Chapter 2

The next morning Suzanne worked from home and called her son out sick from school. (“I think he ate a bad batch of cookies last night” she’d told them, winking at Decker conspiratorially.)

And they talked! Talked and talked. Well, mostly Decker did. Suzanne hung on his every word and did chores. She puttered around the house, making breakfast, starting laundry, writing emails, all while her chattering son followed from room to room, spilling his long backed up guts.

Decker was in heaven. He’d always felt a twinge of jealousy towards those boys with doting mothers. Perched on the bleachers at every soccer game, waiting for their sons afterwards with a mouth full of encouragement and a cooler full of orange slices. Hovering Mothers, he’d heard, were a bad thing. According to who? For a long neglected child like him, this was the life.

And it wasn’t that Mom was doting on him, exactly. She mostly went about her day, doing her normal, boring household chores. It was just that she really seemed to care about all his stories, and she took everything he told her to heart. She was something utterly alien to him in all his years as her son: an avid listener.

When Mom was typing out a long email from her favorite work spot --a yoga cushion on the floor-- and he lost the thread during one of his stories of grade school intrigue, her brow would furrow, and she’d ask just the right question to get him back on track. For Old Mom, talking to her while she was at her “Work Zafu” would have been a recipe for certain death.

Sitting up on the kitchen counter while she unloaded the dishwasher, Decker had worked up the courage to finally tell The Tale of Lunch Room Heartbreak. Suzanne reacted perfectly: oohing and tsking at all the right times. Occasionally, during the really tough bits, she would stop putting bowls in the cupboard and look directly into his eyes.

“Oh sweetheart, that sounds really terrible”, she had added, with a sympathetic squeeze on his pajama-ed knee.

By late afternoon Decker’s cheeks were sore from all the smiling, laughing and inside joke-ry. He and his mother sat across from each other at their small kitchen table, polishing off a pair of chicken salad sandwiches. Decker had returned to a well worn topic of the day: The prettiest girls in class. Suzanne was a good sport, but couldn’t resist repeatedly rolling her eyes in faux-disapproval at such a crass subject.

“And Liz Williams and Kathrine Pierce and-”. Fist in cheek, Suzanne watched her son rattle off an endless list of Bainbridge Episcopal Middle School 6th grade starlets she’d never heard of.

“Well, what about your friend you brought home to study with last year? Katie Kroo-something? She’s ‘Netflix and Chill-able’, right?” Suzanne emphasized the designation with air quotes, setting Decker off on a giggle fit. Hearing Katie Kreuger (such a spaz!) and allusions to romance in the same sentence had him beside himself. He burst out laughing mid-disavowal. Suzanne soaked up her son’s mirth, the side of her mouth curled in cheery anticipation.

“Oh, no-- Katie Kroo’s a bit of a ... dog, is she?” Suzanne felt a little bad for taking potshots at a 12 year old girl, but it was too late, she’d caught the contact giggles.

“Woof, Mom. Woof.” Decker choked out, between their shared guffaws.

After a while, they settled into a long, contented silence, occasionally exchanging smiling looks.

When the pivotal moment came, Decker was spaced out, happily reviewing the events of the day in his mind. Then the clouds parted and everything changed: Mom’s hair caught a direct shaft of fading sunlight from their kitchen’s garden window. It illuminated her face in the dim, dreamy red of early sunset. Stunned by the sudden beauty of the scene, Decker marvelled at her heart shaped face, framed in a chaotic, backlit halo. Sensing his gaze, Suzanne fidgeted in her seat and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

“What, honey? Bit of chicken on my face?” she joked. Suzanne broke off a piece of sandwich and daintily fed herself.

“No, no--nothing.” Decker watched her chew, suddenly noticing her lips (full, pink). He looked up and got lost in her eyes (bright, playful).

“Well, I’m stumped, sweetheart. It sounds like you’ve got some real beauties in your class. Who’s the fairest of them all?” She crooked a finger and toyed with her bottom lip, smiling coyly.

Decker regarded his mother, rapt. He scrutinized her familiar, oval face. Her high cheekbones and the smile lines that framed her wide mouth. Her pert nose. Her Crow’s feet. Her guileless, vibrant eyes. His stomach abruptly lurched, overtaken by a kaleidoscope of butterflies. He studied the remains of his sandwich, somehow nervous. Embarrassed.<

It’s just dumb old mom eating a sandwich in her robe and pajamas, he thought. Nothing worth thinking twice about. But think (and look) twice, he did. In his newly alert state, it was hard not to notice Mom’s unbelted robe, parted widely. Wide enough to show her inner collarbone and the scooped neckline of her thin camisole top. By the low hang of those familiar mounds hidden under his mother’s thick bedwear, he could tell she hadn’t put on a bra this morning. Decker licked his (quite dry) lips.

“Well, if the cat’s got your tongue then I guess I’ll take the floor.” Wearing a shy, tight-lipped smile, Mom scooted her chair up and leaned in, folding her arms on the table. She hunched forward, as if preparing to tell a secret. Decker shifted awkwardly in his chair. Mom’s pose had mashed her pillowy chest against her arms, and pinned her robe in an open position.

“With all this talk of girls-” she paused and awkwardly tapped her forearm. After a deep breath, she continued.

“There are probably a few things we should discuss. May I?” she said softly. Preoccupied as he was by his view, Decker still noted the tension that had crept into her voice. Mom sat close enough that he caught a whiff of her shampoo. Reflexively, he slouched back in his chair. What now? Am I in trouble for what happened yesterday?

His mother’s big toe lightly tapped his foot under the table, startling him out of his worry.

