Confessions of a Motherfucker Ch.10

Well, Gentle Reader, as the old song by some girl singer goes - There, I Did it Again.

To those of you who have been wondering what the hell ever happened to David and his Mom, I apologize. I'm a victim of a couple of things. First, I'm an honest writer. By that, I mean that these stories tend to unfold, and I'm often surprised by what my characters wind up doing. I don't work from an outline. That means that sometimes I have to take a break to see what the rascals are up to.

Second, I have a mild bit of OCD (that's Obsessive Compulsive Disorder for those of you who never went through the curriculum to become a teacher and had to take all of the psychology courses associated with that particular career path). I fret over finding the right word and then fret more about making sure grammar and punctuation are correct. From time to time, I'll mention Mrs. O'Neill, my third grammar teacher, and it's her voice in my head that tells me to be sure before I turn it in. Then, I have to argue with Grammarly, the grammar-checking program I use, over style elements.

Mostly, though, I think it's a good idea to let these stories cook for a while before taking the next step. For this one, and it is one of my favorite stories, I woke about a week ago with the next step clear in my mind. But then there's the OCD thing, and it's taken this long to get it on paper.

Anyway, here we go again. Let's switch into our fly persona and go hang around on the wall. I think David is about to turn a mental corner, and who knows what lurks around it. I think the streetlight is out, and the street is dark. But don't worry, I'll be right there beside you.

Interlude

I woke, and my first thought was, "Oh my God. I think he is really going to make me a whore."

My second thought was, "Oh, fuck, I hope he does."

My third thought was to lift my arm carefully and breathe a sigh of relief when I saw my hand. There was no trembling.

My relief was so great that I almost cried. And that need, deep in my belly, exploded. I felt myself, suddenly wet. I felt myself, suddenly desperate for him. My breath caught, and I couldn't seem to make my lungs fill.

Interlude Finis

It was a good dream, and as I woke, it was a good awakening.

She was straddling me, and there was a desperation in her eyes as I managed to focus on them that worried me.

But then she settled onto me, accepting me into her body in that perfect fit that still surprised me.

She sighed, a long, soft exhalation. The desperation left her eyes. She smiled.

"Let me show you how good I'll be," she said.

She was moving slowly in that sinuous way some women can pull off. Her back moved like she had 66 vertebrae rather than the normal 33. Her vaginal muscles held me tight. Her fingers entwined in mine, holding my hands pinned by my ears, her weight pinning me unless I wanted to hurt her, and I certainly didn't want to do that.

She held my eyes, and I felt the sudden tension and hot wetness as she came for the first time.

"Men like to see a woman cum, don't they?" she asked, her voice oddly soft, her smile pure joy.

"Yes," I said.

Her breath caught as she sped her rhythm, her lips parting.

She bent forward and kissed me before brushing her lips across my cheek and breathing into my ear, "Watch my face, Honey, see how much I love you, how much I appreciate what you do for me."

Thin threads of saliva connected her upper and lower lips when she smiled at me. I could see love and lust in her eyes.

What I couldn't see was sanity.

"That's right, Baby," she said, her breath thick and bubbly, "I feel it, God, I feel it."

Her eyes held mine as her hips moved in that snakelike way, and she was saying over and over, almost a chant or maybe a prayer litany, "I feel it, God, I feel it, God, I feel it."

Her eyes went wide, sclera showing clearly all around her irises. Her mouth opened wide and she breathed out an almost silent scream, more a whistle, her vaginal muscles tightened around me, and her fingers clamped down on mine as she soaked us both with her pleasure.

She didn't blink as she held my eyes through her orgasm.

"You like my cumface?" she asked as the tension slowly left her body.

"You're beautiful," I said.

"Thank you," she said, "and right now, I can believe you."

"Show me that face again," I said, softly, my hands cupping her ass, squeezing gently, not wanting to hurt her now, knowing that she was feeling what I was doing.

She grinned, and the rhythm of her hips sped up.

I watched her, not moving, making her do all of the work.

Her eyes never left mine as she worked her hips, her core muscles working hard. I laid my hands on her ass, not pushing or pulling or spreading her cheeks or anything but feeling the big gluteus muscles working.

