Bookstore Boy & Mama

- acknowledging the incorporation of ideas from fellow author, James Rozo -

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He and the family’s white kitten curled together on the fluffy cushion in her wide circular basket. Her longhaired soft warmth induced the little one to sleep during the long hours his father’s bookshop had few walk-ins.

Special Books, Inc. was located in a formerly prosperous part of town, on a corner next to a defunct dry-cleaning establishment. There was an alley behind where the growing cat ate her food fresh from its can, did her business, tried to cover it, and where all manner of undesirables lay uncollected.

Perry Westcott’s small establishment, inherited from his respectable bookseller father, had a second floor where the family had lived for decades. Perry grew up in the milieu of books new and old, some out of print, a few from time to time of antiquarian interest. Paper and bindings of same, cloth, and leather smelled just right to him.

Not to the woman he married. She wanted excitement beyond those their nightly entanglements provided. Especially since providing him the son he wanted, weaning the kid, watching him crawl, changing and washing his diapers, starting potty training. Her list of gripes lengthened as Perry’s sex drive waned.

“I’m out of here,” she announced one stifling Summer day. “If you don’t contest, I’ll divorce you, let you have Dickie, and will leave you to the life you seem destined to want. You, your dusty books, and that damned cat.”

Foundling kitten had become alley slut, bopping off litter after litter to be given away. Mama cat remained a household fixture.

“Ah, honey,” was the most he could muster. His eyes glanced at the tattered copy of Gone With The Wind she fled by.

The book trade had fallen off as the neighborhood declined. To no avail, Perry added scented candles and a rack of historic postcards. Washed the pane glass window of its SALE sign and stood neatly lettered placards advertising SPECIAL REDUCTIONS: CLASSICS beside stacks of former best-sellers by Sinclair Lewis, Donna Tartt, Harper Lee, Upton Sinclair, and E.L. James.

Unoccupied by the presence of browsers much less customers, bookman Perry Westcott read to his son Dickie from infantile rhymes and children’s prose classics until Dickie was able to repeat from memory the next lines of some. For fun, he tried to trick the boy by changing the text.

“Jack and Jacob went”… - “Jack and Jill!” - …”went down the hill”…- “up the hill!”… - “to fetch a bottle of rum”… - “a pail of water!”… - “Jack sneezed so hard”…- “He fell down?”…

“Yes, baby.” He fell on top of Jacob and they got into a tussle and tickled each other until their pants came off.

Dickie squealed the same every time his father fingered his ribs – which was every time he pretended to read another version of the story – and drew down and away his son’s pants to reach more ticklish parts. These frolics were kept under the mama cat’s watchful eye. If Dickie’s breath reached gasping levels, she would meow her concern. Dickie’s dad knew better than to press the boy too far lest her considerable claws leave parallels in red on the nearest offending hand.

One day when the cat, Mama, was older and Dickie no longer a toddler, he noticed she seemed out of sorts – not unfriendly but standoffish as though bothered by even sweet rubs. “Dad, I think Mama’s sick.”

Books intended for shelving were left unattended and the store closed for the trio to consult a veterinarian.

Dr. Marshall Thurgood DVM listened to her owners’ descriptions before explaining his decision to take Mama’s temperature. The by-now-older cat hissed and was about to go to war at the offence when Dickie had an idea and spoke up, “Doctor, take my temperature so she will see that it’s okay.”

At Mr. Westcott’s nod of approval, the boy’s bared bottom was dabbed with petroleum jelly and probed.

“Ooh,” Dickie cooed in Mama’s direction, “it’s nice.” To the vet, he said, “Only it won’t stay in unless you push it further. You said two minutes.”

The vet’s hand trembled at the boy’s obvious pleasure.

“Good vibrations, Mama. Show her, doctor. Do that more. Oooh.”

Two minutes passed. Sweat had to be wiped from the vet’s brow.

Unimpressed, the cat at least did not resist standing still for the procedure.

“Slight elevation but nothing to worry about,” Dr. Thurgood summed while holding her tight for an injection. “This is a general antibiotic. Should take care of things.”

That evening, Dickie approached his dad, “Dad, all those products we use to care for leather book bindings, could any of them be used to take my temperature?”

“I suppose. Only not the Neetsfoot oil. Too expensive. But you know, something such as olive oil, sure. Or petroleum jelly. Why?”

“Would you take my temperature? I feel funny, you know, back there, from this morning.”

“I don’t have a rectal thermometer.”

“Could you use your finger? It could tell if I’m hot inside, couldn’t it?”

It could, they found out.

And as for good vibrations, dad’s finger proved shamelessly wonderful. Driven in with the push needed to shelve a book, it sent Dickie’s spirits aloft. Taken back and used with scouring moves, it found a maturing spot Dad and son joined forces over repeatedly – until adolescence struck.

Hitting him hard, little Dickie shot up to his father’s height, or an inch taller. Their play escalated naturally to simple intercourse. The basic sort. No frills. Not in the shop front, but in the back.

