I’m Thinking about my Son Pt. 02

tagIncest/TabooI'm Thinking about my Son Pt. 02

Hi all.
All characters are over the age of 18.
This involves mother and son with aspects that one might see as nonconsensual.
If coercion within a deeply entrenched relationship offends you, might be best to read something else.
ANY comments welcome.
*****
"Mom," I'm home. I went to swim. I hear him put his keys on the credenda.
I freak.
"Mom" he says, "I went to swim practice instead."
"Wait. Wait please" I say but my panicked cries fall upon deaf ears (literally), as ninety minutes underwater leaves him almost deaf.
So, in he walks as I am splayed out on my back, legs apart at the knee, with a jewel crusted butt plug so deep in my ass, I can practically taste it. This can't be happening. This shame I feel is unbearable. I am raw, and I have nothing but hatred for him in this moment. I want to give him pain.
It takes about two or three seconds for it to register with him. For him to come to some type of an understanding; some realization that something bad is happening here. He looks at me and his head goes slightly back and to the left. He is frozen.
"I'm using the time period tomorrow for math to make up for…" He still goes on, not moving, and I scramble to grab the afghan to cover up. I spin on my left hip, grab it with my right hand and manage to cover myself only after the corner of the pillow smashes a lamp and cracks the base right along the midsection.
I am humiliated in ways that are very hard to explain. Not much to imagine here folks. What I look like naked and what I was doing when he barged in on me all in one easy entrance fee. I feel my need well up inside. I want to burst from fear and want. Emotionally, I could not be spread open more deeply.
Regardless of my past episodes with my father, the risks I took in college and even last year's drunken splurge; a woman who I hired, yes, that's right and bears repeating, HIRED, to humiliate me for five hundred dollars, I have never felt this vulnerable. Is he so stupid to not understand that he needs to turn around and walk out? I guess so. I guess I raised a moron because he is going to be twenty in five weeks and he is just standing there and staring at me.
"Get out," I say in a voice that leaves no shred of doubt that the command needs to be followed now. Right now! He stands there like his feet are nailed to the floor. I rage at him.
"MICHAEL, GET OUT," I scream. I feel the blood rush to my temples, and I begin to actually shake. He turns on a dime and walks out quickly. No words, however worthless they would be, come from his lips. I hear the door to my bedroom click closed.
"GET OUT" I scream again to no one in particular as I pull the afghan tightly around my back and shoulders. I begin to cry, and I am wracked with deep sobs. This is the day I feared hitting.
This is rock bottom day. Things must change.
I stay in my room and do not leave. I can't face Michael. He spends the night being quieter than ever before. I dread the darkness and the isolation of the pandemic. The effect it is having on me is deep. I close my eyes and try to think. I disappear. I am floating and dream something I can't remember. I must have fallen asleep. I wake up to a wet and raining Sunday morning. The color outside is gray and I watch the rain hit the pavement.
I steel myself and walk out into the kitchen through the dining room. Michael is there. He looks tired and appears withdrawn. I suspect he has not slept much. He is fiddling with a spoon that is sitting in the last bit of his cold cereal.
Neither of us has said a word. I pour my first coffee of the day.
"Good morning mom" he says. "Mom, I am sorry about last night. I feel so bad; I was just not hearing you and…"
"STOP," I say. "I do not want to hear from you." I rage out at him as I need to establish authority here and now.
"Do you realize how embarrassing that was to me? You stupid son of a bitch, can you not see I am struggling? Can you not see that I have issues that are deeply personal, and I struggle with them every single day? Issues that go to my needs as a human being.
Tell me, can you understand that you and me, locked together in a two-bedroom apartment in New York City is not good for us? Can you understand what I am telling you?"
My voice fades and become less strident. I have said my piece. He looks at me quietly. I hold his gaze and then he looks away.
"Can you Michael?"
I feel a bit better as the sweet warm coffee begins to take effect. I am so angry yet under the anger that might appear to control me, I am thinking. He appears to be uncomfortable. He looks up at me and tries to say something.
"Here's the part I do not understand. After you walked in on me, you just stood there and stared at me. There is no woman on this entire planet that wants to be walked in on like that. Splayed open and on her back. Why did you just stand there like that? Why?"
