Something Missing from My Dresser Ch. 02

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This is the second and final part to "Something Missing From My Dresser". I tried to write it as a stand alone story, but some stuff won't make sense unless you read the first one. This story is for amusement and nothing in it is meant to be taken seriously. If you can have fun with this sort of subject matter, sex between close family member, then enjoy. If not, it's likely better that you skip this one, as it does feature explicit sex of this kind.

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I had woken so many times throughout the night, so many times that I lost track of being asleep and being awake. A giant earthquake was shaking the foundations of our house. I ran down the stairs, only the house was no longer my own. The house was familiar; it was the house I grew up in. I could see the framed childhood pictures shake as they fell from the walls, the glass shattering on the ground. The house was dark and I was alone. I felt the need to get outside, the entire house was about to fall. Upon reaching the door my mind leaves my body, traveling far into the sky. Looking down at great swaths of destruction, craters, it looks like the whole world is sinking. Only one thought remains, "I need to save my babies."

I have no body for action, despite my thoughts, I am simply an observer. I see entire streets sink into the earth, with high cliffs taking their place. Everything is being torn down, and left to chaos to re-order. I am an outside observer, physically immune to the upheaval, but that condition doesn't seem to hold true for my loved ones. My view falls 1000s feet, emptying the weight in my stomach. I'm back in the house, this time it is my house; it seems empty. My view goes from room to room with only the hallway in between. I still feel no physical connection to the view. The door to my study flings open and I see myself, only I am not alone. I'm bent over the sofa. I'm getting fucked, very hard. I'm getting fucked very hard by my son. He has a firm hold of my hips. He has an extreme look on his face. It's either extreme lust or extreme anger. I watch until he looks up and seems to notice me in the doorway. All at once I'm sucked out of that world.

I'm back in my study, where I had fallen asleep on the sofa. I check the floor to make sure it's secure and stopped shaking. In a moment I realize it never was shaking and that I have awoken from a dream. There is something about reality that I stopped trusting on this night, so I sit up and take an inventory. I had woken so many times only to find myself transported back to a dark recess of my mind. My hair was cold and wet with night terror sweat. Between my legs is a different kind of wet. I catch my breath and think back to the night before and back to the reason I'm sleeping on the sofa inside my study.

Emotionally exhausted, I had fallen asleep without a blanket. My teeth now chattered in the fidget air of the night. Sitting upright on the sofa I made myself as small as possible in an attempt to seal in as much heat as possible. I had to remember everything. I knew it wasn't a dream, I knew that it had happened. I knew that my son knew as much as well. It hadn't even been 24 hours since I found my underwear, covered with semen, stuffed into his bed post. The chain of events, which it ignited, made me feel as if I made the discovery ages ago. These events tested my limits and redefined what they were. In my dark and cold room I had to sort out what those limits actually were.

Our relationship has always been intense, from the moment of his birth right through to young adulthood, but it had never been sexual. Why did my heart and sense melt when he told me he lusted for me? What was wrong with me for encouraging him to elaborate? I had to talk to him about the panties, but that doesn't justify my behaviour, or explain what led me to inviting him to get cozy on his bed with me. Perhaps his actions had uncovered a place deep in my subconscious mind; a place that didn't define love by the mores of society; a place where physical love and emotional love showed no distinction.

If you're picking this up here, my 19 year old son had been using my personal effects to masturbate with. Missing panties led me to investigate, an investigation that ended in my son's room. It seemed so long ago that I wanted to put a stop to it, but that was my first reaction. More so, I wanted to know if he was confused or if he was ashamed of himself. That, and the rising cost of delicate garments, meant I had to find out what was going on. His father was no help. He became uncontrollably defensive and agitated. I should have never told him. I was looking for insight and showed me a side to him I never wanted to see. His anger didn't hide his jealousy; it only served to amplify it. In some way, the entire display, made me see a rivalry where I had never imagined one. The dark side of my being, if being honest, liked the idea of both men under our roof getting hard about me. It provided food for the vanity of my ego and, as anyone with vanity issues knows, such a meal is nearly impossible to pass up.

