Something Missing from My Dresser Ch. 02

In most any 20 year marriage there are going to be some dry spells. The lack of release usually leads to bickering, bickering to the point where it's easy to lose sight of why the dry spell started. We have had them before and we always snapped out of them, usually after a few weeks, but some had gone on for months. This one was one of the latter variety. For my part, I never lost sight of why our bed had become a winter desert. It was really starting to worry me that I didn't know when I would be comfortable making those noises at night again.

With Justin, our relationship had quickly reverted back to something more resembling a mother-son relationship, at least much closer to our previous status quo. The only difference being that he had become a bit more talkative with me, but he still avoided personal issues and girls were completely off limit. I made a conscious effort not to show any overt, or otherwise, sexual invitations for him to act on. This seemed to allow for some reconciliation with his father as our family came back to some semblance of normalcy. I even kept a count of my panties and came back even each laundry day.

"Maybe it was good for him and he got it out of his system?" I found myself reflecting while brushing the knots out of my hair in front of my mirror.

Any of my fear about being grouped, or worse, in my own home had faded long ago. However, the dreams remained. It had become a reoccurring dream, or nightmare. I was always back in my childhood home, sometimes it would shake and sometimes not, either way, I was transported high into the air to take the position of a detached observer. The scenery around the disaster would often change, but the same desperate need to save my babies would remain. Door to door I would search the house, each time I would find myself bent over my sofa, getting fucked by my son. Each time I would wake in a cold sweat. Perhaps, nothing ever changed in the dream, but only that I would remember different aspects each time. I found myself getting lost in the implications of this dream. During this introverted inspection, my brush was scraping the top of my head mechanically, as I contemplated with no particular focus.

"Green tea Epsom salts!" Almost was quickly as the thought popped in my head I was running the bath water.

Mid-week in the evening is the best time to bathe. The day is done, and there is nothing nagging my mind for attention. In the bath I can truly switch off and just be. No thoughts, just wonderful soothing sensations and smells. While the bath was filling I went to get my robe from my closet. With only mixing the salts on my mind, I shed my clothes and left them in a spot on the floor beside my side of bed. It's hard to use too much salt, but there does come a point where nothing extra is gained from adding more. I finished pouring and filled hands with two full handfuls to rub over my body, so I could feel the rough grains, as I sank into the lovely warm water.

I must have spent over an hour, that Wednesday night, soaking up the relaxation. I had added hot water, at least three times, to keep the temperature. It was exactly what I needed. I was transported to a place in time where thinking was just feeling and stress a concept so foreign as to not even exist. Upon exiting the bath the mirrors were all foggy from the steam; steam that still felt pleasant in my lungs. I covered myself in my robe, wrapped my hair in a towel, and went straight for my blow-dryer before even attempting to dry off. Blowing hot air through my bath robe is, another pleasure, enjoyed best in the evening when there is no rush to dry off because there is nowhere to go. The warm air, and buzzing noise associated, both indulge me in complete relaxation. After such delights, stepping into the cold hallway I feel completely clean and sexy.

In my room, I shed my robe and towel so that I was completely naked and feeling free. I returned to my mirror for some last touch grooming. I plucked some eye brows and cleaned up some of the hair around my vagina. I had been a while since having sex, but these things tend to turn on a dime.

"Tonight could be the night." I remember thinking to myself.

It was only 9:30, too late to really get dressed, but I felt too clean to put on the same panties that I had been wearing all day. I took a sexy white lacy pair, from the back of my drawer, in an effort to maintain the sexy free feeling I had built over the past few hours. I found my old baby blue nightie, one that in its day had been a pretty sexy baby doll sort of style nightie. This baby doll was a little worn from age, being my favourite ever, but it gave me a sense of comfort. It also had an uncanny way of showcases my legs in an oh-so perfect way. I gave myself a few sexy poses in front of my body length mirror in guiltless self-admiration. After which I did a half turn and stood on my toes to make sure my backside still had lift; I passed the test. With one eye on the mirror I went to retrieve my clothes I had worn that day to throw them in the hamper.

