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Archive name: 7seas.txt (Fm, inc, 1st)
Authors name: Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com)
Story title : Seven Seas

--------------------------------------------------------
This work is copyrighted to the author © 2003.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story.  You may post freely to non-commercial
"free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites.
Thank you for your consideration.
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Seven Seas (Fm, inc, 1st)
by Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com)
Revised 12/13/03

***

This above-the-waist mother-son short story expands a 
sketch developed in "Writer's Notebook". It's just a 
quick read, unlike its source. The story's about 
process, not outcome. We've all been to a theme park 
and we've all watched National Geographic specials. 

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I originally posted "Writer's 
Notebook", "Writers' Forum" and "Seven Seas" with 
requests for review and literary feedback. That's still 
my hope. A number of readers took the time to flag my 
egregious English errors and/or comment on issues of 
style. Thank you. Only one respondent was catty, but 
even his or her comments were useful. One reader 
rewrote several paragraphs to demonstrate use of detail 
and word variety. Another reader caught where I had 
confused names. Oh, dear! If the author can't remember 
who is who, think of the readers. Then there was my two 
years as one that nobody caught. While I'd rather write 
new material than to resculpt novice efforts, I 
certainly want to fix what can immediately be fixed. 
Thus...

PART 1

The two were too tired to actually watch National 
Geographic's "Arctic Summer". The tube was just an 
excuse to rest tired feet after a non-stop day at Seven 
Seas Adventure. That the theme park was distant from 
any water body seemed not to matter to the multitudes; 
it was still an Adventure.

The family had rendezvoused at Pirate Trove Caf‚ for a 
Buccaneer Burger dinner. Skull and crossbones above the 
bun made it a nautical hamburger. They wouldn't serve 
bottles of even-pretend rum at a family destination, of 
course, so the beverages were Coca-Cola products. Sara 
and Dad wanted to stay for the evening rides and the 
Flagship Light Spectacular. Mom was ready to head back 
and Rob didn't protest.

They'd had a fun day, mother and son at Seven Seas, 
shrieking and laughing, depending on the ride. 
Submarine Escape had been a bit lame; Rob could see the 
giant squid's pneumatic tether. Spytower Tree Fort 
involved precarious walkways from which no one could 
really fall. It seemed unwise, however, to bounce at 
the halfway point. Rapids Runner got them appropriately 
splashed. It was more of a cooling mist, actually, as 
Seven Seas wouldn't want its $44.95/day guests to catch 
colds.

On the spooky tunnel boat ride, the two held hands in 
anticipation of each fright. You wouldn't normally hold 
your mom's hand, of course, but at Seven Seas you 
wouldn't know anybody. It's more fun to be scared with 
another person. There's the spooky tunnel place where 
the coffin squeaks open and it gets deathly dark. Right 
when you're starting to wonder about the electricity, a 
blast of chilly air shoots you. Mom shrieked, right on 
cue, and held on tightly until they were safe.

At the spooky tunnel boat exit, Rob noticed her 
nipples. He'd of course seen such things around the 
house. Mom's were big, Sara's were hardly, and both ran 
around upstairs in t-shirts. But he'd never seen Mom's 
where strangers could look too. It didn't bother him 
especially, as nobody would know that he and she were 
related. Dad might have cared, Rob realized, but Dad 
was with Sara. Lots of girls show off at a place like 
Seven Seas. Mothers do as well, especially those sans 
spouses. Fourteen-year-old boys keep track.

Mom squinted into the crowd, blushed, giggled and 
pulled Rob back to the queue. "That was fun!" At Seven 
Seas, when you see a short line, you go for it.

The "Ahoy, I'm Crystal"-nametagged employee at 
embarkation must have remembered them from their ride 
before. Running her eyes over Mom's chest, "Another 
sail, guys?" she grinned, her college-girl wink for the 
two of them.

When this time they reached the coffin passage 
(strategically situated, one can be sure, for teenage 
couples), Mom declared that here is where every girl 
gets a kiss, just a little one. Moms need a kiss now 
and then, she explained, especially in scary places. 
He'd kissed her plenty of times before. All guys kiss 
their moms.

