Sub M.O.M.S. – Jessica [Mom/son, inc, slow, oral, solo, M/F satire]
by DiscipleN
*For extra context, please read my first, “S.M.O.M.S.” story. (“The Origin” is not the first one. This story breaks-out from the first. All are self-contained.)
“My name is, Jessica Mayhew, and I will have been under my son’s control for one year, five days from now.” I despise every one of the needy cunts in the room. They try not to stare at my nearly naked, shaved body. More than one are probably bi. I’ve heard their stories. I’ve watched them listen around the circle of chairs in the dim light of one candle. They soak up each other’s guilt and grief and shame. They need reassuring, that their suffering can be eased by sharing with other victims of the same weakness.
I am neither weak nor ashamed. My son, Patrick, pays for his transgressions. My husband has caught us on several occasions, and I may have hinted the possibility to Ron beforehand. Remembering the first time we were caught still gets me off when I want alone time. Ron sent Trick to the hospital. The police were called. Trick told them his father had actually saved him from a beating by a mugger. We were a tight-knit family, getting along on a knife’s edge. Patrick has his mother’s genes for strength and arrogance. Ron is simply a bastard.
I married Ron for the coke. He’s the middle man between an importer and a distributor. He’s been in and out of jail once a year, but nothing stuck harder than being caught with a few extra joints. Today, those wouldn’t be worth five seconds of a cop’s attention. He’s smart, keeps his business separate from his family. We never snort it at home. Ron’s strong that way, just not in bed. He needed it to get his dick up.
In the early years, we had sex in our Toyota mini-van, outside whatever place he used to stash his shit. We’d snort up outside and then pile into the van, to keep evidence at a minimum. I liked coke sex at first. It gave the best orgasms.
A year after our marriage, I got pregnant, and swore off the shit for nine fucking months. After 36 hours in labor, under the best pain killers a hospital can supply, (no fucking cesarian scar for me!) I popped out a healthy male, 8 pounds. I slept for sixteen hours, to be woken by a overly helpful nurse who wanted me to breast feed the brat. Damn if that baby’s sucking instinct didn’t juice my vagina. I masturbated, ignoring the nurse’s shock. By the time the brat had sucked his fill, I was rocking and rolling under his oral and my digital grips. The suddenly indignant nuisance of a nurse took the baby back to it’s incubator or whatever. She swore under her breath, she’d never seen anything so vile.
The next day, I grabbed my brat and left the fucking hospital. I walked to the curb and thumbed a ride. The good samaritan who picked me up watched me nurse in the back seat. He took me home where he fucked the shit out of me. Two days after dropping another stupid human into the world, I was getting better sex than I had during my marriage.
The last thing Ron wanted was to bond with his brat. He got arrested the day after I delivered. He’d spent the night I bore his child, with a hooker and cocaine. The courts had been waiting for their chance. Ron caught three years of getting his ass greased with cum.
Without a supply, I learned to prefer sex without coke. The drug fueled a powerful orgasm but killed my aftershocks. Multi-orgasmic is this woman’s prerogative. I love having six or more waves drawn out over several minutes. Between masturbating and picking up men and women, I curbed my cravings for coke with cock, cunt, and cigarettes. I’d been a three fag bitch most of my life. When Ron got his parole, three years later, I was up to two packs a day. It nearly cost the same a week I once spent for blow!
Ron may have gained appreciation for ass fucking – he hadn’t only been a receiver – but his dick still needed days to get hard enough to penetrate a hole. To show, no hard feelings for him neglecting his son, I sucked Ron when he couldn’t meet my needs.
At three years, I was still breastfeeding and masturbating. Patrick was the best sex toy I’ve ever owned. I did have to cut down on my extra marital hook ups. Ron struggled to rebuild his business and ultimately gave up. He got lucky when one of his prison, ass buddies offered him work as a driver. It paid well enough for coffee, cigarettes, and diapers. To pay the rent, I had to potty train our brat.
