A Beloved Mom

"What'ya reading? said my sister.

"The Flowers of Evil,"

"Your Lit 202, I suppose. Read me a little"

"Not exactly assigned, however." I read:

Close swarming, like a million writhing worms,
A demon nation riots in our brains.

"I feel that swarm, sometimes," Jill said. "But what are the 'flowers of evil'?

"'Evil' or 'disgusting' things that have their peculiar fascination and beauty."

"Such as?".

"Baudelaire wrote, "The unique and supreme pleasure of making love lies in the certitude of doing evil." His sexual imagery was very striking:

Thus, one night, I'd like,
When the hour of pleasure sounds,
To crawl, like a coward, silently
Toward the treasures of your person.

To punish your joyful flesh,
To bruise your pardoned breast,
And carve in your astonished flank
A wide and hollow wound,

And delicious sweetness,
Through those lips, new formed,
Brighter and more lovely,
To inject you, my Sister, with my Blood.

I had piqued her curiosity. "punish your joyful flesh," she mused. I had no doubt she understood it, though she had not quite finished high school. She wanted to know about people, their unusual experiences, though she'd had a lot more, I'm sure, than the average 18 year old.

She came over to the chair where I was sitting and knelt beside it. She looked up, her eyes curious, framed in three shades of purple eye shadow;

"How is joyful flesh to be punished?" Her face was beautiful, open, highlighted by her striking, somewhat 'goth' makeup that led most people she encountered to inquire, "Are you a drama student?" In fact, she'd had a fine role in an amateur production of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. She interrupted my fascination, "How do we do it?"

"There are certain sexual practices.... " I said trailing off, hinting..

I noticed her breasts resting on the arm of the chair; firm, now, the size of oranges standing out on her fine-boned chest and slender body. More than one fellow senior had incurred her withering remarks by asking "Are they real?"

"I inflate them," she'd say, and as the person nodded, she'd add, "with the air that rushes through your head." Again she broke into my thoughts, "Go on." Seeing the direction of my gaze, she smiled.


"Do you know what 'transgression' is?" I asked.

"Of course. It's breaking the rules or laws, the kind of things you'll learn to do in law school." She arched an eyebrow.

"Touché," I said, "and it is also going beyond the limits, for instance, of decency. This writer believes transgression is necessary for the artist and for any person who really lives. He lived with a prostitute, Jeanne Duval."

"I would not just break a rule just to be breaking it."

"True," I said. "But when you go beyond the bounds, indulge the most unusual forms of sensuality, you become hyper-aroused. People will consider what you do, depraved and dangerous."

Knowing of her sexual activities, I asked her, "Did you ever break the rules with a boyfriend?"

"Well, Dan did a lot of speeding. One time he drove 110 miles per hour, to scare me. I didn't notice at the time, but Mom sure did when I got home; I'd wet my pants. 'What's that?' she asked. 'Just a spill,' I said and went off to change."

"OK," I said. "But for 'sex'; ever done it in a weird, possibly forbidden place?"

"Oh yes. Once up in the higher balconies of the theater where we weren't supposed to go. The guy just laid me back, lifted the front of my skirt, pulled my panties aside, and we fucked."

"Go on"

"Then we arranged our clothes, stood up and walked out, casual as you please."

"Did the public location arouse you?"

"Yes; my heart was already pounding when we entered the balcony. And I came like never before."

"Even a minor transgression can heighten the senses."

"Well, Mom didn't think it was so minor. I had to walk past her, in the hall, coming in, and I tried to be casual. You remember."

"Mom exploded when she saw a big wet spot on the back of your skirt: She just lost it. 'You're peddling that cunt of yours!' She has the mouth of a sailor, doesn't she? Though she tries to carry herself with the dignity of a model. I don't blame you for not speaking to her for a week."

Jill wanted to return to the topic at hand. "But doesn't the thrill always decay?"

"Well, desire has to be first let out, then attended."

Our discussion proceeded.

"Did you know that Byron, the poet, had sex with his sister--well, half-sister?"

She started. I could see she was thinking.


"OK, Garth, let's quit horsing around. You want to f*ck me?"

"Well," I responded, sounding noncommittal.

"If you're thinking of fucking me, it ain't going to happen."

"OK." But I sensed a flicker in my cock. "Well, what is possible?"

"Hmmm... " she hesitated.

She had picked up my reaction.

"I just don't want that huge cock shoved in my cute little quim." Ironically coy. I was flattered. She was considering other possibilities.

