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Message-ID: <34722asstr$1011060604@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: One Gallus <onegallus@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Ernest Ernestine 2 (Fm, inc)
Date: Mon, 14 Jan 2002 21:10:04 -0500
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<1st attachment, "Ernest 2.txt" begin>

Disclaimer: Persons under eighteen years of age are not permitted
to read this work.  Any resemblance to actual persons living or
dead is purely co-incidental.  You are not permitted to change
this work in any way.   You are not permitted to use this work on
any site without obtaining permission from the author.  This work
may not be sold without the author's permission.

Ernest Ernestine

Part 2

(As I dried him, I began to admire his developing body.  I was
overwhelmed with his beauty and youth.  I saw his little penis
harden and bounce back when I pushed it down to dry it. I was
operating under the cloak of drying him and he said nothing about
it.  I justified all this to myself by thinking, I'm his mother;
I'm interested in his growth and development. Why should I not
observe his progress?  It's only right to feel this way.)

I know now that I must have fallen into some kind of a trance. 
It was as if another side of me had taken over. I wanted to see
my son's penis.  I wanted to see it hard and I wanted to touch
it.  At that moment, that was the only reality. Afterward, I told
myself that the touching was not important, that it didn't make
all that deep an impression. All I did was feel him through the
towel as I was drying him and see his little erection. I did run
my naked finger between his scrotum and thigh, to check if he was
dry down there.  Ernie was completely silent. 

I should have kept my hands to myself.  I might not have known
better before, but the moment after I touched him, I was off in a
world without right or wrong.  It was just a small deed, just a
passing moment of time, but it was to have long range
implications that I had not anticipated.

"There," I said, now a bit flustered and back from my trance,
"You can handle the rest yourself."  I was sobered by what I had
done and probably a little afraid.  I had heard of adults
becoming involved with children, and I knew what society had to
say about such people.  I wasn't that kind of person, I told
myself.  I decided that that it would stop here and pledged to
myself never to touch him in that way again.

The next day, he called to me to dry him off again.  I told him
he could dry himself. At various times through the succeeding
months, he'd say "Mom, dry me off, use the towel on me like you
did before, you know."

"What do you mean, Ernie?  I don't know what you're talking
about," was my response.

The greatest guilt I felt was not the lie but pushing him away. 
I thought if I didn't bring up the incident myself, ignored it,
or even denied it happened that his memory of it would just fade
away because he was so young.  I learned that the little "play
session" was to exert more force that I knew. 

Obviously, Ernie was too embarrassed to say, "Play with my
thing," so a direct encounter on this issue didn't happen.
Eventually he ceased making even indirect references to the
event. That was all right with me. After he stopped bringing it
up I thought, well, it worked, he'd forgotten. 

I now realize that both the experience and my refusal later
affected him profoundly.  I noticed that he seemed to be changing
toward me, didn't want to be close to me as he once had.  The
little son-to-mother affections, the hugs and kisses, all ceased.
 Of course, wanting to be a good mother, I tried to initiate
them, but found that they were not returned.   Ernie would simply
stand, unmoving and silent while I hugged him.  Certainly, this
hurt me, but then I thought that most adolescent boys do go
through a phase where they don't welcome demonstrations of
parental love. That was the problem, I thought.  Then, a year or
so later, events took a dramatically different course

Before I detail that, however, I need to mention the basis of my
action.  When he was quite young, Ernie developed a cute habit.
If he was hungry, he would open the refrigerator and stand, as if
under a spell, gazing at the food.  I would screech at him good
naturedly, "You're air-conditioning the house, Ernie! Shut the
refrigerator!"

It seemed he'd grown out of that habit, but then a good while
after his sullen behavior started, I caught him doing it again. 
I walked into the kitchen about noon-time and there he stood,
vacantly scanning the milk, the lunch meat and the left-over
chicken. 

To me, it was my little boy all over again, but this time he was
a towering twelve-year-old.  I stood behind him a moment,
watching him, remembering him when he was a so little and I
became overwhelmed with nostalgia. Tears formed in my eyes.  I
felt so much love for him that my arms ached to hold him again. I
walked up behind him, slipped my arms around his shoulders and
chest and said softly, "You're air-conditioning the house,
sweetheart."

He stood impassively. I tried again, hooking my chin softly over
his shoulder and brushing his cheek with my face.  I felt the
prickle of his short hair on my temple. I spoke again, "Ernie,
darling, you're air-conditioning the house."

"Uhh," Ernie uttered indifferently. 

"I love you, Ernie," I choked out and hugged him tighter. I
longed for him to turn around and hug me and say, "I love you too
Mom."

"I love you too, Mom," he said flatly.  He did not turn around,
but he did slip his hand behind him and grope my crotch.