It didn’t take long. “You pissed by yourself, into the baby bowl? Good boy!” I’d tell him and offer my tit. It was the only breast time Patrick got, until he stopped shitting himself. Ron said I was making our son gay with too much tit. I told him he’d stuff dick into ass for the next two weeks. He didn’t complain after that. I don’t mind putting out the backdoor, but it’s not as fun as vibrators and breastfeeding. If anything, I think Ron got in one or two more erections than normal, on a cornhole diet.
At five years of age, Patrick stopped wanting tit. I didn’t press him. Instead I started an affair with a new mother in our apartment building. I made videos of us locked in a 69 with her baby on one of our fat milkers. They earned me several bitcoins, which I locked away from Ron’s growing addiction. “Honey, I know it’s our beans and potatoes money, but if I don’t buy the elite battlecruiser, I’ll be stuck in the B ranks for three fucking months.”
I told him, if he wanted to play his fucking phone games, he could rent his ass out on CraigsList, like he did when he wanted that legendary, Digi-Mon card. “Damn you, woman! Those drooling, gay and gray engineers don’t pay shit for ass my age.”
“I’m not going to let you ruin my best years.” I screamed back at him. He was eight years older.
It made me think. What did I want to do with my life? I was an ex-coke addict, with a six year old and a husband who didn’t like to grind for in-game currency!
I’d failed high school so many times, equivalency exams had my name pre-printed on them. I loved sex, but prostitution was best handled by the experts, women with college degrees. I still had a smoking bod, if you were into stick figures. I found out too late, preferences had changed for meatier meat. My chances of finding a better ‘ride’ were not great, or so my friends with four plus years of online dating experience informed me. So I discovered religion.
“Sit up straight, Patrick.” I elbowed my nine-year old who couldn’t stop fidgeting on the bare wooden pew. He behaved better when everyone was standing, singing hymns. “Now, I’m as racist as the next stupid white bitch, but the local church welcomed me into their largely black congregation. I wasn’t even their token white person, but the other six crackers ignored me. I wanted redemption and community support. I volunteered for every charity function. I refused to proselytize. My thoughts were more about gaining rank in the organization than worshipping the hoodoos these misguided but kind folk believed in.
The problem was, black women made certain that black women controlled everything, including the men, but excluding the preacher. I made a play for him, but he curled up his lip at my slight frame and swore he’d sing the devil out of me. I liked the singing part too. Patrick and I had that in common.
“Mom. I don’t like Sunday school. The boys gang up on me.”
“That’s because we’re white trash, Patrick.” I scooped extra whipped potatoes onto his plate. Ron had been lucky to catch a fish from the polluted inlet. It had made enough gravy for everyone’s dinner.
My husband chimed in, “I’ll teach you to fight, boy.” It was the closest thing he’d ever done to being a father to his boy.
“No! Daddy.” Patrick screamed. “I’m going to fuck them!”
Huh? I paused serving potatoes.
Ron laughed at his son. They dug into their food and no more was said.
I put Ron to bed later that night and sought out Patrick on the couch in the main room. That was his bed. “How do you mean, you’re going to fuck the boys in Sunday school?”
“That’s what the girls do, for a little while. Then they stop, and the boys do what the girls want.” Patrick answered confidently.
“I hate to break it to you, Tricks, but most boys won’t want to fuck you.”
“No. I’m going to fuck THEM!” He emphasized quietly.
I shrugged. Who was I to stop him from trying? He’d simply get pounded harder, and that would teach him, I figured.
Hmmm. Thinking about it kept me up late that night. I didn’t even masturbate. Officially, my church of the avenging, loving god, did not have a teen mother problem. All babies were sainted upon conception and excommunicated upon birth. One of the faithful I’d befriended was my age and a great grandmother.
