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22 Temmuz 2022, 22:35
PART ONE
Sitting here on the front porch of the old cabin, the snow has begun to fall again. The ground is already covered from previous storms, and once again the roads in and out of our camp are slick and dangerous.
That's fitting in this, our third winter up here in the North Carolina mountains.
It was a big winter storm that trapped us here the week before Christmas 2019, the beginning of our journey into the unknown. Then came the pandemic and a national lockdown that lasted a year, and now it appears that the virus is once again affecting people in the lowlands, so we decided to ride it out for another holiday season.
Just the two of us.
It's a story that one would say will be something to tell the grandchildren. But that seems to be a strange concept for now. See, for three winters we've been living here far from civilization with barely any contact with the outside world, just two people making do in the time of the coronavirus.
Just me and my mother.
My name is Edward, a name given to me by my adopted parents who then called me Edwin for my entire life, a nickname I hated and eagerly trashed once I began college. That was five years ago, a lifetime it seems.
I'd just finished work for my Masters, coming home to begin a new life as a paperback writer, or so I hoped. After so many quiet days and loud nights, I've indeed made a decent living writing freelance stories for various publications and have finally finished the draft for my first novel.
But to be honest, I'm not sure how to start it now. It was going to be a love story of a young man and woman starting a life in the big city, but since I haven't seen anything resembling a city in so long, I don't think I'm going to be able to write it.
My life has been altered by events and elements beyond my control, and if I ever make it back down off this mountain, then maybe I can write it.
But first, I'd have to figure out what to do with my mother.
I came home in 2019 to find her on the front porch of our house in Charlotte, bags packed and crying. My dad, it seemed, had started cheating on her again, this time with a secretary from his law firm, and this time, Mom wasn't about to let it slide.
She'd retained a lawyer who happened to be my father's bitter rival and legal nemesis, and the proceedings had quickly become toxic. Dad was refusing to leave the house, so Mom decided to head to the hills and wait for the checks to start flowing in.
Which they have.
I think she knew I was coming home that week, but I'll never know. All I remember is driving into the driveway, helping her throw her bags into our old Land Rover and then following her from the Queen City to the Smoky Mountains and our cabin high atop Balsam Ridge.
It was the beginning of the end of life as I knew it.
We left Charlotte in a driving rainstorm, vaguely aware that snow was forecast for the Smokies but not realizing that the forecast had changed in the hours before our departure.
We barely made it to the cabin, Mom in the Land Rover and me following in my little red BMW convertible, which I left in a snowbank a half mile short of our land, where it would sit untouched for months.
I hiked through five inches of powder, all uphill, finally reaching the cabin just as Mom unloaded the first of her suitcases. By the time we got all her stuff inside, there was 10 inches of new snow, which was coming down so hard you couldn't see two yards in front of you.
It snowed heavily for three straight days, trapping us inside the cabin twenty miles from the nearest store, no electricity, no wireless, no heat and no way of letting anyone on earth know that we were there.
Except a forest ranger and my dad, who was so mad at my mother that he never bothered to check on her. He had no idea I was even up here.
I walked into the cabin that evening, stomping snow from my penny loafers, shivering and near frostbite when Mom collapsed onto an old leather couch and began to cry uncontrollably.
I tried to console her, but I was so cold I was no help. I could barely talk with my teeth chattering and my body shivering. Eventually I got up, covered her in an old Indian blanket and began to fidget with the generator outside and the propane fireplace Dad had installed the winter before.
Thank God, I said when the gas whooshed and the flame caught and voila! We had light. We had heat. We had hope.
We slowly began to talk, Mom reliving her last few weeks at home and me describing my last few weeks as a college student. We managed to relax, partly from the bottle of whiskey I pulled out of the liquor cabinet. In a couple of hours, my mother was passed out on the couch and I began going through the cabin checking on provisions.
Mom had called ahead and arranged for the old forest ranger to haul food and water to the cabin before she arrived. He'd stocked the place with provisions, which basically saved our lives since we didn't see another human being supertoto yeni giriş (https://ivycreekes.com/bahis/supertotobet/) for two weeks.
