Wake Up! It's Your Birthdaybydinkleberry©
Edited by TheOracle
[ALL CHARACTERS ARE OVER 18. All characters are fictional and any resemblance to real or other fictional characters is coincidence and unintentional.]
In this story, the narrator discusses and describes the sport of hunting in sometimes unflattering terms. This is not meant to denigrate the sport nor does it reflect my opinion. It is merely a vehicle to drive the story.
"Brandon, there's three types of women."
'Oh joy, more words of wisdom from the blowhard,' I thought as I wondered what dumb shit was my father about to espouse. Still I was required to ask, "What's that Big John?"
Smiling, since he loves that even I use his ridiculous nickname, he answered, "First, there's the women that let you fuck them. These are the ones that act as if they are doing you a favor as they just lay there. Basically, they are the dead fish you sometimes hear about." Looking at me, I silently nodded my head.
"Second, are the ones that work with you. They'll help you row the boat into the port; most times, you'll have to be in charge but they participate in the activities.
"Third, are the ones who will fuck you. Those are the crazy bitches where sex is a competition, it's a battle for dominance, it's a challenge to see who will cum first, except you lose if you cum first. All they care about is satisfying their needs and don't care about yours."
Silently I rolled my eyes, thinking 'whatever' but resisted the urge to say it. When I didn't respond to his pearls of wisdom, Big John returned his focus back to what we were doing -- skeet shooting. He and I were on the back edge of the large patio in the rear of the manor on our estate. He yelled, "Pull" and I sent two clay pigeons soaring into the air.
He raised his British made Purdey over/under shotgun and tracked the first. I watched as he fired, turning the disc into dust before quickly refocusing on the second disc while it was beginning its descend. Firing, I silently scoffed as he merely chipped an edge off it and he violently barked, "DAMMIT."
To further tweak my father, I asked, as he broke open his shotgun to clear the barrels, "By the way, which one does Mom fall into."
"Sadly, you're mother falls into the first category," he glumly answered.
'Somehow, I doubt that...' I thought. '...Most likely you just can't deliver the goods.' Readying my American made Browning Golden Clays, Monte Carlo over/under 12 gauge shotgun I yelled, "Pull."
Bringing my weapon up and locking it into the sweet spot in the crux of my shoulder within the blink of an eye, I instantly tracked the first disc and pulverized it. Swinging over to the second, I spied it as it was still ascending. As it hovered that split-second at the top of its apex where it transfers from climbing to falling I never let that happen as I turned it to dust.
"Well I win again. Huh, old man?" I amusedly watched as Big John's nostrils flared in fury. I knew he hated that I could best him, especially as he was a fanatical huntsmen and I could be described as disinterested. I knew that it enraged him that his years of experience and constant practice weren't enough against my youthful reflexes and superior eye/hand coordination developed more by video games than by handling firearms. I knew that he detested the fact that at 51 his star was waning while his youngest child's star was on the rise. I found this all quite amusing and while I did my best to try an' hide it, we both knew I wasn't always successful.
I didn't always think this way about my father. In fact, there was a time I idolized him and hung on his every word.
I am the third child of Jonathon and Amisha Khonroy, an affluent and influential family. I barely know my older siblings as my older brother is ten years older than I while my sister is almost nine years older. Obviously I was an unexpected surprise being born when Big John was 35 and my mom was 31. Perhaps because of this fact as a kid I got to tag along with my father and I thought that was awesome.
Of course what eight-year old doesn't love the opportunity to learn how to shoot a rifle and go deer hunting? My father and I would spend hours together as he taught me how to hold my rifle properly; how to lock my body in place; to smoothly track my target and that you gently squeeze the trigger not pull it; and of course he taught me how clean and care for my guns.
I also relished going with my father and his friends when they'd go out for quail, pheasant or duck. He taught me the importance of practice and repetition, that you'll develop a natural rhythm and groove so in an instant you can swing your shotgun up into place without pause or thought, instantly tracking the fowl as it takes flight. From him I learned that importance of remaining vigilant and 'being on point', prepared to respond within the blink of an eye.
