S.M.O.M.S. – The Origin
by DiscipleN
Chapter 5
The town of Danlick stayed out of reach for many days. The roads were too muddy, the weather too inclement. We huddled in the loft with Luke and kept to ourselves. Outside, downpours could not slow rumors of my miraculous recovery. Hory’s manhood found strength again. He used me gently, but spilled his seed outside of my puss. Milk returned to my breasts. He told me, it was all his sucking that made them spring back to life. Laughter came easily between us during those rains.
We did not work. Leaks sprang from the roof. The pigs fouled themselves. Some starved. When we heard their desperate cries, we sprang to rescue them. Five days and nights in the rain flushed our sweat from us. We managed to save most of them.
I had two visitors in the eight days of rain that followed. Reverend Hannity pulled off his muddy boots at the door before entering. I held it open. Hory invited him in. We lunched and prayed together, thanking the lord for another miracle and future good health.
On the eighth day, John Tuttle knocked. The boy was soaked. Sackcloth clung to his now pale skin. Hory greeted him with a shout, “Scurrilous RAT! Don’t you come begging here!”
“Mama tole me to come for penance, Mister. She heard from the preacher about your ma. He tole her what happened, and she looked hard at me after he went away. She knew when I came here last time. She beat me until I ‘fessed up that I tole you lies.”
“What lies?” Hory angered. “My ma confessed to going into town, like you said.”
“She never did tell on you. What you do to her, what I do to my ma. I don’t right know what she tole him. I lied to myself, thinking she betray us.”
“How did you know she was there?” My son barked. A tremor in his arm caused the door to shudder.
“Grady. He told me after he come back from getting married. He saw your ma in the church, but she didn’t see him.”
“I ought to send you away with a wallop! Git!”
“NO! I rushed to the door. Hory, you give this boy every bit of travel food he can carry. You load him down with forty-, fifty pounds. It was a hard winter, Hory. Look at his bones! Him and his ma and brothers must be starving, living on tree bark and grubs. I’ll feed him now, and we let him rest overnight.”
Hory made the boy sleep on the porch, but I gave him a thick blanket. I asked about who Grady married, but he swore he couldn’t tell me.
John Tuttle left us after a full breakfast, balancing a pole across his shoulders with sixty pounds from our sheds. I thanked Hory, hugging my son to me. I remembered then, when we felt pleasure at the same time. I wished we could share it at that moment. My puss got wet at my thoughts. I did not mention it, and he let me go, to resume our chores.
No many days after John’s visit, the rains scattered. The sky kept clear for one and two days at a time. Mud on the roads thinned. “Ma, you can go into town, whenever. Luke’s too big to carry and too small to walk. I’ll be sure he’s safe.”
I realized, I had no reason to go. My life with Hory didn’t trouble me any more. I put it out of my mind. What replaced the thought did trouble me, my son’s future. In a few years, I would be old. The farm would suffer, and my boy mustn’t desire a wrinkled, gray woman for his lover, until his hair was white.
“I’m going into town, Hory. It’s time I found you a wife.”
“I will never marry, Ma. You find that saint woman. You tell her, I wronged you, and you listen to what she tells you.”
I was not the only matchmaker that season. Now that I was cured from being a crazy woman, people visited again, sought my blessings, even, but I only wished them well. I never took God’s name in vanity.
Ann-marie Smith visited at her ma’s behest. She wore her Sunday dress. She told Hory that she wasn’t too young anymore. That he was the closest good man of means. She said that, and I kept my laugh inside of me. Her ma must have made her memorize the speech. If Hory thought at all that she was pretty, her ma wanted to talk with him. Ann-marie had turned all of fourteen just ahead of winter. Before the war, girls her age were not ruled out for marrying. Now, with few men and women taking charge of more things, seventeen year olds competed for fifteen year old boys. Older women, widows mostly, had to make do with cripples and men who returned with only a touch of madness. Even a wild man like Grady Tuttle could find a wife.