I felt her work and then start to strain. I heard her breathing change to shallow little gasps.

I saw and felt the sheen of sweat that broke out as she engaged in the physically hard work of sex.

"Come on," I encouraged her.

She giggled softly and said, "I'm trying."

"Come on," I said softly, urging her on.

"I'm trying," she said again, but I could feel the way her movements were starting to fail as her body was exhausted.

"Come on," I said again.

"I can't," she said, her voice so full of sadness I almost chuckled, "Help me."

"Keep trying," I whispered.

"Davey, I can't," she said, and I could hear the truth in the way her movements were starting to turn into weak little jumps and shudders, "Help me, please."

I caught her nipples between the big knuckles of my index and middle fingers and twisted. It was a hard, brutal twist, and I was crushing her nipples with all the strength of my hands.

She came, her mouth wide open in an almost silent scream, more a faint whistle than a true scream, her eyes so wide they seemed to bug out, drops of sweat dripping hot from the tip of her nose and her chin. I felt her soak my cock and balls and spray almost to my knees, her love honey scalding hot where my nerve endings were quivering already.

When I felt her start to relax, I twisted even more, pulling her nipples away from her body.

And making her cum again, almost as hard, almost as wet, almost as complete.

This time, I let her relax, although I still kept her nipples and areolas locked in my knuckle grip.

When she was relaxed, I released her. She gasped and settled, murmuring, "I love you."

"And I love you," I said, but I don't think she heard me. She was dozing.

It was nice, for the next month, to make love without the need for one of her "treatments."

Here's what I mean.

One night, a couple of weeks into this respite from treatments, I was lying beside her. We were in bed after a quiet evening, a frozen pizza, and Sex in the City reruns kind of evening. I was tickling her back, paying particular attention to her ass which seemed to be a very efficient finger-magnet. I was just tickling, admiring her shape. I thought, at first, she was laughing softly, but then realized she was crying.

I swung my legs and got to my knees, carefully, afraid to look to see which body part might be starting to flail around. I didn't see anything, so I bent forward, brushed a stray lock of hair away from her ear, and whispered, "What's wrong?" My lips were close enough that they brushed her ear as I asked my question.

She did one of those sudden bursts of athleticism she could do and rolled onto her back, almost seeming to levitate when she did that. She was looking up, her face verging on ugly with its swollen sinuses, swollen red eyes, tear streaked cheeks, runny nose, and her upper and lower lips connected by a web of thick mucus-laden saliva when she smiled a ghoulish smile.

"You can't know," she said, her eyes big, her voice very thick, "what it means to me to be able to feel what you were doing."

"Well then," I said, smiling and giving her a slick, snotty kiss, "let's do the experiment and see just how sensitive you are."

I brushed her eyelids with my fingertips, my fingerprints barely touching as she closed her eyes. I covered her face with those little touches and started working my way down her body. As I was tracing the hollows of her collarbones, she shivered, giggled, stretched, arched her back, and whispered, "I'll give you exactly 42 minutes to stop that."

I laughed and reached up to the old-fashioned digital alarm clock on the headboard and carefully set it for 42 minutes and went back to her body.

There's nothing, in my opinion anyway, that is sexier or, at least, that shows you're getting to her, than watching goose bumps (chill bumps? goosies?) rise as you tickle or kiss or blow or otherwise provide the most delicate possible sensation.

As I moved to her belly, where that little patch of stretch-marked softness was a finger magnet, she giggled and squirmed a little, her breath catching.

I traced that line where thigh joins trunk, the inguinal crease or, if you're up on your urban dictionary, the love line, and she sighed softly, parting her legs in invitation. I accepted the invitation and brushed, very, very gently, her labia, my fingertips barely moving the coarse hair there, until I smelled her arousal while her hips began pushing up, seeking more pressure.

I denied the pressure she wanted. Instead, I moved around until my knees were between her calves. I lightly tickled the little line formed by her labia and thighs, watching as she parted her legs more and her hips lifted. She was leaking now, the thick white nectar of her natural lubricants making a thin line down the crack of her ass.

As I bent forward, my palms very lightly pressing right at the tops of her thighs, opening her a little, her breath caught, and she hissed a long, sibilant "Yesssssssssssss."

