My Son, The Sleepwalker

The doctors had never seen anything like it before. We'd gone to several of them over the years, but none had ever seen a case of sleepwalking that was as chronic and debilitating as the one that afflicted Tom, my son of nineteen years.

His father, Donald, and I had spent his entire childhood trying to find a reason to explain his situation. We could not let him stay the night at a friend's house, or go to sleepaway camp. Things that a normal boy should have been able to do had been out of the question for Tom, and even as an adult his illness was too severe to allow him to lead a normal life.

The only solution, beyond the therapy and medicine, was to keep Tom strapped down at night. A third party was required to fasten the buckles, so without me or Donald, he was completely helpless to manage his own condition. Tom would have to live with us until someone else was willing to take over that nightly ritual.

It sounded harsh, but it was absolutely imperative that he not be allowed to escape. As a child, his 'jailbreaks' had occasionally ended with a call to the fire department. Even his less destructive ones had still caused us no end of headaches.

As he'd aged, his outbursts and his 'missions,' as we called them, had become increasingly severe. The dark turn had occurred when Tom was seventeen, on a night where Donald had mistakenly left a buckle undone that had facilitated his escape.

The events of that night were difficult to talk about as a family. Tom did not remember anything of the trauma he had inflicted on his father and me, but for me and Donald, it was a vivid memory.

On the night in question, Donald had caught Tom trying to climb out of his bedroom window. By the time he'd gotten to our son, Tom already had one foot outside of the window. There'd been nothing below to catch his fall, so whatever 'mission' he'd been on would have led to injury, and possibly even his death. My husband had heroically tackled Tom to the ground just moments before he leapt out, but being unable to complete his 'mission' had put Tom in a fit of rage.

I had never seen Tom hit someone before, but that night I'd watched helplessly as he'd gone on a violent rampage against my husband. He was at least a foot taller than Donald, and had easily had forty pounds over him by then, leading to a one-sided bludgeoning that had not at all represented a fair fight. The beating had ended with Donald in a pool of blood with several of his teeth missing.

When it had run its course, Tom had climbed back into bed like nothing had happened. He'd only awoken when the ambulances had arrived, with no idea who had beaten his father into a pulp.

With that incident fresh in our minds, it had become painfully obvious that Tom's condition was getting worse. We could not afford to take risks any more.

One evening, while seated around the dinner table, Tom mentioned that he was going to make a profile on a popular dating app. Perhaps it was an unusual thing to tell ones parents, but due to Tom's illness there was an atmosphere of vulnerability and openness amongst us that few other families could replicate.

Though he had some loose acquaintances, he did not have many close friends through which to meet women. Despite taking the initiative to create an account, he was not optimistic.

"What kind of woman would want to be with a guy that she has to tie down every night? I'm screwed!" He was half joking, but the way his smile quickly faded told me that it was not a laughing matter.

"That's total— I'm sorry, honey, but - bullshit!" I said defiantly.

Donald pointed his fork at me. "Your Mother is right. That's nothing compared to the baggage most guys your age come with."

Tom snorted. "What do you know about guys my age, Dad?"

Donald folded his hands like a wise guru. "I remember being one, for a start."

"Please, Father, please teach me the ways of your eternal wisdom," Tom pleaded sarcastically.

I hated the idea that Tom saw himself as unmarketable due to his sleepwalking. He was a fantastic person, with a heart of gold and a face that anyone could love.

If I was twenty years younger... was a phrase I had caught myself thinking on more than one occasion, but I always felt guilty for it. What kind of mother thinks of her son that way, even for the briefest flash? I could not help myself. He was a catch, and I wished that there was some way I could make him believe that himself.

Later that night, the three of us watched a movie. I'd made a huge bowl of popcorn, but found myself in the kitchen making a second one before the opening credits were finished.

About forty minutes into the movie, there was an unexpected sex scene. It was not overly explicit, but I could tell that Tom was on edge from the subject matter alone. I thought that he was simply uncomfortable with watching such a scene with his parents, but a thought crossed my mind that was as alluring as it was terrifying.

My son is horny.