Turning toward him to collect, her breast passed across 
his arm. In the darkness, Rob didn't think much of it, 
other than about its roundness. He was attuned to boobs 
more conical. He'd looked down lots of necklines and 
bumped more than a few emerging tits in the hall. At 
school, he knew which girls enjoyed the attention. If 
they liked you, they'd hold their books down by their 
side. He'd even seen a few nipples, generally those of 
girls not up to their training bra size. His buddies 
liked to talk big, but truth be told, none of them had 
done it all the way.

After the kiss in the spooky tunnel, Mom would brush 
against him in the lines. Rob didn't mind. Actually, he 
found it fun, how often it accidentally happened. She'd 
stand just a bit behind. He almost got to anticipate 
how she'd bump into him when the people behind shuffled 
forward. Sometimes he'd hesitate advancing, letting her 
push. If her brush was sliding, he thought he could 
even tell when her nipple crossed the back of his arm. 
Her fabric was slippery.

He could see the outline of her nipples when he turned 
to chat. His best analyses were when she was looking in 
some other direction. He liked the way that they 
pointed just a little to the outside, accentuated when 
her blouse slid against her.

One time, a Jolly Roger crew bearing a brassbound chest 
of ruby necklaces marched down the street. In Mom's 
turning to watch the swashbuckling braggarts, both 
breasts ran against his ready elbow. It was the empty 
space between that he really discovered. They'd stood 
like that to hear the pirates' sea chant, "Yo, ho, ho." 
He could tell where the top of her bra crossed the 
softer flesh of her upper breasts and the stiffened hem 
of her wispy garment's underside connected the cups.

They'd kissed final farewells before being strapped 
into the Missile. The sign alluded to interstellar 
voyages from Island Earth. The way they were strapped 
for Missile launch, their knees touched the whole way. 
Rob could see the pattern of top lace, within which 
Mom's nipples stood as thimbles. Maybe it's related to 
the acceleration, he speculated. 

Being strapped beside her, he couldn't rearrange his 
pants to totally disguise himself, but figured that 
she'd not open her eyes while airborne. They kissed 
again to celebrate their live return. Mom hadn't needed 
to beg these kisses; she'd just turned his way with 
shoulders pulled a little back. Their bump together was 
only accidental, as Rob saw it, but directly against 
his arousal. She's probably still space-groggy, he 
hoped.

Rob didn't know what a Twister has to do with the 
oceans, as tornadoes occur inland, but the ride was 
indeed cyclonic. Perhaps, he speculated, they should 
call it the Hurricane. Mom figured that she'd best hug 
the pole while he, being the stronger, could reach 
around. Mom's clasp high on the pole left Rob little 
choice but to grasp under her arms, his forearms 
sandwiching her breasts like a dinner roll. 

The innumerable decelerations drove her vulnerable 
nipples against the knuckles of his thumbs. A sideways 
spin would slide her against the sinews of his hands. 
As pleasing as Rob found this predicament, he'd been 
concerned how his fly pressed into her. He hoped that 
she couldn't feel anything because they spun around too 
much. Even if she had, she wouldn't have known what it 
was, her facing the pole. If the ride hadn't abruptly 
ceased, he feared such contact might lead to an awkward 
consequence.

Finishing their ice cream at Pirate Trove Caf‚, Mom's 
knee found Rob's under the table while she blithely 
discussed schedules with her spouse. Rob sat 
motionless, complicit that Dad shouldn't see. Maybe Mom 
winked at him, Rob wasn't sure. Her parting admonition 
to husband and daughter was to take their time.

After Sara and Dad departed, Mom locked his arm against 
her and steered him to the "Come Sail with Us Again" 
exit. He thought people might think that she was his 
date, strolling like that. Rob suggested having their 
hands stamped for park re-entry, just in case, but Mom 
thought not. "We've seen just the perfect number of 
oceans, don't you think?"

On the hotel shuttle, she'd rested her head on his 
shoulder and cradled his arm in the space they'd found 
when the pirates sang. As the shuttle bus was painted 
to resemble a rowboat, Rob thought about being cast 
upon a desert island. He'd discover bananas and 
cocoanuts and under the tropical moon they'd curl as 
one beneath a palm tree. Probably her clothes would be 
torn. They might be castaways for a long time, until he 
got older.

