Storm Doris

There it was, no more than an inch from the very centre of me -- from parting my labial lips, no less -- and I had the strongest feeling that no matter how hard either of us tried to stop it, we wouldn't be successful. It was the most alarming, scary, heart-racing moment of my life.

That was three months ago, though, and I think I'd better fill you in on the details leading up to that moment -- no matter that it still retains its status deep in my memories, and always, I feel sure, will.

Not that I can't get that particular moment out of my head, which is why I started out jotting down my recollections with it. But a little context is very much needed I guess, or you'll maybe never understand fully just why that particular moment is so deeply etched into my brain.

Introductions first, then. I'm Jenny, thirty-six, and for those with an interest in such things my age has just overtaken my bra size. I'm fit enough, pretty enough, and curvy enough to still turn heads when I put on my best clothes and more expensive make-up -- although that sort of thing only occurs occasionally these days. I'm a non-typical unmarried mum since I'm single by choice -- although in fact I was married for a little under five weeks back when I had just become seventeen.

It was a short-lived marriage of convenience.

Having a ring on my finger allowed my mother to overlook the fact that I was being so stupid as to get married when still -- technically, at least -- finishing my A-Level courses, and ensured that if I became pregnant quickly then my offspring wouldn't be a 'bastard' -- her term, not mine. I was still her virginal little girl, of course.

It was also convenient for my then boyfriend since it ensured that I would let him move into my parents' annexe with me, and give him unfettered access to my virginal little pussy. It also gave him access to a nice array of wedding presents, a product of the 'old money' that was such a feature of my parents' life and the lives of their many friends.

As I say, it was a short-lived affair. Five weeks and a day, to be precise. My fleeting -- and subsequently fleeing -- husband left me with nothing to show for the thirty-six days of wedded bliss except for an empty present cupboard and a not-so-empty womb. I never saw hair nor hide of the wedding gifts again, but on the other hand young Philip was born eight-and-a-half months later. All in all, he proved to be worth a lot more than a Royal Dalton dinner service and a couple of microwave ovens. The event also, somehow, lent my mother the ability to still see me as the virgin bride who had been wronged.

And believe me, I was never going to admit that my brief husband was not exactly the first male to 'have his way' with me. I wasn't quite as bad as 'slapper' Jane from down the lane, but I'd clocked up a cock or five by the time the nuptials took place, and if I didn't exactly know my way around a big, comfy bed, I had more than a passing acquaintance with the occasional Ford Transit van and a haystack or four.

Thinking now, it strikes me as rather amusing that this whole tale starts when baby Philip was a few weeks past being an eighteen-year old -- that was a full year older than I was when he was conceived... Strange, but true.

Anyway, that introduces the main players -- or at least the human ones. The non-human one, though, is Doris -- who might sound human but was, in fact, nothing more than a storm.

Here's what happened on the night that Doris came to town...

I've referred to 'her' already as 'nothing but a storm' but that's understating things really. She was the worst storm Britain had seen for more than twenty years -- torrential rains, heavy snow in some parts and worst of all by far were the gale force winds. I was by then living in a ramshackle cottage in the middle of dense woodland -- an 'idyllic' setting on paper and a 'great investment opportunity' according to the estate agents. Or in other words, very isolated and in desperate need of repairs and renovations.

Technically I was living there alone, which was just as well since most of the property was uninhabitable save for a kitchen, a sitting room, a bathroom and one-and-a-bit bedrooms. In actuality, though, Philip was camping out in the 'bit' of bedroom before the start of his university course so that he could help with the many repairs I was facing. In theory, at least. Despite the occasional bit of sawing or painting, his hands tended to spend their time down at the local pub full of either pint glasses or barmaids. Or both at the same time.

In truth, I didn't mind. Compared to the teenage me he appeared to be something of an angel and he was always well-behaved around the hovel -- if by 'well behaved' I mean 'asleep'. Seriously, though, he was helpful when conscious and didn't bring a succession of friends back to disturb my peace -- evidently even teenagers have some standards when it comes to party/sex venues.

But back to Doris.

