Mom Craves Son's Attention

Note from author: Just trying something a little different here, while I was waiting for another story to get published. Hope you enjoy!

I guess it all really started during my Senior year of High School. I was one of those standout athletes. You know the ones that play multiple sports and excels in all of them. I was a slot receiver on the football team. being recruited by several top colleges for that position. I was also the starting Point Guard on the basketball team and had offers on the table from some of the best basketball schools in the country. As if that wasn't enough, I was also ranked as the #1 Shortstop in the state, looking at the possibility of forgoing college and going straight to the Pros. To say my life revolved around sports would be a gross understatement. Sports wasn't just life to me; it was everything. That all changed one cold November night, during my Sr. year of football.

It was a normal play that we had ran a thousand times. Truthfully, it was probably our "go to" third down play and rarely did it ever fail to produce a 1st down. It was a simple play, based on confusing the defense, and no matter how many times we ran it, they always seemed confused. Sometimes I actually wondered why we ran any other play at all.

It was, what our coach called, a triple option play. When we came to the line, our quarterback would survey the defense, then shout out a single word. The word was a code that let the rest of us know what he was seeing. Once that word was called, we would shift to new positions that corresponded with the word he called out. Honestly it was pretty complex from our stand point, because there were a dozen different words that he could call out, and each one had an entirely different, triple option meaning. But regardless of the word he called out, one thing was always clear; I was the primary target. The only real questions were how the defense reacted, and what was the best way to get the ball in my hands.

We were in the 2nd round of the state playoffs and, as things fell, we were already facing the team that was our only real threat at not repeating as State Champs.

Late in the 4th quarter, with the score tied, facing a 3rd and 6, from their 42, coach called "The Play." I knew this was a huge moment for me. The stands were not only packed with fans from both sides, but also with scouts from a plethora of top colleges. Most of them were already heavily recruiting me, but this was my chance to show them that I was the receiver they needed.

When the play was called, I lined up in an outside position. This allowed our quarterback to get an idea of how they planned to cover me. I noticed the same thing he did. Either they were in a zone defense, with underneath help on me, or I was being double covered. I just smiled, knowing exactly what word was about to be called out.

Just as I suspected, our quarterback shouted out, "Oklahoma!" Quickly we all shifted into our new positions; mine bringing me into the slot, just off the hip of our Tight End. When the defense shifted to match us, their strategy was confirmed. They knew I was the primary target, and I was indeed being double covered; not that it ever mattered. I wasn't being recruited by the top football schools for no reason.

The ball was snapped. I bolted from my position and made a quick break to the right, heading towards the sidelines. I was being covered by a corner who wasn't strong enough to tackle me, and a linebacker who wasn't quick enough to keep up with me. What they didn't realize was that the quick break to the sidelines was just a fake. Two steps after I broke to the sidelines, I planted my right foot, hard into the ground and cut back across the field. The linebacker stumbled, tripping over his own feet and the corner, who had lined up outside of me, was now out of position, leaving me wide open.

As soon as I broke, I looked back over my shoulder just in time to see our quarterback release the ball.

This guy was every bit the athlete I was, if not better, and, like always, the ball was laid out perfectly in front of me as I cut across the field. A first down was imminent, and with our kicker's leg, and the limited amount of time left on the clock, we were all but assured a victory and an easy road to our 2nd straight state title.

The ball landed perfectly in my hands. I took a step as I spun my head around, looking for that lane I needed to get a few extra yards.

That's when it hit me. Or I guess I should say, that's when they hit me.

The first hit was high, right in the chest, from a 220 lbs. Middle linebacker who shouldn't have been there. He should have been covering the running back, coming out of the backfield. But he missed his assignment and luck was on his side this night.

The second hit was low, right at my knees, and came from the cornerback who had been tailing me.

My body folded like a blanket as the two sandwiched me between them, doubling me backwards and twisting both of my legs into a completely unnatural position.

