Chapter 1

Donny was always young for his age, very young, but that wasn’t the real problem for us. So what if he was a little immature. What mother wants her baby to grow up too soon, anyway?

No, the real problem wasn’t Donny’s simple emotional structure, it was the combination with his advanced cognitive capability that was the real issue. Donny was terribly bright. He finished high school at 15, was about to complete his undergraduate degree after just 3 years, and had applied for his Masters. I have spent countless hours comforting my son after he returned from yet another lonely day, excluded from after school fun. He was a loner, but not by choice. The problem eased when he first entered university. He even became somewhat of a small scale celebrity, but not for long. Soon, the invitations dwindled, and he was excluded yet again. Our long hugging sessions were renewed but, by the end of the second year, he simply retreated to his room, alone.

Recently, he had again begun to stop for hugs before heading for his sanctuary. I figured it was the stress of awaiting acceptance letters, since he never worried about exams or assignments; they weren’t a challenge for him. But I’m always there for him, and I never rush. I’m keen on being a good mom and I’ll hug him for as long as he needs. Over the past couple of weeks our hugging sessions had become longer and longer. Yesterday, we stood in the hallway, clinging together for at least 15 minutes before he finally broke way and hurried to his room.

But today was different. I had finished showering after an hour on the incline trainer and, after slipping into one of my new outfits made out of thin stretchy material, wonderful for lounging around the house in private or puttering in the garden, when Donny burst into the house.

“Mom? ... Mom ... Mom! ... MOM!” his voice escalating to a holler.

“Here,” I yelled back, running to the top of the stairs and starting down. “What’s wrong?” I asked, a panicky feeling swelling up inside me.

“Nothing,” he answered, his voice returning to normal as he saw me coming down the stairs to meet him. “Nothing, I just ... I just ... wondered where you were,” he trailed off.

“Oh, did you have a rough day?” I queried, worry in my voice.

“Uh, no, not really. Was there any mail?”

I didn’t want to answer, hating to see the disappointment in his face each day. “No, nothing,” I replied.

“Oh,” he responded, dejectedly, “Oh, well.”

I put my arms around his chest and hugged him to me, feeling him slump against me, as usual. “There, there,” I whispered as we stood, swaying slightly. “It’ll come, it’ll come,” I assured him, “It always does.” After a few minutes, when his breathing relaxed, I pulled away. “I was just about to make some hot chocolate. Want some?”

“No,” he turned toward the stairs.

“Come sit with me for a while, keep me company,” I urged him, grasping his hand and tugging him toward the couch, hating to seem his skulk to his room so early in the afternoon. He followed, reluctantly, letting his bag fall to the floor as I pulled him along.

“You need to rest a bit before you go upstairs to work,” I said as I removed his fleece jacket, the one we’d picked up on the coast last summer. “Just relax with your Mom for awhile,” I gently insisted, pushing the sleeves off his arms, pulling him down next to me as I sat down. “Stretch your feet out,” I instructed as I pulled him over, guiding his head to my lap. He sprawled awkwardly along the couch, one leg reaching to the floor.

“Close your eyes.” I began stroking him, tracing my fingers over his cheeks and across his forehead, smoothing the worry away. “Shhhhh,” I whispered as I used my other hand to gently knead his head, stretching and contracting my fingers through his wavy, light brown hair.

I think he actually dozed off. I stroked him for so long I could feel my thigh growing numb under his head. As I changed positions to ease the strain on my leg his eyes opened and he started to rise. “No, don’t go. I just need to change positions. Stay for a while longer,” I pleaded as I rearranged myself to stretch my feet out under and to each side of him, my back to the arm of the couch. “Come on, rest your head here,” I said, patting my tummy with both hands. He turned to lay face down, bringing his head to rest on my stomach, below my breasts.

“That’s it. There, there,” I soothed him as his eyes closed and my fingers returned to kneading his scalp, his neck and his shoulders. I continued this for some time. Then, when I shifted myself a little lower to get comfortable again, he moved with me, shifting himself higher, his head coming to resting squarely down on my breasts, his ear fixed directly on my left nipple.

