Destiny's Child

Part 1

I am writing this down because I need to get it off my chest, and hopefully, someone out there can offer some advice. My life is complicated; it is based on a lie, love, and a secret, but to explain I'll have to go back...

As a kid, I suppose, I led a fairly typical life. My mom had died before I could remember, so it was just my dad and I until I was about seven. It had never occurred to me that dads dated, and until I actually had a mom, I never knew what I had missed. Oh sure, I had some basic idea what with interactions around friends and their moms, but actually having your own is quite exceptional.

So anyway, at around the age of seven, I discovered my dad was actually dating, and for anyone who has gone through that, you can attest to how strange and unnatural it seemed. First, they were casually introduced; it was daddy's friend. Then slowly, they became more and more involved, until eventually, you saw them every day. Naturally, he went through several lady friends before settling, and so it seemed so odd when one morning, I woke up to find her in my kitchen in a robe and slippers.

She was sort of shy and uneasy when she saw me, but I just took it as dad's friend after a sleepover. She made breakfast for us all, and did the clean up afterwards (although I did bring the dirty dishes in from the dining room.) Later, when she started giving presents for my birthday or Christmas, it seemed like I hit the lottery jackpot. 

Funny how kids can be bribed. It would start out with extra gifts or things, and you didn't realize how you were slowly squeezed out of the focus. Like when I was around sixteen, I noticed the three of us had begun a ritual of sharing holidays. Not just the high holidays though, but the summer getaways, as well. Those special days where we would go fishing and camping, cabin in the mountains, Disneyland and even on a cruise. I never noticed or realized that they'd prearranged activities for me to do without them, or in age-appropriate groups.

They would tell me they were going shopping or wanted to just relax and talk, which I knew was boring, so I didn't mind taking part in rock-climbing walls, ATV excursions, ziplining, shooting ranges (both guns and bows), zorbing, or fishing, without them. I was noticing and interested in girls, too. Outings to carnivals, fairs, or large shopping malls with old folks just cramped my style, so I let them go at their own pace, and I enjoyed.

Along came the fateful day that dad would take me aside and ask how I'd feel about her joining our family permanently, about having a real mom and I would realize dad was in love. So I got all dressed up in a monkey suit, smiling, happy, and a bit excited. Mom looked amazing in this sweeping-off-the-shoulder gown, and I told her so, but something in my words made her cry.

I tried to comfort her, by hugging her close, told her I was sorry, but I couldn't help but feel the comforting warmth, as her breasts crushed against my chest. My hand stroked up her back to feel her glorious nakedness, and suddenly I was struggling with feelings. 

She was telling me she's sorry, it was not my fault, but her hand was playing in my hair, and then we were kissing. I went too far, and my hand slid down the front of her gown. It was cupping her bare breast, with its nipple hard and begging for attention. Her breath was hot in my ear, and I heard the soft moan, "Oh, Stanial."

Then we were back, both pulling away from each other, and spouting apologies. A sudden knock on the door saying they were ready didn't allow time or room for explanation, so I smiled weakly and the wedding carried on.

It was a grand affair and I got to share in the activities. I had wine with dinner (only a small glass) and champagne for a toast. I brought a date that I kissed and fondled behind the bandstand, but my heart wasn't in it. I kept thinking about mom, about her beauty, warmth and softness. Perhaps, my date realized this, for that was the last I saw of her. 

My parents drank too much, I saw it, knew it, and sinfully cheered, for it. I knew or professed to know that in that act, they wouldn't be having relations tonight. Later, I was asked to drive them home, the designated responsible one, and bore witness to dad fumbling in the dark as drunk, horny men do.

I had to watch as he kissed her; not tenderly like she deserved, but with sloppy, wet sounds. I watched as a hand stole beneath her gown, and as her legs squirmed, until stocking tops appeared. She screeched and moaned and giggled, shifting and moving, as though the seat was covered in oil, telling him he was being naughty, and to wait, but did little to stop him. 

Then before he could get inside her panties, she looked directly at my reflection in the rearview mirror. It was such an odd look, as though she was checking to see if I was watching. A few minutes later, we arrived and they piled out of the car on unsteady limbs. 

