shaft with her hand and starting a gentle backwards and forwards motion with my foreskin.

The feel of the lubricant, cool against the taut skin, and the motion of her red-tipped fingers slowly masturbating me was nothing short of mind-blowing and I shut my eyes and lay back on the pillow.

"Does that feel good?" she murmured.

"Oh yes!" My mother increased the speed of the stroke slightly and tightened her grip on my rock-hard member. A little later she pulled my foreskin right back and gripped the unprotected glans directly with her hand, sliding up and down over the ultra- sensitive skin with an erotic glooping, lubricated noise.

I couldn't last long under that stimulation. My orgasm hit me suddenly and with a fearsome intensity. Arching my back I stifled an impulse to scream out loud as my entire nervous system reacted to the stimulation and I pumped several weeks' worth of pearlescent semen in a stream onto the towel covering my stomach. The rhythm of the masturbation slowed and stopped. She squeezed my glands gently to expel the last drop of my discharge then, without a word, gathered up the towel, kissed me briefly on the cheek and left the bedroom.

Even after this release I remained awake for an hour or so, the whole event playing on a continuous loop, over and over and over. If I'd been able I would have masturbated myself; I could still feel the coolness of the lubricant drying on my cock, could still feel the touch of those slim, red-tipped fingers...

Oddly, I didn't get an erection in the bath the following morning causing mum to comment:

"You must have needed that relief last night." I don't know what made me reply:

"No, I'm just saving it for this evening." She gave me a look:

"Really."

However, despite staying awake most of the night in anticipation, my mother didn't come to my bedroom that night, nor for the following three nights. On the fifth night, when I had almost gone to sleep, with the bedside lamp on, there was a quiet knock and my mother put her head around the door:

"Are you ok? It's another blistering night."

"I know. It's hopeless trying to sleep in this heat, and these pyjamas bottoms just cling to me."

"Well that's easily solved." Mum untied and removed the offending pyjamas, revealing another full-blown erection. Slowly she moved her hand to grasp my shaft, stroking her varnished nails up and down. "Would you like me to fetch a towel?" she whispered. As before she returned with towel and KY jelly. As before she used a handful of lubrication and started out slowly, increasing the pace every few minutes until I was gasping raggedly. This time she said softly:

"Would you like me to go a bit slower, to make it last a bit longer?"

"Oh yes, please." A huge rising wave of passion and desire enveloped me. I wanted this woman! Reaching out, I took her free hand in one of mine and felt her stroke my fingers as she masturbated me, slowly, and deliciously.

"Oh, god, make me come" I groaned and my mother responded by increasing the pace and gripping me tightly. Almost in a state of delirium I gasped out:

"I love you, mum!"

"I love you, too, David." And, magically, she leaned forward and kissed me full on the lips, keeping the pressure on while I came, spattering my juice onto her hand, the towel and the sheets.

"Goodnight, darling" she said, picking the towel up.

"Kiss me again." Slightly to my surprise she leaned over me again and kissed me, slowly, three or four times, not opening her mouth but using her lips to stimulate mine.

"Thank you."

"Thank you, David. Would you like me to come to you tomorrow night?" I could hardly speak. All sorts of possibilities flashed through my mind. My mother seemed to be offering herself to me!

"Yes, yes, I would."

The next day nothing was said, but again there was tension in the air, like the precursor to an electric storm. In the morning she washed me without comment and with no particular attention to my genitals. I was pretty well able to do everything else myself now, the bathing only being kept up to avoid wetting the plasters. I went to bed naked that night and hardly had I climbed onto the bed when my mother appeared, not in her kimono but in a dark-blue silky negligee that stopped short of her knees. I wasn't yet fully hard but my mother, glancing down at my semi-erection brought me to aching rigidity by leaning over to me and kissing me slowly and languorously, her full lips slightly parted against mine. This time she didn't bother with the towel, but started stroking me gently with her scarlet tipped fingers. Her voice was husky:

"Is that nice?" By way of a reply I reached to draw her to me and we kissed again, a little more urgently, and with half open mouths. She grasped my steel hard cock and pulled the foreskin right back, causing me to gasp. Breaking the kiss she whispered softly in my ear:

"I know it's very naughty and very, very wrong, but mummy can make it even nicer if you want?" The soft breath in my ear, the unbelievable words, her sudden use of 'mummy'. My chest bursting with anticipation, my cock rigid in her hand, I could barely give my assent:

"Oh god yes please." As if in a dream I watched my mother lift one leg to straddle me, pulling her negligee up to reveal a dense but neatly trimmed black bush, and with one hand still on my cock, guide it to her golden-brown labia, glistening in the lamplight with the juices of her arousal. Slowly she started rubbing the head of my cock up and down her slit:

"Mummy's never had such a big one in her. Oooohhhhhh" she groaned as the first and widest two inches of my mammoth weapon penetrated her. Pausing there she raised herself slightly, adjusting to the biggest prick she'd ever had inside her, then she lowered herself, taking four, six, eight and finally all ten inches. "Jesus Christ!" I'd never heard my mother utter so much as a damn. This sudden profanity implied greater, much greater depths to her passion than I had imagined.

