I don't know if it's true of every parent, but it's certainly true of me: I have a favourite c***d: Janice, the youngest. The reasons for this are three: she is our only girl; she is by far the most caring, and she is the most vulnerable.
Brad, Bob and Peter grew up in a whirlwind of baseball bats, hockey sticks and footballs — then left: to college, then into business, then into societies that rarely include us.
Janice has always been different. Where the boys sped through life, Janice kind of bumbled along, spending most of her time in her head, or between the covers of a book, or helping people. And she has never really left us: she visits often from college and returns every summer to live in her old room and work as a research assistant in a medical lab.
It is common on summer Saturdays for me to knock on her bedroom door in mid-morning with two cups of coffee so we can sit and talk for an hour or so, me on her bed, Janice in her reading chair.
"What are you reading?" I reached out and she handed me the book.
"'The Da Vinci Code' and I'm absolutely hating it."
I laughed, I knew she was a very particular, very demanding reader, "You're a bit alone in that aren't you? The guy has sold a gazillion of them."
"Doesn't make it any good. The characters have all the description and emotion of stick figures and, of course, the story is based on outrageous lies."
"Then why are you reading it?"
She laughed sardonically, "Good question. I think it's one of those traffic accident things — where you can't take your eyes off it. I want to see how bad it gets."
I had been absently thumbing through the book when I came to a photograph which she was using as a bookmark. "Who's this?"
"Who's Janie?" She looked to be about Janice's age, 23 and over-weight, like Janice, but a little more so.
"A friend," Janet responded, laconically.
"Must be a good friend for you to keep a picture of her."
Janice smiled, "These days, she's a kind of soul mate."
"Tell me about her." I put the book on the bed and gave her my full attention. She never talked about any of her friends; I wasn't sure she had any.
There was no smile on Janet's face when she said, "You may not want to know."
"What are you talking about, of course I want to know."
So she told me. They had met in the television room at the dorm a month into the school year; "and we couldn't help but meet because we were the only two there on Friday and Saturday nights, all the others were out on dates." As she continued she didn't try to hide the truth.
"So you're a lesbian?" The words came out of me through a swirl of confusions: it had never occurred to me; it scared me; I was shocked, even a little offended.
Janice shook her head and laughed, "No, no, I'm not a lesbian ... but I do get horny and so does she."
I reached for the book and quickly opened it at the bookmark. If she lost a bunch of weight she may be pretty: she has a pretty smile, very intelligent eyes ... then I caught myself: was I actually wanting my daughter's lover to be more attractive? Did that actually matter to me? "But how can you ... you know, with a woman if you aren't a lesbian?"
"Have you ever been really, really horny, mom?"
"Of course," I had never talked with Janice about sex before, except for The Talk, so I was a little surprised that I was so open with her.
"What did you do about it?"
I laughed, "Tapped your father on the shoulder."
I thought for a moment, it had been 33 years, "The usual, I guess, I mean we did that back then, too." For some reason it was starting to feel a little titillating talking about sex with my daughter; I was wondering why, in all our talks, the subject had never really come up before.
But she gave a dismissive grunt to my admission, "Well, fingers will do now and again but there comes a time when you need a little more than that, a lot more than that."
She had brought it up so I couldn't resist asking, "When was that time?"
"About our third Saturday night alone together in that room."
"What happened?" I was surprised at my boldness and I was surprised, too, that I was getting just a little turned on by the exchange.
"I asked her if she knew how to work a screw driver." When Janice laughed, I did, too.
"And she did?"
"No, but she came to my room and gave it a try and that's what I wanted and that's how it started."
But I wanted more than this, a lot more, "How what started?"
"The touching. She was down on her knees on the floor, pushing at the screw with the screw driver and I just touched her on the shoulder, gently. She looked up at me and that's how it began."
I was going to leave it at that and just let my imagination fill in the blanks but I couldn't. I persisted, "How what began?"
Janice shrugged, "Are you really sure you want to hear this?" I guess my face gave her my answer because she quickly continued, "She leaned into me, put her head on my lap; I leaned over her, kissed her on the hair, then rubbed her back. We stayed like that for a few minutes then she straightened up and said, 'should we?' That's when I kissed her."