Stumbling up the stairs, dad was still all boisterous, as he slurred how he was going to rock her world, yet that only lasted until about two-thirds the way up. He stumbled and dropped a few steps, while she giggled and chased after him. Then I, the young, envious, responsible one, made sure they got safely to the bedroom before slumping outside their door to listen for a while. 

Recalling my actions, I guess I really was envious, but judging by the sounds behind that door, dad either couldn't perform, or was a lousy lover. Ultimately, I gave up my post and retired for the night.

A while later, there came a knock on my door and it was mom. She swayed back and forth in my doorway, as she asked what I was doing. Just watching TV came my response, to which she said, "Good, because we need to talk about what happened at church."

Damn! I swore to myself; I had truly hoped this was behind me. 

Well you can probably guess what happened, but I'll tell you anyway. Mom came in a bit unsteady on her feet, and plopped down on my bed. For just a moment, she bounced at the give in the mattress, and I enjoyed the reciprocal bounce of her breasts. I knew I was not supposed to look or notice these things, but I was eighteen and had one of those globes in my hand several hours ago. 

Then came the deadly silence. She was just looking at me, judging me or maybe analyzing my intent, before reaching out and placing a hand on my arm. I jumped as it made contact, but her eyes never left my own, before taking on a questioning expression. Her lips parted and she said, "Stanial, you've come back to me."

I recall my moment of confusion, before my lips responded, "Hey mom, are you okay?" Then her hand trembled and she looked deeply into my eyes.

"Oh, Des," (yeah that's right my name is Desmond so go ahead get your jokes out) she began, "I'm so sorry, I... I better go."

It was so strange and it felt like she was in pain. I knew dad was in no condition to comfort her, so I made an effort. "Hey, mom," I offered, in my most upbeat voice, "it's okay. You and dad had a lot to drink, and that clouds thinking. How about you just join me on the sofa to watch a movie for a while. I am sure you could use the company and an understanding shoulder. Besides, then I can brag about spending the night with an exotic fox." I made a little rolling 'Rrrr' sound, which put a tiny smile on her lips.

I recall how she patted me on the thigh, and wished me a goodnight, as she stood and walked away. She seemed better somehow, and quite a bit more stable, so I let it be. After that, I went to the kitchen to grab a snack, then settled in on the living room sofa. 

I had the TV on, although I was not sure what was playing because I couldn't focus on that story over my own. I had gotten closer to my mom, had kissed her, felt her breast, saw her thighs and comforted her in a moment of need. She was... I wasn't sure. 

Did all boys feel this way about their moms? I had never had one, so this could be normal, but then again, she was beautiful-- short, well rounded and soft as a kitten, with hot, exciting breasts and a tight, round ass. I wondered was I interested in her as a sexual conquest? Was this just how boys felt about their moms, or was I mixing things up? 

I tried going over what I knew about her and about moms, so that in my head I could resolve my dilemma, but I kept focusing on how she looked and felt. That first morning, she was in the kitchen when I woke up. The first day, she came out of a tent in a T-shirt but no bra. There were hundreds of little things I had all but forgotten, but now begged the question, why did I remember in the first place. 

My reverie was broken in mid-thought, as mom tussled my hair and plunked down beside me. "Hey, Des. Guess I couldn't sleep, mind if I join you?"

Startled, I nearly jumped out of my skin, which of course, made me bang my shin against the coffee table. The short scream and scramble to hold it, had mom reacting, too. Instantly, she was beside me on the sofa taking my leg in her hands. 

I'd like to say I noticed the way my foot had accidentally kicked open the bottom part of her robe but I didn't. I was aware of the satin robe, though; of the warmth of her hands and how when they touched me, it was like an electrical storm had touched off on my nerves. 

Mom had done a cursory examination, then brought the calf to her lips for a gentle kiss, but kissing a young man was not like kissing a toddler's booboo.

The sensation rocketed through me in this odd mixture of pain and excitement. My hand, which was on her shoulder, squeezed at the pain, causing the upper robe to part as the material crumpled. My eyes saw the pink lace bra appear and my manhood responded.

