Chapter 3

All too soon, our little holiday came to an end. Going back to the house proved a difficult experience; although I didn't suffer actual panic attacks in my bedroom if Brandon was not around, it was no longer a place I felt really safe. Although I was no longer actually scared to sleep by myself, I still made a habit of invading my son's room and joining him in bed. I cursed myself for having bought him a Queen-sized bed; if he only had a single, like the ones at the hotel, I would have been able to cosy up to him much better. Still, I was at least able to press myself against him when he grew hard. God, I wanted him in me.

Following the advice of the Police Constable who took my final deposition, I went to see a counsellor. She was surprisingly perceptive, and noted my fidgeting and general anxiety; I was, however at least able to obfuscate the actual reason for my jumpiness; she put it down to lingering fear after what we came to call "the attack." I, of course, knew better; I spent every waking moment fantasising about my son. I knew it wasn't normal, wasn't right, but that sure and certain knowledge just made it all the more delicious, a secret ... secret love that I knew could never be.

For that, in truth, was what I felt; I loved him. And not in the manner of a normal mother, oh, no! In the manner of a woman and a man. I wanted him to protect me as I cared for him, to warm my bed, to prove his love for me on my body. I lost count of how many times I had sobbed myself to sleep knowing the impossibility of my dreams, or tried to work it out of my system by masturbating and imagining I was with someone, anyone else. It never worked, though; my thoughts always returned to Brandon, muscles rippling powerfully as he vanquished anything that threatened me.

After a few sessions with the counsellor that had not helped- and how could they, for I lied to her about the cause of my stress- she suggested that I try writing down my feelings and thoughts, then burn the letter to myself, symbolically ending that chapter of my life. She claimed it was a powerful tool, that organising my jumbled mind and emotions then destroying them would be cathartic; I had nothing to loose, and so I rose in the early hours of the night, went down to the kitchen table, and began to write in my flowing hand.

I hate this, I began. Ever since that morning, I can't get Brandon out of my head. Nobody's ever been willing to fight like that for me, put everything on the line for me. He was so strong, so brave, so handsome there- and he was naked. A mother should never see her son like that, not after he becomes a man. And oh, what a man! Big and strong, and not just in his physique!

I scribbled on and on, trying desperately to exorcise my fantasies by pinning them to paper, transferring them from ephemera to a physical form, one which I could then destroy. As I worked, I lost track of time; the sun had come up, and I was still unfinished, detailing how I wanted Brandon to run down the stairs even now, sweep me up in his arms, and ravish me on the table I sat at.

I startled at a sound behind me, realising with horror that it was Brandon! What if he saw what I had written? What would he think of me? I couldn't bear his rejection, I couldn't live without my son. I knew I would not have him as a lover, but to be denied that bond at least would be an unthinkable cruelty.

In my haste to conceal my writing, I made the critical error all furtive scribblers do; I attracted his attention to the pad, covered in my luridly detailed fantasies. "Whatcha workin'on?" He asked, peering over my shoulder.

"Err," I said cogently. "Nothing." He raised an eyebrow. I continued, desperately hoping to allay his suspicions. Suddenly, I seized on an inspiration. "A romance novel!" I blurted, certain that he would not be interested in a Mills and Boon weepie.

My heart plunged as he reached over my shoulder, fishing out the text. I was in too much shock, had too little control over the situation to prevent it. He began to read what I had written, every sordid little detail I had confessed. I felt naked, more exposed now than I had been after my assailant had stripped me of my clothes and my dignity.

"Bran-" I began. His eyes met mine for an instant, burning with an unreadable emotion. He held out one hand, palm out; I subsided, shrinking as he pored over my most intimate imaginings. Finally, he reached that damning final paragraph.

His eyebrows quirked again, and he folded the pad back. He waved it in front of me. "Did you really mean all this?"

Silence reigned. I thought my heart would surely give out as it jackhammered in my chest. Finally, I crumbled, breaking down in tears as I nodded. Brandon dropped down onto his knees in front of me, his concerned eyes meeting mine. "It's ... it's OK, mum. Well, it's a little weird, but it's OK."

He left me for a moment, going to get me a box of tissues. After I stopped crying, he held out his hand, waiting expectantly. I looked up at him stupidly, incomprehension clear on my blotchy face. He pursed his lips impatiently, then nodded towards the hallway. "C'mon, then."

I sat there, a deer trapped in the headlights. He couldn't really be suggesting ... could he? Hope flared anew. Hesitantly, I took his hand, and he pulled me to my feet. We walked quietly down the hall to my bedroom. My heart fluttered. I had to know.

"Brandon, are you sure?"

He simply gazed at me, looking at me for the first time as a woman instead of as his mother. His eyes took in my curves, assessing me with what seemed like clinical precision. I swallowed nervously, waiting for his answer. He said nothing, before dropping his gaze. I followed his eyes, which seemed to have settled on ... his crotch! Beneath it, I could see him stirring to life. For the first time in what felt like hours, I could breathe freely. I lunged at him, pulling him close as I stood on tip-toe to deliver a hungry kiss. He stood like a statue for long moments before finally responding, even going so far as to open his mouth and send his tongue, questing, into my own. It was bliss.