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When I came home from school, I found the letter on my desk. My mother had obviously placed it there. She would be down in her study now, marking papers, just as interested in the contents of the letter as him, but respectful enough to not open it.

I took the letter opener and sliced along the paper, enjoying the satisfying rip that I heard all too rarely in my email-intensive life. And then unfolding of the paper, and beginning to read: “Dear Mr. Hook; We are pleased to welcome you to…”

I didn’t need to read further. I folded the letter up again, and put it back in the envelope. My first instinct was to call Vernon and tell him we’d be going to the same university–he had gotten his letter the week before. But even before telling him, I’d need to tell my mother.


She had her back to me at the desk, her dark hair still tied up behind her head. She put down her pen to listen.

“The letter from the University… I got in.”

She turned on her chair, slowly, and gave me a look over the tops of her professorial glasses.

“I knew you would.” She said it warmly, matter-of-factly, but I caught the tension beneath it–she was no more comfortable with the fact that our lives would be forced together any more than I was. There was nothing for it, though–Montclaire University had one of the best English programs in the country, and I would be foolish to settle for anywhere else. It’s not like I would be in any of her classes, either–I had no interest in taking anything from the philosophy realm.

“I guess we can carpool then, on days when our schedules are similar.”


Carpooling with my mother. It was so lame, so high-school. It slowly began to sink in, how I’d have to look over my shoulder every time I tried to flirt with a girl.

“Anyway, I’m going to go phone Vernon.”

“Okay, and congrats, honey. Be sure to call your dad and tell him.”

Vernon and I made friends easily. Vernon had all the poise of a senior, casual and controlled, articulate, and sometimes outrageous. He’d lead us to midnight film showings, he’d smuggle expensive scotch into study halls, and pass it around to everyone in the hall, whether he knew them or not. He had blossomed–I hate to use that word, but it was true, he was nothing like the Vernon I remember from high-school. He attracted people to him, and I was happy to bask in his circle. He referred to me, frequently, as the brains behind the operation—any operation–because I would always quietly whisper things to him, which he would then announce to the group with a confidence I could never give my own thoughts. Billy, Karl and Oscar rounded out our group, all good guys, all sharing our general joy of the experience.

And as for my mother, I never saw much of her. Our course-schedules were almost completely different through the first term, and we’d occasionally see each other during a rush through hallways, a wave across the distance of people, or occasionally I’d get her a tea and stop by her office during her break. My grades were good. I didn’t have a girlfriend yet–infact I was still a virgin, but that all seemed okay, because Vernon didn’t place a high priority on girls either, except as a cursory form of distraction.

During the second semester, things changed in a number of ways. The first was the presence of Morag and Hannah in our circle of friends. They had been in our classes through the first semester, but for some reason they attached themselves to us. We regarded them awkwardly at first, girls who sought us out, wanted to hang out with us, but we quietly agreed that it was a good thing.

“It reflects well on us, to other girls,” Oscar said.

“Word of mouth. They’ll tell their friends what great, cool guys we are, and soon it’ll get out and we’ll have to beat the girls off,” Vernon agreed.

Nobody mentioned the fact that Hannah and Morag, were, themselves, reasonably attractive–if somewhat geeky–and apparently available, but we were all aware of it. If there were two of us guys, say, just myself and Vernon, the math would be obvious. As it was, we nobody could act on these two girls in our midst without at least three guys being left out.

The second change was that I had a class with Mrs. Magunderson–Canadian literature. She took me aside during the class.

“I just want to make it clear, Sean, that just because your mother is one of my best friends doesn’t mean you can expect a free ride in my class.”

“Okay,” I said. I had no idea that Ms. Magunderson and my mother knew each other.

“Infact, you can probably expect that I’ll be a little tougher on you than the other students. After all, Paula is so brilliant, if you have half her brains–which, given all she’s said about your father, is about as much as we should hope for–you should breeze through the


“Okay.” It hardly seemed fair, but I wasn’t in a position to argue. I found beautiful girls mildly intimidating. But beautiful women like Ms Magunderson terrified me out of my mind.

“So I have a class with Mrs Magunderson,” güvenilir canlı bahis siteleri I announced to my mother during the drive to school–that was the other change in the second semester: our schedules were amost identical three days a week, so it made sense to carpool. I was sick of taking the buses, and my mother wasn’t a fan of driving and was happy to let me take over behind the wheel.

