Destiny's Child

Part 1

I am writing this down because I need to get it off my chest, and hopefully, someone out there can offer some advice. My life is complicated; it is based on a lie, love, and a secret, but to explain I’ll have to go back…

As a kid, I suppose, I led a fairly typical life. My mom had died before I could remember, so it was just my dad and I until I was about seven. It had never occurred to me that dads dated, and until I actually had a mom, I never knew what I had missed. Oh sure, I had some basic idea what with interactions around friends and their moms, but actually having your own is quite exceptional.

So anyway, at around the age of seven, I discovered my dad was actually dating, and for anyone who has gone through that, you can attest to how strange and unnatural it seemed. First, they were casually introduced; it was daddy’s friend. Then slowly, they became more and more involved, until eventually, you saw them every day. Naturally, he went through several lady friends before settling, and so it seemed so odd when one morning, I woke up to find her in my kitchen in a robe and slippers.

She was sort of shy and uneasy when she saw me, but I just took it as dad’s friend after a sleepover. She made breakfast for us all, and did the clean up afterwards (although I did bring the dirty dishes in from the dining room.) Later, when she started giving presents for my birthday or Christmas, it seemed like I hit the lottery jackpot. 

Funny how kids can be bribed. It would start out with extra gifts or things, and you didn’t realize how you were slowly squeezed out of the focus. Like when I was around sixteen, I noticed the three of us had begun a ritual of sharing holidays. Not just the high holidays though, but the summer getaways, as well. Those special days where we would go fishing and camping, cabin in the mountains, Disneyland and even on a cruise. I never noticed or realized that they’d prearranged activities for me to do without them, or in age-appropriate groups.

They would tell me they were going shopping or wanted to just relax and talk, which I knew was boring, so I didn’t mind taking part in rock-climbing walls, ATV excursions, ziplining, shooting ranges (both guns and bows), zorbing, or fishing, without them. I was noticing and interested in girls, too. Outings to carnivals, fairs, or large shopping malls with old folks just cramped my style, so I let them go at their own pace, and I enjoyed.

Along came the fateful day that dad would take me aside and ask how I’d feel about her joining our family permanently, about having a real mom and I would realize dad was in love. So I got all dressed up in a monkey suit, smiling, happy, and a bit excited. Mom looked amazing in this sweeping-off-the-shoulder gown, and I told her so, but something in my words made her cry.

I tried to comfort her, by hugging her close, told her I was sorry, but I couldn’t help but feel the comforting warmth, as her breasts crushed against my chest. My hand stroked up her back to feel her glorious nakedness, and suddenly I was struggling with feelings. 

She was telling me she’s sorry, it was not my fault, but her hand was playing in my hair, and then we were kissing. I went too far, and my hand slid down the front of her gown. It was cupping her bare breast, with its nipple hard and begging for attention. Her breath was hot in my ear, and I heard the soft moan, “Oh, Stanial.”

Then we were back, both pulling away from each other, and spouting apologies. A sudden knock on the door saying they were ready didn’t allow time or room for explanation, so I smiled weakly and the wedding carried on.

It was a grand affair and I got to share in the activities. I had wine with dinner (only a small glass) and champagne for a toast. I brought a date that I kissed and fondled behind the bandstand, but my heart wasn’t in it. I kept thinking about mom, about her beauty, warmth and softness. Perhaps, my date realized this, for that was the last I saw of her. 

My parents drank too much, I saw it, knew it, and sinfully cheered, for it. I knew or professed to know that in that act, they wouldn’t be having relations tonight. Later, I was asked to drive them home, the designated responsible one, and bore witness to dad fumbling in the dark as drunk, horny men do.

I had to watch as he kissed her; not tenderly like she deserved, but with sloppy, wet sounds. I watched as a hand stole beneath her gown, and as her legs squirmed, until stocking tops appeared. She screeched and moaned and giggled, shifting and moving, as though the seat was covered in oil, telling him he was being naughty, and to wait, but did little to stop him. 

Then before he could get inside her panties, she looked directly at my reflection in the rearview mirror. It was such an odd look, as though she was checking to see if I was watching. A few minutes later, we arrived and they piled out of the car on unsteady limbs. 

