Mommy had my thumb in her mouth and she was staring at me with her steamy eyes as I inched my way into the place where I belonged, the place where she had baked me into being. She was sucking hard and I was sinking my teeth into her ankle and arching my back, holding her fast with one hand on her hip, holding her tight like she was going to get away. And the heat that I felt between us was enough to melt the polar ice caps.

Everything I had ever felt for her was consummated in that fleeting moment as I chewed on her sun-kissed toes and worked myself as deep into my Mom's warm center as my eighteen-year-old anatomy would allow. She ground her hips into mine as we rocked back and forth on the water bed, the ripple of the mattress matching the cadence of our love.

She rolled her tongue around on my pollex as I worked my mouth around her perfect hallux. Paying attention in Biology class had finally paid off.

Those steamy eyes receded into slits as she pinched my nipple hard enough to draw blood. My loins quaked as I eased my shaft out of her tight little pussy, savoring the sensation of her flesh closing and pulsating around my glans. Then she sunk her nails into my ass cheek, urging me to return every inch at once.

I was pounding her so hard and she was giving off so much juice that our collective movement was creating a sound of suction that seemed to symbolize how inseparable we had become. The squishy pull of our sex brought me to a precipice I didn't think possible, and as I felt myself fitting to give up everything within me, she grabbed me by my throat and clamped her fingers around my windpipe. Then she pulled me close and breathed into my ear.

“Fill me up,” she panted.

It hadn't always been like this between Mom and me. I was not molested when I was a kid. Mommy and Daddy never diddled me, or let anyone else diddle me. I had a happy childhood... but I always looked at Mom in a way that people deemed inappropriate, and she always looked at me that way, too.

Mom had me early in life. Too early, many people thought. She threw her whole life away, my cunt grandmother liked to say. But Mom's life wasn't complete until she'd had me. That's how she put it, and I believed her. Because I could see it was true, how we completed each other.

It started out when I was eight years old and I first discovered girls. Me and Mom would watch R-rated movies on cable and I'd see all the teenagers making out and fingering each other, and one day while Mom was helping me make mud pies in our front yard, I told her I wanted to learn how to kiss and could I practice on her.

I remember how she took a long time to answer, how her panicked eyes lingered on me a little too long before she said, “No.” And the way she said it wasn't how Mom usually talked to me; it was cold and stern in a way that felt forced and foreign. Like she was steeling herself because she felt like she had to deny my request or face consequences beyond her.

I remember also the way that Mom studied me as I matured—how she watched me grow into myself in the same way a high school senior might observe changes in a sophomore. Like the school year just started and she was seeing me come back from summer break with the first hint of hair on my chest. And there was something hungry in her eyes, something that told me she was more than just proud of her little boy.

Because I wasn't a little boy, any more than Mom was a little woman. I had crawled out of her when she was not yet sixteen years old and she had always treated me with the fondness teenage girls have for their best friend's little brother.

She would plop me down on the floor of her bedroom beside a pile of her vinyl records and an ashtray, and she'd prance around in her white cotton panties, taking drags off a roach and talking to me about horoscope signs and all the hippest bands while she got changed. And if I said something naive or stupid, she'd pull my baseball cap down over my eyes and give me one of those crooked grins that told me she thought I was adorable.

Adorable doesn't last, I learned that early on. But sexy is another thing, and Mom had always been a fox. The other kids knew it, too, and they'd say as much.

“Dude, your Mom's fucking hot,” a friend blurted one day as we played in the street outside my house.

Mom was sunning herself in a lawn chair on the front porch. She was wearing skintight Daisy dukes and a pair of sandals, and it was such a scorcher that she'd thought nothing of going braless and tying her blouse off below her tits. She had a tall glass of iced tea on the rocks and every cold sip she took made her nips spring up like two soldiers standing at attention.

I told my friend to fuck off, but he just stared at her and said, “Nah, dude. Sorry to say, but... your mom's a fucking smoke show.”

I hated him for it, not because he was wrong, but because he was right; she was immaculate, with her white-blonde hair and her supple porcelain neck and those heavy-lidded bedroom eyes the color of Antigua Bay. And some part of me didn't want anyone else's eyes on her. She was mine and no one else earned the right to see what I saw.

It was around that time that she went away on a booze cruise with my father and his relatives, and I was left home alone for the first time in my life. She had made me promise not to touch any of her things while she was gone and I had agreed on the condition that I be allowed to sleep in their queen size bed while they were away.

As soon as they left, I took a pair of her panties from their hamper and balled them up in my hand. Then I took out a stack of photo albums from under their bed and leafed through them until I found what I was looking for—a clutch of pictures taken on their wedding day. The old man looked like a fucking idiot in those photos, cheesin' for the camera all goonie like he drank too much and saw a magic trick or something.