It Started with a Slip of the Handbyalwayswantedto©
All characters are 18 years or older.
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Twins? That was the big joke around our school. We hardly looked like members of the same family let alone twin brothers. Yeah, our faces were similar Gordon was athletic whereas I was just big; he was coordinated but I was clumsy; and everyone called him Gordie but I was Stanley to everyone, even my parents, which I hated. Nobody called me Stan. Sometimes I called my brother Gordon just to annoy him.
Other kids teased me but if it got out of hand Gordie would mete out sufficient punishment to hold them at bay for a while. That didn't mean he wouldn't razz the hell out of me himself. In fact, whenever he baled me out I knew I was in for some extra crap to make up for it because he thought I owed him, and I guess I did.
The hazing tailed off in later years when the guys discovered girls. I was then left pretty much alone, free to hang out with the other dweebs shunned by the cool kids. Except, that is, by the Johnson brothers and their cohorts. Even Gordie and his friends couldn't do much about them but I had learned to avoid them, for the most part.
I was always a disappointment to my father. I couldn't get the hang of fishing and hunting disgusted me. I tried to understand the strategy behind baseball and to remember the players in football but Gordie was better, probably because that's all his friends talked about other than whose pants they could get into. My clumsiness invalidated me as a contender in any sport except wrestling where my size made me hard to handle for all but the skilled who made minced-meat of me in competitions. Of course, none of this endeared me with our father, especially when Gordie was a natural at any sport he tried.
At least I had Mom. She loved us both but I needed more attention and support and I got it. Mom protected me from Gordie's shenanigans when she was aware of them so I had always tried to be near her as much as possible for protection and peace of mind.
And that's how it all started.
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Gordie and I had both failed one grade. My struggles at school included both academics and sports but Gordie could pass easily if he wanted to. When Mom and Dad leaned on him to do better he used me as a defense claiming he couldn't leave me behind to fend for myself. The truth had more to do with Gordie's status as a sports star at school and the fact that his best girl was a year younger than him. Janet was the only one he'd ever been serious about and didn't want to leave behind. So at eighteen, when we should have both been graduating, Gordie and I were only nearing the end of grade eleven.
The sad part was that Mom and Dad didn't even berate me for my performance. I guess they always figured I was doing the best I could. In fact, I could do better. Maybe not as well as Gordie but if something interested me I did well. My teachers had noted this in elementary school but the fact seemed to have been forgotten. The truth was I was lazy and also a little scared about leaving Gordie's protective circle.
Anyway, one day Gordie had been razzing me all afternoon at school and kept it up at home. He kept poking and shoving me around, venting his frustration for having to face down the Johnsons after specifically telling me to stay from them this week. They were on the prod for something Gordie and his pals had done and I had walked right in front of them when I didn't need to, prompting a rescue from Gordie and Bud Crow, his best friend.
So Gordie had been tripping me and slugging my shoulder hard enough to leave big bruises. I sought the protection provided by proximity to Mom. She was sewing at the dining room table so I ran downstairs and stood behind her. Gordie followed but balked at my smug but relieved smile knowing I was now under Mom's protection. He didn't dare have at me with Mom right there. I started kneading Mom's shoulders so I would have an excuse to stay, something I often did when fleeing Gordie's torment. My smile widened to a grin as he passed behind me and that's when he let me have it.
It was a real hard one, square on my bruised upper left arm, and totally unexpected. I could have taken it better if he hadn't caught me so completely by surprise. I reeled to the right but my feet remained planted on the floor so my body twisted at the waist to compensate. Gordie whirled and ran off but not before leaving me with a lasting impression of what my smug smile must have looked like, pasted on his own face.
I waited for Mom to scream at him for pasting me so hard and having the audacity to do it in her presence. But Mom's condemnation didn't materialize and Gordie escaped through the kitchen without retribution. Dumbfounded, and a little hurt, I looked down to see why Mom had abandoned my cause. The sewing machine had stopped and Mom's hands were frozen in position, one on the controls and the other on the material feeding into it.
It took several long seconds for me to fathom the signals my eyes were sending to my brain. Evidently, the force of Gordie's blow had knocked my right hand off Mom's shoulder but the twisting motion of my torso had also turned it so instead of slipping off Mom's shoulder and down her arm it had slid down into the front of her dress.
