Beyond the Borderline

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All characters having sex together are over 18 years of age.

Although drawn from my own experiences, this is a work of fiction. If you are offended by stories of incest between mothers and sons, you should skip this submission.

This is my first attempt at “creative” writing of any kind. I did not expect it to grow into this rather long tale, but as I developed the characters, it sort of took on a life of its own. Be warned, for those of you who like your mother-son stories short, sweet and steamy, this will not be your cup of tea, as there is a fairly long build up to consummation. Constructive criticism is most welcome, as I have a number of other ideas in various stages of gestation and hope to take the lessons I learn from my first “baby” forward with me as I continue to write. Some of the other projects are “spin-offs” from this one. Thanks for looking and I hope you enjoy the story.

Thanks to Larascasse for editorial assistance.

There’s a place where I’ve been told

Every street is paved with gold

And it’s just across the borderline

And when it’s time to take your turn

Here’s one lesson you must learn,

You could lose more than you’ll ever hope to find….

But hope remains when pride is gone

And it keeps you moving on

Calling you across the borderline

Ry Cooder

© Ry Cooder/John Hiatt/James Dickinson


I don’t have much time left. Having already outlasted their prognostications, my doctors aren’t sure if I’ll be around for weeks or hours. I’m hoping for the latter – the pain is pretty bad now. I burn. Everything burns. Every fiber, every sinew is a white-hot wire, glowing bright as a magnesium flare, all consuming and insatiable.

It’s funny how pain purifies, clarifies and distills. When I’m not grinding my teeth in agony, I think about everything that has come before. Some might say that what I feel now is a just reward for the life I’ve lived, but I have no guilt. None whatsoever. I know with certainty that I have no regrets, just as I know my pain is a doorway. I know that soon, I’ll step beyond that threshold and find escape.

As I have endured these past weeks, most of my waking hours have been spent reflecting on the arc of my life and the extraordinary woman who defined most of it. When our children grew up, they came to know the bare bones of things, but we never really discussed details. Before I’m claimed, I want to tell our story as best I can.

Right now, the Roxanol is my friend, keeping the beast at bay long enough to collect my thoughts, but I find that the lassitude that comes with the relief makes it hard to concentrate. Things seem to oscillate between the warm fuzziness of cotton wool and the knifepoint awareness of the slightest sensation that comes with exquisite distress. I have difficulty sometimes finding the thread of my narrative, and memories sometimes become encumbered with newly recalled details that somehow seem more significant now than they ever were before. One of my daughters is at my bedside, guiding and prompting me as I attempt to recall everything. Of our four children, she is closest to me and knows perhaps the most. Hopefully her focus will allow a coherent story to emerge…


My name is Rick and this is the story of my mother and myself, a tale of a life and love that almost didn’t happen.

I was born about 6 months after my mom’s 17th birthday, in an all too common circumstance; a trusting young girl abandoned after deceitful representations of affection and the usual unfulfilled, sweet promises of an older, manipulative guy. I never knew my father, which was no loss. After my mom became pregnant, he disappeared into the merchant marine. We never heard from him again.

I was most fortunate growing up – I had a very good childhood, in large measure due to my maternal grandparents. Unusual for their generation, they never judged their daughter for her mistake, only insisting that she carry her pregnancy to term, then to decide if I would be given up for adoption. Perhaps it was the fact that Mom was a late, unplanned child, born when my grandparents were entering their mid-forties, which allowed them to view the situation she found herself in with some equanimity and understanding. In any event, I was blessed to be a welcome and well-loved, if unexpected addition to the family Lindermann.

While I was growing up, Mom always said that keeping me was the single best decision she ever made. She had drifted through her middle teenage years, a smart, pretty girl who was never much interested in anything beyond gossiping with her girlfriends, shyly interested in various boys and going to parties. She had done well in school, but it did not hold her interest, with all of the other pleasant distractions that were accessible to a well-liked, poker oyna attractive and popular young lady.

