Mom's Taboo Wish

Brendan stepped up to her right shoulder, a Louisville Slugger held in his hand. The barrel swung back and forth slowly near his feet. His face was rigid with fury.

"Back off, kid." But Rusty's voice was, for the first time, uneasy. "This is just between your mom and me."

"You're Mom's problem. Which makes you my problem. You got a problem with that, Rusty?" Brendan shoved at the bigger man's shoulder with the blunt end of the bat, forcing him back. "Huh? What's the matter, big man? Not so brave now, are you?" He crowded him back out the door and down the front steps, and Miranda took a moment to admire the taut curves of her son's rear as he pursued him. "Afraid to stand up to someone your own size?" Brendan reversed the bat, and Miranda's heart leaped into her throat. But instead of caving in Rusty's skull, a sharp, vicious jab to the midsection with the handle bent him over, clutching at his stomach. "How do you like it? Here's some advice, fuckstick. Don't start none. If you don't want none.

"Now." Brendan gave him a two-handed push down the sidewalk, not allowing him a chance to recover. Rusty stumbled, tripping over his own feet, almost falling to the ground. "You got two choices. Get into that shitbox of yours and drive away. And don't even think about coming around here again.

"Or we can throw down right now, you gigantic prick. And when we're done, if I'm feeling real generous, I might call an ambulance to haul your sorry ass away. But I probably won't.

"What's it going to be, you enormous fucking shitstain?"

"Punk." Rusty was still doubled over. Brendan must have caught him in the solar plexus, because he was choking for breath, his face red and mottled. "Fucking punk. If I was your age, I'd teach you a fucking lesson."

"I doubt it. But you could try. You want to go, big man? I'm right here." Brendan dropped the bat to the sidewalk, where it hit with a clatter, and kicked it away. "You and me. Man to man. Or man to used-car-salesman. Which would make it, what? Man to primate? I heard you guys only had one helix."

Rusty wilted. "I'm not going to waste my time on you," he sneered with false bravado. "Neither of you." An unconvincing swagger in his step, he walked back to the curb.

"Rusty?" Miranda called, putting a coquettish lure in her voice.

He scowled over his shoulder at her.

"I faked it. Every time."

Chapter 3: Whispers in the Mind

As Rusty climbed into his rented car and drove away with a squeal of his tires and a rising cloud of blue exhaust, Brendan could hardly keep his legs from shaking.

He had never liked the older man, who had been just the latest in a long line of his mother's boyfriends. None of them, luckily, had ever been able to get her within shouting distance of the altar. For as long as he could remember, they had been an almost constant parade in his life. No sooner was one gone than another showed up. On a few occasions, Miranda had gone as far as moving in with one of them, and Brendan had felt like a stranger, an interloper in someone else's house or apartment.

Luckily, those relationships never lasted very long, and sooner or later the two of them were back on their own again, which was the way he preferred it. None of the men his mother dated had been good enough for her, if anyone wanted his opinion. They had all treated her as if she was disposable. Not one, as far as he could see, really saw her for the truly extraordinary person that she was.

He picked up his baseball bat, trembling with a combination of anger and adrenaline. As soon as he had heard Rusty's raised voice, carrying into his bedroom, he had known what was going on. The older man was just the sort of spineless bully who enjoyed pushing around people who were weaker than he was, but backed down as soon as someone stood up to him. Part of him wanted to jump into his car, chase him down, and bludgeon him senseless. Or at least trash his car. A few solid swings with the bat would put out the headlights, and maybe he could make some interesting dents in the sides as well.

No. He took a deep breath. Don't be stupid. If he calls the cops, you know whose side they will take. And it won't be yours.

"Thanks, Brendan." His mother's voice was small, but her eyes were shining in gratitude. One corner of her mouth curled up in a smile, and he was struck by a sudden crazy urge to kiss it. "I don't think he would have taken a swing at me. But he was really mad, so who knows? I'm glad you were there. And so fierce!" Her smile widened. "You sounded like a badass hero in an action movie! Like Vin Diesel! Or The Rock!"

"Oh, come on, Mom." He looked at the ground, embarrassed. "You shouldn't make fun. I was worried about you. He had no call to talk to you like that."

