The Christmas Present

Copyright © 2009, BarondeSade. ALL Rights Reserved.

No portion of this story may be reproduced for profit without the express written permission of the author . . . .

This story is a work of fiction. The characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. . . .

All fictional characters in the story who are involved in sexual situations are above the age of eighteen. . . .

An erotic fantasy from the demented mind of BarondeSade. . . .

*

Christmas Eve. Usually such a happy day, Melissa thought. But not this year, she told herself as she sat nursing Erica. Arnold had left her. But not only had he left her, he had taken all their money, leaving her, Erica and Sam, their eighteen-year-old son to fend for themselves. Arnold had always been an abusive son-of-a-bitch and Melissa should have left him before things came to this. But that was neither here nor there at the moment. He was gone and she didn't even have enough money to buy Christmas gifts. Luckily, Sam had his part-time job. And that along with WIC and food stamps, they had enough to buy food, but not much more.

Watching the little baby's mouth pulling on her nipple, she had never felt so all alone and helpless. She had no one to turn to. But wait, she thought, wait, what about Aunt Clarice? She was rich, and lived alone since Uncle Charlie passed on. Maybe she would lend her some money to get by with for a while. Yes, that might just work, she thought. I'll give her a call tomorrow. How could she turn down family? Especially on Christmas Day. A day of giving.

A light snow was falling as Sam trudged along listening to the snow creak under his shoes. Some Christmas it was going to be. His dad had left his mother and they hardly had a pot to piss in. Good thing he had his job, he thought, shifting the paper bag of groceries from one arm to the other. Otherwise they would barely have food.

Stopping at the front door, Sam kicked the snow off his shoes and opened the door. Stepping in out of the frosty night, he felt the warmth of the house wrap itself around him.

"Mom, I'm home," he shouted out, toeing his shoes off and leaving them by the front door.

"I'm in here, Honey," he heard her call back from the living room. "With Erica . . ."

That would mean that she was probably nursing the baby, Sam thought. Maybe he would get to see one of her big, beautiful tits. He knew that he shouldn't think about her like that, but he couldn't help it. She was always a little careless about exposing her breasts when she nursed Erica and Sam had always thought they were just about the biggest, most beautiful breasts he had ever seen. Even prettier than the boobs in the girlie magazines he had stolen from his dad.

Quickly stepping into the living room, he glanced over at the couch and saw that his mother was indeed nursing Erica.

"Hi, Mom," he grinned glancing down at the big, white breast that the baby had her tiny hands wrapped around.

"Hi, Honey," Melissa returned, looking over to where Sam stood watching her.

He was looking at her breast, she anxiously thought, reaching over and self-consciously pulling the edge of her blouse over it as a pink blush spread out over her cheeks.

"Uh, how, how was your day?" she asked, suddenly feeling uncomfortably ill at ease.

"Okay," Sam mumbled, swallowing and turning toward the kitchen. "Uh, I bought a few things for Christmas . . . I didn't have enough for a turkey, but I bought a chicken, so I guess that will have to do."

"That will be fine, Dear," she smiled, watching him step out of the living room into the kitchen.

I've never noticed him looking at my breasts before, she told herself. Or maybe she had just never looked for it. He was a teenager, after all. And all teenage boys ever thought about was sex, wasn't it? Even her Sam. But thinking about him like that was uncomfortable. In her mind, he was still her little, baby boy. And she didn't want to think of him as a boy growing into manhood. She wanted to think of him as her little boy!

Putting the groceries away, Sam saw that the pot of posole on the stove was happily bubbling away. His mother always cooked a pot of posole on Christmas Eve and they would have two or three bowls to celebrate the holiday. Just smelling it made him hungry.

But then his thoughts turned back to his mother. Was it just him, or did all boys think about their mothers the way he thought about her? Or was he just a sicko? Ever since puberty, he had been enthralled by his mother's big breasts. And then when Erica came along, his mother's breasts had grown even larger and more fascinating. This plus the fact that he was given brief glimpses of the wondrous creations when his mother nursed Erica was driving him to the point of obsessing about them. He spent most of his waking time thinking about them. Thinking about how pretty they were and how it would feel to touch them. To touch them and taste the sweet nectar that flowed from them. He obsessed to the point of envy toward his little sister, Erica.

