Incest/Taboo The Island of I

As always, this is a work of fiction and all characters therein are fictional, existing solely within the confines of my imagination

I cannot honestly say that the first time I set eyes on Isprey Island that I harbored feelings of dismay and horror, although loathing might have been a dominant emotion. I remember that it was green and verdant, a beacon of furious life in a dark, gray and very forbidding ocean. I remember seeing the house for the first time, rising up on the side of the dominant hillside like a great, white fortress. I remember that I had just turned eighteen and that I was eager, ravenous almost to get on with my life and frustrated that instead that I would be spending the summer before university with my parents in this isolated, primitive place.

My father, Thomas Halloran, a professor of literature of rather infamous reputation, had taken a sabbatical from Miskatonic University -- no doubt to the relief of his students and many of his peers in order to do research on a relatively unknown author from early medieval England named William Isprey. My father's academic specialty had been Nordic bards, but near the time of my birth, he had come into possession of a Renaissance era treatise examining the writings of one William Isprey from the late 900s AD, an account of his adventures with a party of Viking adventurers who had established a colony on Isprey Island, some three hundred miles off the coast of Maine.

Most experts had discounted the writings as fiction, an almost quaint tale of adventure and horror that invoked images of worshipping Dark Gods and questing for arcane power, My father, however, had become obsessed with the treatise and had spent most of my life searching for fragments of Isprey's work, particularly a piece my father called, "The Summoning."

For years, Father had sought to gather the means to visit and do work on Isprey Island which had been associated with William Isprey since before the arrival of the Pilgrims in the early 1600s. The happiest I've ever seen my father is when he brought home from a research trip to Saint Petersburg, an ancient map marked with Nordic runes and Latin words and was purported to be a Viking sailing chart dated from the 1100s which clearly marked a tiny island off the coast of North America as Isprey's Island.

Since the time of the arrival of the Puritans, various folk have dwelt on the island, albeit not for long, the island claimed and disinherited in turn by the English, the French, Massachusetts, and Maine. Individuals have built homes there, only to sell or abandon them. The last was a wealthy recluse who built a substantial Cape Cod house there in the late 1880s and which has been rented out time and time again after his suicide in 1913.

Others have done archaeological research there, confirming that a group of Viking colonists had established a settlement, intermittently maintained between the years 900 -- 1100. Along with artifacts of a Viking outpost was evidence that some Native American groups had been on the island over the centuries with the findings suggesting that it had been a site of some religious significance.

Now, my father hoped to make his contribution to the history of Isprey Island and perhaps find evidence that would lend credence to William Isprey and his work being more that fanciful fiction. On rare occasions, Father would share some of his work with Mother and me, but it held little interest for me -- Father's translations and suppositions making it sound like Isprey was merely a madman, seeking to call upon long forgotten ancient gods he referred to as the Old Ones to grant him power.

I knew that in this summer of Father's research, my purpose was to simply be his slave laborer and that the many shovels and axes and other tools he had gathered and had loaded on our charter boat would be utilized by me to clear away brush or to dig for his proposed evidence. Father had offered vague hints that he was sure of the location of a site where Isprey had actually conducted his rituals and that once uncovered, it would allow him to offer up "incontrovertible" proof of his theories about William Isprey. When my father talked of such things, I knew that in his faraway stares he was seeing himself accepting the Nobel Prize for Literature or some such damn fool thing for all his years of sacrifice and ridicule.

The truth was that it was actually Mother who had born the sacrifice and ridicule that others heaped on Father's ideas. Father never paid attention to the derision of others. It was Mother that suffered the pains that the sneers and isolation that the academic community inflicted. Father never paid attention to us either. For my entire life, his place in our lives was an almost constant vacuum as he closeted himself off in his office, pouring over old manuscripts or sequestered himself deep in the older vaults of Miskatonic's library, seeking amongst their immense collection for clues or answers to his obsession. Often, when he could find funding, he would be off doing research in Europe or the Middle East.

Mother never complained, but always gave me a sad smile when I complained bitterly about being abandoned by Father, telling me in her always gentle way, "His work is important, John. He loves us in his way and provides for us...in his way and we must love him back as much as we can."

