Mary Jenkins - A mother_s forbidden passion

Yes, it was a beautiful, serene home, Bette thought, and it was too bad that Ken had not taken another wife, after Luci's untimely death, to share it with him. This was the kind of home where a woman could be happy, could know peace and relaxation. Ken should be married again; he was such a fine man, with so much to offer a woman, physically and emotionally as well as materialistically.

Ken leaned toward her, smiling, his face radiant. "You wouldn't happen to be just a little hungry, would you, Bette?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, I am," she admitted. "I haven't eaten anything since breakfast this morning."

"Good!" Ken enthused. "I've got three thick, juicy steaks in the refrigerator, some French fries, and maybe a tossed salad. How does that sound – steaks barbecued on the grill over there, of course?"

"Wonderful," Bette smiled.

"How about you, Tony?" Ken asked.

"I guess I could go for a steak," the teenager agreed.

Ken left Bette and Tony alone for the first time, and there was a faintly strained atmosphere between them. Her son could not seem to look her in the eye, and he fidgeted on his chair. Bette fervently hoped that the uneasiness was only a temporary thing which would vanish with the passage of time. Watching her son covertly, Bette couldn't help but marvel at how handsome he had become, at the firm, muscled contours of his young body, at the fluid, graceful way he moved and carried himself. He was going to be even better looking than Ken – certainly much more virile than David. Still, there was much of his father in the way his mouth quirked at the comers, in the shy movement of his hands, in the sensual lidding of his eyes – especially the eyes, bedroom eyes, the girls had called them when she'd been a teenager. She remembered how David had looked at her when he'd been in a loving mood, when he had wanted to press her warm softness close to him and to slide his hot, hard penis deep up between her open thighs and moan out his love for her.

Bette felt her cheeks flame red, thinking back to the lovemaking which had existed between her and David. She stifled a low moan of despair which threatened to erupt from her throat, and tried to block the mental image of herself and her dead husband locked together in unimaginative but still powerful desire. She couldn't allow herself to think that way, not now, not when she had been celibate – a self-imposed celibacy, while she tried to sort out the tattered remains of her life – for the past six months. And especially she couldn't allow herself to think that way when she was looking at her own son, her beloved Tony. What kind of woman was she to think such carnal thoughts in the presence of her own flesh and blood?

Ken returned shortly with the steaks, and the strained atmosphere dissipated. It was much easier when Ken was around, talking in his quiet way, drawing both Bette and Tony into the coversation, forcing them gently to speak to one another so that a camaraderie was built up between them. He got a fire started in the barbecue, and soon the air was filled with the smell of woodsmoke and with the succulent odor of grilling meat. Bette insisted on helping, and Ken gave her the task of making the salad while he supervised the progress of the steaks. Tony set the round metal patio table for the meal, and there was an almost party – like aura there by the pool as afternoon faded into evening.

Standing by the barbecue, watching Bette move to the table with the salad, Ken was struck by her beauty – a beauty that pain and anguish could never truly mar. The sight of her, the sinuous way her hips and breasts and thighs moved beneath her dress when she walked, stirred embers in him which had been too long cold, desires that were at once deeply emotional and definitely physical. He was touched at the very core of him by her unaffected sensuality, and there was a building fire in his loins, the fire of burning need. God, he wanted Bette! He wanted to possess her body, to hold her close, to whisper soft words into her ear, to caress her and to love her. He knew he shouldn't be thinking carnal thoughts about her, not now – perhaps not ever – and yet he couldn't help himself; he was captivated by her, more now than he had ever been, and the passion which seethed within him was volatile and demanding. He couldn't do anything about it, of course, and yet maybe, someday, he could.

The steaks were delicious, the salad superb, and the meal itself a complete success. The festive mood deepened as dusk settled. It grew cool on the patio, and Ken suggested that they retire to the living room.

Tony built a crackling fire with pine logs in the stone-and-mortar fireplace, and when it was warm and cheery in the large room, he turned the lights down. They sat in quiet contentment before the blaze for a time, not speaking, thinking their own thoughts as darkness blanketed the house outside and crickets and tree frogs began singing in the shrubbery and grasses. Then Ken said almost shyly that he had a surprise for Bette and hurried out of the room, only to return moments later with two chilled bottles of imported champagne in a silver ice bucket.

"What's a homecoming celebration without champagne?" he said lightly.

"Oh Ken you shouldn't have," Bette whispered.

"But I wanted to," Ken told her simply. He smiled at her, then said to Tony, "Will you do the honors, nephew?"

"Sure," the youth eagerly replied. He worked quickly with a corkscrew, opening one of the bottles, and deftly poured some of the bubbling liquid into three long-stemmed glasses. Bette, watching him, was filled with a glowing pride at the sure movements of his hands – the movements of a man – and she was struck then with a terrible sense of loss for not being there to watch her son, her own flesh and blood, grow from a boy into the handsome, almost adult which he now was.

Ken said, "A toast, to Bette and to her homecoming."

"To Mom," Tony said.

"And to you both," Bette added, her words thick with emotion.

They raised their glasses and there was a brief, embarrassed moment, then they all drank. The festive mood heightened, and it was as if there had never been a five-year hiatus in their relationship, Ken thought happily, as if they were a close-knit family group that had never been separated by tragedy and human folly.

The champagne seemed to make Tony loquacious. He told his mother how he had caught the pass which won for Westridge High School the conference championship this past year; that he was thinking of entering State next fall, hopefully on a football scholarship, and planning to study Engineering; that he was going steady with a girl named Debbie Mason, who was beautiful, and that things were pretty serious between them.

He was just starting to voice some of his views on the current political situation, and Ken was pouring more champagne into their glasses, when the doorbell rang.

Ken frowned, glanced at his watch; it was almost eight-thirty. Now, who could be calling at this hour? He sighed, excused himself, and went to the door, opening it. Standing on the flagstone porch outside was a petite and yet well-endowed and firmly rounded girl of Tony's age. She wore hot pants, revealing slim, tanned legs, and a summer blouse without sleeves, and her jet black hair was worn long, caressing her shoulders, wisps curling down to touch the full, pear-shaped globes of her breasts. She had an hourglass waist and a round, smooth face, with high cheekbones and a pixieish nose; her eyes were a hot, frank brown, very large, containing a smoldering intensity that told of thoughts and emotions far exceeding her eighteen years – a feral look that was enhanced by the richness of her breasts and the tautness of her buttocks beneath the thin material of the hot pants.

She was Debbie Mason, Tony's girlfriend.