Look at you, he rebuked himself. You're acting like a little baby. Wanting to do something to your sister so you can have your mother all to yourself. That is sick! Your mother is not some toy that the two of you have to share. She's your mother for Christ's sake.

But what if he did have his mother all to himself again? What good would that do? She would never consent to anything as nasty and loathsome as what he wanted to do. But even knowing that, it couldn't stop him from thinking about it. And trying to come up with a way. Couldn't stop him from trying to show her how much he loved her. Wanted her! Needed her! He loved her and wanted her so bad, sometimes he ached all over.

With the groceries put away, Sam pulled the bottle of champagne out of the sack and twisted off the little wire cage holding the cork in. He had spent the last of his paycheck on the bottle and had his twenty-two-year-old friend, Hank buy it for him. Hank was twenty-two and was always ready to play the age card for Sam. All he had to do was ask.

Uncorking the bottle, Sam slowly poured the champagne into two plastic glasses.

"Honey, could you please turn the posole off," he heard his mother call out from the living room.

"Sure thing, Mom," he called back, stepping over to the stove and turning the burner off.

When she had seen Sam looking at her breast, Melissa's nipples had suddenly grown oddly sensitive. And as Erica suckled on the one she had in her little mouth, the nipple was sending warm, stimulating signals down to her nether regions. Nursing had always given her pleasurable feelings that made her feel warm and cuddly, but not in a sexual way. But this time it was different. There was a strange, unexpected sexual undercurrent to it and she suddenly found herself becoming aroused.

What was happening to her, she fearfully asked herself? Why was it happening? Nothing like it had ever happened before, so why now?

Oh, stop it, she told herself, slowly extracting her big, puffy nipple from Erica's sucking mouth. Then lifting Erica up to her shoulder, she gently patted her on the back until she heard a soft little burp. Then, as she pushed up to her feet to put Erica in her crib, she saw Sam come walking back into the living room with two glasses in his hands.

As he did, he stopped and his eyes immediately dropped down to her breasts which were now both exposed as she hadn't bothered to button her blouse not thinking he would return so quickly.

Another flash of something that she had to call excitement fired off down in her nether regions as she quickly turned to hide her breasts from him. As she did, she felt the heavy, milk-laden udders roll and tug at her chest, causing her even more consternation.

"Oops—Sorry—" Sam muttered standing by the kitchen door watching her as she quickly made her way over to the crib standing in the corner of the room.

She didn't answer him and tried to walk with her back turned to him so that he couldn't see her breasts. She didn't know what to say . . . or do. . . .

They were so, so beautiful, Sam thought to himself as he watched her walk toward the crib.

Melissa could feel the warm blush as it spread out over her cheeks while she leaned over the crib tucking Erica in her crib. She could also feel the heavy tug of her breasts on her chest as they swung down under her rolling and banging against one another. Standing back up, she pulled the edges of her blouse together and buttoned it up.

Finally, she took a deep breath and turned to face Sam.

"What's in the glasses?" she asked, knowing that it was champagne or wine because she had heard the pop of the cork being removed from a bottle while Sam had been in the kitchen.

"Champagne," he said, stepping toward her with one of the glasses extended out to her. "I thought maybe a little of the bubbly might help cheer you up."

"You know that I can't drink while I'm nursing Erica," she said, stepping over to the couch.

"One glass can't hurt, can it?" he asked, hurt that he had spent the last of his money on the champagne and she wouldn't even drink it as he followed her to the couch and thrust the glass out at her again.

Looking him in the eye, she could see the hurt look. After all, he had spent his hard-earned money on it. One glass couldn't hurt since she had just finished nursing, could it? She remembered reading somewhere that a nursing mother could have one or two drinks, two to three hours before breast feeding. And since she had just finished with Erica, it would be three or four hours before Erica wanted more.

"Oh, okay," she smiled, taking the glass from him. When she did, she saw his eyes light up happily.

Hoping the champagne would loosen her up, Sam grinned and took a long drink of his champagne.

"Where did you get it?" she asked, taking a sip of hers as he sat down on the other end of the couch. "You aren't twenty-one . . ."