Ah, that was my mother in a nutshell...gentle and loving and never complaining. From my earliest memories, she always seemed beautiful, sad and wan, her golden blonde hair framing her pale face, her skin like flawless porcelain. I remember even now glancing at her as we stood on the prow of the fishing trawler Father had chartered to transport us to Isprey's Island, her long, modest white dress flapping in the sea breeze, her hair streaming behind her in the bracing breeze, a barely hinted expression of dismay on her face as she studied the verdant isle growing larger before us.

Mother noticed me glancing at her and reached out to place her hand over mine, her soft fingers trembling slightly as she did so. "Perhaps we'll enjoy ourselves despite the isolation, John -- our chance to truly get away from it all." Her fingers squeezed my hand wrapped around the safety railing. "And it does give me a last opportunity to spend time with my only child before he ventures off into the world and makes his own mark." She smiled at me lovingly as she always had, the love that was evident in her face tainted by the always lingering sadness.

I tried to smile bravely back and to be encouraging. Realizing it was lame even as I said it, I replied, "I will come home to visit, Mother...as often as I can!" Mother smiled at me, her eyes growing glassy with tears as she knew that my words were a lie. I hoped to put the gloomy, dark world of my father and Meskatonic University behind me forever. In my clothes chest rested my acceptance letter to Stanford and I already knew that once I was in the embrace of California, I would never return.

As we approached the dock, a somewhat disturbing odor alerted me to the nearness of our ship's captain, Horace Waltern, a scruffy, pot-bellied old salt who smelled of cheap wine and sardines at all times. Father had charted his boat, "The Vulgar Harpy," to carry us out to the Island...a journey of nearly two days. In the next three months, he was to be our only contact with the outside world, bringing in fresh food and supplies every three weeks.

"Just ye look at her...never seen such a green place in this bitch of an ocean before...'taint natural." He spoke the words into my ear, making me nauseous with his foul alcohol and fish breath. Even before I turned however, I knew that his eyes would be roaming lasciviously over my mother. He had lingered near her whenever his duties could spare him...even now as we approached the simple dock of the island, he had left the navigation of his boat to his first mate, a sullen Indian who rarely spoke. I suppose it was only natural that men would look at my mother so. Despite being her son, I recognized that Mother was a beautiful woman, tall and very bountifully blessed as it were with what father had once laughingly called an "hour-glass" figure.

Mother ignored his rude stares and said, "It does seem odd, but Thomas tells me that that the island's lush foliage is due to the Gulf Stream and that most years, it flows around the island, its warmth making it green and ripe much as it does England across the sea."

Captain Waltern licked his lips as he stared at the swell of Mother's breasts, barely hinted at her mostly buttoned up dress. "Maybe, ma'am, but it's a wrong place...unnatural and I'll keep you in my prayers every night."

I snorted in derision, knowing that if the captain thought of my mother at night, it would not be in prayer that he would be engaged. His vulgarity made me ache to simply push him into the freezing waters of the Atlantic for thinking such lewd things about my mother. He turned to glare at me, but before he could say anything, Father strode up, already looking impatient and said, "Captain Waltern -- I would appreciate you expediting the transfer of our cargo to the docks as soon as possible. My time on the island will be limited and there is not be a moment to waste."

Father was a formidable looking man, years of reading in dimly lit libraries at faintly scribbled works had left him with a hostile squint that combined with his stocky frame made him look like a brawler in a common tavern. The captain glared at my father for a moment, irritated to be ordered about so, but then nodded and said, "We'll see to it." He gave Mother one last leering glance and stomped away, hollering at his deck hands to see to our gear.

As the engines ceased their roar, the first mate brought us deftly up to the dock where to my surprise a man and woman stood waiting. The man was young and I would have guessed him to be my age or maybe a bit older -- his hair black and curly, a lean wiry frame clothed in a sleeveless T-shirt and faded and frayed workpants. He had one arm wrapped possessively around the woman's shoulders and as I walked down the gangplank, leading Mother by the hand, I could see the woman was much older than the young man -- her long wiry black hair laced with gray and pulled back tightly into a bun with a gleaming silver needle stabbed into it to hold it in place.

