Bobby Redding: Mommy_s sick friends

He stood in the middle of the living room, separated from Elaine by the mosaic coffee table, his mother at his side. "Don't you want us to see you, Claude? There might be something wrong with your wee-wee, and if there is, you want us to take you to a doctor, don't you?" Elaine's voice was honey-sweet and honey-soft.

"But there's nothing wrong…" began the objection inside his brain, but his lips only squirmed in movement, and he heard no speech from them.

"I'll tell you what I'll do, Claudie." She looked down at the neck of the terry-cloth robe into which she had changed after her shower. Claude knew she had nothing on beneath the garment, and from the side he had even seen a flash of the cone as it ended in a round red tit, jutting sharply. Even now he could see the outline of the taut circle. "I'll take off my clothes, and you'll take yours off. O.K.?" He looked uncertainly at his mother, but he could not read from her facial expression the content of her mood. He knew, instinctively, that she was totally dependent upon Elaine for approval.

"You help him, Irene."

His mother's fingers were slow as she pulled at the collar button of his shirt, then at the row even with it. Nervously she drew on the belt, tugging the snake from inside the metal clasp. She unhooked the small silver apparatus at the top of the zipper. "Get the zipper, love," directed Elaine, and now Irene slid the hook down over the obstruction of Claude's small, now frozen penis. The slender stick pushed out through the folds of the cotton, and Elaine bit sensuously into her lower lip. Now his mother hooked her thumbs under the waist of the slacks, and she pushed the pants toward his knees in one sweep, almost stumbling to the carpeted floor as she did.

His mother's hands were gentle as she moved his undershirt against his narrow chest, over his shoulders, and then his face. She was sweating. It was compounded by a second odor that mingled with the first, a salty, tangy sweat.

He was naked. True to her promise, Elaine rose, letting the sides of the robe open on her generous nudity. He saw the melons pour out, and his eyes widened when he saw the aureoles, erected into stiffness. She turned her hands toward her shoulders and brushed the fabric against them. She hunched her arms, and the robe slid off. He noticed his mother inhale deeply, almost sigh, at Elaine's nakedness.

Elaine pushed up on the undersides of her full breasts with her open palms. She raised the slopes of the breasts and made them larger against her chest. She inhaled, and her ribs were prominent. She spread her legs, and the tawny down of pubic hair barely covered the slick folds of her cunt. Her right hand moved from her right breast, the wrist grazing the curve of her body as she drove past the spreading hips inside to her crotch. Now the fingertips danced through the hair, combing it, until her forefinger seized hold of a sliver of raw-pink flesh, moistened by lubrication she drew from her cunt with her fingertip.

She stroked the front of her belly above the overturned base of the triangle, and the pale skin between the navel and pubic hair was streaked with moisture. She threaded a few silk strands on the spool of her index finger. The legs were planted firmly apart. She thrust her pelvis forward invitingly.

"See?" She moved closer. She kneeled to his side, and the flat of her hand pushed against Irene's thigh motioning her backward. "Now… let's see your stick." He was hard. She pressed her thumb against it halfway down its length. The blood pumped with force against the pressure. She dug her nail into the ringed flesh, drawing it down from the phallic head. Claude sighed deeply. She let her thumb slide down the underside of the prick until it jammed into the scrotal sac between the two balls. A low groan escaped the boy's throat, and he looked down to see Elaine staring up at him, her face transformed to an eerie, beauty by a satisfied smile.

Her fingers clamped on his cock. She ground her thumb against the base, twining the few strands that laced the skin. He knew what would come. He shut his eyes, but all he could see was the image of the nudity his lids had just shut out his sight zoomed close-up on a diamond tit, grainy pin-sized erections within the larger red circle…

Her other hand moved around his hips. She clenched the firm but un-muscled cheek in her hand and squeezed hard. Her fingernails scratched and drew blood from the flesh, but all he could feel was the surging tide inside his cock. He pushed his stomach forward and almost lost his balance, but her hand tightened on the cheek. He wrenched back and forth as the cream squirted out of the rip on the head, and her fingers were merciless as they squeezed it out. He blinked and looked down at her face. Her eyes glowed as the spurts of semen jumped into the air. A glob of the hot milk landed on her lower lip, and her teeth closed in on the lip, and her tongue licked greedily at the fluid, now hidden…

The sound of his own bedsprings woke Claude. He twisted his pillow. His hips forced themselves deep into the pliant rubber flesh of the mattress as they bounced. New juice covered the flaps of the pajama crotch. He was half-awake, and his hands had not touched the organ. Dreamily he pulled himself into consciousness. With wonder his forefinger touched the puddle of white liquid that obscured his pubic hairs. He knew his chest vibrated with heavy breathing. He wondered how he had cum. Slowly he remembered the dream. Slowly, his head aching with fantasy become sudden reality, he remembered the afternoon, Elaine wiping the drying sperm off his skin with toilet paper…

Waiting for breakfast, Elaine ran her thick, rough fingers over the metal lunch pail. Her face, as Irene read it, was sulky. Elaine's was a tough face to begin with. Her lips were puffy and colorless, her neck short and thick. Still, it amused Irene, when she could think about her lover with something like irony, that Elaine's shoulders, beneath the faded blue work shirt, were narrow and even frail no matter how she hunched them to make them more masculine.

Elaine's fingers undid the metal clasp of the pail. "Irene, I can't begin to tell you how sick and tired I am of white bread. How many times…" she stopped herself, surprised at the stress on that word rather than any other… "have I asked you to get whole wheat, or rye, or anything, for God's sake?"

Irene did not realize at first that the question was more than rhetorical. Her fork weaved through the eggs she was scrambling for the three of them. By the time she looked up, Elaine's features were tightened with anger. "Well?" she asked again. Claude's stomach buckled with fatigue at yet another acrimonious episode.

"The wheat bread wasn't any too fresh, and they were out of rye, and you hate sourdough bread. So I thought you'd rather have white this time."

Having no reasonable response to Irene's explanation, Elaine seethed. Her nostrils twitched at the smell of tuna between the spongy white slices of bread. "This apple looks rotten," she said loud enough for Claude, just next to her, to hear, but too soft for Irene, whose fork scraped the bottom of the steel frying pan.

The three ate in silence, except for the rattling of silverware. Elaine scowled less after the first cup of coffee, and even less after the second. Irene's eyes were shifted downward, to the plate, to the end of her fork, and occasionally across the table to Claude. His body was tense with pretending there was no tension in the room.

Elaine left first. She bent down to graze Irene's cheek with a kiss. Irene instinctively moved her mouth against Elaine's, and Claude watched, fascinated, while their tongues slid back and forth over each other for a few seconds before Elaine reared back and announced again that she was off to work. She nodded to Claude. "Bye, Claudine," she laughed, and she turned before his expression could change.