I wanted to ignore the idea, but the more I tried to brush it off, the louder it became inside of my mind.

I reflected back on the desire he had expressed over dinner. Tom wanted a girlfriend for the obvious reasons: partnership, growing close with someone, and all the innocent stuff that moms think about when they picture their baby boys entering the dating world. Seeing how the sex scene had made him squirm on the couch, however, made it crystal clear in my mind that he was deeply troubled by the hormonal urges that had once pestered us all.

When the movie ended, Tom quickly retreated to his room, leaving me in the family room with two things: my husband, and the sobering realization that, in the wake of mulling so intensely over Tom's horniness, I had contracted a case of those same urges myself. I could not admit to Donald the source of the lust that suddenly drove me up the wall, and he was too excited to ask questions.

I pleaded with Donald to sequester Tom into bed as soon as he could, promising that he could have whatever he wanted from me when he returned. Without that step in place - without the knowledge that Tom was secured in bad until the morning - nothing could move forward. Thankfully, Tom did not seem interested in staying up late.

When my husband returned to our bedroom, there was sheer, unabashed glee written across his face.

I giggled at his palpable elation. "I hope you didn't look like that when you tucked in Tom."

"Is it that obvious?" Donald asked, cringing.

"Only to me, honey." I spread my legs for him and, in the absence of any underwear, exposed my naked pussy.

Donald swallowed dryly. "Oh, wow. Lily, you look fucking beautiful."

"Then come make me feel beautiful, my big, strong man," I cooed, adding a wink.

It started out good. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't amazing; it was rarely the latter. There were some days where our sex was truly fantastic, but I had greater luck gambling on roulette than I did predicting whether or not Donald would be able to conjure up a memorable performance.

I loved my husband with every inch of my heart. He was the only man that I had ever been with, as is often the tale with high school sweethearts, so our sex was all I knew. I had never orgasmed with him, but I did not blame him for that fact. I could rarely bring myself to orgasm, even with the benefit of vibrators and whatever other tools one could imagine.

That night, like many before it, was not the passionate, lust-fueled romp that I was hoping for. I sucked Donald's dick for a minute or so, which always earned me exceptional praise.

When we'd started dating, I had convinced him that I did not have a gag reflex. It was a silly lie that I had concocted to explain why I could deepthroat him so effortlessly, but the truth was that he was simply small enough for me to swallow his whole cock without much struggle. I knew men could often be sensitive about that fact, so, for better or worse, I wanted him to think it had nothing to do with his size.

When I was done sucking Donald's dick, I got onto my hands and knees so he could fuck me from behind. It was our bread and butter, and he was absolutely thrilled with it. Since I had essentially given up on any hopes of achieving my own orgasm, I was simply content to give him a way to make himself feel good.

A few minutes passed, each one filled with Donald's laboured grunting. My face was buried in the sheets for most of it, but when I felt him getting close, I raised my head so that he could pull my hair. It was his favourite move, and I could see it coming a mile away.

When my eyes snapped open, they were aimed at the door. It was open, just a crack, but without any light it was difficult to see into the shadows that haunted the hallway.

Still, in that dark, looming blackness, my brain recognized something. It was not a conscious thought, but once I paid attention to it, the threat became undeniable. Alarm bells rang out. Panic seized my body and stiffened the hairs on the back of my neck into tiny, delicate razorblades. A tall, menacing figure, shrouded in darkness, shuffled side to side behind the door.

He was watching us.

"H-honey..." my voice trailed off, my throat spontaneously dry. "There's someone there."

Donald chortled. "What?"

"The door. Oh my god. The fucking door, Donald!" I wanted to run into the closet, hide under the bed, or jump out the window - anything to get myself out of this situation - but I could not move. I was frozen in fear, and stayed that way when the lumbering giant pushed open the door to our bedroom.

Tom was a redwood, towering and still, in the doorway. He blocked our only viable escape route, trapping us inside the room unless we broke a window. His eyes were shut tight, and he was as naked as the day I'd pushed him out of me. The pair of boxers in his right hand were clenched as tightly as his jaw, making him look like a barbarian proudly clutching a loincloth trophy from a fallen enemy whose dwelling he had just ransacked.

