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Water sluiced from the metal cabin roof, a trickling, chuckling audible testimony to the cold rain driven sideways by fitful gusts of wind. Light fog lay about the small but homey structure occupying a spur of Lookout Mountain that overlooked U. S. Highway 11 far below. Soggy silence enveloped an auburn-haired woman of forty-one standing near a post on the front porch.

Dana Marlow was hardly dressed for this sort of weather. She realized that she could resolve her growing discomfort by either going back inside where her twenty-year-old hulk of a son, Carey, still slept or by doing the smart thing…getting a coat and then standing outside if she must. She stubbornly elected to do neither and wrapped her arms about herself as if that would ward off the shivers threatening to become shakes at any second.

She wore a form-fitting pair of denims that had been on the trail for some time, so to speak. They were limp, faded to a pale bluish white and rode tightly over the tops of her black Dan Post high heeled boots. She wore only a man’s thin ribbed undershirt cut off and hemmed slightly below her sizeable, heavy breasts. Her areoles were large, dark brown and quite plump, tipped with hard nipples that protruded through the undershirt as if they were little blackberries. Her 29DD chest was large enough that the shirt hung from her nipples, well away from her muscled abdomen. A gold ring pierced her navel and supported a small emerald ball at the end of a two-inch chain.

The face above this sensuous display was slender with deep green eyes, a Roman nose, and a wide mouth that seemed as if it ought to smile easily. But there was no smile today. Long auburn waves fell over her shoulders to the middle of her back, also framing her sad face. Her breasts rested warm and comfortably heavy on her crossed arms, but she seemed to not notice.

It had been a year now since Gary, her husband and light of her life for nineteen years had died. Florida State troopers arrived to inform her graciously and with every professional courtesy that Gary had been struck by a vehicle on I-95 beneath the flyover from Palm Beach to the airport west of the city. For some unfathomable reason a driver had stopped his pickup on top of the flyover, was struck from behind and was launched out over the retaining wall onto the interstate below. Right on top of Gary’s Rodeo. No one could have survived such an event.

Carey was well into his second year at college. He rushed home, assisted her in handling all those necessary and dreadful tasks that must be dealt with for only one reason: because a loved one has died. He reminded her of his father, big, powerful, thoughtful, and solicitous of her needs. They had always been extremely close as a small family, and during his later teens she and Gary had never concealed from their son their loving affections for each other.

Despite her increasing cold, her mind drifted back over years past. Tears misted her eyes and finally ran slowly down her cheeks. She and Gary had always caressed openly and easily around others. At times this disconcerted friends and distant family who finally got used to it, but they had lost several friends who just did not like the sensual displays of unassuming, unplanned love that she and her husband enjoyed.

She recalled how Gary would hold her breasts or remove her top altogether as they sat watching television. By the time Carey was eighteen he had a fully developed sense of humor and joined in good-naturedly kidding his mother about her breasts. He and his father would hoot at her studied determination to not make a big deal out of her assets even as she would sunbathe topless at the beach or wear some extremely suggestive outfit with his father. She took it all in stride.

“You’re just jealous, Large Human,” she would shoot back with a broad grin. This was followed by a shake of her torso that caused her breasts to quiver as if they were mounds of gelatin.

Even after having been graduated from high school Carey remained very close to his family. He brought dates to their home, and his mother was the perfect host, combining attractiveness with humor, imagination and her respect for their son’s guests. For some reason, and she and Gary had never ceased to give thanks, Carey had avoided those painful years when teens become less pleasant than a cold barium enema.

Even with friends about, however, Dana rarely restrained her penchant for partial nudity and would swim topless in their pool or at the beach. Carey’s acquaintances liked Dana for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was her nudity, but they also thought she was a work of art. Other aspects of their respect and affection for Carey’s mother were her insistence that they respect her and her seemingly unending sense of humor.

She recalled how her husband and grown-up son [had he really matured so rapidly in such a short time?] had, without pretense, hugged her and cupped her breasts or tugged at a bursa escort nipple as they greeted her or departed for the day. What Dana did not know was that her son, sometime during his nineteenth year, had realized he not only loved her but was in love with her. This had grown in intensity until she rarely left his thoughts.