He looks at me. His face is red, almost ruddy with shame and then he looks away again.
"I'll tell you what I think Michael. You are almost twenty. You are a man now and you need to understand what is happening here. You need to understand what is taking place here between you and me. This pandemic might not be affecting you, but it is killing me. Do you understand that? Can you understand that? It is killing me, and it is never going away."
Michael looked up and met my eyes with his. He seemed less shaken. God, am I losing it? He seems to look at me with lust. Am I imagining it? This is crazy. I look straight at him.
"Do you know what I think when you stare at me like that?" I asked?
"No," he answered.
I get up from the table. I slowly get my second cup. No words are spoken. I was starting to run on all cylinders now and was awake enough to manage the situation. I sit back down at the table and I lean into him just slightly. I gather my thoughts. I am resigned to one simple fact. This conversation must happen, and it must happen today. Michael does not even move.
"When you stare at me that way, you make me very uncomfortable,"
"Why do you say that?" he said. What makes …?'
She cut him right off.
"Why do I say that? Glad you asked," I said
"I'll tell you exactly why I say that."
"When you look at me like that," I pause and look at him with harsher eyes, "when you look at me in that way, I think that you want to fuck me." I feel my voice and my anger notch up. "Do you understand me Michael? I feel like you want to put me on my back and use me."
"That is what I think," Michael
"It would be so easy for you wouldn't it? He says nothing as there is little for him to really say. Today, I take him to school.
"What would you need Michael? Some lube and a bit of rope would be good. My butt plug, which you had met last night and the rabbit I keep in the teak dressing stand. Can you understand me? That is what I think when I see you look at me in that way Michael."
I smile at him. A wan and gentle smile. I look at him until he looks back at me.
"I feel like you are peeling of my panties with your teeth. Your look, the one that seems to be so very sexual, violates me with no possible sense of relief."
My head cranes up just slightly and my eyes narrow a bit. My voice gets softer and I speak through clenched teeth.
"Tell me Michael" I say almost calmly, lovingly
"Do you think of fucking me?" I put my hand in the center of his chest. I give him a big, slow smile. You know the kind. The one promising that today, almost anything is possible.
"You can tell me you know. I'm your mom." I smile. The sheer irony of it all.
He looks away. He can't handle this intensity, and I use that to know just how far I can push. I feel pleasure at his difficult situation. I enjoy the struggle. Speaking quite figuratively, I have his balls in my hand.
This is, in some ways, nothing new. He both loves and fears me due to the power I hold over him. I can understand that. Yes, in reality, that is exactly how I would characterize it. He has always loved and feared me. I was his only source since he was five years old when his father left. If I wanted him to feel good, I made that happen. If I wanted him to suffer, I arranged that as well. He was treated as I wanted to treat him, and I alone had the power.
Can you imagine what it was like for him? Having everything he needed coming from one person for most of his life? Yes, I guess the power I have over him is indeed crushing. Please know dear reader, that I did not abuse my power. He was once a teen who fought with me. A teen who rebelled and failed to honor me. The number of times I wanted to wrap a pair of panties around his throat with one hand and wrap my other hand around his balls and say, "you need to behave" are many.
I looked at his eyes again.
"Do you want to fuck me?" I am growing fond of asking.
He surprises me and looks me in the eye. He does not look away this time. This frightens me. I remember once again, my primordial fear of his strength. I am afraid that the pandemic will make our life here impossible. I fear for both of us. My mind goes elsewhere for a moment. I envision him drinking with friends and he comes home. He is loud and feels good. I am sleeping. We argue as lovers argue. A half-drunk man bickering with a half-asleep woman. I feel his rage. He storms out and I hear him going through the liquor bottles. His drinking will not help this.
He reenters my bedroom. I feel a terror that is dissociative in nature. My heart goes to stone. For one very long second, terror paralyzes me.
Can there be a woman who does not understand this? We are not just talking about a stranger here who comes in the night and takes you. That is horrific but manageable. It can be kept quiet. But we are not speaking of a stranger. We are speaking of a son. Just imagine that.