I felt as though I was in control of the wheels that had been set in motion; upon reflection I was not so sure. I told myself that I could control the conversation with my son. I told myself that I'm his mother and that I had the final say. That was the previous balance of power as I had always understood it. I learnt that comfort in the complacency of the status quo blinds you to new realities.

Justin, my son, wasn't a kid anymore, he was a young adult; a young adult full of complexities and even lust. As well as I knew him, he may have, in certain ways, known me even better. After all, he has known me for his entire life. I had been the most critically important figure in his life, a presence, in his point of view, which represented control and authority. His wants and needs had always flowed through me. I managed the household. It never had to be stated that I had the final say about the kids. This fact was a given, the kids knew it. If he had wants he had to learn my weaknesses, he had to learn how to manipulate my emotions. Those were conditions of his young life. As a clever, and often insightful, boy he had learned some tricks of the trade.

I, in no way, believe that he planned the entire thing, or that he was in complete control either. He had played on my sympathy and guilt. Once he saw the weakness there he knew how to exploit it. I had no doubts about that, but at the same time he had expressed his love in a way that left no doubt about his sincerity. He had seen me naked; I had let him see me naked. I had seen him naked as well; naked and fully hard. There was an unspoken honesty that passed between us as a result. He had sucked on my breast to give me pleasure; it had felt erotic. He looked at me with an unmistakable look of love and comfort. We were once again united as one. The look was soon transformed into unbridled lust.

He put himself on full display without a hint of modesty. He wanted to show me. His penis was so hard that the head was straining and shiny. He masturbated to the sight of my naked body. His needy cries of, "mom", sounded hardly different from when he called for me in other times of need. They sounded so focused and tuned to my ears, in such a way that only I could hear them. When it was over, there was sperm everywhere. He had ejaculated twice; the second time by my hand. We kissed like tentative lovers showing care and sincerity. I sealed the night with my approval, not with words, but by dropping my wet panties into his waiting hands.

I had given him permission to continue to lust after me. I still had to figure out what this meant. The boundaries, had clearly, been redrawn, but, "I'm still his mom", I thought to myself. He was in the prime of his life, his thin lanky body was giving way to a more manly and muscular frame. He didn't need to be chasing his mom around, that couldn't possibly be good for him. I do believe that life is a lifelong experience of getting to know yourself, often surprising yourself along the way. I would never say that I completely know myself, or what I am capable of, but I knew enough to know that I was in a dangerous spot. Sexual mores have only ever applied to me by happenstance; I never had a good understanding of why certain ones exist and why others don't. In many ways, I didn't see why my son shouldn't have been attracted to me and vice versa.

I still, at the ripe age of 43, have my looks. My ballerina body, of years gone by, is never going to return, but I keep a healthy weight, and I work hard at keeping my appearance. If anything, the weight I have put on has been put on in the right spots. I notice men of all ages looking at my hips with wandering eyes and I like to show them off in high waist jeans. At 5'7" and 155 pounds, I am pretty much ideal for my age, and I suppose my hips can still make men think about babies. I still keep my hair long, something I'm not willing to give up until my hair stops cooperating. My hair curls at the tips naturally, although sometimes I do straighten it. The view I gave my son was a clean one, I don't shave down there completely, but I do make sure it's neat and free of unsightly hair from the main attraction. He got a really good view of where he came from.

I gripped for the blanket, hanging over the back of my sofa, and pulled it over my body. In search of extra warmth I tried to get all my extremities under my loose fitting sweater. In a fetal like position, after reaching no conclusions, I tried not to think any more about the fuzzy boundaries of the future. Instead, I gave into guilty pleasure and thought about the look in his eyes, the need he expressed and his extremely hard cock. "He was hard for me...hard for his mommy", I thought pleasantly as I once again left the real world for the dreamy abyss.

"Michelle...Michelle...Michelle wake up!" My husband was shaking my elbow and trying to rouse me from my slumber.

"It's almost noon." He continued to speak to the blanketed head of the recently disturbed.

"You slept here all night, you're going to be sore, that old sofa can't be comfortable."