She wore a modest servant's dress -- an apron wrapped around her waist. The male in me appreciated her obvious health and solid and womanly appearance. Her legs were thick, but shapely below the hem of her dress, feet in sturdy work shoes while the bodice of her dress swelled from her completely covered but obviously huge breasts. Her skin, like the young man's was of an olive cast, but I was unable to ascertain their ethnicity. Her face was wide and expressive, an anxious smile etched there as she watched Mother and Father and myself approach. Mayhap she wasn't a beauty as reckoned by modern standards, but there was an aura of loveliness about her and a frank and raw sexuality that reminded me of the paintings of Rueben that hung in the art gallery at Meskatonic University.

"Mister Halloran, we've been expecting you," she said with more than a hint of an accent in her voice which sounded pleased and happy, yet nervous.

"Antonia...and young Hector, isn't it? You've grown, lad." Father extended his hand and shook the young man's firmly, then leaned in and kissed the woman on the cheek. "Everything is ready at the house?"

She nodded and said, "Of course, Mister Halloran. You will love it -- it is a grand place. She turned her gaze to me and my mother, waiting several seconds before my father remembered to introduce us.

"Of course...my apologies, dear," he said gruffly to Mother. "Carmen, may I present Antonia Grabelia and her son Hector. She will be our housekeeper during our stay and Hector will work the grounds and be a jack of all trades. Antonia, this is my wife Carmen and our son John."

I took Antonia's hand, a bit startled at the great warmth there, but then distracted and amused as she did an odd little curtsey. "Ma'am," I said simply. Then I shook her son's hand, both of us shaking firmly and taking measure of each other as we made eye contact. He was strong, but I held up my end. We both smiled, finding no fault in each other and nodded in greeting.

"John, I pray you and Hector get along -- I expect to have you both working hard to clear my site.

I nodded and said, "Of course, sir."

I wasn't aware that there was any sarcasm in my voice, but saw Hector catch my gaze, roll his eyes sympathetically and then nod. I felt certain then that we would be friends and that like me, he thought my father to be a pompous ass.

Antonia brushed past me, triggering a bit of a flush as the edge of her large bosom brushed my arm as she moved to take Mother's hands, her breasts jiggling a bit as she reached up on tiptoe and planted kisses on first one cheek and then another. My mother's faced flushed with red at the action, unused as she was to close contact. Back at the University, Mother rarely kept company with other faculty wives, pursuing her own solitary interests of painting and working in her garden.

"I'm very pleased to finally meet you," murmured Mother. "Thomas has talked so much about you from his trips to Ankara and Bucharest."

Antonia smiled proudly and said, "It has always been a pleasure to serve your husband. He has been very generous to Hector and myself. We were thrilled to receive his request to work for him here in America."

Mother nodded, an odd, but still sad smile on her face, "Well, close to America at the very least. I hope we can show you the sights of New England after Thomas completes his research here. New England is so lovely in the fall."

Antonia's smile grew larger and she said, "That would be so wonderful, Missus Halloran." She slipped an arm around Mother's waist and steered her up the dock towards the house. "Come, let us get you settled in. I'm sure after staying on that...degenerate's boat for nearly two days, a hot bath is in order."

Mother laughed, her voice a crystalline joy to hear -- laughter never coming to her easily, as she allowed the other woman to guide her along off the water and up a sandy path that led towards the house on the hillside.

One of the boat's deckhands walked up with a heavy box and handed it to me. As I grunted under the weight, quickly adjusting it so it wouldn't slide from my grasp, he snapped, "Make yourself useful, boy."

I glanced at Hector who was glaring at the deck hand until another handed him an equally heavy box and Father said, "Be lively, lads. Carry that lot up to the house and come back for the rest."

We both turned and struggled for the sandy path, not making a sound until we were well out of range of Father at which point, Hector grinned at me and said, "I imagine all things being equal, you'd rather be in California right now."