"Hank bought for me. He felt sorry for me. You know, Christmas and all," Sam grinned at her.

"I'll have to have a talk with Hank. I don't want you to become a souse," she scolded him, half-jokingly.

"I won't . . . besides who has the money? This is a special occasion. It's Christmas Eve," he told her.

"I know. I'm sorry for being an old poop," she laughed, taking another sip of her champagne. "Thank you . . ."

Then Melissa leaned over and turned off the lamp at the end of the couch, dousing the room in partial darkness as the only light in the room was the light coming from the lights of the little Christmas forlornly sitting in the corner all by itself. There were no presents under it and it looked so sad and alone as its little lights twinkled on and off.

The silence in the room was deafening as they sat looking out the bay window at the falling snow. Big fluffy flakes, lit by the street lights came floating down from the sky giving everything a fuzzy, blurry look. Mounds of snow covered everything taking away the sharp angles and giving the scene a soft, rounded appearance. Christmas tree lights winked on and off in the windows of the nearby houses painting the snow with the colors of Christmas.

"Pretty . . ." Sam murmured, turning to look at his mother.

"Yes," she murmured back.

"And so are you," Sam told her, feeling emboldened by the champagne, the darkness, and the quiet intimacy of the moment as the soft light coming in the window played across the silhouette of her pretty face.

Melissa slowly turned and looked at him. Time seemed to stop as neither of them spoke for the longest time. Then Melissa finally broke the silence.

"I'm sorry that there won't be any gifts for Christmas this year," she told him. "We don't have any money and, and, well, there just won't be any presents . . ."

"That's okay, Mom," Sam said. "We've still got each other . . . that's all that counts . . ."

Her heart was bursting with love for the boy/man sitting down at the other end of the couch. He and little Erica were all she had left in the world. Arnold had taken everything from her and now this man sitting with her was her sanity, her anchor. He was the last thing she had to keep her from going stark, raving mad.

"Honey, come down her and sit by me . . ." Melissa murmured, patting the couch beside her. Even in the darkened room, Sam could see the love pouring from her eyes as she looked into his eyes. If only, he sickly thought. If only he could somehow turn that motherly love into something else. Turn it into the love a woman felt for a man. Her man!

Smiling, Sam slowly scooted down the couch until his hip was brushing against hers.

"Thank you so much, Honey, for just being you . . ." she softly murmured, leaning over and giving him as soft, lingering kiss on the cheek. As she did, her big, soft breast brushed against his arm causing his heart to start doing flip-flops down inside her chest.

He was so close, he feverishly thought to himself as his cock grew harder and harder down inside his pants. It took every last ounce of will power he possessed to keep from sweeping her into his arms and kissing her on the lips, but somehow he was able to find the strength to do so.

Then he felt her hand on his thigh, gently squeezing it as she leaned back away from him. He could feel the warmth of her hand through his pants as it rested only a few inches from his rock-hard, aching cock. What if she accidently touched it? Touched it and found out it was hard? What would she do? What would she think?

Surrounded by the sweet fragrance of her perfume, Sam drank in the sweet smell of honeysuckle and jasmine.

"If you had a wish . . . and I had a magic wand . . . what would be the one thing in the whole, wide world you would want for Christmas?" she whispered to him, giving his thigh another gentle squeeze.

Could he? Could he tell her that it was her? He wanted her more than anything else in the world? What would she do, if he did? Could he share his deep, dark secret with her? Would she let him share that secret with her?

His heart was pounding so hard he knew that it was going to explode and burst out of his chest at any second. There was at least a bale of cotton in his mouth and he didn't know if he could talk even if he wanted to. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The roaring in his ears was so loud, he couldn't think straight.

"Well . . ." she smiled at him from the darkness.

"YOU!" Sam blurted out, running his arm around her and pulling her to him. Then to her shock and amazement, he gave her a hard, demanding kiss right on her lips.

Breaking the kiss, he leaned back away from her and saw the look of confusion and panic in her wide-eyed look.

"What? What do you mean?" she gasped looking like she was just about to bolt and run as she stared at him in bewilderment.