I guess that things have changed in a desperate way since the pandemic. A very desperate way. Can there be a mother who fails to know that the number of sons who spend this type of personal time alone with their mothers is on the rise? Can there be a mother of a grown son who fails to understand that he can take her at will? That he can slip into their room, and after what would surely be a very brief struggle, strip them down to their panties and then very slowly, and deliberately, take them apart in ways both cruel and intimate. What are you going to do to make it stop?
Call the cops on your son and ruin his life? No, you can't do that. He is almost raised, and half done with college. Do you want him with a felony on his rap sheet for life? Therapy? Sadly, they are Mandated Reporters, and then this becomes a legal issue so you can't do that either. So, what do you do? You remain quiet. Your life is a model life. A woman living with her son. Everyone says that he is such a good boy. You live in a house where the lawn is trimmed weekly and the cars are washed. A house where there is always food in the fridge, the walls are beige, and your son takes you at will. He does not hurt you, but he knows what he needs, and he is not shy about his needs. Am I thew only one terrified of this?
"You are scaring me" he says.
I come back to reality. I don't know what to say. Imagine that. He is afraid of me. What a joke.
I pull up and get a bit closer with the chair. From an optics perspective, I want him to see me as tight and in control.
"Do you understand my struggle? Do you understand what me being here with you is doing to me?" I wait and I hear nothing. He fails to move; to speak. I sense for the first moment, the hint of what might happen here today. It is just an errant thought, but it stands front and center in my mind. Is there a possibility that this will turn sexual today?
"I need to take a shower" I tell him. "Do not go out. We need to talk." Make no mistake, this is not a request; this is a command and he knows it.
I emerge about ten minutes later. I am shaven and I am clean, and I am losing my mind. I am in charge here and I am responsible for what happens. I keep repeating that to myself like a mantra.
I sit off to the side of him. I study him for a very long and full moment. I come to the conclusion that if we are to live together in this monster lockdown, we are going to have to live together differently than we are living together right now. Just like that, the answer is so clear. He is going to have to help me to survive until this is over. I can't worry about idealism or family values. These are desperate times and I know he will forgive me. This brief diversion in our lives will just be collateral damage; a sad and shameful secret of impossible days that lie at the intersection of sexual desperation and opportunity.
I move to the chair next to him and I am physically closer to him than I have been in years. My fear of his strength abates. I touch his forearm with mine hand and caress him slowly. I bury my rage and come to the realization that I need to show him kindness because that is the path forward, I believe will work.
"Do you understand what I am struggling with Michael? Michael, I need to connect with you. Michael. Do you understand?"
He looks up at me. "I did not do anything to you, and this is not my fault. I try to…"
"Please," I say in a slightly raised voice. "I want to make you understand me and that will not happen if you keep talking." I pause for a moment.
I begin.
"You walk around this house in a tee shirt and boxers unless you wear those black bicycle shorts. Do you have any idea what effect that has on me? Do you understand that…"
"Please STOP," he shouts.
I am caught off guard, but I am not taken off my game.
"No, you stop. You need to listen to me. We need to have a real conversation here Michael. A conversation that happens between a man and a woman because that is what we are." He looks at me and then slightly away.
"YOU ARE MY MOTHER" he screams.
I smile. "I know that, but I was a woman long before that."
I continue. "Let me start off this conversation being very straight with you Michael. Let me tell you something. Last Sunday, when you came home from your bike ride you came in through the garage. I was sitting in the end sofa near the fireplace. You walked in, busting out of those shorts and I nearly fainted. When you put your helmet on the mantle, your cock was two inches from my face.
I continue.
"I wanted, Michael oh sweet boy, I wanted to gently fondle you in my hands until you got rock hard and swollen. Until the head was purple. I then wanted to suck you. I wanted to do it so nice and so slow. To take you in my mouth and work you until you simply were unable to endure.
I would have loved that. Now, if I can tell you something like that, surely you must see what is happening to me."
I look over at him. He is shaking and looks like he is going to cry.
"Michael," I say, "I need for you to look at me. I need for you to know that this is going to be a very different type of a day than all the rest in your life. Every so often in our lives, something amazing happens. This is one of those days Michael. Please do not make this a frightened day.