It took a couple weeks to find the right opportunity, but black or white, when shit hits the fan, everything goes dark. During the pot luck after our preacher’s sermons, I caught an eight year having intercourse with a six year old. I fetched Miss Abigail Connellythe head of youth programs, and chatted her ear up with high praise for the sunday school teacher as I walked her to the children’s activity room. I opened the door, and her face tried to lose its color.
Two more weeks passed. That Sunday, Miss Connelly handed the youth bible to me and I took charge of the class.
“Hello, boys and girls.” I spoke quickly, wanting to get to the heart of the matter. “I know you loved your previous teacher very much, and St. Paul values love over everything else.” My expression and tone darkened, but love has to be earned. I promise, I will try my best to earn your love. My name is-”
“Stupid, white cunt!” A boy taunted, making everyone laugh.
I nodded. “That’s right, child. What’s your name?”
The boy had been expecting a rebuke. He didn’t falter, much. “M-malcome.”
I smiled. “That’s your street name, but since you gave me my Sunday school name, I’ll give you yours.” I scanned the room with a smile. “How about we call him, Loud shit-face, hmmm?” The class went wild.
The rest of the hour went about as well.
“Before we leave, remember, if you tell anyone your Sunday school names, you’ll never be taught by this Stupid, White Cunt again.”
I gave myself a twenty percent chance of surviving until next week. By surviving, I meant not getting knifed in my sleep. Somehow, I considered the possibility of a miracle, I continued to lecture the Sunday school kids for over a year. Sample themes:
How Jesus Brought Whores to God.
Blessed are the Persecuted for They will Fuck you in the End
Pokemon May Not Have Souls, but They Do Have Cunts and Assholes.
How God Cuckolded Joseph and Raped His Son into Mary.
Steven Universe is God’s Way of Humbling False Goddesses, with Boy Cock.
James Brown is Actually the Trinity of Soul.
My favorite will always be, “Mary’s Breast, Brown and Sucked Eternal.” It went something like this.
When Jesus was dying on the cross, Mary Mother of God kneeled before her son and prayed that he would bring salvation to the world. Satan tempted him then, “Look at your still young mother. She is brown and beautiful and her breasts are ripe as figs. Command me, Master, and I will bring her to you, in your last moments and let you repay the love and life she gave to you.”
But Jesus is immune to evil, like Luke Cage is immune to bullets. “Fie on thee, Horror and Liar.” He scoffed at Satan. “My mother, Mary, is a stone’s throw closer than you will ever come to me. Her cunt was consecrated by my Father’s seed. As Father and I are one, I am bound to her eternal. Her breast feeds love to me now and will forever, after I die and rise again. I am locked to her maternal embrace as she is locked to my penile embrace. I suck and cum. Her orgasms turn seed into milk. We will live in ecstasy, until the end of days.
It was the closest, Satan ever came to repenting. So he could share the joy he envied.
That afternoon, a sweet girl, Fiona Guppers asked if I would be her momma. “I want to suck on you forever. My momma says I’m worse than a sinner for wanting that. Sunday school teachers are like Jesus, ain’t they?”
“I pray your Momma finds a better Jesus, and soon. But you keep strong with His help. You’ll make it through fire and fists, and be reborn as a sister warrior, like Grace Jones.” I kissed her forehead. I knew that Fiona rebuffed every boy’s advances. At one point I changed her sunday name, to Double Cunt. I made it an hour long celebration even.”
Now, just because I was the Sunday school teacher, that didn’t mean that the bigger boys forgave my son for being white. He came home after church with fresh bruises, always swearing he was going to fuck them, eventually.
Ron wasn’t around, again. He’d been picked up for prostitution with intent to harm a minor. He barely escaped a serious sex-offender wrap. The boy actually turned out to be nineteen. Still the judge gave him a year in jail, to keep him from getting cocky. I had to deal with our son’s abuse by myself, as usual.