As I said, the cottage was set in the middle of woods -- as in, at the end of a winding lane with nothing but trees for neighbours -- and although it was late February when the bitch... sorry, when the storm arrived, the trees still seemed thick with branches and the ground widely and deeply strewn with last year's leaves. The afternoon of her arrival saw the former snapping off of the trees and the latter swirling up in great clouds as the winds began to rise.

Philip even came back early from the pub as darkness fell -- a sure sign that more inclement weather was due -- and we ate a quick supper of gourmet proportions sitting together at the rickety table in the rickety kitchen. And by 'gourmet' I do, of course, mean frozen and thrown in the oven for twenty minutes.

Food was not a primary concern for either of us, though.

"Mum! Are you sure the trees around here won't come crashing through the roof?"

I made light of it while crossing my fingers under the table, "Oh, Philip! Stop fretting so much. These woods don't have a single fallen tree in them so I'm sure we'll be fine."

"Yeah, but this storm is massive. It could be like that one nan always goes on about back in the olden days."

"Eighty-seven is hardy the olden days! Even I remember that one." It was at least true but I was only seven, "And anyway, this is nothing like as bad, I promise."

I was going to add something about the local trees being much more mature than me but a sudden crunching crash from somewhere quite close snatched the thoughts out of my brain and the words out of my mouth.

"Mum! That was fu... really close!"

I stood up and patted my son's shoulder, "It was... fairly close, I will admit, but we're safe here, I'm sure!" It wasn't any such thing anymore but I tried not to let Philip see. "These woods have stood up to worse storms than this one."

Philip stood as well, "Yeah, but what if earlier storms weakened all the trees? What if they can't stand up to this one now?"

He had a point, "Well... I guess that could be true, but the cottage is a tough old thing."

"Old being the operative word, mum. This wreck of a place wouldn't take a hit from a sapling let alone a full-grown tree."

"Well... okay, maybe it is a bit fragile these days, but it's not like we dare go out there and drive somewhere else, is it?"

Philip shrugged, "I guess not, but sitting around here in the kitchen isn't much better."

I was convinced by then -- especially as a large branch chose that moment to clatter noisily across the roof before falling past the window in, I thought, an unnecessarily over-dramatic fashion. "I'm not sure the living room is much better. What do you suggest then? Crawling under a table like you're supposed to in earthquakes or something?"

"Under the stairs would be safer," he nodded towards a cupboard built below the old staircase.

It was a fair enough idea but then I remembered the mound of odds and ends cluttering that space, "It's full of junk in there and it would take an age to clear it. Where else is there?"

It seemed that all four of our eyes swivelled to the trapdoor set in the corner of the kitchen at the same moment.

"Oh, I'm not sure, Phil... there's no light down in the wine cellar and it's not exactly large, is it?"

"It makes sense though, mum. It's way safer than up here and it's not like we need much light anyway. Besides, we can use our phones if we need to see and there's plenty of room for two adults -- even if your latest diet didn't pan out."

Trust my son to try to make a joke of the situation. My latest diet hadn't panned out because firstly I was already trim enough and secondly because I had thumped the stupid bitch taking the weekly classes when she told me that my tits were still too big and couldn't I wear a bra sometimes so that I didn't keep distracting the men in attendance. "No way am I too porky, young man, and I'd appreciate less of your cheek!" I drew a deep breath. "And don't even go there," I added as I saw the comment about my butt rising in his mind.

"Who me?" he grinned, "What could you mean, anyway?"

Another tree falling close by interrupted any response I was forming, and also cleared any doubts I had about the wine-cellar. "Okay, let's do it -- but I go first and you can shut the trap. And your trap."

He made a gesture as if zipping his lips shut and we grabbed our phones before he opened the -- luckily -- thick trapdoor and motioned me down into the gloom.

We'd not used the cellar for wine -- other than one case of dodgy red that my mother had insisted we 'start our collection' with, less a bottle that I had sampled and now used to clean the sink -- and it was jammed with a clutter of cardboard boxes. Those mainly contained my collection of paperback books along with yet-to-be-used art supplies and clothing that wouldn't fit into the wardrobes and chests of drawers. Or which wouldn't fit me or my chest. I stepped gingerly down the rickety staircase and took up position leaning back against the nearest heap of boxes, ducking slightly thanks to the low ceiling beams, but leaving just enough space for Philip. He followed me down and awkwardly turned to face me, his back against the stairs, before pulling down on the door's old rope and encasing us in the dark.