I smiled as I denied her again. I didn't kiss or lick as she anticipated. I blew, very gently, enjoying the way her body shuddered and her hips pushed up, seeking more.

I blew and inhaled the sweet perfume of her desire, blew again, and sat back, letting the pheromones suffuse my blood as if I had taken a hit of very good pot.

Then I pulled back farther, my fingertips brushing slowly down the sensitive skin on the inside of her thighs, tracing the line of the big adductor tendons, watching as her legs twitched a little before I began kissing and touching and blowing my way down her legs.

I made love to her feet for a minute or two, keeping an eye on the clock, trying to make sure my designated 42 minutes didn't run out before I had covered all of her. I caressed and massaged her feet. I tickled them. I played with each toe separately, giving little twists and pinches before sucking them.

I grabbed her ankles and rolled her over, being gentle, more guiding than pushing.

I love looking at her back and ass. From this view, the incipient cellulite dimples across the backs of her thighs showed how if she didn't watch her diet, she'd look like my grandmother by the time she was 50, which is to say quite thick. But now they just showed as slightly heavy and, well, Marilyn Monroe showed the same hint of cellulite, and nobody ever suggested she wasn't beautiful.

My fingertips traced slowly up the backs of her legs, along her Achilles tendons and calves, leaving a trail of goosebumps as I did. At the backs of her knees, where more tendons made distinct lines and I tickled lightly in the little hollow the tendons made. She squirmed and giggled.

I kissed my way up the backs of her thighs. The little cellulite dimples against my lips reminded me that since our "treatments" started, she was eating better. I think it was, at least in part, a reflection of the way her nerves weren't on edge all the time, worrying about her disease.

I pushed her cheeks up, exposing the thin line of her gluteal sulcus, that line where ass meets the tops of thighs. I blew softly, making her squirm, and then traced the line slowly, left to right, my tongue lost for an instant before I picked up the other cheek and finished my exploration.

I did the same thing with her intergluteal cleft, her ass crack, blowing softly where a breeze never touches, and then inhaling her earthy morning scent before I lightly traced from the bottom of her vagina across her perineum and anus with my tongue. I enjoyed the scrabbling sound her fingernails made against the bedsheet.

I was working my way up, tickling her tailbone and slowly up when the soft ding of the alarm marked the end of my allotted 42 minutes.

"Honeyyyyyyyyyyy," she moaned as I lifted from her.

"You said forty-two minutes," I said.

"Four more," she said, wiggling her ass prettily.

I laughed, used my finger and her natural lubricant to get her ready, and then slipped into her anally.

"Oooooooooooooooooooooh," she sighed, pushing back to meet me, to take all of me inside.

I used my allotted four minutes to finish her. My rhythm was slow and easy. I bent forward, making her carry my weight, as my hands moved around her hips to her belly and then her sex, finding her clitoris and masturbating her while my slow rhythm in her ass kept up.

Her orgasm was almost gentle. She squeezed with those powerful anal sphincter muscles hard enough that it verged onto pain, drew a slow inhalation, and her release just ran out of her. She didn't squirt, she just flowed. No, she poured, that hot, thick, sticky natural lubricant running down my thighs to actually puddle at the dents my knees made in the sheet.

And it went on.

My four minutes expired but I slowed my rhythm, delaying the inevitable.

And it went on.

I could feel her sphincter tighten and relax. I could hear each deep gasp and slow release. I could hear her soft, "Oh Jesusssssssssssssssssssssssssss" as she hissed her pleasure.

I felt an odd, warm resistance where I was inside her, and the monster in my head capered, laughing, giggling, and saying "Oh, yeah, it's gonna get messy now."

That got to me.

I thrust hard, my belly making an audible smack against her ass. She grunted and came in another wave.

I turned what was happening over to the monster. Oh, I rationalized like crazy, telling myself it was part of the therapy, but it just laughed and told me to pound her harder.

I did as it commanded. I was pounding into her now, my hands on her cheeks, spreading her wide, smiling my best Jack Nicholson smile from The Shining as I watched the brown stain spread.

The monster capered his happy dance.