Once you've been married for 20 years, you have had your fair share of fights. It gets to the point where time is the only necessity to their resolution. My husband called no attention as to why I was sleeping in my study. Clearly there was no reason to re-set yesterday's battle ground. This behaviour is meant to say, "well, we were both wrong, let's neither own up to it and go on like things always were." I have to admit that the seductive simplicity in the solution suits me just fine. This avoids the need to confront the uncomfortable details of the erratic behaviour that led to the fight in the first place. On the downside, it leaves the issue unresolved and creates more distance between the combatants.

"Where is Justin?" I said as if to test the waters on just how deep the hatchet had been buried.

"I dunno, I think he had work or something." He didn't seem to have any noticeable resentment in his voice.

"Work? What are you talking about?" He was talking to someone who knew her son's work schedule better than her son knew it.

"I said or something Michelle, don't start with me because you're cranky." He wasn't being aggressive or anything, but the message was as clear as day: Today would be a good day to leave each other alone.

I had other things on my mind in any case. I had to find out where he went, find out whether or not he was upset, ashamed or worse.

"Why didn't he say good morning to me?" I thought as my worries started picking up steam.

I got my phone and went to the washroom in the basement and turned on the fan to muffle any noise. I held my breath and pressed his number. I sat on the small sink and listened to ring after ring holding the small phone in my sweaty hands. He didn't answer. I sent a text, "Honey, where are you today?"...no wait, I wanted the text back! Was it too desperate? Too short? Too long? Too familiar?...what would he think? It was driving me crazy; didn't he want me? I sat in the washroom for 30 minutes staring at my phone waiting for a response. The sound of the fan was all I heard, the phone never shook.

I released my head back bumping the back of my head slightly on the mirror. The knock may have restored some sense. I was acting like a teenager with a crush. I didn't have to ask him where he was, I could just demand that he tell me. Since when did I care what he thought about my texts?

Bringing back my convictions, which motherhood had bestowed on me, I sent him an altogether more demanding and direct text. "Justin, when I call you, you answer your phone or you will lose the phone. Where are you and when should we expect you home? I need to plan dinner."

I was cold, threatening and reminded him of my domestic role; it also got results.

"Sorry mom was driving at friend place be home round 7." The text was received within the minute.

"Pull over next time." I retorted to put an exclamation mark on my demand. "And use full sentences when you write to me, you know I hate broken English. You were taught better than that." I followed to correct him.

"You are home right at 7." I gave as the final word of the exchange.

"Who did he think he was trying to manipulate me anyways? Driving for half an hour, yeah right." I said under my breath while laughing at the absurdity.

All in all, I couldn't help but be a little bit impressed with his game. I never knew he had that in him. I expected him to be all needy and obvious. Instead he turned the tables on me. He had my nerves shaking to call him, he had me doing double takes at my messages, and he had me second guessing if he wanted me. He must have known exactly what he was doing when he left that morning. He was playing with my emotions to keep me on edge and from the way I was still sitting in the small washroom with the fan on tightly gripping my phone it was working.

That was one explanation for his behaviour. The other, and perhaps the more obvious, was that he was ashamed of himself for what happened and couldn't face me. Whether it was calculated or not, the effect it was having on me was the same. I sat there trying to think of a way to divorce my emotions from the situation. He responded quickly to my, "stern mom", message. I thought that he must be looking for a way to restore the balance of power in our relationship. I knew he was getting older and that I needed to make a conscious effort not to be so domineering, but at the same time I couldn't be treating him like a schoolyard crush. However, to myself, I could not deny that he had my heart racing. I turned off the fan and went to try to engage in my normal Sunday routine by going to the gym.

When he, eventually made it home, I had reverted back to being mom and he called no attention to the night before. He was home at 7:00pm sharp, a sign that he was ready to obey commands. We all had dinner together. Our younger daughter, Lisa, talked our ears off while I tried to make small talk with everyone; at least this was typical of our family gatherings. Only this time, I was watching the men closely. Their fight was clearly unresolved, it was obvious that both had built a wall around the issue and neither was willing to fire the first verbal arrow. Instead the lines were being drawn through less direct tactics.