I cautioned Hory to tell the girl, that he would think about it. “Don’t you hurt her feelings. You can ignore her ma, but you let that innocent child leave without rejection.”
He took my advice to heart, and walked the child half way home. The door shut behind them, and I sat at the table and stared out the window. It came to me, who Grady had married.
I left for town the next morning. The thought of me talking with Rebecca Dunlop inspired a randiness in my son that infected me. I left later than planned, with a warm heart and twice cleaned breasts.
Mud wearied my legs and slowed my steps. It rained twice for half an hour. We owned an umbrella, though. I arrived mostly dry but my boots were caked with twice their size of mud.
My instinct to go to Rebecca’s home had to be throttled. Instead I went where I did not want to visit, as I guessed what awaited me there, fire and brimstone. To my relief, the Reverend Onager offered only a sulfurous glare.
“Blessed Besha, I heard of your recovery.” His feet shuffled uncomfortably. “May god’s love never leave. What may his grateful servant do for you?”
“Thank you, Pastor.” I knelt with a curtsey. Last year, I promised not to trouble you or the town with my presence.”
He coughed then.
“But I do need your help.” I ended my coy voice. “Go and tell Rebecca Dunlop the same that you told her last fall.”
The man was afraid. “Yes, Mrs-” He cut his answer and exited his church. I returned to the homeward road and waited.
An hour later, Danlick’s saint walked out of town to where I stood. “Besha, you are a whore and a cunt!”
“Yes.” I nodded and smiled. “And how is your son fucking cunt, today, Mrs. Dunlop?”
“Well. Please follow my bitch cunt to where we can speak more freely.”
We laughed.
A mile farther out of town, we stopped at a drover’s hut. That it kept the rain out was the best one could say, but for us, it’s solitude was more important.
I learned to my surprise that Mrs. Dunlop had never met Mrs. Orchard. Despite her sainthood, Rebecca feared compromising the other miracle woman in town. I knew that Rose would never have sought Rebecca’s company, as she felt no sin in her heart. Yet she had been grateful for my story. I told everything to Mrs. Dunlop, even the other women’s stories. I do regret that. The code I wrote up formal, years later, required women to tell their own and no one else’s.
“Besha,” Rebecca spoke after hearing my story. “I will keep my story for later. Do you mind?”
“No.” I was disappointed, but no one should be required to talk. That also became part of our code.
For now it’s more important to talk about your son.
“He thinks he has weathered his nightmares, but worse can come. Do you know?”
“Yes, but his redemption is a strong one, I’m sure. Worse may come, but you both will survive.” She smiled. “But I am no oracle. I follow the words of my heart.”
“The town believes they are the words of god.”
“They are not!” She emphasized. “Remember your forsaken pigs?”
I was confused. “Yes. Why?”
I am not here to preach to you. That would be a sin in my mind. I ask only that you bear in mind, that god did not rescue them.”
Her meaning failed me that day and many following. It would grace me, one day in the future.
“About your son. You have found love together, as I have with my own.”
“I am forever grateful to the lord.” I wept for a moment.
“It will not be forever, Besha. It must not, or a terrible thing will happen.” Rebecca warned. “You will come to hate him.”
She challenged what I believed, but I had yet dared to think that Hory and I were mated for life. “How? Never!” I refuted. “I have only love in my heart for my sons. Does my story not prove it? I suffered-”
“You did, Besha, and you believe your suffering has earned your son’s love, but that is a LIE!”
“No. God’s mercy,” I began. “…will save-.” I stopped. My heart burst with pain. I did not understand, but I knew then that Rebecca Dunlop was a true saint, cursed by god. The story of Job would not be her story. Her suffering would never end. It was not coin to purchase mercy. It was a balance against too much pleasure. This woman had found pleasure and love that would sustain until she died. She had no thought for an afterlife. This was the life that she could plant her feet in. Rebecca would suffer joyously until she was dead.
She was asking me to choose how much suffering I desired, to obtain pleasure enough to satisfy me. She offered sainthood. I resisted temptation.