Carey believed his mother to be the sexiest, most sensuous woman he had ever known. During the years at college he dated often and had many female friends; but his desire for Dana never abated although he managed a tight rein on his expression of it. His return home and residence there during the past year since his father’s death had provided opportunity for a very delicate and slow yet definitely growing intimacy between the two.

This tender yet unconventional relationship signaled its presence through their more and more frequent trips out together, several dinner-and-movie engagements that in reality were nothing short of dates, a subtle change in the way they kissed and Dana’s now habitual dressing in revealing clothing when they sat watching television together in the evening. These times were precious, quiet, not especially loaded with sexuality, yet increasingly significant in their changing relationship.

They sat together rather than separately. She had purchased several thongs as swimsuit replacements for her son to wear when they swam or sunned together, and in contrast to the likely reaction of many older teens Carey enjoyed doing so. At the very first he thought he would have died rather than get himself something so skimpy. But as he wore them to please her in the process he began to enjoy the sensation of being so bare. Eventually, he came to relish being stared at by others.

Still, their relationship was casually sensuous, not aggressively overt and deliberate. On more than a few occasions when Carey’s friends who had never met his mother saw them together, they were quick to ask where in the world he had found this Babe with a capital B.

Now here they were in this cabin on a rain-swept ridge in the heart of the Southland. Dana heard the screen door open behind her, then heavy steps crossed the porch and Carey stood behind her. She felt his arms encircle her waist, his fingers immediately fondling her navel pendant. He buried his face in her auburn waves and whispered into her left ear.

“Okay, what’s my favorite Mother doing out here dressed like this?” He gave her navel jewelry a gentle tug, then ran his fingers up and down her bare abdomen. Dana shivered with something having nothing at all to do with temperature.

“Gotta admit that I am about to freeze,” she responded softly as she wiped away a tear.

Carey kneaded her tummy as she raised her arms back behind her to touch his face with her hands. As he looked down her chest from over her left shoulder he saw her breasts pressing outward, her nipples dark and outlined. At that point her son gave up his self-imposed restraint and slid his hands upward beneath the cutoff top, enfolding her heavy breasts and tenderly thumbing those delicious plump little shapes on top of them.

Dana gasped with pleasure, saying nothing. For several moments he squeezed the warm, gelatin-like shapes, never ceasing his feathery touches of her nipples, then he put his arm around her waist and turned her about.

“Mom, let’s go inside. Even I know that you’ll get sick if you stay out here.”

Dana acquiesced, not looking at her son but dropping her right hand to hold his arm about her waist. Once they had entered the cabin, a warm crackle and snap from the fireplace greeted her. She glanced at the son who towered over her despite her own five feet, six inches. He grinned as he led her to the large, soft couch set directly before the blazing hearth. Without a word she accepted his direction to sit; Carey reached out quickly to gather her legs and sweep them up onto the rough-hewn low table placed between the hearth and couch.

“The clumsy oaf of a son orders beautiful woman to sit and wait. Clumsy oaf has coffee for beautiful woman.”

Dana did a very bad job of keeping her sad countenance. The ends of her mouth twitched as her green eyes fixed the handsome man before her. He was making a show of bowing three times. The thought of him bowing to her finally broke her depression and she giggled.

“Does Large Clumsy Oaf include pancakes and bacon with coffee for beautiful woman?”

“Of course. We have full service here,” he shot back in a falsetto voice which was just that much more silly because of the large frame out of which it came.

“Good answer!” she replied. “Maybe beautiful woman have reward for Clumsy Oaf when he deliver promised food.”

“Miserable, undeserving son now has hope.”

“Young man, you have no idea how frequently your father and I used to agree that truly, you could be miserable and undeserving. Buuut…at his urging we decided to keep you.”

Carey stared at his mother bursa escort bayan with a grin tugging at each end of his broad mouth. He has so much of me in looks, she thought, but his heart is his father’s. So precious. Dear heavens, he is so precious to me.