I flipped my phone onto the 'torch' setting and shone it to the side so as not to blind either of us in the enclosed -- very enclosed -- space, "How long will it last do you think?"

I felt, rather than saw, my son shrug, "Who knows? But your phone's battery won't last long if you keep shining it like that."

"If I don't turn it off we can use yours when it dies."

"Mum, it's just darkness. If we do that and then I use mine until that one dies, then the storm could well outlast both of them and we'd be both in darkness and not able to call anyone if we need to."

He had a good point there but I hated darkness, "It would be so dark though!"

"You're a big girl now -- and no, I wasn't referring to the diet -- so are you telling me you're scared of the dark still?"

"No, of course not!" I was really, "But it's just so... unfriendly when it's dark." I searched for any other reason I could think of -- hopefully more reasonable than that one, "And... and... well we're not exactly dressed for the occasion, are we?" We were both already in nightwear -- me a nightie, panties and robe, and Philip in a robe and, hopefully, boxers.

"Mum! What difference does light make to that?"

"Well, I suppose not much."

He laughed, "No difference at all -- unless you want to eye me up."

"Philip!"

"Or show off in your oh-so elegant attire."

"Stop it!" I added a curse and then flicked off the phone, "There! Happy now?"

My son's voice came from close in front of me, "It's better. Now try to get comfortable, okay? We might be here for ages yet."

Standing half-bent just a few inches apart made that next to impossible but at least he'd had the decency to say 'try'. I mumbled something along the lines of consent and tried to lean back as much as I could in the dark and, I now noticed, damp cellar. This was not going to be comfortable, but from the sounds crashing around above us, we were at least in a sensible place in that respect.

After much discussion -- ending with something like 'who's the parent around here?' -- I was granted permission to flick the phone on occasionally to check the passing of time, but gave that up when dark hours and hours proved to be no more than a couple of minute. Finally, we filled the dragging time with discussions about Philip's future plans -- local MP indeed! -- his motorcycling, his girlfriends, my painting (I dabble), his dwindling savings, my much faster dwindling savings, changing weather patterns, global warming, my carbon footprint, his motorcycling again -- do you blame me? -- the lack of decent television, a certain old (ancient according to my son) Bruce Springsteen song, irrational fears, and--

The dull conversation was abruptly curtailed by the most thunderous crash yet, and the little cellar quite literally shook violently. There was no need to say what we thought had happened. But we both did, now cuddling each other for comfort.

"See, mum? I told you!"

I sighed and nodded, "That tree at the end of the drive?"

"At the end of our kitchen now, but yes."

"Well I almost hate to say it, but it was a good idea to come down here then. You can let go now, though, I'll be fine."

My son gave a soft snort, "I'm glad you finally approve but as for letting go... that won't be so easy."

"Why? Are you ok?"

"I'm fine," I felt him nod, "It's just the stairs have been shunted a few inches. Sorry..."

I was about to tell him not to be so silly as to apologise -- but then realised we were more-or-less in a somewhat compromising position, and understood just what he meant. "Oh, don't be silly," I managed, "You're my son!" The words suddenly felt rather hollow. Especially when I fully gathered just how we were pressed together. There was a moment or three of panic when I appreciated that there was nowhere to go -- but that was quelled by the realisation of our positions. That was not exactly helped by his next words.

"Yeah, 'son' is right, but... sorry, mum, I'm also male, if you get my drift?"

It was then when I fully understood what he meant. Or rather, could feel what he fully meant. I tried to make light of things -- well, one hardening thing in particular, "I guess that's natural and normal... possible end of days and all that. Even mothers can be attractive when you're that desperate." I think I managed a laugh.

"You're not... I mean you are but not to me!"

"Attractive?" I don't know why I said it.

Philip struggled sideways a little, but it only served to let my hip know about things, "Well, yeah... but it's not right to... be so obvious about it!"

"So... not obvious is ok?" I don't know why I said that, either.