And of course the challenge of direct competition of skeet shooting would get my blood rushing. However as I grew older I became involved with other sports. I discovered my true passion was football and exceled at playing quarterback.
I started to question how much of a sport is it to sit in a tree-stand for hours waiting for a deer to come wandering by lured in by the food and scent you laid out for it when compared to having to elude other players hell-bent on crushing you before tossing a touchdown pass. Although I loved duck hunting and the rush of popping up from a blind as a flock flew across shooting as quickly as possible to get a few of them, it couldn't compare to the thrill of running the Option play on 3rd and 2, the defense knows it's coming and still can't stop you from gaining two an' a half yards. Before I loved being with Big John at the hunting lodge, however eventually I realized it's just old men drinking bourbon and smoking cigars -- a total sausage fest when compared to the victory parties our teams would have.
My father couldn't care less for football and didn't even pretend to be interested in my love for it. He continued to be an outdoor sportsman and I became an athlete and our lives went in different directions. In an ironic twist it would be the punishing gridiron of football that would turn me into a Momma's boy.
My mother, Amisha, was born in the Tamil region of India. As a teenager she was sent to England for finishing school, sort of the British version of high school for girls. From there she came to the States for college. It was while at college that she met and married Big John. Even after living in the United States for over 25 years she still has the clipped British accent and regal, elegant manner. Most people are surprised to learn she is 47 for she is still quite attractive, and I'm very aware that many of my friends and teammates have a crush on her. In the past, some have had the audacity to tell me she's a MILF however after a few scuffles over this they now just whisper it behind my back.
The reason for this is because she has those beautiful features many Tamil women do and like so many she does not seem to age at all. She is gracefully tall at 5'10 and naturally thin and petite (I'd guess she weights between 125-130 pounds). She has that enchanting, exotic raven black hair that she wears long with a simple part that allows its natural luxurious richness to be displayed.
People have commented that she resembles both Reshma Shetty, who plays Divya on 'Royal Pains' and Aarti Mann, who plays Priya on the Big Bang Theory. I agree with them in that my mom has that soft milky caramel skin, a pleasant diamond-shape face, wide full lips, and almond shaped eyes that are a bewitching dark, dark brown. (Yes, I've obviously noted and enjoyed her beauty.)
Since my father refused to have anything to do with football it fell to my mom to become the involved parent and what an amazing job she did. The first time she took me to Pee-Wee football practice she was completely baffled to see her little boy covered in pads and a helmet lining up against other little boys as if they were all preparing for battle. Being from India and growing up in England, she equated football [futbol] with what we call soccer. I still remember her once asking at the end of one my first practices, "What was that about? It seems like you Americans playing rugby all wrong."
Yet seeing her little boy's enthusiasm and sensing his talent she encouraged my passion. She also dove into learning all the complex intricacies of the sport. She attends coaching seminars and forums. She's engaged coaches on the workings of developing strategies and certain philosophies. On a few occasions she's had opportunities to meet pro players and you can tell they are surprised as this attractive and poised woman picks their brains about the nuances of their profession. In pursuit of learning how to breakdown game tape she's cultured friendships with scouts who have taught her what to look for and what to spot.
Now years later my friends and I sometimes joke that it's too bad she has the wrong equipment to be a coach as she has sometimes known more than some of our actual coaches. She has come to love the sport to the point where other player's fathers are amazed at how she can debate that the Spread offense, while effective at the college level, will never be successful in the NFL, at least as a base offense. Being my father's son, she annoyingly routinely kicks my ass in Madden football on the Xbox, and even dares to laugh at me while doing so. She even plays in multiple fantasy football leagues.
In a humorous turn when my mom gets excited and passionate about a topic she is discussing her British accent and manners become more pronounced. So it takes on a certain oddness to see this sylphlike but determined woman arguing the advantages of a 3-4 defense over a 4-3 defense all while sounding as if she'll offer you a cup of tea or scold Harry Potter!