It was difficult, but eventually I managed to catch the boys in the act of beating Patrick. They stopped, knowing their mothers would be told, and they would get a worse whopping. Instead, I looked around and told them. “I’ll give you a choice. What would you prefer, fucking a Stupid, White Cunt, or beating up a Worthless, White N——?”
They all chose to fuck me. To be clear, I had never engaged in, or offered sex to, my Sunday students. I let them find their own outlets for the excitement my lectures aroused. To be clear, I did not fuck those boys then. I only asked what they would prefer.
I did lay down and pull up my skirt. “Worthless, you show them how it’s done.” We couldn’t afford undergarments.
Patrick’s eyes nearly exploded out of his head. Now, my son was used to seeing every part of his mother’s body on an hourly basis at home. I was either bathing from the sink or masturbating somewhere in the house. He made me proud that day. After two seconds of disbelief, he zipped down and launched himself on top of me. His ten year old peen slapped against me like a medium gherkin. I even let him hump it once along my vulva, before sitting up, scooting away, and telling the others. “That’s what you could be having, but you chose the wrong white person activity.”
Patrick’s tormentors never troubled him again. They spread word across the neighborhood. Fuck with Stupid, White Cunt’s kid, and you’ll never fuck Stupid, White Cunt.
By the time I was removed from my post of spiritual guidance to young people, my black and other students of color were the most polite ladies and gentlemen you could find on this side of the city. Patrick, on the other hand had grown a bit snotty.
“You need to stop smoking, Mom.” He waved my lazy fumes from his nose. I rarely smoked in the home. I preferred to walk and smoke, or set on the steps in front of the apartments. That day, I was celebrating. I’d been promoted to Youth Director at our church. After two and a half years of being that white church lady, I finally gained discretion over a small percentage of the church’s budget. We ate at Denny’s the night I was told. The next day I was still celebrating. I even let Ron fuck me that morning. He’d gotten out on good behavior and a state referendum to ease crowding. At first I couldn’t tell which he wanted more, ass or cunt. Cunt must have been a welcome change. He spent his usual teaspoon of sperm next to my IUD defended womb.
I sipped my coffee. Patrick was studying, math or some science BS. His grades were better than mine by miles, but he’d be lucky to become an auto mechanic, which modern times required more math and science. I stuck to the classics, Marlborough’s and Starbucks, when I could afford them. When I couldn’t, it was cigs over sips. I had managed to get down to one pack a day.
“Geez, you Stupid, White Cunt, I can’t breath and I can’t study.”
I barked back, “I told you, never call me that again. I’m Jessica Mayhew, Youth Director, from now on. Say that or, Momma, or shut the fuck up.”
He stormed out, “I’m going to fuck you, someday.”
I lied. “You already did. Move on, Bitch.” Suddenly my cigarette tasted like shit. I tamped it out but saved the rest for later.
About a month into my new job, I realized how much I hated it. The church council of volunteers kept a wary eye on me. They had experience with slum poor bitches hoping to sneak a slice of the service offerings.
I had covered my tracks well, promoting the oldest girl in my class to lead our Sunday school. I told her, I didn’t want to know anything that happened, during their sessions. She had free reign to mold my left-overs however she liked. Fiona Guppers gave me a knowing wink. “You bet, Sister Warrior.”
I just couldn’t earn the right kind of respect, in my new position. I sank myself into the effort, planning frugal but proper dances and moral readings for young people, leading trips to city parks, coordinating with local schools.
Three months later, I was ready to quit. Poor and hungry and able to fuck whenever and wherever, was more appealing than appealing to church staff members for support and a slight increase in my budget. At least, I tell myself that, now, now that I’m a rich bitch farting fancy nouveau cuisine, when Patrick allows it.
I was still slogging away, going nowhere as my church’s youth director, when Ron stumbles home having won the organized crime lottery.
