“Hey, Zoe, why don’t you and Peter do that walk over the hills? That should get him fit and brighten him up a bit.”
Over the hills that form a backdrop to our city there is a chain of hostels, each about a days walk apart. To walk the whole distance took about a week and Bern and I had done it a couple of times, but Peter had never been with us.
Peter had finished his final year at high school and seemed to go into a state resembling depression. Even when he got his exam results, which were brilliant, and he got his picture in the newspaper and he was even on T.V., he still did not brighten up.
“Post study reaction,” our local GP had diagnosed, “needs to get some exercise and fresh air.”
It was a rough diagnosis, but I knew he was right. Bern and I had encouraged, (or should I say “pushed”?) Peter pretty hard for several years. Peter wanted to enter Medical School and we knew he would need a very good pass to get accepted. Now he had been accepted and that didn’t seem to cheer him up either.
I suppose the fierce concentration had a detrimental affect on his social development. The old saw, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” applied in this case.
Peter had simply missed a lot of the things that most young people engage in, and added to that, his focus on study gained him the title “Nerd” among his peers. His one and only sport, if you can call it that, also tended to be isolating, namely, weight lifting.
Bern and I were proud of his academic achievements and his magnificent physique, but suffered some degree of guilt that we had not encouraged him to socialise more. Apart from general socialising, young people these days do a lot of their sexual maturing during teenage years, which means a fair amount of youthful copulating. As far as I could gather, Peter had not had any of this either.
So it was that Bern suggested the week long walk over the hills, stopping each night at one of the hostels. He couldn’t make it himself because of work commitments, so it was up to mother to make the arrangements and then endure foot slogging journey.
On making the suggestion to Peter he shrugged, showed little enthusiasm, but muttered “Okay.” So I went ahead and booked our places in the hostels, and since only one place had a warden I collected the keys to the other places.
Having made the bookings I had second thoughts because most of the time we would be walking alone and at the hostels we would most probably still be on our own. Nevertheless, having made the arrangements I decided we would go ahead, and perhaps the fresh air would do wonders for Peter.
One advantage I hoped to reap for myself was that Peter and I might re-connect. Right up until he entered high school he had been very affectionate towards me. Soon after starting high school he seemed to draw away from me. If I tried to hug or kiss him I would get shrugged off and told, “Don’t do that mum.” Perhaps having me as a fellow hiker there might at least develop a bond of companionship, if not a restoration of the old affection.
So on the day of our start, with our rucksacks filled, Bern drove us to where we were to begin our journey; a place called “Stony Creek,” where a trail started. Bern kissed me goodbye, told us to “behave ourselves,” and drove off into the misty and rather cold morning.
The trail was easy at first, passing through a State Reserve where a wide variety of trees and native undergrowth flourish. Occasionally there was the rustle of some animal moving in the undergrowth and once a snake undulated across our path. We came upon a group of wallabies that on sighting us, bounded away through crackling scrub.
The trail crossed a road then continued up a hill and into another State Reserve. The sun had by now pierced and driven away the mist and the temperature was rising. The country was harder here and we began to toil up a steep hill, until we came to a place where the trail dropped down almost precipitously to a creek.
We stopped here for our first rest, taking off our sweaters so as to continue the walk in shirts and jeans. We drank from our water bottles and ate some cheese and biscuits, sitting with our backs against a big old gum tree.
We had said hardly anything during this first part of the walk, but now Peter commented idly, “Hell mum, that’s a long drop down to the creek.”
“It gets rougher later on,” I replied, “in fact you’ll end up being glad when it does go down, because I swear that parts of the trail go up in both directions.” That got a bit of a laugh from him, which was nice because I hadn’t heard him laugh for a long time.
We hefted our rucksacks and began the descent to the creek. Sometimes going down can be harder than going up, and by the time we reached the bottom my ankle and knee joints were making themselves felt. We crossed the creek on stepping stones and were immediately confronted with a clamber up to a ridge. It must have taken us an hour to get to the top.