Now, with her hands on my shoulders, her painted nails digging into my flesh, she started fucking my monster dick. Slowly at first, coming halfway out and then back down again. Each stroke slightly longer than the last as she gained confidence and the sensation of ten inches of rigid meat inside her washed away any residual reserve.

"Ohh, ohh, ohh, ohh." The strokes were getting faster:

"Ahh, ahh, ahh, aaaarrrggh, aaaarrrggh, aaaarrrggh, aaaarrrggh, aaaarrrggh." She was now riding me until the tip of my cock almost slipped out and then plunging down to take the whole engorged length. Eyes shut, head swinging wildly from side to side, her nails digging sharply into my shoulders, I had never seen a woman so completely lost in the sexual act. Never had I felt so aroused and never had the act felt so intensely good for me, either. Neither of us were going to last much longer; mother came first with a piercing scream:

"Uhn, uhn, uhn, Aaaaarrrggh, yes, yes, YES, YES, YES, Christ, YES!!" Then I was coming too, pumping my seed into my mother's tightly stuffed cunt, feeling the ripple of her vaginal muscles as her orgasm washed over her. Still firmly impaled on me, I pulled her clumsily to me and we kissed again and again, our tongues exploring each other's mouths. Eventually her weight on me became uncomfortable and she raised herself, allowing my semi-rigid cock to slip out with a soft exhalation of pent-up air. Turning off the bedside lamp, my mother laid her head on my chest and we lay together in perfect unity, until the rising sun started to lift the shadows on the wall.

Rising from our embrace, mum started the bath running. Today it was bath-time with a difference; she joined me in the bath! For the first time I saw her full figure, skin still taut, breasts still defying gravity and in truth a nice size, with large, but neat nipples surrounded by large, dark areolae. She relaxed back in the hot water for a few minutes, studying me:

"I think I knew that last night was going to happen the first time I saw the size of you, in the hospital. I think it grew into a bit of an obsession." Then, suddenly and defiantly, "and do you know, I don't care if it's wrong! I just wanted some love. I've been so bloody lonely!" To my distress she burst into racking sobs.

Later that day we talked more calmly about the situation. Mum was very subdued but spoke clearly and slowly:

"I want you to know that I'm available to you if you want me. I know you'll want girlfriends of your own age but... Lost for words, she came to me and hugged me tightly, tears leaking from the corner of her eyes. A wave of protective love came over me and, for the first time in my life, a feeling that I was now in more control, at least for the present. It was easy and truthful for me to say:

"Last night was the best sex I have ever had, and I'm really not just saying that. It felt like nothing else I have ever experienced, both physically and emotionally."

"It was way beyond the best sex I've ever had. I didn't even know it could feel like that" she paused, "I'd never had a vaginal orgasm before last night; I think we're just starting out, I think it'll get even better..."

Mother, or Diane, as she asked me to call her when we were out of bed, was quite correct. It got even better. Two weeks later I had my casts removed and I was able to start mounting my mother in other positions. I also discovered the supreme joy of licking her clitoris until she screamed and shouted into climax, pulling my hair and pushing my face into her jet-black bush. The day I slid a lubricated finger right into her tight little anus as she climaxed she nearly passed out in ecstasy. However, that was as far as we could go with anal sex; it was out of the question to try to penetrate her rectum with my bloody great pole. She did like taking me in her mouth, although she couldn't do it for long as it made her jaw ache, she was also deliciously naughty, dressing in stocking and suspenders and referring to herself during sex as 'mummy'.

In short, after we started having sex, she became a different person. Submissive rather than dominant, attentive rather than demanding, looking to me for guidance and trying to please me in and out of bed. I fell head over heels in love with this woman who was my mother, but in another way wasn't. I resigned from the merchant navy and got a job locally as a supermarket manager - now there's love for you! And it's a happy ending too, I think. We are both very much in love and each day is filled with tenderness and desire, with laughter and happiness, with the sounds of love. In just over six months' time the sound of a new-born baby will be added to this glorious symphony.

The end.