I don't remember the hits so much as I remember the sound, and the subsequent pain. The sound was loud, like huge rubber bands being snapped in half. The pain was the most intense I had ever felt in my 18 years of life.

Despite all of my efforts, I couldn't focus enough to hold onto the ball and it popped off my chest, as I hit the ground, right into the arms of a player from the other team. He managed to rumble his way for a few yards before being tackled, but that was completely irrelevant to me. All I knew, at that moment, was that my knees hurt in ways that I didn't know my body could hurt.

Once the play ended, with our opponents now having the ball, several of my teammates began shouting to our sidelines. A couple of them even threw-up as they looked at me laying there on the field, with legs bent at an angle legs were not meant to bend at.

The coaches rushed out onto the field, as did my Dad, who had been watching from the stands. My mom wasn't there, but then again, she never was. She was a nurse and weekend nights paid the highest salaries, so that's what she always worked.

It really wasn't that she didn't want to be there, she did. But my dad's drinking problems had always meant that mom had needed to work the higher paying shifts, to ensure we had enough money to pay the bills. Of course that was before they divorced. But after the divorce, Mom felt an even greater need to work those higher paying shifts.

I couldn't really tell what was going on. All I knew was that I was in immense pain and everyone around me seemed to be in a good deal of pain of their own, just from looking at me.

The ambulance was called out onto the field and I was rushed to the emergency room of our local hospital; the one my mom was working at.

When I arrived in the ER, my mom's worst fears were brought to reality. She had always hated me playing football, complaining that it was such a violent sport and so many things could go wrong. Dad and I had always argued against her, justifying football by telling her, anything could happen to anyone, anywhere.

As fate would have it, my mom was working the ER that night and she was one of the nurses, waiting at the ER door when the ambulance arrived with the injured football player. When mom saw it was me, her face became as white as a ghost and another nurse had to catch and pull her to the side, telling her she should sit this one out.

My mom responded my shoving her against the wall and telling her that if she wanted to keep her out, she probably needed a gun. Yeah, mom was just like that when it came to me. I was her baby; her only child. Shortly after I was born, mom was diagnosed with some "woman issue" and had to have a hysterectomy, leaving her unable to have anymore kids.

Now, my injuries weren't life threatening, but as far as I was concerned I might as well had broken my neck as I had destroyed my knees. And unfortunately, that is exactly what the doctors told me and my parents, a few hours later, after all the tests and scans had been completed. That single hit had torn most of the ligaments in both of my knees and shredded my meniscus.

Of course, my only concern was how long before I could return to playing sports; hoping I could at least be back in time for the baseball season. The doctors grim prognosis hit me like a ton of bricks.

"I'm sorry Stevie, I know how much sports means to you," he paused briefly, turning his gaze from me to my parents, briefly. "I'm afraid you will likely never be able to play sports again."

I couldn't breath! I couldn't think! All I could do was shout out at him, hatefully. "What the fuck do you mean I'll never play again."

I knew it wasn't his fault, but he was the one giving me this life altering news and I wasn't happy about what I was hearing. My mom however seemed much more concerned about the words coming out of my mouth.

"Steven Allen Weaver," my mom shouted at me, "you watch your language young man."

Mom was always a prim and proper woman. She never dressed the least bit inappropriately, didn't drink, didn't smoke, had never done drugs, and as far as I could tell, had never had a dirty word even cross her mind, let alone her lips. She expected the same of me, but I suppose a lot of my dad rubbed off on me.

I guess I need to back up just bit and talk about my parents and their marriage. Because a lot of what ended up happening between me and my mom, was a result of the horrible marriage my parents had.

First of all, they had married young. They were high school sweethearts; my dad being the standout athlete and my mom the captain of the cheerleaders. Mom got pregnant with me at 17, early in her Sr. year. She had managed to finish high school, and Dad, being a couple years older, went on to finish college, while mom focused on raising me. Several years later, when I was still in my pre-teens, Mom decided she was tired of working meaningless jobs and decided she wanted to go back to school for nursing.