By now I was sweating escort ataşehir and the straps of my rucksack were beginning to dig into my shoulders. Another rest was called for, more water and some cold sausage and cheese.
Peter did not seem in the least bothered by the strenuous efforts we had made, but he did ask, “How far to the hostel now, mum?”
“About another hour and a half,” I said. “We walk along the ridge and that’s fairly easy going, then a bit more up and down, and we’re there, “Thank God” I thought, as visions of a wash, fried sausages and potatoes, then sitting by the stove rose up in my head.
We sat for a bit longer admiring the view from our vantage pointed, seeing the forest stretching away, then in the middle distance farmland and vineyards and beyond, more hills.
Hefting our rucksack again we began the walk along the ridge. At one point the trail took a sharp turn and coming round the corner we came face to face with an old man kangaroo. We stopped only a couple of metres from the animal, he staring haughtily at us, and we looking back at him. We stayed like that for at least half a minute, and then in what looked like a contemptuous manner he turned and thumped slowly away.
“That’s the closest I’ve ever been to one of those,” Peter said a little breathlessly. “Just as well we don’t have man eating tigers in this country.”
“No,” I responded, “but we do have some nasty poisonous snakes,” I reminded him, pointing to a long black form draped over a bank of rocks on the side of the trail, its head raised, looking at us fixedly.
We hurried on.
We came to the end of the ridge and struggled up and down a number of steep slopes, to emerge onto a flat open area where there was the Ranger’s house. Passing it we crossed a dirt road and walked the last bit of the trail to the hostel.
It was in fact an old Nissen Hut that is essentially a half round tunnel-like structure of corrugated iron with a concrete floor. It had no showers and water had to be drawn from a rainwater tank and heated if you wanted a warm wash. The toilet was a separate structure with a cement arrangement with a hole in it. Beneath the hole was a seemingly bottomless pit, the purpose of which I leave you to imagine.
Inside the hut there was a division with a notice, “Men,” on one side and “Women” on the other. These were the sleeping areas. The small kitchen was provided with bottled gas and a single gas ring, and a lounge area that had old armchairs with the stuffing hanging out of them, and as a central feature, the iron stove.
It was now about half past four, so Peter brought in water in a bucket and filling a large saucepan the water was heated for washing purposes. I was to wash first, so I departed for the toilet while the water was heating, and seating myself over the hole I prayed there were no redback spiders lurking in the place.
My wash consisted of stripping off in the kitchen and dealing with the essential parts of the anatomy while Peter brought in wood for the stove. When I had finished I redressed, omitting my bras as I hate the things anyway, and more water was boiled for Peter and he washed while, as the day was cooling, I lit the stove.
When Peter had finished it was cooking time, if you could call the rather basic activity cooking. We ate the rough meal ravenously and then retired to the lounge. There were some old board games lying around and Peter, who now seemed to be more cheerful than I had seen him for a long time, said, “Let’s play snakes and ladders, remember how we used to play it when I was little?”
I felt a lump come into my throat as the memory of those days when he was a child welled up into my head. Those happy days when it seemed that he was all mine to teach and love and he would sometimes put his little hands on my cheeks and say, “You’re the most beautiful mummy in the whole world.” Then I would kiss him and say, “Thank you, darling.” How we look back to what seems like the halcyon days when innocence has hardly been defiled by the “I wants” and the “I must haves” of our so-called “maturity.” I could never have him again like that, but surely there could be something between us? The love of mother and son that seems to go beyond almost any other relationship in its depths; could we have that?
That evening we played our games of snakes and ladders, laughing, accusing each other of cheating, and letting our tired limbs relax as we sensed the sounds of silence in the world outside the hut. The silence unfortunately was broken with the sound of a possum dropping on to the corrugated iron of the hut and scrambling and screaming for about half an hour.
Then it was time for bed and sleep to prepare us for the next day’s strenuous march. We took no notice of the “Men” and “Women” signs; both of us electing to sleep in the women’s section. Peter stripped off to sleep naked as he always does.
