Chapter 03: Mom’s Concern

The first thing I noticed was that my mother had not changed out of her clothes from earlier: a pair of jeans and a white shirt. It wasn’t so late that she needed to change, but it was Saturday night, and she wasn’t going anywhere.

“I came here to tell you to leave your door open, and this is what I find,” Mom said, shaking her head at me.

I looked at her clothes and said, “You were coming up here, no matter what. You could have told us to leave the door open on our way upstairs, but you wanted to catch us doing something.”

“I did not.” Mom looked at me, sitting on the bed with a pillow over my lap, and she frowned, then her eyes widened, and she looked away. Sighing, she walked to the bed and sat down near the end, facing forward and keeping her eyes off me and my erection. “I came here hoping that you were doing as I had told you to do, but you weren’t, were you?”

“I’m eighteen.”

“And she’s fifteen.”

“Almost sixteen.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Mom took a deep breath. “Charles is serious about his threat if you continue to have a sexual relationship with his daughter.”

“We haven’t had a chance to be sexual,” I said.

“Sexual means everything up to and including sex,” Mom said, turning a sideways glare on me. “You’re an adult now, and that means no kissing, no touching, no looking at each other naked, and no sexy text messages.”

I laughed.

“I mean it,” Mom said. “I know how teenagers are with their phones.”

“Jenna’s dad wouldn’t risk it,” I said. “She’d hate him for the rest of his life if he filed charges against me, and he knows it. It’s a dad thing. It’ll pass.” By now, my hard-on had softened some. I turned on the bed as my cock lay in a tube-like state over my sack. I slid the pillow off to the side and crossed my legs on the bed, the bulge in shorts no longer as obscene as it had been before Mom had knocked on my door. “Trust me.”

“No.” Mom turned to me. “You trust me. You don’t want to end up on a sex offender’s registry.”

That was true, but that wasn’t going to happen. That only happened to bad people, and Mr. Charles Mason—what an almost terrible name—was going to have to accept the fact that his daughter was growing up and that she was eager to join the adult world.

“I’m eighteen years old,” I said, and though I knew the words coming out of my mouth, and I had thought I could mimic my father’s stern tenor, they still trembled a little, and my heart still sped up as I added, “I have needs, Mom.”

Mom laughed without humor.