A FITTING END--Part One
by ZUIDERZEE     



zuiderzee@yahoo.com

m, F, cbt, humor, (hinted) inc, preteen

size, breast, voy.

disclaimer: Intended for Adults only.

Chapters to follow include
descriptions of incestuous sex
acts. And humor, of course

Van DeGroot's tailor shop had been a fixture in the older part of downtown for
as long as I could recall. The huge rectangular window always reminded me of a
movie screen through which I could glimpse the goings-on, but for the most
part, my family didn't have much use for Van DeGroot's--with dad not around
and my mom favoring clothes off the rack, Jena and I followed mom's lead and
got used to explorations in new wardrobes from Schneer's department store.

Even with my growth spurts, my mom never thought of escorting me to a
haberdashery; that not-quite-standard section designated as "Big Boys" on the
sales floor was where we'd browse for pants and shirts.

Looking back, Schneer's wasn't so bad, and they were always good for popcorn,
ice cream and pretzels when mom took Jena to the girl's underwear and then
hence to the changing rooms for some "special things" that only girls wear and
should know about.

It was sometimes awkward for me to encounter boys from my home-room at school
in with their parents to shop for clothes.

On one such memorable outing, I looked up from reading the store's Christmas
catalog to find Robin Deeks, complete with his horn-rimmed kid's glasses and a
wristwatch that undoubtedly wasn't his, rifling through some multi-colored
winter jackets.

A lad to the name born, Robin had light fingers to go with his light
complexion and equally light head. Robin loved bulky clothes-- he could hide
pilfered swag more easily--but underneath the padding, his limbs were
whip-cord thin; he could snake his arm into vending machines, between louvered
window panes and into his mother's tightly-clutched purse like nothing human.

I didn't hang around boys like Robin Deeks and mom didn't like me hanging
around him either. He wasn't allowed in our house, but what drew me to him, I
guess, looking back a few years, was his penchant for showing off what he
could do with his anatomy.

Robin was double--maybe triple jointed--and could make it look like his arm
had been torn off even when stripped to the waist. Not really an athlete,
Robin was one of those anatomical wonders whom everyone admits they are
disgusted by, but who is the envy of everyone who loses important things in
tight places and again who is secretly enlisted to go under cars, down storm
drains and under electric eye beams with perfect ease.

It was he who snatched for me my first porno mags from the disreputably named
"Jigger and Jug" liquor store. HOTCHA magazine-- the one which had inflamed me
enough to treat with Robin--ran only for a year, but when I heard there was a
certain 18 year old model with bra-busting, all natural 36F tits, my horny
prong launched such a protest of sudden, long-lasting erections at home and in
school, I had to struggle to urinate without cleaning up afterward.

Bless him, Robin took it all in stride, sympathizing with my fetish and
confiding in me that I was basically one of the "good guys" in school, and he
never resented my mother for barring him.

He had little to say on the subject of sex.

I never busted him, he never busted me. It took time, but we understood one
another's mania and preserved one another from hypocrisy. I learned a lot
about giving from him and when the time came, I applied his knowledge during
my sexual escapades.

Particularly how to use my hands.

"Shitfire!" Robin rarely flubbed his grip, even in his pre-teens, but that
day, he lost the top coin in a stack of dimes he had balanced on his canted-up
elbow. He brought his right arm scything forward like the foreleg of a praying
mantis and snatched the pile of forty dimes he'd just dropped in place a
moment before. With the other nine and thirty tucked in a pocket I never saw,
he surged forward in a fluid motion and snagged the rolling coin between his
index and middle fingers, looked at it and tossed it to me.

"ROtten date. Like a dime, Creed?"

He always like to give me ten-cent pieces minted in years he didn't like--I
had a small cache of 1971's--they were great for postcards.

"Sure."

He pitched it into my breast pocket, dinging my chest. "I got enough for ice
cream...how 'bout you?" I had a dollar bill in my back pocket. I remained
seated on the bench waiting for mom to find something that was both a bargain
and would flatter my figure. It would take time. I could wait Robin out and
protect my meager capital as long as the lower half of my body didn't start an
uprising in the central government.

That in itself wasn't easy.