“Yes, I know.”

“She told me that the two of you are friends.”

My mom sighed. “She told me about your conversation. She said she felt bad about it, she worried she might have scared you a bit.”


“Did she?”

“Yeah, maybe a bit.”

“Yeah, she’s a little bit fierce.”

I wanted to tell my mother what she had said about my father, but I wasn’t sure how to bring it up so I left it alone. Probably nothing. We parted ways on the sidewalk between the buildings, her giving me a gentle pat on the arm.

I found everyone hanging around in the foodcourt.

“Hey Hook, I saw your ride this morning, pretty sweet!” Oscar called out.

“Oh thanks! A cadillac my dad restored. He was big into them.”

“No, not the car, dude! The girl! She was smoking!”

I felt my face burning as everyone else turned to Oscar for more details. All eyes on him, Oscar continued. “Yeah, she must have been like 28, at least, in a tight skirt and a suit, just smoking. Long dark hair, big dark eyes, glasses, amazing legs… What is she, a grad student?”

Everyone looked back at me, waiting for the explanation. Vernon picked up on it. He nodded knowingly, and I tried to communicate telepathically, getting him to tell these people the misunderstanding, that the hottie in question was my mother. And yes, the joke would be on me, but I could live with that.

But Vernon just smirked. And I couldn’t tell them; too humiliating to form those words, “She’s my mother.”

“Dude, why didn’t you tell them that she was my mother?” I demanded of Vernon during our break.

“Why didn’t I tell them? Why didn’t you tell them? She’s your mother, after all.”

“Okay, I guess I’m going to have to swallow my pride and tell them, next time it comes up.”

Vernon sighed, his voice suddenly low. “You might consider not telling them.”


“Seriously, did you see Morag?”

“What about her?”

“She was fuming. I was like watching two kettles coming to a boil when Oscar was talking–you and her. I wasn’t sure which was going to explore first!”

“But why was Morag…” I stopped talking, slowly understanding.

Vernon nodded. “Play it, dude. Just pretend you’ve got this hot grad-student girlfriend, and seriously, you’ll have Morag by the end of the term. If that’s what you want.”

“Yeah, I mean… You aren’t interested in her, are you?”

Vernon laughed. “No, I’m all about the Hannah. Which should be easy once you and Morag hook up. Seriously, they’ll fall like dominos.”

“But why don’t I just tell Morag I’m single now–”

“No, you’ve gotta work her up a bit more.”

“I’m not sure about that.”

“Trust me on this. Remember which one of us is still a virgin.”

“Alright,” I nodded.

After Magunderson’s class, we went to the food court for lunch, sharing a big pizza and a pitcher of Sleeman’s Honey Brown.

“So, I know Sean wasn’t going to talk about it, but since the cat is out of the proverbial bag, I might as well explain.” He looked at me meaningfully, and I shrugged, resigned to his plan. Instead, I watched Morag, who looked to be reading, but she poised her pencil unmovingly on the page, the mere pretense of reading.

“It was a strange Mrs. Robinson thing. I don’t know what she saw in him, but they’ve been seeing each other a couple nights a week for most of the last year. I actually get credit for introducing the two of them. She was a friend of my sister’s, and was at a house-party we had last year, and I started the two of them talking because they’re both big fans of Joyce. She’s a grad student and teacher here, in the Philosophy program. I’m not going to say her name, it wouldn’t be fair to her. But yes, she’s gorgeous, and she’s was married to another professor on campus here, but they’re divorced now. Anyway, the reason I’m telling you this now, the reason Sean and I decided we needed to tell you, is that we need your absolute secrecy on this. She could lose her position if anyone finds out.”

Everyone nodded solemnly, Oscar, Billy and Karl now looking at me with a new respect. Awe, even. Myself, I was a little bit awed at the way Vernon wove this fiction together with threads of truth–my parents’ divorce, my father also a professor (but at a different university), the girl at Sean’s party who I had talked with about Joyce. I shook my

head at Vernon, and he gave me a quick grin.

Soon after, Morag quietly excused herself. I couldn’t believe it, but it seemed Vernon was right about her–she was obviously unhappy about his story, and the easiest possible reason is because she had some sort of feeling for me.