My redemption from religion started with an arrest. Ron was on every cop’s radar. They nabbed him when he happened to be carrying half a million dollars in large bills. The initial charge was counterfeiting. The bills proved genuine. They changed it to money laundering. He stuck with a simple story, one simple enough that he could remember. He found the money and was driving it to the police station. Lawyers lined up to defend him, once word got out that neither cops nor feds could pin the cash on any criminal activity or verified claimant. It took a year to get the money in a bank account with our names on it, but loan sharks swam of the gutters to support us until it cleared.
I put my foot down. “We won’t borrow a cent from those scumbags, nor will we hire a single shyster. We’ll get everything we need from the church until our claim is settled.” Overnight I became the leading lady on the church org chart. I didn’t have to hint at making a donation. The were sure, that by elevating my administration status, I’d be an eternal fountain of charity, when the money landed.
I wasn’t the only slum poor bitch at church. It had been built on the bones of impoverished women. It spent what it could, to alleviate starvation and abortions. The preacher propositioned me. I took him up on it, a few times, mostly out of curiosity. He proved his incredible spirit could move in heavenly ways. He nearly moved me to bail on Ron and let him keep his windfall, I mean half of it. Patrick saved me.
“Everyone knows, Mom, but I’ll tell them anyway.” My twelve year-old threatened.
It’s true. A secret that everyone knows remains a secret until it’s told. “Oh, Patrick, the preacher doesn’t want me. I’m just a taste on his sampler rack.” By saying that out loud, I realized how true it was. Instead of simply bailing on the good man, I introduced him to a new treat. She was seventeen, and “the brightest star in Sunday school,” according to Fiona. I told him she was nearly twenty, but she didn’t look a day over fourteen. Fortunately, that scandal didn’t emerge until after we’d managed to survive a year with gold hanging over our heads and snakes and sharks leaping from below.
“Ron!” I yelled. “Ron, listen to me.” We walked out of the bank with our new passbook. “If you even look like you’re going to dive into post-lotto poverty, I’ll confess to who really owns that money.” I didn’t know who, precisely, but I’m sure I could have said enough to reopen the case. He promised to limit future acquisitions to mythic foil cards and rare one-off action figures.
The reality was, we were expected to return every cent, fortunately without interest to Ron’s alt family. However, if we returned it all at once, feds would fly through the air like locusts. So, over the next few years, we lived on the interest and funneled payments to the rightful owners. It was a step up, but to no luxury destinations. We did escape the projects and rent a single bedroom near a commuter line in a forgotten suburb an hour from any good sized city. Ron, proved solid, not only to me but to our temporary benefactors. He was given a job managing runners.
I gave my husband the job of keeping my pussy from lacking hot cum. He was doing better at that too, but he wanted ass just as often. I took what I could get. The suburbs are a sexual wasteland, unless you’ve lived in the same neighborhood for years. Those cancer cells, they swap wives and pets as often as they refuel their SUVs.
Patrick turned a spare room, not big enough to be called a bedroom, into a barely comfortable space to study and sleep. A desk and mattress was all that fit. It didn’t even have a closet. He hung his clothes from a slightly bent, coat and hat rack we found on the sidewalk.
“Mom, how stupid are you?” Patrick tapped the end of his pencil on the kitchen table. He was tired of studying in his ‘foot locker’ he called it.
I hoisted my cigarette out of my mouth and answered, “Pretty fucking stupid, bitch. Your Momma is proud you made it to high school. How bad is it?”
“It’s not, not compared to that city middle school. But I was talking about cigarettes. Just stop the fuck already.”
“Tricks, I could bullshit you about ‘do what I say – not what I do,’ but I’m a fucking addict. It was this or cocaine, or worse.”
“I hear that is worse than cocaine.”
“See, I’m more stupid than I know.”
I saw a curious look form in his eyes. My son set down his pencil and stood up. “Crush that and come with me.”
I shrugged and tapped my cig out lightly. I could always relight it. In about twenty minutes, I would have to.