Mom's thoughts were adrift as well. They're on deck 
chairs of their Europe-bound liner, letting the sea 
lull them into drowsy familiarity. No one will know 
them at tonight's Captain's Ball. She'll help Rob with 
his tie. After the orchestra's last waltz, the two will 
promenade arm-an-arm the under the night sky, sea 
breeze in her hair. In their stateroom, he'll undo her 
pearls.

No one else was in the hotel elevator. She'd stood just 
behind him, a little to the side, the way she'd stood 
all day. It would have been difficult to discern their 
individual movements, but in a relative sense, Rob 
crossed her bust several times slowly and softly, so 
she'd not notice. In the first pass, a nipple traced 
against his arm as might a gloved finger trail on ready 
skin. By the third pass, Rob was riding up the yielding 
outer slope, over the protruded crest and down the 
inner gradient. Rob wished they were on the fifteenth 
floor, not the fifth.

At their door, Rob worked the electronic key. Mom was 
never good with things mechanical. The key goes in a 
little box inside the door, Rob pointed out, so it 
doesn't get lost. Mom thought that was a good idea. 
"Stick together and you don't get lost," reflecting on 
their day's venture.

Back in the room, the two busied themselves unlacing 
shoes. Arches pay a price for adventure, Seven Seas 
style. Rob got first shower. Hotel stalls are integral 
with a tub, but who takes tub baths? The blasting jets 
made his erection finally go away. He thought of how 
Mom might shower, how the suds might roll down. His 
erection returned. What if she were in the tub and he 
had to bring her some shampoo and then she wanted him 
to wash her hair? His imagination traveled into waters 
beyond the most distant ocean.

Fourteen years of proximity fosters similar 
associations. Mom didn't think of shampoo; she thought 
of needing a towel.

PART 2

"Arctic Summer" is hardly exciting TV, but Rob's had 
enough of theme park excitement. It's interesting, he 
decides, about the narwhals, how they always find 
places to come up. Rob wonders if the Arctic Ocean 
counts as one of the Seven Seas. The North and South 
Atlantic, North and South Pacific and Indian Oceans 
leave two more.

Mom emerges from the bathroom in her flannel nightgown, 
her buttoned cream-colored one with the high neck. She 
has that powdery smell Rob remembers from when he was 
little. It makes her skin smooth, he recalls. Mom's 
missed a button, Rob notices, as she flops onto the 
other bed. "Have I seen this one before?" she queries, 
not expecting an answer. "I hope they show the 
penguins." Rob doesn't want to disappoint her by 
explaining that this isn't the Antarctic.

Individually they watch a panoramic explanation of how 
polar ecology utilizes twenty-four hours of summer 
daylight. Neither had thought much about Arctic ecology 
before, the deeper levels at which things connect, how 
the system works as one whole. By the next PBS telethon 
"Arctic Summer" rebroadcast, they'll have forgotten how 
it involves plankton.

She hops up to close the drapes. "It helps the screen." 
She hooks the door chain, noting that anybody might 
have one of those electronic keys. As the TV's turned 
more toward the kids' side of the room, she stretches 
out, stomach down, beside him. Would he rub her feet? 
Sure. Perched at her heels, Rob can't help noticing the 
roundness of her calves, the triangle of her panty 
line, the fall of her still-damp hair.

Would he rub her back, up by the shoulders? Sure. 
There's no bra strap, Rob notes. He doesn't think that 
women wear them to sleep. He guesses that without such 
constraint, her breasts would be softer and mobile. Her 
nipples would be visible. He wishes that she'd not worn 
a bra at Seven Seas, though he knows that she pretty 
much has to, being a mom.

After he's "gotten her comfy", as she calls it, she 
insists on doing him in return. As she massages between 
his shoulder blades, he can hear the Arctic commentator 
speaking about icebergs. They break apart and sometimes 
they reconnect, at least temporarily. Mom turns him to 
better do his shoulders, her pendulant breasts swaying 
under the flannel. What would it be like to have such 
tits traverse you back and forth, just the tips kissing 
your chest, Rob wonders?

He can see where the forgotten button gaps her gown, 
revealing a concave curve of a pale inner bosom. It's 
not like he can really see anything else. He wishes her 
gown were tighter.

As she works, they recollect the day's rides, 
especially the wild ones. Neither mentions the spooky 
tunnel, how they took the boat twice. She says that she 
felt safer, having him there in the Missile. Rob 
remembers her knee, but only speaks about how much 
wilder the ride is with your eyes open. She finishes 
his bottom ribs and lies facing him. "Yo, ho, ho," she 
smiles.

