As he was giving Mother a “treatment” (as he fancied his subliminal attacks), an idea began to take shape in Mr. Smith’s young mind. When was a mind most vulnerable? When it was asleep, of course! He resolved that moment to begin nocturnal assaults that very night.
He waited until his mother went to bed, waited until he heard her snores, and then crept as silently as he could to her door. Mr. Smith opened it with the utmost care, and looked at his mother’s sleeping form. She was so peaceful. As gently as one would caress a sleeping infant, Mr. Smith tried to tune into his mother’s signal. It was difficult—slippery, shifting, erratic. All he could tune into were brief sensations. Mr. Smith, Father, a stranger on top of her—they shifted and merged together—the sense of fullness and ecstasy. Alone in the dark, stranded, begging for help. A mirror, distorted, showing all her ugliness. And many, many more fleeting images.
Mr. Smith left her then, and tried to process what he had seen. In every case, there was an opportunity to turn the dreams to his advantage. At breakfast the next morning, he learned his mother’s sleep had been restless last night—a clue.
That night, Mr. Smith again waited for Mother’s snores and then crept to her room. This time instead of merely observing her dreams, he tried to smooth them out, oh so gently. Little by little they became less erratic. After a half hour of intense concentration, Mr. Smith was able to get Mother to hold one scene. She was a little girl, alone near a tree. Mr. Smith could feel her fear, her loneliness, her desperation. Feeling bold, Mr. Smith conjured a speck in the distance. Easy enough. Then he made that speck grow nearer and nearer. It soon took the shape of Mr. Smith himself. He could feel Mother’s relief.
Her mind took over. “You don’t need to be alone, Mother. I’m here now. And I won’t ever leave you. I promise.” Mr. Smith and tiny Mother walked happily down a lane that had somehow appeared. Along the way, somehow tiny Mother became adult Mother in the blink of an eye.
Mr. Smith gently pushed words into the dream. “I’m not a little boy anymore, Mother. I’m a man and I can take care of you like a man.”
Mother . . . tingled. “How would you know how a man takes care of a woman?” Mother dreamed with a devilish smile.
“How did the first man know how to take care of the first woman? He just did,” Mother thought for the dream-Mr. Smith.
“But we are blood!” Mother dreamed, and the world began to shake.
Mr. Smith had to act quickly. “What does your body tell you? Mine tells me you are a woman and I’m a man. It tells me that we are all of the same blood if we go back far enough. But mostly it tells me I want you!” It was a more direct intrusion into her thoughts than he tried in months, but it worked. All that time building trust, weakening her resistance, it had all built to a moment like this.
Dream Mother’s defenses crumbled. Mr. Smith contented himself with watching the show unfold. At once both she and Dream-Mr. Smith’s clothes were gone, and her body was more radiant than Mr. Smith had ever imagined. Dream-Mother grabbed Dream-Mr. Smith by the hair and pulled him in for a passionate kiss. Having never kissed a woman in real life, Mr. Smith tried to pay attention to how his mother dreamed of being kissed, tried to memorize it. Dream Mr. Smith sucked her bottom lip hard, moved and slipped his tongue in her mouth, moved down her neck, behind her ears.
Mr. Smith also tried to focus on the hands. Dream-Mr. Smith’s hands massaged Dream-Mothers tight buttocks, kneaded them like bread dough. Then his hands were on her firm breasts, twisting her nipples hard. She responded by raking her nails up and down Dream-Mr. Smith’s back hard enough to leave scratches. Real Mr. Smith could sense the pleasure Mother got from inflicting this little bit of pain.
The image shook a little, static creeping in. He focused. They were laying down now. Dream-Mother arched her back as Dream-Mr. Smith penetrated her. Real Mr. Smith could feel the same fullness Mother felt, the sense of completeness. Again the image started to break up, pixilated. He held the image together, watched he and Mother’s dream selves writhe together on a bed of flowers—where did the bed of flowers come from? His attention slipped to Mother’s body, the perfection of it as the muscles rippled and shone with sweat, a paradox of femininity and strength.
And then a whisper like thunder filled real Mr. Smith’s mind. “Fill me baby. Fill me with your warmth.” The image exploded into a million fractals as Dream Mother arched her back in a tremendous orgasm.
Reality rushed back to Mr. Smith as Mother sat bolt upright in bed. His world became slow motion. First he noticed his dick in his hand, still semi-hard. Then he noticed the splashes of cum on the carpet of Mother’s room. Then he and Mother made eye contact for an instant. It didn’t take a mind reader to see arousal and embarrassment and anger play across her face. And then Mr. Smith fled. He had much to think about.
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