What this all means is that over the years, with my mom's encouragement, support and assistance I've become one of the top high school quarterbacks in the country. I'm now a senior in high school and for the second time I was named as an All-American. When coaches from some the biggest big-time schools made home visits while recruiting me it was with my mother they spoke. While they worked hard to sell their program to her, I could tell they were surprised and impressed by the depth of her knowledge. Imagine the surrealism of having Steve Spurrier in your home and being completely ignored as he and your mom discuss, debate and even argue the importance of a quarterback's confidence.
Together, she and I decided I'd accept a scholarship to a certain school that has a reputation for developing and polishing quarterbacks for the next level.
And this is what I mean by me being a Momma's boy. Besides quizzing me on my homework (something she's a tyrant about), she also quizzes me on my playbook -- which she'll have memorized and I am supposed to have. In my house, just off from the spacious living room we have a comfortable entertainment room; or as we simply call it, the TV room. [The TV room also happens to be directly below my parent's upstairs bedroom.] In there, there are a few comfortable leather sofas, a huge 80-inch TV and state-of-the-art video equipment. Mom and I have spent many, many hours in there watching game tape -- and it was she who taught me how to spy which way the strong safety was cheating by noticing if he was leaning forward, ready to attack or rocking back, preparing to drop into coverage.
Over the years Mom and I have also become pals. We don't just spend all our time with football; that isn't our only bond. No, instead we often spend many nights in the TV room playing video games, watching movies or just watching television shows. And we've become comfortable with and around each other.
As a young teenager I loved being allowed to stay up watching TV with my mom and would often fall asleep right there in the TV room. Mom would let me sleep until gently waking me when she was done for the night and we'd head up to our bedrooms. As I grew older the roles began to reverse where I was the one up late watching the end of a baseball, basketball or hockey game that started on the West coast or catching the late edition of SportsCenter or whatever. Also somewhere along the way we began sharing the same sofa laying together as we watched TV. Oftentimes I would be massaging her shoulders, rubbing her feet or brushing her hair. But many times we were just sharing each other's company.
While I, of course, enjoyed having this supple female lying next to me (or even against me) in truth I never thought it as odd because she was so open about it, even doing so when I'd have friends over. Yet I knew I needed to hide the fact that I found my mom so sexually desirable. In some ways the close proximity to her only fueled my lust. Oftentimes I had to remain vigilant not to succumb to my desire to touch her, to feel her, to taste her. I learned how to be circumspect when hiding my raging hard-on while she was right next to me.
The biggest change was whereas before Mom would wake me before heading up to bed herself, now with her asleep against me when I was done for the night I'd just simply mute the TV and crash out there on the sofa with her. At first my father would look in on us, but now this is so routine that he doesn't even bother. And so, Mom and I have slept together in the TV room more nights than not.
This brings us to February 21st, the day before my 18th birthday.
After playing Star Wars Battlefront II against my mom and getting beaten and pummeled worse than I beat Big John at skeet shooting she got to select what to watch tonight. So I was feigning interest in another tedious and predictable Lifetime movie. I was sort of resting comfortably sitting/sprawled on the sofa and Mom was lying on the rest of the sofa with her using my thigh as a pillow for her head. She was wearing a simple loose fitting white linen blouse and a pair of casual black wool slacks. Having kicked off her shoes, her bare feet faintly glowed from the light of the TV. Basically it was just another night.
"So Brandon, are you excited about tomorrow?" she asked without turning her head away from the TV.
"Why what's tomorrow?" I genuinely asked. I knew it was my birthday but at this point in my life my attitude is 'Big Deal.' While girls and women make a big deal about birthdays for men it's kind of just another day. At some point early in our lives birthdays basically become meaningless. Unlike girls we don't celebrate a Sweet Sixteen. Even Jewish boys have a Bar Mitzvah at 13 and then they are done. I even remember my father once saying, 'Birthdays are for women and little boys. Which one are you?'
"Well, tomorrow is your birthday silly." Rolling onto her back, she now looked up at me. "Or did you forget?"
"Of course I didn't forget..." I replied gazing down at her and enjoying her features reflected from the soft light projected from the TV, the only light in an otherwise dark room. "...I just don't see what's the big deal between today and tomorrow. I mean honestly what's the difference?"
