Chapter 1

My name is Cathy. I’m a 43-year-old widowed mother. I have a 21-year-old son named Brian. I’m a rather tall, slim woman; five foot eleven inches, very long, dark brown hair that comes down to my waist, and dark brown eyes. Tennis and running have kept me in pretty good shape. I’ve been told I look like Eva Mendez, but I think they’re just being polite.

My son Brian took more after his dad...

He has coal-black hair and stands no more than 5’4”. He’s a little shy but has a very good sense of humor. Brian’s father was a very handsome man, and Brian got every bit of that and more.

There are only two obvious differences between Brian and his dad. Brian’s a very wide, stocky young man. Even as a young boy in high school, Brian was very well built; very defined. He played on the football team all four years in high school and now is a running back on his college football team.

His dad, on the other hand, was rather skinny and non-athletic. The other difference was less obvious to everyone but my sister and me.

My late husband, Jimmy, was a very good lover. We enjoyed a full and exciting sex life for a long time before a car accident took him from us. Jim’s penis was not very big, five inches at best when erect, but Jimmy knew how to use it well. It never gave me reason to complain. He would refer to his small penis as “The Washburn Curse” and would jokingly tell me how it was handed down through the generations from his great, great, great-grandfather, Jeremiah Washburn. He always made me laugh. I would tell him things like:

“It’s all I’ll ever need” or “I love the way it all fits in my mouth.”

I didn’t tell him these things to make him feel better. I told him because they were the truth. We never did anything TOO crazy, nothing that would wind us up in jail anyways, but I believe I willingly fulfilled just about all of his fantasies; at least the ones he’d told me about. I had even invited one of my girlfriends into our bed when we were first married. He’d told me he’d never been with two women at the same time and would love to try it. He had a birthday coming up and I made it one I’m sure he never forgot.

When he expressed interest in anal sex, I was reluctant but certainly willing to give it a try. I have to say, I was rather thankful for the Washburn Curse when we explored that avenue. The fact was; I loved Jimmy and I loved his penis as well.

Now when Brian was no more than a toddler, maybe three or so, it became rather obvious to me that Jimmy would not share the “Washburn Curse” with his son.

I can recall my sister and I would make little comments and jokes to each other about Brian’s penis at bath time or when his diaper needed changing.

“He’s gonna be quite the lady killer.”

“That’s quite the little package he has there.”

“I hope he grows into that.” Little remarks like that.

I bathed Brian until he was almost seven years old, when he informed me he thought he was too old to be washed by his Mommy. For the next few weeks, I inspected my son head to toe after he was finished bathing. Satisfied with the job he was doing without my help, I let him wash himself from then on.

Well―One evening quite a few years later, when Brian was about fifteen, I walked in on him in the bathroom. He was standing with one foot up on the tub and he was drying himself after a shower. Although it all happened pretty fast, my eyes went right to the thing hanging between his legs. Literally, I mean it. It was hanging. When I recalled the incident to my sister some days later, I remember using the word - Piñata.

It was easy to see that “The Washburn Curse” was going to skip a generation. From what I thought I saw, his penis was already quite a bit bigger than his father’s, and noticeably thicker as well... And Brian was SOFT! As a matter of fact, it was the thickness that had caught my attention in the first place. I was a bit taken back.

The incident reminded me of some pictures that my girlfriend and I had seen in a magazine when we were teenagers. My girlfriend, Cindy, had taken it from her brother’s room and snuck it to her room one night that I was sleeping over. The name of the magazine was “Too Big”. We were amazed by the pictures, but that’s another story entirely.

Anyway— Brian looked up and saw me gawking. I must have been standing there with my mouth hanging open.

“Moooommm!” He squealed and quickly covered himself.

I promptly apologized and shut the bathroom door. I stood outside the door with my hand still on the doorknob, shaking my head slowly in disbelief. I wondered if I’d really seen what it was I thought I’d seen. I couldn’t have, I told myself. He’s fifteen.