"Thanks for being such a good sport about letting me 
choose," she offers, snuggling closer. "Tomorrow you 
can pick the rides. I'll even try the Twister again," 
she promises, with a dramatic shiver of dread. Does he 
has pubic hair? She realizes that he must. The pair 
discusses the Looper, how they almost fell out because 
surely it wasn't supposed to go so high. She'd had them 
lock arms in case the harness belts weren't strong 
enough. Moms are big about safety.

Mom leans back to switch off the bedside light. "The 
reflection," she explains. Tumescent flesh wobbles 
under her flannel. She lies back beside him, her head 
on his collarbone. Can he see OK? Sure. Not that well, 
he realizes, but it's comfortable. Their bed is 
welcoming enough to make about anything comfortable.

She wonders if she's some sort of pervert. It's not 
normal to be lying here with your son. She should just 
button up and hop back to her own bed. The "not normal" 
bit, of course, isn't particularly about the bed. All 
families bunch up in hotel rooms. "Not normal" refers 
to how she's played with Rob all day, how excited she's 
been, how being with him excites her now. She could 
tell in the queues when he started cocking his arm just 
enough to find her. The mother behind them with the two 
younger children had watched every brush of his elbow 
and smiled at her.

In the elevator, she knew how much of their contact 
he'd maintained. Not all, but a lot. She of course knew 
how much he'd noticed her; at fourteen, boys aren't 
stealthy. She knows how much she wanted him to find her 
nipples too. Signals get complex, she concedes.

At Rob's age, he's hardly in a position to evaluate the 
nature of mores. Mom realizes that he's probably only 
beginning to negotiate the less-complex physical 
mysteries. She's read how today's kids are sexually 
active at even twelve or thirteen. That Rob's never 
been physically advanced brings her some comfort. 
Mothers have a pretty good idea. In a year or so, 
she'll need to prod her husband to give Rob the little 
lecture: never do it; be protected. She already 
anticipates her loss, finding condoms in his jeans 
pockets. Do the laundry and put them back as if never 
seen. What else can you do? That he'll squander his 
preciousness on a promiscuous predator who removes her 
own panties saddens her. She bartered her virginity for 
not even three beers when she was sixteen, but Rob 
deserves better.

Mom expects that she's been his information source on a 
few feminine issues. Would he even remember those early 
years when they'd bathe together? She still leaves her 
door ajar now and then. Rob seeing her in discrete 
underwear at least conveys that a woman's body is 
normal. Her friend Ali, she knows, walks around her 
children fully nude. That much seems a little bold. 
Today, even, Rob probably gained a little experience 
about boy-girl interaction in public. For some things, 
boys just need a mother. Boys learn about menstruation 
digging through the bathroom wastebasket, for example. 
But they learn about vaginas in the back seats of 
Hondas. That's the part that bothers her -- some girl 
is using him to learn about penises.  Rob was erect in 
the Missile, she decides, probably from the braless 
wonders that swarmed around them all day. But maybe, 
just maybe, a little bit from her too.

She'd found his crossed-hands-on-lap at Missile 
touchdown more erotic than his condition itself. It 
wasn't his arousal that intrigued her; it was that she 
might have been a reason. They were only touching 
knees. It's not just about your boy learning about you, 
she acknowledges; it's also you learning about your 
boy. For fourteen years, it's been her daily duty to 
influence him. It's called parenting. Now she's just 
discovering another type of influence, how she drew out 
the caress of their trousers in their post-Missile 
affirmation.

"Arctic Summer" shows the antics of seal pups attacking 
a dead fish. Their mother guards them, then beckons 
them closer with a slap of her flipper. A seal mom 
knows that playing grownup is part of growing up. It's 
best to first play grownup close to home.

It's not that Mom wants sex. Of course not, her husband 
is really good at the mechanical part. She gets to 
choose how sometimes. After two nights with the kids at 
Seven Seas, he'll want to invade her before they unpack 
their suitcases. The thought of such surrender pleases 
her, but hardly seems significant. It's something 
couples do.