My control failed, and I came, the final thrust deep into her as my body sent seed on a suicide mission.

Oddly, she squeezed so suddenly and hard I popped out, and she moaned a soft "Noooo."

I held my position, on my knees behind her, and lightly rubbed her back and, yes, her ass, as we came down from the exertion and sensations of our sex. The scents of her arousal, our bodies in need of a shower, and yes, the earthy scent from what we had just done were a not unpleasant mixture as we settled down.

She turned her head, looking over her shoulder.

"Ummmmm," she started and I chuckled as she actually blushed, "did I......?" she started and trailed off.

"You did," I said, bending forward and kissing her cheek.

"Oh, God," she said, squirming under me, moving to get free.

I lifted an arm, letting her out from under me, chuckled, and rolled onto my back.

She was off of the bed then, standing, looking down at me.

"Oh, God," she said again, touching where my dick was, well, dirty.

"Should I have you clean me with your tongue and lips?" I asked.

Her eyes got big, and she said, in a voice so soft I could barely hear it, "Please, no." She held out her hand, showing me how steady it was. "I don't need that."

"If I tell you to?" I asked, holding her eyes, establishing my control on a new level.

"Please, no," she said again, "But I will if you tell me to."

I smiled, pulled her down for a quick kiss, and rolled out of bed.

"I think we'll save that for a therapy session," I said, "But we DO need to shower."

We were like that for a month. It was gentle and loving and, yes, very messy from time to time, sometimes even dirty. But as they say, "All good things must come to an end."

I felt her roll out of bed as I usually did. She wakes before me almost always. I watched, as I always do. I love watching her walk away, naked. Mom has a great ass. Not the inverted heart of a young girl. She carried some extra weight. But it was still a great ass.

I was watching it when her right leg collapsed, and she fell to her side.

"Oh, shit," I said, rolling out of bed.

She was on her side crying, whining really, softly saying, "Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck," over and over.

It wasn't her hand this time. And it wasn't just trembling.

Her right leg was kicking, and I could see the way her calves were knotted in a serious charlie horse.

"Help me," she said, looking up at me.

She was a mess. She was crying. Tears streamed from her eyes. Snot poured out of her nose.

I tried to work the charlie horse out, my thumbs digging in.

"No," she said, grabbing me by the shoulder with a hand that I noticed was not trembling, "Do what I need."

I hesitated just a second and then rolled her onto her belly. I caught the leg that was kicking so hard I had to lean my weight into it.

I formed an Ippon Ken fist, the knuckle of my middle finger extended, allowing a strike to a very specific and limited area. I struck low on the back of her thigh, a strike designed to paralyze temporarily.

And it worked.

Her leg stopped kicking.

I rolled her over and held her as she cried, laying there with her on the floor.

When the storm passed, I brushed the hair off of her face, smiled, and kissed her.

"Come on," I said, standing and helping her to stand. Well, more like standing and pulling her to her feet, then supporting her since her right leg wasn't working.

"Let's do your morning business, and then we'll do some therapy."

She smiled wanly, winced when she tried to put weight on her right leg, and draped her arm around me while I put my arm around her waist, supporting her as I got her into the bathroom. I sat her on the toilet, said, "Be right back," and went back to the bedroom, to the closet, to get ready.

I had been planning this pretty much since that first time Mom told me of her problem. But now that the time was here, I was nervous. As I dressed, starting with the black silk boxers, I felt butterflies in my stomach like I hadn't since that first date in sixth grade. I pulled on the black cargo pants, pulled the tight black turtleneck shirt over my head, put on white cushioned socks, and then finished the outfit, the costume really I suppose, with the black lace-up boots I had purchased specifically for this day.

Back in the bathroom, she was still sitting on the toilet, crying softly.

The monster in my head danced a jig.

"Okay, Mom," I said, putting the serious look on my face I had been practicing for weeks, "It's time to take your therapy to the next level, I think."

I didn't give her time to respond. I just reached out, twisted my fingers in her hair, and started pulling.

"DAVID," she said, reaching for the toilet paper roll.

I slapped her, hard, across the face, the hard surfaces in the bathroom giving the sudden sharp SMACK sound an echo.