I rolled my eyes and replied, "California, Florida, even Hell's looking good right now."

Mother and I quickly discovered we were no longer living in the 20th Century...one might surmise that we'd barely escaped the 19th Century. The house was massive and impressive, constructed by artisans -- every room an architectural delight with exquisite woodwork and moldings, hardwood floors covered by authentic Turkish rugs. The house had electricity, supplied by a fuel oil fed generator that was generally turned off during the day, but lacked a phone or a two-way radio. The stove and water heater were powered by a huge tank of natural gas. A large, antiquated radio sometimes caught a signal from somewhere in Nova Scotia from a station that broadcast mostly in French and favored what I assumed to be polka music.

Still there were some positive aspects of the house. My bedroom alone seemed to be larger than the apartment we'd lived my entire life in. There were at least twenty rooms in the house and every day or two, I seemed to discover another nook or cranny -- once even a "secret passageway" that led from the upstairs hallway down to the "servants quarters" below.

We largely confined ourselves to the upstairs rooms while Antonia and Hector took rooms below -- rooms clearly built as servants' quarters in another day and age. Mother offered them both rooms above, feeling that it was ridiculous to treat them in such a way, but Antonia steadfastly refused and was supported by Father who lectured Mother on maintaining appropriate societal lines. This was emphasized at the evening meal as Antonia refused to allow herself or Hector to sit down and dine with us. Like Mother, I felt awkward being served dinner in the dining room by someone who would then eat her own meal in the more plain kitchen not ten feet away. Lunch and breakfast were more sociable, but were more or less rushed affairs to provide fuel for Hector's and my arduous labors outside.

To our surprise and much to my dismay, behind the house was a large swimming pool, long fallen into disrepair -- extended neglect making it a green slimy pool of algae choked water in which nothing could swim except for the abundance of frogs that would lull us all to sleep at night with their steady and monotonous croaking. Even Mother who as far as I knew had never ventured into the ocean or wore a bathing suit seemed disappointed by the waste of such a potential source of recreation.

We all quickly settled into defined routines. Father turned another upstairs bedroom into his office where he sorted through crates of books and manuscripts and notes that all revolved around his quest to uncover the secrets of William Isprey. When he wasn't prowling about the island, searching for signs and clues, he would isolate himself in his office, quickly taking to sleeping there on a metal cot that Hector and I brought down from the attic -- an action that seemed to deepen the sadness that enveloped my mother.

With Antonia firmly and effectively running the household chores, Mother's routine was a more sedate one. She would take endless walks around the island in search of scenes to paint or she would sit on the balcony that faced the morning sun and practice her art there or would wander the house, carrying a book, seeming sad and lost as she sought a place to read in quiet.

I knew that she was carrying new disappointment in her heart. That Father all but ignored us with his work was nothing new, but I sensed shattered hopes that here in the middle of nowhere amongst only three other people, that he would have paid her a little more attention. Still, she never complained, going about her day often only speaking to me or Antonia...painting or reading or gazing out at the dark and foreboding Atlantic as it never ceased throwing its waves against us.

My life quickly seemed to winnow down to waking up to one of Antonia's huge breakfasts which gave me the fuel to spend the day clearing designated pieces of the estate that had become overgrown with brush and small trees. Hector and I would spend day after day, digging, cutting and dragging off the brush. It was mindless work and we spent hours talking about girls and sports and sports and girls, pausing every so often in surprise as we began to uncover sheets of cut stone laid out in what appeared to be a circular pattern in a thicket of thorny brush to the north of the house.

Each new discovery sent Father into an ecstatic state I'd never witnessed in him before and each one usually resulted in a modification of his instructions on where to clear the brush off next. To my own surprise, the pattern soon became clear to me and Hector and we began anticipating Father's orders, much to his surprise and our secret amusement.

At five o'clock in the afternoon, Hector and I were released from our tasks and we usually cooled down with a quick dip in the ocean before supper. After that, we went our separate ways, Hector taking supper with his mother and then spending the rest of the day with her in their quarters although sometimes I spied them walking hand in hand into the woods on one of the footpaths. My own evenings were generally spent in the company of Mother, both of us reading or playing gin or chess or Mother painting as we conversed -- on rare occasions being joined by Father, he making appearances usually because he had some new insight into his work or had made a new discovery about dreary old William Isprey.

