Something Missing from My Dresser

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Before you read, this is a story that involves sexual contact between close family members. It is quite long and the nature of the sex is not extreme or particularly pornographic. If any or all of the above is something you take issue with, it's likely better not to read it or sent me dumb comments afterwards about how wrong it is. This is meant as a work of fiction, intended for entertainment, and does not reflect anyone (living or dead :) The characters in this story are over 18 years of age.

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It seems that the most noticeable changes happen when you`re not paying attention. Relationships can dissolve during periods that seem so very static. Stability is what most people seek, as insane as it may seem, aspects of instability is what makes life interesting to me; the out of control moments make me feel more alive. I need to feel that action, a depraved need to be on the other side of what is normal, on the other side of what is expected. When things are too idyllic or too status quo, I feel trapped, trapped in a comfortable velvet cage, but trapped nevertheless. I have the aching desire to be the one you least suspect, to be deplorable to better sensibilities. There's nothing that I want and nothing that I desire, because whenever I get it I just want something else.

I've always known that I was never wired quite right. Dark fantasies have permeated in my mind from the day I can first remember, and have often percolated into my actions. I can't tell if some trauma led to my histrionics, or if the histrionics led to traumas, or if it really matters. It seems that if I know a right action I will think about the opposite as a possibility. I always saw this as a sphere closed to my own realm of thought, never one that I would share with anyone close to me, and definitely not one I would pass on to my children.

Starting from the beginning would be impossible, so I will just start from a non-arbitrary point in time, a point in time pertinent to the beginning of this recollection. It was a Saturday morning on a cool sort of summer day, the sort of day that would have blended unnoticeably into a pile of typical Saturdays. The kids weren't home, giving me a sense of peace while I was starting the weekend chores.

Housework isn't something I enjoy, but under the right conditions it can be therapeutic. That morning I dove into it with the feeling that everything would be clean when I was done. Before long I was outside myself and completely into the tasks; taking the multi-disciplined approach to the process. I was washing while organizing, starting machines while considering places where dust may have been hiding.

I cleaned all the laundry in the house by the early afternoon, while organizing my dresser I noticed that something just didn't add up. There was little doubt, I was missing underwear, the thoroughness of my process left little chance that there were any waiting to be washed. I had the feeling that I had been missing underwear for a while but no firm suspicion had formed. I first noticed weeks previously, but I figured that I just misplaced a pair, perhaps dropped behind the machine, maybe somehow left them at the gym or whatever else. But now I was convinced this was something else, I was missing at least five pairs, two of which were fancy and expensive. I laid out all my panties on my bed and counted, re-counted, grouped and then regrouped; I was missing panties.

I started searching my husband's side to see if they got mixed into his; nothing came up. Next I checked my daughter's room, she was only twelve, but I figured that just maybe she thought they were pretty and took them. It was a long shot, she liked pretty things so it wouldn't have shocked me if she took them, but it would have shocked me if she didn't tell me she took them. After exhausting that search, I swallowed hard and realized that I had to search my 19 year old son's room.

In my mind, I was telling myself that there was no way and at the same time thinking that there was no other way. I searched in the normal places, under the bed, in his closet, some loose boxes, behind his desk, under his mattress and even in his hockey bag. Feeling ever more perplexed I searched a number of other places I would have considered clever, before giving up and sitting on the bed. While sitting on the bed I was trying to think of what else could have happened to them. My eyes went unfocused for a second or two, when they refocused I was looking at a piece of fabric poking out of the bed frame. The bed had gone together in pieces and came apart rather easily. The blue pipes fit into each other for simple assembly and, of course, the opposite as well. I took the pipe that connected the bedpost to the headboard apart and there they were; it was fabric stuffed into the hollow post, obviously women's underwear more particularly my underwear.