Suddenly, I was aware that I hadn’t put on a bra. I had expected to have several hours to work around the house in comfortable clothes before anyone else came home. Now, I was acutely aware that that my son’s head was separated from my bare breast only by a very thin and soft stretchy material. I was considering excuses for getting up when he uttered a satisfied sigh and snaked his arms around my back, pressing himself closer to me. “Mmmmm,” he exhaled again, nestling his head more firmly against my breast and pressing his abdomen against me. “Mmmmm.”

I didn’t know what to do. He seemed so peaceful, laying on me like he did as a small child. I continued stroking his hair and brushing my fingers across his shoulders. When he nodded his head, ever so slightly, I felt my nipple stiffen in his ear. “Mmmmm,” repeated, nodding his head again, pressing harder against my wayward tip, simultaneously squeezing me with his arms, pulling himself even tighter against my belly.

What was the matter with me, my inner voice screamed, as he nodded his head yet again and my nipple hardened even more. “Mmmmmm,” he repeated, nodding his head in a tiny oval centered around my nipple.

I tried to lift his head, “Donny,” I whispered, but he resisted, grasping me tightly, continuing to work his ear around my errant nipple. I relented. What the hell, I thought. Emotionally, he was 19 going on 13. He doesn’t really know what’s going on. I relaxed and let him snuggle into me. I could feel him pressing his belly against me, tight against my black stretchy pants, and his arms pressing my shoulders to push my chest tighter against his head. I used my hands to still his head but ended up pulling it tighter to my breast to freeze his movement. I could feel my other nipple hardening.

I felt him pull away. Looking down, I could see his eyes were open, staring straight ahead at the miniature mountain peak stabbing up through the material of my stretchy blouse, an ineffective camouflage for my naughty nipple. I released his head in response to his upward pressure away from my breast. “Donny,... “ I whispered again.

He ignored me. Raising up, he turned to look at the back of the couch and lowered his head down on my right breast, moving it about slightly until he had its nipple firmly ensconced in his left ear. He dropped the full weight of his head, flattening my breast against my chest. “Mmmmm, Mmmmm,” he repeated again as he worked the side of his belly between my legs, firmly pressing himself against my thinly armored crotch.

“Donny,” I whispered once more.

He continued to ignore me, slowly nodding his head again, sending my right nipple on the same path of hardness recently blazed by the left. He watched the nipple he had just abandoned, proudly jutting up. My tit seemed bigger than usual, perhaps over compensating for its recent suppression.

“I love you, Mom,” he suddenly whispered. He hugged me harder and tilted his head forward, kissing my chest, on the bone in between my breasts. Pulling back, his arm stretched my blouse even tighter against my starkly outlined nipple.

“I love you too, son,” I replied.

Pulling his right arm up a little from underneath me, he pressed his hand against my side to push my left breast closer to him. He tilted his head forward, and kissed me again, this time his lips landing on the side of my breast, “I love you,” he repeated.

“I know,” I said.

He dug his head against my right breast, its nipple now very hard in his ear, and used the extra pressure to drag his head, and my tit, closer to the other, simultaneously using his hand to squeeze my other breast toward him. He tilted his head forward and planted his lips against the side of my breast again, this time closer to the distended nipple and in a longer kiss. He pulled back and rested, his head ceasing its nodding movement, his eyes firmly fixed on my erect nipple. Periodically, he leaned forward, and kissed my breast again, repeating, “I love you, Mom.”

How could I stop him? Each time, I found myself answering, “I know” or “I love you too.”

As usual, I didn’t hurry him. I kept comforting him, stroking his hair, brushing my fingers across his back. Eventually, he rose up, asked me what was for dinner, then headed for his room.

“I’ll call you,” I said as he climbed the stairs.

I lay there for some time, my emotions surging, before I finally got up to make dinner. Don would be home soon.