Over Lisa's chatter I paid special attention to body language. I find the unspoken language of gestures, posturing and eye movement tells more than any oratory display. Words can be carefully chosen and intentionally deceitful, with body language, most just react, leaving themselves with little time to set a stage. Justin was quiet, but he refused to slump his shoulders to his father's gaze. He spoke only to me, just to praise my cooking or thank me for this or that. His tones were relaxed and direct. The situation was tense and we all felt it. He was asserting his rights to me, not necessarily sexual rights, but the rights of being my number 1 man. He was also, very loudly, stating that he wasn't going to be intimidated. I tried my best not to take sides or justify the conflict, but that dark seductive feeling was telling me to feel good about being the disputed territory the battle line had been drawn on. My body language must have been showing my highly inflated ego if there was an eye there keen enough to notice.

"Mommy, why you look so pretty today?" It was only one in a torrid succession of questions, but she caught me.

My ego and that place in the dark corner of my mind were working in concert, attempting to frame the prize in her best possible light. My eyes had become dilated and seductive, my skin more glowing and my gazes shifty.

"Honey, I don't look any different from any other day." My eyes involuntarily widened as if I was trying to tell her to keep a secret.

"K,K", Lisa dropped the subject as quickly as she dropped it for any of her other resolved innocent questions, but the fact remained that I'd been caught.

I spent the rest of the night sequestered back in my study. In our house, my husband has his office on the main floor and, as a consolation, I have my study or reading room upstairs. The room could have been a fourth bedroom if we had another kid. I liked it better as my study. It gives me a place to go in a hectic household. I spend a lot of time there, usually with the door open to make myself available. My computer is on a wooden desk facing the window. I use it to research, read scientific articles, mess around, and for my own brand of pornography: erotica and erotic chatting. I know my husband uses his office computer for hardcore porn so in that we are sort of even. The windows are covered by, rather cheap, Venetian blinds that I think about changing every time I look at them. The sofa, which I had slept on, runs along the wall to the left side if facing the window. The other wall is home to my bookshelves, which are full of books that I read on the sofa or take to bed. Having a room that is just mine has, probably, saved my sanity over the years.

I closed the door, in a clear statement, indicating that I didn't want to be bothered. I thought about the changing family dynamic and what it meant moving forward. Perhaps it meant it was time for Justin to move out? I knew he wasn't really ready to do so, but in the past people moved out at his age all the time. I had moved away for school at 18 and was living pretty much on my own. I thought about all sorts of different solutions to mitigate what had boiled over in the past two days.

Nothing seemed right except I knew I had to force myself to act like mom again. I also knew that I didn't want him to move out; the thought made me sad.

Sleeping on my sofa two nights in a row would have been unprecedented in our marital fight history and I was not about to break new ground on that regard. At almost 11:00pm, I made my way to bed and tried to get to sleep before my husband decided to turn in. I wanted to avoid the inevitable; I wanted to avoid what I knew was coming.

"Michelle, are you awake?" My husband whispered while nudging my hip crease.

"Mhhmpph" I was too obviously not sleeping to even fake it.

"Let's have sex." He continued in a quick tone to indicate right now.

"I have work tomorrow." I grunted in a particularly whiny single breath.

"So do I, I can be quick." He continued to plead his case.

"No, I'm tired."

"You can just lay there, just tonight, I need it tonight." Romance was clearly not on his mind.

He started to peel back the covers, but I grabbed them firmly with my top hand, "I said NO!"

He gave up and exhaled in loud annoyance while sitting up against the headboard. I kept the covers over my face making it clear that I wasn't going to discuss this any further. I am all for make-up sex, but not while I'm still angry. I still hadn't forgotten our fight from the day before. Sure, the nuclear battle was over, but the cold war was just getting started. He had embarrassed and attempted to sexually intimidate our son. I could forgive this over time, but until that happened this bed was going to be a cold place. I also didn't want him grunting and groaning over me in an attempt to claim me for the entire house to hear. Nobody, I don't care who, makes my son cry and then gets to rub it in his face.