Stumbling up the stairs, dad was still all boisterous, as he slurred how he was going to rock her world, yet that only lasted until about two-thirds the way up. He stumbled and dropped a few steps, while she giggled and chased after him. Then I, the young, envious, responsible one, made sure they got safely to the bedroom before slumping outside their door to listen for a while. 

Recalling my actions, I guess I really was envious, but judging by the sounds behind that door, dad either couldn’t perform, or was a lousy lover. Ultimately, I gave up my post and retired for the night.

A while later, there came a knock on my door and it was mom. She swayed back and forth in my doorway, as she asked what I was doing. Just watching TV came my response, to which she said, “Good, because we need to talk about what happened at church.”

Damn! I swore to myself; I had truly hoped this was behind me. 

Well you can probably guess what happened, but I’ll tell you anyway. Mom came in a bit unsteady on her feet, and plopped down on my bed. For just a moment, she bounced at the give in the mattress, and I enjoyed the reciprocal bounce of her breasts. I knew I was not supposed to look or notice these things, but I was eighteen and had one of those globes in my hand several hours ago. 

Then came the deadly silence. She was just looking at me, judging me or maybe analyzing my intent, before reaching out and placing a hand on my arm. I jumped as it made contact, but her eyes never left my own, before taking on a questioning expression. Her lips parted and she said, “Stanial, you’ve come back to me.”

I recall my moment of confusion, before my lips responded, “Hey mom, are you okay?” Then her hand trembled and she looked deeply into my eyes.

“Oh, Des,” (yeah that’s right my name is Desmond so go ahead get your jokes out) she began, “I’m so sorry, I… I better go.”

It was so strange and it felt like she was in pain. I knew dad was in no condition to comfort her, so I made an effort. “Hey, mom,” I offered, in my most upbeat voice, “it’s okay. You and dad had a lot to drink, and that clouds thinking. How about you just join me on the sofa to watch a movie for a while. I am sure you could use the company and an understanding shoulder. Besides, then I can brag about spending the night with an exotic fox.” I made a little rolling ‘Rrrr’ sound, which put a tiny smile on her lips.

I recall how she patted me on the thigh, and wished me a goodnight, as she stood and walked away. She seemed better somehow, and quite a bit more stable, so I let it be. After that, I went to the kitchen to grab a snack, then settled in on the living room sofa. 

I had the TV on, although I was not sure what was playing because I couldn’t focus on that story over my own. I had gotten closer to my mom, had kissed her, felt her breast, saw her thighs and comforted her in a moment of need. She was… I wasn’t sure. 

Did all boys feel this way about their moms? I had never had one, so this could be normal, but then again, she was beautiful– short, well rounded and soft as a kitten, with hot, exciting breasts and a tight, round ass. I wondered was I interested in her as a sexual conquest? Was this just how boys felt about their moms, or was I mixing things up? 

I tried going over what I knew about her and about moms, so that in my head I could resolve my dilemma, but I kept focusing on how she looked and felt. That first morning, she was in the kitchen when I woke up. The first day, she came out of a tent in a T-shirt but no bra. There were hundreds of little things I had all but forgotten, but now begged the question, why did I remember in the first place. 

My reverie was broken in mid-thought, as mom tussled my hair and plunked down beside me. “Hey, Des. Guess I couldn’t sleep, mind if I join you?”

Startled, I nearly jumped out of my skin, which of course, made me bang my shin against the coffee table. The short scream and scramble to hold it, had mom reacting, too. Instantly, she was beside me on the sofa taking my leg in her hands. 

I’d like to say I noticed the way my foot had accidentally kicked open the bottom part of her robe but I didn’t. I was aware of the satin robe, though; of the warmth of her hands and how when they touched me, it was like an electrical storm had touched off on my nerves. 

Mom had done a cursory examination, then brought the calf to her lips for a gentle kiss, but kissing a young man was not like kissing a toddler’s booboo.

The sensation rocketed through me in this odd mixture of pain and excitement. My hand, which was on her shoulder, squeezed at the pain, causing the upper robe to part as the material crumpled. My eyes saw the pink lace bra appear and my manhood responded.

Quickly, I tried to recover, jerking into a stiff-backed sitting position, then said, “It’s okay, mom.” The motion, along with her hold on my thigh though, toppled her over onto my lap. Then, as I desperately tried to extricate myself, before she discovered my growing excitement, she started crying.