“I disagree, Rebecca. It’s true that my son’s redemption was his own struggle, but I was a part of it. However small a part, we are worlds in collision. Every woman will have a different story, take different paths. Their pains and joys will run at odds with those of another. Yet we must collide, or we will shrivel like plums on a dead branch. We have no one, not even god, to turn to.”
My mentor leaped upon me, hugging and kissing me like a lonely grandmother. I grasp her as I would a young neice who’d received my birthday present. “Thank you!” We said.
I wished that god had sent sunshine or flood upon my journey home. The skies changed only in the same way they had that morning. My mood was contentious, wanton, apostate.
Arriving home, I wanted to rush into my son’s arms. We cleaved pleasure upon and from each other. I smiled evilly and told him, “I spoke with two women in the town, one was a widow who has a cow and a daughter. They are not quite poor. The other was a whore during the war, who now works as a surveyor. Hory, you will go tomorrow, to meet one of them. You decide who.” I had returned to town after embracing Mrs. Dunlop. I went to the ladies aid society and ingratiated myself upon their members. In less than an hour, I had half a dozen names. I spoke with five of them and chose two that might suit my son best.
A twenty one year old throws a marvelous spectacle of a tantrum. “I will not, Mother. I have you, and I will keep you!” Was the gist of his half hour rant. He stopped when he saw my face. I meant to inflame his wrath.
He grabbed me and sank to the floor. We both tore at my clothes. Upon entering me, we swooned. I felt my son’s seed burn into my womb for the first time in ages. His first release did not slow him. He fucked my eager cunt for five minutes before unloading hot cum into me again. We kissed and wrestled. I found myself on top of him, riding his still hard cock like I would The Villain. His third release took longer. He rolled to his right, unbalancing me. I fell but caught myself. He escaped my sucking cunt and stood. Grabbing my hair, he turned my face to his angry bulb. Whereupon, it spit boiling seed across my face.
“You have forgotten your mark of obedience, Pig!” He cried victorious.
The next day I reminded him to pick a bride and go to them. He tied me to a pillar and ravished me.
I wrote letters, in my son’s name, cordially inviting them to our farm, on different weeks. After mailing them, I told my son. He beat me, and I cried tears of joy from his invasions that followed.
The poor woman visited first. She was good looking for a widow. Her daughter was ten, old enough to tend their cow and gardens for a day. Hortense remained polite, answering her questions. I asked some to keep her talking, then excused myself. I went to the far corner opposite them and sewed a panel into Luke’s shorts too small for him. I pricked myself when the widow mentioned that her daughter was a lovely thing who needed a firm father’s attentions.
Hortense wished her well, to find a husband more suited than he. She took the rejection like a woman experienced with it. I sent her off with a basket of hard sausages and young zucchini.
Disgust pushed my son and I together like a vice. We repeated the woman’s implication about her lovely daughter and spat in unison. Pleasure from our union did not falter until Luke demanded his milk.
I had asked the second woman to write of when she could visit. She would need time away from her work. I had offered a range of dates. When the fated letter arrived, I threatened to burn it in front of Hory, before learning the day she would visit. He thrashed me like a naughty school girl.
A week passed, and the woman surveyor arrived. She was broad, as wide as our doorway, but she had pluck. She wore a bustle and a very tight corset. Hory could not help but first gape at the woman’s immense bust. She did not speak of her past, but her movements were calculated to seduce. Her voice was sweet oil. She claimed that she could happy as pig farmer’s wife. Her work was much easier, but it did not suit her. She mentioned disappointing her mentor, another woman who took to figures as easily as breathing.
We’d been sitting together during her brief history. I decided to leave these two alone. I made my excuse and stood. She stopped me. “Please, stay, Besha.” A smile crossed her face. “You wrote those letters, didn’t you?”
“I-I wrote them.” Hortense faltered in his deception.
“You are right, ma-am.” I admitted. “And by them, I have wronged you.”