It was Ranger Dan who knocked on the door one morning to see if we were alive.
I hugged him when I saw him on the porch, and Mom cried again. We'd known him for years, and this wasn't the first time he'd been a life saver for city dwellers trapped in the mountains.
He'd killed bears and mountain lions, timber rattlers and wild boar, all to keep flatlanders alive, most of them having more money than sense. But, as he mentioned to us before he left, he'd never seen two people come up in the dead of winter in the middle of a blizzard and live to tell about it.
We thanked him, paid him and tipped him and gave him a list of things we would need before I would be able to drive down to Cherokee and gather things we sorely needed.
Anyway, that's the backdrop for the tale I'm about to tell, one that amazes me to even think something like this could happen to a woman and her son in the middle of a worldwide pandemic.
It's the story of Edward and Sarah Martin, son and mother, an account of two people thrown together and left to fend for ourselves, trying to make a temporary life together under stressful and strange circumstances, with the knowledge that deep down, we were just two humans trapped in a world we did not invent, each of us with the same human frailties and suppressed feelings and urges that would make for a great Lifetime movie.
A Family Christmas in the Smokies. Only this Christmas would last a lot longer than two hours of TV drama. And ultimately, it wouldn't be suited for television at all.
My mom, now a 39-year-old former soccer mom, is a gorgeous woman. She's always been the most beautiful creature I've ever seen, and I had several close friends, teachers, coaches and dads though the years beg me to set them up with her, which I never did.
I've always wondered if she would've done it, gone out on my dad that is. They were never that close, as far as I knew. They'd married young and tried for a few years to have a kid. They finally adopted me when I was two, and thus set off a strange life of mom doting over me, dad ignoring me, eventually crushing her by sending me away to boarding schools, summer camps and anything else he could think of to keep us apart.
I didn't exactly hate him. I just never knew him. Mom, as I would find out, seethed inside and waited for the day she could take her revenge. I had no idea how deep her hatred of him went. Or would go.
He took her for granted and treated her as property, which is ironically how she approached the divorce, taking him for millions, leaving him in that big house on Queens Road.
The money flowed into her accounts, which made her rich beyond her imagination, not that it made much difference to us these past three winters. But as soon as we get off this mountain, I imagine she'll roll back into Charlotte one of the richest people in the city.
Here in the hills, we've lived like settlers. Granted, we have the best of everything from propane heaters and hot showers to that great big fireplace on one end of the stone cabin and a great big stove at the other.
We have a freezer that holds more steaks than we'll ever eat, so we could conceivably live up here forever. And for a while there, it looked like we just might.
But from the very beginning, we both assumed we would both be back in Charlotte by New Year's Day.
New Year's Day came and went as did the new year itself.
"Edwin!"
I never could get her to call me Edward.
"Edwin, would you be a dear and make me another drink?"
Mom started drinking almost every day once it became clear that we would be staying in the cabin a lot longer than we planned. She also started walking around with fewer clothes on, often going all day in nothing but panties and a sweatshirt.
She's a striking woman, tall and thin with dark skin from her distant Cherokee heritage. She had an athletic body, a perfectly toned ass and firm round tits, not too big or small, but likely never to sag. Her tits were darker than most white women, her areolas slightly swollen, her nipples small but hard as pencil erasers, which showed though everything she wore.
Which wasn't much.
The combination of drinking and her lack of clothes made for interesting conversations, most of which she never remembered the next day. I started spending a lot of time outside, rocking on the porch drinking coffee, pondering my future, writing drafts of stories and tinkering with the outline for my book.
The generator was a lifesaver, giving us the power we needed for everything from lights, the freezer and especially, our cellphones and my laptop. I was on the porch when Mom called.
I stuck my head in the door and saw her bundled up on the couch under that old Indian blanket with a wry smile on her face. She was drunk again. I never scolded her or refused to freshen her drinks. She supertoto giriş (https://ivycreekes.com/bahis/supertotobet/) drank a little of everything since Dad had stocked the liquor cabinet with all sorts of alcohol.
Vodka had become her go-to drink, straight vodka with just a splash of water.
