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An Erotic Fantasy from the pen of BarondeSade... Part One (The Seed) Today was the day. He had finally made up his mind early that morning as he lay in bed thinking of his mother. He had decided, now was the time. After school and work, he would put the plan into motion. As he walked home from work, a gentle mist cooled his face but did nothing to calm the burning ache in his belly. The aromatic smell of burning wood filled the air, hinting at the nearness of Christmas, but he barely noticed it. His thoughts were on his mother, Ella. It seemed that he could think of little else but her lately, except for his own irrepressible hunger for her. Shivering in the cold dampness, he reviewed his plan to exorcise the demon that was possessing his mother. While, at the same time, he fought to control the flood of hormones that raged through his bloodstream. His mother's depression was growing worse, it seemed. When she wasn't working at the bank, she slept. While she seemed rational when she was awake, she spent more and more time curled up in her bed sleeping. She was growing more and more depressed for some reason. He could see it in her hollow, sunken eyes. She seemed to be haunted by something. Something she couldn't face. So, she chose to escape from it in sleep. Her bout with depression was forcing him to devote more and more of his time and effort to maintaining some semblance of family life. As he spent more and more time cleaning, cooking, and working, he had less and less time to seek an outlet for his overpowering need for sexual fulfillment. He hadn't had sex in over three months and he was in desperate need of relief. Masturbation took some of the edge off the gnawing craving, but it left him feeling unfulfilled and empty. This was his state of mind. An eighteen year old male, at the peak of his sexual need, denied release by his mother's helplessness. Out of this famine of carnal gratification came the idea. He had dismissed it as indecent and disgusting at first. But the more he thought about it, the better it sounded. Finally, he was almost obsessed with it. If she had been happy, none of it would have happened. He could remember back when she had been happy, before his father had been killed in a car accident. Brent had been five when that tragedy had struck. Then, she had been happy again after Todd came along. So happy, she had married him. The happiness lasted for a while, but things slowly began to fall apart until finally, two years ago, he had left. Ella, only forty at that time had slowly drifted into a state of walking depression. She continued to work at the Interstate Bank, as a teller. But it seemed to be taking more and more of her energy just to maintain the pretense of wellness. It seemed as if some evil demon was gnawing at her insides, consuming more and more of her essence. Her reserves had been drawn down to a dangerous level. Now, when she wasn't working, she was sleeping. Brent had tried everything to pull her out of the doldrums, but nothing worked. Then he had found the letter. Looking for her keys one day, he had stumbled on the crumpled letter in the bottom of her purse. The letter was from the bank that gave her thirty days to improve, or she would be fired. That had been a week ago, and instead of inducing her to improve, she had only slipped deeper into the darkness of her depression. Something drastic was called for. Something to shock her out of her depression. That was why he had finally decided to take such a grave step. Arriving at the small, two bedroom apartment they shared, Brent slipped inside and pulled off his slicker. Taking it into the bathroom, he shook it out and hung it up to dry. Opening the medicine cabinet, he took down his mother's bottle of sleeping pills. Twisting the cap off, he poured two of the tiny, white tablets out into his palm. Then, he closed the bottle and put it back in the cabinet. Going back into the kitchen, he sat down at the table and carefully ground the two tablets into a fine powder. Finally, he removed the cork of the bottle of Merlot that sat on the table. Slowly, he drizzled the powder down into the remaining wine. There was only three or four glasses left in the bottle as he gently twirled it around to mix the powder into the wine. Finished, he set the bottle aside and got up. Going to the cabinet, he set about preparing supper. He had decided on a pasta with a delicate red sauce, bread, and wine. A repast that would be light, yet filling. Soon, there was a saucepan of red sauce bubbling on the stove. As it simmered, it sent fragrant spumes of steam into the air, filling the kitchen with its savory aroma. Getting a large pot out, he filled it with water and turned the gas on under it. Setting the dry pasta by it, he opened the freezer and pulled out half of a loaf of French bread. Popping it into the microwave, he nuked it until it was soft and