Incest/Taboo The Red House

This is the first installment of a two part story (good news is, the second part is finished, barring a few editing issues and should follow in a week or two!). This story began as a simple one shot, but quickly became a monster - both parts run longer than my usual efforts...so be warned. I will say now, I have no clue how well I've come to being accurate about the key plot points, but I think it works. I hope you enjoy! Please let me know what you think. It is always your comments, both pro and con, that inspire me to continue...

As always, this is a work of fiction - all characters exist solely within the confines of the story and my imagination. Again, Enjoy!

I sat in the visitor's center feeling very out of place – concrete walls with small windows made of thick glass and metal bars giving off poor light supplemented by harsh fluorescents overhead. Several children fussed, squalled or fidgeted around women who were likely their grandmothers or aunts. A few other men sat at the small rectangular tables bolted into the concrete floor. Male and female guards were at the exit, weapons displayed prominently, their faces set in a permanent squint as they studied each of us for trouble.

By ones and twos, women came in from another door, escorted by female guards, harsh looking women with butch haircuts or tight buns pulling their hair taut. The women they escorted were dressed in shapeless blue khaki dresses or in blue khaki slacks and blue chambray shirts. To a woman, they looked around warily and then upon seeing family, their faces would break into expressions of love or shame and sometimes both.

"Visitor for Carleen Howard," called out a woman guard, bringing a woman through the door. I stood up, my heart beginning to pound, putting a hand on the table to steady myself. The guard pointed to me while the woman she escorted stared at me a little concerned or confused. She shook her head and looked quizzically at the guard who rolled her eyes and said something that got her moving, walking slowly and cautiously towards me.

She was dressed in the shapeless dress that most of the women prisoners seemed to be wearing. I tried to match her face to the one I held in my memories, few that they were. A woman in her mid-forties, dark brown hair streaked with white, chopped off in a crude pixie cut. She carried a lot more weight than I remembered – at least I think she did. Her face was fuller and her bosom seemed to swell out and strain against the material of her dress. Her ankles were trim however – her calves well muscled as if she did a lot of exercise.

She got closer and then her eyes went wide, showing me that they were as brilliant a blue as I remembered as she suddenly realized who I was. She stopped on the other side of the table and in a voice that while harsher than I recalled, I still recognized, said, "You shouldn't be here, John." Her eyes, so deeply blue, began to tear up.

I felt my own eyes begin to sting as I replied, my voice suddenly hoarse, "Hello, Momma."

On March 19, 1992, my mother murdered my father, emptying an entire clip from a police issue Glock automatic pistol into him while he slept on the couch. I was four years old and didn't witness it, but she freely confessed to the police when they came. I think the shots woke me up and I remember sitting next to my mother on my bed while she cried, hugging me tight with one arm while the pistol dangled from her free hand. I think I remember vaguely understanding that something had happened to my father, but not being real upset about it. He was mean to me and my mother...real mean.

My last memory of Momma was of her reaching out to me, sobbing and screaming my name as a policeman carried me away, trying to shield my view of a white sheet over the couch, stained a dark shade of red. Mom's eyes would have been red from the crying except for the dark bruises that had both eyes almost swollen shut – bruises that pretty much covered her face. Her long dark brown hair was falling down into her face, denying me one last look at her.

On August 1, 1993, Carleen Howard was sentenced to life in prison for the mur*er of her common law husband, Lee Dean Garrett. Carleen or Carlie as her friends called her was twenty-one years old. Her defense lawyer's efforts for acquittal based on the preponderance of evidence of physical abuse or to achieve at least a reduction of charges were all in vain. When you kill the son of a sheriff in rural Mississippi, you are in for a world of hurt.

By then of course, I had become a ward of the state, never knowing that Sheriff Garrett had decided to sweep clean any connection between his late son and as he would later put it, "That sorry piece of white trash that crawled up from the wrong side of the tracks and her misbegotten bastard.

Before my sixth birthday, I was adopted by an older couple – then almost fifty themselves, childless since the mid 1980s when their only son had been killed in the waning days of our peacekeeping efforts in Lebanon. Kent and Donna Tucker become my mother and father and took me out of Mississippi to a small town in Western Illinois where I had about as nice an upbringing as anyone could ask for.