Modesty was thrown aside, and this was the first time I had seen Peter naked kadıköy escort bayan since he became a teenager. I could not help feeling a little thrill of pleasure ripple through me as I covertly admired his beautiful body. “I and the weight lifting helped to make that, “I thought; then chastised myself for my prurient interest.
As I began to undress, taking off my shirt, I began to regret that I had not put on my bras. I was very aware that Peter was doing his own covert looking, and there was no way I could conceal my breasts completely from his vision. More disconcerting was the fact that I could see his penis rising.
I clambered into the wooden bunk and under the covers removed my panties. Peter turned out the gas light, and we were enveloped in darkness.
I thought I would go to sleep very quickly, but instead lay awake for some time. All was silent except for the occasional scrabbling of some night creature outside the hut. My mind kept returning to that brief glimpse of Peter’s rising manhood and troubled that it seemed to be the glimpse of my breasts that had inspired it. Surely he couldn’t? He wouldn’t want to? No, it was impossible, wasn’t it?
After laying awake for some time thinking Peter was asleep I was surprised to hear what sounded like gentle thumping sounds accompanied by little gasps. The thumping increased in speed and the gasps grew more audible and culminated in a low moan. I knew what this meant; Peter was masturbating.
This in itself did not surprise me since at home I washed his handkerchiefs and bed linen, and was fully aware that since he seemed not to copulate with girls, he needed to relieve himself. It was actually hearing him in the deed that disconcerted me. I felt as if I had been spying on him during a private act.
Even more disturbing was my response to hearing him. The previous night Bern had made love with me and given me the works. When it was over he grinned and said, “That should hold us both for a week.” Since we normally copulated about three times a week I doubted his optimism, but after one day?
Why was I so wet between the thighs and why were my nipples so hard and upstanding? I knew the answer well enough; it was hearing Peter masturbating. As quietly as I could I began my own self relieving, hoping Peter freed from his own sexual tension, was now asleep.
I took hold of a breast so my fingers could gently press a nipple and began to stroke my vulva, gradually parting its lips then pushing a finger into my vaginal tunnel. My genitals felt swollen and very wet so I eased a second finger in and then a third. I worked slowly at first, and then gradually speeded up. Still working my fingers in and out I let my thumb rest on my clitoris and then began to circle it. I had often done this when Bern was away on business and I needed relief.
It was agony trying to stifle my cries as my climax hit. I struggled to fantasise Bern, but the image of Peter, laying so close to me, kept intruding until finally I yielded, letting it have its way with me.
When it was over I continued to be wakeful, castigating myself for letting my own son become the object of my sexual desire. This had not been at all what I had wished for when I had hoped for a renewed and closer bond with him.
“You’re an evil unnatural woman,” I told myself, “harbouring libidinous thoughts about your own son.”
Had I imagined that his masturbating had been inspired by me? Of course it hadn’t; he had simply had the overfull testes of youth that needed to be emptied. Did I imagine that he had fantasised me as he ejaculated? Of course he didn’t. It would have been some girl he has seen or some female in an erotic picture.
Thus I told myself I had not been the one to disturb him, but why did I feel deep down slightly affronted at this? With that thought sleep came and then a dream, a dream that was even more disturbing than the waking reality.
I was laying spreadeagled, not tied down but held by some force that seemed to come from within me. I made no effort to struggle against this power that held me and looking up I saw Peter standing between my wide spread legs.
He was looking at me intently and I saw his massive erection – long, thick light brown shaft ending with a massive purple head that shone with pre-cum. As I watched he came down between my legs. I felt the wetness of my vagina as his massive crown moved inexorable towards it, seeking entrance.
I was crying out, “yes, darling, yes.” I felt the tip of his penis touch the lips of my vulva and he said softly, “Mother, mother…”
He was about to plunge into me when I awoke, startled. Peter was indeed standing over me, but beside the bed saying, “Mother, mother, it’s time to wake up, we need to get started soon.”
With the awakening came the bitterness of loss – the loss of something I had wanted very dearly. Impulsively I extend my hand to Peter and was about to try and complete the dream when moral consciousness prevailed escort bostancı and I said,”Help me up.”