I more felt than heard Mom laugh before saying, "Well tomorrow you'll be 18 and according to the law you are officially an adult."
I loudly scoffed at her point. "And what's that mean? I was allowed to get my Learner's Permit at 16 and my Driver's license at 17. So that doesn't matter. Tomorrow I become eligible to vote and I mean 'Whoopee' because it's February and the elections aren't until November. After tomorrow I have to register for the Draft but I seriously doubt I have to worry about that, right? As to being an adult, what's that mean? I still can't drink until I'm 21 and every day you see on the news kids as young as 14 being charged as an adult."
Looking down at her I continued, "I'm sorry Mom, I don't wanna be a Buzz Killington but I just don't see tomorrow as anything special."
With an odd smile she replied, "I guess maybe you are right." And she rolled back onto her side ending the conversation. However it left me feeling as if she had just said that I couldn't be more wrong and left me wondering why. As always I was left baffled by her feminine mysteriousness.
After a while I let out a big bored yawn when the Lifetime movie revealed that the heroine's supposedly loving husband was actually an absolute scumbag, that her childhood guy friend has always been in love with her and he was who she actually should be with -- basically the same as every other Lifetime movie. I also discovered that Mom was already asleep by her not responding a bit to my yawn.
Grabbing the remote, I turned the volume down and flipped over to a college basketball game. In fact, I guy'ed it up watching that game, an NBA game and also catching highlights on SportsCenter. Finally at 12am both games were over and I was up-to-date on all the other scores and highlights, I delighted to find an episode of South Park was just starting. So for half an' hour I watched my best friends Stan, Kyle, Kenny and Cartman.
At 12:30am, I pressed the Mute button on the remote. Shifting a bit and adjusting Mom (who didn't wake) I settled in for another night's sleep with her on the sofa. It took all but a few minutes before the Sandman came and off to Dreamland I went.
I awoke startled as a weight was suddenly on me. Opening my eyes, Mom was sitting on my lap, straddling me, facing me. Joyfully she exclaimed, "Wake up! It's Your Birthday."
She then kissed me. However this was like no kiss I ever received from her before. Her lips landed firmly on mine and stayed there for the shortest eternal moment. I was so shocked I didn't know how to respond. Mom leaned back and declared, "Happy Birthday, my love. Today you are a man and..."
With a wink, she placed her hands on the sides on my head. This time I saw her close her eyes and lean in to kiss me. This time I was ready. I kissed her back and it was more incredible than I ever imagined. Her lips were warm, soft and succulent. Her lips left mine, leaving me hungering for more.
"... I think we've both been waiting a long time for this to happen," she whispered in my ear; her fingers ran through my hair and sparks danced across my scalp. Her hands left my head and took hold of my wrists. My mind swirled with delighted confusion as she licked my ear. Suddenly my hands were laid on her tight, tender butt-cheeks and she wantonly whispered, "Today my boy becomes my man."
Her tongue traced across my cheek and magically her lips were on mine again. I wondered if I was dreaming as my hands touched, caressed, molded to her firm yet diminutive ass; her lips were pressed firmly to mine. When I squeezed my hands I felt her lips open and her tongue licked my lips. Opening my mouth to her, she wrapped her arms around my head and leaned her whole body upon me.
Her tongue entered my mouth proudly, dominantly. When mine reached for and touched hers her whole body swayed. I held tight to her butt for as our tongues danced upon each other's her body danced upon mine. As an 18 year old, my cock was automatically ready and standing at attention AND my mother was rubbing her body on it!
The only thing that, thankfully, prevented me from exploding at that moment was my astonished surprise. Her tongue left my mouth and then her lips left mine. Placing her hands on my shoulders she leaned back. Yet with a delicious smile her hips kept dancing, swaying, grinding on mine. She purred, "This is what you want, right?"
The best I could do was to dumbly nod my head. She smiled and laughed, "Good."
Reaching back she grabbed my hands and lifted them to her chest. Although not particularly busty, I could feel her bra beneath her shirt and her breasts beneath that. There was enough there for me to squeeze and clutch, and as I did she laid her head back sighing her pleasure. Leaning forward she kissed me again.