I know that as his mother, the size of his penis shouldn’t have concerned me. In my defense, in the beginning, I just wanted to know if my eyes were playing tricks on me. I was surprised that I was giving this so much thought, but I couldn’t seem to stop. I needed to know if what I saw was real or was it just something my imagination was bending out of proportion, so-to-speak. I began to wonder if maybe it was just the light or maybe the way he was standing. I mean, if it were as big as it looked, certainly I would have noticed something like that—around the pool—at the beach. I don’t understand why it was so important to me, one way or the other, but it was.

I found myself thinking about it a lot in the days and nights after that. I even found myself sneaking fleeting glances at the front of his shorts and his bathing suit from time to time to see if maybe I could see an outline or a reference to its size, but everything he wore was baggy. Perhaps it was more comfortable for him that way. I felt myself blush each time I caught myself looking; embarrassed that I would do such a thing, afraid someone might notice my interest.

I found myself ashamed at times that I was looking at my own son in such a way. I told myself that I was just trying to confirm what it was I thought I saw. I kept telling myself that I must have been mistaken, that there was no way that a 15-year-old boy could have such a ... such a big penis. But the more I tried to dismiss it, the more I dwelled on it and the more I needed to know.

It had even gotten to the point where I’d found myself standing outside the bathroom door once with my hand on the knob ready to barge in with the intention of catching another quick look.

I know how all this sounds.

Sometime later, just before my son turned eighteen, I’d come in from a late dinner with the girls and found Brian asleep on the couch in front of the TV in just a T-shirt and his boxers. I leaned over to wake him and tell him to go on up to bed. I was just about to tap him on the shoulder when my eyes drifted down to his boxers. I froze. Sticking out of the open fly was the head of Brian’s penis. It was about the size of a golf ball. My stomach flip-flopped. I covered my mouth with my fingers to muffle a gasp.

I felt so silly, like a nasty little girl, standing there peeking at a boy’s privates. But nonetheless, I wanted to see more. I glanced up to make sure he was asleep. I didn’t want to get caught gawking at my son’s dick again. This was nothing like barging in on someone in the bathroom. THIS would be hard to explain.

I felt my stomach get all jittery as I shifted my attention back to my son’s privates. I took a deep breath to steady myself and resumed my investigation. I call it an investigation ... But in reality, it was borderline molestation.

I felt myself flush. I was pretty shocked at my reaction. I felt a little light-headed as I realized this might finally be my chance to actually see it, all of it, and put this whole crazy, stupid thing to rest. Maybe it was the three Gin & Tonics I had at dinner. I don’t know, but I had to keep myself from giggling like a schoolgirl.

I bent over a little more and cocked my head to see if I could get a better look inside the slit of his underwear. It was no use; his boxers hid all but the tip. If I was going to see any more of it ... I was going to have to pull his fly open more.

I should have realized how deep into this thing I really was when “Opening his fly more to get a better look” was my answer to that particular problem instead of just waking him up, sending him to bed, and going to bed myself.

I looked to make sure he was asleep. I bit my bottom lip and slowly extended my index finger; moving it slowly towards my son’s fly. The closer my finger got, the more nervous I became. I couldn’t believe it. One more quick glance up before I carefully hooked my long fingernail in the slit of his boxers and gently, slowly pulled open the small slit.

My finger was so close to my son’s dick. Again, I had to stifle the urge to giggle. I moved my head a little to one side to allow the light from the table lamp to better light the area. I noticed that my hand was shaking quite a bit. I glanced up at Brian one more time. Still sleeping.

I could see inside his boxers a little better now. There it was; most of it anyway. “Jeeezzzz...” I whispered under my breath. I found myself comparing it to his father’s. Even soft, what I could see of it, was bigger than his father’s had ever been hard.

I saw what looked to be every bit of at least five inches of my son’s penis. It looked nice and smooth —you know, like a dick— and after all my efforts to confirm what I thought I’d seen more than 2 years earlier, I could now see that in fact, it had not been my imagination. His dick was pretty big and very, very thick ... fat actually.

“ ... And it’s not even hard...” I remember saying.

Evidently I said it kinda loud because suddenly Brian grunted and shifted his weight. As he turned, I pulled my hand back like the damn thing was gonna bite me. And when I did, I inadvertently slid my finger over my son’s penis. I was immediately aware of the contact. I quickly stood up, straight, rigid actually, and quickly stepped back from the couch with my hands to my mouth. I don’t know what was wrong with me. I was peeking in my son’s fly- STICKING MY FINGER IN IT WHILE HE SLEPT! – and for some reason, I was on the verge of giggling.