"C'mere," she slurred as I walked from the bar. She was patting the couch beside her. "Come sid down with your ol' Mom."
I obliged, sitting next to her as she opened the blanket and covered me. I caught a glimpse of her tits as she adjusted the cover. As far as I could tell, she was naked. She sipped her drink at first, giggling like a little girl, then took a big swig, leaning forward and placing the glass on the coffee table. She was indeed naked, her ass peeking out as she leaned over.
"Edwin, what are we going to do?"
I shrugged and tried to reassure her.
"Mom, there's no pressure to do anything," I said. "I'm happy up here. I'm getting some work done. But if you want to go back to Charlotte, let me know."
She reached around my shoulder and hugged me, her tits pressing against me, and she showed no embarrassment or concern. She put her head on my shoulder and fell asleep.
That became something of a routine for us as December ran into January and then into February, all the while I planned our return to reality and Mom waffled back and forth. I was content to stay up there, even if Mom wanted to go home. But one day she wanted to return to Quail Hollow Club and her tennis friends and wine-drinking buddies and then the next she'd get a text from her lawyer letting her know that she's made $50,000 in her investments in one day.
She wasn't spending a dime of it up here in the hills. Deep down, she wanted to return as the richest woman in Charlotte, to throw it all in Dad's face and begin to slowly ruin his life.
It was a devious plot, and it was fueled by hate, greed and alcohol, but Mom's lawyer was ruthless and from 200 miles away, my mother was all in. And things would've worked out seamlessly for her, according to her conniving plan, had two things not happened.
One, the pandemic hit. And two, she began to hit on me. It was the beginning of a slow spiral into madness.
Sure, she was hammered, so she had plausible deniability. In fact, she had almost no memory of anything from one day to the next. So our daily lives were like a repeat of the day before, which was then washed away in waves of vodka and drunken sleep, interrupted by great home-cooked meals, laughter and playful flirting.
Until it was no longer playful.
The funny thing about being locked in, as we all know now, is that roles change, old norms are altered and we all become different people, different couples, different families. We know now that some families fractured under the stress, some couples divorced, some kids rebelled, friends broke up along political and medical arguments, everyday life as we knew it ceased to exist.
The void that was created as a result required something to fill it, something to take its place, sometimes radical, sometimes unheard of, sometimes inappropriate. Though even those definitions changed.
For my mother and I, our roles changed the moment I came home, the moment Mom caught my dad cheating, the moment she hired the most heartless lawyer in Charlotte to go after my him.
Everything shifted after that. I was already embarking on a new period in my life, post college. Mom, on the other hand, was set free for the first time in a generation, her husband suddenly her worst enemy, her friends immediately taking sides, some of them disappearing altogether.
So the move to the hills made sense. It should've been a nice getaway from the old order, and for a few weeks it was. It didn't help that we were basically stranded, but even as the snow and ice melted, the fire that burned inside my mother intensified.
She needed an outlet for that anger, the urges, the emotions, and there was only one person in her world.
Me.
So it started slowly and has built into a raging storm that has yet to subside. Cabin fever set in. My mother was going crazy. Stir crazy.
She woke up one early morning in late February, wobbling down the wooden staircase into the half-lit room below where I'd begun to sleep on the old leather couch in front of the giant stone fireplace.
The flames would die down just before sunrise, and the old cabin would go from cozy and warm to dark and cold.
I was under two blankets when I sensed a presence over me, the silhouette of my mom standing unsteadily beside the couch. She leaned down and kissed me on the mouth, not saying a word, then sliding next to me, under the blankets, naked as a jaybird.
We'd been a lot more playful in the evenings than ever before, her kidding me about my young body, me chiding her for walking around in little to no clothing, her going as far as mentioning the bulge in my pants, which I admit had become a constant.
I had no way of knowing that she'd supertoto güvenilirmi (https://ivycreekes.com/bahis/supertotobet/) been enamored with the bulge in my pants for years, secretly admiring it, maybe even in the presence of my dad. Was that why he resented me? Was that why he sent me away?