He departed for the kitchen area on the north wall of the large central room. Dana leaned back into the couch and pulled about her a large afghan decorated with a western motif. Almost immediately she began to warm before the fire. She laid back her head against the cushion, feeling the heavy comfort of her breasts as they shifted against her chest and arms. She glanced down and saw that her nipples were still hard; the sight pleased and excited her, but she wondered if she was right in presenting herself to her son in such a sensuous fashion. In her present position most of her assets were exposed beneath the short shirt.

Dana had these bouts of uncertainty about her increasingly frequent desire for her son and the propriety of it all. Parents just didn’t do this. Still, they had always been far more intimate in their relationship than most mothers and sons. On the one hand she wanted him now in ways that were normally forbidden and she sensed the same desire in him. On the other, she feared repercussions from any more intimate relationship between them. For reasons she could not express to herself Dana sensed that today held the answer to her quandary.

The delightful scent of bacon and a sound of pancakes cooking wafted over to Carey’s mother. He served her on an old cafeteria tray he had liberated via the five-finger discount from a pile where they had been tossed in his university dining hall. She eagerly but carefully grabbed the coffee mug and sipped the fragrant amaretto-flavored brew, her favorite type. It wasn’t usually here; Carey had brought it along for her. Now that she was warm, she removed the afghan and ate with gusto.

Her son joined her shortly, carefully juggling his own tray and monster mug of coffee as he planted himself gingerly at the opposite end of the couch.

“Warmed up, eh, Mom?” he grinned, noticing the absence of her cover and the manner in which her cut-off undershirt had ridden up her chest, baring the lower full curves of her breasts.

Good, lord, but she’s huge, he thought to himself. As he had experienced so often in the past, his cock firmed and an electric bolt surged through his loins. He ate silently, not intending to disconnect from the lovely woman at the other end of the couch. Heat from the warm orange and yellow spitting flames relaxed him as he drifted back over recent years with his parents.

As he had matured, his desire for Dana had intensified. He could never really tell if she knew what was going on in her son. There were times when she caught him staring at her at the beach, at home and simply out in public on errands. Dana dressed with grace and style, yet she gave off an aura of sensuality that he had never encountered in any of the girls he dated. She seemed to know how to be sexy and desirable even when she was doing nothing out of the ordinary. He realized that the old axiom at which he had often laughed actually held truth: “No one can be as sexy as an older woman.”

Friends came over to his house just to hang around Dana and ogle her. She, of course, loved it. Even his father had enjoyed it; Gary was never in the dark about the effect his wife had on others. And to cement her enjoyment, he regularly screwed her legs off. Carey smiled as he recalled the night when he awoke at 2:30 in the morning to his mother’s heavy panting and ecstatic cries from the patio. He sneaked back to watch through the kitchen sliding glass door and marveled at his mother’s and father’s sexual prowess.

He had been nude since that was how he slept each night and he swelled to a gorgeous eight inches watching his parents. He touched his cock and almost came, managing to just barely resist plunging over the rim of that sexual gorge into an exquisite orgasm. He had gone back to his room, turned on a low light and posed before his full-length mirror. He raised his arms, clasping his hands behind his head and twisting his beautiful body to view his thick, rod-like cock.

His testes swung gently against his inner thighs. He admired his assets, aroused by the appearance of the corona of dense, black uncut hair encircling the base of his cock and completely covering his balls. For some time now he had shaved his thighs and abdomen to accentuate the thick fur on his genitals.

He recalled touching the opening in the swollen mantle of his cock and feeling the clear drop of dew there. He tasted it, gazed at himself for another moment, then lay down on his bed without cover, switching off the bedside lamp as he did so. Reflections from a bright moon provided sufficient light for him to see his erect cock. Delicate touches and strokes soon brought a delicious climax as he caressed his left nipple and thought of his mother’s escort bursa huge breasts with those luscious fat nipples.

