When I flew to Boston for my Son's wedding not so many years ago, I was already separated from my 2nd hubby, Dr. Al. Traveling alone, my mind was a hive of expectations and questions. And when I stepped off the plane and up the concourse, my heart beat in anticipation of seeing my Bobby for the first time in 3 years. There he was approaching me, and I him, then our bodies colliding awkwardly as we held each other from falling. Gasping for breath, I lifted my face to his and placed a puckered kiss in the generally area of his open mouth. Really not a bad beginning for my three-day stay. 

Bobby put me up at the Sheraton on the Commons. He had spent too much, and I told him so, but I really thrilled with his expression of generosity toward me. And that night at the family dinner at a well-known Boston restaurant, my emotional agitation over losing my Son to a young woman whom I felt was unworthy, caused a scene. I was..."over-served" is the expression. With what grace I had left, I asked my Son to please drive me back to the hotel. Everyone in the dinner party heard his bride-to-be Susanna blurt out, "Get her a cab, Bob".

Well, old mom's presence won that contest with this 23 year-old girl. I was even successful in getting my Son to escort me up to room. Against his protest, I insisted he stay and share a nightcap with me -- just one drink. Undressing in the alcove, I heard the sound of ice-en-glass, and felt a hot rush. The black cock-tail dress I'd shucked over my head. And with raised hands patting my hair in place, I liked the mirror image of my swelling bosom in the pearlescent Bali bra and even the feint roll of pale bare midriff flesh at the matching half-slip. Mind you, at this point I had no coherant scheme plotted to stake my carnal claim to my Son on the night before his wedding. I was though very much a woman in need, a woman still smarting from the emotional abuse of two unappreciative ex-husbands   

I made my entrance to see my young man sitting on the foot of the double-king-size bed. Like Liz Taylor in "Cat On a Hot Tin Roof", I sauntered up to him...right up between his knees on which he held our drinks. His head was just below my bosom, and I stared down at him, letting him take in this rare and unique subordinate perspective of his mother. My cupped breasts...my throat...my face, boozey as it must have been.

I didn't give an inch when he struggled awkwardly to his feet, his body brushing mine in the process. I looped my arms up over his shoulder and pushed my tummy and thighs against him. 

"You know you shouldn't be marrying that young tramp tomorrow, Bobby", the words spilled out unrehearsed. I saw his slack-jawed wonderment and confusion, his embarrasment. And with a mother's  intuitive radar I arranged my pelvis squarely over that sign-of-life in his expensive trousers. That's called driving under the influence, you could say, lol.

Well, he didn't protest and he didn't flinch when I pressed my parted lips into his and held them there. He didn't overly respond, but he received his mother mushy kisses like a man...and maybe tomorrow he could justify the episode as oh-well-she-was-drunk. But he had to know that his mother was also receiving the clear signal of firm palpable interest in her pussy cleaving to his erection.

My Son wasn't in a rush to call a halt to my inappropriate motherly indulgences, which had seemingly elevated the temperature in the room. And I would not be pressing him to throw me down on that fancy bed and trump his honeymoon night by one day in the arms of his sexually famished mom, me. But that night, that stolen all-wrong-all-right dalliance had reawakened the sensual dynamic  between us. For certain, it was the prelude to a deeper family love.