After about twenty minutes, Patrick demonstrated how much of a man, a fourteen year-old could be with his 87 pound mother.
He led me to his parent’s bedroom and grabbed me by the throat. “I’m going to fuck you now.” He wasn’t choking me as much as he was proving he could physically control me. He drove me to the bed by my neck, until the back of my knees caught the mattress. My ass dropped to it. He let go of my neck. I drove both of my fists into his balls.
Patrick snorted and shook his head. He’d been bullied so thoroughly, his body didn’t give a shit. He simply let me beat on him until he had tied my hands and legs to the bed’s equivalents.
“You fucking, shitbag! I’ll kill you, bitch!” I screamed. He plugged my mouth with his undershorts. We could afford those now. Point of fact, considering the amount of blood it took to fill my son’s dick, his skin was still flush. Was he embarrassed to be naked while he unbuttoned my clothes? He had to untie one leg briefly to get better access to my cunt, by extracting the leg from my pants.
Then, after twenty minutes of all that build up, he didn’t fuck me. He just rattled off how stupid I was, while he jerked on his dick. I would have begged him to suck on my pussy to shut him the fuck up, if he hadn’t gagged me.
It was a lousy day. I spent it tied to my bed, until Ron when came home. In the minutes before my husband returned from work, I ran all over the small house looking for my fix. Tricks’d cleared out my entire stash of cigs! I nearly took an knife and murdered my son. He too, proved missing.
Ron brought home groceries. He’d taken a liking to grilling chicken, and after plunking down a family pack of leg and thighs, he wandered out back to start the grill. He ignored my lack of dress, the bruises on my wrists and ankles, and the cum in my navel. My fault. I was so often naked in the house, his old lady’s pussy didn’t distract him from his immediate craving. I tore into the shopping bags, looking for cigarettes. Son of a bitch didn’t smoke! One of our neighbors did. I wondered if he would give me cigarettes for a fuck. Later I was glad he didn’t. He turned out to be gay and also a shit head.
Patrick returned. He held up a strange device. It looked like a tiny vibrator, half metal, half plastic.
“You’re going to rape your mom with that?”
“Nah, Momma, it’s a vape. You smoke it.”
I grabbed the fucking thing out of his hand and sucked as hard as I could on it.
“Wait, Stupid. Turn it on first.”
He showed me the switch. Seconds later, I was inhaling and exhaling nicotine steam like a locomotive. After an hour, I told myself I could get used to it. I didn’t cough as much the next morning. However, it felt funny on my lips, and the taste was almost boring, compared to poisonous, burning tobacco.”
After breaking my fast with half a charge of nicotine fluid, I got my purse and walked to the corner store. I returned home, much happier. “Hey, Tricks, did you make breakfast yet?” I was famished.
Patrick strode out of the kitchen and grabbed my purse. I fought him and instantly lost. “Thought so.” He held up my fix, less one slot. He’d seen the other five packs, but he threatened me with just the one. “When Dad leaves for work, I’m going to fuck you.”
Until then, he fed me one pancake and apple slices. “God, I’m stuffed.” I complained, but he insisted on that last slice.
“Mom, I’ve got big plans for you.” He cracked a smile. Patrick wasn’t a dour child, but he didn’t smile often. I felt a pang of regret. I never should have give up on the preacher man. True to his word, after his father left, bicycling to the train platform, my son took me by an upper arm and hauled back into bed. This time, after he’d secured me with knotted t-shirts, I didn’t give him a reason to gag me.
“Tricks, just let Mommy smoke her fucking cigarettes. How do you know I won’t stab you in your sleep?” I didn’t know that would be reason enough to gag me. His warm shorts tasted of pee and cum, a combo I’m not unfamiliar with, just not with his varients.
Once more, after stripping me, my son jacked off into my navel. At noon he jacked off again, spurting hot cum across my belly. “Remember, Mom, I could have fucked you.” He untied one of my hands and let me untie the others.