In an instant my joints stiffened and it felt as if my hair shot out into fiery points. The split second of confusion turned to complete awareness in an instant. The cold and oddly slimly substance made my hand release its grip.

"Splat..." Excess semen was ejected in a translucent white splatter on my hardwood floor. I shook some more off my thumb and forefinger completing the mess.

My light pink panties had been soiled with sperm and left for me to find. It pooled in a white glob at the point of the highest concentration on the floor. The sheer amount left only one real suspect. I had only seen this much cum in one place one other time in my life, and that was pool on my son's stomach before I wiped it off those few months back. This was no shy or stealthy heist, he knew I had to find them; I had to pick up my underwear at some point. It occurred to me that he may have done it in my room, right by my side of the bed, possibly even on my side of bed. I felt my mattress looking for evidence. If he had been so bold, he carefully made the bed with more skill than he ever used when compelled to make his own.

"He must have retreated to his room before returning them to their place," I thought while staring at his mess, "everyone is home." I finished my thought.

Being less shy, for obvious reasons, to the feeling of his sperm than maybe I should be, I picked up my light pink small panties and washed them in the bedroom washroom's sink. Recently spilled semen on a hardwood floor seems to take more effort the longer it's left. It soaks into the cracks and tends to make streaks that are next to impossible to erase. I hung my panties on the rack and got on my hands and knees, in my nightie, to deal with the splatter.

"I'm forever cleaning up after him!" Flashed in my mind while I noticed that water wasn't going to be enough.

I exhaled, on my hands and knees, and took a depth breath when I was interrupted by, "Michelle, what are you doing?" My puzzled husband inquired.

"What are you doing here?!" I said while frantically turning and falling on the crime scene so I was sitting on the floor.

"I live here," he said laughing, "I thought I might sleep here tonight if that is ok with you madam." He added sarcastically.

"You're acting weird, why are you sitting on the floor?"

This was reasonable statement followed by a reasonable question; I decided to only deal with the latter, "I spilled something." I said unconvincingly.

"And now you're sitting on the floor?" He said while taking off his socks to recline on the bed.

"I'm cleaning the streaks." That was the best I had.

"What did you spill?"

I went back to scrubbing without answering. I needed to get a cleaner to do this right, but he still wouldn't know exactly what it was without me telling him. At that point I figured less information was less of a hole to dig myself out of as he may have been able to tell what it wasn't. In any event, I felt the need to guard the immediate area from inspection.

"Michelle, if there were a broken wine glass and red towel that would be par for the course," his sarcasm had taken on a more curious tone, "why are you acting so funny?"

"I just need to clean this, ok?"

Sensing the futility in following the line of questioning he almost let me off the hook with a, "whatever Michelle."

I felt like I was actually covering up for myself. The last thing I wanted was a blow-up like the first time; maybe my part in this would be exposed. The last thing I wanted was another open confrontation between the two of them. My heart sank as I thought, "What if Justin tells him? What if he tells him what I did in his room?" Acting weird was a much better alternative to that. Despite not using a cleaner the floor was starting to look ok just from alternating the wet and dry part of the towel. It's not like he was going to take a magnifying glass to it while I slept.

"What's with the panties?" My husband asked in a curious but casual tone.

"Huh, with the panties?" I repeated his question in an attempt to buy myself some time.

"Michelle...the panties dripping from the towel rack."

"Oh, those panties?... The pink ones?" I stalled.

"Yes dear, those panties." The sarcasm had returned to his voice.

"Oh, I forgot I was wearing them when I got in the bath." Under the circumstances I thought I came up with a winner.

"And they are still dripping wet?" He avoided the contraction in the spirit of emphasis.

Ok, so the ridiculousness of my lie had been exposed, I had to change tactics. Clearly my rational explanations were failing the rationality test. I had two options left, one was to tell the truth and that really wasn't an option or I could go on the offensive. Hysterical theatrics were my only ticket out of this.