I jumped back, shocked and stared at him, not knowing what to
say.  He smiled at me with a sly expression. He looked down at me
where he had felt me, smiled, then turned and walked away.  I
looked down to see my hand clutching myself tightly, my dress
wadded under my grip.

Soon after that I sensed he was watching me when I showered.   A
short hallway ran between my bedroom and my bathroom.  On either
side of the hallway were my husband's and my closets. The only
way to reach my bathroom was through a door with no lock and
through that short corridor. It was easy for Ernie to slip into
the hallway, enter my husband's closet and peer at me from there.
 He could then simply step back toward the bedroom if I looked
up.  Whenever I peeked over the shower door, he was out of my
vision. 

Sometimes the door that led back into the bedroom was not
completely shut as I had left it.  Perhaps the vanity chair had
been moved slightly, or Tom's closet door was ajar and I knew
Ernie must be been spying.  I tried locking the bedroom door, but
it was a simple knob lock and he could enter quickly with a
small-bitted screwdriver. I had found the door unlocked several
times after I had locked it. I think he wanted me to find it
unlocked. 

Through the coming weeks Ernie would gaze at me and, as they say,
"undress me with his eyes."  I tried to ignore it.  A few months
later, Ernie and I were in the house alone. He walked by me while
I was standing at the kitchen sink and "goosed me in the rear,
perhaps "gouged" a better term.  His fingers actually went up and
pushed my dress and panties into my anus.  He wiggled his fingers
roughly.  Of course, I screamed from the shock and turned around
to look at Ernest.  In mock surprise, he jumped back; his eyes
and mouth formed three perfect little "O's."

"Don't do that, Ernest!" I shouted, and he just stood there,
looking at me smirking.  I slapped his face.  I think it must be
the only time I ever did that, though when he was younger, I had
spanked him from time to time.  His countenance changed from a
smirk to genuine shock; tears glistened in his eyes.  Then,
obviously angry he stalked away.

 I considered telling Tom what Ernie had done, but I feared the
whole ludicrous scene with Lucille and Fred would replay, perhaps
provoking worse consequences.  Tom never handled sensitive
matters well, being so over-inhibited himself, but there was
another motive, not admitted, inside of me.  Even if I had told
Tom, I was afraid that somehow my own indiscretion with Ernie
would surface.  Such a fear kept me from talking with anyone else
about it as well.  So the more I put that off, the more difficult
it became to broach the subject.  I kept hoping things would
ease, but instead, similar episodes began happening month after
month. 

During the Christmas school recess, I was kneeling in the floor,
bending over, wrapping Christmas presents.  Ernie came and knelt
beside me.  I looked up and he gave me a tentative smile.  I was
overjoyed that he should show me even that little sliver of
affection.  He held his finger on the ribbons while I tied the
bows.  We wrapped and tied several presents together. I began
thinking how this little Yuletide episode might be the small
foot-bridge back to a normal loving relationship.  I felt good
about what we were doing. 

Both my hands were busy forming a bow.  I was expecting him to
put his finger on the ribbon.  I looked up just as he brought a
sprig of mistletoe up over my head.  I laughed, and then he bent
to kiss me. He kissed me on the lips. Ernie prolonged the kiss
and suddenly I felt his hand at my neckline, sliding in between
my bra and breast. With his fingers on my nipple, he jiggled my
breast.  At the same time, he licked my lips and kept his hand
where it was.  Then he leaned back, removing his hand,

"Woo!  Woo!" he hooted, laughing bitterly.

"Ernest!' I half wept, "Why are you doing this to me?".  I sat
back on my haunches, putting my palm over my breastprotectively.

"What do you mean, Mom?"

"You know what I mean, Ernest!"

"No," he shrugged, his eyes wide, "What did I do?"

"With your hand," I said firmly, twiddling my fingers to
demonstrate, embarrassed.  "And your kiss . . ." 

"I didn't do anything," he said, unsmiling and looking me right
in the eye, "I don't know what you're talking about."  That
silenced me. 

Anytime Ernie and I were alone in the house, I tensed up, knowing
that something like this might happen.  Summertime was
particularly stressful.  It wasn't so bad during the school year
because Ernie was not around and came home only an hour before
Tom arrived from work. Ernie limited his "cruelties" when Tom was
around. 

It was during the summer of Ernest's thirteenth birthday that
another serious incident took place.  I was wheeling the vacuum
cleaner from the hall-closet to my bedroom.  I came almost even
with Ernest's room and he stepped out into the hallway naked.  I
stopped immediately, gasping at the surprise.  He was standing
there, face-on toward me. My eyes went down to his penis.  It was
semi-erect and I could plainly see he had grown from its little
boy dimensions into a promise of its manhood.  Obviously he was
exhibiting this feature to me.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mom," he said, "I didn't mean to scare you." He
stood silent with a tiny smile at the corners of his mouth,
letting me gaze.