"I wasn't making fun." She took a step closer, putting her hand on his arm. "I meant it. Thank you."

He smiled. "Well, you're welcome, then." He suddenly realized he was almost staring down the open neck of her sundress. And a pair of indentations in the cloth made it clear that his mother wasn't wearing a bra. He looked away, his face heating. A girlish giggle drew his eyes back.

"Sorry, honey." Miranda grinned up at him. "I didn't mean to give you such a good view of the girls. But you know how women are. Some of us get really...excited...when they see our men acting all manly."

"Oh," he replied. "Am I your man now?"

She snorted, and the awkward moment passed. "As close as I'm going to get to one for a while, I think." She raised her hand to her temple in an old, familiar gesture. Then, perhaps remembering the hard work Gene had put into making her hair look good, she pulled it back down again without raking her fingers through the blond tresses. "I've made up my mind, Brendan. No more losers."

"Well, good," he said, steering her inside. "I don't mean to try to run your life, Mom. But it always seemed to me that you would go out with any guy who told you a funny joke or bought you a drink or had a fast car. Maybe you should try raising your standards. For instance," he added, only half joking. "You could do a DNA test, and try to weed out the Neanderthals like Rusty. And maybe make sure that every man you date has at least a triple-digit IQ. I mean, just for variety's sake, if nothing else."

"Watch out, Brendan," she said. "Your sarcasm is showing."

"Sorry, Mom." He leaned against a wall, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his shorts. "But I get so damned tired watching you go out with guys who treat you like crap. Remember Dale? He would show up two or three nights a week and expect you to make him dinner, with no warning at all, like you were his mother instead of his girlfriend. And how many times did he hit you up for money, when he blew all of his on lottery tickets and video poker at the bar?"

"All right, all right!" She threw her hand up, scowling at him. "The horse is dead, Brendan. You can stop beating it now."

"Good." He folded her into a hug. "I only want what's best for you, you know," he whispered into her hair. Her scent filled his nostrils. Clean, like a warm breeze and sunlight.

"I know," she murmured into his chest. "But it's hard, Brendan. I know a young, handsome man like you might not realize it, but everybody needs to be loved, to have a little happiness. I've never had that. I've never had someone I could count on to be there for me. So I keep on looking."

"Maybe you've been looking in the wrong places," he said quietly. Remembering her words of earlier in the day, he added, "and you can't convince me that you're some dried-up old prune of a woman, Mom. You're still beautiful. Just...try to have some better standards, okay? The next man who comes along, make sure he is someone who deserves to be with a woman like you."

"Mmm." Her arms tightened fractionally around his chest. "Maybe I'll just keep you around. You've been doing a pretty good job of taking care of me the last few days. Cooking my meals, driving me around, running off testosterone-drunk assholes. A woman could get used to that sort of thing."

Unbidden, his hand came up to brush a lock of hair away from her face. Her lips were warm and pink as she smiled up at him, her expression somehow sensual and tender at the same time.

Deep inside him, something began to blink awake. He became aware of a slight swelling in his groin. Not that his cock was getting hard, of course. That would just be freaking perverted. But as if his cock was preparing to get hard, his entire groin feeling hot and heavy and subtly alert.

He stepped away, forcing a light smile to his face. "Yeah, about all I haven't done today is kill something for supper. But I suppose if I really had to, I could get Grandpa's old squirrel rifle out of the garage."

"Please don't." A merry light twinkled in her eyes. "If you do, I might melt from all of the sheer manliness in the air."

"Right."

*****

After dinner, Miranda took a shower, and then was forced to deal with the problem of getting dressed, unless she wanted to spend the next several days naked while her arm recovered. She was beginning to regain some use of it, but it still felt awkward and weak, almost as if she had slept on it wrong, and it was all numb and floppy.

I bet that's what Rusty's brain feels like all the time, she thought, and snickered.

She eyed her reflection in the mirror. She had managed to slip into a bathrobe, and the belt was awkwardly tied around her waist. But the night was warm and the robe was heavy and she was already beginning to sweat, and she would be damned if she was going to turn the air-conditioning on because she had a sprained shoulder.

To hell with this. She raised her voice. "Brendan? Can you come in here?"

A few seconds later, her son pushed the door open a few inches. A narrow strip of his face showed in the gap. "Yeah, Mom?"