I never knew my real parents. I never wanted to. But my birth father must have had a huge cock, because I sure did. I'd never been more aware of it than now. And neither had Mom.
Nothing really ever happened. Not at first anyway. Sure, she would forget to put her panties back on some nights, one night staggering upstairs to her bed, where I listened to her masturbate, loudly, even saying my name over and over a time or two.
And I admit it turned me on. I masturbated with her, standing near the fire with my eyes closed, listening to her moans and her drunkenly begging for her son's big cock.
I came harder than I'd ever come in my life. Then I would fall asleep exhausted, dreaming of my mother and imagining that life would be this way forever.
But then she changed everything in one night, sliding under the blankets with me, her hands wandering from my chest to my big hard cock and full balls. She fell asleep that first night holding my cock. But the next night, and the night after that, she slid deeper into her fantasies until one cold morning in early March.
She'd drank less that night, the two of us having a normal conversation, mostly about Charlotte and Dad, the possible return home. There were some tears, some sighs, some holding each other in our arms, her shaking and sobbing and dreaming of our old life, or at least hers.
We fell asleep on the couch, her settling into a peaceful slumber with a crackling fire casting heat and shadows over the big room. I fell asleep too, feeling for the first time in months that our adventure was ending.
It must have been close to 4 in the morning when Mom began to stir, turning toward me, her face inches from mine, her hands sliding around me, down my back until she was grasping my bare ass.
I was awake but my eyes were closed when I felt her hot breath against my face, her lips meeting mine, her tongue sliding into my mouth as she moaned quietly and seemed to melt in my arms.
Her breathing quickened and her hips began to push against me, my cock pressing hard against her naked clit. I joined her in the sexual dance, our bodies grinding, our tongues probing.
She draped her leg over mine as I rolled onto my back, finally opening my eyes and seeing my mom over me, rising as her hips rocked, massaging her clit with my cock. And then her eyes were open too, staring into mine, a wry smile on her face.
"Edward," she whispered. "Would you be a dear and fuck me?"
It wasn't a question. I don't think I ever answered her. All I know is she reached between her legs and guided my cock into her wet pussy, gasping as she felt all nine inches sliding in balls deep as she began to rock slowly.
"Mmmmmm," she moaned. "That's it baby. Fuck me. Fuck your mother."
The next morning, I got up early as I normally did. After a cup of coffee and a quick scan of the news and sports, I walked back into the cabin to find my mother in a robe I'd never seen before.
"You look nice, Mom," I told her as I sat at the table, ready for what I assumed would be a long and serious talk.
She seemed fine though, leaning down to kiss me on the lips, her hand sliding down my back, her robe opening just enough to reveal those perfect tits.
"I think last night, or this morning was..." she cut off her sentence.
"Was what, Mom?"
"Well," she said, "it was amazing. And it was wrong. But it was so fucking hot."
She stood behind me, rubbing my ears seductively, running her fingers across my lips. I felt my cock stirring, and I could feel her looking at my growing bulge in my pants.
There was something else in the air that I couldn't quite put a finger on. Our emotions were running wild, as were our hormones. The cabin still smelled of the night before, which made my cock hard and seemed to make Mom horny too.
I leaned back in my chair as she stood behind me, opening her robe and letting it fall to the floor. I felt her hand run down my arm to my stomach and then across my bulge.
"Mmmmmm," we both moaned.
"Baby," she whispered, "Last night was the best night..."
Again she stopped but this time we both knew why.
There were footsteps on the porch outside and then a knock at the door. It was Ranger Dan. He was wearing a mask. The pandemic had begun.
We invited him in, but he just shook his head.
"I can't," he said gravely. "New rules from the Department of Interior. Just have to let you guys know that I won't be coming by as much, if at all. I might not have a job for much longer. If you guys have family down there, you might want to call them. I think we're headed for a lockdown."
My mom tied her robe tighter and put her hand on my back as we listened to the Park Ranger describe the situation spreading across the nation. But as he talked, we were both thinking the same thing. We'd been in lockdown since December. Now it would be official.
Neither of us were going anywhere anytime soon. We were, for all intents and purposes, a couple.