I caught up with him in the kitchen. The smell of mustard drew me. A turkey sandwich with lettuce and tomato waited for me. Next to it was my vape and my purse. I tried to suck steam and eat at the same time. I could only eat half. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”
“I’m keeping up. I have a paper you signed, claiming I’ll be homeschooled, this year.
“I didn’t sign anything like that.”
“You just don’t remember. You would have signed our fortune away for that vaporizer, last night.”
“Hah, some fortune. We get pennies, while the boss’s family burns hundred dollar bills to light cigars.”
Quick as a whip, Patrick pulled my dearest companion out of my mouth. “Now stand up and shake it out, Mom. Get that blood flowing through your hands and feet.”
“Hell, Son, I’ve got housework. That nonsense is built in. Now gimme that vape!”
“I’m taking charge of your addiction, Mom. I’ll give it to you when you’ve earned it.”
“Jesus Christ, Patrick, I’m tired of your games. Now fuck me and give me that God DAMNED mouth needle!” That earned me another five hours of rest, with the same stink in my mouth except moldier. My son gave my tits a cum soaking around tea time.
Ron returned home to his wife sucking on a metal and plastic pacifier in a manner that made him want to suck me. After bringing my levels of blood nicotine back online, I accommodated his wish. “How much does it cost to cast out a child not quite fifteen?” I asked my husband afterward. He responded with satisfied snores. I tried every toy in my dresser, that night but none answered me. I needed some dick.
Over the next week, I learned to accept my son’s weird attempt to put me on the wagon. I decided he was dual tasking, getting my system less dependent on nicotine and getting off on his mom’s skinny body. Once, I managed to free myself. I found him deep in thought over a pile of text books. Shit. That was a drug I wish I’d been addicted to. My freedom didn’t last. He heard me scrounging to find my vape.
Weird got fucked up, the second week. He started feeding me nuts and steamed vegetables. “Son,” my heart screamed, “Fuck the shit out of me, but don’t make me a fucking Vegan!” By the end of the second week, I drooled over the grill whenever Ron fired it up. But hell if something hadn’t worked. A couple days into my third week of bondage, cum, and wholesome food, I sat up and looked at my son after he untied me for lunch. I didn’t beg him for the vape. I wanted it, but his limp cock looked more delicious. Huh.
Patrick kissed me and served a roasted portabella sandwich in bed. I sucked on the vape more out of habit than addiction, while devouring it.
He left me unchained for the rest of the afternoon. He hadn’t released me. He told me a story.
“I owe you this, Mom.” Patrick started. “Moving here gave me a second chance in life. I’m trying not to fuck it up, but fuck you if you don’t see all the chances you still have.”
The story went like this. After I lured his bullies off of his back, Patrick started examining his life, his personality, and the situation he was forced to live in. The shit was barely in high school, and he ‘got it’. The world was fucked up, but only if you let it fuck you up. In every group of people, there are uppers and lowers. Even among us lower than low, we had uppers and lowers. Patrick took the one advantage I’d given him and ran with it. He told the older boys stories about me being a black cock slut. In fact, he got so good at telling those stories after Sunday school they would jack off together. For nearly a year, he built up a cadre of cock pullers. Some got so horny, he actually did fuck some of them.
When my son wasn’t painting vivid pictures of his mom whoring herself out to powerful black men, he was paying more attention in school. Underfunded as it was, he tried his best, and did okay, earning a B minus average for all of middle school.
Now, tucked safely away in Dullsville times infinity, he found his slum bred school habits helped and hindered further scholastic progress. The girls spread news of his previous social status like wild fire. He couldn’t get close enough to grope a girl in a wheelchair. The guys tried to put the hurt on him but got a nasty surprise. Patrick was tough. More than able to take a beating, he could give one. Only a few of the better trained jocks could take him, and they were more interested in earning their school letter in sports. My son became a defacto but benevolent ruler of the school’s delinquents.