I was too young to really understand what was going on at the time, but I knew Dad wasn't happy about that. Until then, Mom had been working two jobs, while Dad just worked his simple 9 to 5. Once she decided to go to college, Dad decided his free time was more important than his families comfort. By the time I entered high school Mom had finished college and got a job as a nurse at a local hospital, making nearly double what she had been making working the two jobs she had been working.

At first Dad seemed ok with that, because Mom's increased salary meant that Dad had more money to drink on, at least in his mind. But when Mom started putting her foot down about Dad's spending, things went south quickly.

By the time my Jr. year started my parents had separated and my mom had filed for divorce. I ended up living with my mom; for several reasons.

One, my mom was more stable and more important, she was sober. I think a lot of teenage boys, in my position, would have chosen to live with their drunk Dad, thinking it would be more fun. But by that point, my future in college, and possibly pro sports, was already very promising, and I knew that a life with mom would be a much more disciplined life, which was what I knew that I needed to keep the college scouts looking in my direction.

Another reason I had chosen to live with my mom, which I'm a little embarrassed to admit, is that my mom was is smoking hot. Even though she was my mother, there was no denying that she was an incredibly gorgeous woman. Mom could easily pass for being in her early to mid 20s, despite being 36 years old. And even though she dressed fairly conservatively, her body still looked amazing, in whatever she wore. All of my friends joked and teased at me about how hot my Mom was, and despite blowing them off to their faces, internally I agreed completely with them.

So, back to that night....

Mom never left my side. She sat there beside my bed the entire time I was in the hospital. When the doctor told me the news, as my Dad shook his head in obvious disappointment, Mom hugged me and held me tightly, knowing how much this news was destroying me.

Shortly after hearing the news, Dad announced he was heading home for the night, asking me to call him tomorrow if the doctors had any new news. Mom exploded on him!

I had never heard my mom cuss. Really, I had never even heard her utter a cross word to another person. But now, the angry, hate filled words that were coming from her mouth, shocked me to the core. She really let dad have it. Leaving no doubts at all as to how she felt about him and the way he viewed me as some sort of retirement plan.

By the time mom stopped shouting, and dad left the hospital, I had a whole new appreciation for my mother. For the first time I saw her as not just my Mom, but as the most important person in my life. Truthfully, hearing her finally confront my dad like that, set her at a whole new level in my mind. For a couple years now I knew exactly what dad thought about my future prospects. I knew that he planned for his life to be amazing, once I finally turned Pro. But this injury, and the possibilities of me never playing sports again, definitely seemed to change dad's attitude towards me, instantly.

Not that I was surprised, or truthfully even cared. I chose to live with my Mom, when my parents divorced, primarily because I knew Mom didn't see me as a meal ticket. She loved me regardless and actually would probably have been happier if I had never gotten so involved in sports.

The next morning I was scheduled for surgery. I had to have ligament reconstructive surgery on both knees, as well as my meniscus repaired. In my left knee, I had torn my ACL and MCL, and partially torn my PCL. In my right knee, all three of those ligaments had been torn. Mom was by my side until the last possible moment before I went into surgery; Dad couldn't be sober enough to show up.

When I came to, hours later, Mom's face was the first face I saw. She was right there beside my bed, exactly where she had been when they wheeled me back to surgery. Dad still wasn't around and it was that moment that I officially decided I was done with him.

A couple days later, the doctors released me and sent me home. I assumed that my mom being such a respected nurse, was part of the reason they let me go home, despite the pain I was still in. Mom took vacation for the next couple of weekends, just so she could be there to take of me. For the first couple of weeks, I couldn't even go to school. All I could do was lay there on the living room floor, with my legs strapped to these contraptions, in constant pain. But mom never left my side; not for a single moment.

When I was finally able to return to school, everyone treated me differently. I was no longer the stud athlete who's promising future was being laid out before him. Suddenly, I was now just any other guy, with who knows what kind of future. My girlfriend, the cheerleader captain, broke up with me my first day back. Apparently I was just her meal ticket too. My teammates still supported me and most of us remained close, but still, things were definitely different.