"I dropped them in after getting out OK!! I mean who the fuck cares! I'm sick of answering all these stupid questions. I was perfectly relaxed until you came in here questioning nonsense! What the fuck do you think is going on? I've been in the bath all night and I spilled something and you give me the god damn third degree! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

It was outlandish and ridiculous, he had done no such thing, but I was down to my final shot. Luckily, for me, I had made it count.

"Honey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it, really. Honey, really I don't care. I'll just drop it." He said in an attempt to defuse the exploding bomb.

In the end my greater fire power carried the day, but I was in no way proud of my victory. My tactic was as dirty as it was effective; in both cases, completely. Feeling guilty, and a bit embarrassed, with my tirade I grabbed my phone and was making my way to the living room when I saw my son's closed door. In a moment it clicked that he had listened to the whole thing, from my feeble cover up lies to what I was willing to say to keep his secret. If it were a test of loyalty he had his answer.

Passing the living room, with my phone in hand, I descended the last flight of stairs to the basement and right back to the little, seldom used, washroom. It's the one room in the house that escapes any renovation or upgrade; it's sort of a reminder of what the house once was. The all beige interior gives it an impression of being smaller than its, already small, size. One of the light bulbs seems to always be out, almost like it had a sense to blow the working one out as soon as you got around to replacing the burnt. I sat up on the small counter with my bum partially sliding into the sink and put my feet on the toilet to the left. I began to think.

I didn't want to confront him again; at least not in person. This was way too aggressive for me to meet head on. He's my son, but after this I wasn't sure exactly what he was capable of. He had long since outgrown me in terms of size. All physical advantages were in his favour; all I really had to fight with was my force of will. I decided the best plan of attack was to feel him out with text messages.

"Honey, what happened?" I pressed send and waited.

"You know what I'm talking about." I followed up to let him know I wasn't going away.

After a few minutes came the short reply, "Sorry mom", acknowledging his guilt

"Sweetheart, you can't be doing that stuff, ok?"

"I know mom, sorry."

After another long pause I asked, "Are you ok?"

"I don't know mom."

"It's ok to have feeling and thoughts but that's my room, ok?"

"I just don't know how to tell you."

"Sweetie you can tell me anything, what is it?"

After what seemed like a long pause, "Mom, I want to fuck you." He dropped the biggest bomb to date; a direct attack.

"Sweetie", was all I could think of to reply.

"You don't get it mom, I want to fuck you so badly, it's all I think about. Every day, every night all the time. Mom I want to fuck you so bad."

I didn't know what to say, I just stared at the words on my phone allowing them to burn into my mind. I read them over and over while my heart raced uncontrollably. I had to write something.

"Sorry mom." He added while I was still gathering my thoughts for something to say.

"Honey, we can't do that, I'm your mom." I appealed to society to make the case.

"It's all I want mom. I'm doing it again."

It should have been obvious, but it didn't dawn on me before I asked, "doing what again?"

"I'm jacking off about you."

"Right now?"

"Right now, yes!"

I should have put a stop to it right then and there. I should have fired angry missiles to shoot down his attack. In the end, I just didn't have that in my arsenal against him. He seemed so confused and needy and this completely disarmed me. The intensity and taboo shock were also deeply stimulating. All my senses were focused on that moment in time; all of my energy was being spent on this back and forth. Sweat had built up all over my body and my pussy was tingling as if it was a new feeling. I should have stopped it, but I didn't instead I took his side once again.

"What are you thinking about sweetie?"

"You."

"And you're all big and hard?" I said encouraging my son in his lust for me.

"Yeah mom"

"It's ok baby just keep going, I'm here with you." I swallowed deeply at my transgression.

"What do you like most?" I continued to indulge him with my own hand on my sex.

"Your hips and ass, how you look naked, stuff I want to do to you."

"And what do you want to do?" I wanted him to say it again.

