Chapter 1

It's was dull around the house after my father died. It was really, really boring! You never know what you're going to miss about a person until he's gone. I'll never miss his cocaine frenzies or the occasional flings he flaunted before mom, but my father was a pretty fun guy otherwise. I was pretty young to be certain of my memories of the time he spent with me, but I know I was never bored. When I turned eleven, it seemed like the three previous years without pop were one eternal drag after another.

You see my mother was very strict and proper, and she decided, soon after my birth, to ensure I never followed the outlandish path of my father. Curfew was instilled in me the day I left the crib. Sundown meant straight to bed, lights out, and no noise. I could play with friends, but only from after school 'til dinner time, five o-clock. She dressed me conservatively, short haircut, comfortable brown shoes probably designed by the Amish, and she only bought starched white shirts and permanent press gray or tan trousers. I was drilled in every pleasantry and courtesy, and learned manners fit for a duke. In religion she was a tad more flexible, Methodist or Southern Baptist. She took me to both every Sunday.

You begin to see my father was my only example of rebellion. After his death, mother threw out the TV and radios. She edited the newspaper with scissors. If I dared to cross my mom, she'd cross two lines on my butt! Father knew what he was doing when he stole me from my room late at night and sneaked me into an R rated movie. He wanted me to experience the things that normal kids find when they're not looking, weird corners of the universe. He took me to bars, (but he didn't let me drink). He showed me risqué, old french postcards, (but nothing showing pussy). He dragged me to his friend's house where rather wild parties would erupt, (but he made sure I was off limits.) I learned a lot about the life mother would never let me lead, with a respectable amount of restraint.

Unfortunately, neither mom or dad realized what their yin and yang influence would create. I can sum it up in two words: Frustrated Adventurer.

Why they didn't divorce or separate continues to puzzle me. I can only guess mom really believed in her marriage vows, death until they parted. I know now she was furious at him for exposing me to excessive behaviors, but she never contradicted him or argued with him. She was the perfect, obedient wife. As for father, I have to guess a little harder, but maybe mom was the best piece of ass he had ever encountered. If he had a fetish for women with girdles and wire bras, mom would be his goddess. I mean, look at her, my mom could have been a champion breeding mare for kings. She was elegant, stylish, and trim but full bodied. Her long hair signaled dark sensuality in a breeze, and passionate brown spice in a wind. Her face could bring back a thousand ships.

Pop died in mom's arms from a brain aneurism, dick in her pussy, snowy power dotted around his nostrils. I still imagine him cumming in her in a last effort to impregnate her chemically repressed womb. Mother naturally freaked out. Years after her husband's death, she still wore black and never dated. She hadn't loved her husband for most of my childhood, but the widow's godhead was a powerful station in life. She could live independently, act unquestioned in society, and be my mother warden full time.

In my eleventh year, my adolescent adoration of parental figures was down to the fumes. Normally, you need to be a teenager to experience angst's full power of domestic revolt, but I had two things to assist my transformation from child into underaged demon. First my growing deification of my memory of my father, and second, my growing hard-on.

I noticed the connection one day, when mother was in the backyard, hanging the wash. We had a washing machine but not a dryer in those days. I had turned eleven about four months prior, and I was handing her clothespins and helping raise the larger linens. A wind suddenly kicked up and knocked a quilt into my mother. She fell upon the grass and twisted her wrist. She yelped in pain, but stoic she was, she turned her pain into anger against herself.

"Foolish woman, can't keep to your feet!" And she abruptly punished herself by lifting herself to her feet using only her injured arm.

Standing next to her, I tried to assist her by grabbing her shoulder and lifting. All I managed to do was tug her black blouse and beige bra strap over her shoulder and down upon her arm, just as she was using it, most painfully, to regain her feet.

"Ow!", she yelled and fell back once more upon the grass.

I knelt to assist her.

"Calvin, don't touch me!" She muttered and held her re-injured wrist in her good hand. The pain diverted so much of her attention, she failed to notice the one thing that would have caused far greater distress.

Her left tit had fallen out of her blouse. Apparently when I helped raise her, I pulled her dress enough to snap two top buttons, and when she flounced back on the ground, the bra was pulled just far enough to jettison it's heavy but flexible cargo. My mother's tit spilled out of her dress like a sack of wine off a donkey cart.

I suppose most children, upon accidentally glimpsing a naked breast, would be more than a little curious about the sight. Even little girls might stare or even point, as children are always extraordinarily aware of everything different about adults. It's our most valuable tool for preparing ourselves to become them.

As for myself, I was flabbergasted! I had seen naked tits in the era of my father when I was seven years old, either in a film or casually at one of the wild parties he took me to. I originally reacted with the innocent curiosity I mention above. By my second year of exposure, curiosity had faded out of sufficient familiarity. However when I was eleven, the idea of a naked breast meant something all together new. It triggered a dozen, half memories of wanton women from dad's favorite R rated films. I had yet to see pussy, but tits were my ignorant idea of what sex was all about, hidden but plain to see. Just like the hard prick that was suddenly stuffed in my summer shorts. The concept matched my emotions of the time, powerful urges desperately kept in check out of fear.

I think my mother became aware of her bare breast and my jutting cock at the same time. She broke every expectation I'd learned about her when she shouted, "Go to your room and masturbate, why don't you!" She covered her exposed nipple with her elbow, but didn't otherwise try to replace the tit into her blouse. Her injured wrist must have been throbbing.

Naturally, I was incredibly timid about my mother's controlling power, and I hopped to, running straight into the house and down the hall to my room. I did not jack off. I knew mother hated the act, not that it normally stopped me, but on that day my guilt about it was too strong to overcome.