I had the Schneer's catalog open to the women's underwear pages and was
marvelling at the variety of straps, bands, support wires, lace frills and
what-nots designed to keep milady's big jugs configured in that golden mean
between hazardous cone and unidentifiable blob.

My feet were firmly on the floor, but my knees worked like a bellows, keeping
the heat on as the forge in my undies hammered out a length of steel longer
than my own hand. I was a huge kid, all right.

"I'm kinda tired. Following mom around the store...."

"Hey, Creed! C'mon over here and check out these jackets--they've got a secret
pocket in the sleeve, and--"

"Sorry, Rob--I have to stay over here to find clothes. Those just don't fit me
right anymore. My mom's picking out some long-sleeved shirts and a few
sweaters--she's not too happy right now. She's having to pay a little more to
make sure I have enough to wear for the season. She says I'm growing too fast.
And pants in my size aren't always big enough in the--"

Inadvertently, my hands strayed to the fly on the trousers I wore that day;
they were perhaps designed by people who thought most males were either
castrated or didn't experience their first full erection until age twenty.

In retrospect, I should have written a complaint with my penile and testicular
dimensions given in cubic inches.

Getting up now would be both painful and potentially damaging in the allowance
department.

The only thing in my pants that would have made Robin Deek's eyes bulge would
be the lure of an easy dollar.

Lucre was his vice, not lust, and in the arena of getting his hands on things
precious, Robin chose greenbacks over purpleheads.

The headache and fever I usually suffered at the change of the seasons seemed
to have gone South.

"What's in the catalogue, Creed?"

Somehow, I knew he'd ask.

"Containers..." I answered. "To keep...edibles...fresh."

At least I think I stated it honestly. Schneer's just had to carry containers
suitable to keep milk in.

"Oh, can I see?" Robin's voice becaming teasingly doubtful.

"I think your mother wants you, Rob...."

"Lemme see those containers first!"

Robin padded closer.

He had that look in his lens-distorted eyes that meant: You were looking at
the ladies in their underwear. You were looking at them for a thrill and
you've got a real stiffy going. What would your mother say? And in public--!
You're in trouble now.

In preparation for this, I'd surreptitiously flipped the pages of the
catalogue from the sweet alps of the lingerie to the ordering blanks in the
middle, keeping a single finger tucked between pages 78 and 79 for when Robin
resumed his outfitting mission.

He wasn't going home empty handed in any case.

Meanwhile my preteen pecker was taking up advanced yoga as I lowered the
weighty catalogue onto the lump in my lap.

Schneer's catalogue, for those of you who might be unacquainted with it, is
always a thick, formidable tome that ranks with the Bible, War and Peace,
Webster's dictionary and The Lord of the Rings (including The Hobbit) as one
of the heaviest books ever gone to print. Their Christmas edition is doubly
hefty and many a postal worker has gone home with a sore wrist from delivering
it to the house.

Well, those 700 odd, 9 x 12 inch pages complete with glossy cover and ordering
blanks crashed onto my young and tender basket like an excited bulldog who has
forgotten it's a no-no to jump on daddy's lap while he's dozing in his easy
chair.

My pecker was in mystic bliss, wrapped in Zen-like notions of visting a realm
of bobbling woman-teats, and like the greatest of monks didn't feel the
impact. The blow of that picture gallery of lawnmowers, toolsheds, toys,
backyard hot-tubs, men's and women's fashions, and everything for baby
(Yeeowch!) to say nothing of all those specialty items just for Christmas
bypassed the top floor and visited the neighbors downstairs like an
anti-terrorist squad.

I swear I didn't jump, but my feet left the floor and came down on the buffed
linoleum with all the slap that size 10 athletic shoes can deliver.

Testicles are just like deer.

They're made to move, but too often, they remain in one place as danger bears
down on them and can't get out of the way before they're licking the
windshield of your car. Whether a driver intends to hit the deer or no,
there's a rueful second act--finding out if he's hit the poor thing as hard as
he initially thought.

It isn't a thing to be ignored.

What felt like one half of a pair of orchestra-class cymbals clanged on the
top of my head and streaks of sickening pain raced up inside my abdomen,
settling in the pit of my stomach.

"Hey! We've got friends in high places!" If my nuts could talk, they would
have said something very similar.