My eyes widened as I recognized my wrist lodged between Mom's breasts with the palm turned toward the left one. That wasn't the worst. My fingers had curved around and under the breast and were cupping Mom's bra.
I stared but couldn't move though my mind was screaming for me to get my hand the fuck out of there! I tried again to withdraw my arm but it felt like lead though it wasn't dead because the swollen press of Mom's breast rocketed sensations to my brain. That organ almost exploded when Mom finally breathed.
My eyes flickered toward Mom's face and I gritted my teeth to brace against the barrage that surely to be hurled in my direction within seconds. But Mom was staring straight ahead, as if nothing was happening, as if my hand wasn't inside her dress, and my fingers weren't curled around her left tit.
Twenty or thirty seconds passed and still Mom did not move or speak. She didn't make a single sound. I straightened up and my hand slid out of her dress, slowly, to ensure a sharp move wouldn't awaken Mom to my accidental transgression. Her tit lifted slightly and pulled toward the center of her chest as my fingers remained rigidly curled as they withdrew, reluctantly releasing their prize and letting it fall with a gentle bounce. They dragged across Mom's neck until my hand again curled around her shoulder. I kneaded with both hands, continuing the massage as if nothing had happened.
The sewing machine started and Mom's head followed the material as it progressed through the machine. I massaged her neck for several more minutes, afraid to stop lest that release the pent up anger she must surely be withholding. But eventually I realized a rebuke wasn't forthcoming and I quietly withdrew. I went to my room to sort out the thoughts and feelings swirling through my head.
What the fuck had just happened?
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Mostly, I sat in fear of Mom coming to her senses and storming upstairs to give me hell but the rest of the time I wondered why she had been so unresponsive. I mean, she just sat there the whole time my hand was on her tit. It wasn't like she was ignoring its presence but more like she didn't even know it was there. But how could she not? Had Mom been so shocked that the thought of my hand on her tit was impossible to digest, or was she just waiting for me to remove it so she could pretend it hadn't happened? That would make it easier on us both.
And why the fuck hadn't I pulled my hand out right away? Yeah, I remembered my arm feeling like lead but come on, I still should have been able to yank my hand out of Mom's dress. But no, I left it there with my fingers curled around her tit. And man, amidst the shock, I had to admit it felt great even through the bra, so curvy and firm yet soft and yielding.
Holy fuck Stan! What's the matter with you? That was your mother's breast, Mom's tit, for Christ's sake, you asshole!
I shook my head to rid myself of disgusting thoughts but the tactile memory of Mom's tit refused to be erased, its shape persisting in my mind, though I hadn't actually seen it. I thought about pictures of Mom when she was younger wearing tight sweaters that showed the shape of her breasts. They were nice then, not too big and with a really sexy shape. Some women had big breasts but they were fatty and not great to look at. Mom's were above average in size and great to look at. They swept down and jutted out. Hangers seemed an appropriate and descriptive name for them. It had been a long time since Mom had worn form-fitting sweaters and I now knew it wasn't because the goods weren't there, that was for sure.
It was too early to go to bed. Shit, it wasn't even supper time. Christ, supper! The last thing I wanted to do was go downstairs to face Mom. She must think I'm terrible, leaving my hand in there for so long, but it was an accident. All I had to do was pull it out right away and say, "Sorry Mom" and that would have been it but now everything was different. Why the fuck hadn't I pulled my fucking hand away? That fucking Gordie. This was all his fault.
I threw myself back on my bed and covered my eyes with my arm. Sometime later, I don't know how long, a barrage of thumps on the door yanked me out of Neverland where I had escaped to hide my shame.
"Mom said to get your ass downstairs for supper," Gordie yelled.
I dragged my ass downstairs dreading Mom's first sight of me. And what about Dad? Had she tole him?
Apparently, Mom wasn't mad. At least, she didn't seem to be. Talk around the table proceeded normally which meant Gordie and Dad talked about sports and working on the old GTO they were rebuilding together. Mom didn't say anything to me but when she looked at me she simply smiled and shrugged the way she always did when Gordie and Dad were talking. I began to feel better.