flaky. Cutting it into slices, he spread butter and garlic over it. He quickly slipped it into the oven and then set the table. Now everything was ready. Glancing down at his watch, he saw that it was five-thirty. His mother would be home in thirty minutes. More or less. Getting a bottle of white zinfandel out of the refrigerator, he poured himself a glass. The apartment had a small fireplace, but they rarely used it because of the cost of firewood. But tonight, he had splurged and bought a bundle of firewood out of his wages from working at the grocery store. Mrs. Cline had sensed that tonight was somehow special and had even given him a discount on the wood. There was enough wood to last for three or four hours, more than enough time for what he had planned. Taking some of the wood out of the bundle, he crumpled paper under it and soon had a cheery little fire going in the small fireplace. Just about everything was ready and in place. All he needed now was the key player in the melodrama. The heroine. Walking over to the window, Brent parted the curtain ever so slightly. Looking out into the growing darkness, he waited, slowly sipping on the glass of wine. The soft drizzle still fell, giving everything a fuzzy, out of focus surrealism. It was curious, but their roles had somehow gotten reversed. Standing looking out the window, he envisaged himself as a parent waiting for his child to return from a date. Would she be late? How had it gone? Had she gotten into more trouble? Would she be grumpy when she got home? Maybe something had happened to drive her out of her depressed state. Finally a small, diminutive figure rounded the corner. It was his mother. Huddled against the cold and drizzle, she slowly made her way up the street toward their apartment. The way she walked, Brent knew that nothing had changed. She reminded him of a whipped dog, slinking home with her tail between her legs. She looked beaten and cowed as she slowly trudged up the street. A tear trickled down his cheek as he watched her. He loved her so much. He would do anything to make her happy, again. Anything. He couldn't explain the feeling in his heart. It ached. Seeing her so depressed was almost too much to bear. Finally, he wiped the tear away and turned away from the window. What kind of god would put her through this, he wondered as he skulked over to the stove. Picking up the pasta, he dumped it into the boiling water. Then, putting on a fake smile, he turned and faced the door. He heard the rattle of her keys in the lock and then the door slowly opened. "Oh, Brent, Baby, I am so happy to see you," she smiled tiredly when she saw him standing at the stove. "I missed you, too, Mom," he smiled back at her stepping over and helping her out of her coat. "What a day," she complained, as Brent carried her soaked coat into the shower. "I'm sorry you had such a bad day," he yelled as he hung her coat by his slicker. "God, you don't know how wonderful it feels to be with someone who cares about you," she told him as he came back into the kitchen. Before he had a chance to do anything, she took him in her arms and gave him a long, affectionate hug. "Thank you for being here for me," she whispered to him, "sometimes I think you are the only thing keeping me from going crazy." "Aw, Mom," he blushed, "you know I love you." "Yes, I do," she smiled, stepping back away from him. "And I love you, too." "And you know that I would do anything to make you feel better," he said emphatically. "Anything!" "Oh, Honey, you are such an angel," she murmured, "but, you didn't have to fix supper." "Mom," he grumbled, "you know I fix supper for you every night. You work hard at your job." "But what about your life?" she asked him tiredly, walking over to the sink and turning on the water, "Don't you think I want you to have a life, too?" "Don't worry about me, Mom." As she stood at the sink washing her hands, Brent wanted to take her in his arms and just hold her. Tell her that everything would be okay. He would take care of her. All she needed to do was get over her depression. "In fact, since you are so worried about my social life," he laughed deceitfully, "I have a planned a grand evening for us." "Oh," she smiled again, turning and facing him as she dried her hands Her face, usually pale and drawn, was flushed from her walk home in the rain. "What kind of plans?" "Pasta, some bread, a little wine," he said with a flourish, pointing to the stove. "And then you can sit in front of the fire while I give you a massage." "Thank you. That sounds divine, if only," she said, her voice trailing off as she gazed at him. "If only what?" he laughed innocuously. "If only I could find a man that was as caring and considerate as you," she said softly, "I would marry him in a heartbeat." "Why?" he asked, "when you have me." "Yes, but," she trailed off again. "But, what?" "Nothing, I was foolish to even think it." "What?" "Nothing, dear, but one day you