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This is the second and final part to "Something Missing From My Dresser". I tried to write it as a stand alone story, but some stuff won't make sense unless you read the first one. This story is for amusement and nothing in it is meant to be taken seriously. If you can have fun with this sort of subject matter, sex between close family member, then enjoy. If not, it's likely better that you skip this one, as it does feature explicit sex of this kind.
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I had woken so many times throughout the night, so many times that I lost track of being asleep and being awake. A giant earthquake was shaking the foundations of our house. I ran down the stairs, only the house was no longer my own. The house was familiar; it was the house I grew up in. I could see the framed childhood pictures shake as they fell from the walls, the glass shattering on the ground. The house was dark and I was alone. I felt the need to get outside, the entire house was about to fall. Upon reaching the door my mind leaves my body, traveling far into the sky. Looking down at great swaths of destruction, craters, it looks like the whole world is sinking. Only one thought remains, "I need to save my babies."
I have no body for action, despite my thoughts, I am simply an observer. I see entire streets sink into the earth, with high cliffs taking their place. Everything is being torn down, and left to chaos to re-order. I am an outside observer, physically immune to the upheaval, but that condition doesn't seem to hold true for my loved ones. My view falls 1000s feet, emptying the weight in my stomach. I'm back in the house, this time it is my house; it seems empty. My view goes from room to room with only the hallway in between. I still feel no physical connection to the view. The door to my study flings open and I see myself, only I am not alone. I'm bent over the sofa. I'm getting fucked, very hard. I'm getting fucked very hard by my son. He has a firm hold of my hips. He has an extreme look on his face. It's either extreme lust or extreme anger. I watch until he looks up and seems to notice me in the doorway. All at once I'm sucked out of that world.
I'm back in my study, where I had fallen asleep on the sofa. I check the floor to make sure it's secure and stopped shaking. In a moment I realize it never was shaking and that I have awoken from a dream. There is something about reality that I stopped trusting on this night, so I sit up and take an inventory. I had woken so many times only to find myself transported back to a dark recess of my mind. My hair was cold and wet with night terror sweat. Between my legs is a different kind of wet. I catch my breath and think back to the night before and back to the reason I'm sleeping on the sofa inside my study.
Emotionally exhausted, I had fallen asleep without a blanket. My teeth now chattered in the fidget air of the night. Sitting upright on the sofa I made myself as small as possible in an attempt to seal in as much heat as possible. I had to remember everything. I knew it wasn't a dream, I knew that it had happened. I knew that my son knew as much as well. It hadn't even been 24 hours since I found my underwear, covered with semen, stuffed into his bed post. The chain of events, which it ignited, made me feel as if I made the discovery ages ago. These events tested my limits and redefined what they were. In my dark and cold room I had to sort out what those limits actually were.
Our relationship has always been intense, from the moment of his birth right through to young adulthood, but it had never been sexual. Why did my heart and sense melt when he told me he lusted for me? What was wrong with me for encouraging him to elaborate? I had to talk to him about the panties, but that doesn't justify my behaviour, or explain what led me to inviting him to get cozy on his bed with me. Perhaps his actions had uncovered a place deep in my subconscious mind; a place that didn't define love by the mores of society; a place where physical love and emotional love showed no distinction.
If you're picking this up here, my 19 year old son had been using my personal effects to masturbate with. Missing panties led me to investigate, an investigation that ended in my son's room. It seemed so long ago that I wanted to put a stop to it, but that was my first reaction. More so, I wanted to know if he was confused or if he was ashamed of himself. That, and the rising cost of delicate garments, meant I had to find out what was going on. His father was no help. He became uncontrollably defensive and agitated. I should have never told him. I was looking for insight and showed me a side to him I never wanted to see. His anger didn't hide his jealousy; it only served to amplify it. In some way, the entire display, made me see a rivalry where I had never imagined one. The dark side of my being, if being honest, liked the idea of both men under our roof getting hard about me. It provided food for the vanity of my ego and, as anyone with vanity issues knows, such a meal is nearly impossible to pass up.