The next day, Donny came come home early again but this time I was wearing a blouse and jeans. After a cursory glance at me, and a check to see if there was any mail on the side table by the door, he headed straight for his room. He didn’t emerge until dinner, and then returned immediately. This routine continued throughout the remainder of the week and through most of the next. Each day, I was wearing the same type of outfit except for the days I exercised, in which case I dressed in form hiding sweats. Donny always paused to give me a disappointed look before heading to his room, but he didn’t say anything, even in response to my queries if everything was OK. Very worried about his withdrawal, I brought it up with Don but, as usual, he simply listened dutifully until he could return to the news.

Two weeks to the day after that strange afternoon, I dressed in the same black, stretchy pants and top, even though I didn’t exercise that day. For some reason, I didn’t put on a bra or even panties and, although I don’t remember thinking about that afternoon, I felt strangely on edge and excited throughout the day. I also, without thinking specifically about it, expected Donny to arrive home early, despite the fact he hadn’t done so for the past two weeks. And so, when Donny came in the door, I was there to greet him with a large glass of his favorite drink, freshly blended juice from raw, organic vegetables. This way, he couldn’t immediately escape to his room, but somehow, I knew he wouldn’t. And I was right.

As he drank his juice in the hallway, his eyes roamed unabashedly over my outfit, the flat black material clinging to my body all the way to mid-calf where the stretchy pants ended, my braless state obvious even standing still. When he paused drinking, bringing the half empty glass down to his chest, I asked, “Is it good, sweetie?”

“Yes,” he replied simply, ignoring my inquiring eyes in favor of my chest.

I stretched up on my toes, arching my back a little and swinging my hands behind me to push my breasts up, “That’s good. Drink up, it’s good for you.” I bounced a little on the balls of my feet, as if in anticipation.

He raised the glass to his lips and slowly drained the glass, his eyes never leaving the display I so wantonly presented. I’m not sure what I was up to but I had his attention and I desperately wanted to keep him from disappearing to his room by himself. I arched my back to push my tits out further, twisting sideways a little to emphasize their profile. As he finished his drink, bringing the glass down to his side, I dropped suddenly to my heels, my breasts following, bouncing slightly. Donny was enthralled.

Turning away, I said, “I was just about to lie down on the couch for a rest before your father gets home. Would you like to join me?” I asked after a few steps, stopping to twist back and look up at him, my action jutting my breasts against my top in a angled profile.

“Sure,” he mumbled.

I continued to the couch, laying down with my back to the arm, as before. I held my arms up to him, “Come on,” I said, as I bent my knees, opening my legs to make room for him. Donny put his glass down on the coffee table, slipping his bag, which had been on his shoulder all the time, to the floor. He crawled onto the couch and into my arms, dropping his head to my chest. He slipped his arms around me as he moved his head around, searching for my nipple with his ear. He let out a contented sigh as he found it and dropped his weight directly on it. As he began nodding his head, I admonished him, “Stay still, now. Just rest.” I started to massage his scalp with one hand and brush my fingers across his back with the other. He just needs to be comforted, I told myself.

Donny stayed still, went rigid even. We lay like that, stiffly, for at least ten minutes before he started his little head movements again. “Donny, stay still,” I reprimanded him softly. I continued massaging his scalp and tickling his back as he lay still again. But after a few more minutes, he started to get up.

“I have to go, Mom.”

“Where,” I asked, in a voice that was really asking ‘Why?’

“To my room,” he replied, continuing to pull away.

“No, stay a while longer,” I implored, pulling him hard back against me.

“But, Mom... “ he started to say as I held his head firmly to me with my right hand. It was the action of my left hand that made him pause. I took his hand in mine — his hand, not his arm — and placed it against my side, cupping its palm against the side of my breast.

“Just stay with me while I rest. OK?”

He raised his head to look at me. I smiled and closed my eyes. “Stay with me while I rest,” I repeated in a whisper.