Our one respite from the dreary work was that at Mother's insistence, at noon on Saturday's we could lay our burden down and until Monday morning, Hector and I were free to pursue our own interests which included fishing from the beach, swimming and eventually plotting to resurrect the swimming pool. In the outbuildings near the dock, I had discovered what I believed was the machinery that would pump fresh water into the pool as well as the filtration system that would keep in clean....there were several containers of chemicals for the pool and chemistry was something I was very good at while Hector was very adept at machinery.

With Father's exasperated blessing, we spent many of our spare hours trying to clean the old pool, draining it bucket by bucket and mopping and scrubbing the interior in a near vain effort to bring it back to life. We also studied and worked to put the primitive machinery back into good working order, progressing slowly by trial and error.

Life as I have said, settled into routine, not exciting, but not unbearable either, but gradually, almost imperceptibly, things begin to go awry. In recalling it now, I know now the moment things began to change.

It was the middle of our third week, nearing lunchtime and Hector and I had taken a break, sitting on newly uncovered stone slabs, odd runic symbols etched into them, barely legible due to their suspected ancient age. Hector had passed me the water jug and as I gulped down the cool, spring water, I noticed him squinting slightly back towards the house. I followed his gaze to see Mother standing on the veranda outside her bedroom, gazing out to sea. The sun overhead shone down on her creating a dark outline of her body underneath her long white dress billowing in the never ceasing breeze.

I handed the jug back to Hector and he smiled at me, hoisting the vessel as if in a toast. "Your mother, John...she is a lovely woman." I frowned, not because of the compliment, but because in his eyes I recognized the same base lust I remembered in Captain Waltern's gaze.

I nodded and replied curtly, "Yes, she is."

Hector smiled and studied my scowling face. "Very lovely." He paused and his smile evolved into a broad grin. "Have you ever seen her naked, John?"

His rude question caught me unawares and I was several seconds processing his words. Finally, mustering a tone of outrage, I said, "I beg your pardon?"

Hector held up his hands in a mocking display of defensiveness. "I mean no disrespect. Your mother is a beautiful woman and I appreciate beauty above all things..." He laughed and added, "Especially a naked, beautiful woman. I would think that to see her naked would be a thrilling and wondrous sight!" He dropped one hand to his crotch and lewdly groped it. "An inspiring sight!"

I wanted to be offended, but inside me was that slight thrill one gets when one encounters something evil...something wrong, but still doesn't turn away. I held my hand out for the water jug, saying as I did so, "That's my mother you are talking about!"

I drank more water, feeling both excited and guilty by his words. I was sure I should've been angry with Hector, but I wasn't. I sat the jug down and stared hard at him and why I said what I did next, I do not know. "Hector, your mother is a lovely woman too."

Hector grinned broadly and nodded, "Yes, Mama is beautiful." His face beamed with undisguised pride.

I couldn't help but ask, "Have you ever seen your mother naked, Hector?"

My friend and coworker laughed and slapped his thighs and then surprised me by bringing fingers to his lips and making a sort of kissing gesture. "Absolutely, John! I have seen Mama's naked body many times...she is magnificent. Mama is a man's woman, my friend...so lush and ripe that any real man would weep with joy at the sight of her nakedness and die a happy man for having known her body!" He winked at me and laughed, again making that kissing gesture with his fingers and lips.

I was slack-jawed with astonishment. "My god, man...that's your mother you're talking about!"

Hector snorted in contempt. "Am I not a man that my body shouldn't respond to such beauty?" He shook a scolding finger at me. "When you look at your mother, do you not feel a man's desires welling up inside you?"

I felt myself blushing and said hastily back, "Absolutely not. Good God, Hector, that's my mother!"

Hector shook his head at me in disbelief and replied, "Then you, my friend, are a liar or you are missing...what is the Spanish call it? You are missing your cojones!" He again groped his crotch for emphasis.

