proper, tasteful quiet of the living room, I knew that’s what I was straining to see. Not breasts or bosoms as it said in books, but tits. Mother’s tits.
That shook me. Mother’s tits? Put that way it was shocking. The phrase seemed impossible. One didn’t speak of his mother’s tits. I knew that. And yet… there was a special thrill in it. It was exciting to whisper to myself, “Gunilla’s tits” or “Annie’s tits” but to say the words in my head, “Mother’s tits” was like having the bottom drop out of my stomach, and my mind reeling. “Mother’s tits. Mother’s big, white, soft, nippled tits.” Wonderful.
And yet, somehow, it was terrible. I looked at her again. She sat there so fine. So decent. A lady. My mother. It seemed impossible to think of her any other way. She was a cultivated lady, the essence of propriety, tact, kindness, decency, motherliness. My mind filled with all the images of motherhood: gentle madonna-like women with tender faces bending over little babies. Mothers were sacred. More sacred than anything in the world. Purity itself. I could feel my eyes misting as the love for her rose in my throat. The love, and the sense of her purity. How could I…
I looked into her eyes. Gray beauty. Quiet. Aristocratic refinement. But at the same time, a voice in me wouldn’t be stilled. It said: “Mother’s tits! Remember her pulling her dress up in the orphanage. Remember her body trembling against you when you helped her get her dress on. Remember how she looked swelling her panties. Remember how that lovely ass looked. Mother’s beautiful ass! Don’t lie to yourself.”
Luckily, this again brought me to my senses. God, what a monster I was. How could anyone look on such cleanness and think such dirty things. I looked into the clear coolness of her gray eyes. Everything that was peaceful and noble was there.
“I worship you,” I said in my head. “Thou art purity. Thou art my mother and sacred.” She crossed her legs!
I had seen the motion with my peripheral vision. Instinctively, my eyes darted down. Crossing her legs had pulled her skirt in such a way that the underside of her left thigh was visible all the way, or, rather, it would be from a little lower. I was too high. I began to slide down in my chair, hoping it wouldn’t be noticeable. I could see the underside of the thigh. I could see how it shone in the stretched stocking. I could see the dark bands at the top of the stocking that signaled the border of flesh. I could even see a tiny bit of white flesh! I had to see morel But how? I couldn’t slide down any further. Already it was dangerous. But I had to see. The way her legs were, I would be able to see between them if I were sitting on the floor. But how could I? I couldn’t just sit down at her feet and stare up her dress! But I had to do something. The wildness had gone too far in me to hold it in check now.
Drop something, I thought. That’s it. Drop something, then look as you pick it up. My spoon! I picked up the coffee again, drank a little, then put it back. As I did so, I managed to dislodge the spoon. There it was on the floor. All I had to do was bend down for it. And look. Impossible. But I had to. I bent down suddenly, put my hand on the spoon, and looked.
Whiteness, flesh, silk, lace. It was all a confusion. My mind was so frantic that it couldn’t take in anything. I sat up in a kind of whirl. Bewildered by joy and frustration.
“What are you looking at, Lars?” It was Mother’s voice coming through my confusion with a terrible clarity.
“What were you looking at?” she asked again. I looked and her eyes were direct, almost calm. Her legs had not moved. I could not say anything. I just gaped at her.
“Come, Lars, tell me. What were you looking at?”
All sense of power, joy, everything but terror fled me. I tried hard to be calm. But I couldn’t. Somehow I managed: “Why, uh, nothing, Mother. I wasn’t looking at anything…”
“If we are going to be close, Lars, you will have to learn to be honest with me. Come now, you were staring at something; tell me what it was, Lars.”
I could not pull myself together. I fumbled wildly for words. I said: “But-uh-really I-uh was-uh-well-just picking up my sp-spoon.” I looked at her my eyes full of terror.
“Were you looking at my legs, Lars?” Her voice was cool with a slight tone of authority. And she kept looking at me. I didn’t know what to do.
“Lars, you must be truthful! You do look. You did the first time I saw you in the orphanage. And again at breakfast yesterday. And last night, in the mirror, while I was dressing behind the screen. I’ve seen you. And you were trying to look up my dress just now when you dropped your spoon. Why do you look, Lars? Is it because I am a woman? Is that it? But I am your mother, Lars. Do you think it’s right that you should look at your mother?”