are going to make some woman an absolutely wonderful husband." "Oh, really?" "Yes, and I can only wish that I could find someone as caring and sensitive as you." "You will, Mom, just you wait and see." "Sure," she smiled bitterly, "I am sure I will." "You'll see," he said. "Supper will be ready when you are," he told her walking over to the stove and stirring the sauce. "Give me a few minutes to catch my breath," she sighed, turning and looking out the window at the soft, gentle rain falling outside. Brent stood at the stove watching her as he stirred the bubbling sauce. Her beautiful and shapely legs arched down below the short skirt she wore. Her legs were made for high heels, he thought admiring them. While she stood only five-foot four or five in heels, her striking legs gave one the impression she was much taller. Long and sculptured, they seemed to go on forever before they disappeared up under the hem of her skirt. As he stood appreciating the beauty of her legs, she unbuttoned her double breasted suit jacket and stepped back away from the sink. "I'm going to freshen up a little before supper," she smiled, reaching up to the tight bun of hair sitting atop her head. "Sure," he smiled, watching her walk across the room and listening to the clack of her high heels on the linoleum. His eyes quickly found the soft swell of her smallish breasts jutting out against the white satin material of her blouse as she walked toward him. He watched them jiggle softly with each step as she held her arms up and ran her hands through her short, brown hair. Like a cat, small and slinky, she swished by him. As she did, his eyes dipped down to the pleasing swell of her hips. Now the air around him was filled with the seductive fragrance of her enticing perfume as he watched her walk away. Full and rounded, her hips swayed gently from side to side. She filled out her skirt beautifully, he lecherously thought to himself. Turning his attention back to the twisting, churning pasta, he watched it for several moments. It reminded him of his state of mind. Flustered, he wondered if he should go on. Was he going crazy? Maybe he was the one with the real problem, not her. But he knew inside, the predicament they were in involved both of them. He had to do something to stop the death spiral he and his mother were caught up in. Something had to be done. Stirring the sauce, he wondered. Was there another way? Another way to solve their dilemma? She sounded so lonely. But her definition of lonely might be different from his. To him, lonely meant the absence of sharing sex with someone. Probably from the female side, loneliness probably meant the lack of someone to talk to, no one to share things with, and no companionship. But, he was there for her. He was there for her to talk to, share things with and be with, so there had to be more to her loneliness. Maybe she needed the intimacy of another kind of love, a different love than the one they now shared. A true intimacy that could only come when two people shared everything with each other. Even their bodies. He and his mother loved each other. About this, there was no doubt. But could they share this final bond? Would it fuse their souls into a marriage of love, or would it tear them apart? He had always felt their love could transcend any adversity, but he was dangerously putting it to the ultimate challenge. "I'm back," he heard her say. Startled out of his reverie, he turned and saw her standing by the table. She had taken off her suit jacket and her heels. She looked like a little child standing there all alone and lost. "Feels good to be home," she smiled. "Good to have you home, too," he bubbled. "Have a seat and I'll serve you." "You are such a darling," she smiled, sitting down and pouring herself a glass of the tainted wine. "Whatever would I do without you?" "Maybe you'll never have to find out," he said almost under his breath, knowing that the inference might be too obvious. "Promises, promises," she sighed, quickly gulping down the glass of wine. Brent felt a finger of fright tickle his belly as he watched her refill her glass. What if she fell asleep at the table? "Uh, Mom, take it easy on the wine or you won't enjoy supper." "Okay," she murmured. He quickly set her plate of pasta in front of her. He saw her smile and look down at the plate of pasta with little tufts of steam rising from it. Happy to see she was pleased, Brent quickly fixed his own plate and sat down with her. "Aren't you hungry?" he asked as he watched her daintily pick at her dish. "I'm sorry, Hon," she murmured softly, "I'm just not hungry. And after you went to all this trouble." "That's okay," he told her, refilling her glass with wine. "I'm really such a waste," she whimpered. ""Oh, hush. You go in and enjoy the fire while I clean up," he smiled. "You are a darling," she sighed, slowly getting up and tiredly padding out of the kitchen in her stocking feet. He quickly cleared