I started to snap back an answer I am sure I would have regretted, but Father emerged from the wood and yelled for us to get back to work. Under Hector's bemused stare, we picked up our shovels and axes and trudged towards our next target of wild undergrowth. Hector glanced back at my mother who was still standing on the veranda and said to me softly before we resumed our labor, "Take a long look at your mother tonight, John. Look upon her as a man and tell me you feel nothing."

I felt my face blush as I gave him a quick nod and plunged into my work with the silence of a monk, saying virtually nothing for the remainder of the day. After dinner, at which I could scarcely look at my mother or speak to her as Antonia brought in course after course for our meal, Mother seemed a little disconcerted at my silence which because my father was busy studying a moth-eaten, leather bound manuscript between bites of his food and as usual ignored us, left us with an almost unnerving quietness.

After dinner was over, I took a stroll around the house and was preparing to return to the kitchen when I espied Antonia standing out near the pool, looking down into as if she were assessing our meager process of restoring it. "Missus Antonia, is everything alright?" I called out.

She turned quickly, the hem of her dress rising as she did so, revealing shapely calves with prettily dimpled knees. I became suddenly aware that she had changed out of her housekeeper's uniform and was now in a simple white sundress -- spaghettis straps over her shoulders looking strained under the challenge of retaining her large breasts from doing more than overflowing the scooped neck bodice. In the waning light of the setting sun, the darker skin of her breasts contrasted perfectly with her dress and I remembered her son's words, "Mama is a man's woman, my friend...so lush and ripe that any real man would weep with joy at the sight of her nakedness and die a happy man for having known her body!" Certainly I felt myself respond to her frank sensual beauty as my penis began to swell beneath my jeans.

"Oh, John," she said, smiling happily at me. "I am fine, young master. It is going to be a beautiful evening, is it not? I'm waiting for Hector...he is taking me for a walk so that we might enjoy the twilight together."

"That's...that's nice, Missus Antonia. It is a lovely night."

She smiled at me again, folding her arms below her immense bosom, as if to draw attention to them and then she glanced upwards towards the second floor of the house. I followed her gaze and saw a light go on in my parents' bedroom. "Your mother enjoys her walks too, especially along the beach, I notice." She grinned knowingly at me and said, "She might like some company sometimes too, no?" Her grin faded and she said, "I know your mother gets lonely and your father gets...lost in his work." She shrugged and then smiled at me again, her smile getting broader and more unreadable as the screen door to the kitchen slammed. "Ah, my young man comes...finally. Good night, John."

I nodded to her and replied, "Good night, Missus Antonia."

I turned and headed towards the kitchen steps, Hector pausing as he passed me, stopping me for a moment as he put his hand on my arm. "Don't forget, John. Tonight, look upon your mother as a man." He smiled and patted my back as he moved to join his mother. "We will talk more tomorrow."

I watched him jog towards his mother and then taking her by the hand leading her off past the pool and onto one of the footpaths that led into the woods. The way they moved together, laughing and joking as mother looked happily up at son made me feel as if I was peeking on two people sharing something private and intimate and I confess that it both disturbed me and aroused me. I returned to the house feeling confused and anxious.

Despite Antonia's and Hector's words, I was unable to break the silence that lingered in the air between Mother and me. We settled into the upstairs parlor, both of us reading...me in an overstuffed, leather wingback chair, one leg draped carelessly over an arm and Mother curled up on the matching leather sofa. She was engrossed in what she called a "bodice ripper" with a well muscled, bare-chested man taking a young woman into his arms, her breasts threatening to spill from her torn blouse...books that always drew sneers of contempt from Father, but which Mother seemed to adore. I was working my way through a boxed collection of old Mickey Spillane paperbacks I had discovered in the upstairs library, amused by the antics of the booze-swilling, two fisted detective. In truth, the covers of those paperbacks were as crude as those that Mother was reading.

