We had hoped to have the work finished by now. But it seems that the more we tinker with it in its "he said, she said " format, the more we want to include. I suppose you could say it is a story without end. But let me start with the night before my misbegotten wedding as the preface:

My tipsy Mom had made quite a scene at the fancy Boston restaurant. The test of wills between my mother and my fiance had already begun. Against my betrothed's wishes, I left the dinner party and drove Mom back to the Ritz-Carlton. Susanna wanted me to send Dorothy back to the hotel in a cab.

As I pulled the car under the hotel porte-co-chere Mother said, "Let them park it and come on up with me." She insisted I stay for a nightcap with her. After all, she had come all the way from California for the occasion. She was a skilled manipulator - nothing new, and I didn't mind.

I poured our drinks and sat on the foot of the huge bed while she dallied in the dressing alcove. When she made her grand re-entrance, she looked for a moment like Liz Taylor in "Cat On a Hot Tin Roof" - so utterly and inappropriately gorgeous. She had removed her dress and was presenting herself for my benefit in a stylish silvery bra and matching half-slip. Her soft midriff was exposed, so pale and so sexy.

I had never seen my mother this immodestly dressed. Her high-heels still on, she walked straight toward me and planted herself between my knees, placed a forefinger sternly on my nose, peered down, and scolded, "You know this thing with that grabby girl is all wrong, don't you Bobby?"

As I struggled to rise from the bed and extricate myself she did not budge. And when I had, embarrassed, she stood her ground, unmovable physically, psychologically, making her body to press into mine.

"You're going to miss me when I fly home tomorrow, aren't you?" Her voice thick with sugar. Her arms were looped over my shoulders and I stood there mute, encumbered with a drink glass in each hand, feeling her very warm breasts moosh against my chest.

Mother's gaze was smoldering, accusatory, the faintly sad look of a woman who held no cards left to play.

She snuggled her tummy and loins into me. I felt her not so subtle adjustments down there, her thighs shifting outward just sufficiently to align, then press her satin covered mound squarely over the stirring ridge in my slacks.

It wasn't so much her full kiss on my mouth that shocked me - I saw that coming - but my own ardent response to her unselfconsciously displayed and incredibly potent sensuality. Our kiss failed to conceal the deep fomenting hunger that each of us had stored up for the other. A kiss that tasted, teased, then pulled back, then asked for more of whatever delectably luscious stuff the two of us could obviously create together. Jeezuz, she just tasted so good.

I could have laid my mother down on that fancy canopied bed and coupled with her in the sweetest sin ever conceived between man and woman. As we clung momentarily, I felt my cock lengthen and depress the palpably yielding cleft of her sweetest flesh. God, the sudden heat might just spontaneously combust the barriers of clothing separating us, so intensely urgent was the sexual feeling. Damn, it would have been so easy to make love to her, to fuck my mother on the night before my wedding day...and so very easy to tumble into that abyss.

Whatever shred of sanity somehow survived the my lifes' greatest temptation and mercifully pulled me back from the edge. I left my beautiful Mom sobbing, needy, and unattended to. And I braced myself for the disingenuous, woeful act of tomorrow marrying a girl I did not love or desire in the least.

...to be continued

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