Rob seems significant, a relationship so mutual. 
There's erotic interplay between moms and sons other 
than intercourse, she reasons. The fact that she's gone 
in and out of vaginal wetness for much of the day, just 
as she's watched Rob go in and out of erection is just 
how bodies function. If we were arctic animals, 
perhaps, she decides, we'd carry on with the 
procreative purpose. But we're people. We control our 
actions. So maybe this isn't that far from "normal'. 
She'll let him play with her, just a little, she 
determines, till he drifts to sleep. He's just a boy. 
This is their ocean liner stateroom.

Why does she so want to share her breast with him, she 
wonders? From when he suckled her? She'd enjoyed every 
minute of breast-feeding, him reaching for her ready 
tit, her discretely nursing him in public. She never 
minded that discerning eyes could watch. At church, 
they'd pipe the service into a room where squirmy 
infants could be taken. Once time she'd brought a 
hungry Rob and there was Martin Overton mixing his 
Sofia's bottle. She'd unbuttoned every button, pushed 
up both cups for the hell of it, claimed the rocking 
chair across from Martin and they'd discussed baby 
clothes. Wear them six times and they're outgrown. Look 
all you want, Martin, she'd thought, we're in church. 
I've got two, you know. Want me to try Sofia? Those 
were good days. She hopes Martin still remembers, but 
she can't ask.

No, she doesn't see her teenager as her infant 
returned. Rob's a man now, at least in regard to breast 
infatuation. He wanted to rub her; that she knew. So 
she allowed him.  As his mom, why can't she let him 
continue? She's not sure. Her husband fondles them 
lovingly, so she can't claim abandonment. This would be 
easier if she were lonely for love, wouldn't it? She's 
read that there are clubs for that sort of 
acquaintance. She'd say she was twenty-eight. "You 
follow the NFL?" is probably a way to start a 
conversation. But she's lonely for the boy she'll 
loose.

She's never succumbed to an affair, though she could 
have. The closest was kissing Ryan Mills in the 
hallway. If cross-examined, she'd admit that it was a 
bit more than kissing, but they hadn't actually gone 
into the room. The promise of illicit delight wasn't 
worth subsequent risk; she knew that. Life would be 
easier if she could just say, "fuck everything." She 
could have screwed Ryan and nobody would have ever 
known. She'd have kept playing tennis with Carla Mills, 
even. But she's not a family wrecker; she's a perfectly 
contented wife and mother who wants nothing more.

Would it be so wrong for a boy to touch his mom, 
though? Just touch. Wouldn't it even be the fair thing 
to balance out how her hips were against him on the 
Twister? She'd chased him with her butt until capturing 
him between her cheeks and enjoyed the subsequent 
twists mechanically inflicted upon them. She was 
surprised by the extent of his condition at the time. 
Well, maybe a little bit affirmed. Moms need 
affirmation. She'd worked her butt skillfully, enjoying 
Rob's fruitless evasion. She remembers the dilemma's 
other side from her own adolescent years. The 
possibility of unintentionality provides an escape from 
culpability. So letting Rob secretly fondle her is an 
equity issue, maybe. See sees some logic in it.

Then there are very practical questions. What if the 
other two return early? The door is chained for 
explainable reason. What if her husband asks what 
they've been doing? Watching TV. What if he can tell 
from her nipples? She can hunch to keep her gown 
wrinkled. Sara's more likely than her husband to notice 
things, but less likely to draw conclusions.

The return of Rob's touch, as she lies torn between 
emotions, feels so inevitable.

Televised First Nation hunters prepare to spear 
something that meets most of their nutritional 
requirements. The documentary was shot in Canada where 
Indians are called that, Rob realizes. First Nation 
families all sleep in the same bed. Rob thinks how 
you'd all be squished together, maybe against your 
mother. What if Father was out hunting walrus and it 
was arctic windy and Mother was really cold? You'd wrap 
your arms about her and pull close. Her breasts would 
be satin soft because First Nation people eat blubber. 
You'd together listen to the snow falling. Do they 
really rub noses?

Rob misses the bit about "their spears reflect 
generations of adaptation to arctic survival" for a 
reason more immediate than speculation about arctic 
nights in the igloo. He's returned to Mom's undone 
button, about four from the top. Lilting breasts pull 
the halves of her gown apart.

She likewise misses some of the spear footage, 
readjusting her posture to part the gap a little more. 
The twist of Rob's head tells her that he's trying to 
see inside. It's fun, thinking about adventure. It's a 
safe sort of thought because Seven Seas is a safe sort 
of place, despite the Twister. It's fun, thinking of 
adventure, any style.