In the flourescent glow of Schneer's sales floor, one big boy going on a
bigger boy and arguably the biggest boy ever in the genital department sat
hunched over with knees clasped protectively together, trying to fix the barn
door after the horse had run away.

"Creed! I found you three pairs of pants--come here and try them on!" It was
my mom.

"You'll let me know if there's a good nutcracker in the gift pages," Robin
sniggered, not quite letting on that he knew I'd given myself a low-blow, the
likes of which no boy in my class or a few grades above could yet suffer. "And
some whiffle balls...I learning to juggle. See you at school."

With that, Robin slipped away into the clothes racks like an operative in a
spy ring, vanishing from sight.

I wasn't in any mood to move, but I did, rising slowly to a posture not unlike
our stone-age ancestors.

"Creed!" My mom said in a reproachful mother-talking-to-her-
young-son-in-public voice. "You have to try these on before I'll buy
them...you know how difficult it is to fit you right.

She waggled three pair of deep blue denims at me like a matador provoking a
bull into a charge.

With Schneer's catalog clutched in my hand I shuffled forward, wondering if I
was leaving drops of blood.

This bull felt like the ones at the end with floral darts in their backs right
before the hidden sword drives through him. I could almost see my mother in a
weird, tight pink suit with high white socks and black pom-pom topped shoes
stamping her foot.

"Toro! Toro! Toro"

With my massive erection wilting and my crobbed seedmakers swelling in inverse
ratio, I made it to my mothers side while she continued to waggle the empty
trousers that I was expected to fill.

And I mean fill.

The in-store public address system was piping in cheery music to lift the
spirits of weary shoppers:

"...I'm like a--rubber ball, I come bouncin' back to you..."

I didn't hear that, I said to myself. I didn't hear any of it.

"...bouncy-bouncy!" went the chorous of the golden oldie.

"Creed, I wouldn't have brought you here if you didn't need some new
clothes...you're growing so big so fast...."

"...bouncy-bouncy!" The song went on.

Hiding my self-inflicted injury, I tried to forget that my body continued on
from the shoulders down. The nausea subsided, but my scrotum felt like
something hovering over the streets during the Wannsee's Thanksgiving Day
parade. I think I was walking on my tiptoes as an imaginary crew of ant-sized
balloon handlers tried to guide me along the aisles on my way to the changing
room.

"I know my big boy is tired, but just try on these pants and you can go home
and hit the sack."

"...bouncy-bouncy, bouncy-bouncy!"

"I come bouncing back to you...."

* *

Somehow, without the aid of a shoehorn, I wrestled off the pants I'd come in
wearing, stood in my tented underwear for a minute, waiting for the swelling
to go down and then like a freshly-graduated student at the bomb-squad
training facility, I tried on the pants mom had picked out for me.

Now, my mom has sat in at the examining room when I go to the doctor; she knew
even then of my larger than average endowments, even though at age 9, I used
words like "thingies" and "peep" when I absolutely had to when describing my
equipment. Schneer's, however, was not a doctor's office and I had to see to
myself as she waited outside the changeroom, calling in through the shuttered
doors how the pants fit. There were other people in the adjoining changeroom
and I wasn't about to involve them in the details of my maturation processes.
I credit her today with having a keen eye for fittings; I stepped carefully
into the first pair and drew the tightly-stitched interior crotch seam up to
the underside of my ballsack and waited for the detonation of pain.

It didn't come.

I did up the closures in front, reaching a hand down inside to adjust my
snoozing dick, hoping it wouldn't wake up. The bare white walls of the
changing booth were just the screen upon which to display the dozens of pairs
of breasts I had recently burned into my imagination from the pages of the
catalogue. That thick pecker was still practicing yoga, moving a little,
settled into a pose where meditation and calm would bring soothing relief to
my below-the-belt fever. With my hand still in place, I estimated a had enough
free space in there to stash a can of spray paint--in simpler language, they
would hold me for a year if I didn't go through any isolated growth spurts,
specifically in the pelvic region. My testes were feeling less testy now,
hanging one on either side of the buttressing crotch seam like overstuffed
saddlebags on a pack-mule.

I took a firm hold on the belt loops and shook the jeans around. They were
made for a teenage boy.