"I need your help."

"Sure." The door swung wider, and he took a step into the room. "What with?"

She gestured at a pair of panties, a bra, and a thigh-length University of Kentucky t-shirt, lying neatly on the bed. "Getting dressed. I can manage the underwear. And even the shirt. But the bra is just impossible. Can you help me out?"

She hid a smile as her son swallowed nervously. "Help you get dressed?" The words emerged in an alarming squeak, and Brendan cleared his throat self-consciously.

"Yeah. I'm not going around bra-less for the next week or whatever. Especially when I have to go to work on Monday. Granted, the girls would enjoy the freedom, but I think Gail would have a thing or two to say. And if you're going to blush all the time, Brendan," she added, "the ladies at work are going to have so much fun with you. You think guys can be raw? You haven't ever worked with a bunch of women in their forties. All they talk about is PMS and who is going through menopause and who got laid the night before." She slipped her robe off. "Come on. The sooner you start the sooner it's over with."

"Mom!" Her son's eyes were wild.

"What?"

"You're naked!"

She cocked her head. "Yeah. That's how it works. Or were you thinking that I was going to wear my undies on the outside of my robe?" She shook her head. "I only tried the superhero look once, Brendan. And I was really wasted when I did."

Her son closed his eyes. "I do not want to know about this."

"Oh, stop being silly." She tossed her bra at him. "I know you've seen a naked woman before."

He caught the bra and held it gingerly by one strap, as if it might bite. "I've never seen my naked mother before."

She puffed out an impatient breath. "Well, if you stop babbling and start helping, I'll have some clothes on and you can go back to doing whatever."

"Fine." His face was still brick-red, but he held out the bra. She stuck her arms through the straps, and waited while he fumbled with the hooks in back.

"I'm sure you know how these things work, Brendan," she smiled. "Come on. Concentrate."

"Easy for you to say. Taking them off, yeah. I've done that a time or two. I've just never put one on before."

"Well, I'm actually kind of happy to hear that. Your grandmother would roll over in her grave if you were a cross-dresser."

She felt his warm breath on her neck as he snorted and the hooks finally closed. "Right. Being a bastard was bad enough. If I had been gay or something, that would have been the final straw. My moral degeneracy would have been God's judgement on both of us."

She laughed as she tested the fit and adjusted the cups so her breasts sat in them more comfortably. "Moral degeneracy? Big words they're teaching you up there at UK, Brendan."

"Whatever." He picked her panties off the bed. "Kind of boring, Mom." He raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Don't you have anything fancier?"

She raised her chin. "I didn't want to shock my impressionable young child by wearing the crotchless ones." She tapped a toe, trying to ignore the rising heat within her as they bantered. "Come on. My butt is getting cold."

Awkwardly, he knelt at her feet, holding her panties, and she stepped into the leg holes. Looking down at his back as he raised her underwear up her legs, she thought back to how he had chased Rusty out of the house and into the street earlier in the day.

God, how that had turned her on! Miranda had thought she was old enough not to be impressed by all that macho crap. She wasn't in high school anymore, not by about twenty years. But watching Brendan turn Rusty into a whining little bitch, slinking away to save his worthless hide, had been incredibly arousing. Her nipples had gotten all knotty and stiff inside her dress, and when he hugged her afterward, she had been hard put not to grope his strong young body, feeling firm muscles without a hint of flab. Her son, at least, had been able to avoid the results of too much bad food and cheap beer at college.

And when he held her, she sighed. He had felt so safe. So restful and comforting. But strong, too. Her son wasn't a weakling. Their lives had been too hard for that. But he didn't have sharp edges, either. No woman would ever be afraid that he would turn on her in a fit of childish temper.

"Mom? Come on, Earth to Mom!"

She blinked. "Oh. Sorry. I guess I kind of zoned out for a second."

"Yeah." He waved the t-shirt at her in irritation. "What's this?"

"It's a t-shirt."

"Yeah. I know that. Where did you get it?"

"Um..." She colored guiltily. "From the laundry?"

"Mom! This is my shirt! Remember? You bought it for me the day I got the acceptance letter to UK, to celebrate. Do you have any idea how long I've been looking for it? I was sure someone up at school stole it out of one of the dryers in the laundry room!"