"Michael," I say, "please take off your pants sweetie." I move closer and give him the two things, that men require most strongly: compassion and touch. I feel him shudder as I put my arms around him. He is warm. Muscled.
"Michael, sweetie, let's just take off your shirt. OK?" He looks up and stands slowly. I stand and help him pull the shirt over his head. I feel like it is all happening in slow motion. Like it is a kind of out of body experience. I smell his body as my face gets close to his chest. The aroma is almost lavender with a hint of something that I can only describe as citrus. I only get a whiff; maybe the two seconds I used to help him with his shirt. He is lovely. I spy his chest and know that I could get lost in its muscle and gorgeous skin. He goes to sit, and I stop him. "
"No Michael, stand. Just stand and let me look at you." I must have looked for ten seconds but it seemed to go on as in a dream.
"Take off your pants Michael" I say very gently.
Finally, I hear those words emerge from my dry and quivering throat and I can't believe it is actually real. Not a dream, not a roleplay with my therapist and not my fantasy life. He looks at me and unbuckles his jeans. He steps out with one leg and repeats with the other. He stands naked.
"Come here sweetie." He sits back in the same chair and looks away. I love his nakedness. "I am going to touch you Michael," I say. Still sitting, I inch closer and so very gently, slide my hands under his balls. He shudders and I cup them gently. I lean in and he stiffens. God help me, I love this.
"Shh…" I tell him. "Does my hand feel good there?" He looks down. "I know it feels good Michael. Look at me." I say it gently and he responds. He looks at his balls in my hand. He has hardened significantly in the last minute or so. I see this and I try not to stare. I fail; I can't seem to look away as his cock throbs so freely to his heartbeat. His cock is lovely. The words" Oh my God" just fall out of my mouth without me even saying them. He looks dangerous and vulnerable at the same time. His cock in that form is a weapon and it protrudes so prominently. He can hurt a woman with that.
Michael looks at me. "I am afraid" he says.
He says that with such guile; with such gentle innocence, that I feel my rage taper and a gentle sadness for him develops. He is truly between a rock and a hard place. I move closer gently. I slip my hand behind his neck and nuzzle him gently. "I'll help you sweetie." I hold him gently.
He is naked and I am wearing only his tee shirt. I can feel his excitement. I feel his breathing deepen. I can see his leg muscles twitch and tighten as I press my arms against his chest for a bit of leverage. I pull my head from his neck and I kiss his lips. The contact is gentle, and I feel his breath on my face.
I have that amazing sense a woman gets when she knows something very sexual is going to happen. Something deeply loving. I am wet. I feel like a motor has gone on in me and made me sexually fluid. My thoughts change, my breathing hastens, and my entire body begins to become open to a sexual encounter. It makes me feel orgasmic. A fully functioning woman.
My big fear now, is that everyone can see it; can know that I am excited. My vision narrows. I hear voices.
"Beat her, she's excited" I hear them scream. I run but my shoe falls off. My father comes to me and scoops me up. He brings me home to my mother. She takes me to her small room attached to her office and closes the door.
"I' don't know if I can do this" he says.
It brings me back to right now. He is white as a sheet. His breathing is short and clipped. "Mom, I can't do this. I am…"
"Michael" I say as I pull even closer to him, "what can't you do? What is it you can't do Michael?" I am angry once again. I breathe deeply. Who loves you Michael? Who has done so much for you that you will never know? I need you now."
I slowly begin to squeeze him.
He seems to startle and then look at me with wide eyes. I tell him it is time for us to go to the bedroom.
"Michael, please, please. I am begging you. I want this to have a good and happy meaning for you, but I will tell you right now, if you turn me down, I will give you pain, right here and right now, that will crush your soul from the inside." I squeezed a tad more and he flinched. I held him there. I felt like I was in a fight for survival. He looked at me. He failed to aquacise. Then I squeezed harder.
Wow
I must have just hit the magic number in the world of pain. He snapped. He grabbed my wrist and tried to say something. All that came out was air. "Please" he croaked out to the universe as he looked at me and spoke again.

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