"Yes... I mean no... look, mum, it's just... well..."

He was my son, erection or not, and I had to comfort him somehow. "It's ok, Philip, I get it. Just relax and know I'm not angry or anything. These things are always happening to boys -- guys -- your age and.... well, let's face it, this is rather extreme. The storm will be over soon anyway, right?"

My son was taking deep breaths but I wasn't sure his chest expanding against my breasts was helping him too much. He finally managed to speak. "Not long I hope. And see what I meant about the phones? If that tree is covering the hatch, then we'll need to call someone to free us from here."

His pressing erection disappeared from my mind, "We could be stuck here, you mean? Can't you tell from the rope?"

"It only closes it. I'd need to climb back up to see for sure and that ain't gonna happen so easily, is it?"

Given our positions I could see what he meant, "Well, I suppose you could try but you'd be bent double on the stairs... and you'd have to go up backwards."

"I know, mum, I know. I'd rather leave that until the winds stop quite so much howling."

"I get that," I said, very sincerely, "Just stay here then and... try not to worry about... anything."

His shoulders seemed to slump. Hard to tell in that light, but he said, "If you're sure this is not too... much?"

"It's fine," I told him, meaning it -- but not in any naughty way. I'd never truly seen my 'little boy' as a man and never thought of him as anything other than my son and heir. Even with the evidence being so obvious, it wasn't changing things in the slightest -- honestly.

"Thanks, mum," he was still hesitant but obviously trying to be the good son he had always been, "Let's try to, er, get comfortable, ok?"

"Sure," I said, meaning that as well.

There followed some awkward wriggles and twists until we were just as uncomfortable but now bent at even weirder angles. Eventually I sighed and pulled both of us into straighter positions, a certain straightness being more evident -- to my belly, at least -- but the stances were definitely easier. "This is better," I said, as kindly as I could manage, "Just relax and don't... don't worry about... well, about that."

Philip muttered more apologies before we relaxed as best we could and started to talk about more pressing -- ahem -- things like the storm above us. I was more than happy with that and even more so when a certain part of my son seemed to start relaxing as well.

Another loud crash from on high put paid to the mental relaxation part, though.

"Fuck!" I squealed as Philip was pressed even more tightly against me.

"Shit, mum! I'm sorry but I think that was the other tree down the drive."

"Don't worry about the greenery. Are you ok there?"

Above us, a worrying chink of light had appeared around one edge of the trapdoor and I could see my son trying to look up, "The stairs have shifted again," he managed, "I really think I should try to get up them while they're still in one piece."

"Do you honestly think you could?" Claustrophobia was starting to make its presence felt and I was beginning to experience the first stirrings of panic.

"I gotta try at least," Philip muttered, "This is getting too tight."

I couldn't disagree with that, "I'm with you. How can I help?"

He tried to straighten and, I guessed, was feeling behind him for the ancient timbers of the steps. "I think I can feel where I need to step but it's gonna be awkward. Can you kinda boost me under my arms?"

"I'll try!" Even getting my hands up to his armpits was a nightmare of wriggles and twists, but eventually I was in position. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be. I'll try to take as much of my weight as I can but sorry in advance if I knee you in the belly or something."

"Don't you worry about that. This is getting too tight down here to worry about a bruise or two. Here goes!"

I pushed upwards as hard as I could for a few seconds, and could feel my son straining to drag himself up onto the steps above him. One of his arms twisted behind him and a knee dragged up my left thigh. I heard a distinct 'clunk' which I presumed was his head connecting with the trapdoor itself and then there were a variety of grunts and curses as he evidently pushed on its closed beams, trying to force it open. After what seemed an age I felt him go limp and his panting form slipped back down to press fully against me once more.

"Mum, I'm sorry," he was panting hard, "but I think something's on top of the hatch now. I can't get it open."

"No need for apologies," I was more-or-less hugging him, and already feeling so sorry for him -- and me, "It's probably one of the trees or the fucking wall or something."

"Language!" he muttered a laugh.

"I think under the circumstances we can suspend the language rules, yeah?"

"Thank fucking fuck for fucking that."

I swatted his upper arm as best I could, snorting my own laugh, "There's no need to take things too far."