They were both wonderful people. Dad, beneath a gruff and grumpy exterior was a wonderful father, teaching me by example how to be a good man. Mom was a June Cleaver for the modern world – balancing a job as school teacher with raising a family. I was loved and I knew it and I loved them both dearly in return.

As the years passed, I let my early years fade away, only occasionally recalling my birth mother – usually picturing her as very pretty and often sad. The only memory other than that of her sobbing as she tried to hang on to me that last moment was of her and me on a picnic. I remembered my mother smiling as she spread the blanket on the ground, her deeply tanned face almost glowing, her eyes a bright shining blue, framed by long mahogany tresses. I remember hugs and kisses and her chasing me around while I laughed until I couldn't catch my breath. In the end, all I had was a memory that she loved me.

When I was fourteen and Dad thought I was old enough to know, he sat me down and told me the entire story of my real mom and dad. Lee Dean Garrett was a violent, hard drinking son of a man who ran his county with an iron fist. My grandfather had served as Sheriff of the county for nearly twenty-five years before my real mother, Carlie Howard emerged from the swamps of southern Mississippi at age 16, running away from home only to meet and get knocked up by Lee Dean.

The Sheriff wouldn't let him marry my mother, but tolerated her presence, helping his son set her up in a trailer park on the outskirts of town. Dad called my birth mother a "round-heels" which he said meant she was a slut. Lee Dean was an alcoholic abuser of women and despite the danger he represented, while he'd wander off for weeks or months at a time, Carlie would sleep around with other men.

When Lee Dean would find out, he'd beat my mother. When my birth mother was examined at the hospital following the shooting of my father, she had severe contusions about the face, arms and abdomen, two broken ribs, a fractured eye socket and a bruised kidney. Records indicated a total of nine older fractures from over a five year period. Not that it mattered. The son of Sheriff Garrett could have been a serial killer and still his father would see to it that his killer would spend life in jail.

I had known vaguely what my mother had done and didn't know how to really process this information. I felt some vague guilt over her situation, but whenever I voiced questions about how she might be now, Dad was vehement in dropping the subject. I always felt that his attitude of "leave the past in the past," bothered Mom. In the end, I concurred with Dad and simply pushed the matter of my birth family into a dusty corner of my mind and went on with my life.

I went to a university in Ohio, majoring in American Literature and writing my senior thesis on William Faulkner – perhaps my Mississippi roots influencing my choice. As I was considering whether to pursue a teaching career back in Illinois or to begin work on my masters with an eye towards an eventual doctorate, my adoptive Mom fell ill.

Mom's heart was giving out and now into her early seventies, the doctors were not hopeful. I returned home, temporarily shelving my future plans to help Mom and Dad out. Mom accepted what was coming with her usual grace, but it was killing Dad. Already in his late seventies, he seemed to age a year with each passing week that saw Mom slipping away.

Just before the end, I was sitting with her, reading her the latest potboiler by her favorite author – even holding a book was wearying to her. She stopped me and asked, "John, is your father asleep?" I nodded, knowing that most days now, he spent most of his time on his favorite sofa, napping away – sleep his only way to escape the sudden decline of his wife.

"Son, up in the top of the closet," she raised a finger weakly to point at the closet across the room. "Up there, you'll find a red metal box. Be a dear and get it down for me."

I hurried to obey her, reaching up on tiptoe to retrieve what looked like a small red tackle box. It was light and if it hadn't made a soft rustling noise as I brought it down, I would have assumed it was empty.

I brought it to her, setting it carefully on her lap as she pulled herself up to a sitting position in her bed. "What's up, Mom?" I asked, a bit mystified by the box.

Mom stroked her fingers slowly over the red metal and sighed before answering. "This stays between us, son. Your father forbad me from doing something many years ago and well, I went ahead and did it anyway." She undid the latch and opened the box up. Inside were many envelopes and what appeared to be a few greeting cards.

"You got a boyfriend Dad doesn't know about?" I asked, getting a frown from Mom in return.

"No, smart-mouth," Mom replied. She reached out and took my hand, my heart aching at how little strength seemed to remain in her withered fingers. "John, these are from your mother."