Wincing, I stopped giving the fabric and my own equipment a shake-down and
told mom in Goldilocksian terms they were "just right."

"Let me see them," mom said, "I'll see if they have any more in that style."

I came out, a little sheepish, but with a conveniently flaccid penis and nuts
just where they ought to be, thanks in large part to the cotton briefs which
were also made for a teenage boy.

Mom was not in a chair, but on one of a set of odd, block-like formica
monstrosities not far from the entrance to the changing room. She had her
skirt carefully adjusted and was looking this evening every part the young
mom, but not dowdy or overdressed. Underneath the panoply of natural and
sythetic fibers, my mom was a cock-stiffening mystery of textures, scents,
shapes, colors and a general feast for the senses that unbeknownst to me at
the time would be revealed in an intimate cascade of pure charms and lewd
feats. How many other males in the time I first realized how arousing she was
had experienced that body, I didn't know.

She was a few degrees shy of classy. She had a gum-chewing habit which I
thought was at once irritating, low-brow and erotic. Those straight teeth
which I inherited were always white and her working lips looked specially
designed to fold over and trap things. Whenever she prepared spaghetti, I'd
get an odd thrill at watching the long, wriggly noodles whip around over her
chin and then disappear quick as thinking into the tiny round aperture. When I
was young, and not in the greatest mood to sit down and eat in the tiny
kitchen we had, she would turn to me while she ate, trying to put me in the
mood for eating my trying to show how fun it was to eat and how supposedly
delicious everthing tasted.

Mom hated drinking out of glasses and our cutlery drawer was filled to
gunwales with plastic and paper straws in all lengths, colors and styles.

I liked the ones with the accordion neck that could bend, and those silly
straws that were looped like clover leaves or oxbow riverbends or spirals.
These came in breakfast cereal boxes, but I didn't like cereal much.

It was common to see mom either drinking with a straw, or just sucking on it
when her glass was drained dry. Sometimes she didn't seem to be aware she was
drawing thin air through them when she was watching TV or something. Once, in
the backyard, she showed me how air pressure worked by sucking up skim milk
through a straw, then quickly setting her fingertip over the top to seal it
off and pulling it nearly filled from the glass. It didn't leak out the
bottom. I stared in awe for a minute and then she tilted the straw back to her
lips as if to drink it, but then blasted the watery white load right in my eye
as a joke. What a prankster you are, mommy. The image of that almost clear
fluid (which she drank at room temperature) spraying through the air with a
whoosh and a splatter on the skin of my face made more of an impression on me
than she might have thought at first. I wanted to do it back to her, but
having no milk, I ran from the patio to snatch up the flowing garden hose.

"Oh, no! Don't you do that!!!" But I thought at the time she was just fooling
around as much as I was. I hosed her down with the gushing length trailing
first from under my arm, then between my legs as I stepped over it to chase
her.

I yanked the hose taut, trying to get more, but the brass connection was
spouting at the wall spigot and the hose was riding up to my balls in
dangerous proximity. With the nozzle right over my crotch, and me having only
used my penis to urinate, I attached no great stigma to the act. Hadn't
everyone in the neighborhood squirted a family member with a hose at one
time--especially during summer time?

With her blouse drenched from a direct hit and her screaming at me to put the
damned hose "back down", she brought her hands to her face to clear her eyes,
giving me a men's strip-club view of her great, brown areolae, spiking out
like lurid stains at the points of her bosom.

She wore no bra.

The cold water shrank her relaxed nipples into protruding stubs.

I have never forgotten that sight, nor the way the rest of her unsupported
breasts wobbled comically/hypnotically, forcing me to watch.

"Just look me!" she said in choked-voice outrage.

In my little boy way, I did.

"I'm going inside--you know that wasn't a good thing to do." So saying, she
got up, looking down at her newly-aroused tits and how the addition of cold
water had betrayed her responsiveness.

I went swimming afterward and I watched her watching me from the window of her
bedroom.

And then she did it.

Standing right in front of the window, she unbuttoned her wet blouse and
yanked it back off her shoulders, unmasking her erected charms, divided from
me only by a few yards and pane of then-untinted glass. Had the glass been
marbled, or had intervening shrubs grown up to prevent a clear view, I could
only imagine any other mother would have chanced exposing herself like that.