Then, she blurted out, "OK, here's your opportunity. You may suck my pussy. And make me cum. Is sucking off your sister transgressive enough?"

"Yes; but judge for yourself--after the experiment."

"OK, let's get on with it. But I will be requiring something of you in return," she added. "OK. Name it."

"I'll let you know."

"Get out of the chair," she said.

She removed her jeans and panties and sat down. I couldn't believe it. The pussy I hadn't seen since we were kids was showing there in full bloom, covered by her dark moss. "This is so cold-blooded," she said, opening her legs. "It's awesome."

"That adds to the evil." She got the point. She rotated her hips up. The black thatch beckoned me.

"Stroke my pussy!"

When her eyes closed I kissed down over her belly, past her sex and onto her inner thighs. It felt strange and artificial, at first, but I continued these caresses until she became relaxed and mellow. Her pussy began to give off that earthy odor mixed with her lily of the valley perfume, and I reached to insert two of my fingers into her wet entrance.

When the hips began their rhythm, I lowered my lips to her slickened ones, below, and inhaled deeply. I slid my tongue from her cunt tunnel up to her clit, sucking, swirling around it then returning below. As she pressed her pussy against my face, I knew she was losing herself in her lust. With tongue and right-hand fingers I thrust into her while my other fingers flicked and stroked her clit. She started thrashing and began to come. She moaned and grasped my head then grabbed at my fingers to pull them in deeper. At each stroke on her clit I heard a loud groan and felt her flood, the involuntary twitching of cunt on my face and around my fingers.

Though her thighs were clasped over my ears, I heard her cry out "Suck me Garth omigod, ahhh." She bucked and thrashed for a long while before easing off. Finally I felt her thighs relax a bit; I heard her first question. "How do you like eating your little sister's pussy?" I just licked my lips.

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And so she began as my partner; together we hatched schemes for 'evil' things we could think of. We had an occasional repeat of lunching at the "Y," and that seemed as far as she was comfortable. She herself came up with some good ideas, and she reported her experiments to me.

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One day the idea came to her:

"We could f*ck Mom."

"Wow!. ... I'm not sure I can arrange it, though."

"Well, I will start," said Jill. "I think I know a way in."

"Lead on."

I thought of Mom and felt a little bit sorry for her, till I remembered Dad. He'd brought me and my sister up, from the time I was four and she was two, until our early teens. "Your Mom just had to go," he always said, "but she will come back."

I was 14, sitting on the front steps admiring a sleek looking redhead of 30 something, when she turned up our walkway. "Hi, Garth" she said, in a friendly way. She seemed so familiar. Then I noticed the compact little bum I'd looked up at when I was four. "Mom," I said, "Come in and see Dad." Dad seemed so happy to see her. They began to chat, and I noticed what I hadn't at four. Her pants were so tight that her sex was clearly divided by the centre seam of the crotch. I learned, however, she was very tasteful in dress at work, and I'm sure it was that *ss of hers that led the boss, at various big corporations, to make her his 'special assistant.'

"Jill, how will you get to her?"

"She has her weak moments. It's silly, but did you notice that after a big lottery, like the NY State, if she doesn't win a nickel, she's depressed. And she takes more than a couple stiff drinks."

"She's hard to figure," I said.

I'd never learned the full story of why she'd left, or come back, but one night I overheard Dad saying something like "Did you get it out of your system?" I wondered what "it" was. Jill and I were just civil, at first, then we got to like her, but still didn't exactly look on her as a parent. It was probably her desire to be loved that led her to mostly give up on 'minding' us, but she tried to show Dad that she loved and cared for us. But always we remembered our Dad, not Mom, getting up a night, in our childhood emergencies.

"With your help, I think I can get to her."

"You sound so detached," said Jill, "I feel a bit like that." When Mom came back, trying to make amends, we half played at being her devoted 'teens'. But when Dad suddenly died of a heart attack a 3 years ago, we backed off, withdrew to ourselves, and she was smart enough not to try to 'parent' us. Except for a few incidents with Jill.

"I hadn't realized she was actually depressed at those times."

"I asked her, 'what's the matter?' one time," said Jill. "She said, "' I used to be with 'money' all the time. Now I have to pin my hopes on a fucking lottery.'"

"With her looks, I'm sure some of the 'money' took a big interest in her, at age 25."

Jill's analysis of Mom's vulnerabilities sounded correct, and so we bided our time. In a couple weeks, it was the state lottery night, 12 million dollars at stake, and thousands of prizes. I took care to be out at the time of the announcements; I slipped in late in the evening. Jill filled me in, the next day.

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