My first thought should have been to run out of the living room and up to my room in case he woke up. Maybe call some kind of 24-hour HOT-LINE or a support group or something. Did they have support groups for moms that poke at their kid’s underwear?

Anyway-All I thought about was, “I touched it!” I stood there trying to be quiet and still as Brian settled in with a long sigh. I stood frozen, staring, for what seemed like a long time.

As luck would have it, —Good luck? - Bad luck? - Dumb luck? - The jury was still out—. Brian’s penis had worked its way out through the fly of his boxers as he’d shifted positions.

I remember my mouth dropped open and I believe I might have stopped breathing.

I could see almost all of it. There was no question. There was no need for anymore confirmation. It lay over to one side, maybe a little more than 6 inches and as fat around as a good-sized banana.

I couldn’t help but wonder, “What if it was hard?”

For a split second, I started to think about how I could accomplish such a feat.

I shook my head, trying to shake the thought away and quickly took another step back to gather my wits. I couldn’t believe what I was thinking. Did I really want to see how big my son’s dick would get? Did I really want to see my own son’s cock ... get hard?

I wondered what I might be willing to do to make this happen. A hot flash washed over me as if I’d opened an oven door, and I realized that I had to leave.

Wow! It was somewhat sobering.

I was ashamed of myself for the way I felt. After all, suppose he was to wake up and find that his hard penis was sticking out of his shorts and that his mother was hovering over him. “My God!” I thought. How would I explain something like THAT?

I quickly and quietly left the living room and ran upstairs to my bedroom. I lay in bed until well after midnight, wrestling with my conscience, trying to get a handle on everything. I knew it was wrong, what I did, and the way I was thinking, but I couldn’t seem to help it.

Images of my father flashed in my mind. The smell of his cologne and bourbon filled my nostrils. Memories of inappropriate moments made me shiver, but oddly enough, made me warm between my legs.

I remember thinking how glad I was that I had had only three Gin & Tonics and what might have happened had I had the fourth one.

Jimmy had been gone for more than two years at that point in time. I tried to convince myself that maybe these thoughts and actions were a product of loneliness and that I was still missing Jimmy, but deep down, the more I thought about it, the more I knew there was more to it. I knew that somewhere along the line, I had somehow become obsessed with my son’s penis.

At first, I was troubled and embarrassed by the thoughts and images that seemed to work their way into my head. They seemed to bombard me with more and more frequency. The fact was, I wanted to see my son’s dick hard and imagined different scenarios that would get me what I wanted.

I reminded myself that such things were forbidden, morally wrong, but I also knew for a fact that these kinds of things happened all the time in all walks of life.

As time passed, I found that I’d become more tolerant, more comfortable with the things I thought about, even excepting, if not embracing them at times.

I found that late at night when I was alone in my bed, that somewhere along the line these forbidden thoughts and images turned into welcomed dreams and yearnings, even fantasies.

At first, I shamefully tried to suppress the urge but found it useless most times. I told myself that nothing would ever come of such thoughts and desires and wondered if my father had told himself the same thing. Before I knew it, these feelings led to masturbation and, to my surprise, some very intense orgasms. I was obsessed.

Except for the occasional glance or the fleeting feeling, I pretty much kept my dark fantasies to myself. It was August 19th, Brian’s 18th birthday, as a matter of fact, when all that changed.

It was early on a Saturday morning; I had just come in from a run and figured I’d gather up the dirty clothes and do a load of laundry before I took a shower.

I approached Brian’s bedroom door with an armload of dirty clothes from my room. I quietly turned the knob and took a step in as quietly as I could, hoping not to wake him.

To my disbelief, Brian was stretched out on his bed with his pajama bottoms pushed down past his knees. I froze there, mid-step. His eyes were closed, and I could hear him softly cooing, “Yeah, that’s it. Do it...” But my real attention was on what was in his hand. I stood there by the door in my running shorts and sports bra, an arm full of dirty clothes, and my hand still on the doorknob, and watched my son jerking himself off.