My son Bobby and I have a very special relationship.
To the outside world, we are a loving mother and son, a dynamic duo who have survived and thrived after my husband walked out years ago and left me to raise our child on my own. Everyone praises me that I’ve raised such a wonderful man. At thirty-two, Bobby is a very successful dentist, good looking and athletic, and has a lovely young wife who adores him. The same people who praise me about my son express admiration of the fact that I have given him everything, sacrificed for him, and still managed to carve a good career for myself. Bobby and I have our own lives now that he’s a grown man but we still remain very close.
But there is a very integral part of my relationship with Bobby that no one else ever sees. For nearly twelve years now, Bobby and I have had a secret, one that can be glimpsed only once a week, on Thursday afternoons. These are the days when he leaves his practice early to come to my house, his old childhood home, for a few hours. Usually I am reading when I hear the doorbell and I rise to answer it, a huge smile spreading across my face when I see Bobby standing there, clad in his slacks and dress shirt. He is tall and handsome, with dark hair and dark eyes and a winning smile that is weary but adoring when his gaze finds mine. “Hi Mom.”
His tie is most likely loosened after a hard day’s work, the first couple of buttons on his shirt undone, and I always wrap my arms around him in a big, loving hug. “Hello sweetheart. How was work?”
“It was long. Just glad to be home.” He nuzzles his face into the side of my neck, hugging me back as if he is loathe to let me go. I can feel the tension ease from him, like water from a sponge when squeezed, and I lead him inside. Like clockwork, his shoes come off and he leaves them in foyer while I take his hand and we begin our slow stroll towards his old bedroom, hand in hand.
“You know I’ve made your favorite dinner, Bobby. Chicken dumplings.” I always tell him this, but it is no surprise. I make it every week but every week his eyes light up in delight. As we walk along, he uses his free hand to work the buttons of his shirt free, discarding the tie in the hallway.
“Oh thanks, Mom. It smells great.” Once we reach his room, the small talk continues. Nothing is changed about the small twin bed he used to have and the space invaders comforter that is stretched across it. The same old decals of spaceships and planet systems adorn the walls, as well as his old baseball equipment and the basketball hoop on the back of the door. I can almost feel him soaking in the nostalgia, his dark eyes clouding a bit before he allows himself to step back in time. The regression has already begun.
“We’ll eat just as soon as you get changed.” I tell him, patting his back gently. Already he has unbuttoned his shirt and pulled his undershirt off, exposing his broad and smooth chest. Bobby never did have a lot of body hair and this didn’t change when he became a full-grown man. While he is undressing, I move to the far corner of the room towards something that might seem out of place to those who do not understand the special nature of our relationship.
There is a changing table in the corner of Bobby’s room. Adult-sized diapers are stacked high in neat piles atop it and beside them is a wicker basket filled with the essentials: baby oil, baby lotion, diaper cream, baby powder, and fresh-scented baby wipes. The shelves of the changing table hold other things Bobby and I use during our times together: a neat row of anal plugs, a few pacifiers, several freshly sterilized bottles. I am always sure to keep the contents of the changing table well-stocked, though it really serves more as a storage unit because Bobby, at six-foot-one inch tall, is far too large to fit on top of it. He insists on giving me the money to buy these things, though I would gladly purchase them myself.
I pluck a diaper from the pile and toss it into the wicker basket, along with one of the pacifiers. I tuck the entire basket under my arm, then turn back towards the bed, where Bobby has already made himself ready for me. He is lying on his back, completely nude, with his legs splayed open wide. He has one hand on his cock, pumping slowly with his fist while the other smooths up and down his flat belly. His eyes are closed and his expression is blissful, his parted thighs allowing his swollen balls to hang low as he strokes himself. I smile at him as I approach, flooded with feelings of nostalgia, affection and
“Mmm, does that feel good, honey?” My voice croons softly as I set the wicker basket on the floor beside the bed and perch myself on the edge, beside him. My hand rests along his thigh, his skin so smooth and soft. He is smooth all over except for the thick bush of dark hair at the root of his cock, nestled all around his balls.
“Oh Mom…” He moans in answer, opening his eyes slowly. “It feels so good. I could hardly wait to get here this week…” His voice is breathy and I offer him an adoring smile, my hand sliding up along his thigh towards his heavy, cum-filled sack. He groans again shifting his hips and spreading his legs open wider when I cup that his balls and begin to fondle him.
“I know sweetheart. But Mom is always here for you when you need her. When you need to just let go and become her little boy.” My voice keeps that soft, soothing cadence, encouraging and loving. Bobby’s job dictates that he is always the one in control. But once a week he can come to me, his mother, and give all of that up for a few hours. During those times, he reverts back to being my little boy, my baby, and for awhile, we are able to exist in a world of our own making.
His breathing is starting to become more shallow and I know I have to slow him down or our time will be over before it really begins. I gently reach for his wrist, pulling his hand away from his cock. He whimpers softly, his hips lifting off the bed in silent entreaty, but I shake my head. “No, no… you need your diaper first, sweetie.” He nods and I reach into the wicker basket, plucking the pacifier free and easing it gently into his mouth. His eyes close again as he accepts it, suckling on the soft rubber nipple while I attend to him.
Bobby’s cock is as hard as a rock, the swollen head flushed almost purple as the veins throb in time to the beating of his heart. It sticks up from between his thighs like a flagpole while I reach into the basket for the diaper and a few wipes. Bobby’s hand drifts across his belly, the other pinching idly at one of his nipples, and I unfold one of the baby wipes. It smells crisp and clean and I smooth it over his swollen balls, eliciting a muffled moan from him. I also stroke along his cock with the baby wipes, his hips rocking up at that gentle contact. When I am finished, I throw the wipes into the trashcan and spread the diaper open. It is the plastic disposable variety and I urge him to lift his hips while I slide the back flap beneath his backside. Sometimes Bobby likes for me to surprise him and work one of the anal plugs into him before doing up the diaper. I contemplate doing so this evening, but when he farts loudly and without warning, I realize it’s not a good idea.
My eyes travel to his eyes when he follows that first burst of smelly gas with another one, equally loud and powerful. The stench drifts up between us and the expression in his eyes is both embarrassed and apologetic as he works the pacifier in his mouth. I only smile, already very accustomed to this. It is only an indication to me that my son is both relaxed and in need of using his diaper very soon. I am almost certain that eating his dinner will help him in that regard. I pat his belly reassuringly, leaning down to blow a raspberry against his navel that makes him squirm a bit beneath me. Then, I bring up the front flap of the diaper, securing the side with the plastic adhesive strips. His cock is still very hard and it creates an obscene bulge in the front of his fresh diaper. “There you go, honey.” I glide my hand over the front of that bulge and his hips move. I know he is enjoying it more than words could express. He removes the pacifier from his mouth, gazing up at me with love and adoration. “Thank you so much, Mommy.”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart. Are you ready for supper?”
He nods and I help him up off of the bed so that we can travel to the kitchen. He makes quite a sight, clad only in his large, bulky plastic diaper and nothing else. I so wish that I could carry him but he’s far too big for that now so we have to be content just holding hands. He puts the pacifier back into his mouth when we reach the kitchen, taking a seat in one of the table chairs while I plate up his dinner. Chicken in a gravy sauce with hot dumplings and vegetables. Bobby sits on my lap while he eats his dinner, my hand stroking his bare back in a soothing manner. It is somehow comforting to both of us. Some part of me has always been so deeply maternal and I remember cherishing the days of Bobby’s youth and clinging to it. I felt almost bereft when he grew older and I thought he no longer needed me in that way. But it turns out he still does. And he always will.