The monster in my head giggled, and I smiled.

"MOVE!" I yelled, jerking her hair hard enough that she reached up to grab my wrist to ease the pain.

When she stood, well, when she tried to stand, her right leg failed, and she collapsed. I released her hair, otherwise, I probably would have pulled it out, and she fell to the floor.

"MOVE!" I yelled again, kicking her in the ass, not a hard, disabling kick, but hard enough that it pushed her forward.

That passenger in my head howled in laughter as she started moving in sort of a flopping crawl as her right leg drug limp, her left leg and her arms her only form of propulsion.

And I had an epiphany.

It wasn't something in my head. Not a monster or a passenger. It was just me letting the filters fall.

And I liked it.

I liked watching her struggle to move forward.

I liked watching the way her unwiped ass moved in such an awkward way.

I liked the sounds she was making, the whimpering and crying.

I liked the anticipation of what I was going to do to her.

"To the basement," I said, kicking her ass with the toe of my boot, smiling at her sudden cry, "MOVE!"

"STOP IT!" my grandmother's voice screamed.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, BITCH," the thing in my head screamed back.

I laughed, kicked my mother's ass again, and yelled, "Shut up both of you," aloud.

It felt good. Christ, it felt GREAT to let all of my filters fall away.

"STOP!" I yelled when I saw her right leg starting to kick again.

I didn't hesitate. I delivered the Ippon Ken strike to the middle of the spreading bruise on the back of her leg.

The kicking stopped.

"Move," I said, stripping the belt out of my pants and strapping her across the ass.

She yelled and started moving again in that awkward, crawl/flop movement.

I took the thirty seconds to feed my belt back through the loops, and when I started to follow, I couldn't help but smile. Between tears and snot, and now the lubricant of her arousal, she was leaving a trail like a large snail had been moving down the hall.

She made it to the door, to the stairs to the basement, and was starting to work her way up to reach the doorknob.

There was nothing tender about what came next. It was part of the "therapy" I had worked out, although it was coming at a time I hadn't anticipated.

I took her hand and helped her to her feet, well, to her foot. Her right leg was still worthless as an ambulatory aid.

"Come on," I said, my voice as soft as I could make it, "I'll help you."

"David," she started and I slapped her ass as hard as I could given our awkward positions.

"Do not," I said, my voice low and hissing as I tried for as much menace as I could put into it, "mistake my kindness for softness. You are in for a very bad morning."

"David," she said but stopped, just looking up at me, her face a mess with the tears and snot and now the drool dripping from her.

"Careful now," I said, supporting her as we started the long and, yes, dangerous trek down the steps.

We made it to the bottom step without breaking our necks in a fall. I kept supporting her as I fumbled in my pocket for the key.

"Close your eyes," I said, and watched as she did. I thought I saw a hint of a smile.

I opened the door, guided her into my domain, and closed the door behind us, leaving us in a dark so dark that a darkroom prepared for film to be pulled from the canister back in the days when I did such things seemed like broad daylight in comparison.

"Open your eyes," I said.

I flipped the switch, and the 5,500-kelvin bright white LED lights came on, instantly filling the room with a light so bright I had to close my eyes.

I was ready for it and got my eyes open before her so I could watch her reaction as she took it all in.

Over the past two months, I had converted the basement into a passable version of a set for the torture chamber in one of those old Vincent Price movies that American International used to put out regularly, maybe The Pit and the Pendulum or The House of Usher.

I had the floor covered in a layer of dirt, carried down the stairs carefully, one Lowe's 5-gallon bucket at a time. I had fake wooden columns and beams scattered more or less at random. A bench against one wall held a variety of tools, and the wall behind it held the collection of whips I had purchased on Mom's credit card.

The Saint Andrews Cross I had built, looking like a large "X" with heavy leather restraints at all four ends, stood against the far wall. A pillory that would have been at home in the village green in a Puritan New England town stood in the middle of the room beside the Spanish Donkey I had constructed, looking like a piece of fine wooden sculpture was behind it. That was as far as I had gotten in the time available.

But I guess it was pretty effective.

She gasped and moaned.

"Remember," I said, bending down to speak very softly right in her ear, "you can always say 'no.'"