PART TWO
Sitting here on the front porch of the old cabin, the snow has begun to fall again. The ground is already covered from previous storms, and once again the roads in and out of our camp are slick and dangerous.
That's fitting in this, our third winter up here in the North Carolina mountains.
It was a big winter storm that trapped us here the week before Christmas 2019, the beginning of our journey into the unknown. Then came the pandemic and a national lockdown that lasted a year, and now it appears that the virus is once again affecting people in the lowlands, so we decided to ride it out for another holiday season.
Just the two of us.
It's a story that one would say will be something to tell the grandchildren. But that seems to be a strange concept for now. See, for three winters we've been living here far from civilization with barely any contact with the outside world, just two people making do in the time of the coronavirus.
Just me and my mother.
My name is Edward, a name given to me by my adopted parents who then called me Edwin for my entire life, a nickname I hated and eagerly trashed once I began college. That was five years ago, a lifetime it seems.
I'd just finished work for my Masters, coming home to begin a new life as a paperback writer, or so I hoped. After so many quiet days and loud nights, I've indeed made a decent living writing freelance stories for various publications and have finally finished the draft for my first novel.
But to be honest, I'm not sure how to start it now. It was going to be a love story of a young man and woman starting a life in the big city, but since I haven't seen anything resembling a city in so long, I don't think I'm going to be able to write it.
My life has been altered by events and elements beyond my control, and if I ever make it back down off this mountain, then maybe I can write it.
But first, I'd have to figure out what to do with my mother.
I came home in 2019 to find her on the front porch of our house in Charlotte, bags packed and crying. My dad, it seemed, had started cheating on her again, this time with a secretary from his law firm, and this time, Mom wasn't about to let it slide.
She'd retained a lawyer who happened to be my father's bitter rival and legal nemesis, and the proceedings had quickly become toxic. Dad was refusing to leave the house, so Mom decided to head to the hills and wait for the checks to start flowing in.
Which they have.
I think she knew I was coming home that week, but I'll never know. All I remember is driving into the driveway, helping her throw her bags into our old Land Rover and then following her from the Queen City to the Smoky Mountains and our cabin high atop Balsam Ridge.
It was the beginning of the end of life as I knew it.
We left Charlotte in a driving rainstorm, vaguely aware that snow was forecast for the Smokies but not realizing that the forecast had changed in the hours before our departure.
We barely made it to the cabin, Mom in the Land Rover and me following in my little red BMW convertible, which I left in a snowbank a half mile short of our land, where it would sit untouched for months.
I hiked through five inches of powder, all uphill, finally reaching the cabin just as Mom unloaded the first of her suitcases. By the time we got all her stuff inside, there was 10 inches of new snow, which was coming down so hard you couldn't see two yards in front of you.
It snowed heavily for three straight days, trapping us inside the cabin twenty miles from the nearest store, no electricity, no wireless, no heat and no way of letting anyone on earth know that we were there.
Except a forest ranger and my dad, who was so mad at my mother that he never bothered to check on her. He had no idea I was even up here.
I walked into the cabin that evening, stomping snow from my penny loafers, shivering and near frostbite when Mom collapsed onto an old leather couch and began to cry uncontrollably.
I tried to console her, but I was so cold I was no help. I could barely talk with my teeth chattering and my body shivering. Eventually I got up, covered her in an old Indian blanket and began to fidget with the generator outside and the propane fireplace Dad had installed the winter before.
Thank God, I said when the gas whooshed and the flame caught and voila! We had light. We had heat. We had hope.
We slowly began to talk, Mom reliving her last few weeks at home and me describing my last few weeks as a college student. We managed to relax, partly from the bottle of whiskey I pulled out of the liquor cabinet. In a couple of hours, my mother was passed out on the couch and I began going through the cabin checking on provisions.
Mom had called ahead and arranged for the old forest ranger to haul food and water to the cabin before she arrived. He'd stocked the place with provisions, which basically saved our lives since we didn't see another human being supertoto yeni giriş (https://ivycreekes.com/bahis/supertotobet/) for two weeks.