God, I just couldn't imagine my little girl doing that, bending forward and kissing another girl on the lips — that was my initial reaction but, no, a moment later I could, I could far more easily imagine her doing that then getting all tarted up up for a date, she had never been the type. But I was confused, too. "So you don't have to be a lesbian to do that?"
"She's not a lesbian and nor am I. We were just a little desperate," she laughed, "well, we were a lot desperate, and we still are, or I am, anyway." Then she hesitated for a moment while I processed the information, "Is that so hard to understand? I mean, haven't you ever been so horny that you thought of ... well," she shrugged, "playing around with a girl?"
When I took a drink of my coffee I noticed it was tepid so I got to my feet and reached for her mug, but she stopped me. She took me by the arm and her firm grip indicated she wanted me to stay so, reluctantly, I sat down, but I didn't know what to say so I didn't say anything.
"Is it so hard to understand?" She repeated.
"I don't know if it's hard to understand, Janice, I haven't thought about it — this is so ..."
"Well would you think about it?"
"Sure," I said, getting to my feet and quickly escaping the room.
"Well?" It was the next morning. I was scrubbing a pan at the sink. I didn't turn around but she continued anyway, "I thought you might come by this morning and give me your verdict. That wasn't easy for me, you know."
Now I turned around and faced her, "I'm sorry Janice, I just didn't know what to say."
"You could have lied; you could have said you understood and we could have moved on. Instead, you make me feel like some kind of pervert." She turned and left.
I didn't think of her as a pervert, not at all. What was troubling me was my reaction to her news; I didn't think I was handling it very well. I found her in her room. She was looking out her window, the sunlight was shining through her light cotton nightie. "I do understand, Jan, honest, I understand. I haven't always had a husband, you know. There have been times ..."
"When you were so horny you've thought of girls?"
"Sure, I've wondered."
"You have?" She turned around at this and faced me.
"Sure," I laughed, "there used to be some red bl**d coursing through my veins, ya know. I've had fantasies like everyone else."
"Do you still have them?"
This was getting a little too specific, "Do we really want to talk about this?"
I couldn't read her face, the backlighting made a shadow out of her, a perfectly formed shadow. "Yes," she said, "we do."
I didn't. But I sucked up my resolve and walked over and sat on the bed and when I did she sat in her reading chair.
"OK, Janice," I said, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, "What do you want to know?"
"I want to know what you think of me, if you're disgusted."
I wanted to say, 'No, of course I'm not,' but I didn't. "Honestly, Jan, I don't know what to think ... I've always thought that, ... well, you know, it was kind of lesbian."
"You said you've had thoughts ..."
"Thoughts aren't action, hon."
"So it's OK to think about it, it just isn't OK to do it. Is that it?" Her eyes were boring into mine: she wanted my answer.
I laughed, uncomfortably, "Hypocritical, eh?"
"But you have thought about it?" She seemed to be fishing for an admission I didn't want to make.
"As I said, I've been curious."
"Recently, or only before dad?"
"Why are we talking about this, hon?" I didn't want to. I wanted to escape again. I wanted the safe haven of my kitchen.
"For a lot of reasons."
"Name two." I said, stupidly.
"It helps me to figure out my own sexuality. And it makes me really horny to think that my mother has the same kind of thoughts I do."
This, I didn't want to hear. I got up and left.
We spent the week more or less ignoring each other, so much so that Dan said on Friday night, "What's up with you two?"
That made me feel really silly — well, I was feeling pretty c***dish anyway. "It's a mother-daughter thing, sweets. It'll blow over," I turned and looked at Janice, "by tomorrow."
I was in Jan's room the next morning with the usual coffee but this time I was determined to be a lot more mature. "I'm sorry, Janice. I've acted like a dolt. I don't know why this has been so hard for me, but it must have been an awful lot harder for you. So let's talk."
She was in her chair with a book on her lap, "I don't want to make you uncomfortable, mom."
"I can be uncomfortable, hon, trust me, I can handle it." I put her coffee on the table, sat on the bed and took a sip of mine.
She closed the book on her lap, put it on the table and when she shifted to more easily speak to me, her cotton nightie rose up to mid-thigh and a breast strained against the light cotton. "I'm struggling a little with this. I mean, what's normal and what isn't? You said you've had similar thoughts to mine, right?"
"So if both of us have had these thoughts probably most women have, I mean, it's probably normal."