“Alas,” Her eyes twinkled, “a sinner like me is not Christian enough to forgive you.” She looked at my son. “You will punish her for me, won’t you?” She winked. “Or have you already?”
This was a woman I could trust. “He has, my friend, and he will again.” I composed myself with confidence. “Hory, let me handle our guest.” My son had no defenses against this impressive woman.
“Oooo, that sounds like the right kind of invitation.” She bubbled. “I love a good handling.”
“How did you know about us?”
“I didn’t until we sat together. You you think you are sly, but any woman who has embraced lust can recognize it’s disguises. It was quickly clear that I would not find a husband here. Mayhap, I found another thing worth my long trip?” She puffed her chest like a pigeon. “Even having sat for a while, my feet cry out for comfort.” She spread her left leg out from under the table and wriggled her stocking. Her mudded boots had been left at the base of the steps.
My son’s jaw dropped open.
I knelt before our guest and took her foot in my hands. “Shall I remove the stocking, Ma-am?”
“Yes, but you will use your mouth to sooth it, my sweet lying bitch.”
My hands reached under her hem. It’s warm paisley was tainted with bits of dried mud. Her stocking expanded the higher I reached.
“Do not stretch my garter, wench. It is quite tight enough.”
Feeling the top of her hose, blindly I tugged the stocking out from under her garter.
“If you rip my stocking, I will have your son beat you.”
I groaned with lust then. My nails tore into the cotton. I hauled its stretched length down her fat leg and I latched my mouth to her bulging toes. I sucked on her foot with relish for it’s sweat and decaying skin. Tossing the rag behind me, I raised my ass.
“Here is your chance, Hory.” The woman invited. “Beat your ma, or leave her to me. I can’t abide amateurs.”
Hortense leaped from his chair and threw my skirt over my backside. I stopped wearing undergarments the day after I returned from Danlick. My son walloped my bare buttocks with his rough hands. I yelped and sucked the woman’s foot greedily. Reserve abandoned, Hory pulled his cock from his trousers and knelt behind me. He entered a jungle cave oozing my juices.
“You are just a cunt for your son, aren’t you?” The fat woman wriggled her toes in my mouth. Hory’s cock pumped my puss like a mad thing. I felt my insides wrench and fluid sprayed out from my hole. “You came so hard, you pissed yourself, wench!” Her hand dove under her skirt. It took a moment to wend its way through three more layers. “Aaaahh, delightful place you have here, and such hospitality!” Her laugh twinkled. “Now suck my other foot, Bitch, while I pleasure myself and your son defiles your womb with his seed.”
I crawled under the table to her other stockinged foot. Hortense kept my backside from escaping him. I was more gentle with the woman’s hose this time. Her girth rippled like jelly as her hand drew delightful releases from her fat cunt. Her sensual moans threw my son’s head into the clouds. Hot cum burst into me, mingling with my previous spend. “Hory, bring this woman The Villain!”
I freed her second foot and sucked it into my huffing maw.
My son’s prick slurped out of my dripping hole and he raced up to the loft. Returning he grabbed his pouch of bacon grease, but I did not see that. When his slippery fingers prodded my bung, I knew where my son would take me next. His tool remained erect and his first thrust was passionate. He tossed the wooden cock to the woman and began fucking my ass.
“Oo! Delicious!” She licked the grease my son’s fingers had imparted to the rod. She gave Hory a good show of sucking it. Then she reached down with it, rapped my head once, “Suck harder, you incestuous cunt,” and stuffed it up her own. “Mmmmm, we know the same carpenter. I could tell you how I taught her to use these, but maybe you’ll invite me back if I save the tale.”
In minutes we three beasts howled with delight from our fervent action. She chose to leave after lunch. “That was marvelous, my new friends, but one mustn’t overstay their welcome. I may have played the conquerer, but that is not my position here.”
We did not see her again, until later that summer. She wrote saying the trip was too arduous for her. It had been worth a potential husband only. But I get ahead of my story.