That night the memory of Mom's tit pervaded my thoughts and images of her in snug sweaters, especially the kind that cross over in the front, filled my tightly closed eyes. However, I refused to touch my cock though I usually fell asleep with my balls cupped in my palm. It would have felt wrong when my mind was filled with images of Mom. Tomorrow everything would be back to normal.
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But it wasn't. I couldn't rid my mind of the memory of Mom's tit resting in my hand. I could still feel its warmth. It got worse every day and by the end of the week its imprint was embedded in my palm. Like a drug, I craved the opportunity to experience the bliss of its touch again and entertained preposterous scenarios wherein I was able to freely walk up behind Mom and slip my hands inside her dress to feel her tits no matter who was present. In these ridiculous dreams nobody was aware of what I was doing, including Mom. I was jacking off so much thinking of her at night that I became seriously sleep deprived.
In desperation, I picked a fight with Gordie when Dad wasn't home. He tried to ignore me because we were downstairs and so was Mom but I really pushed it and finally triggered his explosive temper.
Gordie got up from the kitchen table and hissed, "Fuck off!" somehow managing to keep the sound down while conveying how pissed he was and what would happen if I kept bugging him. I backed away and he followed, his sneer changing into a malicious grin when he saw that I was moving out of Mom's line of sight, should she turn around to look at us.
"Eat me," I said in a whisper that couldn't be heard beyond the kitchen door.
Gordie thumped me hard in the chest with both hands and I fell back, too easily crashing into the fridge with a bang that rattled everything inside. The slug that followed landed with a loud thud on my shoulder.
"Ow," I wailed loudly.
A dining room chair skidded back. Gordie's jabbing stare threatened to kill me on the spot.
"You're dead!" he hissed.
"I heard that," Mom yelled, bursting into the kitchen.
Gordie protested. "Mom, he…"
"I don't want to hear it."
"I said I don't want to hear it."
I managed to keep a smirk off my face so I could feign real pain.
"Are you okay?" Mom asked, concerned.
"He's fine. He…"
"Gordon, go to your room."
"Aw, come on, he started it."
Mom whirled around.
"I mean NOW!"
The smirk emerged full blown on my face. Gordie's eyes shot daggers at me but he turned and walked out of the kitchen. As he stomped up the stairs, Mom yelled, "And clean up that pigsty."
The smirk turned into a pained look as Mom turned back to me.
"Are you okay Stanley?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. I don't know why he gets so mad sometimes. I was just kidding around."
"I'll talk to your father about it tonight."
"No, Mom. Please don't."
"You're right," she relented, knowing Dad wouldn't do anything. "Will some hot chocolate make you feel better?"
Mom knew I loved her special hot chocolate.
"No, but I'll make you some tea. Please go back to your sewing. Gordie's temper shouldn't ruin your afternoon."
"Are you sure you're okay?"
I assured Mom I would live. She returned to her sewing and I made tea. I walked silently behind her and set it on the table within reach but not in the way of the material she was sewing.
"Thanks, sweetheart. Are you sure you're okay. It sounded like he hit you really hard."
"I'm okay, Mom."
Mom tried to take a sip of tea but it was too hot so she returned to her sewing. I remained behind her, watching. A minute passed before I put a hand on each shoulder and started to knead. Several minutes passed, then a few more, until at least five had gone by. Though I probably appeared relaxed on the outside, on the inside I was struggling.
I looked down into the square bodice of Mom's dress, captivated by the twin mounds of swollen flesh that disappeared beneath the fabric just as they were beginning to look like what they really were. Could I do this? It was now or never. I took a deep breath and took the plunge.
My right hand slid down, dipping into the hollow above Mom's clavicle and beyond until my fingertips penetrated the edge of the bodice. The sewing machine stopped but Mom's hands remained on the controls. I took a short breath, and then another. Her chest rose and fell twice as similarly shallow breaths half filled her lungs. My left hand cupped the crook of her neck and she relaxed but then stiffened when my right hand pushed deeper into the bodice.