"Sure, I think it is, to wonder about it."
"But you've never acted on those thoughts."
I shrugged, "I've had a husband for the past 30+ years for one."
"And that stops all thoughts?"
I laughed nervously, this conversation was going places I've never been before, "No, but it certainly stops the actions, I have him and if you were married the same would be true of you. In fact, if you had a steady boy friend you would have been out on a Saturday night and not home alone with ..."
Janice shifted again to more easily look at me. It seemed she was getting increasingly interested, "Do you ever, I mean, now, these days, do you ever have ... thoughts?"
"It's different now." And it is.
"Well, I think when you're older your thoughts are a little different." I had no intention of admitting this but the words just came out, "Your dad and I don't have much sex any more, so maybe these days I'm doing a lot more thinking about sex than having it." She was about to say something so I hurriedly added with a laugh, "Maybe it's because the end is getting near, the sexual end that is, so I'm thinking not so much of what is, or even what has been, but more like what MIGHT have been."
"With other men?"
"Well, ya, and types of sex and places and ... well, you know, everything."
I shrugged awkwardly, "Them, too, maybe, yes, you know, sex in general. I'm not entirely dead yet."
She laughed at this, "That's what you meant when you said you were curious?"
"The brain can take you to some amazing places, hon, particularly if you've never been to those places before." I laughed nervously, it seemed I was full of nervous laughter, "It's called imagination and it's fun to use it."
"So your curiosity comes from imagining what might have been?"
I knew she was pushing me, I just didn't know why. "Well, an idle brain's the devil's playground." When I said this, it immediately sounded stupid and wrong, so I laughed nervously, yet again and corrected myself. "No, what I meant, I guess, is that, well, sex doesn't just go away as you get older. When you're not having it, it doesn't mean you aren't thinking about it ..."
"And when you're thinking about it, it's always more interesting than the sex you've had."
I laughed, "Probably, I guess it depends on how good your imagination is."
"And yours has been good?"
I shrugged stupidly, "I've been to places I'd never dream of actually going to."
"So you've been curious but you haven't acted on your curiosity. Why?"
I didn't like the direction this talk was taking: I was making way too many admissions and I was so off balance my logic sounded stupid. And then I got more stupid, "If real estate is location, location, location, sex is often opportunity, opportunity, opportunity." Then I compounded my stupidity, "I guess if you were really, really curious, you'd put yourself in the location to have the opportunity."
"And you haven't."
"No. I'd never cheat on your father." I was proud of this admission; it was absolutely true.
"Would having sex with a woman be cheating on dad ... or would it be something else?"
God, I felt like she was grilling me and I was spilling too many of the beans. "I don't know, hon." And I didn't.
"Well, think about it. If you had sex with a woman would you feel like you had cheated on dad, or do you think you'd just be acting on a curiosity you've always had?"
I thought about this for a full minute, "Honestly? I couldn't imagine myself having sex with a woman but that aside, if I did I ..., well, as I said, your dad and I don't have sex much any more so I don't think it would bother me now, but it would have bothered me before, I think it would have been cheating then because I would have, sort of ... been replacing him. I'd never do that."
"But not now, it wouldn't be cheating now because you aren't having much sex anyway."
I shrugged stupidly again but said nothing, I didn't think I needed to.
"So now, what if you did have the opportunity?"
"I might. Doubt it, but I might. I guess it would depend on ..."
"How horny you were?"
"Ya, that and other things ..."
"Are you horny now?"
"It's been a long time since I've talked about sex, so ya, I guess I kind of am."
"And no dad to bail you out."
I laughed because I thought she wanted me to, "No."
Her eyes seemed to be looking right into my soul, "Do you know now to work a screw driver, mom?"
I didn't know what she meant, not at first. When I figured it out it hit me hard in the stomach, "Janice!"
"Well you said it! Opportunity, opportunity, opportunity ... we're both here, we're both horny and we both want to do it ..."
"I never said I wanted to do it, and I certainly wouldn't do it with my daughter!"
My daughter seemed to shrink into her chair, it was something she often did: she retreated from most confrontations and all conflicts. "What's the matter? Don't you find me attractive? Am I too fat?"
"It's not about that and you know it." I got up and left.
But I felt like a dolt again: rather than stand up to her I had run away ... again.