He used the index finger of his right hand to massage the delicate spot under its head. Heat flowed through his thighs. With his left hand he caressed his incredibly smooth skin, arousing himself more with thoughts of how silky his skin felt. He fantasized his mother crouching over him on his bed, he inserting himself gently between her thighs as she hung above him, her great breasts suspended like some exotic fruit, the nipples tracing lines across his chest as if they were the wings of a butterfly.

Carey remembered the beauty of coming. He did not spurt that night. Instead, his cream flowed like viscous, milky lava out of its hole, over his crown, spilling down the length of his penis, covering his hand with warm stickiness, lubricating his staff to an incredible smoothness.

He felt his cum slide warmly into his pubic fur, tickling delightfully as it flowed around the strands of hair. He was so hot. He felt his emissions move as far as his anal cleft and trickle down that passage between his buns. Finally he exhausted his flow. After stroking his hardness for a short time, Carey raised his hand to his mouth and tasted his cream.

He slept. He never heard the sound at 4:00 a.m. as his mother, also nude, stood in his doorway staring longingly at her naked son. She knew that he shaved his thighs, buttocks and abdomen for she had watched him in his thong. He had no idea of the fire burning in her own heart for this lovely specimen of manhood she and Gary had created.

“A penny for your thoughts, beautiful man,” said his mother, breaking into Carey’s reverie.

Dana rose from the couch, returned her tray to the sink where she tossed out the paper items, wiped the tray and returned it to the top of the refrigerator. She opened her handbag, withdrew her hair brush, and walked over behind her son. As he was preparing to respond to her question, she loosened the band holding his pony tail and allowed the glorious jet black mane to cascade over his shoulders.

When Carey was ten years old one day he ran his fingers through his mother’s auburn tresses, remarking as he did so, “Mom, I wish I had hair like yours.”

“Unless you color it, Honey, you can’t.”

“No, I mean I wish mine was long like yours. I like long hair.”

She always paid attention to their son’s remarks, even when they seemed off-the-wall. Children, she knew, frequently express heartfelt desires in remarks that adults would consider flighty or childish. Dana had long ago realized that there was a vast difference between childish and childlike. Long hair had always aroused her and her husband; she decided to answer her son’s desire.

“Honey, let’s not get you any haircuts for a while? Would you like that? After all, General George Custer and Buffalo Bill Cody had long, lovely hair.”

What child enjoys a haircut, anyhow, she thought. By this time schools in certain areas of the country had moved on to more pressing issues than hair length, so during the succeeding years Carey’s steadily lengthening and thickening mane was no problem as long as she and he kept it clean and neat. Dana was highly skilled at this sort of training.

By sixteen under her persistent guidance, part of which was the cultivation of the hair at his hairline to the same length as that on the sides and back of his head, her son had a beautiful fall of hair that grew to just below his shoulders. It was heavy, black with delicate bluish highlights, extremely dense, and fell in the sort of rolling waves for which most women she knew would gladly kill.

When he had not pulled it back in a ponytail his hair had a gorgeous heavy wave over his right eye and, if left to itself, often fell across the upper part of his face, partially concealing his eye. He liked it and usually left it alone. Probably because of their closeness and rather unrestrained family relationship, Carey continued to enjoy Dana’s brushing of his locks well after he had moved into “those difficult teen years.” Having skipped the difficult part and going on to maturity, Carey was thus able to learn life lessons that others would confront a decade down the road, often much to their grief.

When he went off to school her son wore his beautiful hair in a ponytail, uninterested in making statements or becoming an item of display. By the time Carey returned last year to help her, his hair reached the middle of his back. The sight of its unbound, glossy black waves aroused her sexually. Every single time she gazed at him in more than a glancing fashion she experienced the same lovely warmth and increased moisture in her pussy.

He had a facial structure that, while strong and expressive, was also hospitable to long hair. It made him sexy in an exciting masculine way.

As Dana began to brush his long hair, Carey answered.

“I was remembering years in our family when you and Dad would swim in our pool. You would take off your top and Dad would play with your boobs while I was there. It didn’t make any difference. I thought it was great.”

“Do you recall if it ever bothered you?”

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