It was Ranger Dan who knocked on the door one morning to see if we were alive.
I hugged him when I saw him on the porch, and Mom cried again. We'd known him for years, and this wasn't the first time he'd been a life saver for city dwellers trapped in the mountains.
He'd killed bears and mountain lions, timber rattlers and wild boar, all to keep flatlanders alive, most of them having more money than sense. But, as he mentioned to us before he left, he'd never seen two people come up in the dead of winter in the middle of a blizzard and live to tell about it.
We thanked him, paid him and tipped him and gave him a list of things we would need before I would be able to drive down to Cherokee and gather things we sorely needed.
Anyway, that's the backdrop for the tale I'm about to tell, one that amazes me to even think something like this could happen to a woman and her son in the middle of a worldwide pandemic.
It's the story of Edward and Sarah Martin, son and mother, an account of two people thrown together and left to fend for ourselves, trying to make a temporary life together under stressful and strange circumstances, with the knowledge that deep down, we were just two humans trapped in a world we did not invent, each of us with the same human frailties and suppressed feelings and urges that would make for a great Lifetime movie.
A Family Christmas in the Smokies. Only this Christmas would last a lot longer than two hours of TV drama. And ultimately, it wouldn't be suited for television at all.
My mom, now a 39-year-old former soccer mom, is a gorgeous woman. She's always been the most beautiful creature I've ever seen, and I had several close friends, teachers, coaches and dads though the years beg me to set them up with her, which I never did.
I've always wondered if she would've done it, gone out on my dad that is. They were never that close, as far as I knew. They'd married young and tried for a few years to have a kid. They finally adopted me when I was two, and thus set off a strange life of mom doting over me, dad ignoring me, eventually crushing her by sending me away to boarding schools, summer camps and anything else he could think of to keep us apart.
I didn't exactly hate him. I just never knew him. Mom, as I would find out, seethed inside and waited for the day she could take her revenge. I had no idea how deep her hatred of him went. Or would go.
He took her for granted and treated her as property, which is ironically how she approached the divorce, taking him for millions, leaving him in that big house on Queens Road.
The money flowed into her accounts, which made her rich beyond her imagination, not that it made much difference to us these past three winters. But as soon as we get off this mountain, I imagine she'll roll back into Charlotte one of the richest people in the city.
Here in the hills, we've lived like settlers. Granted, we have the best of everything from propane heaters and hot showers to that great big fireplace on one end of the stone cabin and a great big stove at the other.
We have a freezer that holds more steaks than we'll ever eat, so we could conceivably live up here forever. And for a while there, it looked like we just might.
But from the very beginning, we both assumed we would both be back in Charlotte by New Year's Day.
New Year's Day came and went as did the new year itself.
"Edwin!"
I never could get her to call me Edward.
"Edwin, would you be a dear and make me another drink?"
Mom started drinking almost every day once it became clear that we would be staying in the cabin a lot longer than we planned. She also started walking around with fewer clothes on, often going all day in nothing but panties and a sweatshirt.
She's a striking woman, tall and thin with dark skin from her distant Cherokee heritage. She had an athletic body, a perfectly toned ass and firm round tits, not too big or small, but likely never to sag. Her tits were darker than most white women, her areolas slightly swollen, her nipples small but hard as pencil erasers, which showed though everything she wore.
Which wasn't much.
The combination of drinking and her lack of clothes made for interesting conversations, most of which she never remembered the next day. I started spending a lot of time outside, rocking on the porch drinking coffee, pondering my future, writing drafts of stories and tinkering with the outline for my book.
The generator was a lifesaver, giving us the power we needed for everything from lights, the freezer and especially, our cellphones and my laptop. I was on the porch when Mom called.
I stuck my head in the door and saw her bundled up on the couch under that old Indian blanket with a wry smile on her face. She was drunk again. I never scolded her or refused to freshen her drinks. She supertoto giriş (https://ivycreekes.com/bahis/supertotobet/) drank a little of everything since Dad had stocked the liquor cabinet with all sorts of alcohol.
Vodka had become her go-to drink, straight vodka with just a splash of water.