For a moment, I was confused and it must have shown on my face as Mom shook her head and clarified, "Your real mother, John. Carlie Howard."

I felt dizzy for a moment and managed to stutter, "M-my real m-mom?"

Mom nodded and said, "We've been corresponding now for about fifteen years. Your father forbad it, saying the past is the past and we needed to give you a complete clean break. I went ahead and wrote her anyway."

Her fingers slipped into the mass of paper as if stirring up the past. "Maybe your father was right, but...mothers know...understand loss in a way that men folk never will and while I couldn't do anything about Ken...your older brother, I thought staying in touch with your birth mother might ease the pain I know she feels everyday you've not been in her life."

Mom looked up at me with tears in her eyes. "This is the only thing I've ever kept from your father, but I sleep better knowing that Carlie knows you are alive and well and happy." She weakly squeezed my hand. "A mother needs to know these things."

We sat there quietly for several minutes. I was at a complete loss for words, unable to identify the emotions Mom's revelations stirred up inside me. It was as if a door stood ajar and behind it was something I both feared and desired to know. Finally, I asked, "Is...is she okay? I mean – she's still in prison, right? Is she okay?"

Mom gave a little shrug. "I think she does the best she can – she was just a slip of a girl when she went to jail." She caressed the letters again. "She's very proud of you. I sent her pictures of you from time to time and newspaper clippings when you won the scholarship and when your baseball team went to the state finals. I sent her copies of report cards and some of your stories." Mom looked away from me as if a little embarrassed at her enthusiasm to share my successes.

"Mom?" I gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "Are you okay?"

Mom turned back and took a deep breath, looking as serious as I'd ever seen her. "John, I'm dying. It won't be long now. I know this won't be easy, but you need to reach out to her...your real mom."

My stomach did a flip. "I don't know...you're my mom! I don't even know her!" I started to get up, but Mom took a firmer grip on my hand – far firmer than I would have thought possible and I stayed in place.

"Honey, I know this is hard to hear, but you need to listen. I'll be gone soon and I don't think Kent will be far behind me." Again, my heart gave a lurch and though I wanted to get up and run, my legs wouldn't cooperate. "John, we'll soon be gone and your mother is all the family you have left!"

Mom gave a little sob and then a wheeze while her face began to turn red. As she began to cough, I hovered around her, almost ready to panic and call 911. Slowly, Mom recovered and then she reached out and took my hand again. "John, you've been a good son and we raised you right. Your mother has no one...no one! Please promise, John, you won't let her be all alone in that awful place with no one caring if she lives or dies!" Mom pulled me close, her skin now going a deathly pale. "Promise me!"

Tears were flowing down both our faces as I nodded and said in a halting voice. "I promise you, Mom!"

Two weeks later, Mom passed away, her weak heart slowing down until it simply stopped. I lost Dad five months later. He became a virtual ghost, withering away day by day after we buried Mom. A week after he passed, the family lawyer broke down my inheritance – not a fortune, but enough to make life comfortable for a while and when I got home, a letter of acceptance from the University of Mississippi graduate school and an offer to be a graduate assistant in their literature program beginning in January of the New Year was in the mailbox. I would be able to pursue my masters and teach at the same time.

As I stood on the front porch of my childhood home, acceptance letter in hand, I leaned out and looked up into the clear blue sky and said, "You don't have to hint, Mom. I'll keep my promise!"

My birth mother and I stood there for a couple of minutes, just staring at each other, sizing each other up and not knowing what to say. Her escort gave us the evil eye until we both sat down, still unable to say anything of consequence.

Finally, I broke the silence. "How are you, Momma?" It struck me funny that from the moment I recognized her that it suddenly popped into my head that I'd called her Momma when I was real little instead of Mom or Mommy.

Momma kind of winced when I called her that and replied, "Reckon I'm all right." Her accent was pure southern redneck and I found it kind of charming. "You look like your daddy."

I didn't know what to say to that. Certainly, like all adopted kids, I had wondered from time to time, but had simply put aside wondering who I had inherited my unruly shock of sandy hair or my pug nose from. Try as I might, any images of my real father had faded quickly from my mind.

Momma looked at me and then tears were in her eyes and she said, "Donna's dead, ain't she?"

