The Son Who Could

The Son who Could

I sat up rubbing the cobwebs from my eyes. The clock on the nightstand read 12:24 in the afternoon. I wasn’t feeling well and had to take the day off on account of a virulent stomach flu I caught the other day. The cramp in my stomach made me fly off the bed and rush into the bathroom. After I relieved myself, I took a quick shower to wash away the dried sweat which had accumulated on my body. Once I threw on some pants, I went downstairs to whip up a light breakfast. My wife, Dorthea, had already left for work a few hours before, so I had the whole house to myself.

As I sat there chewing my toast thinking about what I would do with my time off, the doorbell suddenly rang. I shuffled over to the door making out the shape of the mail carrier through the glass paneling. He had a package that needed my signature. I signed for it and thanked him. The label on the front had my name typed on it but no return address. I laid the package on a small table where we kept our keys and mail and returned to the kitchen to finish my breakfast.

Since I didn’t have to work today, I thought it only fair to clean up the house a bit, so my wife wouldn’t come home to a pigsty. I began in the kitchen and worked my way up to the bedrooms. We had three in total: one for me and my wife, the second for guests and relatives, and the third, which used to be our son’s room, was now converted into a home office, where we kept our computer, printer, and fax machine.

Dusting around the office suddenly triggered a flood of memories about Paul, our son. We—that is, Paul and I, had an estranged relationship ever since I could remember. He always saw me as competition where it concerned his mother’s affections. Now don’t get me wrong here, I don’t want you to think that I’m suggesting Paul is a mama’s boy. Because I’m not. However, let’s just say there is something in that boy which isn’t quite right. I suppose I’d better tell you what I mean so you can judge for yourselves . . .



It all began when Paul was five-years-old. Dorthea and I were getting settled under the covers one night when she began telling me about her day and the special request Paul had made of her. Turning over on my side, I propped my head onto my left hand and waited for her to continue, which was customary for me to do when my wife wanted my undivided attention.

Dorthea went on to tell me that she had just settled down to watch her favorite soap in the afternoon—I think it was called Blazing Passions or something funny like that—when Paul stormed in and blurted out that he wanted some milk. Hmm . . . so what’s so strange about a boy wanting some milk? At least that’s what I thought.

She went on to describe how our son walked right up to her, pointed his tiny finger at her luscious rack, and said he wanted some milk. I widened my eyes in disbelief, but mostly for her benefit. In reality, though, this didn’t shock me as much as it should have. For one thing, I knew a few guys in the neighborhood who would’ve paid a tidy sum just to nurse on my wife’s busty tits. She had 42EE breasts capped with pink quarter inch nipples. Those babies were constantly bouncing all over the place. She knew the effect they had on men so it stands to reason her five-year-old son would notice them too.

I told Dorthea I would have a man-to-boy talk with him when I got back from work the next day. She thanked me and we snuggled falling asleep in each other’s arms. Days passed and the talk I was supposed to have with Paul totally slipped my mind what with all the extra work I had to do at the office. Then the weekend arrived and I went out on one of my Saturday morning jogs. After two miles, I had to cut the run short because of a sprained hamstring. When I reached the front door of the house, I heard a loud yelp from within.

I pushed the door open and limped into the hallway. I heard my wife disciplining Paul for something or other as I made my way to the entrance of the living room. I peeked around the corner of the archway to see Paul being held at arms length by my wife as he struggled in vain to move toward her. He was thrusting his head forward so he could latch on to her exposed nipple, which somehow escaped the confines of her robe. Her big alabaster tit jiggled as she labored to keep Paul away from her breast.

In all the commotion, they didn’t hear me come in. When it appeared to Paul that she wasn’t going to allow him to suckle her breast, he threw a tantrum. He repeatedly stomped his right foot, whining how he wanted her milk. Dorthea, however, held her ground explaining to him that she no longer had any. “Sweetie, mommy can’t give you milk. It’s all gone. You drank it all up when you were just a baby. I can’t make any more milk unless I have another baby. Do you understand?” He calmed down some but I could tell he didn’t buy it.