Quickly, I tried to recover, jerking into a stiff-backed sitting position, then said, "It's okay, mom." The motion, along with her hold on my thigh though, toppled her over onto my lap. Then, as I desperately tried to extricate myself, before she discovered my growing excitement, she started crying. 

Man, I gotta tell you that it was so unfair, there I was, just an innocent really when someone beautiful was tearing my heart open with tears. All thoughts of 'she can't find out' vanished and I found myself scooping her up and holding her against me in a long hug.

Between sobs, she was rambling about not being able to do anything right, and I for the second time that day, felt her breasts crushing against my chest. I held on though, while silently pleading that she would not discover my predicament.

"Guess this didn't turn out to be the wedding night of your dreams, huh, mom," I said, while stroking her back in my embracing hug. "Pity too, because dad would have melted seeing you in this." To emphasize the last point, I tugged lightly on the satin robe and admittedly was thrilled, as a fraction of extra leg appeared.

There was suddenly silence. Her sobbing had stopped, along with the associated trembling, and then her hand curled around my ribs. "No," she admitted, this wasn't her dream but it'd do. I felt all warm inside hearing those words, and smiled as she seemed to nestle in. Neither of us spoke for the longest time, and the next thing I remember was waking up with mom using my thigh as a pillow. 

My God she was beautiful. The robe had parted away from her legs and showed those white angelic stockings. I don't know what it is about stockings in particular, but the sound, feel and sight always screamed sexy. Perhaps it was the defined boundaries with their wide dark band signalling the start or finish, or the way they tantalized with the forbidden patch of flesh just beyond. All I really knew was they drove me into a sexual frenzy, and ultra-sheer black are my favourite. White, though, added this almost-virginal innocence to the vision, which begged rules to be tossed out. 

A tiny bit of bare thigh was just visible at the edge of the robe, and I wanted more. So, I looked at her contented features for signs of awareness. It seemed she was sleeping, so I lightly began caressing her side through the satin material, which glided unopposed. When I reached her hip, I circled back but made sure to add just a tiny bit of extra pressure in the turn, causing the robe to drag open, then fall back in place. It became an erotic duel. My hand urging it open, and gravity taking back every inch I had gained. 

After a short while though, mom suddenly shifted; rolling slightly towards her back, exposing her pink bra-covered breasts and taking away my point of contact. If I were to have continued, I would have stroked from breast to hip, and honestly, I hadn't the guts. 

I spent the next few moments just admiring her beauty, scanning along her body at the curves and swells, before falling into the vulnerability of her face. Her features were at peace, comforting, yet mesmerizing, too. You just wanted to kiss those lips, stroke her hair and get lost. 

I think I may have realized I was in love with her when, suddenly, a leg bent at the knee and my gaze shifted. I watched as the robe just fell away exposing her thighs and matching pink panties. I couldn't move, couldn't think, I was lost until an idea came to mind and I followed through, before conscience or doubt took hold. I took out my phone and slowly scanned her body in slo-mo movie mode. I needed to preserve this moment forever. 

I started at the fuzzy, fur-topped mules, then worked my way up the shin and knee, pausing only a moment, to widen the view. I needed to be sure to capture the bent leg, creamy thighs and pantied triangle in all their splendor. As I moved up the leg, it slowly started to part as if on cue, accenting the silken thighs and garter straps. From there, I moved up further, over her exposed abs and ribs to the pink-capped mountains sporting hard, exotic nipples. Finally, I scanned along the neck, lips and open eyes. 

Shit!

I had not realized it at the time, but all through my desire, my cock had responded and grown hard beneath her head. I guessed in hindsight that it caused her to awaken, but no matter, I was caught.

Her reaction, though, came as quite the surprise, for she reached up past my cell to grab me by the back of my head. She held it there a moment, then pulled until my lips met her own. The kiss was long and filled with passion, and when it finally broke, she sat up and just said, "Thank you."

There was no admonishment, no demands to delete the video-- just a thank you. I watched in silent disbelief, as she stood, adjusted her robe to a proper decorum, then left for the bedroom. I'll admit that for a tiny moment, I expected to find her in my bed and although this was not the case, it didn't prevent me from satisfying the frazzled nerves this day had produced.