"Yeah. She...Mom died about six months ago."

"I knowed it. She aint never went this long without writing me. She was a good woman." Momma looked me up and down with a stare that had me squirming uncomfortably. "She raised you right for sure. You gonna keep going to school?"

I nodded and then said, "Yes, Momma. I'm going to be going to the University of Mississippi and working on my master's degree."

Momma grinned then and I saw for the first time more than a glimmer of the woman I'd known so long ago. "Shiiiit. Imagine that. Ain't no-one in our family ever got past eighth grade excepting me and I bailed out when I was fifteen. My son's a college graduate."

There was both pride and amusement in her voice and I felt both pleased and a little annoyed without knowing why.

"Yeah, well – since I'll be nearby, I thought maybe I could visit you and maybe we can get to know each other again."

Momma's face got a funny look on it and she looked down at the table as she said, "I 'preciate that, John, but you'd best just forget about me and get on with your life."

I wasn't expecting that response and couldn't hide the hurt in my voice as I responded with, "Why?"

Momma raised her head and looked at me like I was a fool and then waved her arms around. "Boy, I'm in prison. For life! Y'all don't need a jailbird for a momma hanging around your neck, dragging you down. You got a education so use it. Get the hell out of Mississippi and have a fucking life, goddammit!" Her voice rose until she was almost yelling, causing the guards to look our way, frowning.

I was more than a bit thunderstruck. I guess I had figured we would have some sort of tearful, happy reunion and that she might actually be glad to see me. Part of me just wanted to get up and run out of there, but part of me wanted something more.

"Momma, we're all each other have left. Mom and Da – my adoptive parents are gone and you're the only family I have. Like it or not, you're stuck with me. I remember loving you and missing you from when I was little and now seeing you again, I know I never stopped loving you."

Momma's mouth worked for a while, but nothing happened. Tears trailed down her face while she pulled herself together. Finally, she shook her head and said, her voice still too loud, "You think this can do any of us any good? Getting to spend a hour with you every month?"

"Girl, beats hell out of just another hour inside this place looking at a bunch a angry bitches, don't it?" We both turned to see a small, stringy-haired blonde with blue tattoos running up and down her arms at the next table, a young boy squirming in her lap with a much older version of the woman sitting across from her. "Least you get to sit a spell with a good looking stud instead of fighting off some fuckin carpet eating butch dyke, Carlie!"

I just stared at the woman – realizing how out of place I felt. I thought I knew what she was talking about and damned if it didn't trigger a little tingle in my crotch, making my cock twitch.

Momma stared hard at the other woman for a moment. Then she grinned and glancing back at me for a second, replied, "He is good looking, aint he?" She turned and the smile faded. "I've been here a long time, John. I aint got not clue how to be a momma anymore." She leaned in and for some reason I noticed how her large bosom, straining against the khaki fabric seem to flow and rest on top of the table. She reached out slowly with her right hand and placed it atop mine. "But I never stopped loving you...son." She said the word awkwardly as if she hadn't said it in a very long time.

For some reason that seemed to break the ice and we talked – mostly me asking questions about her – our family, with her being evasive with lots of awkward pauses as we both tried to get used to the other. Eventually, an announcement was made by the guards that five minutes remained for visitation and we both fell silent again. As our first visit ended, we both stood up and looked at each other uncomfortably.

"Um...are we allowed to hug?" I asked, glancing around and seeing other inmates getting hugs and kisses from spouses and parents and children.

Momma looked around and then shrugged her shoulders and said, "I reckon so. Ain't like I've had much visitors over the years." She stepped up to me and both of us awkwardly and hesitatingly, put our arms around each other – Momma's arms going around my neck. I could feel the tension in her and then with a quick intake of breath, she pulled me to her, hugging me tightly.

I wasn't prepared for how she felt – warm and fleshy – the thin khaki dress doing nothing to hide the fact that she was very well...developed. My body reacted instinctively as I felt her hot breath against my neck and her breasts pressing and pillowing out against my chest. I felt my cock jerk and then begin to grow. By the time we broke the embrace, I could feel my face flaming with embarrassment. To my surprise, Momma's face was red too.