Paul must’ve realized he wasn’t going to convince his mother, so he ceased his struggles and pouted giving her his best sad eyes. He often used this tactic when he wanted something he couldn’t have. When he saw it wasn’t going to work this time, Paul made like he was about to turn around and leave. Dorthea thought as much, too, which is why she let her guard down for a moment—a moment that cost her. Paul immediately rushed into her soft, creamy bosom and latched on to her rose-colored nipple, greedily sucking her teat. Dorthea gasped from the sudden attack. I knew from experience how sensitive her nipples could be. Paul hefted her heavy breast with his tiny hands and devoured as much of her tit-flesh as a five-year-old could. He made loud slurping noises as he tried to feed his hunger.

“Paul! No sweetie” she gently said, “You can’t suck mommy’s tit. It’s not right.” Paul didn’t listen. If anything, he increased his sucking power while moving his right arm around her waist. My wife attempted to push him off of her breast but when he was about to lose the connection to her nipple, he bit down to prevent her from disengaging his mouth. She pleaded with him to stop. But after a while, Dorthea gave up the struggle and let him have his way with her big mammary.

Paul hungrily nursed like a thirsty calf. Her huge tit dwarfed his little hand as his fingers sunk into her spongy skin that had a network of blue veins flaring out from her nipple. She brushed her fingers through his hair petting and cooing him. Paul moved up to sit on her lap, never letting go of her swollen pap. She gently rocked him and began singing a lullaby. After about five minutes of nursing, his eyelids started to droop; he eventually released her teat and snuggled up against her doughy orbs, falling into a deep slumber.

I thought this was a good time to make an appearance. When I limped into the room, my wife looked up and shook her head in disappointment. All I could do was shrug my shoulders. I reached down and gently scooped Paul into my arms and carried him to his room. But not before I looked over my shoulder to see Dorthea putting her right breast back into her gown. I felt a stirring in my pants. Her tits always had that effect on me. As I walked away, I made a mental note to have some of that tonight.

When Paul finished his nap an hour later, I finally sat down with him and had that talk with him: “Paul, what you did to mommy today was a bad thing. Little boys aren’t supposed to do those things to their mommies.” His lower lip began to quiver and his eyes became wet. I lowered my voice because I didn’t want him to cry. “Paul, when mommy says NO to you, you have to stop. Do you understand?” He shook his head up and down. He probably thought I was going to spank him. I should’ve but then I didn’t think it was necessary in this case.

“Son, when you were just a baby, your mother used to feed you her milk because it was what you needed to grow healthy and strong. But that was four years ago. And now, you’re a big boy. Big boys don’t need mother’s milk. They need regular food.” He frowned as he sat there thinking about what I just said. I thought I’d cut the talk there, seeing how the attention span of a five-year-old is almost nil. I left his room in search of Dorthea to see if I could be forgiven and to get some suckling time of my own.

The incident was thankfully forgotten by my wife but, unfortunately, not by Paul. Whatever I did or said during that small talk of ours seemed to have changed how Paul viewed our father-son relationship. He was okay with his mother but not with me. Yeah, we did stuff together like play ball or go camping. But deep down inside, I knew he had placed a barrier between us. I didn’t worry about it at the time because I thought it was just a phase he was going through, and one he would grow out of eventually.

Well, as sad as it is to say, Paul never did grow out of his phase of disliking me. If you noticed, I didn’t use the word “hate” in describing his feelings toward me because that emotion would come when Paul got older. I think there were some deep jealousy issues at work here and a possible Oedipus complex. Admittedly, I’m no shrink. But being a father has given me a unique insight into the mind of my own son.

The status quo, unfortunately, remained the same when Paul reached puberty at twelve. He developed a newfound interest in his mother. This time it had nothing to do with her breasts. Instead, he became fascinated with another of his mother’s body parts: her round, plump ass! You see, if I didn’t mention it before, I will now; Dorthea is one of those rare women who is lucky enough to have been blessed by the gene-gods. She is pure “T & A,” unlike most other women who are either top or bottom heavy. Men see their chiropractors for an adjustment after straining to get a look at her goods. I consider myself very fortunate to have a caught a woman who’s ample in both departments.

Anyway, getting back to Paul. When he was five and took an interest in his mother’s breasts, I could understand that as something nonsexual—a child’s curiosity if you will. But now that he’s twelve, I realized his interest in Dorthea’s ass was anything but curiosity. In fact, it appeared to me more along the lines of pure unadulterated lust! A boy’s lust for his mother, that is. Again, just like she did that fateful day seven years ago, Dorthea had one of those talks with me when I arrived from work on a Wednesday evening. I hadn’t even had my dinner before she grabbed my hand and led me to our bedroom. I knew something was up, but I couldn’t figure out if it had to do with me or Paul.