"C'mere," she slurred as I walked from the bar. She was patting the couch beside her. "Come sid down with your ol' Mom."
I obliged, sitting next to her as she opened the blanket and covered me. I caught a glimpse of her tits as she adjusted the cover. As far as I could tell, she was naked. She sipped her drink at first, giggling like a little girl, then took a big swig, leaning forward and placing the glass on the coffee table. She was indeed naked, her ass peeking out as she leaned over.
"Edwin, what are we going to do?"
I shrugged and tried to reassure her.
"Mom, there's no pressure to do anything," I said. "I'm happy up here. I'm getting some work done. But if you want to go back to Charlotte, let me know."
She reached around my shoulder and hugged me, her tits pressing against me, and she showed no embarrassment or concern. She put her head on my shoulder and fell asleep.
That became something of a routine for us as December ran into January and then into February, all the while I planned our return to reality and Mom waffled back and forth. I was content to stay up there, even if Mom wanted to go home. But one day she wanted to return to Quail Hollow Club and her tennis friends and wine-drinking buddies and then the next she'd get a text from her lawyer letting her know that she's made $50,000 in her investments in one day.
She wasn't spending a dime of it up here in the hills. Deep down, she wanted to return as the richest woman in Charlotte, to throw it all in Dad's face and begin to slowly ruin his life.
It was a devious plot, and it was fueled by hate, greed and alcohol, but Mom's lawyer was ruthless and from 200 miles away, my mother was all in. And things would've worked out seamlessly for her, according to her conniving plan, had two things not happened.
One, the pandemic hit. And two, she began to hit on me. It was the beginning of a slow spiral into madness.
Sure, she was hammered, so she had plausible deniability. In fact, she had almost no memory of anything from one day to the next. So our daily lives were like a repeat of the day before, which was then washed away in waves of vodka and drunken sleep, interrupted by great home-cooked meals, laughter and playful flirting.
Until it was no longer playful.
The funny thing about being locked in, as we all know now, is that roles change, old norms are altered and we all become different people, different couples, different families. We know now that some families fractured under the stress, some couples divorced, some kids rebelled, friends broke up along political and medical arguments, everyday life as we knew it ceased to exist.
The void that was created as a result required something to fill it, something to take its place, sometimes radical, sometimes unheard of, sometimes inappropriate. Though even those definitions changed.
For my mother and I, our roles changed the moment I came home, the moment Mom caught my dad cheating, the moment she hired the most heartless lawyer in Charlotte to go after my him.
Everything shifted after that. I was already embarking on a new period in my life, post college. Mom, on the other hand, was set free for the first time in a generation, her husband suddenly her worst enemy, her friends immediately taking sides, some of them disappearing altogether.
So the move to the hills made sense. It should've been a nice getaway from the old order, and for a few weeks it was. It didn't help that we were basically stranded, but even as the snow and ice melted, the fire that burned inside my mother intensified.
She needed an outlet for that anger, the urges, the emotions, and there was only one person in her world.
Me.
So it started slowly and has built into a raging storm that has yet to subside. Cabin fever set in. My mother was going crazy. Stir crazy.
She woke up one early morning in late February, wobbling down the wooden staircase into the half-lit room below where I'd begun to sleep on the old leather couch in front of the giant stone fireplace.
The flames would die down just before sunrise, and the old cabin would go from cozy and warm to dark and cold.
I was under two blankets when I sensed a presence over me, the silhouette of my mom standing unsteadily beside the couch. She leaned down and kissed me on the mouth, not saying a word, then sliding next to me, under the blankets, naked as a jaybird.
We'd been a lot more playful in the evenings than ever before, her kidding me about my young body, me chiding her for walking around in little to no clothing, her going as far as mentioning the bulge in my pants, which I admit had become a constant.
I had no way of knowing that she'd supertoto güvenilirmi (https://ivycreekes.com/bahis/supertotobet/) been enamored with the bulge in my pants for years, secretly admiring it, maybe even in the presence of my dad. Was that why he resented me? Was that why he sent me away?