“Now, I know we’ve been laughing and joking the whole day, but we should be serious for a moment.” Mom’s toe traced briefly along the top of his bare foot, then made its way around to his outer ankle. Decker stared at the plain tan wood finish of their kitchen table, as if following her foot’s journey with x-ray vision.

“Honey, the day will come when you’ll be ready to... date.” Suzanne strained out the last word like it weighed 400 lbs. Decker hardly heard. Instead, he was fixated on the top of his mother’s foot, which nimbly traced higher along the outer leg of his pajamas. Pleasant, wild shivers ran up his spine as she gently nuzzled her instep along the outside of his calf. Confused, he searched his mother’s troubled face for any clue as to why she’d initiated this game of footsie.

“I know, it’s surprising. Everyone makes these lists when they’re young, but eventually things ... How should I put it?...” she trailed off, leaving Decker to contemplate her instep’s lazy kneading of his outer calf. Her under-the-table caresses had been reassuring at first, but had quickly taken on an arousing quality. Decker felt a familiar stirring in his pants. Above board, Mom chewed her lower lip, deep in thought. After a moment, her foot stopped its idle stroking against the outside of his leg and moved away--leaving Decker strangely deflated. He tentatively swung his right leg out, missing the contact.

“Ah yes! ‘escalate’. Things eventually ‘escalate’.” Mom raised her hands in air quotes again, and Decker felt that same persistent forefoot reappear, this time on his other leg at the inner knee. He relaxed the leg, and Mom’s foot gently nudged his left knee over, parting his legs widely and exposing the (now quite tight) crotch of his pajama bottoms.

“I won’t go into details--I don’t think you’re interested in the birds and bees talk quite yet?” she lightly rested the front sole of her foot on his left thigh. Without thinking, Decker edged forward in his chair, willing the foot further up his leg. Mom’s foot obliged--it straightened out and slid, ball and arch, up the ramp of his thigh.

“You’re still my sweet little boy, I hope?” She tilted her face with a questioning smile, seeking her son’s lowered eyes. Simultaneously, the knuckles of her toes made contact and pushed directly into his crotch. Decker’s breath caught in his throat.

“Sweetheart, I know this is pretty dull and awkward.” Mom offered an apologetic look. “So we’ll hold off on discussing the facts of life, ok?” Suzanne reached across the table and cupped her son’s cheek. Decker barely registered his mother’s hand on his face. His mind had emptied, overwhelmed by the erotic pleasure radiating from his pajama bottoms. The tips of Mom’s curled toes had begun to slide back and forth along his right leg, caressing his erection through the taut fabric.

“Ok, honey?”

He desperately did not want these sensations to end, and he hadn’t heard most of what she’d been saying, but he lifted his head and valiantly attempted to show he was listening.

“Wou-would you like a foot massage?” he offered softly. It was all he could think of--Mom’s feet were foremost in his mind at the moment.

“Oh. Umm-” Suzanne tilted her head and briefly considered. Her eyes narrowed, and her worried smile wavered. A million miles away--under the table--his mother’s insolent foot continued bumping and working against the base of Decker’s cock. Occasionally her toes would make a fist, kneading into his hardness. Decker began flexing his thighs and butt into the chair, grinding into his mother’s wonderful toes.

“No thanks, sweetheart. It’s pretty cold in here. I think I’ll keep my feet in my slippers for now. But thank you for being so considerate.” she replied, still trying to read his face.

Through a fog, Decker tilted his head down and considered his lap. Mom’s right foot was absolutely not in it’s slipper. He could see that the extremity in question was, in fact, between his legs busily massaging his genitals. Her foot’s repertoire had expanded. It now alternated between curling and uncurling its toes, teasing the underside of his penis and tickling his testicles from above (&#42;scrunch&#42;), tracing delicately along the side of his trapped shaft (&#42;stroke&#42;), or gently wiggling Mom’s toes against his perineum, massaging his testicles from below. (&#42;wiggle&#42;)

“But (scrunch) honey? What do you think about what (wiggle) I said? Does that make sense? (stroke)” she asked softly.

No, it didn’t make sense, Decker thought. How could Mom not know what she’s doing with her foot? Is she messing with me? Is that poem doing this? Why is she being so freaky again? Everything was so confusing, and heavenly. His mind might have been stuck in “Does Not Compute”, but his head was swimming in the clouds.

“Uhh ... I-i ... th-think...” Decker was near the bursting point. He noticed the subtle rocking in Mom’s shoulders and upper body. He knew why: below board, her footjob had intensified. The ball of her foot was steadily rubbing him off, back and forth along the side of his shaft-- Decker’s breathing got more ragged. His face reddened.

“What’s gotten into you honey? I knew I shouldn’t have brought this up.” she sighed, looking down at her folded arms, concerned.

In the back of his mind, panic warred with libido. If the ball of mom’s foot kept working its magic, he was going to come in his pants. Again. Would her feet feel the dampness in his PJs? What if she snapped out of it when he came? Horrified, he imagined having to explain cummy toes to his mother. His flight reflex kicked in, cutting through his sexual haze.

Decker regretfully brought his arms to the table edge and pushed back, ejecting himself from Suzanne’s footjob like a losing pilot fleeing a dogfight. He stood on weak knees, and quickly turned away. His rock hard pole stood at full mast, making a caricature of a tent in his pants.

He quickly stepped away from the table, muttering about having to use the bathroom.

“Hold on a second, mister. You know not to just leave your plate.” Mom commanded over his shoulder. Decker paused and took a moment to subtly shift his erection into a more manageable position. A minute later, he was standing by the kitchen sink, hurriedly shoving a dry sponge over his lunch plate. His mother appeared at his side. Plunking her own dish into the sink, she swung the faucet over and started filling the basin.