But that wasn't the end.

She actually knocked on the window and yelled through it, "Get me my
hairbrush!" She pointed to the table, assuming I would only make eye contact
and look away, owing to my maturity.

I was only in 2nd grade.

I wore no underwear either, only the lining inside my swim-trunks kept my
growing package reasonably supported. My first recognizable erections had come
into painful fruition that year. I didn't know what they were, but they made
pissing difficult and putting on clothes a vaudeville act.

"They mean you're excited. Don't worry, they go away." She'd once told me.

I didn't think to ask how her body expressed excitement.

Hauling myself over the concrete lip of the little pool, I raked my hard-on on
the unyielding lip and winced, limping a little to the patio to get the
hairbrush. With it in hand, I marched to the backdoor which opened onto a
downstairs bathroom with toilet, laundry machines and shower. The door swung
open before I got there and voila, there was mom in all her 25 year old glory.
Not quite as mysterious as before. Her tanned skin was startlingly interrupted
by those two grand breasts, still a creamy white, save for the liver-brown of
those suckable points and sprinkle of freckles under the collarbones.

"Creed, shut the door!"

SHe never said if she wanted me on her side of it or not.

I looked at the floor.

"You squirted me...you stung my eyes and wet my hair."

"I thought you wanted to go swimming with me."

"If you'd looked, I didn't have my swimsuit (she meant bikini) on."

"Where is it?"

She had half of it, at least. A modified triangle of satiny maroon fabric,
connected over the hip-crests with wooden rings that might have come from a
curtain rod, trussed the slight bulge of loose muscle under her deep, but
still slit-like navel. One hand rested at the upper hem with a thumb hooked
preparatorily underneath, skimming along , revealing another expanse of tanned
skin and I noticed with a liquid flare of fire in my system, a spoor of dark
hairs.

"You stink like chlorine."

"I had milk in my hair."

The heat and humidity in the room had risen sharply.

"Look at me, Creed." she had to take the brush from my hand.

"You don't have your clothes on!" I squirmed like a set of improperly fitted
tires.

"Get that pool-water washed off you. In the shower...now!"

"Phone's ringing--"

"Let it ring. I can't leave wet footprints on the parquet, I just washed it."

I got past her somehow and ambled into the shower, given a secondary thrill by
the delicious warmth of the blasting droplets. The chlorine stink rose like a
rancid bouquet in my nose and I coughed, rubbing my arms.

Phones continued to clang in other rooms, telling me the outside world still
existed. Softening, but still semi-erect, I pulled the front of my trunks open
and let the falling water lave my equipment.

If she had suddenly thought of testing me, it wasn't a terribly bad gambit.

The glass of the shower door was clear, but she had plastic applique flowers
stuck in a constellation on the outer surface to--I didn't know why. They
weren't enough to provide privacy and only an idiot couldn't tell there was
glass there. The steam began to fog the middle of the partition; I looked out
into the dimness of the bathroom to see mom snap the stretchy fabric back on
the still-hidden moons of her untanned ass.

Turning toward the shower, she pulled the last bit of clothing down to her
pressed- together knees, then bent almost in half to both pull the thing off
and lift it from the bath-mat. Her lower belly glowed in the shade, but the
deep, deep dark of her pubic thatch broke the lower corner of the triangular
outline like the tuft on a skiers cap renders the point friendlier to the eye.

Holding the door shut, I got a face-full of water to blind myself as well,
betting with almost certainty mom was intent on getting into the little stall
with me.

Naked.

In the TV shows, the woman is always supposed to scream when someone sees her
changing her clothes, holding her arms over her underwear and dodging behind
the furniture until the menace of her exposed body in the mind of someone else
vanishes.

Not so here.

Pendulous, young breasts swaying, she pulled the not-quite-fogged door, but it
wouldn't budge enough to let her in.

"I'll be out in a minute--there, all done! Now just wait!"

Falling (?) against the glass, her naked EE cup jugs made contact with the
glass and flattened out into alien planets of skin. Her tanned belly pushed up
close, but didn't compress as spectacularly and the brown badge of her offical
womahood department moved with her hips as she fought the door.