We stepped apart and Momma grinned and shook her head. "Wheeeoow. Been a long time since I hugged a man!" We both grinned at each other and then the guards called for the prisoners to vacate the room.

Momma started to move towards the prisoner exit, but turned around with a big grin on her face and said, "I can't get over how much you look like your daddy." She winked and said, "Bet all you have to do is give the girls a smile and they spread their legs for you just like they did for your daddy!"

She and the blonde haired woman with the tats both guffawed at that as they walked away while I stood there, my face burning and my penis almost fully erect. After being raised by Mom and Dad – very proper and religious people, it suddenly hit me that Momma was from a completely different world. Echoes of Dad talking about Momma as a roundheels and a slut, combined with the easy and loose way Momma talked around me, her words peppered with swear words and sexual innuendo made me realize that Momma was different from anyone I had ever met before.

On slightly shaky legs, I headed for the exit, my mind going in ten different directions at once. Once I was in the parking lot, I was shocked to feel tears running down my face and when I looked into the rear-view mirror, I was further surprised to see a goofy grin on my face. It suddenly occurred to me that much of what I'd said inside was true. In the craziness of the last year, I guess I had inured myself against the pain of truly being alone – of having no family left, but now that had all changed. My mother was alive, imprisoned true, but alive and we'd made a connection.

On my drive back to the university, I replayed our visit in my head a dozen times and was shocked to discover a new and more disturbing truth, I was a bit aroused – my cock half erect in my jeans. I tried to reconcile that with what had happened. Was it the casual way Momma and that woman had been talking or was it Momma herself. She was so unlike anyone I'd ever met...or could remember. Growing up in small town Illinois hadn't prepared me for that – neither had attending college. My taste in girls had run towards preppy, blonde, athletic types, but now I was aroused by what had to be their complete opposite. I didn't know whether to be amused or disgusted with myself.

In the end, it didn't matter. School was beginning and my studies and my job as a grad-assistant devoured almost all of my time. Only late in the evening as I struggled to fall asleep could I afford to think of Momma and my dreams were I think filled with scarcely remembered thoughts of Momma – mostly replays of that childhood picnic and Momma chasing me and making me laugh as she tickled and kissed me...only in the dreams the kisses seemed to do more than just tickle me. Despite the demands on my time, I kept an eye on the calendar, anxiously awaiting the next visitors' day.

When the day came, I could hardly wait, scarcely able to drive the speed limit to the women's prison and then almost dancing as I went through the security protocols and waiting impatiently before the female guards began leading the prisoners in. I stood up and scanned the line of women anxiously and almost missed momma – her appearance catching me off guard.

My eyes widened in surprise as she walked slowly towards me. She gazed at me warily, her eyes ducking down as if afraid of what I'd say. Eyes downcast as she reached the table, she said softly, "Hey, son."

"Momma...um, hi!" I couldn't take my eyes off her. "Wow, Momma – you look great!" And she did. She was the same woman that I'd talked to a month ago, but had changed so much. Momma had trimmed her hair – wearing it real short – very much like how that actress Audrey Hepburn used to wear it and she'd acquired some make up – not much, but a little blush and lipstick. She'd also done something with her blue khaki prison dress, taking it in and making it more form-fitting so that it accentuated her lush figure. No longer was it buttoned up to the neck, but was now opened until it more than hinted at the great swell of her breasts. The hemline had been raised too – now resembling a modest woman's skirt than a prison garment. It more than proved that while she was a full figured woman, she had a great looking pair of legs.

Momma blushed deeply all the way to her roots and gave me a timid glance, her eyes full of appreciation and yet doubting the truth. "Aw, you aint meaning that, John," she muttered softly, her voice echoing the doubt in her expression.

I reached out and took her hands in mine. "Oh yes, I do, Momma. You look beautiful!" I squeezed them for emphasis, getting her to glance up again and then holding her gaze. "You're beautiful, Momma!"

She let out a nervous laugh and then one that sounded like she was close to tears. She moved to sit down across from me and I did the same, never letting go of her hands. "Been a long time since I heard that," Mom whispered. "Thank you." She pulled one of my hands to her mouth and gently kissed my fingers. That sent a thrill racing through me and I became suddenly aware that I had a boner bulging in my jeans.

