The Kindness of Strangers - Sex Stories

The Kindness of Strangers

... perfect, instead, fighting to prevent the hard-on that began forming in my jeans.

'Mom. Why are we here?' I asked her, not looking in her direction.

'What? You know why,' Mom chuckled but I felt there was no humor in it.

'No,' I looked at her. 'No, I don't.'

'What are you talking about?' She looked into my eyes as if waiting for me to go on before realizing I wanted an answer. 'Ah, because I love you and wanted to do something nice.'

'But why now?' I retorted. 'All these years, you were never there. No letters. No phone calls. You wouldn't even stay with us on my birthdays,' I challenged, and I hadn't expected the look of confusion she threw back at me.

'What?' She shook her head as if clearing fog. 'What do you mean "no letters"?'

'I used to love them,' I felt my eyes tearing up and looked away from her. 'The stuff you'd send,' I thought of the paint brushes, pencils, and other paraphernalia she'd package up until it all stopped.

'What are you talking about?' She questioned, forcing me to once again look at her. 'I never stopped writing to you,' she stated, incredulous at my accusation and the sincerity in her voice had me immediately feeling sick at the implication, if true.

'What?' I whispered.

'And you sometimes wrote back!' She looked confused when I slowly shook my head.

*

There weren't many. No more than ten, and the forging of my handwriting, down to the changing of style as I aged was staggeringly accurate, to the point, even I ...

... would've been hard-pressed to spot it as a fake. The sentiment contained, however, was far from my own.

'I didn't write this,' I looked up at Mom, beside me on her bed, her hand over her mouth and glassy eyes as she awaited my reaction. 'It's vile,' I reflected on the hate my father had spewed out on paper in my name.

'And you didn't get my letters?' A tear ran down her cheek.

'For a while,' I looked absently across the room as I thought of the past. 'But then Dad started picking up the mail from the post office. I just thought you stopped writing,' I admitted, and Mom let out a sound that was a mixture between a groan and a sigh.

'He stole you from me,' Mom whispered, and I reflected it was probably the first time she'd ever bad-mouthed him in front of me, despite the clear license that was forming.

"Don't bother calling me," I read. "I don't want you at my birthday," my father had written in my name, and I tossed the letter down on the mattress. 'This wasn't... this isn't me!' I looked at Mom, her eyes red, cheeks flushed.

'I know,' she nodded. 'I should've known. It's on me.'

'Don't say that,' I took her hand. 'It looked legit,' I acknowledged. Noting he'd even done drawings in the borders as I'd used to do. Having picked up my artistic talents from him.

'A good mother should've known. Ten years Oliver,' she sighed. 'Ten years he took from us.'

'Then we'll work on getting them back!' I stated and lifted her chin to bring her eyes back to mine, ...