She found me at my safe haven, in front of the kitchen sink. "You know you're never going to know what it's like until you just do it."
My instinct was to turn around and demand that she drop the subject — for good. If she wanted to fool around with women fine: she's an adult, she can make her own decisions, just leave me out of it. But, God, I really was curious and even the tantalizing talk was really getting to me, I mean, I was just so curious and the more we talked about it the more curious I was becoming; I barely got any sl**p last night and for the first time in years I got up and masturbated, and when I did I was appalled that she crept into my thoughts and I ... oh, God. "Some things are better left to the imagination, Janice, can we just leave it at that?" That's all I could think of to say and I said it to the sink.
"I'm not imagining I'm horny, mom. I am and so are you."
"Drop it, Janice, just drop it."
"I'm not going to drop it, I can't." When she spoke again I was sure she deliberately put on her injured voice, "It's that I'm fat, isn't it? You don't find me attractive."
This annoyed me, as she knew it would and I did the predictable, I turned around to face her. "That's just so much nonsense and you know it." Then I tried to be flippant but the moment my words left me, I knew they would backfire. "Try a different tact, Jan, that one isn't ever going to work."
"OK, I'll try this one. I'm horny, mom, I'm really, really horny. So don't come into my room again. OK. Never."
She was pouting like a c***d and I would have laughed if there wasn't so much tension in the air, "Come on Jan, why are we doing this?"
"I didn't know you were so gutless."
At this I did laugh, "Gutless ... that I won't let my daughter seduce me?"
"Gutless that you're as horny as I am, you're curious and you won't do anything about it, even though I want to. I'm an adult, mom and so are you. Act like one."
I turned back to the sink. She was right, of course, about the curiousness and about the gutlessness, too I guess and I would have left it at that — I had every reason to be gutless — but she took my arm and turned me around.
"Come on, mom, let's do it. If it gets too weird we'll stop."
"God, Janice, how can you be serious about this?" With her closeness, her contact, I could feel my resolve start to slip away and it was scaring the hell out of me.
She took my hand now, "Come on, we're both adults. You're curious and I want to be curious with you. We'll go slow, we'll just fool around. We won't do anything you don't want to do, honest."
When I felt myself move with her my knees seemed to buckle and I caught myself on the table. This isn't the way it had happened in my mastubatory fantasy, I was bolder then, as bold and excited as she was. "God, Jan I can't do this."
She had me by the arm now, like I was an invalid and she was laughing and there was real joy in her voice, as if what she wanted was destined to happen, "A journey begins with a single step, mom, one foot in front of the other, you can make it; we'll worry about what happens when we get there."
For some reason being laughed at seemed to weaken the drama and I felt myself moving again, her hand pulling at me but if a trip to the gallows tends to focus the concentration, a trip to your daughter's bed makes you a s**tter brain: a billion thoughts were bombarding me, mostly having to do with guilt — but I'm ashamed to say some of them had me very, very excited.
And then we were there and I was staring at her bed, the one I had made so many times over the years. "I've never been so terrified in my entire life. God, Jan, what are we going to do?"
She bounced onto the bed not bothering to hide her excitement and kneeling in the centre she held her hand out to me. "We'll start with just a little touching, come on." Her hand was only a few feet away. When I took it, she gently pulled me towards her and I kneeled on the bed in front of her and when I did, she moved into me and put her lips lightly on mine and when she spoke I could feel her breath, "Just let it happen, mom."
"Let what happen?" I mumbled the words against her lips; I was as rigid as a statue.
"Whatever you want. Just let it happen, just go for it." With her lips barely touching mine I tried to relax and I guess she felt that because she was stroking my shoulders soothingly. "I'm loving this, mom. I'm loving your smell, your breath, I'm loving having you here."Strange though it sounds, with my lips on my daughter's, her breasts lightly bumping into mine I became conscious of my hands. They were pressed into the bed at my knees. When I brought them up and put them flat against her back she moved into me and I could feel her breasts now pressing into mine.
"It's different, isn't it, then with a man?" Again, she didn't really leave my lips when she spoke.
"I'm totally scared. Are you absolutely certain you want to be doing this?"