For a few minutes we sat there silently, just looking into each other's eyes – trying not to appear embarrassed to each other. Then from an adjoining table, I heard, "Your mother's a hottie, ain't she?" I slowly heard the words penetrate and finally broke away from looking at Momma to see that same tattooed blonde woman from my last visit gazing at us, her little boy bouncing happily on her leg.

I slowly nodded and looked back at Momma, squeezing her hands in mine. "Yes, she is," seeing Momma's eyes glow in appreciation.

"I'll tell you right now – ol' Carlie's dance card be filled every night if'n she's willing," the blonde said, her voice full of something I quickly recognized as lust. "I might come calling myself." She gave us both a lascivious wink.

"Lord God, Ettie, shut your mouth!" Momma said, her face growing even redder than it had been, but a bit of laughter in her voice. "This is my son you're saying this to!"

The blonde woman nodded and said, "I know, but he's a man and he knows a sexy piece of ass when he sees it!"

Momma let go of my hands and hid her face in her palms. She peered out at me between her fingers, her blue eyes brilliant and lovely. "Sorry – I told y'all I don't know how to be a mother anymore – we can't help talking like this."

I shrugged and felt myself blushing as I replied, "I'm fine, Momma and she's right. I recognize a sexy woman when I see her even if she is my mother." I reached out and took her hands in mine again, pausing for a second before bringing one of her hands to my lips and giving it a gentle kiss. "I appreciate the effort."

Momma's face lit up and her lower lip trembled and I thought I was going to make her cry, but she managed to keep it together. I tried to lighten things up and asked in a joking tone, "So, is what...um, Ettie said true? You have a lot of um...dates?"

Momma ducked her head again, embarrassed and then laughed and looked up at me, a look of defiance on her face. "Well – a woman gets lonely in here with no menfolk except a few asshole screws and so yeah, sometimes me and another gal will get together. Feeling good comes hard in here so you got to grab it when you can."

It was my turn to feel embarrassed at having put her on the spot. "Sorry, Momma. I'm cool with it. I'm...I guess I never thought about my mother and another woman...um." I shut up before I managed to get my foot any deeper in my mouth. Mortified as I was, I was also feeling aroused, my cock now completely erect and pulsing as my mind ran a pornographic show of Momma and that woman, Ettie together, kissing and touching."

"Lordy, I should hope not," Momma said, laughing again. "You think that about your momma and Lord knows what you'll be thinking next!" It was my turn to blush deeply, my skin burning and Momma laughed and playfully slapped my hand and said, "Shame on you, son!"

Then we were both laughing – unable to stop until we were attracting the attention of the guards, one of which slowly wandered our way – a slender, hard faced African-American woman who sidled up alongside Momma and said, "They a problem here, Carlie?"

Momma sobered up quickly and shook her head. "No, ma'am. Just getting to know my boy here is all. We aint seen each other in 'bout twenty years."

The guard looked at us and slowly nodded, but there was doubt in her voice as she said, "Uh-huh. Let's be settling down here. We clear, Carlie?"

Momma looked down at the table as she said in a low voice. "Yes, ma'am." The guard nodded again and gave me a smile before strolling away.

I felt awful for maybe getting Momma in trouble and told her so. Momma glanced back at the guard's receding back and then looking at me, rolled her eyes. "Oh don't you worry about me and Tisha. She won't be any problem I can't work out. We'll just have ourselves a date – ain't like it would be the first time." She grinned at me and then wiggled her eyebrows and stuck her tongue out and waggled it suggestively for a few seconds. She laughed once out loud and then put her hand over her mouth as I sat there and stared at her, shocked by my mother's tawdry manner. My erection, which had wilted some upon the approach of the guard, sprang back with a vengeance.

Thank goodness, things settled down for the rest of our visit as I brought her up to date on school and she told me a little more about our family. My erection eased off, but never completely as while I listened to Momma talking, my eyes were constantly going back and forth between her lovely face and those barely visible, yet clearly immense breasts.