Mama, the white-as-ever cat – old, fat, sassy – sprawled nonchalantly on a world atlas, licking her fur. Somehow, she was in on it. If someone outside looked through the window display and might be verging on entering, she would emit a loud meow to warn.

Westcott’s disheveled head would appear from the back room, “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

On a particular afternoon, his caller was content to wait patiently while stroking Mama. Beside him, on a pushcart reposed large corrugated boxes of obvious heft.

“I represent a collector who wishes to remain anonymous. He wants to consign the paperback novels in these boxes with you for their sale. Now, before you protest about your location and lack of substantial business, hear me out. May I take a seat?”

“May I know who you are?” Perry Westcott offered his hand, “You seem to know who I am.”

“Oscar Rodwell.”

Dickie Westcott, denied his Dad’s dose of seed deeply sowed and with clothes more or less in place, entered the store to introduce himself confidently and to express interest in the contents of the whopping boxes. “Used paperbacks?”

Mr. Rodwell batted not one proverbial eye. “Gay porn from the Sixties, Seventies, Eighties, and Nineties. Now, if you’ll sign this generously-termed contract…”

“Dad, shouldn’t we at least see what’s in there?” he pointed. With a blink at his dad, “We are, after all, ‘Special Books,’ aren’t we? And ‘gay’ is special.”

Mama followed the direction of Dickie’s finger and jumped atop the uppermost box, her purr-motor running full out, turned broad belly up, and waited for attention.

“Sensuous, isn’t she?” the caller half asked.

“A pleasure pussy, like me,” Dickie said, reaching for a box cutter. Mama moved off, miffed.

Titles on top included Teen Tease, Daddy’s Chicken, Run Little Leather Boy, Cocksure Instructors, Song of Aaron, Stud Sucker, Hot for Cock, Service Twink, Boy Ass for the Trucker, and two issues of a publication called Panthology.

“Wow, Dad, these could really teach me a lot,” wide-eyed Dickie said as he lifted one after the other to stare at the cover art. “Think what would happen if you read them to me like you used to.”

Mr. Rodwell spoke up, “Many hundreds in all – special and collectable. Sign here, please.”

Hesitation skewed the elder Westcott’s response. “I…I can’t have these out here where just anyone m…might see them. Anyway, I’ve no customers who’ve ever asked for such material.”

“Dad, there’s shelf space in the back – plenty – and upstairs.”

“Sir, have you heard of mail order?  Read the contract. Advertising will be provided.”

“C’mon, Dad, you don’t want to get stodgy, do you? Here, Mr. Rodwell, give the contract to me and come back tomorrow. I’ll get him to study it tonight under better conditions. He just needs gentle persuasion of my sort, don’t you, Dad?”

Persuasion was anything but gentle that night. Reading aloud from passages in a handful of the collectible literary classics, Dickie had challenged his father: “Why haven’t you ever fucked me like this describes, on my back with my legs up? Or in a sling, which sounds like fun? Or, or made me suck your dick, lick your balls, or had me sit on you? I don’t even know what a dildo feels like! Or to be trussed with rope like an animal and taken advantage of! Good golly, I’d like you to be more imaginative.”

That last remark was immediately regretted, so crestfallen had his father become. “I’m sorry, Dad. That was bad of me. Spank me for it. Boys in these books like it. You’ve never spanked me. You might like to, too. It’ll help you work of some of your frustration.”

“You think I could?”

Dickie nodded, kneeling over waiting knees. “Take down my pyjama pants. Look how white my butt is. You can – like it says in Hot Homo Action – ‘bring up the color.’”

The more Perry Westcott smacked the beautiful bottom, the greater the surprise that his cock was hardening. Something – a realization – about control burst into life inside him. He thrust in a finger declaring, “You’re mine, every inch of you,” before spanking harder.

Control informed by vigor had an unintended consequence. Perry Westcott came. Spurts flew up all over Dickie’s tummy and sparse teen pubes.

“You WHAT?” Dickie, his ass dying for that dick, knelt up and screamed. “How COULD you?” He wiped lost sticky stuff, disgust on his face.

Daddy Perry flared, slapped Dickie across the face, recognized astonished submission, canted his son back, raised ankles high, spotted his own cum-streaked pride re-strengthening, found the boy’s hole, shoved in the way a sticking drawer might be slammed into its cabinet, and whooped, “I love you, Dickie!”

Keeping watch over the tryst’s turns and twists, Mama sniffed in a purely functional way at the start, sniffed shortly with doubt, then with approval as the pair settled, drew up the sheets, embraced, and commenced their slide down sleep’s slopes. Satisfied that her world had returned to order, she jumped on the bed, licked a few places to maintain her fur in fastidious fashion, cut a small fart, slipped with feline stealth as only a cat can under the covers, snuggled her chin against Dickie’s shoulder blade, and joined the reverie that brought man, boy, and pussy sweet dreams.

