Man, I gotta tell you that it was so unfair, there I was, just an innocent really when someone beautiful was tearing my heart open with tears. All thoughts of ‘she can’t find out’ vanished and I found myself scooping her up and holding her against me in a long hug.
Between sobs, she was rambling about not being able to do anything right, and I for the second time that day, felt her breasts crushing against my chest. I held on though, while silently pleading that she would not discover my predicament.
“Guess this didn’t turn out to be the wedding night of your dreams, huh, mom,” I said, while stroking her back in my embracing hug. “Pity too, because dad would have melted seeing you in this.” To emphasize the last point, I tugged lightly on the satin robe and admittedly was thrilled, as a fraction of extra leg appeared.
There was suddenly silence. Her sobbing had stopped, along with the associated trembling, and then her hand curled around my ribs. “No,” she admitted, this wasn’t her dream but it’d do. I felt all warm inside hearing those words, and smiled as she seemed to nestle in. Neither of us spoke for the longest time, and the next thing I remember was waking up with mom using my thigh as a pillow.
My God she was beautiful. The robe had parted away from her legs and showed those white angelic stockings. I don’t know what it is about stockings in particular, but the sound, feel and sight always screamed sexy. Perhaps it was the defined boundaries with their wide dark band signalling the start or finish, or the way they tantalized with the forbidden patch of flesh just beyond. All I really knew was they drove me into a sexual frenzy, and ultra-sheer black are my favourite. White, though, added this almost-virginal innocence to the vision, which begged rules to be tossed out.
A tiny bit of bare thigh was just visible at the edge of the robe, and I wanted more. So, I looked at her contented features for signs of awareness. It seemed she was sleeping, so I lightly began caressing her side through the satin material, which glided unopposed. When I reached her hip, I circled back but made sure to add just a tiny bit of extra pressure in the turn, causing the robe to drag open, then fall back in place. It became an erotic duel. My hand urging it open, and gravity taking back every inch I had gained.
After a short while though, mom suddenly shifted; rolling slightly towards her back, exposing her pink bra-covered breasts and taking away my point of contact. If I were to have continued, I would have stroked from breast to hip, and honestly, I hadn’t the guts.
I spent the next few moments just admiring her beauty, scanning along her body at the curves and swells, before falling into the vulnerability of her face. Her features were at peace, comforting, yet mesmerizing, too. You just wanted to kiss those lips, stroke her hair and get lost.
I think I may have realized I was in love with her when, suddenly, a leg bent at the knee and my gaze shifted. I watched as the robe just fell away exposing her thighs and matching pink panties. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, I was lost until an idea came to mind and I followed through, before conscience or doubt took hold. I took out my phone and slowly scanned her body in slo-mo movie mode. I needed to preserve this moment forever.
I started at the fuzzy, fur-topped mules, then worked my way up the shin and knee, pausing only a moment, to widen the view. I needed to be sure to capture the bent leg, creamy thighs and pantied triangle in all their splendor. As I moved up the leg, it slowly started to part as if on cue, accenting the silken thighs and garter straps. From there, I moved up further, over her exposed abs and ribs to the pink-capped mountains sporting hard, exotic nipples. Finally, I scanned along the neck, lips and open eyes.
Shit!
I had not realized it at the time, but all through my desire, my cock had responded and grown hard beneath her head. I guessed in hindsight that it caused her to awaken, but no matter, I was caught.
Her reaction, though, came as quite the surprise, for she reached up past my cell to grab me by the back of my head. She held it there a moment, then pulled until my lips met her own. The kiss was long and filled with passion, and when it finally broke, she sat up and just said, “Thank you.”
There was no admonishment, no demands to delete the video– just a thank you. I watched in silent disbelief, as she stood, adjusted her robe to a proper decorum, then left for the bedroom. I’ll admit that for a tiny moment, I expected to find her in my bed and although this was not the case, it didn’t prevent me from satisfying the frazzled nerves this day had produced.