I never knew my real parents. I never wanted to. But my birth father must have had a huge cock, because I sure did. I'd never been more aware of it than now. And neither had Mom.
Nothing really ever happened. Not at first anyway. Sure, she would forget to put her panties back on some nights, one night staggering upstairs to her bed, where I listened to her masturbate, loudly, even saying my name over and over a time or two.
And I admit it turned me on. I masturbated with her, standing near the fire with my eyes closed, listening to her moans and her drunkenly begging for her son's big cock.
I came harder than I'd ever come in my life. Then I would fall asleep exhausted, dreaming of my mother and imagining that life would be this way forever.
But then she changed everything in one night, sliding under the blankets with me, her hands wandering from my chest to my big hard cock and full balls. She fell asleep that first night holding my cock. But the next night, and the night after that, she slid deeper into her fantasies until one cold morning in early March.
She'd drank less that night, the two of us having a normal conversation, mostly about Charlotte and Dad, the possible return home. There were some tears, some sighs, some holding each other in our arms, her shaking and sobbing and dreaming of our old life, or at least hers.
We fell asleep on the couch, her settling into a peaceful slumber with a crackling fire casting heat and shadows over the big room. I fell asleep too, feeling for the first time in months that our adventure was ending.
It must have been close to 4 in the morning when Mom began to stir, turning toward me, her face inches from mine, her hands sliding around me, down my back until she was grasping my bare ass.
I was awake but my eyes were closed when I felt her hot breath against my face, her lips meeting mine, her tongue sliding into my mouth as she moaned quietly and seemed to melt in my arms.
Her breathing quickened and her hips began to push against me, my cock pressing hard against her naked clit. I joined her in the sexual dance, our bodies grinding, our tongues probing.
She draped her leg over mine as I rolled onto my back, finally opening my eyes and seeing my mom over me, rising as her hips rocked, massaging her clit with my cock. And then her eyes were open too, staring into mine, a wry smile on her face.
"Edward," she whispered. "Would you be a dear and fuck me?"
It wasn't a question. I don't think I ever answered her. All I know is she reached between her legs and guided my cock into her wet pussy, gasping as she felt all nine inches sliding in balls deep as she began to rock slowly.
"Mmmmmm," she moaned. "That's it baby. Fuck me. Fuck your mother."
The next morning, I got up early as I normally did. After a cup of coffee and a quick scan of the news and sports, I walked back into the cabin to find my mother in a robe I'd never seen before.
"You look nice, Mom," I told her as I sat at the table, ready for what I assumed would be a long and serious talk.
She seemed fine though, leaning down to kiss me on the lips, her hand sliding down my back, her robe opening just enough to reveal those perfect tits.
"I think last night, or this morning was..." she cut off her sentence.
"Was what, Mom?"
"Well," she said, "it was amazing. And it was wrong. But it was so fucking hot."
She stood behind me, rubbing my ears seductively, running her fingers across my lips. I felt my cock stirring, and I could feel her looking at my growing bulge in my pants.
There was something else in the air that I couldn't quite put a finger on. Our emotions were running wild, as were our hormones. The cabin still smelled of the night before, which made my cock hard and seemed to make Mom horny too.
I leaned back in my chair as she stood behind me, opening her robe and letting it fall to the floor. I felt her hand run down my arm to my stomach and then across my bulge.
"Mmmmmm," we both moaned.
"Baby," she whispered, "Last night was the best night..."
Again she stopped but this time we both knew why.
There were footsteps on the porch outside and then a knock at the door. It was Ranger Dan. He was wearing a mask. The pandemic had begun.
We invited him in, but he just shook his head.
"I can't," he said gravely. "New rules from the Department of Interior. Just have to let you guys know that I won't be coming by as much, if at all. I might not have a job for much longer. If you guys have family down there, you might want to call them. I think we're headed for a lockdown."
My mom tied her robe tighter and put her hand on my back as we listened to the Park Ranger describe the situation spreading across the nation. But as he talked, we were both thinking the same thing. We'd been in lockdown since December. Now it would be official.
Neither of us were going anywhere anytime soon. We were, for all intents and purposes, a couple.
PART TWO