I felt as though I was in control of the wheels that had been set in motion; upon reflection I was not so sure. I told myself that I could control the conversation with my son. I told myself that I'm his mother and that I had the final say. That was the previous balance of power as I had always understood it. I learnt that comfort in the complacency of the status quo blinds you to new realities.
Justin, my son, wasn't a kid anymore, he was a young adult; a young adult full of complexities and even lust. As well as I knew him, he may have, in certain ways, known me even better. After all, he has known me for his entire life. I had been the most critically important figure in his life, a presence, in his point of view, which represented control and authority. His wants and needs had always flowed through me. I managed the household. It never had to be stated that I had the final say about the kids. This fact was a given, the kids knew it. If he had wants he had to learn my weaknesses, he had to learn how to manipulate my emotions. Those were conditions of his young life. As a clever, and often insightful, boy he had learned some tricks of the trade.
I, in no way, believe that he planned the entire thing, or that he was in complete control either. He had played on my sympathy and guilt. Once he saw the weakness there he knew how to exploit it. I had no doubts about that, but at the same time he had expressed his love in a way that left no doubt about his sincerity. He had seen me naked; I had let him see me naked. I had seen him naked as well; naked and fully hard. There was an unspoken honesty that passed between us as a result. He had sucked on my breast to give me pleasure; it had felt erotic. He looked at me with an unmistakable look of love and comfort. We were once again united as one. The look was soon transformed into unbridled lust.
He put himself on full display without a hint of modesty. He wanted to show me. His penis was so hard that the head was straining and shiny. He masturbated to the sight of my naked body. His needy cries of, "mom", sounded hardly different from when he called for me in other times of need. They sounded so focused and tuned to my ears, in such a way that only I could hear them. When it was over, there was sperm everywhere. He had ejaculated twice; the second time by my hand. We kissed like tentative lovers showing care and sincerity. I sealed the night with my approval, not with words, but by dropping my wet panties into his waiting hands.
I had given him permission to continue to lust after me. I still had to figure out what this meant. The boundaries, had clearly, been redrawn, but, "I'm still his mom", I thought to myself. He was in the prime of his life, his thin lanky body was giving way to a more manly and muscular frame. He didn't need to be chasing his mom around, that couldn't possibly be good for him. I do believe that life is a lifelong experience of getting to know yourself, often surprising yourself along the way. I would never say that I completely know myself, or what I am capable of, but I knew enough to know that I was in a dangerous spot. Sexual mores have only ever applied to me by happenstance; I never had a good understanding of why certain ones exist and why others don't. In many ways, I didn't see why my son shouldn't have been attracted to me and vice versa.
I still, at the ripe age of 43, have my looks. My ballerina body, of years gone by, is never going to return, but I keep a healthy weight, and I work hard at keeping my appearance. If anything, the weight I have put on has been put on in the right spots. I notice men of all ages looking at my hips with wandering eyes and I like to show them off in high waist jeans. At 5'7" and 155 pounds, I am pretty much ideal for my age, and I suppose my hips can still make men think about babies. I still keep my hair long, something I'm not willing to give up until my hair stops cooperating. My hair curls at the tips naturally, although sometimes I do straighten it. The view I gave my son was a clean one, I don't shave down there completely, but I do make sure it's neat and free of unsightly hair from the main attraction. He got a really good view of where he came from.
I gripped for the blanket, hanging over the back of my sofa, and pulled it over my body. In search of extra warmth I tried to get all my extremities under my loose fitting sweater. In a fetal like position, after reaching no conclusions, I tried not to think any more about the fuzzy boundaries of the future. Instead, I gave into guilty pleasure and thought about the look in his eyes, the need he expressed and his extremely hard cock. "He was hard for me...hard for his mommy", I thought pleasantly as I once again left the real world for the dreamy abyss.
"Michelle...Michelle...Michelle wake up!" My husband was shaking my elbow and trying to rouse me from my slumber.
"It's almost noon." He continued to speak to the blanketed head of the recently disturbed.