"Thanksgiving," she whispered guiltily. "It was at Thanksgiving." It should have been ridiculous, standing in her underwear, arguing over a t-shirt, but she felt the need to explain. "You were gone and I was alone. Just me, coming home to an empty house for the first time in my life." She swallowed. "I missed you, Brendan. So much. You were the reason I kept on, why I went to work on days when I just wanted to stay in bed and cry, why I would take one more shift at whatever crummy job I was working at so I could get just a little bit further ahead.

"One day, you'll understand. When you find the right woman, when you have a baby of your own. You'll look down at her and suddenly realize that there's not one single thing in the world you would not do to keep her safe.

"So when I got to missing you too bad, I would wear this. And it would help. At least, a little."

"Oh." Brendan looked down at his feet. "I didn't know." He lifted the shirt apologetically. "Sorry. I shouldn't have gotten all upset. Here."

She lowered her head, and Brendan slipped the shirt over her, helping her maneuver her injured arm into a comfortable position, then bent down to adjust the hem, which had rucked up around her thighs.

The sight of his head, so close to her groin, made her feel distinctly nervous. What if he sensed her growing arousal?

"Mom?" he said, blinking solemnly up at her. His hands settled on her hips. The heat seemed to seep into her skin, turning her insides liquid.

"What?" Her voice was a cracked whisper. Her mind churned, caught between desire and denial.

And then her son lifted up the hem of her borrowed shirt, planted his lips firmly on her belly, and blew the biggest, loudest raspberry on her stomach that she had ever heard in her life.

She shrieked, half a scream and half a laugh, and staggered back, swatting ineffectually at Brendan's shoulders as she vainly sought to escape. He followed her across the room on his knees, his lips blasting against her skin, until the backs of her knees hit her bedframe and she sprawled on her back on the mattress. Brendan followed her, giving her one last raspberry as a parting gift. He looked up at her, his eyes laughing, and kissed her belly button.

"You..." She stammered, at a loss for words. "What are you? Six?"

"Please," he said as he got to his feet. "I am a fully functional adult male. Which means I have an intellectual age of at least nine years old. I mean, for one thing, I don't always laugh at fart jokes."

But his walk, as he exited the room, had more than a little of a macho swagger. "Sleep well, Mom."

*****

The next day was Sunday, and Brendan took advantage of what promised to be his last chance to sleep late for a while. He would start work the next day, and his mother had told him the previous evening that bad arm or no, she intended to be there as well.

"Getting in a wreck with that loser Rusty was not the way I planned on getting a long weekend," she had sighed, as they had sat watching a movie late on Saturday night. "I hate having to take a sick day because of that idiot. But Monday is when we get a lot of the supplies in, and I have to be there to help coordinate things."

He slept until nearly ten and had a late breakfast, then turned on the television, looking for a ballgame, or at least a decent movie to watch. His mother, he saw, was out in the back yard, her eyes focused like lasers on the ground in front of her. Every few steps, she bent to the ground, a long-handled screwdriver in her hand. A stab at the ground with the blade, a quick tug, and yet another innocent dandelion met an untimely demise. It made him laugh. Miranda Dallben wouldn't hear of calling in the perfectly competent landscaping crew who worked for the nursery to give her lawn a weed-prevention treatment. That would cost money. She, by God, was going to do the work herself.

He watched her as she bent to the ground again, then crawled in search of new prey. Her tight gray shorts clung to the taut curves of her rear, and her legs, tanned a light gold, caught the light of the late-May sun.

Damn, she's hot. Over the weekend, he had slowly become aware of his growing desire for his mother. Part of him knew he shouldn't be feeling the urges that were swelling inside him. But the warning voice had grown fainter and fainter, like a dream that, upon waking, faded beyond recall. Unconsciously, his hand slipped inside the pair of old sweats he was wearing, watching his gorgeous mother as she weeded. That moment last night, when he had knelt like a supplicant at her feet, was seared in his memory. He had been so close, so close to making a move on her. Only some tiny fragment of self-preservation had kept him from planting a kiss on Miranda's crotch, instead turning it into a raspberry on her stomach; an echo of what she had used to do to him when he was little.