"How did he get out?" I squeaked.

Donald lowered his head. "I was in a rush to get back to you, so I guess I missed a buckle."

My voice was small and scared. "Let's just see where he goes. Maybe he won't do anything stupid this time."

Donald's eye twitched nervously, haunted by the trauma of his violent beating. "Whatever he does, we cannot wake him up."

Fight or flight: that's exactly what I felt, for the first time in my life, when Tom stepped further into the room. I gave a startled gasp, but stifled the end of it with my hand. I bit down on my palm to stop myself from whimpering like a frightened puppy while our son crept closer to the bed.

The door was on my side of the bed, placing me between Tom and my husband. I hated Donald for not throwing his body in front of me as a shield. The panic in my body demanded he protect me, yet he remained motionless. All we could do was watch in silent terror as Tom made his way to my bedside.

I had always been proud of the size of my breasts. I know it is not something one can control, but over the years Donald had drilled into my head the notion that they were "as big as they are beautiful." This led me to embrace the hubris that came with overtly flaunting such a floppy, oversized pair of tits.

The affection Donald had for my boobs was clearly genetic, because his son was possessed of the same hopeless infatuation. With his boxers still clutched in one hand, Tom extended his other towards me with an obvious intention. Horror gripped Donald and me like an iron claw, both of us too scared to intervene, lest we incur his wrath.

Tom mindlessly groped my naked flesh, pawing at the breasts before him with no concern for whom they belonged to. He was not gentle, so I remained thankful that he was only using one hand. Stretch lines appeared around fingers, which sank in so deep that his nails were completely submerged.

If there was one thing to be grateful for, it was the fact that Tom had his eyes closed. Having my breasts exposed to him was incredibly shameful. He had not touched my boobs since I'd breastfed him as an infant. Despite the fact that his hands were mauling the tender milk bags from which he had once suckled so greedily, I was at least thankful that he could not see the vulgar display of blubber oozing through his fingertips.

He urgently kneaded the pile of dough in his hand, making his approval known through a series of satisfied grunts. I could not help that the attention made my body react on an instinctive level, turning my once-lifeless nipple into a firm, pink gemstone that protruded from my body. My rubbery areola was much too wide to fit in his palm, and no matter how widely he stretched his fingers, he could not contain even half of my gigantic breast in one hand.

"Honey," I gulped anxiously. "He's hard."

"I know," Donald sighed.

"And he's huge." My heart raced a little faster.

Donald laughed, which took some of the tension out of the air. "I can see that. He should be thanking us!"

I joined in his laughter, happy to embrace anything that did not remind me that my son was lazily fondling my tits. Unfortunately, the moment of levity was short-lived. I sucked my teeth and turned to face my husband. "Should we tell him about this tomorrow?"

"I don't think so, he'll be too embarrassed. I guess it'll be our little secret. I'm sure he'll get bored soon and—" Donald stopped talking mid-sentence. His wide-eyed, nervous gaze was tracking something behind my head. I was scared to turn around.

Tom's hand, with fingers made of stone, took a fistful of my hair. He yanked my head backwards so that I was staring up at the ceiling. My eyes darted around, looking for something to focus on that would explain the source of my whiplash, but found only one thing to land on: Tom's face, with his eyes still closed, looming overhead.

I was a timid mouse, and he a fearsome lion, come to devour me in a single bite. Had my jaw not been tightly clenched, my chattering teeth would have been heard a block away.

"H-honey, what do I do?" I begged, with my racing heart punching holes in my ribcage.

"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know..." Donald chanted uselessly.

"Is he... oh God, he's going to make me..." I could not even bring myself to say the words.

Tom did not accept resistance. His grip on my hair tightened, and he dragged my face over to his crotch so that I was face to face with his enormous erection. The nine-inch monster jutted out from his body like a veiny, muscular flagpole. The bulging mushroom on the end flared angrily, engorged with blood and demanding satiation.

"Do... Do... Do I..." My heart was pounding in my ears, every beat reverberating through my skull. I could not think straight enough to form a single word, much less a whole sentence.