In becoming a mother though, she found herself. My entry into her life lit the proverbial fire under her feet, and with the support of Nana and Gramps, she finished high school with an academic flourish, home schooling for her senior year. At this time, Gramps received a big job promotion, which required him to move from our central Ohio home to the metro New York area. Mom elected to come along. With Nana doing most of the day care, Mom enrolled in a community college for a year and excelled academically – She always said that love for a child was probably the strongest motivator a woman could have. Mom channeled her protective maternal instincts into scholastic accomplishments and was rewarded when she was able to transfer the following year into a nearby, very prestigious 4 year college.

One of my earliest childhood memories was Mom’s graduation. I still recall the infinite, brilliant blue skies and enveloping warmth of that early June day, as I was perched on Gramps’ shoulders, watching mom walk across the podium for her degree. I also clearly remember the storm which subsequently followed at home, when Mom announced that she was done with school and getting a job. Nana was beside herself with confusion and frustration. How could Mom throw away her life after having done so well getting herself back on track? Graduate school beckoned, or possibly Law, or Medicine!

“Ricky needs me now, more than ever,” she had replied firmly, “and the two of you have sacrificed enough over the past 5 years for me. It’s time that I do what I should for my son.”

The arguments went on for days, but in the end, a compromise was reached. Through his connections, Gramps would secure mom a part time job at his company and Mom would go to law school at night. We would continue to live with Gramps and Nana.

This defined our lives together until I was 10 years old. Up at 6 am for school, a kiss and hug from Mom and then again at 3:30, when she would be waiting for me. Three precious hours together, doing homework and all the other things we needed to accomplish. Then it was dinner for the four of us, usually prepared by Nana and Mom. She would then head out the door for evening classes. I never forgot the sharp regret I would feel when she would give me my hug and kisses, before admonishing me not to be a pain to Gramps and Nana and to be in bed “on time and under budget.” She would then be up late into every night for her own studies, so we could have the weekends free. During that time, I doubt that she got more than 5 hours of sleep a night.

Those weekends were sacred time. Mom and I would go on picnics, visit the zoo, check out the dinosaur fossils at the Museum of Natural History, or sometimes just stay home and watch old movies. Occasionally, Gramps and Nana would join us for an outing, but mostly it was just Mom and I. I think it was during this period that Mom became my best buddy. We could talk about anything and she would answer any question I had honestly and openly, even the embarrassing ones about how I came to be and why I didn’t have a regular daddy. As time went by, Mom made sure to push me (sometimes very much against my wishes) into the wider world.

“You’re always going to be my boy, hotshot, but I’m not going to let you be a Momma’s boy,” she would say, usually ruffling my hair as she spoke. She saw to it that I had my share of good buddies, sleepovers and tree house time, even though it often cut into the limited hours she could spend with me.

Probably with me in mind, Mom still lived with Gramps and Nana, even as I progressed through middle school and high school, so I never lacked for guidance and role models. Gramps got me going in Pop Warner football when I was 8, and I continued that through middle school. Mom rarely missed a game, even though my playing time was limited – I struggled in the lower weight limit divisions, as I was slow to grow compared with some of my friends.

Puberty caught me soon enough, and with that everything changed, beginning the journey that brings us to this narrative. I turned into what Nana would affectionately call “The Composter.” My appetite was insatiable and I think I was personally responsible for a 50% increase in the household food budget. In the space of about three years, I went from a 90 pound, hairless chicken to about 5 foot 10 inches and 150 pounds of wiry, lanky teenager. I continued to grow another 2 inches and filled out some more, reaching my full growth around the time I graduated from high school, at 6 foot even and around 170 pounds.

I imagine now is as good a time as any to describe myself.

I mostly owe my Mom for my facial features. I have high cheekbones, a broad forehead and hair that is long and straight. I generally keep it in a short ponytail. I’ve worn it this way since I was fifteen, Mom laughingly calling it my “surfer samurai” look. The color is somewhere in between my Mom’s canlı poker oyna strawberry blonde and a brunette color, darker when it’s wet. My eyes are green. I’d have to say I’m proud of my physique. I’ve always liked a good, sweat-busting workout, as well as swimming and running, which I have continued all through high school and college. No one is ever going to confuse me with a body builder, but I have just a hint of a six-pack and take pride in maintaining it.

