At the time, I couldn't believe it, I didn't know whether to feel shocked, shamed, angry or pleased that my son had overstepped the mark with a close friend of mine. One thing was for sure, I was in a bit of an awkward situation and I now found myself sinking into a journey toward the forbidden.
Let me explain. Helen, my neighbor and very close friend, was, like me, in her early forties and married with a growing young family. She had an eighteen year old son Simon who was a friend to my own nineteen year old son.
Helen had just recanted the story of how my boy, after spending an evening at her home sharing some beers with her son, had asked her for a kiss when he had managed to find a moment alone with her. Of course, Helen had politely declined, reminding him that she was a married woman. But this hadn't stopped him forcing himself on her and wrapping his arms around her waist and squeezing her bottom. Apparently he attempted to slide her skirt up and pushed his body against hers where she could clearly feel his arousal. She fortunately stopped him with a simple reprimand and a gentle push away.
Helen had sort of giggled as she told me the story, but it worried me that she was considering him as some sort of pervert or worse a potential rapist. I had reassured her I would deal with it, but all the time I was thinking . . . I had no knowing of what I should do.
Helen played the situation down and made little of it, explaining that it was a combination of the alcohol and his hormones running wild and that this happens to most teenage boys.
Still! I was upset. Thoughts raced through my mind and continued to torment me after I had been told this story. I found it very difficult to concentrate on any other subject over the next few days and even more difficult to carry on normal conversation whilst in the company of my son. What should I say? Should I confront him with it? Could I confront him with it?
What if Helen had fabricated the tale, that was unlikely . . . surely? Perhaps she was teasing me by making me believe that my son Donny found her attractive enough to become aroused by her.
She was slim, with a teenage sized ass and pert little boobies admittedly. Should I feel upset that her son Simon had not attempted to force himself upon me. I felt attractive enough myself, much more of a Marilyn Monroe figure, that would not be an unfair comparison, even for my age, the only major difference being that I had a dark chestnut hair color, styled slightly more classic.
Besides, I thought that Simon was not as handsome as my Donny anyway. Oh dear! -- was that wrong to think like that? -- of course not, mothers think that their own children are better looking than that of other families.
I still felt I had to say something about the incident, if for nothing else other than to keep Donny in check and hopefully warn him not to pester or attempt to molest Helen again. I didn't want my friendship ruined, or the neighborhood gossiping.
Over the next few mornings whilst preparing breakfast, I thought I could quickly speak to him after his father had left for work. But it was during this time I had noticed I could hear the sound of his bed creaking, it was not the sound of him awaking, more a rhythmic sound that increased in tempo over a short time period of a few minutes and then was followed by silence, then followed by the sound of him jumping from the bed and dressing.
I could guess what he was up to and if I thought correctly, he certainly must have active hormones, because every morning before breakfast I figured he was masturbating. Now I couldn't scold my son for 'wanking', it was a natural act after all, him relieving some of that sexual energy. My concern was that he was fantasizing about sex with Helen.
Over the following mornings a weird situation was developing. As I stood in the kitchen, I was building this picture in my mind of Helen in the bedroom in a variety of sexual positions, moaning and grunting as my son made love to her.
I was being sucked into a confused and bizarre state of mind where I was actually imagining my sons' sexual fantasy, partly with disgust but equally with excitement. Why should I be thinking such a thing? One thing was for sure, hearing him wank in the morning was strangely, starting to make me hot.
The thoughts of my sons sex rarely left my mind from each day from that point forward. When I spent time with Helen during the day, either at my house or hers, we would sit in the kitchen sharing general chit-chat. Meanwhile, in my mind it was quite different. I was looking at her and undressing her for my boy, and had started including her in my bizarre three way fantasy.