She pushed into me, with her mouth and her chest and I was falling backwards when she eased me onto my back and, straddling my legs, she looked down on me, "Do ya think?" and she bent over me and her lips were on mine again and she kissed me softly, tenderly with a controlled passion, licking at my lips, the corners of my mouth and when I gasped, her tongue touched mine and with that touch the last bit of fight in me was gone.
And she knew it because she didn't try to control me any more. She lay down beside me, turning into me and when she did I turned into her and our lips met again and as she gently bit at my lips, sucking them and licking them I did something that shocked me, I opened my mouth and when she brought her tongue in, I brought mine out to kind of duel with hers until I had to pull away. "God, Jan, that is just so hot."
But she didn't say anything, she pulled into me for more and this time she wasn't quite so gentle and as her tongue pressed into my mouth I could feel her hand on my hip, pulling me into her and then she was squeezing my cheek ... with her fingers pressing deep into my crevasse.
The exquisite, feminine intimacy was something I had never experienced before. Her tongue was playing in my mouth, her fingers were pressing at my anus, I felt her pushing into me — it was so gloriously foreign to any sex I'd ever had before that I wasn't surprised to hear my moan escape into her mouth and I wasn't surprised that my leg climbed over hers so I could press my pussy into her thigh ... and so her fingers could go deeper into my bottom and as I shifted, my hand came down and pressed against her hip, her hot, naked hip and with this touch of skin I quickly pulled away, shocked and I looked down. Her nightie had pulled up and I was staring at the only pussy, but for my own, I had ever seen.
"It's really sensitive, mom."
I guess I had been staring at it a little too long but her pussy was just so erotic I couldn't tear my eyes away. It was so different from my own. I am very thin and very narrow at the hips, so I'm like a very tight triangle down there with a deep, well worn gully at the apex, sparsely covered by dark brown hair. Her light brown bush was much more luxuriant than mine and spread wide across her belly and into her groins. What was getting to me was that she was just so much more robust and hairy than me, but what fascinated me most was that she was making no effort to push down the cotton nightie that now barely conceal her navel; she seemed eager that I see her — naked below the waist, she seemed so open and honest and excited. But really, what fascinated me the most was that I was sprawled on a bed with my near naked daughter and, for the life of me, it seemed like a perfectly natural place to be.
As I stared at her, trying to come to terms with this and trying to understand why I was getting so turned on, she slowly opened her legs, then took my hand and placed it low on her stomach, just above her pubic patch and I watched in amazement as my fingers hesitated for just a moment before they crept into her hair, slowly, crawling until they were lost to the knuckles in her hair and I could feel her heat. "Oh, God, mom, go into me."
Her fingers were pressing on mine now, forcing me into her and I watched as they went where directed and slipped into her hot wet centre and when they did she brought her hips up to f***e me further into her and then, as if she had been teetering on the brink, she began to buck and her low moan became a high-pitched squeal, then the squeal became a wail and I found her stiff nub and I rubbed at it, transfixed by her metamorphosis, by her thrusting hips, her growing scent, her primordial noises and as I reveled in the unbelievable intimacy of it all, she was pulled at me, pulled me down and she had her lips on mine and the wail became a groan, a deep, guttural moan, repeating, time after time, "Oh, mom, oh mom," as she finished herself off on my leg.
Youth. That would have done me in for a week, but not her, she was kneeling over me now, pulling her nightie over her head, then she was on the buttons of my shirt.
She had been concentrating on her task and now looked at me. "Hmm?"
"You were beautiful, hon, really beautiful. Exquisite."
She was unbuttoning me faster now, "God, mom, I just so want you to have one of those."
I took her by the hands and pulled her down and kissed her, "Slowly, OK, I'm an old lady." But I sure wasn't feeling like an old lady. When she'd finished unbuttoning me she leaned down to pull me up so she could take off my shirt and get to my bra and when she did her large breasts swung in front of me and I stopped her, I wanted to look at her.
Her breasts weren't anything like mine, in fact all her genes seemed to have come from Dan's side of the f****y. She was thick set, like Dan but voluptuous, with unbelievable curves compared to my thin angularity. She was pulling at me more insistently now so I playfully slapped her hands away, "Give me a minute or two, will you? I want to look at you. Sit back."
She did, on her heels and without a shred of self-consciousness. "I sure don't look like you, do I?"
I felt my chest swell, I seemed to have gasped. She didn't look like me. Not a bit. The first image of my daughter in all her adult naked glory stunned me. "God, look at you. You look just so ... fertile."