She used her still superior strength to yank the door open and climb in over
the meager lower frame.

Like an intimidated boxer, I retreatd to the lower corner as elsewhere in the
house, the ringing phones silenced, leaving us alone and unthought of.

Without saying a word, she stood in the spray, wetting herself down with a
smile.

Some fathers, I had it on good authority (particularly those who'd served in
the army) sat on their toilets with the door wide open, summoning family
members in to conduct business while they blithely farted and shat and wiped.
Glad as I was not to have such a beast in our house, the act of my mother
climbing in with me as though she was a child as well (or I was an adult?)
stiffened my chlorine-cleansed rod and I faced the corner. She got down on her
hands and knees, still between me and the way out, and opened her arms.

She had stopped bathing me when I was three and a half, I didn't really want
to go back there, but I had to play by her rules.

Introspecting with mystical profundity, I approached her, meeting her gaze
with unfocused eyes. I dropped my trunks, letting the drawstring snag my
outthrust erection which seemed to use up all the free space in the stall.

"Creed, you're too much like your father. You keep things from me."

"These aren't his things!" I answered with a voice I didn't know I had then.

Then I shut up and sat down with legs drawn up, watching her evenly from over
my kneecaps.

What was I going to do? Then? There? Had she been a babysitter I was smitten
with, I would have broken the barrier and stood toe to toe with her, arms
wrapped around her tight with my erection forced up, down or sideways, but
definitely not out.

"He told you too often you would make a mess of things."

"Just enough. You're the best-looking lady I've ever seen...my friends at
school...we're listening in when the older boys talk. It isn't all nice. I
don't want to be like them next year or the year after or the year after. Who
gets to kiss and touch and see."

"We're not like that. Can you be healthy with a world filled with their kinds
of rules?"

"If there are so many dirty boys, I guess. Boobies and weenies and milk and
hairy jungles and dark caves and stories about people tricked into making out
with animals and dead people and men with men..."

It had gone on without any contact and after the hot water had run out and the
cold water doused us, we got out, one after the other and dried ourselves.

I had passed the test. I was going to get hard, but my passions could be
goverened.

That summer had gone, turning to fall and another year of school and times
with dirty boys--and some girls too--in the meantime.

My visits to the pool slackened and then ceased.

Mom had surprised me--but that had been her intention. She was not like the
other boys' moms.

I had to keep that in mind, even after so many intervening months.

She could do things to me I didn't realize.

In the overly-lit, crammed to bursting atmosphere of Schneer's changing room,
I thought back on that steamy encounter.

But the most meaningful "changing" room to me had been that small,
white-walled shower stall.

I came out of the memory into the wintry white of Schneer's and put on a smile
I carried just under my chin in case of emergencies.

Mom waited for me with bridled patience.

The seat was wide, white, looking more like a bed than anything else except a
gigantic spotless domino.

Within her knee-length skirt, her firm buttocks shifted.

The salesman was looking at her with something other than business-like
interest. He was fiftyish, slender with a long face and nose that made me
think of 221b Baker Street's most famous resident. He had the clue all right.

I took another pace forward and turned, showing her my rear-end before turning
back around.

"I guess they fit all right...."

Mom and I didn't make eye contact.

Those bright, evaluative peepers were riveted on my crotch as if she'd
developed visual accuity as to shame a certain caped superhero I'd frequently
aspired to be.

Well, I was on my way toward becoming a larger-than-life character, whether I
was made of steel at all times or not. If mom could see through anything short
of lead, maybe she was capable of some other tricks. Up, up and away, indeed.

There was a pleased color in her cheeks.

I felt much better now.

"Creed, you look--fine."

The way she said the word "fine" probably got the motors running in some other
guy's pants in the change rooms.

"Oh, gee...mom." I said with volume, letting anyone within earshot know it was
not a dating couple--and that we were outside the booth.

There were coughs and throat-clearings from the other booths as if the older
men there were hinting to me that my mom was a little too sexy for me; men in
public--and Schneer's was no exeption--were always trying to get to know my
mom. They were always writing little notes and looking over their shoulders as
they did so, usually answered by little shakes of my mom's head, and little
shakes of her pelvis to go with them. Only rarely did she pocket the notes.