Finally, the guards called time and we both got up to say goodbye. This time, there was no hesitation by either of us in coming together in an embrace and we wrapped our arms around each other in a long and loving hug, Momma's body settling up against mine. She felt good – good in an arousing sort of way so that I was again standing a bit awkwardly as she let me go. She stood in front of me for a long second and then smiled and as she had done the first time, said, "Damn, but you're good looking, son." Then she stood up on tip-toe and leaning in – her heavy bosom mashing against my chest, kissed me on the corner of my mouth before turning away and heading to join the other women prisoners.

I scarcely remembered the drive back to school this time – my mind reeling with the day's conversation and the absolutely obscene images racing through my mind. Late that night I struggled to fall asleep – unable to keep Momma's face out of my mind or images of her lying and making love with both the woman prisoner, Ettie and that guard, Tisha. Finally, I reached down and began to masturbate, turning those images loose with a will. I saw Momma's head bobbing up and down between a pair of slender, dark skinned thighs while a blonde haired woman knelt behind Momma spreading my mother's voluptuous ass cheeks and took long, loving licks. I gave a great moan and began to cum in violent bursts of hot sperm as I pictured Momma's head rising up, her face slick with another woman's juices.

Gasping for air, I finally found a measure of peace – knowing even as I finally drifted into sleep that I'd crossed a line from which there was no return. Cumming while fantasizing about my mother became a regular thing. My studies and work commitment left me little time for dating anyway, but suddenly, all those sweet young gals seemed less alluring – my thoughts and desires now focused on Momma – thick-bodied and heavy breasted as my ideal woman.

And so things went for the next few months. I threw myself headlong into my studies – the better to keep myself from obsessively fantasizing about Momma, but yielding to my lust late at night or on the few rare days I had free. I made sure I was on time each visitor's day so as to not waste a moment that I could spend with Momma.

Each time it seemed she appeared more beautiful than before. She preened proudly before me as I would tell her how lovely she was – never failing to flirt a little bit and let her know that she was indeed sexy as could be. In one hour increments, we slowly learned more about each other. Momma could be brutally honest about herself – not showing a bit of shame at her "Round-heel" days. "I liked sex from the beginning and I never could figure out why some folks were so fucking hell bent to shame you for liking something that felt so good!"

Momma had been explaining about what had led to my father beating her so badly. "I'd try and behave and wait for him, but a young girl's got urges just like anyone. You got them urges too, dontcha?" Momma said, grinning at me. I felt my skin burning and just grinned back.

"Sure you do, ain't natural not to," Momma answered for me. "I'd try and wait for your daddy, but I'd get this fire between my legs and off I'd go and let me tell you, I was a sexy thing back in those days. Long legs and big, perky boobs and boys' be drooling all over me." Momma looked at me playfully and said, "I bet I could still make a cock or two stand up, what do you think?"

I was already hard from hearing Momma talk about her sluttish youth and despite blushing yet again, grinned evilly back at her and said, "I know you can, Momma," I replied, scarcely believing that I'd said that. It seemed that with each visit, I was getting used to Momma's frank talk and was even getting brave enough to match Momma's raunchy banter with my own.

The weather changed from rainy and cool to suddenly hot and dry as we got into the month of May and the prison opened up its outdoor visitor's area. With the cold, gray brick prison towering over us, visitors were ushered into a small fenced-in area of grass and dirt, with several picnic tables and benches scattered about. After a wait that seemed to take forever, Momma came strolling out with the other female convicts and as she always seemed to do – she made my heart began to beat faster and my cock begin to swell in my jeans.

Momma was wearing blue khaki pants that seemed to almost be painted on and she was wearing a chambray shirt with the shirt-tail tied up into a knot just below her breasts. It emphasized the shape and heft of her breasts as never before and although I could see a bit more cleavage – I was denied more than a hint of her fleshy tits. In the outside world, I'm sure Momma's appearance wouldn't have met approval by most. Most folk wouldn't consider her figure ideal for wearing a top like that – Momma's stomach while not fat was still a bit fleshy – a bit of a roll topping over her jeans, but I found her round belly arousing and knew that my fantasies tonight would include kissing my way around Momma's full stomach before ripping her blouse off and kissing and licking my way all over her huge breasts.