Magundson güvenilir illegal bahis siteleri also turned out to not be as harsh as initially indicated. She would often single me out for an answer in class, and was quick to cut me down if I struggled at all with the answer, but also gave me ample praise when I got something right, which happened far more than the former.

There were stories about her, though. That Jamima Magundson, with her coppery skin, her dark eyes, her skirts and her tight ass, she was something of a slut amongst the faculty. She had slept with everyone from the dean to the Campus. And there were rumours that she had even slept with students. When Morag and Hannah were gone, the guys would talk about Jamima, how they would take her–bent over on her desk, from behind, hard up the ass while she continued to mark papers. All the guys agreed she must be the type of woman who was into anal. And they’d speculate which, of the current students, she’d be most likely to fuck. They didn’t say the obvious–that she singled me out in class more than anyone else, that there was obviously something more of a connection between myself and her. And I couldn’t reply with the obvious–that she was just a friend of my mother’s, since any mention of my mother could start a string of questions that would unravel the myth of my graduate lover.

One night, I awoke to sounds from downstairs. I had planned to go out with the gang, but a headache had kept me from going. I felt better now. The sounds downstairs were voices. My mother’s, and another voice, female, familiar… Jamima Magunderson’s of course.

I’d have to go down and say hello. It was too early for me to go back to sleep, and I couldn’t sit up here and just ignore them. I walked down the stairs quietly.

“…and he’s not coming home for a while?”

“No, he stays out late.”

“Yeah, he looks a little bleary-eyed in class sometimes.”

“He does okay in class though?”

“Yeah, he’s quiet, but he’s smart enough.”

Well, I was stuck now. I couldn’t very well make myself known without them knowing that I had heard them talking about me. But I didn’t want to leave yet, I wanted to hear what Magnunderson said about me. I thought back again to the stories about her seducing her students.

What if…? It was a fantasy, but one I was prepared to nurture. Or maybe she’d say that she thought I was ugly, awkward (I thought of the AWK! she’d write in margins of essays to highlight an awkward phrase) and that would settle it, too.

“And his friend, Vernon,” Jamima said.

“Oh, don’t get me started.”

“He’s cute, too.”

“He propositioned me, once. Just completely out of the blue,” my mother said.

“Oh yeah?”

“‘Mrs Hook,’ he said, ‘I know what your position is with your husband gone and all, and I just wanted to know that if you ever need a man, feel free to call me.'”

“See? A complete cutie! I’m guessing you didn’t take him up on it.”

“No, he was a kid at the time. He’s still a kid. He’s my son’s age.”

“You’ve fucked other guys your son’s age.”

“I know, I know. But not as many as you.”

“True. You know I had three at the same time last week?”

“You didn’t!”

“True! One of them was from the wrestling team, too. Serious, all three holes at once.”

“You slut.”


I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I wasn’t sure what they meant about my mother having guys my age. She must have meant years ago, when she was young, before she was married. But more interesting to me was this validation of the stories about Jamima Magunderson. And, she had said about Vernon, that he was cute, too. Meaning he was cute, as well as… me? Lots of information to consider. There was also the bit about Vernon propositioning my mother. Didn’t suprise me. Vernon had always looked at my mother that way.


That was a strange sound. I didn’t know who it came from. I had to get into a place where I could see them. From the bottom of the stairs, all I could see were their vague shapes reflected in the surface of the stainless steel fridge. I looked out into the dark living room. I could crawl from my current location down behind the armchair, and then behind the couch, and from the far end of the couch, I would be able to look out from between the pillows, disguised in the darkness of the room.

What was I hoping to see? It sounded, I hated to say it, almost like a kiss. My mother and Jamima kissing? I should go back upstairs, look at some web-porn and masturbate, then go to sleep. Peeping is something that I had given up when I was twelve, when I had unsuccessfully attempted to peek into the girl’s shower room at summer camp, had been caught by a counsellor, and heavily reprimanded, although spared any public humiliation.

It took me about ten seconds to decide. With my heart racing like I hadn’t felt since that earliest experience, I flattened myself along the floor and crawled behind the couch. Slowly, I lifted my head between the pillows and looked güvenilir bahis şirketleri out. First I saw only their heads.