"Fertile?" she laughed.
"God, your breasts, your belly, your curves, all your hair, you look like ... honest, hon, you look like ... a fertility goddess." It was a stupid comment and I knew it but it just seemed so true. There was nothing subtle about the body in front of me: it was strong, unbelievably curvaceous and soft and positively dripping with sex. Honestly, the first thing I thought about was an image of one of those ancient stone fertility goddesses. My daughter was absolutely magnificent.
She was laughing merrily, "Do I take that as a complement?"
"God, yes. You have one astonishingly sexy body," I was stunned, transfixed, I had no idea, "God, look at you, you're just amazing!"
"See why I'm horny most of the time?"
"God yes, those breasts, your belly, your hips. God you're just fantastic!" With my words her wonderfully open smile was positively beaming now and the guilt that was banging at my subconsciousness seemed to dissipate in her glow.
"Thanks, mom." I've never seen her so happy.
"I've always though you were ... a bit over-weight, but you aren't, are you? Not really. You're ... God, I have to come back to it, you're just so fertile; you're just so unbelievably feminine, unbelievably sexy." Her smile now stretched wide across her face and she was about to lie on me but I stopped her. "No, wait." I propped a couple of pillows against the headboard and I half-pulled her towards them and when she rested against them I sat in the middle of the bed and just looked at her.
She has quite a rounded face with a large forehead, prominent, rounded cheekbones, a thin nose and eyes that seemed always to be squinting under eyebrows arched in a look of constant curiosity. It was a face that didn't do well above a collared shirt or an attractive sweater. But it was glowing with beauty now; entirely nude, entirely open, entirely honest, she was a study in unabashed sexuality. She had her hands up, holding onto the top of the headboard so the hair in her armpits seemed unusually long and thick. She was leaning back with her legs bent and open, her belly a small sexy pillow on which the tip of her wonderfully rounded breasts were resting, with their fantastically dark aureolas and their very long, very stiff nipples. This description may sound lewd, but it sure wasn't, not to me. And it wouldn't have been to her, either. The face that was looking back at me was glowing like I had never seen it before — brightly, confidently and without a trace of self-consciousness.
"God, Jan, you are just breath-taking."
"Can I see you?"
I hated the thought. "I'm going to look like an androgynous stick beside you."
She was going to move into me again but again I stopped her. "Just wait a minute." I moved in and settled directly in front of her with my knees over her legs. "I just want to look at you and touch you, OK?"
I brushed the back of my fingers against the large expanse of the inside of her thigh, white and soft, "How did you get this?" I gently poked at a small bluish-black discolouration almost dead centre of the left thigh.
"God, mom." She was still leaning back, her eyes were closed, her legs were opening wider and she was slightly shimmying her pelvis at my touch.
"God, mom, you have no idea."
I brushed the backs of my fingers lightly over the slope of her belly now, then against a nipple. "You have beautiful breasts, Jan, no, they're more than beautiful, they're elegant ..."
She snorted, "There way too big to be elegant ..."
"Your aureolas are fabulous, hon, ... I've never done this before," I gave a short ironic laugh, "among other things." I picked up a breast gently with both hands and kissed the stiff nipple then sucked on her, tasting her skin and when I did her hands made it to the back of my head and she was caressing my hair. "Does that feel good?"
"You feel good, mom, I just love that you're here with me, I just love what you're doing to me and I can't wait to do all this to you."
I kissed all around her aureola then I licked under her breast, tasting her sweat then I kissed slowly up her chest and for some reason I put my lips in her armpit and I kissed all around it, breathing in deeply, reveling in the dampness and the smell . When I placed my lips on hers I mumbled, "you're fabulous, Janice, I'm just so proud of you." When she kissed me back she moaned and I said, "When you told me before to go for it, did you mean it?"
I could feel more than see her eyes pop open, "Of course."
I pulled away and took one last look at her, then I took her by the hips and she pushed herself along as I dragged her down the bed until I was off it and her legs were dangling over the end. She knew what I was going to do better than I did. Kneeling on the floor, looking over her lush hairy pussy, I looked at her, I guess for approval. The face staring back at me was smiling excitedly, expectantly, encouragingly and it had a beauty to it that I had never ever seen before. When I eased my face into her I felt not even the slightest twinge of guilt, I was burying my face into the hot, wet pussy of an astonishingly sexy, astonishingly loving woman and for some unknown reason it seemed a perfectly natural thing to do.