For the next week, I didn’t get to see either mom or dad as they left for their honeymoon the next morning, but that didn’t mean it was without incident. I was left in charge of moving mom’s stuff from her apartment to home, so that when they returned, it would all be done. For the first few days, it went well, too. I packed up the kitchen and living rooms, and shifted about sixty percent of the furniture. My real troubles came when I started on her bedroom, for I got lost in her scent and the daydreams of a testosterone-fueled youth. I spent hours jerking off to the video of her wedding night, while lying on her bed, and a few times, I found myself cumming with her name on my lips.
After that, while moving her dresser, I found an old journal which I shamefully read. Oh it wasn’t an instant thing, though. I opened it at first, to figure out if it was financials, or recipes, etc. so I would know where it belonged. Then, I found it was a collection of stories, and after several pages, learned it was an actual journal from when she had been my age.
It told of her struggles, her life and of day-to-day thoughts, but it also told of love and fantasies. Her love was a school chum named Stan Danialson (Stanial). They had gone together since secondary school, and spoke of first kisses, hopes and dreams. I felt like a voyeur reading these passages, but couldn’t put the darned thing down.
Sadly, I spent a lot of time trying to find more volumes both at her apartment and in our home. Although I didn’t find any more, I did find something just as insightful mixed amongst my dad’s things.
It was a large brown envelope from some lawyer. I recall, even today, my joy and regret at having opened it, for inside was The Lie!
There, in black and white, were official papers announcing my adoption, but there was more than that. There were newspaper clippings of a stolen child, of the search and of tragic suicide. There were other stories, too; of other children from other states, some found but most not. There was a particular story of a man who found and turned in an abandoned child, and of his legal fight to adopt should parents not be found.
Perhaps I jumped to conclusions, or just became overwhelmed by the plain fact I had been lied to my entire life; I cannot say, but the truth was– I freaked out. I pieced together the newspaper stories like the creation of Frankenstein’s monster, telling how a four-day-old child had been stolen from his parents. How the search began locally and focused on the dad, suggesting he might have murdered the unwanted child. When pressure and accusation became too much, he took his own life and later, how evidence proved he was not involved. I continued to lay it out about how the search widened across the state and pieced together, or invented, how that child then was discovered half-a-nation away, and turned into the authorities some nine months later. I ended my creation by fitting in how the kidnappers then fought for the right to adopt this foundling as their legal child, and how during the arduous process, the wife died of cancer.
All the stories of my life, all my beliefs were shattered. My mom never died when I was young. My dad’s wife had, indeed, died but even that was two years before I was handed over to him. At the moment, I was a lost youth. Kidnapped and kept tortured with lies. I could not express the anger and rage that permeated every atom of my soul, and could only thank the heavens I had three days to stew on it.
Over that period, I used the internet to learn more about the children in each of the news stories, about their families and any updates. I pieced together similarities, and methods or executions, in the taking of children; people, places, etc. and concluded this was a serial crime. The perpetrators had done this more than once, and although I could have been one of the victims, there was no proof.
I learned too of my dad and his cancer-ridden wife, who longed for a child of their own, but because of fate and her condition, could not. My parents, though, were a total mystery and the one I was given to labeled me unworthy of true parents of the truth or of being loved. Even my own birthday was made up, based on a doctor’s estimate and my dad’s desire. I was, in fact, a nobody.
When at last they returned, my anger had lessened to a manageable level, but still, I was cold to my dad. On top of the aforementioned slight on my status, mom had a very bad sunburn that dad had let happen and seemed reticent to acknowledge. I did what I thought was right– I cared for mom.
Dad, meanwhile, had returned to work, but I stayed home from school and followed standard care. This entailed her taking frequent cool baths and although the initial attempts were painful and embarrassing, we got past that. We agreed she would be topless but retain her panties as a modesty gesture; water did little to hide the truth, but I said nothing.
I would prepare the water, escort her to the tub in just a towel and panties, then help lower her into place. When she was ready, I would return and lightly pat dry her back before wrapping her vanity towel around her near nakedness, then escort her back to bed. I would have aspirin and water ready for the pain and once they kicked in, I applied an aloe vera lotion.
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