I guess there also needs to be the obligatory description of the equipment. Well, let’s just say I’m favored with something that’s a little bit better than average, around 7 1/2 or 8 inches long and around four or five inches of girth. The supporting cast is proportionate. I’ve had more than one girl say I’m fairly easy on the eyes, but I tend not to pay a lot of attention to that. When all is said and done, I’m a rather shy, serious and somewhat introspective person. I really take after my mom that way.

Ah yes, my mother – Jennifer Marie. I suppose most of you have been putting up with our family biography to get to this point. If you are expecting moist tales of nymphomaniac, six-foot Amazonian goddesses with double D everything, you may as well pack it in now and move on to one of those one-page stroke fairy tales, because that’s just not how it is.

To me, my mom is beautiful. Period. How and why should be apparent as you read this account of our lives. Her face is striking, with high, sculpted, almost Asiatic cheekbones, an aquiline, slightly prominent nose and piercing blue eyes. She wears her straight, strawberry blonde hair in a layered, elegant shoulder length cut with long bangs. Somehow, she makes it look both sophisticated and cute at the same time. Her lips are fairly full, with a strong chin beneath them. Her jaw line is just somewhat square, but delicate enough to offset the angularity of that part of her face. If you can believe it, she would tell you her best feature is her teeth, which are large and even, but not prominent, straight and very white. She doesn’t smile a lot, but when she does flash her pearly whites, it lights up the room. I’ve been known to do and say some pretty goofy stuff just to hear her wonderful laugh and see that gorgeous smile.

I’m constantly surprised by the depth and breadth of her interests. She loves cinema, particularly film noir, French New Wave and classic Hollywood. Her taste in music is amazingly eclectic. There has always been something playing in the house for as long as I can remember. Most of the time, I hear her listening to Bach, The Beatles, Coltrane and Miles, but I’ve also seen her boogie in the kitchen to AC/DC and Led Zeppelin, as well as singing along to old Patsy Cline songs. If she put her mind to it, I bet she could do a pretty fair karaoke version of “I Fall to Pieces.”

One of the most endearing things about her is her secret guilty pleasure – The Three Stooges. She’d be terribly embarrassed to admit it, but I can always crack her up with my imitation of Curly. I consistently get a smile from her when she asks me to do a chore and I reply “Soitenly!”

Another favorite was when she would help me with concepts I didn’t understand in my homework. I’d just say, “I’m trying to think, but nothin’ happens.”

I can still remember the first time I tried that one out on her. We were doing some algebra problems and she was drinking a mug of decaf as we sat at the kitchen table. She was so pissed when the coffee came out her nose and got all over my homework, but we couldn’t stop laughing for about ten minutes after that. We’d quiet down for a few seconds, but then look at each other and break out into gales of laughter all over again. Gramps and Nana were convinced we had completely lost our marbles. I had to copy my entire assignment over again, but it was so worth it.

As an objective frame of reference, think a little of Marg Helgenberger, but a bit plainer, rounder and less angular, with an extra 10 or 15 pounds. That extra weight is pretty well distributed, in my very subjective opinion. It is not too concentrated in one particular area, but certainly enhancing some features, like her breasts and hips, which are noticeably fuller and rounder than our Helgenberger archetype.

Understand, Mom is and always was beautiful in my eyes. She’s not a runway model, some airbrushed and Photoshopped stereotype. She’s a real lady, with a real world figure. Her hips are full, lush and smooth. Her belly has that wonderfully sensuous, slight swelling of a mature woman. All of the lines, curves, swellings and creases fit together with what I consider to be perfect harmony.

I absolutely adore those perfect, soft, womanly curves. She’s my Venus de Milo.

I lusted after Mom before I loved her. I suppose that’s not so unusual for a thirteen year old who was just beginning to make wood, but I think it was different for me in one big respect.

The first time I ever had an orgasm, it was because of Mom.

It happened one October afternoon, internet casino just before a football game. We were running late because Gramps and Nana were unavailable to drive me at the last minute. Mom had just gotten back from work and wanted to change out of her city clothes before we left. She was tired and moving a bit slowly. I was impatient to get going — it was to be my very first time as a starter.