Hell, at this time, she was only 26.

Her would-be suitors came in all ages.

Some men actually mistook her for my older sister.

"Your big sister's pretty foxy there, kiddo. What's her name?"

When I saw they were referring to my mom and not Jena, I got huffy. I still do
to this day.

What do I need to say? Wearing her favorite heels, she stands pretty tall and
her 34 EEE tits jut out like a pair of ground-to-air missles before full
elevation. I can't tell you the packs of interested men she draws at the
lakeshore in hot weather or at carnivals or any place obliging people to dress
casually.

With winter coming on, she was dressed demurely, but her open fall coat wasn't
buttoned up and tended to slide off the points of those horizontal mountain
peaks whenever she moved her arms. When she sensed unwanted attention, she
would use both hands to pull the plackets over the exquisitely-shaped
ladybumps in an even gesture which might mean nothing more than: these aren't
for you, so put your eyes back in your face.

That's right, stranger. She's my mom.

I don't suppose the four-year wait between the evening at Schneer's and the
one in which mom and I were joined in wet, carnal bliss did anything to
disenchant me with her body. We both used the intervening years to mine the
lurid sides of our respective sexuality. In another year, my phallic fixation
and my carefully charted semen production kicked into high gear along with my
burgeoning physique. It would be my turn to scoop those handfuls of titflesh
out of their confinment and have her bury my face and cock in their perfumed
depths.

Even then, with her eyes seeming to wear holes in the zipped-up fly of those
new pants, I knew when she said I was looking fine, she meant more than
acceptable. She would want me someday.

And I would want her.

But not today.

In the not-yet-broken-in interior of those denims, the star player and his
dutiful, but aching supporting cast heard another curtain call as my mom
uncrossed her legs and then crossed them again, throwing the right over the
left and pointing the toe of her shoe right at my crotch. That leg and foot
pumped up and down in a tempo I didn't understand, but to which my genitals
instantly keyed into.

Are we on again--? Oh, quick! Places everyone, places! Now, as we
rehearsed....GO!

Lub-dup, lub-dup, lub-dup, lub-dup, lub-dup--

Following the beat my mom's conducting foot had established, my as-yet
untested warrior answered the call to arms.

Grateful no one else knew about my reasserting hard-on, I spun and lurched
back into the change booth with my hands locked on the fastener of the
trousers, intent on unclipping the tiny hook and loop of flattened metal
before my boner wrenched them from their mountings.

Hot blood shunted into the root of my once-contented dangler and began to prop
it up by degrees, inch by crowded inch.

And there were a hell of a lot of inches.

How the other boys in my class coped with their wieners I couldn't guess, but
I found out the following year I had their erectile capacity--and problems--by
easily threefold!

I had to give it breathing room.

Wishing I had Robin Deek's fingers, if only for a nonce, I fumbled with the
zipper, drawing it open and away as my downward pointed monster fought the
restraint of the briefs and created a starched white souffle' under my
quivering belly button.

"I'm going to wear my old pants...." I told my mother, lest she think I had
fainted in there. I shoved the pants down to my socks and stepped out of them,
beholding my profile in the cheap mirror to my right. Stupidly, I had left the
change booth door open and unlatched it was free to swing open as if a draft
had blown it, exposing me to an unsympathetic world. My mom wasn't welcome in
a men's change area and was out there equally unprotected against a world of
treacherous genitalia.

Outisde I heard a titter.

"Mom?"

"I'm talking to the salesman, Creed. Put your old pair on and bring out the
others--make sure you have your wallet and anything else you keep in your
pants."

"Like what?" I asked.

"Creed!--" Mom said, reacting as if I'd told a dirty joke.

There was a low guffaw from the next booth and a sniff as an old gent with a
new striped shirt ambled past and closed the door for me as I nearly tripped
to get it myself.

"You know the trouble we had when you left those keys by the pool on vacation.
And your library card."

Trying to think of something boring to tame my bucking bronco, I took the
dollar bill out of my old pants pocket and tried to read the fine print.
Someone told me there are thirteen thirteens on a one dollar bill and I held
it up to my face to see if I could find at least six of them.

When the typhoon of my lust had blown itself out, I emerged with the new pants
over my arm and my profile restored to innoncent pre-teen male
out-with-his-mom contours.