I was so startled by his sudden appearance and so stunned by his
beauty, I could say nothing.  He looked very pleased and turned
and walked slowly back into his room, his small muscles
undulating in his buttocks. I continued on to my bedroom and set
about sweeping the carpet, but replaying the recent scene through
my mind. 

Ernie's shoulders had broadened a little.  His muscularity had
not yet begun to define itself.  However, he was definitely
growing up, though he was still a few inches shorter than I.   A
thick tuft of blue-black pubic hair now framed his fledging
manhood. His body was lithe and his little rear was tight and
slightly rounded. I shook my head to rid it of the image.

I looked up into the mirror of the dresser.  My face was a light
shade of magenta. I felt warm and moist between my legs. I heard
the water knocking the pipes and gurgling through. Apparently
Ernie was showering in the bathroom off the hallway. I imagined
the rivulets of water running off his butt, down his thighs and
onto the muscled calves of his legs. The image distracted me all
day.  I found myself standing blankly with a dust cloth or a
broom in my hand in the middle of the room, not knowing how long
I'd been there.  Later, when I drove to the supermarket, I almost
ran into an old lady pushing her grocery cart across the parking
lot.  Inside the store I stood, for long minutes with a can of
corn in my hand, staring at the label.  I was off on some sort of
dark erotic side road, ashamed and resolved not to do it again.

Three days later, on a late Thursday morning, I sat at my sewing
machine in my bedroom, making kitchen curtains.  As I worked, I
glanced up now and then at an old movie on the portable
television.  Suddenly, my shoulders stiffened as I sensed Ernest
had come into the room, though he'd not made a sound. 

"What's the name of that movie, Mom?"  He spoke from behind me
and I jumped though I knew he was there.

"Ah, `Wings of Eagles.'" I said.

"Can I watch it with you?" he asked, now closer, his voice nearer
my ear.

"Well . . ." I said cautiously, not daring to turn around. "Well,
sure." I bent over my work, sewing loudly on another line of
stitches, "Hope you don't mind the noise."

"No problem," he said amicably.  He lay down beside my chair on
his stomach, naked.  He propped himself up on this elbows and
held his chin in his hands, eyes on the television.  My stomach
felt like I was in an express elevator on the top floor of a
skyscraper that suddenly had begun its descent.  He was lovely. 
The hairs of his thighs began abruptly at the rounded lower part
of his buttocks and curled darkly the length of his legs. I
looked at the shadowy crevice of his rear and in spite of myself;
I could not help wondering how it would be to spread the cheeks,
to feel him there.

Just below either corner of his shoulder a small patch of thin
hair grew. His skin was very white and tight and a slight crease
formed between his shoulder blades.  I looked at his feet and
marveled how long they had grown.  His father always insisted
that he take Ernest to the shoe store, so I didn't even know the
size he wore, tens or elevens, I guessed. 

Then I jarred myself back into reality.  I had no idea how long I
had been admiring my son's body, but I felt as if I had not sewn
a stitch for a long while. The movie was at an unfamiliar part. 
I shook my head.  To break the heavy silence, I started the
sewing machine.  My stitch went crooked and I had to pick it out
and start over. 

As I frantically worked on my threads, Ernest turned on his side
propping himself up on his elbow. A wispy tuft of black chest
hair grew just below the center of his collarbone.  A thick curl
of black hair escaped his open underarm.  Little corrugations
from the carpet had imprinted themselves on his chest and belly.
His penis was flaccid and he let it hang, dropping to his side,
down toward to the floor. 

"Exciting isn't it?" he asked, seductively.

"Ernest!" I barked, incredulous.

"What?" he asked innocently.

"What do you mean asking me a question like that?"

"The movie, Mom, he said, pointing to the television, it's really
exciting, don't you think?" He was smirking.

"Oh," I said, stupidly, staring at my work. "Yes it is."  My ears
felt hot.

He rolled over on his stomach and shifted his body close to my
chair. I looked down again. The amused expression on his face was
obvious even from the limited profile.

"Could you scratch my back?"  He asked.

I didn't know what to say or do.  I hesitated five seconds, then
bent and scratched tentatively at a shoulder blade. 

"A little lower," he said, and I moved my hand to halfway to his
waist and scratched.  "Right in the center, he said," and I moved
my fingers into the channel of his spine.  He snorted, "For
Pete's sake, Mom, lower than that!"

Embarrassed I moved my fingers just below his waist and right
above the cleavage of his buttocks.

"Mom!" he said suddenly, "I could have scratched there! Next
thing you know, you'll be scratching on my butt-crack!"  He
suddenly turned on his side again revealing his genitals and
pulled away from me.  My hand dragged back across his

hip.  He smiled. "But, I guess that would feel good too! 
Wouldn't it?" 


Go to Part 3

OneGallus@Yahoo.com

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