Without another word, my right hand reached forward. I didn't grasp at him so quickly that he'd jump out of reflex. But I didn't give him any time to think either. One second, we were just looking at each other, talking softly. The next, I had slipped my hand through the wide leg hole of his basketball shorts, felt the soft skin of his inner thigh against the back of my hand. And then I felt my fingers rub against the base of Anthony Jr.'s p***s, my thumb sinking into his scrotum, feeling his balls. My palm wrapped around my son's c**k. It was half-hard, I think. But felt warm and heavy against my hand. My fingers undulated gently, testing the denseness of his flesh.
"Mom?" Anthony Jr. said sharply, "What're you doing?"
"Being the man of the house has a lot of responsibilities," I said,