We sat side by side atop a picnic table, holding hands as we chatted away – some of our conversation benign and some of it mild flirting. Momma often would glance away, taking in the outdoor view, savoring it as one might savor a delicious meal. Her expression would change to one of great yearning and a part of me ached as I understood how part of her desired so much to leave that ugly, gray prison behind.

Once as her attention was so diverted, I had my own attention drawn by movement a short ways away from the visitor's yard. A guard was walking Ettie down through a gate to a region enclosed with two sets of razor wire. Inside were three small red houses – cottages I guess. At the doorway of one of the red houses, Ettie's little boy was jumping up and down in excitement, his grandmother barely able to hold on to him until his mother reached them. Ettie went inside and the guard who I recognized as Tisha slowly strolled back up to the Prison itself.

"Momma?" I said. "What's up with that?" I pointed down at the red houses.

Momma snapped out of her reverie and squinted where I was pointing. She laughed and said, "Oh, them's the Red Houses." When I shrugged my shoulders, she leaned into me, her heavy bosom slapping into my arm. "You know – for those conjugal visits. A gal can visit with her man for a day or two or get to spend real time with her family. Did you see Ettie going in?"

I nodded and Momma continued. "It's a reward for good behavior and sometimes to help folks get reacquainted before they gets paroled. Ettie's coming up to get out pretty soon."

"You ever gone to the um, Red Houses, Momma?" I asked.

Momma shook her head and sighed. "Nope. Aint never had anyone to go visit with."

I felt my heart begin to beat rapidly as a thought leaped into my head. "Well, you've got me now. You think we could get a weekend in the Red House?"

Momma laughed and said, "I swear, son, for a college boy, you come up with some of the silliest things. She pointed down at the house for emphasis as she said, "John, that's where a gal and her husband go to fuck up a storm for a night or two...or some young gal goes to be with her family so's her babies don't forget her."

"I get that, Momma, but you said it was also for families to spend time together. You and I are family...all the family each of us has left. And don't you come up for parole soon?"

Momma grimaced and shook her head. "That ain't never gonna happen. Your granddaddy will see to that. Ol' Tisha told me the last two times I was up for parole, he'd already told them what to vote." She sighed and then in a softer, wearier voice added, "That wrinkled old cocksucker."

I slipped an arm around my mother and pulled her to me. "Well, maybe so, but maybe not – you've got family now. I think you should do it."

Momma turned and looked at me. "Do what?"

I nodded towards the red houses. "Apply for a conjugal visit."

Momma rolled her eyes and elbowed me in the ribs. "Shit, boy. Aint no one gonna let me spend a weekend with my grown-up son in the Red House. Tisha'd laugh her ass off if I was to ask her."

I gave Momma a funny look. "That guard, Tisha...she's in charge of that?"

Momma shrugged her shoulders. "Not exactly – she is the head bull here, but I reckon they's a bunch who have a say – prison doctor and the chaplain and Warden Smithers. They mostly ask Tisha if a person deserves it and do what she tells them is best."

I hugged Momma again and said, "So apply – what's the worst they could say, 'No?' I'd love to spend a couple of days with you instead of just an hour each month." I winked at Momma and added. "Wouldn't you like to have a day or two where it's just you and me? Think of all the fun we could have!" I felt my face redden a bit as that came out sounding more flirty than I'd meant it.

A funny look passed over Momma's face and her mouth quivered into something of a grin. In a suddenly hoarse voice, my mother said, "I'd like that. I'd like that a lot, son."

Momma moved a little closer, snuggling into my arm and leaned her head against my chest and for the rest of the visit, we didn't say much to each other, but we were very much aware of each other. As the guards called time and Momma and I stood up to say goodbye, she looked up into my eyes with a look of such yearning that it nearly broke my heart. She leaned into me, her breasts mashing against my chest and planted a chaste, yet extremely erotic kiss square on my lips. Finally, before turning away, she said in a soft voice, "I'll do it, son."

Long after our visit was over, I sat in my car in the parking lot, thinking of what had just happened. Nothing had been plainly said, but I think that we had both been thinking the same thing and for the first time, I truly considered whether or not the fantasies that so greatly occupied my spare moments were not shared by my mother. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry and in the end, I tried to laugh it off as me projecting my fantasies on the situation.​