Donald sniffled and sucked in a wavering breath, admitting defeat. "Just open your month, honey. I don't want him to hurt you."

"N-no," I stuttered. "No, please. Please, this can't be real."

Tom emitted a low, furious grunt and shook my head like a toddler with a malfunctioning toy. He was out of patience.

"He could hurt us, Lily," Donald reminded me matter-of-factly. I don't know whose safety he was more concerned for - mine, or his - but he was right.

The head of Tom's cock nudged against my lips. It was hot — full of rage — rapping against my closed mouth in frustration. All I had to do was keep it shut and he would have no way to force himself inside, but the danger to Donald and me was too great. I had to open myself willingly and let him in, and that was the part that hurt most of all. I released the tension in my jaw, my lips trembling as I accepted the horrible nightmare that had become my reality.

I whimpered nervously, parting my lips so he could wedge the tip of his dick between them. The fleshy crowbar pried them open, pushing the rest of the fat, bulbous head inside. His manhood throbbed against my tongue, which was immediately flattened to the bottom of my mouth when he forced even more of his dick into my mouth.

My eyes were wide with fear and disbelief. I had never sucked a cock besides Donald's, so I was completely unprepared to feel the muscles in my jaw straining under the stress of their new, oversized guest. The head, lodged firmly against the roof of my mouth, was as smooth as glass, but soft and spongy like a marshmallow. His dick hugged every small bump and ridge along my upper palate as it ventured deeper, refusing to pause until the helmet nuzzled against the back of my throat.

I gagged instantly, my body lurching like I had just been punched in the stomach. A tear dribbled out of the corner of my eye. Warnings flashed through my brain, begging me to retreat, but I had to ignore them. I could not breathe properly with Tom so deeply embedded in my gullet, and what breath I could manage to draw was nothing more than a wet, gurgling mess.

The implications of gagging in front of Donald were not obvious to me, but they were to him. "I thought you didn't have a gag reflex?" he said.

When I did not answer, obviously preoccupied by a mouthful of our son, he clarified. "You never gag on my dick when you deepthroat me."

I could not believe that was what he was thinking about. I hated that, even with the unbridled panic coursing through my veins, my only thought was to comfort him in his moment of pain. I wanted to make his hurt disappear, no matter what I was going through.

Tom's grip relaxed on my head just for a second. It was not much, but it was enough. I channelled all my strength and pulled my head back, breaking free of his clutches. In that brief moment, I could not think of anything to say other than the truth.

"I'm sorry, honey. I lied, so you didn't feel so—" A small, wet belch escaped my lips, along with a glistening string of saliva that connected me to Tom's throbbing cock, dangling less than an inch from my face. "—So small."

The realization set in, and Donald's heart broke into a million tiny pieces.

Tom pumped his dick down my throat like I was a puppet. He drove himself against the soft wall at the back of my gullet, ignorant to the grotesque, wretched sputtering that he forced upon me. In between his long, drawn-out thrusts, there were only fractions of seconds when I could draw breath before he embedded himself again and cut off my air supply.

Only once his balls rested on my chin would he finally pull out so that I could take a breath. His persistent plunges ejected another resentful tear from the corner of my tightly clenched eye, forcing my cheeks to bear yet another salty badge of shame.

It was frighteningly easy to get used to Tom's routine thrusting, however rough it may have been, but I'd stopped feeling fear by then. I'd stopped feeling anything, emotionally, and only a distant recognition of my own physical discomfort.

I could handle the depth, despite what one might have inferred from my violent, full body convulsions each time Tom's helmet brushed against my uvulae. What still concerned me - all the semblance of emotion I could muster - was that he was going ever faster, gradually building speed over a series of thrusts before he found a pace that matched his enthusiasm. I, on the other hand, was not excited about the change.

GLUCK, GLUCK, GLUCK

My throat sounded like it was made of slime, into which somebody was furiously shoving their entire fist. Tom hammered relentlessly, ignorant to the gaze I cast up to him. It was like a soldier on the battlefield begging their conqueror for mercy. Sadly, there was none to be found. His eyes were still closed, and I knew that guilt wasn't keeping them that way. It was just sleep, and sickness.