The sharp sound of air sucking quickly into lungs—Mom's or mine or both, I don't know which. My fingers brushed over the upper swells of her breasts until they were stopped by the material of her bra, but only momentarily. As if with a mind of its own, my hand pushed on and suddenly it was cupping Mom's left breast.
Nothing happened for several excruciatingly long seconds. Not a even a breath disturbed the silence. Mom didn't say a word or utter a single sound. She was completely silent and still. I was about to pull my hand away, ready to loudly express my apologies for the 'accident', when Mom's head turned to the left and tilted forward.
I squeezed a painful breath through constricted lungs. I was scared, and hard, and my mind was screaming for me get my hand the hell out of there. Instead I gently squeezed my prize, clearly admitting this was no accident. The taste of fear was strong in my mouth but it stimulated me even further. I was surprised that Mom hadn't jumped up to give me what-for. I squeezed her tit again lifted, mashing it against her chest. Still, Mom did nothing!
I curved my palm over the top and felt a hard nub poking through the material of the bra. My cock throbbed as soon as I realized it was her nipple. Was it always so stiff or had I excited it into this state?
I wanted to push my hand inside the bra to feel it scrape against my bare palm, wanted to remove the bra from the other tit to feel it too to see if it was soft unlike the one I was holding, and probably would have if Dad hadn't driven into the driveway at that moment. Reluctantly, I released my prize but only after a final, exhilarating squeeze. I leaned down and kissed the top of Mom's head which was still turned to the left and tilted down. As I stepped back, it straightened.
"Yes," I replied meekly, fear of retribution searing through my chest.
"Tell your brother he can come downstairs for dinner after he's cleaned his room."
Of course, I didn't say anything to Gordie.
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I couldn't get to sleep that night, not from yearning to caress Mom's tits, but because of the deep guilt over having done it. The first time had been an accident but now I had deliberately felt her up, hoping that she would allow it in the belief I was in a fragile state of mind and needed her maternal comfort.
What kind of low-life user would take such advantage of the woman that gave him life and coddled him for so many years? What kind of payment was that for a mother's devotion? And worse, though traumatized by my disgusting behavior, I craved another divine, tit-fondling experience. The way it had felt, that beautiful, wonderful hanger!
Would Mom let me do it again? Probably, if I could contrive a situation in which I was physically or emotionally wounded in some way and therefore worthy of her motherly comfort. Mom had offered the warmth of her maternal breast and I was not about to spurn it. Yet it wasn't until the next day, when I felt a subtle change in the way she hugged me, that I gathered the courage to again seek her blissful solace.
Unlike Gordie, I was in the habit of giving Mom a hug before leaving for school and when I came home. Like many women, she leaned forward, probably to keep her breasts from pressing against the person she was hugging. Mom had stopped leaning forward when she hugged me, and I took that as a favorable sign, although perhaps I was swayed by the gentle bump of her breasts on my chest.
It was a week before I was ready to attempt another visit to heaven. It took that long before I could goad one of the Johnson crowd into a brief fight. I managed one missed swing before getting two jabs to the sides and a hammer to the upper cheekbone that toppled me into a pile of pain on the ground. Despite the one-sided affair there were numerous witnesses to attest that I had provoked the Johnsonite and the Vice-Principal sent me home. I was elated; I couldn't have asked for more.
Mom had been phoned by the Vice Principal but, as I expected, she wasn't mad. I knew she wouldn't believe I started the fight—who would? A mug of hot chocolate was waiting for me in the kitchen. I sipped at it slowly while Mom sat at the other end of the table, drinking hers with painfully sympathetic compassion, waiting for me to speak. I remained silent, looking down and drinking slowly, waiting for her to express her empathy so I could take the opportunity to receive her comfort, hopefully of the breast-fondling kind. However, whenever I looked up, with big, soulful eyes, Mom looked away, perhaps unable to directly bear my obvious depression. Maybe I had played my hand too well.
How could I get Mom to sew instead of sitting opposite me at the kitchen table? Since I was the one that was supposed to be depressed and in need of comfort, it didn't make sense for me to go to her and massage her shoulders. It would be so easy if I could just get started. She was wearing a housecoat which was odd for so late in the afternoon. My hand would slip so easily inside her robe.