When she's finally ready (meaning that she knows that 
her courage may soon falter), adventure wins. She takes 
his hand and looks at it. If he didn't want a little 
more contact, she tells herself, he wouldn't have felt 
her so many times.

Mom seeks to shed responsibility for her gamesmanship. 
Right there in public where she couldn't get away 
without drawing attention! Nipples excitation is 
physical, proven by swimming in cold water. Don't blame 
the female. Hell, she even tried to end getting felt by 
coming home early. Well, maybe it wasn't molestation, 
she decides, but he did definitely go for her nipples. 
She was wearing a regular bra, nothing come-on. She 
can't fool herself, exhausting such arguments.

So what's wrong with being excited, anyway? Just a 
little pretending, as she sees it. She and Rob once 
played lots of pretend games. What to cook for supper? 
Rob would grin, "And here are some big fried worms for 
you," and she'd say, "My, how delicious." This is just 
a little pretending when he's a few years older. And 
who says that adults can't pretend. It's good for a 
woman's mental health, as explained in Today's Woman, 
$1.75 at the Safeway checkout. She doesn't buy every 
issue, just some, mainly for the recipes.

She senses filial compliance. Rob's hand is still in 
hers. Well, perhaps not "compliance" in that he'll 
touch her again, but "compliance" in that he won't 
rashly reject her. Moms fear rejection.

She rests his hand near her undone button. The heel of 
his hand rides on her sternum while the edges of his 
fingers lie against the swell of softer flesh. Her hand 
rests lightly on his, trapping it not by mass but by 
energy. She imagines saying, "And here are some big 
soft boobs for you," and he'd say, "My, how delicious."

As she closes her eyes, the TV shows an aerial view of 
land and water. Looking from above, explains the 
commentator, one sees individuals of many species, each 
pursuing its daily regimen. Looking from within (the 
camera switches to a white bird riding on a moose 
antler), the arctic community functions as one, a union 
of purpose. She pulls her hand away, leaving him to 
discover such oneness.

To Rob, Mom's eros beckons, but he too hesitates. He 
should extricate himself and check their schedule for 
tomorrow's events. They missed the Battle Royal today; 
he'd heard the cannons of the HMS Golden Crowne. Rob 
knows that the French warship is sunk twice daily in a 
spectacle of smoke and splash.

But he can still feel her yielding bosom from when they 
rode the elevator. He knew that Mom could tell, the way 
she'd sway in reverse. He's glad she's now drifted off 
so she can't see where she rested his hand. This seems 
backwards to him. He'd rubbed her fully throughout the 
day; now it's hardly a breath of contact. But then, 
she'd still seemed like a boss, letting him know her. 
Here, she seems vulnerable, a flower that he might 
pick. No, not even pick, just hold and smell.

The open button, a finger's reach away, draws him. She 
wouldn't even know. But he's too much like his mom; he 
can't fool himself. She knew what he did to her in the 
elevator. He's imagined Mom in bed before, what she and 
Dad must do. In comparison to that, he compares, tits 
are probably nothing to her, anyway. Would she let him 
touch hers, just one time on purpose? What if she told? 
But he thinks she wouldn't.

He pulls her fabric a millimeter, as if rolling a 
finger. No response. He does it again, but this time 
slides the flannel enough to accentuate her. It seems 
much closer than even in the elevator. He'll just go a 
little further. If she stirs, he'll stop. He pulls the 
gap toward the erect nubbin, stationary and solitary 
below the creeping flannel.

Mom sleeps on. He's not forethought a response, should 
she awaken, but there's no need. She's breathing 
deeper, chest rising. She lies immobile while being so 
delicately violated, honoring his care for her slumber. 
So what if he might suspect that her sleep is thespian? 
It's about pretending.

At last he exposes a handsomely upright nipple backlit 
by the TV. The fuller protrusion he'd enjoyed that 
afternoon was her stiffened areola, Rob realizes, 
though he doesn't know the word. He hadn't exactly 
planned on pulling her gown that far; it just happened. 
He'd thought she'd be darker. Erotic thoughts tend to 
be.