My heart felt like it was in my feet as I peeled the first pair out of the hollow pipe. My thoughts were paced at breakneck speed; thousands flooded my mind in a wave of fear and anxiety. I thought that maybe he was wearing them. I'm not proud of it, but the notion he might be scared me. My sense of liberalism was being tested in my own house, in that split second I was failing the test. Soon it became pretty obvious that any of my instinctual, and shameful fears, were misplaced, and that I was dealing with something completely different. It looked almost like globs of dried glue that were flaking on the edges and cracked in the middle. The stains were unmistakable and they were distributed all over the panties, this was cum. My son was masturbating and ejaculating on my panties. I felt dizzy and knelt next the bed using the edge to support my head as I struggled to take in air. My stomach was throbbing with butterflies, I felt the need to pee, but my legs wouldn't respond to my requests to move.

I sat, kneeled by the bed, for a long time, horrified and waiting for my senses to return. I finally gained the strength to go to the bathroom and not a moment too soon. Returning to his room, the scene of the crime, everything seemed so quiet, as if the slightest movement would upset all balance. In most every way his room looked normal, it was my perception of it which had changed. My senses were more acute to the mess that surrounded the floor, a mess that I had given up fighting about years ago. The closets and dressers were built into the walls and painted white, with the walls painted a light blue. The idea was to brighten up the room, but now they were covered with posters featuring stuff I didn't, and likely wasn't supposed to, understand. Hockey gear was prominent in the corner, as were the trophies and medals on his shelf it helped him earn. His room looked a little juvenile for a 19 year old, but perhaps that doesn't change until they move out.

I made my way slowly to the partially disassembled bed frame. For some reason I was being careful not to disturb anything else in the room, in light of the fact that I knew I had to recover the panties, the precaution was trivial at best. With the help of a wire clothes hanger, soon they were all out and laying on the floor. I poked at them with the hanger, flipping them over, inspecting them and doing my best to hold back my tears. The implications of what I found hadn't quite hit me yet. Each pair was covered in sperm and clearly these were panties taken from the dirty laundry and not my drawer. One pair in particular seemed to have gotten a lot of use; a baby blue pair that I had liked, a pair that I would have worn if I planned on having sex. They were so heavily laced with sperm that they were discoloured into a darker blue, deepest in the middle and progressively returning to the normal, lighter, colour at the edges. They were all beyond cleaning. I got a plastic bag and dropped each pair, one by one, into the bag and sealed it closed. I reassembled the bed and left looking back at least three times before closing the door.

I put the bag in one of my shoe boxes in my closet and tried to not think about it. My mind was exhausted; I sat on the sofa in the living room looking aimlessly into the space on the ceiling. My brain was truly overloaded, passively rejecting further reflection. After some time in an almost catatonic state the thoughts were starting to creep back and the reality of the situation began to confront me. I had not even formulated what I was going to say to him. The uncomfortable reality of that hit me like a pulse of straining and uncomfortable anxiety. Soon I was back in my room looking for the plastic bag of panties, all the while engaging myself in an argument about why I had to put them back. This was an argument I wasn't going to win. I couldn't just let him keep taking my underwear, not only because they were expensive, but also because he could be under a great deal of stress from confusion. I was going to have to talk to him and for that I was going to have the think about the best way to approach that.

I had never really talked to him about sex, and perhaps that was my fault. I mean I covered the safe bases and got about as granular as an uncomfortable middle school teacher. This, on the other hand, would be like jumping right into the deep end of personal sexuality before even testing the water. The other problem was that, in truth, I didn't know why he was even doing it. The thought hadn't really occurred to me that he could, possibly, be thinking about me. There could have been any number of reasons behind this, some of them even less savoury than I wanted to think about. The one that stood out most, for me, was the notion that he was angry with me and was doing it to debase me; this thought really scared me so I did my best not to settle on any conclusion. Whatever it was sure of was that this was going to be embarrassing and uncomfortable; for both of us.

My resolve started to become more gathered when I started to think about just how to raise the subject. Some approaches were out of the question. I wasn't going to dump the bag at his feet and demand an explanation. This was not going to be a confrontation where feelings could get hurt or one that gave birth to an even greater misunderstanding. Most of all, I wanted to understand where he was coming from and try to help deal with any of the feelings he may have been having. I didn't want to go into this blind, I felt that I had to know something more than nothing about this whole panty thing before going any further.