the table and stuffed the leftovers into the refrigerator. Then, picking up the almost empty bottle of merlot, he joined his mother in the living room. "Oh, my Baby is here," she smiled sleepily as he sat down beside her on the couch. "Are you okay?" "Just a little sleepy, is all." "Well, why don't you just relax and I'll rub your feet." "Love to." He gently lifted her feet up into his lap. He began to gently rub and massage her small, soft feet as she stared longingly into the fire. Listening to the faint crackle and pop of the wood in the fireplace, he reveled in the feel of his fingers gliding over the soft silkiness of her hose. "Here, Mom, finish the last of the wine," he told her as she took the last sip from her glass. "Kay," she agreed. Tipping the bottle up, he emptied it into her glass. "Tastes good," she cooed tipsily. Slowly rubbing her feet, Brent felt the muscles in her legs slowly relaxing. "Don't spill the wine," he warned her as he saw her head begin to nod. "Won't." "Drink it all up, Mom," he urged her, seeing her head nod a second time. "Huh, uh, okay," she mumbled sleepily, turning the glass up and draining it. Most of the wine went into her mouth, but some of it spilled out and dripped down her chin onto her white satin blouse. "Whoops," she laughed drunkenly. "Give me the glass, Mom," he told her, reaching over and taking it from her. "And I'm going to take your blouse off, so I can soak it in water. You don't want it to get stained." "Kay," she mumbled almost incoherently. Then, breathlessly he flicked open the snaps running down the front of her blouse and deliberately spread the white satin blouse open. Below it, a frilly, lace brassiere covered her breasts. Her breasts, soft and white were girdled inside a lacy white demi-bra. The brassiere cradled the base of her breasts, forcing the soft, pliant flesh up and together. The flowery design on the bra stopped just above her areolas, leaving the sloping swell of the top of her breasts bare. "Tank ya," she garbled, as he slowly peeled her blouse back over her shoulders. "Its okay, just relax and I'll be right back," he told her, getting up and heading into the kitchen with her soiled blouse dangling from his fingers. He quickly filled the sink with cold water and dropped the blouse down into the water, then rushed back into the living room. "Back," he smiled, seeing that she had her eyes closed and her head leaning against the back of the couch. "Kay." Brent sat down and began gently rubbing her feet again. This went on for several minutes until he heard her mumble. "So Lonely," she mumbled as her chin slowly nodded down onto her chest. "Mom," he said, "can you hear me?" There was no response from her this time. "Mom, can you hear me?" he said, in a louder voice, gently shaking her shoulder as he spoke. There was still no response from her. "MOM, CAN YOU HEAR ME? Nothing. Slowly, he moved his hand up her leg. Over the slight knob of her ankle. Nothing. Up the tapered swell of her calf. Still no movement from her. His fingers delicately skimmed over her knee, but still she didn't move. Then he tickled the sole of her foot with his other hand. She was always ticklish there, but now it had no effect. She was definitely out of it. Slowly, Brent eased out from under her feet, easing them back down onto the couch. Picking up his glass of wine, he took a sip as he walked over to the window. Looking out, he saw that the misty rain had given way to fog. He could scarcely see across the street now. The whole world seemed to be was closing in on him. Standing there, looking out into the blurred night, he wondered if it was an omen. Everything in his life now seemed fuzzy and out of focus. What was he doing? He knew that he was about to do something he could never recant. Once he had stepped over the line, he was doomed to the fate he had chosen. No one could ever expunge the act from their past. The fever in his mind was burning out of control and the fire in his loin raged higher and higher. Tossing the last swallow wine down, he turned and looked at his mother sprawled out on the couch. In his eyes, she was the most beautiful woman in the world. But then again, the raging craving for her clouded his eyes. In sleep, her cherubic face didn't show the lines of stress that were there when she was awake. Now she seemed at peace with her world. His feet felt like they were nailed to the floor. Straining, he was finally able to take a step back toward the couch. Now it seemed as if his feet were mired in cement as he slowly trudged to the couch. Stopping, he paused to let his conscience present its final argument. But the verdict was already in and he slowly reached down and gently lifted his mother into his arms. She seemed as light as a feather as he held her in his arms. Her arms dangled down lifelessly and she didn't move as he tenderly carried her into his bedroom. |
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