I stared helplessly agape. What could I say? Even if I wasn’t fourteen, what could I say?
“Lars, more important than anything in the world is for you to be honest with me, and open. Only so can we ever hope to be close. You can tell me anything, Lars. Anything! Even if it seems shameful or dirty! What is it you really want to see so badly? Is it my legs? They are only legs, Lars.” She took her skirt and pulled it half way up exposing her thighs only partially covered by her white slip. “Is this why you were trying to see up my dress, Lars? To peek at my thighs?” Despite myself I stared, not only from my eagerness to see, but also caught by the sudden indecency of her movement. Of the situation. As I gaped, she slowly pulled the slip away and the skirt still higher so that I could see more and more. The tops of the stockings appeared. Slowly the skirt moved higher. Suddenly there was the nude flesh, white and gleaming! So full and round and secret.
I was terrified. But below the level of terror the leopards, roused from the beginning, still prowled, hungry. And I feasted my eyes on the forbidden flesh of her. It was all I could do not to touch it!
I could hear her low, soft voice coming from a distance:
“Is that what you wanted so, Lars? Or do you need more? Are you still unsatisfied? Are you greedy to see my privacy? Is it more that you want to see? Is it this?” She squirmed her body slightly and pulled the skirt up almost to her waist. “There are my legs for you. What you wanted. Does that satisfy you, Lars, now that I’ve allowed you so much of me? But perhaps you want more. Did you see enough before, Lars, when you dropped your spoon? Imagine if you dropped it now with my skirt out of the way. Do you want to drop the spoon now, Lars?”
She was staring at me and speaking in the same tone, but something else came into her voice now, and the wildness was back in the edges of her eyes. I was helpless. I didn’t understand anything. Terror and desire fought wars of carnage in my blood. I could not speak. I could only stare at her and shake.
“Do you want to drop the spoon now? Do you want to see everything?” Her legs began to open a little, and a little more. I looked up. Her mouth opened slightly. She slid down in her chair. Her legs opened more. My eyes were devouring her. But I still couldn’t see all the way. “Still not satisfied, Lars? My legs are bare completely, and open. You still look hungry. What if you dropped your spoon now, Lars? Is there anything you wouldn’t see? Do you want to, Lars? Remember what you are doing. You are looking up your mother. Do you think that’s right? Do you think it decent? Don’t you think you should respect your mother, Lars? Should you be looking at her with her dress pulled up like this?” My mind was tearing itself apart. Here was Mother trying to give me a last chance to prove there was something decent in me. Despite all I’d done, she would still forgive me. If I would just look away. There she lay sprawled in the chair, her legs open, nude. Even more nude because of the long silken stockings. And the high heels. Her skirt was gathered in her lap, just concealing where her panties would be. If she was wearing any!
“It’s wrong, Lars. Very wrong. Sinful. It is not fit for a little boy to sit looking at his mother like this. And yet you are still not satisfied. You want to see her most secret part. The part that no man but a woman’s husband is allowed to see. And certainly a part of his mother that no son should want to look at. But you do want. Well, why don’t you, Lars?” A great waterfall plunged through me. I turned the spoon round and round. It was impossible. Now that she knew, now that she was watching me. I couldn’t.
“You want to, Lars. You want to look at your mother’s most secret body. Well, Lars, why not? If you want to, why don’t you? Drop the spoon, Lars!”
The mechanism was jammed in my brain. But my fingers opened of themselves-and the spoon dropped on the rug. Neither of us moved. We stared at each other with a strange intensity. Nobody spoke. Then I reached down for the spoon…
Something was telling me to retrieve the spoon without looking, but just as my fingers touched it, my head of itself turned and my eyes searched deep to the source of my mother’s privacy. There were the legs, the soft flesh, white. Moon flesh. Goddess flesh. And the slip pulled away-pulled even more away as I looked! I saw the shadows on the upper part of her thigh. The sheen of flesh on the soft inner sides of her thighs. How the skin darkened subtly just before her crotch… before the mound of the white panties at the end, where her cunt was. Mother’s cunt under Mother’s cunt hair. Her legs were a reversed telescope looking into paradise-the panties the silken gate which closed me out. Then my eyes raised to meet hers.