One by one, he parts the remaining buttons. Each 
undoing whispers arctic air to her flushed skin. She 
savors the minutes consumed. As her breast 
incrementally emerges, she's sure he will stroke it, 
but he doesn't. Succeeding with her neck button, he 
folds open half her gown. .

As her eyes are closed, she's unsure, but knows that he 
ventures near. When at last he touches with what can't 
be more than a fingertip, she rolls her shoulders ever 
so slightly. He freezes, but then touches again. This 
time she quiets her external manifestations. Fingers 
add to make a whole hand, two digits scissoring her 
nipple, hard like an acorn. The hand massages what's 
seen, then slides to encompass her not-yet-uncovered 
half.

She registers the distinction between being vertical 
and horizontal. Fondled in the former posture, she'd 
still felt older. In this case, she just feels erotic, 
forgetting the delights of deliberation and wishing he 
would bare her chest roughly.

He works Mom's gown outward onto her shoulders. 
Revealed breasts remind him of pillows. They list 
outward, ripe berries a little higher than center.

Rob's conquest is loosing its restraint, however, 
fourteen-year-olds having only so much. Baring Mom goes 
far beyond the liberties allowed at Seven Seas. What's 
happening now, he realizes, is of his own doing. 
Although he doesn't recognize supremacy, it's about 
conquest.

He's being safe, he reassures himself. If she stirs, he 
can feign sleep. She'll assume that the buttons came 
undone by themselves. Nightgown buttons could do that, 
he supposes.

He should probably pull the bedcover over his lap, just 
in case. Rob is erect, of course, but not with 
forethought. Even while exerting his will on a woman, 
sexual intercourse seems a mystery for a later age, say 
sixteen. He's never even felt a bare breast before, but 
he doesn't feel slighted having Mom's to learn on. 
Unlike females his age, Mom's are worth capture.

He's kneading her breasts now, rolling the nipples, 
hungry for the responses of flesh to flesh. Even in her 
slumber, he notes, her pectoral muscles synchronize 
with the rhythm of his manipulation. If she wakes, 
he'll think of something, he hopes. His pretending to 
sleep might not work. He's pretty sure that she 
wouldn't tell Dad, though. That deal initiated when she 
pulled him back into the spooky tunnel and was ratified 
under the restaurant table. He's safe.

The angle her knee meets him dissuades him from the 
bedcover. Her pressure against him makes him feel 
older. She raises her thigh just enough to enhance the 
friction of his mating maneuver, not unlike a doe's 
instinctual invitation to the dominant male caribou. 
With all mammals, there's the scent.

She feels her resistance folding. To hold motionless is 
no longer possible. She knows how her body begs to 
finish, just not the details. If she had the willpower 
to resist acknowledging him, she wonders if she would 
climax nonetheless. She's pretty sure she would, but 
she lacks the discipline for amorous solitude. "They 
function as one, a union of purpose," the TV show said.

Between touch and thought, mother and son communicate 
more than they individually realize. Mindgames of 
multiple reversal and singular conclusion work best 
when the two players have minds of genetic similarity.

She smiles as if awaking, still immobile, and watches 
polar bears mate until her lover-to-be sees her eyes. 
Great white bears, having no predators, do what they 
want when they want to.

She punches the remote. "Arctic Summer" speaks much 
louder, as Mom was never good with things mechanical. 
It's Rob who punches "off".

PART 3

When Sara and Dad returned, the door was chained. It 
took a while for Mom to get there, hunched over a bit. 
She asked about the light show and mentioned that 
they'd seen a TV special about polar bears. That's the 
part she remembered, anyway.

Even across the king-size she had to share with her 
brother, Sara knew Rob was trembling. The wimp only 
went on the Missile once, she scorned. She rode it four 
times fearlessly and she's just twelve.

THE END

****

Holly on the Web

Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to 
the server. My problem is that I've no systematic way 
to update the various servers. As literary errors (or 
just poor word usages) are made know to me, I'll repair 
that which is salvageable on 
http://www.asstr.org/~Holly_Rennick/. My website's not 
much graphically, I admit, but HTML isn't my native 
language.

You can contact me via the site's message form, that 
HTML code by the smart people at ASSTR.

I won't be changing the story significantly, so if you 
didn't like it before, that much will remain the same. 
But if you did like it, an update may read a bit more 
cleanly.

Holly

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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.

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Kristen's collection - Directory 23