"You found what!!????" I heard panicked frustration in his cracking voice.

"Just calm down", I told pleaded with my husband, "and please lower your voice at me."

"I'm not lowing anything!" He was fuming in the worst possible way; pacing and swearing.

"Where is he?!"

"Stop this right now!" I was dead serious and starting to get very upset.

"I'm not stopping anything! No, this isn't normal Michelle and you're not coddling him on this one! What he needs is a kick in the ass!" The door slammed to the bedroom, then to the bathroom and then another slam.

"What's wrong with you?!!" I had lost my temper at his tantrum, I was yelling as much as he was.

My voice had become shrill in what had devolved into an all-out shouting match. All I wanted was some advice from a male perspective, what I got was the kicking and screaming of a two year old. I was pleading with him to slow down, take a breath, to be an adult. Nothing was happening; he was treating this as an affront to his chauvinistic valour. Like his domain had been unsettled and it was time to put this house in order, puffing and fuming in an attempt to be more alpha. Being relegated to an object of control wasn't lost on me; I was disgusted. I didn't understand why he was so mad.

"Yeah Michelle, he wants to fuck you in case you're too dumb to figure it out!" He opened the bedroom door just long enough to belittle me before slamming it again.

"Please just stop this and talk to me!" I screeched back in a tone to show just how unhappy I was with him.

I had made a very bad mistake coming to him with this. So what if he was right? Did he really feel that threatened? His tirade made him look foolish and insecure. His every action was working is opposition to his intention. If he was trying to invoke some power, through rage and violence, he was failing miserably. Instead he was setting our son up as his rival, something I had never considered to this point. If he could have calmly discussed the problem with me, we could have come to a solution or at the very least an understanding. If our son had a problem we could work together to help him. That would have cemented his position as my partner and leader of the household. His rage, and his insults toward me, showed a thin resolve and a lack of confidence. I was so disappointed; I lost the will to continue the fight and sat down on the floor of our bedroom.

He stormed out of the house, leaving me more or less, alone with my thoughts. I looked at the body mirror on the wall of our bedroom. I looked pathetic sitting on the floor. I stood up looking the mirror to give myself a better look, I went up on my tippy toes while turning around. "Wants to fuck me huh?" I thought to myself with a light chuckle while checking myself out. From the drama of the day my mind needed a break, so I entertained the notion. What would he see in me anyways? Our son, Justin, was 19 years old, in pretty good shape and handsome, and I was an old woman of 43 years.

"It is so absurd." I thought while holding my breasts up and pressing them together in front of the mirror. "But, that doesn't mean it isn't true." I finished my thought while letting my breasts fall.

I didn't have too much sag, they aren't that big to begin with, at 34b, but that comes to be a blessing when you're 43. I gave myself a few times over, looking at my legs and hips. I work pretty hard to stay in shape, and while an evenly continuing effort does see some diminished results with time, my time hadn't quite come yet.

"I still look pretty darn good!" I thought throwing modesty to the wind with a sly smile.

I lifted my shirt to examine my stretch marks, I really hate them, they're the price I paid from being skinny when I had the kids. Justin left the most noticeable and enduring marks, because I had him when I was young and even thinner. My athletic body type I still carried at 43, even if some of my gracile characteristics had become more rounded. My long legs still looked good in heels and I didn't feel shy wearing tights outside of the house. I got looks in tight clothes at the gym, I noticed them, and I liked them.

Once done securitizing my body, my gaze met my face. It was harder to convince myself of youth in this regard. My wrinkles were to the point where I had given up on the miracle skin cream that would save the day. It's not that I was haggard or anything of the sorts, I just had a few clearly defined wrinkles; around my eyes mostly. A few too many days by the pool, in the sun, had its price. I felt blessed that I could still grow my hair long with enough volume to look attractive. I've had a love-hate relationship with my hair my entire life, but in my 40s it seemed to be trying to make up for any missteps in the past. My grey eyes, that can be mistaken or brown in some light and blue in others, are my one feature I never argued with. They give me a unique look. Some people think they change colour with my mood; although this is almost certainly a perception and not reality.