"Take this," mom handed me the Schneer's catalog with a loving smile and then
turned all business with the sales clerk at his station.

Like a preacher at an altar, he read out the descriptions of the items and the
method of sale with religious sobriety. My mom and I stood side by side with
clutched hands, sharing looks with each other as the approving saleman beheld
us with beatific warmth.

As if pronouncing us man and wife, the salesman passed his hand over us,
bearing the sales slip and offered his blessing for shopping at Schneer's
department store.

My mom took up the bag with my new clothes, dropped the weighty, smut-filled
holiday catalogue in for ballast and handed the bag to me by the thick papery
straps.

"They're yours, now." she said to me, and then to the sales clerk who once
again reminded me of Doyle's sleuth in disguise as a minister, "I'm so glad
you have all these sizes. My boy is so hard to fit, he's bigger than most boys
his age...and stubborn as a mule."

You nailed that one, mom.

My well-trotted cock heaved an exhausted sigh, rolled to one side and took a
nap. There were no complaints from the nuts this time.

"Well, Muley, The Holmesean salesman turned to me with knowing eyes, using a
name I would keep and embellish.

"You are a very lucky boy. All the fellows at school are going to be very
envious of you. You should thank your mother for being so accomodating."

Accomodating. Could he only have known. Maybe he saw.

All these years later, I still can't forget what that insightful salesman told
me.

I blushed, feeling blood freshly home from the battle-front between my legs
pour into my face. I was clean, given a trial by fire.

"Thankyou, mom." I said, looking into her eyes as those windows into a sultry
soul loomed closer until her face was right on mine and her lips gave me a
smack of love.

In turn I thanked him and left, returning to the parking lot with the
discretely closed Schneer's catalog and some new, roomier clothes to wear
later on.

As I gave the salesman one more backward glance, he used both hands to wave us
goodbye and with them still raised for a moment and with me watching, he
lowered them in a complimenting pair of hula-like sweeps which hit me later
on; he was describing the outline of an hourglass. A gesture I felt both wise
and horny for recognizing. Time was passing, and my mom had really great tits
and ass.

* *

"Creed, if you keep growing the way you do, I might have to set up up with the
tailor. We haven't even updated your formal wear. I want you looking fine for
weddings and your school photographs."

"You're not upset with me, are you mom? Being big for my age isn't really a
bad thing, is it?"

We were on the stairs, I, a little ahead of her and the only people using this
oft-overlooked exit. Looking down at her, I beheld her the way I would in a
few years, albeit clothed.

Her huge breasts rose sharply as she inhaled, creating a tide of fabric over
her body. Rather than being mad, she looked ready to embrace me like the
patient wife in a slew of sitcoms who says words to the effect of "come here
you big lug, nothing you do could keep us apart" The mostly dumb husband in
those shows acts humble for a beat and then throws his arms around his little
woman with a smile meant to bring sighs of sympathy from TV land.

She didn't hug me that time, but mounted a few steps and poked me low in the
belly, making me bend.

Then she leaned her head against my chest and murmured into it, "Don't grow up
too fast. The object is not to surpass yourself until everything loses its
magic--but to help everything you have along at a steady pace. You and I and
your sister won't always be the people we are now. If we don't get too far
ahead of ourselves, we can be such a family. I tried to tell your dad
once--twice. I intend to keep you with me longer and better than I kept him.
He wasn't a bad man--I could never have had him if he was. I think I can keep
you and your sister as happy. But we have to stop worrying and grow together.
You know I love you."

She patted my back with her other arm and drew away, smiling when I smiled.

"Now it's time to get you home and to bed."

Damn me, but my cock surged the second her head warmed my chest and her
protruding bust turned into a pair of giant, microwaved boxing gloves which
gave me hot love taps in the belly. She drew away just before my manmeat
snaked up between them.

"I'll make you proud of me mom, whatever happens. You mean too much to me. I
wouldn't ever give you anything less than you'd given to me."

That seemed to say it quite well. My early growth was a bump in the road, that
was all. And I didn't let it become a burden to my family.

As I came to find out, my mom and Jena as well, were very accomodating.

FIN

to be continued--maybe