This time she needed to recover and I did, too. So as she lay there, her fingers softly playing on her belly, I moved over to her reading chair and just looked at her, astonished that what we had done wasn't filling me with guilt, disgust and self-loathing. It didn't, instead, I was wondering if men would see her the same way I did: a wonderful, kind, sharing, passionate woman with the most unbelievably fuckable body imaginable.
"What are you thinking?"
I had been looking at her fingers caressing the swell of her stomach above her lush, hairy pussy. I looked at her eyes now. "I was just thinking, if you must know, that I think you have the most unbelievably fuckable body imaginable."
"Ya?" She was beaming again, but she really hadn't stopped since I knelt on that bed in front of her.
"Ya. You are just amazing honey ... you are just so fucking amazing."
"You know when I said I was horny?" When she turned on her side, her breasts hung down in such a way that I had to resist the temptation to go over and sit beside her and just hold them.
"I sure do," I laughed, "and I note you're using the past tense now."
She laughed, too. "I was horny to get off, there was no doubt about it. But I was mostly horny when I thought about what I'd like to do with you."
But I wasn't ready for that yet. "Have you ever made love to a man, hon?"
"Yes," she nodded.
"No, twice, well, five times to two different men."
"Did you like it?" I didn't have any idea how she'd answer this question.
"Loved it," her smile told me how much.
"Have you made love to many women?"
"No, just Janie."
"Have you ever made love to her, and made love to her, and made love to her and just never wanted to stop?"
"That's the way I'm feeling now. I want to keep making love to you, I don't want to stop."
She had been cheerful, anxious I think to share her life with me, but now she seemed serious. "Then you wouldn't be making love to me, would you, mom? You'd be having sex with me because if you were making love to me, you would let me express myself, too."
My daughter has always been a mystery to me, a fascinating, complex mystery, at once entirely vulnerable but at the same time oddly self-assured. I've known forever that I didn't really understand her. She's always been so different from me, so different from the boys, so different from everyone I knew.
It has always seemed to me that she has never quite found her niche in life: it wasn't scholastics; it certainly wasn't sports; it wasn't social, either — her niche wasn't any place easily identifiable. Until now.
The nude woman across from me, with her heavy breasts and pillowed stomach resting on the bed, her magnificently wide and rounded hip curled so seductively, her legs so casually crossed — and so willing to open. The woman looking back at me couldn't have been more natural, more loving and she couldn't possibly be more sexy. I know it will sound like a mindlessly stupid thing for me to say about my own daughter but when she had been lying back against the headboard, with her legs open, her breasts resting on her rounded belly, the wide loving smile on her face — this was my daughter in her element: no one could have looked more confident, more comfortable with herself: this was my daughter's niche; Janice, nude and waiting, is the sexiest sight I had ever seen, could ever imagine seeing.
When I got out of the chair and moved into her my lips brushed against hers, "I love you Jan, I'm so proud of you I could scream."
I could feel her laugh, then she pushed me away, "Scream? I'll tell you about scream," then she quickly pulled my open shirt off my shoulders and over my arms, pinning them against my sides, then she pushed me down onto the bed. "My turn, mom, we're going to go to an unbelievable place together."
As she bent over me I felt a jolt that was part joy, part sexual as her large breasts clapped together, then her fingers were on my belt. "Hand me a pillow, hon." I was shocked at how calm I felt. I think it was because I finally thought I understood her and sex with her just seemed so supernaturally natural ... to her and now to me, too.
"Sorry." Her breast slapped me on the face when she put the pillow behind my head.
When she sat back and concentrated on my belt she was in perfect control: of her self, of me, of her world.
As she undid my zipper, I thought of her b*****rs, so at home on the field, in the rink, on the diamond, in the boardroom. When I lifted my bottom so she could strip me of my pants and panties, it occurred to me that my daughter had found a much smaller, much more private stage than theirs, but on it, she, more than all the others, had found her element — and would find her bliss.
When she tapped me on the insides of my thighs, I opened my legs to her ... without a hint of anything but the love and excitement that was flashing in her eyes.