I could invent new challenges for my son’s dominance, but like our time with Jasmine they would fade. My son needed an adversary, whom he could never trust, to evoke his passions and therefore mine.
When spring rains fled summer’s approaching heat, I walked to Eleanor Tuttle’s home. It had changed little. They fought well to maintain the small shack. The boy, Ken, played in the yard. I greeted him gaily.
“I remember you, Ma-am.” He did not remember my name. “John’s in the house with our mama. I just finished!” He said proudly.
I tossed an ear of boiled corn to the lad. He sat right down to eat. His mouth cleaned it of kernels in half the time I could. Licking his lips he smiled and thanked me. I asked him about Grady. His face darkened. “Not supposed to say.”
“Good boy. Don’t you ever tell, anyone!” I pulled an ice candie from a pocket and rewarded him.
A minute later, Eleanor called. “Someone out there?” She dropped her voice to add. “Get away with you now, John.”
“Hello!” I answered. “It’s Besha, Eleanor. I come with good news.”
“Lordy!” Another minute later, the thin woman emerged, her skirt and shirt rumpled. “Besha, my dear friend.” She hugged me. “We have so much to catch up with.” She looked around her. “You boys go and hunt something for supper.” Spring abounded with edibles here.
“Please, Eleanor, let them stay. I come about your boy, John.”
“I thought you said you had good news.” She shot her older son a daunting eye.
“It is. I want to hire him to work our farm. We’ll build a small shed for him to sleep in. I’ll feed him good, and he’ll bring you a nickel every other week.”
It was and was not good news. John would never get an offer like mine. Eleanor was cautious. “Why? He’s slow, lazy, and stupid.” He looked me up and down. “He’ll jump you when you’re not looking.”
“I’ll take that risk.” I replied. “I know why you want to keep him, Eleanor.” I took my friend’s hand. “I will not deprive you of a son’s hands that keeps your family fed.”
She looked glum. “A nickel every other week could feed us for a month.”
“Not easily. It’d be hard, but you can do better.” I swallowed and caught my breath. “It’s time you bring Grady, his wife Shirley, and Sheila’s grandpa to your place. Together, with John’s wage, you’ll be regular poor.”
“I’m gonna hit the boy that told you!” Eleanor burst. “John? Ken?” She eyed them.
“They didn’t tell. The preacher did, when he thought I was an idiot woman.”
“Heh!” Eleanor’s eyes widened. “HAH. HA HA HA! That’s precious. You, a mad woman. I never believed that.” She quieted. “Honest, Besha, no one can ever know. Grady’s got to keep his woman far away.”
“You may not believe me, but the local folk done gave up on Shirley. She’s a ghost to them. You bring her here and you cut her hair like Sheila’s and make grandpa swear she’s his girl.” I didn’t give my friend time to argue. “You never told anyone else about her dying, except me. I know you didn’t because her grandpa would have made you swear to tell nobody. He don’t like to get involved with your neighbors. He don’t like anybody, except you. You helped him the way neighbors should, to survive. Well, you put your foot down. I know you won’t lie, but you know more about that old man than any other. You’ll find a reason to bring him out of the wilderness.”
Six days passed. I worked the farm with Hory, and he stopped pressuring himself to sex me.
John showed up, unannounced. Hory nearly attacked him with a shovel. “Hortense! You leave that boy alone!” I grabbed the tool and sank it into the earth with a kick. I looked up at my son with all my defiance. “I hired him.”
Hory fumed and steamed all day. He didn’t dare argue with me, in front of a potential rival. That night, after we threw a blanket on the porch with John, he thrashed me proper with a switch and he took my ass with The Villain, while his plunging cock flooded my puss with cum. I sucked him hard again and rode my son to an explosion of ecstasy in my body and mind.
John proved his mother’s appraisal, almost. He was slow and lazy, but he wasn’t stupid. He was ignorant as a turd, but he grasped how things worked on the farm and how to work quicker than a lot of kids we hired in the past.