After pacing downstairs for several eternal minutes (teenagers are well known to inhabit an alternate dimension where different rules on the passage of time apply), I called out crankily, “C’mon, Mom, we’re gonna be late!”

Her voice floated down to me, patient as always, “Just a couple minutes, sweetie — I’m almost ready.”

I don’t know what possessed me at that moment, but Mom’s answer wasn’t satisfactory. I clomped up the stairs and barged into her bedroom.

What I saw…well, it was an eyeful and then some. I can still picture her clearly in every detail. It’s a memory I have carefully cultivated and nurtured for all my years, maintaining those few moments in reverent detail. It’s the beginning of everything for me.

Eyes flashing, Mom held her arms tight against herself, covering up in a scramble.

“Jesus H. Christ, Ricky!” she shouted in anger. “Don’t you ever knock? How dare you barge into my room like this!”

“Uh, uhmmm, yeah, uhm, sor..sorry, uhm, Mom,” I mumbled inanely.

“Standing here staring at me is NOT going to speed this process up, young man,” she said acidly. “Now, git!”

I skedaddled in infamy, still blushing and flushing as I made a beeline for the bathroom.

Minutes later, I was jerked back to reality by the slap of Mom’s palm on the door.

“I’m ready now, Mr. Impatient,” she snapped. “You better get out here pronto, or I’m not going to take you. Let’s get this show on the road!”

Quickly stuffing myself back under cover, I washed my hands and stepped out into the hallway. Mom was right by the door, arms crossed over her chest, tapping her foot, still clearly pissed about my indiscretion.

“Let’s go,” she said curtly.

Our ride to the practice field was made in tense silence. I knew I was in trouble and Mom was letting me stew in my juices for a while before she lowered the boom.

When we arrived at the parking lot, she put her arm across my chest, checking me before I could escape the car. Reaching out to me with her other hand, she cupped my chin and forcibly turned my head to face her.

She spoke quietly, but firmly, in measured tones, her calm demeanor actually emphasizing her displeasure.

“Ricky, are you a little boy or a young man?”

“I’m not a little boy,” I replied somewhat sullenly.

“No you’re not. Young men don’t behave like little kids, now do they?”

“No, Mom.”

“As a young man, you have certain responsibilities. The most important of these is to always treat your Mom with courtesy and respect. That is, of course, assuming you want me to treat you like the young man you are becoming. Do you want me to respect you, to treat you fairly?”

“Yes, Mom,” I sighed, rolling my eyes.

“Well then,” she continued, pointedly ignoring my attitude, “That includes always knocking before you come into my room from now on. You will respect my privacy,” she declared, steel in her voice. “If it happens again, you’ll be grounded for a month and no allowance, no Nintendo and no movies. Are we clear?”

Suitably chastised, I nodded my acquiescence.

“I’m sorry I was rude Mom. I won’t do it again.”

“Apology accepted,” she acknowledged, her demeanor returning to normal.

“Mom, you’re not going to leave, are you?” I asked anxiously.

Smile returning, she squeezed my hand reassuringly. “I wouldn’t miss my son’s first start for anything. I was planning to follow Mom and Dad here anyway, until our plans changed.”

“Hop on out and get ready. I’ll find a parking space and see you shortly.”

Later, I saw Mom in the stands, hooting and hollering along with all the other parents. When the second half began, I saw that Gramps and Nana had made it as well. It felt really good to have my whole family rooting for me.

It would have been amazing if I had played a great game, but I didn’t. I did do the next beast thing, though — I didn’t screw up. That was enough for me. When it was all over, I got a slap on the back from Gramps and big hugs from Mom and Nana. We went out for pizza after that, completing what turned out to be one of the most important days of my life.

I never got another chance to see Mom undressed or in her underwear again after that day. I suspect that she had at least some inkling of how my seeing her had affected me and was very careful not to give me the opportunity for another eyeful.

It didn’t really matter though — the damage had been done and I was changed for good.

At that point, I was totally focused on trying to get another glimpse of Mom. Any opportunity was to be seized upon, but Mom was very careful since that first wonderful incident. Failing to get any more chances, my emphasis gradually shifted. Of course if you can’t see Mom in the flesh, the next best thing is those wonderful garments that cover her special parts.

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