I looked at his words while pleasuring myself leading to an intense orgasm. I dropped the phone and braced myself by pressing my hands into both walls at the right corner of the counter. The phone sprung into the air as I kicked my legs from side to side in ecstasy. My mouth was dry with excitement making my orgasmic cries sound horse and strained. I had never cum so quickly in my life or with less stimulation. I saw the sort of stars you see when you're dehydrated, and stand up too quickly, in front of my eyes. I dropped my arms from side to side trying to locate my discarded phone. Fortunately, it had landed harmlessly in the waste basket between the toilet and the sink; not a scratch. I picked it up and saw a series of text messages.

"I want to fuck you mom...I want to fuck you mom...I'm cumming...mom I'm cumming...mom, I came everywhere...mom?...mom?...I'm sorry mom...you ok mom?"

"Honey no I'm fine, I just dropped my phone." Which was true, I just neglected to say the reason.

"Should try to get some sleep dear."

"Love you mom (followed by plenty of hearts)"

"I love you too sweetie (also with an excess of hearts)"

I stumbled around a bit upon standing. It was as if I had poured so much energy into the nasty exchange that I had sacrificed basic motor skills. My mind was buzzing and it felt like I had gotten away with something. As if there should have been some sort of consequence for my abhorrent behavior, which I wasn't paying. I had just let my son talk dirty to me. I let him use words that would have inspired slaps in most situations. I passed right by his closed door and sheepishly slid into my side of the bed. My emotions soon turned to soft tears because I knew I had opened the gate to his invading army.

"He used the "F" word; my baby used the "F" word." This though reverberated most in my mind.

A declaration had been made. A vague understanding had been reached. A resolution was going to require complete privacy; the two of us needed to be alone. This was not going to be realized until Sunday. Sunday is usually my day to go to the gym, run some errands and do some chores. My husband had always taken a break from work to do something with the kids. Since Justin was a little old for it the day had become a daddy-daughter day. The upcoming Sunday he was taking Lisa to a matinee at the theatre downtown. This meant they would be gone all afternoon.

The sexual tension was intense for those days. Justin played it cool, but subtly watched me as if stalking his prey. I decided that this would be the make it or break it moment in all this. If he had the courage he was going to get what he wanted, if he couldn't muster it, it was lost forever. This was going to be his chance. I rationalized it until it seemed logical and correct in my mind. Almost like there was nothing wrong or unusual about it.

I read a scholarly article on the subject through a journal subscription I have. The argument was fascinating, the only one of its kind, and encouraged my already formed intentions. Without getting too much into the technical nature of the article, it allowed for the possibility that mother-son incest by consenting adult partners could be symbolically beneficial for both mother and son. The author points out that this sort of incest was, likely, the most under-reported type of incest. The reasoning being that neither party ends up feeling abused and therefore feels no motivation to cause the other distress. It goes on to say that the, nearly universal, condemnation of the act is based on almost no documented case studies. The article was fact based and very non-committal on the moral side. Any morality that I took from it was value that I added to the points. I wasn't convinced by the article, but it gave me a non-dissenting voice and allowed the possibility that my morality is the correct morality.

I began to think about ways it could help him. I knew he hadn't had the easiest time with girls. We didn't need to talk about it for me to know that. He is a good looking young man, but not completely convinced of his own powers in that regard. He's tall, in shape, handsome and smart. Nevertheless, he loses his presence in the face of girls. His voice becomes timid and non-direct, his posture becomes awkward and his eyes fail to make contact. Basically, his deepest insecurities come to the surface in unbecoming ways. Maybe, together, we could get to the root of them. The root was obvious to me; he had a fear of sex and a fear of rejection. The unattractive qualities he projected to girls ensured he didn't have to face those fears directly. With me he has unconditional love. With acceptance, perhaps, I could show him how to project his attractive qualities. I understood this did not come without serious risks but I was ready to accept them.

All the reasoning in the world couldn't save me from the fact that the prospect still scared me. For this to happen I would have to stand naked in front of him again, only this time give him my body. There were no, halfway serious, articles explaining the best way to do this. The only certain guideline I gave myself was that he had to come to me. He had to at least show me that he was willing to work on finding his self-confidence. I decided that I should play somewhere halfway between being difficult and providing guidance. The more he showed me the more I would help.