Justin on the other hand wasn't holding on to anything, he was in the prime of his life and entering his peak physical years. I had to be mistaken to think he was thinking about his old mom like that. I know there was some degree of evidence to back up my husband's rather forceful assertion, but it didn't make it seem any less ridiculous. I tried to think objectively about it.

I was actually pretty much convinced that he hated me, well maybe that's a strong word, but that he at least had a healthy resentment toward me. Our relationship had always been somewhat of a struggle. Born three weeks premature, he was such a little baby, the doctors weren't sure I was ready to give birth. His fragile state made me hold him ever closer, as he grew to normal size our bond remained an intense one. I may have over-mothered him, like my husband said, but I didn't care he was my baby. He was my only baby for many years; we took a long break before having another since the first pregnancy was difficult on me.

Justin was the sort that always found his way to our bed; much to my husband's annoyance. He was a nighttime wanderer, usually ending up in my side of the bed, for a cuddle, before being returned to his. I enjoyed those times; we were very close for his childhood. Things may have changed when his sister entered the world and my attention became divided. I never made an effort to give him less attention, there was just less to go around. By the time puberty hit his mood was in full rebellion. Any attempt to give him attention was met with resistance. He would belittle my attempts to share any of his interests and generally make me feel unwanted. This, my husband thought, were the normal actions of a teenager but that didn't make it hurt any less.

We weren't 100% adversaries. When he had hockey practice, at some ungodly hour, mom was always driving the car. In some such moments, he would even let his guard down, and talk to me like person. I really enjoyed those times, he would let me know little things about his life and forgive my ignorance of the newest trends. Of all the topics we did talk about, girls were the one he would steer clear of, that one was off limits, despite even my best placed prods. He had inherited my teenage skin, not really as bad, but otherwise was a good looking kid, he was lanky but not in an abnormal way, 190cm tall and attractive features. I couldn't understand why he didn't have girlfriends, but I knew not to push the issue.

By his 19th birthday his skin had cleared up and the years of playing hockey had done him some good. He wasn't brawny or muscular, but he was lean. His height made his muscles long and less prominent, but he was strong. He was great to have around the house sometimes, because he could always reach or carry whatever I needed moved. His hair is the same as mine, chestnut brown and it would have had some curls if he had ever grown it long. A few curls would always show at the back when he neglected getting a haircut. Like his father, his eyes are deep brown and show a flair of intensity when he's passionate about something. His eyes could look very fierce when he was angry about something, a trait he carried his entire life.

I'd spent many evenings on the wrong side of his intense stare. My other jobs that I took, which I never applied for, were that of police officer and warden of our household. I hated both hats, but felt that someone had to do them. The first serious trouble he got in was getting suspended from school for marijuana. From the day that in which I had to pick him up from school for his suspension onwards, my war against pot was on. If I caught him with it, I flushed it, if I smelt it on him I interrogated, all done in poor temper. All of the infractions led to some sort of sentence, a sentence that usually included sitting at the dining room table and doing homework until I, the warden, was satisfied with his effort. On the occasions where he upset me more than others, my standard became impossibly high, fuelling a lot of tension between us.

It was a battle of wills, one that I didn't want to lose. He would buck and I would reel him in. We went back and forth with each other at irregular intervals over the course of his teens. My husband would almost always stay out of it, leaving the burden to me. Even with the trouble at school, he wasn't a bad student or even the worst of misbehavers. It sometimes felt like he would act out if things had been going too smoothly for any stretch of time, just to start something. The severity of the fights can also be credited to my neuroticism and inability to compromise. The worst of them would leave no doubt as to the intensity of our invested emotions.