First to move in morning’s light was Perry. Blinking away the dream he had of being a medic charged with taking his son’s temperature, he checked the readiness of his highly personal thermometer, shuffled into position, wetted the bulbous head, and coasted deep.

“Aw, Dad, you’re so caring,” Dickie stretched fully prone. “Temp me, man. Take my temp. You can never be too sure.”

Mama opened one eye before trying to go back to her dream of the best alley cat, Tom, who’d ever topped her when in heat (and a few times when she wasn’t). The bed, however, was tossed about like a floundering ship on stormy seas. So violently did it rock back and forth that she sought refuge on a cast-off blanket in the bottom of the room’s closet. Once again nestled, she purred – as she drifted away – at the memory of Tom’s tongue savoring the taste of her twat.

Ever energetic, Dickie took over tending shop for his dad, who needed bedrest a lot. Meeting his son’s needs took a lot of energy. The postal service called daily to pick up packages going to customers all over. Mr. Rodwell had been right, even advising a shift from paperbacks to the broader range of gay literature, including video material, DVDs particularly, and a wide variety of what were adroitly termed ‘adult toys and novelties.’

The bookstore’s metamorphosis was gradual and eventually rewarding financially. Dickie assumed the details of its management for a more diversified clientele.

Alert to these activities, Mama lolled attentively from place to place, lately opting for the highest reachable shelf. There, a ventilator’s removal had left a rectangular opening through which she could view nicely the back room and its staircase. The slightest move of her head allowed for vigilance of both spaces.

At the postman’s arrival every day, Mama would stream like a snowy avalanche down via stacks and piles of books for chucks under her chin, a massage of her back, and the occasional tummy rub – at which she would do her best imitation of a buzz saw. “Loudest purr I ever heard,” Postman Brown repeatedly said.

Dickie took a liking to Postman Brown. Handsome, sturdy, studly guy. Offered to refresh him with a glass of cold lemonade and a tour of the backroom to see how well-set-out it was for packaging. “I’ll bet you’re well-packaged,” Dickie dared to say.

His boldness was answered by a laugh, “Well, there’s a postal customer named Johnny who used to dream about me and what I packed besides the packages in my mailbag. Once he got up nerve enough to tell me about his dreams of my spanking him, fingering and fucking him, I scheduled daily stopovers. We both enjoyed the real thing until he went away to college.”

Dickie darted up front, flipped the shop’s OPEN sign over to CLOSED, returned, declared himself a candidate for the position saying, “I would love to help you out, you being so sympathetic and all, what with your Johnny gone now. Try my tail.”

Revealed, a certain flush of the roundnesses still evident from earlier, Postman Brown opined, “Well…yes, nice tail. Flips a bit the way your cat’s does sometimes. I am a bit needy right now. Help me unwrap my package.”

Postal uniform out of the way, Dickie’s gasp made Mama’s hair stand up: “DAD’S NOT HALF THIS BIG! OH MY GOD!”

“You shouldn’t swear, boy. I’ll have to spank you for that.”

Mama saw that it was the sort of spanking from which her Dickie needed no rescue. Piquing her interest, though, was the way the postman took Dickie on his naked lap saying, “Ease your way down, then I’ll turn you around and grind ’til you’re walleyed.”

Too bad cats couldn’t do that, Mama thought. Looked like fun.

The way Postman Brown covered Dickie’s mouth prevented the racket he made while being penetrated that deeply from traveling upstairs. After a few rounds of the second hand on the shop’s wall clock, Dickie began bouncing on his own while wiping snot, tears, and slobber from his face.

Mama smiled as only a sage, old cat can. A need to nap caused a lapse in her attention until the postman went out the front door with a hearty, “See you tomorrow, Johnny – I mean, Dickie!”

After a few epic fucks and clever as ever, Dickie deemed it prudent to introduce Postman Brown to his dear old dad. “See, Dad, you guys have me in common, so you ought to be friends.”

They shook hands. The rapprochement the three reached brought harmony to all. Dickie slept nights with his father and, for reasons related to wellbeing, had his temperature taken every morning. Postman Brown deep-dicked Dickie on breaks from his afternoon route and paid extra visits upstairs weekends and holidays to abate lingering lusts.

Oscar Rodwell and Mama took such a liking to one another that Rodwell volunteered to mind her and the store for the Westcotts and Mr. Brown to share a same-sex cruise on the Caribbean. That’s about the time when, as result of walk-in trade consisting of disenfranchised young and younger gays, the idea was born to host workshops.

Special workshops wherein kids could relax in the store’s secure setting with Mama’s most recent litter of kittens – dubbed ‘emotional rescue pussies’ – to rub, and thus to be able to talk openly about their lack of knowledge and need for practical experience. Parental consent usually obtained, proper techniques were demonstrated for active and passive frottage, intercrurality, fellatio, sodomy, and light bondage with and without discipline.

A popular feature was in-store readings for the young by polished Perry Westcott, newly established author of the increasingly successful series, Special Stories for Special Boys. Lemonade was always served. And Mama was ever on-hand to preside with pride.