Rashidha Chap 13 The fantasy
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The phone call was like a kick in the groin.
In the middle of his first semester at college... shortly before his Psych mid-term, as a matter of fact, his mother had called.
The conversation was brief, but brutally to the point. She'd only spoken ten words.
"James, honey?"
"Mom? Is that you? Look, I'd love to talk, but-"
"Dad's dead. Maybe you ought to come home."
Click
He stared at the receiver in mute disbelief. His dad was... dead?
It was only on the plane back home, reliving the weird call, that he how odd his mom's voice had sounded. Not sad. Not even a flat monotone of denial. Just her usual tone, as if she'd been talking about grocery shopping.
"Maybe you ought to come home..." What a goddamn strange thing to say.
He arrived home early the next morning, worn out with the all-night flight, jet-lag, and grief. Wearily, James shuffled up the front steps, suitcase hanging loosely on limp fingers and pressed the doorbell. He didn't have the energy to try the door.
As he stood there, James could have sworn that he heard a dull, throbbing thump emanating from the house. It was rather rythmic, sort of like dance music. He put it down to the migrane that had his skull in a rather vicious vice-grip, and waited.
When the door swung inward, James was more than a little surprised to discover that the throb did, indeed, accompany a track of dance music, pulsating in some kind of unpleasant beat that completely failed to please the ears.
"Honey, welcome back!"
Something warm, paradoxically firm and soft, as well as sweet smelling swept into his arms with a flurry of auburn curls.
"Mom?" He protested weakly. She stepped back.
Amber Kieley had never been an plain woman. In fact, before he'd left, James' mother had been one of the prettiest on the block. Thirty-eight years of life, however, had been catching up with her, and he recalled a woman with cellulite-packed thighs, largish breasts that had begun to sag, and a not terribly attractive ass.
Wearing a pair of lycra workout shorts, a cut-off t-shirt that was soaked with sweat, and a pair of the trendiest of aerobic footwear, James could see that to say that some drastic improvements had been made would be something of an understatement.
The lycra was, of course, skintight and clung to every curve of her slim hips. He couldn't help but stare at her toned thighs, lean bronzed legs... his eye detected a thin line of sweat that had collected between those thighs, and he felt a slight twinge, despite the fact that she was his mom.
The t-shirt served double duty, showing off Amber's sexy navel, as well as revealing her other... assets. James couldn't help but stare. Had she had them done? He didn't realize that he was looking intently at his mother's tits until a slivery thread of saliva actually escaped his mouth.
He didn't notice her quiet smile.
"James," she put her arm around her son, enveloping her boy in her moist warmth, "perhaps you should go to bed, darling. You look positively whipped. You'll feel better after a good nap."
"Euh," he mumbled. "G'd 'dea." Head spinning, he shuffled towards his room, trying to make sense of everything he'd seen thus far.
Amber watched her handsome son go, wearing an almost predatory look on her face.
Some time later, James woke up, feeling much better, if still a little muzzy headed. It was good to be home, he reflected, even if the reason was...
Sighing, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, suddenly realizing something. Well, two things, actually. First, he was naked. Second, he had a huge hard-on.
Running a hand through his sandy hair, James tried to remember whether or not he'd removed his clothing... what a stupid idea - of course he'd taken off his clothes. Who else would have done it?
As for the hard on, he could vaguely recall a dream he'd had. No details, but trying to dredge up the memory only made his cock strain a little more.
With a sigh and a stretch, James stood and slowly began to dress.
When he was done, he noticed that there was an unsightly bulge in the front of his jeans. For a moment James considered jerking off to get it down, but that seemed a touch distasteful at the moment. Shrugging into a long, loose shirt he shambled out of his room, heading for the kitchen.
There, he found his mother, softly purring to herself and preparing lunch. She was wearing a tight white tank-top with spaghetti-thin straps that looked to be strained to about their limit. Again, he didn't see her cat-like smile, as his attention was a little diverted.
"Did you sleep well, hon?" Amber inquired in her best "motherly" voice.
"Uh, yeah." A little flushed, James tore his eyes away from his mother and sat down at the kitchen table, eyes firmly fixed on the formica top.
"That's nice," she said, and went back to making lunch.
"Er, mom?" James started, stumbling a bit. "What - what happened?"
"What do you mean?"
He looked up at her, shock evident on his features. "To - to... you know... dad."
"Oh, that." Her voice was dismissive, almost as if it was something distasteful, like dog shit on the lawn or a dead bird in the back yard. "Well, dear," she reached over his head, giving him quite a view of the side of one large firm breast, and turned on the stereo lying on the counter. Cheesy dance music blared out from the speakers. It sounded remarkably like the stuff that had greeted him at the front door that morning. Well, maybe a bit better. A bit easier to listen to...
"I'm afraid that the poor man had something of an accident," she told him, speaking through the music. "A very sad incident, but the important thing is that you're home, of course."
That was apalling! Her own husband! They'd been married twenty years. Good years, too, by all accounts. She didn't even seem... but, you know, there was no point in being overdramatic. Yes, he was dead, and that was very sad, but there wasn't anything that tears were going to do about it. And it was good to be home.
Amber laid a fairly huge sandwich down in front of her son, giving him a clear shot down the front of her shirt, into the cavernous cleavage contained therein.
Very good to be home, he thought.
"The funeral's in a day or two," she told him as he eagerly tore into the food. He mumbled something in response.
A long-nailed finger idly played with one of her stiff nipples clearly evident through the fabric of the shirt as she turned back to make her own lunch.
James found his eyes inadvertantly drawn to the motions of her round little behind as it moved within the confines of a pair of extremely tight jeans, only tearing his eyes away after an akward minute or two.
The following day, James awoke to the dull thump that he'd quickly learned to associate with his mother's new preference in music. Sitting up, he wearily rubbed his skull, trying to clear the light fog that seemed to have settled there.
Once more, he found himself wearing nothing but a steel-hard cock, but didn't take any especial notice of it... he'd gone to bed late last night, after an evening talking with his mom. Actually, she'd done most of the talking... he'd just sat there, into the early hours, nodding and trying to fight back the mental haze he'd acquired over the course of the evening. Tried to fight it... but it was so much easier to listen...
As a matter of fact, now that he thought about it, James couldn't even clearly recall having gone to bed last night at all.
The dull throb of the music permeated the house like the beating of a huge heart, not easy to listen to, but certainly not unpleasant.
James shrugged, and slowly started to get dressed. Again, his erection, gently pushed down the left leg of his jeans was fairly obvious, but this time around, hiding it didn't seem quite so important.
Walking out into the living room with the shuffling gait of the newly-awakened, James was met with the very much not unpleasant sight of his mother exercising, not with some program on the TV, but along with HER music, blasting out of the entertainment centre that dominated one wall.
James stopped. His cock, throbbing almost in time to the beat, strained eagerly against his pants leg.
Shit!
James realized he hadn't put on any underwear this morning. How the fuck had he missed that?
A bit embarrassed, he still watched his mother's lithe body, covered with a thin sheen of sweat, writhe and pulse to the music. It almost didn't seem like aerobics so much as some kind of wild, hedonistic tribal dance.
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