I told him, “Work hard, and you can eat with us. Every time I catch you lazy, you’ll get slops meant for the pigs.” Over the weeks that ensued, his stomach claimed victory over his sloth. Hory and I were happy if he finished half the work we could in a day. We did erect a shed for him to sleep in. He worked extra hard, helping us build it.
The one thing we couldn’t tame was his eyes. I’d catch him staring at me, like a fox. He was sly that way too. Hory kept as vigilant against the lad. My son always made John work with him, but most tasks take a body all over the farm. The boy jumped me twice the first month. I couldn’t keep an eye on him every moment. He didn’t get farther than my bloomers, though. I had taken to wearing them, durin the day. I never yelled for Hory, but I yelled at John while fighting him off. My son rescued me each time.
I let my son thrash the boy, but with a switch only. I had to intervene when it looked like Hory had lost control of his anger. Each attack fueled a week of nights when my son would call me, “Harlot and slattern.” He punished me, and we took incredible pleasure from the fucks that followed.
My great plan had a flaw. At the end of summer, Mr. and Mrs. Smith marched up to our house and accused John Tuttle of violating their daughter, Ann-marie. I promised them, “We will beat the boy, until he tells the truth.”
It was true, but their facts weren’t. He hadn’t broke into their house and forced himself on the fourteen year old. The deed had been done outside of my house. He did force her. John grinned describing it. But I managed to talk with the girl. Apparently, late into nights of a full moon, Ann-marie sneaked over to our house to peek through cracks in our wall, to listen to me and Hory tussle and moan in the loft. “My mama and dad never sound as excited as you and your boy.” Of course she never told her parents. John didn’t surprise her as much as he was surprised to find her head pressed against the wall. She didn’t fight him, “…but he should have stopped when I told him, No.”
I agreed. I carried a shotgun to the wedding, to let our neighbors know exactly where I stood on the matter. We paid for everything. Eleanor and her boys and Sheila, Grady’s wife, attended. Ann-marie and I made a set of clothes for them. Reverend Hannity pronounced them man and wife. I had to chase down Ken after he threw off his clothes and dashed outside.
We expanded John’s shed to fit the unhappy couple. They fought most of their days, but god’s will had been done. Their children re-opened the doors of the Smith home to them.
John preferred to work for us than for his wife’s parents. They expected him to take over when they were too old to manage. Mr. Smith had been injured in the war, and he could do only so much. Instead of bringing the wages we paid, to his wife, John continued to support his mother.
The ensuing years watched me taunt our hired man, to my son’s lasting spite. John never did have his way with me, but every attempt brought my son and I closer together.
With John working for us, I could spare days here and there to wander the township. I sought out more women, not just those known as miracle mothers, especially those who had bore daughters from their sons’ seed. They needed to hear that they were not alone, that they could help each other to overcome their fears and obstacles to living better lives. I located safe places where we could meet and talk. I established the first rules of discussion, a code to protect us yet allow all to share.
We are a kind born of events which placed us beyond the most accepting society. We women who must submit to our sons’ passions have no one to turn to, except each other for mutual support. Those of us who pray send their hopes to god, for men to change. If not, may each of us continue to spread our ways and invite our incest trodden sisters to meet in other towns, in cities someday, well into the future, until men treat women as equal partners in bed.
I am sixty seven. My son, forty three, still enjoys my cunt and mouth and ass. We also try many things that Mrs. Orchard has described at these meetings, and that a certain surveyor, who I will not name, shared with Hory and I on rare occasions in Danlick. We have found what makes us happiest, and I look forward to provoking him tonight.
“Thank you.”
I am not able to follow our custom, to stand when speaking. The other women respect my age though.
I do stand at the end of my story. They come to hug me. I bid them well and to have good journeys back to their sons. When I am the last one in the shelter, I blow out the candle.
The End
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/7syuxd/smoms_the_origin_end_slow_fm_ms_inc_preg_mdom_sm