"I mean, I mean that just being with, with you is the best Christmas present I could ever want," he was somehow able to choke out tasting her lipstick on her on his lips as he spoke.

As he sat watching her, the look of confusion and panic slowly turned back to the look of love he had seen before.

"Oh, my sweet, little Baby. You are such an angel," she cooed, leaning over and gently brushing her soft, full lips across his trembling lips.

"I love you so much, Mother . . ." Sam whispered, watching her as she leaned her head back against the couch, closed her eyes and took another sip of her champagne.

"I love you, too, Baby," she murmured, giving his thigh another gentle squeeze.

What did it all mean, Melissa asked herself, her mind muzzy from the champagne. Her first frantic thought had been that he, he wanted HER! Wanted her in that way. But he couldn't want that! Not that! Not from her! She was his mother! Then she remembered the look on his face when he had seen her breasts. It hadn't been the look of a son looking at his mother. It had been the look of a man . . . a man looking at a woman! But he couldn't think of her like that . . . could he? How could she find out? And what would she do if she found out she was right? It was all so bewildering seeing this new side of her son. A side of him that she had never even thought about.

But why did she find it all so perplexing? He was a man, wasn't he? A man at the peak of his sexuality, driven by hormones. It wasn't his fault the God had made things that way. She was just surprised that he was directing those urges toward her. As her reeling mind sorted through her thoughts, she found one, tiny fragment of pride. Proud that her own son found her attractive after she had been thrown aside by his father. That had been a damning blow to her ego, but now this! This latest show of affection from her son made her almost feel like a woman again.

Surely, you're not suggesting, her fevered brain asked? No, no, of course not. I just found it flattering. And it feels good to be flattered every once in a while. Anything wrong with that? She answered back.

No, as long as that's as far as it goes, she told herself.

What could he do, Sam frantically asked himself? What could he do to show his mother how he felt toward her? Without frightening her off. The look of panic when he had kissed her hadn't been a good sign. You've already kissed her, just keep on going. Just take it slow.

"Your lipstick tastes good," he softly said.

As he spoke Melissa slowly turned her head and looked over at him.

"It does?"

"Yes, it does," he smiled, his mind already racing for his next question.

"I never notice the taste. I guess a woman gets used to it after a while," she softly laughed.

Do it. Go there, Sam told himself. Don't stop now.

"Do your breasts hurt?" Sam blurted out, glancing down at her breasts then back up into her flared eyes.

"What?" she gasped. "What did you say?"

"I just wondered if your breasts hurt," he mumbled, glad for the darkness that hid the blush that was burning his cheeks.

Melissa sat looking into his eyes pondering his question for the longest time, wondering if she should answer him or not. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to Sam, she spoke.

"Sometimes. Why do you ask?" she asked him.

"They're so big, and, and Erica is such a little girl. I don't see how she could ever drink that much. And I read that if a woman who is l—lac---lactating doesn't ex—express enough milk that they hurt," Sam boldly charged on.

"Yes, but there are ways. Other ways for a woman to express her, the milk," Melissa nervously answered.

"You mean, like, like a, a breast pump?"

"Yes, that is one way," she softly said.

"Do you have a breast pump?" he asked her.

"Yes, I have a breast pump," she told him, wondering what he was leading up to.

"I've never seen it," he said.

"I didn't think that it was something you needed to see," she bashfully explained.

"Oh . . ." he answered.

There was a long stretch of silence before he finally spoke again.

"Do your breasts hurt now?"

Melissa wondered how to answer him. Erica hadn't finished her supper and her left breast was beginning to ache just a little.

"Just a little bit," she finally mumbled. "Erica didn't finish tonight."

The silence was pregnant with the electric undercurrent of tension between them as they sat peering out into the dark Christmas Eve evening.

Then Sam turned and looked at his mother.

"Could, could I help . . ." Sam whispered.

Shocked by what she had just heard, Melissa felt her heart leap into her throat as she turned and stared into his eyes. A part of her wished there was more light so she could see what was in his eyes, but another part was glad there was the darkness the hide the blush burning her cheeks. What did he mean? Did he want to help her use her breast pump? Or did he want to, to nurse? She couldn't believe he had asked her to do that?