John was fifteen. His mother, Anne, a widow for some five years, was an attractive woman in her early forties. They had lived together in comparative comfort since John's father had died, leaving them the pay-out from a reasonable insurance policy. Both were of an independent frame of mind, and it was unusual for his mother to be calling him like this, and especially so in the middle of the night. He got up, reluctantly, and went to her, calling in at the bathroom, to relieve himself and reduce his erection, on the way.

John's mother was lying on her side, propped up on one elbow. Her face was very pale and her brow creased, as though she was in severe pain. When she saw John, she struggled to sit up, pulling the bed covers up to cover herself. John quickly crossed the room to the bed and sat on the edge.

"What is it, mum? Are you ill? What's wrong? What can I do?"

Anne managed a smile.

"It's alright, darling. I've got a bad pain in my back, that's all. Could you make me a cup of tea and get me some pain killers, please?"

Worried, John went downstairs and made the tea for both of them. He returned with two mugs of tea, a glass of water, and some paracetamol. Anne took the pills immediately, and then they tried to make her comfortable, propped up on pillows, while she drank the tea. She no longer hugged the covers around her, and as they slipped down a little, John looked, fascinated, at her night-dress, slightly low cut, and the tops of her breasts. He dragged his eyes away, guiltily, when she spoke again......(cont)