As the evening deepened, I looked up from my novel to find Mother asleep, her chin dipped down and her eyes closed, her book closed with one finger marking her place. "Look upon your mother as a man," Hector's voice said to me out of the air, making me jump and then laugh. My own imagination had run away from me, making me think that my friend had been standing there beside me. Then the imagined words sank in and I slowly turned my gaze and looked at my mother, trying to look past the sweet, patient loving mother that had been the center of my life and see her as simply a beautiful woman.

I confess that I failed...at least somewhat. I was unable to separate my loving mother from what I knew instinctively was a lovely female. In truth, knowing that she was my mother only seemed to enhance her beauty...her sexuality and in the end, enhanced my suddenly and decisively male response.

Mother had let her hair down from where she had pinned it up earlier, letting it fall in golden cascades below her shoulders, down her back and down her front, the very tips of her blonde locks serving to draw my attention to where more than a hint of cleavage was visible, the porcelain like swells of her breasts slowly moving with her breathing. She was still wearing the dress Hector and I had seen her in earlier and the upper portion seemed to cling to her like a second skin, leaving no doubt as to the shape and heft of her breasts.

Mother sighed in her sleep and turned slightly, allowing me to see her gorgeous figure in profile and allowing her skirt to fall away and reveal a long and shapely leg from her pretty toes all the way to her upper thigh...creamy, flawless flesh that made me desire to touch it...to kiss it as I lifted the dress away from her body...

I blinked in surprise at such lewd thoughts, then more in surprise as I felt my erection throb angrily in my pants. I was aroused...aroused by my mother! I felt giddy as if I'd been on a carnival ride, yet panicked and horrified that I could think this way about my mother...then stupefied that it had taken me this long to realize how much a woman my mother was...Hector's words haunted me again..."Mother was "a man's woman!" Lastly, I felt anger as it dawned on me that my father in addition to being a pompous ass was also a damned fool, ignoring my mother as he did. I realized more than ever before, Mother was like a lovely flower, left to wither and die from neglect, her beauty never to be appreciated and enjoyed and rewarded for bringing such loveliness into the world.

I was nearly overwhelmed with the desire to take her in my arms and hold her and hug her and kiss her as she deserved, loving her as she should be loved, taking her and laying her down and making... I gasped in horror as my erection throbbed with pleasure at the thought of making love to the woman who had brought me into the world. I gasped aloud, trembling for several seconds, trying to think of other things to push such awful thoughts away.

I found myself on my feet, trembling as I heard a clock somewhere in the house chime solemnly, announcing to one and all that it was nearly midnight. Somewhere down the hall, Father was lost in his studies and I shook my head ruefully. I squelched down my lust and crossed the room to stand over Mother. She looked so lovely and from my height, I had an even better view of her cleavage and I confess I took a long, lingering look at them before I reached down and touched her hand. "Mother, it's growing late," I whispered.

Mother stirred at my touch, her hand rolling over mine and then slowly sliding up my arm, her fingers like downy feathers as they trailed up my arm while she sighed, "Darling." Then Mother opened her beautiful blue eyes, passion roiling in her glazed gaze before she seemed to bring herself into focus and quickly drew her hand back. "John? What...what is it?"

I held out my hand. "It's late, Mother, time for bed. Please allow me to escort you."

Mother's eyes became clearer and her puzzled frown slipped into a small smile. "I must've fallen asleep. Yes, well past our bedtime isn't it?" She took my hand and used it to lever herself to her feet. With her arm through mine, we slowly strolled out of the parlor and down the long haul, almost pausing at Father's office door while Mother looked forlornly at it, then shaking her head slowly, resumed our journey to her door.

Mother opened the door and turned and looked up at me, her sad, loving smile returned. I leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. "Goodnight, Mother. Sleep well -- have wonderful dreams."

Mother blushed with some small pleasure and replied, "Thank you, son." She paused and looked up at me, a curiously odd expression coming over her. "I'm...I'm sorry that you are trapped here this summer...a young man all alone on this island. I know it's difficult."

I shrugged and said, "I'm fine, Mother and I'm not alone. Hector is a good companion and the work helps Father."