Several feet apart, simply looking at each other. Nothing suspicious there. I raised my head a little more, so that I could see their bodies. Again, nothing suspicious, just my mother in a charcoal turtleneck, Jamima in a white blouse. although, was there one more button undone on her blouse than was usual? One more undone than what I had seen in class earlier in the day? I lifted my head a little bit more. There it was! Both women had their skirts hiked up high upon their thighs, legs spread wider than would be considered appropriate, and Jemima had, nestled between her legs, a thick dark bottle–champaign, I figured from the shape of the bottle. My mother had one foot in Jemima’s lap, running the arch of her foot along the smooth blackness of the champagne bottle. They remained completely motionless, except for the slow stroke of my mother’s foot.

The tableau was too much. I knew I would have to masturbate. I would have to take it out, right here watching my mother and my professor, behind the couch like a wanking adolescent. I couldn’t see how I had any choice in the matter. Nothing in my life I had experienced came close to that. I even did a quick mental count of the porn I had on my computer. Was there anything on there as hot as this, even if I were to ignore the fact that I knew these two women and this was all going on in my own living room. I had no choice. I pulled down my zipper one notch at a time, afraid of the noise it might cause, but having it shouted down by the beating of my own heart in my ears.

I took my cock out. It seems pointless to mention that it was hard. I was a nineteen year old male–it was always hard. I would have loved to have some lubricant, a handful of vasoline or baby oil. But I couldn’t move now, afraid that to do so would be to break the moment.

So I used my slow squeeze, a maneuver I had invented for times when I was without lubricant or when a full stroke would have been impossible. Both were true for the current moment.

I was aware, also, of the incestual implications. But I quickly forced them out of my mind. It was Jamima I wanted, her lean body, her legs so long, gently squeezing together, around the bottle, and then relaxing. Now licking her lips. Looking at my mother and licking her lips, one hand dropping to the champagne bottle then, and gently stroking it. Like a cock. Like my own cock. I adjusted my stroke to match hers, caressing my finger around my own head the way that she caressed the dark width of the lip of the bottle. And then two fingers down the neck, then the hand slipping suddenly between the bottle and her body, moaning as it slipped into that void.

Then my mother was moving I pulled my head down instinctually, caught by the suddenness of her movement. She stood, suddenly pulling her turtleneck over her head, dropping it to the floor and straddling Jamima, kissing her, pulling open my professor’s shirt and running her hands over that lean body that I desired so much. They rocked against each other, the champagne bottle pressed between them, their lips on each other’s lips, and then falling upon ears, necks, shoulders.

Jamima unclasped my mother’s bra, pulled it from her body, and dove into those heavy breasts, and I came. I shot myself up the underside of the couch, but I didn’t stop masturbating. I couldn’t stop any more than I could look away, as my mother raised herself up, and descended again, slowly. All four hands went between their thighs, guiding down.

My mother threw her head back and let out a groan. I didn’t need to be a geometry major to figure out exactly where the champagne bottle was positioned. Jemima pulled off her own bra, leaning forward into my mother’s body. Jemima’s breasts were small and firm, just as I had imagined, with those solid nipples I had stared at through layers of silk in every class.

Then my mother began to rise up. “Come and fuck me on the couch.”

Oh shit. I ducked down, lying flat on my back. I prayed for them to change their mind, go up to the bedroom.

“What if we make a mess on it?”

“What if we do?” my mother said, her voice now terrifyingly close to me now.

“Won’t Sean be suspicious if it smells like pussy and champagne?”

“He wouldn’t know what a pussy smells like.”

I was suddenly indignant, my own mother seemingly mocking my virginity. At least now I had something to be angry about if I was discovered.

“Maybe I should change that,” Jemima’s voice was seductive, coming closer. My mother’s voice angry in response: “Don’t you dare. I know what a thrill it would be to have two generations of the same family, but I’m not going to do that. I’m not your freakshow.”

“Oh, love! I was kidding, I wouldn’t!” Jemima’s voice sudden, apologetic. And then the gentle pulling sound of kisses, the sound coming to me now through the couch, as they sink down upon it.

They were quiet for a while, and I wondered if it’s over. My hand was sore from masturbating, and I wasn’t sure if I should try to pull off another one here or wait until later and go upstairs. There was Jemima’s subtle suggestion that she could seduce me–that would be reason enough to masturbate. Had they fallen asleep? But no, there’s the sound of movement again, and a sharp squeal from Jemima.

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