Chapter 3A

Two days passed before they painted again. They were long long days for both of them. Neither could get out of their minds the "relief" Valerie had provided that morning. After they broke for lunch that day Valerie ran errands, and she made a special effort to kiss her son goodbye on his cheek when she left. He slept, feeling completely relaxed for the first time in days. In the following days, both acted completely normally outside the studio. Valerie even had to scold him once for leaving his dirty clothes lying around in the bathroom.

Tuesday evening at supper she looked at Robby and asked if he had any homework that night.

"I have to write a poem for English" he said. "It's supposed to be free form, no rhyming or anything. I can't think of anything to write about. But that's all I have to do tonight." He leaned forward and anyone involved in psychology or the study of body language would have pointed at him and said "He's displaying extreme interest in what he thinks is going to happen next."

"Well, do you think you could give me an hour then, after you get your poem done?" Robby thought of what he could do ... with his mother ... for an hour and his prick stiffened. He also felt his cheeks get hot. "Um ... yeah, I could do that."

"Good, because ever since Saturday I've been wanting to do ... more."

Robby felt a little faint. "More." he repeated.

"Yes ... more." said his mother.

He got up and went to his room, where he tried to think about his homework assignment. How could he possibly write a poem when all he could think about was his mother's body? The curve of her breasts, with their up-looking nipples, looking like tiny ski jumps or something.

He stiffened. Wait a minute ... what if...

He sat down and picked up his pencil.

Thirty minutes later he laid the pencil down, undressed, put on his robe, and went to find his mother. She was in the living room, wearing her robe. This time it didn't bother Robby to see her in it.

"I'm done." he said. "We can paint now."

She got up and stretched. The robe was tied tightly, but her breasts thrust out, pushing the silk toward him. "What did you write your poem about?" she asked, as she began walking toward the studio.

"The woman." he said.

She stopped and turned around. "The woman who ... you think about when we paint?" She was looking at him through lowered lashes.

"Yes." he answered.

"I think I'd like to hear that poem. Would you read it to me?" She sounded uncertain, her voice husky.

"Yes." His voice was firm.

"Well then ... bring it with you." She turned and went on.

Robby already had it in the pocket of his robe. He followed her.

When he got to the studio she was already behind the easel, looking at the painting. He dropped his robe and went to stand by the column. The hair light was on, so he could see the words easily. She could also see that he was half erect easily.

"I thought of her tonight and ... remembered." he announced, naming the poem.

"I closed my eyes, but my vision failed to dim. She was there, standing ... and I could not un-see her. Her eyes, so dark, her skin so pale, her hair ... gossamer. She was the very picture of beauty.

She looked at me ... and I could not hide my faults. And yet, her eyes began to shine with the light of the stars. And she smiled. At me. For me. She loved me, and her open arms allowed me to love her back.

Her touch, feather light, hovering, unsure, but there, made passion bloom, like cactus after a rain, explodes into life. And I was consumed as if by the stars in her eyes, As if they came close and burned me to nothingness.

I thought of her tonight and ... remembered, the passion that changed my life forever. And if there never were another night like that, I should surely die a happy, happy man, floating through eternity in the stream of her love."

He felt empty when he was done. He'd never written anything like this before, and he wasn't sure at all that he'd done what he was supposed to. But he'd thought of the woman he loved, and written what he thought, or something like what he thought. The images and words had spilled onto the paper. The biggest problem he had was that he felt like he had to set the passionate incident at night. Morning sounded wrong somehow. In the end he just stood up and folded the paper, hoping for the best.

He was afraid to look at her. He felt a little silly.

But he was ROCK hard.

The emotion which Robby's 'poem' generated in his audience resulted in chemical changes within her body. Hormones were released into her bloodstream, and those effected parts of her body in various ways.

There were small unconscious tremors that took place. The tissues that lined her vagina became ultra sensitive. Her nipples puckered and then swelled as blood rushed to them. Her clitoris enlarged perceptibly and began to protrude from the skin that normally shielded it from direct stimulation. Her breathing rate increased, because more oxygenated blood was needed to service all the parts of her body that had suddenly awakened and needed that oxygen.

Coincident to all these things happening, the egg produced by her left ovary approached within an inch of her womb. It was now in reach of any sperm cells that might be present in that part of her body.

Valerie laid her paintbrush down. Her hand was trembling. She stared at the man her son had become.

Passion is an interesting thing because it is so nebulous. It's difficult to create passion intentionally. It can be allowed to happen, or a situation can be created where the potential for passion is high, but normally passion can't just be 'turned on'.

Normally.

And passion comes in different varieties. An erection is one type of passion, and that is passion in the 'here and now'. It is a clear and present sign that, at that moment, passion is present. Valerie knew that, and had responded to it when she took his erection in her mouth. That variety of passion could be ... and was ... consumed as they shared it between them.

But poetry such as Robby had written, regardless of the quality of the words, comes from a variety of passion that cannot be consumed, that, for all intents and purposes, flows in the body like blood, suffusing every part of it. It communicates, rather than acting and instead of abating with use, it grows until it fills the body to bursting. This type of passion has been known to drive men ... and women ... utterly mad.

It can also trigger the other variety of passion.