I could feel him watching me as we lay like that for several minutes. I was breathing evenly and deeply, my chest rising and falling. He didn’t move his hand at all but I was acutely aware of its pressure. I could feel the nipple on that breast tightening. Still he didn’t move. Then, almost imperceptibly, his hand squeezed the tiniest bit. And again. I could tell his head was still up, that he was watching me. I didn’t provide any reaction. He squeezed my breast a little bit harder but still tentatively. The next time I could feel the inside of his thumb contact the underside as he moved his hand more centrally over my breast, but still in a movement that could be considered accidental. When he squeezed again, ever so gently, he was definitely touching my breast in a caress, not an accidental movement. He paused for a full minute. I could feel the intensity of his gaze as he searched my face for an adverse reaction. There was none.

I felt his head come down to rest on my other breast. His finger closed gently on my breast, squeezing the nipple up, thrusting it against my top, letting it stick up hard in all its pride. He kept it squeezed for at least half a minute as he regarded it intently. Then he loosed his grip, only to softly squeeze it again, right away. He held it in his grip for even longer this time. Then let go. As he did so, he lifted his head to search my face again. I kept breathing evenly, my eyes closed as if in a peaceful sleep. I let my lips pout.

His head fell to my breast again. For the next fifteen minutes or so, he continued to play with my breast in the same gentle squeezing movement. He never tried to touch my nipple, even though I could tell it fascinated him by the length of time he kept my breast squeezed together to emphasize its profile. After a while, he changed his position, placing his head on my well exercised right breast and, without waiting for permission, moving his left hand onto my left breast. He immediately began to massage it.

Although I knew he was right handed he seemed to use his fingers more actively while he explored my left tit. Before long, he slipped his fingers together until he was pinching my nipple lightly between them. He repeated this action again and again. Not once did he raise his head to see what my reaction would be. I suppose he assumed he had tacit permission. Eventually, he stopped, just holding my nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Then he slowly began to pull it up. Gently, but pinching it tightly enough that it followed his hand up. He held it aloft for some time. My breathing became more rapid and, in response, so did his. He let the nipple go, spreading his finger and thumb down the side of my tit, straining my nipple, before bringing them back up to pinch it and drag it up once more. This time, he rolled it between thumb and finger as he held it up. He dropped it and repeated his action. Many times.

We were breathing heavily together when he suddenly sprang up and ran off. Surprised, I opened my eyes, but only in time to see him springing up the stairs. I heard a door close, but one closer to the stairs, not his room at the far end of the hall. He’d gone to the bathroom. I smiled. That’s a lesson he can’t learn in school, I thought.

Strangely, I didn’t feel any remorse. No guilt. I simply got up and headed for the kitchen to start dinner. Before Don came home, I headed upstairs to change into something more conservative. I realized that I was being a little deceptive, but it didn’t seem to bother me.

For the next three days, I knew Donny’s commitments wouldn’t allow him to be home early but on the Thursday, he arrived early, just as I expected. He was surprised, I think, to see me in blouse and jeans, not the stretchy suit he was hoping for. Though visibly disappointed, he stayed in the kitchen rather than retreating to his room. He didn’t speak, and neither did I. Donny just sat at the kitchen table, watching me.

Finally, he ventured, “You look tired, Mom. Aren’t you going to have a little rest this afternoon, before Dad gets home?”

“No, I don’t think so,” I replied, continuing to busy myself moving things about the counter.

“Oh,” he responded, hanging his head but not making a move to leave. I kept fussing about, stretching up to reach into the upper cupboards, bending over to fetch things from the lower drawers. I could feel his eyes on me, and I realized that I was doing more than keeping him from going upstairs, I was enjoying his attention.

When I heard his feet shuffle as he started to get up from the table, I blurted out, “Would you like me to make you a vegetable drink, honey?”

“Sure, Mom.” He sat down again. I retrieved the juicer from the cupboard and fetched vegetables from the fridge. Not dallying lest he run upstairs, I made his drink in my usual efficient manner. However, as I poured the drink into a large glass, I managed to spill some on the front of my white blouse.

“Oh, darn it. All over my blouse,” I complained. Taking his drink to him, I made a big production of wiping the vegetable juice off my chest, tugging the blouse tightly over my breasts as I scraped away. I was pleased to notice that Donny didn’t take a drink during that time, focusing instead on the wet shirt covering my front.