He grinned down at me and said, “Feeling a bit stiff after yesterday, are you?” I tried to smile back at him as he pulled me up. I had completely forgotten that I was naked and as I rose from the bed I heard him gasp. I grabbed a blanket and covered myself, and without a word he disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
I dressed slowly, all too aware that I still retained the genital wetness and firm nipples inspired by my dream.
Nothing was said about what had happened; in fact we both seemed to be rather introspective, saying little about anything.
We began the days trek by walking beside a fast running creek and then sloshed our way across some marshy ground until we emerged on to a dirt road. We passed through rolling farmland for about an hour, and then went back on to the trail to struggle along over rock rubble that could slide away from under you, throwing you off balance.
I think thrown off balance describes how I felt that day. Both of us seemed to be introspective as we plodded along saying very little. What was engaging Peter’s thoughts I did not know, but mine dwelt on the events of the night and my state when I woke in the morning.
I felt as if a demon and an angel were battling inside me, or perhaps I should called it vice and virtue.
The demon kept saying, “He’s a young man sexually at his most potent. He needs a woman, a woman who will show him the delights of the female body, who will guide him in the ways of satisfying a woman’s needs as well as his own. He lusts for you, so what if he is your son? You are man and woman alone together, what more natural than you should be drawn to each other?”
The angel fought back: “He is your son and from the beginning incest has been abhorrent to humankind. There are laws which forbid it, moral principles that oppose it. We must control our baser instincts and if we love such as our children we must rise above the carnal to a spiritual love. Remember the warning that consanguinity results in deformed and mentally handicapped children.”
“Aha,” replied the demon, “the mere fact that there are strict laws regarding incest betrays the fact it frequently takes place. And why should you deny yourself and your son pleasure? Come, be brave, no harm will come to you or him, and it will deepen the bond between you.”
“No, cried the angel, it will destroy the beautiful bond of filial love you might have experienced.”
So it went round and round in my head. One good thing that came out of this inner conflict was that I did not notice the soreness of my shoulders from the rucksack straps, or the insipient blisters on my feet.
Twice we stopped for a rest and a bite to eat and in the mid afternoon we approached the hostel. This time we had to collect the key from a house near the hostel and I asked the woman who kept the key if anyone else was using the hostel. I was praying that she would answer “Yes,” so Peter and I would not be alone for the night. She shook her head. My prayer had fallen on deaf divine ears.
This hostel was more up to date than the previous one, with showers, a well set up kitchen, running water, electricity and two separate sleeping rooms instead of the partitioned area as before.
We took our showers – separately I hastened to add – then sat around for a while. I was inspecting my feet for signs of blisters. Next day we had the longest march of the whole trip, with many hills to tackle; a walk that would take us about eleven hours.
Peter, seeing me looking at my feet came over and said, “Let me massage them for you.” I lay back on the sofa where I had been sitting and extended my feet. Peter knelt before me and began to gently massage.
I think it was the very tenderness of his touch that set the fire burning in me again. I wanted to reach out and touch his hair and face, to kiss him and….
“You see how tender he is with you?” the tempter said. “He loves you and why not, you’re an attractive woman, you know many men have desired you. He desires you, so confess, you desire him for he is a good looking young man. You love him, so what more natural than that you should give him the fullness of that love, the ultimate physical union of man and woman?”
“No,” countered the angel. “The love of son and mother must not be like that. It must go beyond the desires of the flesh. Confess you dread the thought that he will defile you and himself with foul lust, forever shutting out the love that might have been. And are you not afraid that he will fertilise you? You are still fecund and may bring forth a child begotten in sin.”
“That feel better, mum,” Peter’s voice interrupted the inner warfare.
“Yes darling, much better thank you.”
He continued kneeling in front of me, and laying has hands on my thighs said, “You have very pretty feet, but then, you have a very pretty everything.”
A quiver of pleasure speared through me. His sweet compliment, his hands on my thighs, so close to my womanhood, had set my nipples hardening again and my vagina to lubricate. I felt as if he had only to touch my lips with his and I would yield to whatever he wanted of me.