I don’t know how long I slept. I must have awakened. I was lying with Gunilla’s breasts on my face. Such softness. She was telling me some stories about Mother. Wild things. But I couldn’t really focus. She was saying something about how we were going to watch her and Father tonight from Gunilla’s room. And we were going to do whatever they did. I couldn’t really follow it.
Then there was the sound of an automobile outside. Gunilla started, saying: “They’re back. Mother is sure to look in here to see if I’ve been poaching. I’ve got to go, little darling.” She scrambled from the bed, gathering her clothes. She came to the bed, looked deep into my eyes and said: “I don’t understand it, Lars, but I belong to you completely. I worship you.” And she bent and sucked my limp wet cock into her mouth and then started away. I grabbed her arm, hard. She looked into my eyes and stopped. “But they’ll catch us!”
“Show me your pussy,” I said.
“Yes, Lars,” she replied. She quietly laid down, raised her knees, and softly opened her cunt with her fingers. I slipped my fingers in and out until I was sure. I knew now she would do anything I said, even let Mother find her here like this. I owned my little sister completely. I slipped my fingers out. After a second, she opened her eyes. She obviously understood. She said very meekly, “Shall I go now, Lars?”
“Yes,” I said. She walked to the door in a trance. “Gunilla,” I said. She stopped and turned. I looked at her beautiful heavy breasts, her cunt dark from the wet. “I love you, Gunilla.” She began to cry with happiness. She opened the door and left, her clothes in her hands.
Chapter Eight
I went to breakfast quietly, turned inward. Only Mother was there. Something was closed in my mind. The experience of yesterday-the knowledge-was something that churned deep in me, which I relished and processed secretly. Without consciousness. After breakfast when Mother instructed Annie to serve our coffee in the living room I barely noticed. I followed her wordlessly across the hall and sat opposite her on the couch. She sat in a Morris chair. Annie brought our coffee and left. I took a sip, then looked at her over the rim of the cup.
She was showing me a camera that she’d got me yesterday as a surprise. Any other time in my life I would have been excited by it. But this other excitement that seemed to live in me always now left no room for anything else. As she was talking and showing me the shiny, new gift and I was saying how pleased I was, I was busy with other things. I was looking at where the dress was strained over her breasts.
“Tits,” I was thinking. “Mother’s tits: that’s what Gunilla said they were, really.” And as I sat there in the proper, tasteful quiet of the living room, I knew that’s what I was straining to see. Not breasts or bosoms as it said in books, but tits. Mother’s tits.
That shook me. Mother’s tits? Put that way it was shocking. The phrase seemed impossible. One didn’t speak of his mother’s tits. I knew that. And yet… there was a special thrill in it. It was exciting to whisper to myself, “Gunilla’s tits” or “Annie’s tits” but to say the words in my head, “Mother’s tits” was like having the bottom drop out of my stomach, and my mind reeling. “Mother’s tits. Mother’s big, white, soft, nippled tits.” Wonderful.
And yet, somehow, it was terrible. I looked at her again. She sat there so fine. So decent. A lady. My mother. It seemed impossible to think of her any other way. She was a cultivated lady, the essence of propriety, tact, kindness, decency, motherliness. My mind filled with all the images of motherhood: gentle madonna-like women with tender faces bending over little babies. Mothers were sacred. More sacred than anything in the world. Purity itself. I could feel my eyes misting as the love for her rose in my throat. The love, and the sense of her purity. How could I…
I looked into her eyes. Gray beauty. Quiet. Aristocratic refinement. But at the same time, a voice in me wouldn’t be stilled. It said: “Mother’s tits! Remember her pulling her dress up in the orphanage. Remember her body trembling against you when you helped her get her dress on. Remember how she looked swelling her panties. Remember how that lovely ass looked. Mother’s beautiful ass! Don’t lie to yourself.”
Luckily, this again brought me to my senses. God, what a monster I was. How could anyone look on such cleanness and think such dirty things. I looked into the clear coolness of her gray eyes. Everything that was peaceful and noble was there.
“I worship you,” I said in my head. “Thou art purity. Thou art my mother and sacred.” She crossed her legs!
I had seen the motion with my peripheral vision. Instinctively, my eyes darted down. Crossing her legs had pulled her skirt in such a way that the underside of her left thigh was visible all the way, or, rather, it would be from a little lower. I was too high. I began to slide down in my chair, hoping it wouldn’t be noticeable. I could see the underside of the thigh. I could see how it shone in the stretched stocking. I could see the dark bands at the top of the stocking that signaled the border of flesh. I could even see a tiny bit of white flesh! I had to see morel But how? I couldn’t slide down any further. Already it was dangerous. But I had to see. The way her legs were, I would be able to see between them if I were sitting on the floor. But how could I? I couldn’t just sit down at her feet and stare up her dress! But I had to do something. The wildness had gone too far in me to hold it in check now.
Drop something, I thought. That’s it. Drop something, then look as you pick it up. My spoon! I picked up the coffee again, drank a little, then put it back. As I did so, I managed to dislodge the spoon. There it was on the floor. All I had to do was bend down for it. And look. Impossible. But I had to. I bent down suddenly, put my hand on the spoon, and looked.
Whiteness, flesh, silk, lace. It was all a confusion. My mind was so frantic that it couldn’t take in anything. I sat up in a kind of whirl. Bewildered by joy and frustration.
“What are you looking at, Lars?” It was Mother’s voice coming through my confusion with a terrible clarity.
“What were you looking at?” she asked again. I looked and her eyes were direct, almost calm. Her legs had not moved. I could not say anything. I just gaped at her.
“Come, Lars, tell me. What were you looking at?”
All sense of power, joy, everything but terror fled me. I tried hard to be calm. But I couldn’t. Somehow I managed: “Why, uh, nothing, Mother. I wasn’t looking at anything…”
“If we are going to be close, Lars, you will have to learn to be honest with me. Come now, you were staring at something; tell me what it was, Lars.”
I could not pull myself together. I fumbled wildly for words. I said: “But-uh-really I-uh was-uh-well-just picking up my sp-spoon.” I looked at her my eyes full of terror.
“Were you looking at my legs, Lars?” Her voice was cool with a slight tone of authority. And she kept looking at me. I didn’t know what to do.
“Lars, you must be truthful! You do look. You did the first time I saw you in the orphanage. And again at breakfast yesterday. And last night, in the mirror, while I was dressing behind the screen. I’ve seen you. And you were trying to look up my dress just now when you dropped your spoon. Why do you look, Lars? Is it because I am a woman? Is that it? But I am your mother, Lars. Do you think it’s right that you should look at your mother?”
I stared helplessly agape. What could I say? Even if I wasn’t fourteen, what could I say?
“Lars, more important than anything in the world is for you to be honest with me, and open. Only so can we ever hope to be close. You can tell me anything, Lars. Anything! Even if it seems shameful or dirty! What is it you really want to see so badly? Is it my legs? They are only legs, Lars.” She took her skirt and pulled it half way up exposing her thighs only partially covered by her white slip. “Is this why you were trying to see up my dress, Lars? To peek at my thighs?” Despite myself I stared, not only from my eagerness to see, but also caught by the sudden indecency of her movement. Of the situation. As I gaped, she slowly pulled the slip away and the skirt still higher so that I could see more and more. The tops of the stockings appeared. Slowly the skirt moved higher. Suddenly there was the nude flesh, white and gleaming! So full and round and secret.