The only person who didn't seem to change, in how they treated me, was my Mom. And that is probably where it all really got going.

Mom wouldn't let me do anything on my own. For the first couple of weeks I didn't object, because I was still consistently in pain, and these contraptions hooked to my legs weren't helping at all. But eventually I wanted to start getting up and getting around. When I did, Mom hovered over me like a vulture. It wasn't really annoying to me, because I knew she was just being her normal protective self, but it did get old quickly.

One thing that wasn't annoying was that Mom insisted that I slept in bed with her, just in case I needed anything during the night. At first it wasn't that a big deal, because I just laid there immobile. But as I began to heal, my mobility got better, and things started getting awkward in bed with mom.

The first time things started getting awkward was a Saturday morning a few months after my surgery. I was starting to get some good mobility back, but I was still taking my pain meds, but only when I really needed them. I had gotten used to going back to classes and, despite the crutches, I couldn't resist trying to push myself further. By the time Friday night rolled around that week, I was in so much pain that I took an extra pain pill before I went to bed. By this time Mom was back to work and so I was alone on the weekend evenings. I suppose if Mom had been there that night, when I took the extra pain pill, there's a chance none of those would have ever happened. Mom was ridiculously strict about my pill regiment, during my recovery.

But Friday night, with my Mom at work, laying in her bed alone, in a great deal of pain, I took the extra pill and didn't wake up until around 9am Saturday morning.

By the time I woke up, Mom was already home and laying in bed next to me. At first, I was just groggy; the affects of the pills still lingering. But quickly my senses alerted me to a rather new sensation; the feeling of Mom's bare legs against mine.

Typically, after my surgery, when Mom would sleep in bed with me, she would be nearly fully dresses, sleeping in pajama pants and a top. Apparently, in my drug induced state, I had failed to realize that the AC had stopped working that evening while mom was at work.

Fortunately it was still early in the Spring, so the house wasn't completely unbearable when Mom got home from work; although it was uncomfortably warm, to say the least.

Typically, during the week, when I knew I'd be in bed with my Mom, I slept in shorts and a t-shirt. But with Mom working weekend nights, knowing I'd be in bed alone, on the weekends I just slept in my boxer briefs.

Normally I was already up and dressed by the time Mom got home from work, but thanks to the extra pain pills, this morning, when Mom got home and the AC was out, I was in bed, wearing only a skin tight pair of boxer briefs.

At first, once I woke up, it didn't seem that awkward. After all, I had been sleeping in bed with her every night since my surgery. But the second I realized mom wasn't wearing anything other than a scrub top and panties, things became incredibly awkward for me.

I tried, sort of, to block it from my mind. I even shifted my body so that I couldn't feel her legs against mine. But as soon as I moved away from her, she slid over, bringing her legs back into contact with mine.

I'm still not really sure what possessed me to do what I did next, but it was something I knew I just had to do.

With Mom still asleep beside me, I slid my hand onto her thigh. Fuck, the feeling of her bare skin beneath my fingers was nearly enough to make me cum instantly. I had fantasized about my Mom for a few years now, which didn't seem odd to me because all of my friends talked about her constantly. So I just thought that it was perfectly normal for any teenage guy, with a mom as hot as mine, to fantasize about their own mom.

When I say that my mom is hot, I'm not joking around. Even her name is sexy; Victoria Ashton Weaver. See, sexy right! I've always thought my mom could have been a model. First of all, she is really tall, like 5'10" tall, and has incredibly long, sexy legs. Mom has always worked out and ran, so not only are her legs long, but they are perfectly toned and tanned. Her breasts aren't huge but, at least in my opinion, at 36C, they are the perfect size. Her hair is shoulder length and this incredibly sexy, dirty blonde color. I'm not sure how much she weighs, but working out like she does, her figure has remained as stunning as it looked in her high school photos. Then there's her eyes; the sexiest light blue eyes I've ever seen. I swear her eyes look like some kind of precious gems.