Chapter 1

I hummed to myself as I dusted my bedroom. It wasn't dirty; it was simply a weekly routine, a prelude to the vacuuming. In the bathroom behind the wall in front of me, the water stopped running; my son, back home from his football training, had complained of muscle stiffness, and he had been in there for over half an hour. I suspected that it wasn't the only kind of stiffness he was trying to attend to in there, but I knew it was normal for a young man his age to be like that.

The next sound I heard was that of breaking glass; the new neighbours had proven painful, their children insisting on using a cricket ball rather than a tennis one for their backyard games. Despite remonstrating with them frequently, I knew it would only be a matter of time before they broke a window. I sighed, my shoulders slumping at the thought of picking up the pieces. I had a hate-hate relationship with glass; any time it was broken, and no matter how careful I was in cleaning it up afterwards, I would invariably wind up with a shard in my foot.

Making a face, I dropped the feather duster and trooped off to the kitchen to check. I made it as far as the hallway before gasping in shock; it was not my son, but a man wearing a balaclava! He held a long, ugly knife in one hand, one like the cowboys always had in the Westerns my son loved to watch. He held it menacingly, eyes blazing with murderous intent. I scrambled backwards, trying to get away; he lunged, grabbing one of my flailing arms.

"Quiet, bitch!" He hissed, alcohol-fuelled breath making me feel nauseous. Twisting my arm until tears welled in my eyes, he marched me back into my bedroom, holding the knife to my throat. I swallowed dryly, terrified of what he might he do. Without warning, he kicked my legs out from underneath me, sending me crashing to the floor.

"Strip!" he roared, waving the knife at me. Oh God, I thought, as my silent tears became quiet sobs. Not this, not ... not... I couldn't even begin to think the word, but I knew what he wanted. Every woman's worst nightmare. He kicked me, hard, in the face; stars exploded, and I tasted blood where I had bitten my tongue. Praying that my son would have heard what was happening by now, I slowly complied, trying to draw things out. It didn't work; snarling, the thug wrenched me around painfully by my hair, the knife slicing through my cotton shift as he got me up on all fours. At home and not expecting guests, I had elected to go braless, the summer heat impacting greatly on the choice. Instead, a pair of panties were the only things protecting what remained of my modesty, and he quickly cut those away, too. I could hear the clinking as he clumsily unbuckled his belt and unzipped, the knife biting painfully into the base of my throat.

I wept, bracing myself for the violation to come. It never did. Instead, I heard a fearsome roar from behind me, followed by a series of thumps and oofs of pain. The thug barrelled past me, my son in hot pursuit. Suddenly, it occurred to my would-be rapist that he was the one with a weapon; he spun back to face Brandon, knife poised to strike. Time slowed to a stop as he lunged forward.

I scrabbled backwards, curling up in a ball as far away from the fight as I could get, crossing my legs and holding my arms across my breasts to cover my nakedness. The knife glittered evilly in the morning light, descending with torturous slowness. Brandon caught it with his left forearm, the blade plunging through between his radius and ulna. Berserk, he turned it to his advantage, wrenching his arm violently away, tearing the knife from the intruder's grip. He followed up with another primal, bloody roar, lashing out with a powerful kick that sent the black-clad bastard flying backwards, crashing through the glass sliding doors that opened from my room onto the patio. With a quick backwards glance, he set off at pace, jumping the back fence and disappearing.

As he'd struck out with that front-kick, the towel that had been wrapped around Brandon's waist had fallen loose. I watched on, idly realising I was in shock as his chest heaved whilst he came down from the killing edge and turned towards me. Absently, I noted his impressive size and girth, comparing them to the last penis I had seen; Brandon had managed to wheedle me into going to see Watchmen with him, and I had been at first mortified and then entranced by the mighty blue wang of Doctor Manhattan.

Coming to a halt in front of me, he crouched down, resting his injured arm across his knees and bringing my chin up with his right hand. Blood oozed around the knife blade, slowly forming red drops that ran down his arm and leg, staining the white carpet of my bedroom floor. I realised he was saying something, though it sounded like he was talking under water in this endless, hellish moment. As he shook me, I snapped back abruptly into real time.

"-ou OK, mum?"

I broke down in tears, nodding. I was desperate for comfort, and despite our naked states I latched onto him. I must have jarred his arm, for he grunted in pain, flinching away from me. Drawing back slightly, I looked down to where the knife showed, reaching to pull it out. He moved quickly, stepping back. "No, mum. Stuff like this, you've gotta leave in. They'll take care of it at the hospital."

Hospital, yes. My mind fuzzily chewed on the problem at hand. As I clawed my way free of my funk, I realised I was standing naked in front of my son, breasts heaving with each rapid, panting breath I took. Down below, I had prepared for the beach season by having my pubic hair waxed; I was acutely aware that my son, even now, could look upon the place that had ushered him into the world. I blushed, trying to cover up; as I did so, he seemed to notice his own nakedness, and bent to collect his towel. Although it was absurd- taboo, even- I watched as his glorious manhood swung with each step, and was disappointed as he hid it beneath his towel. Turning back to me, he lofted my dressing gown towards me; he watched as I put it on, obviously unwilling to leave me alone in case our attacker returned.

Clothed as best we could, we set about calling the emergency services. I followed Brandon's directions, wrapping an old towel around his arm and compressing it slightly to slow the bleeding. He insisted he was fine, that it didn't hurt, but I was beside myself, fretting over him to take my mind off what had so very nearly happened to me. At that thought, I felt guilty; nothing had happened to me, after all. Sure, some scumbag had gotten an eyeful of me from behind, but Brandon had been willing to risk life and limb in my defence.

Outside, sirens wailed; the Ambulance had, at long last, arrived. I helped Brandon to stand, after he wobbled uncertainly at his first attempt, and got him to the waiting emergency vehicle. We raced to the local Hospital; the Ambulance officers inserted a saline IV and some quick injections to help mitigate my daring son's blood loss. Everything unfolded in a flurry; the Casualty Ward doctors ushered me out of the room whilst they worked. I nervously tapped my feet, staring at the flimsy curtain that separated me from my brave protector.