For the next week, I didn't get to see either mom or dad as they left for their honeymoon the next morning, but that didn't mean it was without incident. I was left in charge of moving mom's stuff from her apartment to home, so that when they returned, it would all be done. For the first few days, it went well, too. I packed up the kitchen and living rooms, and shifted about sixty percent of the furniture. My real troubles came when I started on her bedroom, for I got lost in her scent and the daydreams of a testosterone-fueled youth. I spent hours jerking off to the video of her wedding night, while lying on her bed, and a few times, I found myself cumming with her name on my lips.

After that, while moving her dresser, I found an old journal which I shamefully read. Oh it wasn't an instant thing, though. I opened it at first, to figure out if it was financials, or recipes, etc. so I would know where it belonged. Then, I found it was a collection of stories, and after several pages, learned it was an actual journal from when she had been my age.

It told of her struggles, her life and of day-to-day thoughts, but it also told of love and fantasies. Her love was a school chum named Stan Danialson (Stanial). They had gone together since secondary school, and spoke of first kisses, hopes and dreams. I felt like a voyeur reading these passages, but couldn't put the darned thing down.

Sadly, I spent a lot of time trying to find more volumes both at her apartment and in our home. Although I didn't find any more, I did find something just as insightful mixed amongst my dad's things. 

It was a large brown envelope from some lawyer. I recall, even today, my joy and regret at having opened it, for inside was The Lie!

There, in black and white, were official papers announcing my adoption, but there was more than that. There were newspaper clippings of a stolen child, of the search and of tragic suicide. There were other stories, too; of other children from other states, some found but most not. There was a particular story of a man who found and turned in an abandoned child, and of his legal fight to adopt should parents not be found. 

Perhaps I jumped to conclusions, or just became overwhelmed by the plain fact I had been lied to my entire life; I cannot say, but the truth was-- I freaked out. I pieced together the newspaper stories like the creation of Frankenstein's monster, telling how a four-day-old child had been stolen from his parents. How the search began locally and focused on the dad, suggesting he might have murdered the unwanted child. When pressure and accusation became too much, he took his own life and later, how evidence proved he was not involved. I continued to lay it out about how the search widened across the state and pieced together, or invented, how that child then was discovered half-a-nation away, and turned into the authorities some nine months later. I ended my creation by fitting in how the kidnappers then fought for the right to adopt this foundling as their legal child, and how during the arduous process, the wife died of cancer.

All the stories of my life, all my beliefs were shattered. My mom never died when I was young. My dad's wife had, indeed, died but even that was two years before I was handed over to him. At the moment, I was a lost youth. Kidnapped and kept tortured with lies. I could not express the anger and rage that permeated every atom of my soul, and could only thank the heavens I had three days to stew on it. 

Over that period, I used the internet to learn more about the children in each of the news stories, about their families and any updates. I pieced together similarities, and methods or executions, in the taking of children; people, places, etc. and concluded this was a serial crime. The perpetrators had done this more than once, and although I could have been one of the victims, there was no proof. 

I learned too of my dad and his cancer-ridden wife, who longed for a child of their own, but because of fate and her condition, could not. My parents, though, were a total mystery and the one I was given to labeled me unworthy of true parents of the truth or of being loved. Even my own birthday was made up, based on a doctor's estimate and my dad's desire. I was, in fact, a nobody.

When at last they returned, my anger had lessened to a manageable level, but still, I was cold to my dad. On top of the aforementioned slight on my status, mom had a very bad sunburn that dad had let happen and seemed reticent to acknowledge. I did what I thought was right-- I cared for mom. 

Dad, meanwhile, had returned to work, but I stayed home from school and followed standard care. This entailed her taking frequent cool baths and although the initial attempts were painful and embarrassing, we got past that. We agreed she would be topless but retain her panties as a modesty gesture; water did little to hide the truth, but I said nothing.

I would prepare the water, escort her to the tub in just a towel and panties, then help lower her into place. When she was ready, I would return and lightly pat dry her back before wrapping her vanity towel around her near nakedness, then escort her back to bed. I would have aspirin and water ready for the pain and once they kicked in, I applied an aloe vera lotion.