Mother's expression grew odd yet amused and she shook her head. "That's not what I meant by being alone, son. Here you are -- a handsome young man and nary a pretty young girl to squire and court." She giggled uncharacteristically. "Of course, Anatonia is single."

A quiver of something naughty and pleasurable coursed through my body, nearly making me shiver. I wondered if I was blushing, but bravely replied. "She's not my type, Mother...besides, my heart, as it has been since I was born, belongs to you, Mother."

Mother did blush and looked away for a moment before smiling up at me again. "You are a good son, John Halloran," she whispered, standing up on tip-toe to kiss me, not on the cheek as she usually did, but on the corner of my mouth. Her smile as she gave me one last glance and said softly, "Good night," made me quiver with delight and my erection which had never fully gone away returned in full strength, aching with the need for release.

Mother closed the door behind her and I staggered off to my bedroom, locking it behind me and once I'd stripped my clothes off, fell into bed naked, and began to furiously masturbate, not quite willing to believe that it was my own mother's image that I was pleasuring myself to. I groaned as my orgasm came quickly, my seed pouring forth as I saw my mother's face smiling lovingly at me, her lips, full and lush opening, telling me to do things to her...things that only a husband and wife should ever do.

I fell asleep wrapped in the shrouds of my own shame and lust, my dreams a strange and misty place which I stumbled blindly through, pursuing the image of my mother which ran gaily from me, daring me to catch her and claim my prize.

The next day was Saturday and the morning found Hector and myself hip deep in clearing thorny underbrush and we worked silently -- me with a sullen expression and Hector with a satisfied smile on his face as if while we carried out our near mindless labor, he was thinking about something much more pleasant.

Finally, we paused for a break and as the day before as we passed the water jug back and forth, our eyes were drawn to the veranda outside my parents' bedroom where Mother, today in a splendid, bright blue wrap that left her shoulders bare and allowed occasional glimpses of her lovely legs in the billowing wind, stared out towards the sea.

Even from a distance, there was something almost indefinably sensual about Mother's bare, pale shoulders...something that enhanced her beauty on a primal level. Finally, Hector broke the silence that hung between us. "I see today, my friend John, you look upon your mother with different eyes...a man's eyes." He leaned over and clapped me on the shoulders good-heartedly.

"Shut up," I snapped back. "You are perverted."

Hector chuckled and shook his head. "Ah, you Americans and your strange views...so prudish. There is nothing wrong with acknowledging that she who gave you birth is a fine, beautiful woman. There is no shame to admit that she arouses you."

I shivered as I remembered moaning with pleasure as I had masturbated to images of my mother. Trying to deflect my own shame, I replied, "I suppose you get erections looking at your mother."

My friend laughed and clapped me on the shoulder again. "Absolutely! My cock swells at the very thought of her...I would defy any man not to get hard if they saw her naked -- glorious in all her beauty." He winked at me. "Be watchful for the chance to see Mama naked...she is not ashamed and would not mind it."

My jaw dropped open and I was amazed that he would say such a thing. I shook my head and said, "That's...that's so perverted, Hector, you should be ashamed."

Hector's smiled faded somewhat, becoming sadder as if my words tired him rather than shamed him. "Ah, that's your misunderstanding of your own faith betraying you. Such a fine message of 'love conquering evil' your Jesus preached, but you wrap it all up in prudish judgments and close-minded hate. You declare the naked body and the act of making love as sinful...sinful! The very thing that is the heart of who and what we are...the very element of love that makes us strong, you would hide and be ashamed of."

He took a drank of water and then spat it out on the ground in as close an example of his contempt as I had seen. He shook a finger at me and said, "Be honest with me, John Halloran. Having finally looked upon your mother as a man should look at a woman, do you love her more or less?"

His question took me by surprise as did the answer that dwelled within my soul. I searched for something else to say, but in the end, in a hoarse voice, I grated, "I love Mother more."

Hector clapped his hands together and raised them to the sky. "Gods be praised, he has seen the light." Hector slid over to kneel next to me and grasped my hand. "Congratulations, my friend. You have taken the first step to a greater truth...a truth that many men search their whole lives for and never find despite it being right in front of them the whole time."​