“They’re all like you, Mom, stupid and wasting the biggest chance in their lives.”
“Honey, you say the sweetest things, but maybe I will slip a knife in your ribs sometime before morning.” I smiled and sucked on my vape.
“Give it here.” He opened his palm.
I perched it daintily on his hand. “Buzzkill.” I murmured.
He didn’t let me have another hit until after supper.
“Get those fucking green things off of my table.” Ron scowled at a surprise bowl of string beans.
“Bad day at the office, Honey?” I smiled like some 50s TV mom.
My husband looked at me as if I’d been possessed by pod people. He didn’t even fuck me that night.
I asked him again, in the morning. “What’s your fucking problem?”
“The boss wants a cut of our interest.”
“The Boss?” I asked wide-eyed.
“No. My boss.”
“Tell him to shove it up his ass.”
“He’d shove it and a cap or two, up mine. Remember who the company is.”
I shut up. The only thing I was good at was fucking and begging my son for a hit of nicotine. Scratch that. I was terrible at begging my son.
I did manage to beg Patrick to let me start going out again. He had one condition. I couldn’t carry more than half the price of a pack of cigarettes. He kept the vape too. Fortunately, I could get a round trip ticket into the city for the half a box of cigarettes. Yea, public transit!
I followed my husband to work, and over days of socializing with a group of men so muscle-headed, his co-workers, they decided I was a prize they’d somehow earned from upper management. I didn’t disappoint. I gave and gave, until I’d learned enough about Ron’s boss.
A week later, the feds hauled Ron’s boss away for tax evasion. That felt good. I am more than a great fuck, I can use my tongue like a serpent. Was this what my son meant by taking advantage of second chances?
Clearly, I didn’t learn my lesson. Patrick eventually found me at the train station, asking for smokes. “You don’t understand, Tricks, they taste sooo gooood!!!” I whined.
Ron got the promotion. I got chained and collared. Ron bought the house a cheap, laptop computer. I got dick.
“How do you like this taste, Mom?” Patrick was brave. He risked his manhood against my crooked teeth, and I mean all of his manhood. I swallowed it whole.
Backing up to yesterday, I returned from ratting on Ron’s greedy boss but not soon enough for Patrick’s liking. He searched me out, and saw me huffing one cigarette after another, sitting at the end of the platform. They tasted like victory.
My son flicked the cigarette out of my mouth and hauled me up by the arm. I begged him for one last puff. My arms windmilled crazily, hoping to grab the butt before it went out. Patrick dragged me away until someone noticed. “You’ll get hurt, Momma. You haven’t been taking your drugs.” He emphasized in front of a curious array of commuters.
“Let me have my drugs!” I wailed. I was pathetic. I didn’t give a shit about people watching, but maybe I should have.
“Can I help?” A kindly looking, older gentleman offered his arm.
“Can you?” My son asked brightly. “Do you have any phenalataline? They’re for her mood swings.”
“Oh.” He straightened. “Um, I don’t. Sorry.” He scurried away.
“Where did you learn a big word like that?” I asked my son as he guided me through and out of the station.
“I dunno. I think I made it up.” My son was also good at making up excuses. “Hey, Dad, Mom really missed you. She tried to meet you at the station.”
We kept supper brief that night. I spent the rest of the night in my husband’s sweating arms. He sighed with more relief than an orgasm. “We’re off the hook. My boss tried to run, but the feds caught him. The Boss shut down our ‘store’ until things calm down. What would you like to do until then?”
I was about to make a suggestion. I had only cum twice that night. “Hey!” He preempted. “How about a trip?”
Marlborough country? I almost asked. We ended up at Yellowstone, for three weeks. It cost a fortune, but Ron promised he didn’t touch the principal of our savings account. His job had payed fairly well. He even had saved some.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/81kk0r/sub_moms_jessica_part_12_momson_inc_slow_oral