Loosening my tie as I crossed the threshold of our room, I dropped my briefcase by the dresser and plopped down on the bed with a loud sigh. She parked her sweet rear next to me and gave me one of her looks. The look that said: “This is serious and you had better pay attention.” I sighed again waiting for the impending speech to come.

“Dear, do you remember when I asked you to have that talk with Paul about his fascination with my breasts—oh, about seven years ago?” Oh shit, now I knew that boy did something he wasn’t supposed to.

“Yeah, I seem to recall that talk. From my perspective, it didn’t go too well. Why are you bringing it up now?” I said with some trepidation. She reached out, clasped my right hand into her left, and lightly squeezed.

“Well, it looks like you’re going to have another talk with him, but this time about why a son should never grab his mother’s ass.” To say I was shocked was an understatement. I couldn’t believe Paul would be so bold as to fondle his mother in such a lewd manner. I’ve had my suspicions that he was one of those sons who liked his mother a little too much, but I never thought it would come to this.

“Okay,” I replied calmly, “tell me how it happened.”

“Well, I was washing the breakfast dishes this afternoon since I didn’t have a chance to do them in the morning. Paul walked in from school and he greeted me like he always does. Then he made a beeline for the refrigerator to get some juice. I don’t know why, but I got this creepy feeling. When I looked over my shoulder, I saw Paul rubbing his crotch. I followed his gaze to my bottom and suddenly realized that Paul was staring at my ass. I didn’t know what to do. I admit I wasn’t properly dressed at the time, just t-shirt and panties. Honestly, honey, I thought I’d be done and in the shower by the time Paul got home.

“Okay, what happened next?” I softly prompted.

“Well, the next thing I know, Paul moves behind me, shoving his hard-on into the crack of my ass and gives me a peck on the cheek while squeezing my butt.”

I was taken aback by Paul’s actions. It was clear to me that that boy needed the kind of help we couldn’t provide him. I knew I had to do something before things got out of hand. “And, that’s not all he did,” she continued, “After I slapped him, he pulled my panties down and smacked my bottom really hard and ran up to his room and locked himself in. That’s where he’s been for the rest of the day.”

I saw a tear fall down on the bedspread. I knew she was beside herself. And, to be honest, I didn’t like the idea of my wife living in fear in her own house. This sounded bad and it was high time he got his shit together. “I’m going to have a talk with him right now,” I said with determination.

“Honey, don’t be too harsh on him. It must be puberty; his hormones are probably all over the place. Remember, we were young, too, once upon a time,” she explained. Even after this, she was still the protective mother.

I got up off the bed, went to the door, and said, “Yeah, we were young alright, but we didn’t go around fondling our parents.” I let that hang in the air and walked out of the bedroom in search of Paul. I went down the hall to his room and banged on his door. I heard some shuffling inside. When he pulled back the latch on the door, I barged in and shut the door behind me.

“Paul, we need to have a man-to-man talk.” He sat down at his desk and ignored me. “I guess you know why I’m here. Right!” He still wouldn’t look up at me. I was about to lift him out of his chair when I spied something under his mattress. Sticking out at the side of his mattress was a glossy magazine. I guess he was looking at that when I banged on the door. I went over and pulled out the magazine.

“Don’t!” he said alarmed as he rushed out of his chair. It was too late, though. I flipped it over to the cover and found myself staring at a hardcore sex mag which read: “Anal MILFS.” Below that, there was an older blond woman being fucked in the ass by a young stud with a pretty big cock. The first thought, which came to my mind, was how the hell did he get his hand on this smut? My second thought was, who gave it to him? I quickly flipped through the pages and saw various mature women getting their asses licked and stretched by well-hung guys. How on earth does a twelve-year-old end up liking older women who are into anal? I didn’t think kids developed a sexual preference until much later in life.

After I finished scanning the pages, I sat down on his bed, looked dead center at him, and asked, “Where did you get this trash?” He crossed his arms across his chest and ignored my stare as he looked out the window.