The doctors had never seen anything like it before. We'd gone to several of them over the years, but none had ever seen a case of sleepwalking that was as chronic and debilitating as the one that afflicted Tom, my son of nineteen years.
His father, Donald, and I had spent his entire childhood trying to find a reason to explain his situation. We could not let him stay the night at a friend's house, or go to sleepaway camp. Things that a normal boy
should
have been able to do had been out of the question for Tom, and even as an adult his illness was too severe to allow him to lead a normal life.
The only solution, beyond the therapy and medicine, was to keep Tom strapped down at night. A third party was required to fasten the buckles, so without me or Donald, he was completely helpless to manage his own condition. Tom would have to live with us until someone else was willing to take over that nightly ritual.
It sounded harsh, but it was absolutely imperative that he not be allowed to escape. As a child, his 'jailbreaks' had occasionally ended with a call to the fire department. Even his less destructive ones had still caused us no end of headaches.
As he'd aged, his outbursts and his 'missions,' as we called them, had become increasingly severe. The dark turn had occurred when Tom was seventeen, on a night where Donald had mistakenly left a buckle undone that had facilitated his escape.
The events of that night were difficult to talk about as a family. Tom did not remember anything of the trauma he had inflicted on his father and me, but for me and Donald, it was a vivid memory.
On the night in question, Donald had caught Tom trying to climb out of his bedroom window. By the time he'd gotten to our son, Tom already had one foot outside of the window. There'd been nothing below to catch his fall, so whatever 'mission' he'd been on would have led to injury, and possibly even his death. My husband had heroically tackled Tom to the ground just moments before he leapt out, but being unable to complete his 'mission' had put Tom in a fit of rage.
I had never seen Tom hit someone before, but that night I'd watched helplessly as he'd gone on a violent rampage against my husband. He was at least a foot taller than Donald, and had easily had forty pounds over him by then, leading to a one-sided bludgeoning that had not at all represented a fair fight. The beating had ended with Donald in a pool of blood with several of his teeth missing.
When it had run its course, Tom had climbed back into bed like nothing had happened. He'd only awoken when the ambulances had arrived, with no idea who had beaten his father into a pulp.
With that incident fresh in our minds, it had become painfully obvious that Tom's condition was getting worse. We could not afford to take risks any more.
One evening, while seated around the dinner table, Tom mentioned that he was going to make a profile on a popular dating app. Perhaps it was an unusual thing to tell ones parents, but due to Tom's illness there was an atmosphere of vulnerability and openness amongst us that few other families could replicate.
Though he had some loose acquaintances, he did not have many close friends through which to meet women. Despite taking the initiative to create an account, he was not optimistic.
"What kind of woman would want to be with a guy that she has to tie down every night? I'm screwed!" He was half joking, but the way his smile quickly faded told me that it was not a laughing matter.
"That's total— I'm sorry, honey, but -
bullshit!"
I said defiantly.
Donald pointed his fork at me. "Your Mother is right. That's nothing compared to the baggage most guys your age come with."
Tom snorted. "What do you know about guys my age, Dad?"
Donald folded his hands like a wise guru. "I remember
being
one, for a start."
"Please, Father, please teach me the ways of your eternal wisdom," Tom pleaded sarcastically.
I hated the idea that Tom saw himself as unmarketable due to his sleepwalking. He was a fantastic person, with a heart of gold and a face that
anyone
could love.
If I was twenty years younger...
was a phrase I had caught myself thinking on more than one occasion, but I always felt guilty for it. What kind of mother thinks of her son that way, even for the briefest flash? I could not help myself. He was a catch, and I wished that there was some way I could make him believe that himself.
Later that night, the three of us watched a movie. I'd made a huge bowl of popcorn, but found myself in the kitchen making a second one before the opening credits were finished.
About forty minutes into the movie, there was an unexpected sex scene. It was not overly explicit, but I could tell that Tom was on edge from the subject matter alone. I thought that he was simply uncomfortable with watching such a scene with his parents, but a thought crossed my mind that was as alluring as it was terrifying.
My son is horny
.
I wanted to ignore the idea, but the more I tried to brush it off, the louder it became inside of my mind.
I reflected back on the desire he had expressed over dinner. Tom wanted a girlfriend for the obvious reasons: partnership, growing close with someone, and all the innocent stuff that moms think about when they picture their baby boys entering the dating world. Seeing how the sex scene had made him squirm on the couch, however, made it crystal clear in my mind that he was deeply troubled by the hormonal urges that had once pestered us all.
When the movie ended, Tom quickly retreated to his room, leaving me in the family room with two things: my husband, and the sobering realization that, in the wake of mulling so intensely over Tom's horniness, I had contracted a case of those same urges myself. I could not admit to Donald the source of the lust that suddenly drove me up the wall, and he was too excited to ask questions.
I pleaded with Donald to sequester Tom into bed as soon as he could, promising that he could have whatever he wanted from me when he returned. Without that step in place - without the knowledge that Tom was secured in bad until the morning - nothing could move forward. Thankfully, Tom did not seem interested in staying up late.
When my husband returned to our bedroom, there was sheer, unabashed glee written across his face.
I giggled at his palpable elation. "I hope you didn't look like
that
when you tucked in Tom."
"Is it that obvious?" Donald asked, cringing.
"Only to me, honey." I spread my legs for him and, in the absence of any underwear, exposed my naked pussy.
Donald swallowed dryly. "Oh, wow. Lily, you look fucking beautiful."
"Then come make me
feel
beautiful, my big, strong man," I cooed, adding a wink.
It started out good. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't amazing; it was rarely the latter. There were
some
days where our sex was truly fantastic, but I had greater luck gambling on roulette than I did predicting whether or not Donald would be able to conjure up a memorable performance.
I loved my husband with every inch of my heart. He was the only man that I had ever been with, as is often the tale with high school sweethearts, so our sex was all I knew. I had never orgasmed with him, but I did not blame him for that fact. I could rarely bring myself to orgasm, even with the benefit of vibrators and whatever other tools one could imagine.
That night, like many before it, was not the passionate, lust-fueled romp that I was hoping for. I sucked Donald's dick for a minute or so, which always earned me exceptional praise.
When we'd started dating, I had convinced him that I did not have a gag reflex. It was a silly lie that I had concocted to explain why I could deepthroat him so effortlessly, but the truth was that he was simply small enough for me to swallow his whole cock without much struggle. I knew men could often be sensitive about that fact, so, for better or worse, I wanted him to think it had nothing to do with his size.
When I was done sucking Donald's dick, I got onto my hands and knees so he could fuck me from behind. It was our bread and butter, and he was absolutely thrilled with it. Since I had essentially given up on any hopes of achieving my own orgasm, I was simply content to give him a way to make himself feel good.
A few minutes passed, each one filled with Donald's laboured grunting. My face was buried in the sheets for most of it, but when I felt him getting close, I raised my head so that he could pull my hair. It was his favourite move, and I could see it coming a mile away.
When my eyes snapped open, they were aimed at the door. It was open, just a crack, but without any light it was difficult to see into the shadows that haunted the hallway.
Still, in that dark, looming blackness, my brain recognized something. It was not a conscious thought, but once I paid attention to it, the threat became undeniable. Alarm bells rang out. Panic seized my body and stiffened the hairs on the back of my neck into tiny, delicate razorblades. A tall, menacing figure, shrouded in darkness, shuffled side to side behind the door.
He was watching us.
"H-honey..." my voice trailed off, my throat spontaneously dry. "There's someone there."
