Sub M.O.M.S. – Jessica
by DiscipleN
– part 2 –
Patrick kept me on a short leash, supplying my vape only when he thought I would crack. If our outing hadn’t been so fun, my cravings would have caught up with me. I might have cracked more often. I stayed close to him, to get my fix ASAP. After a fix, I was ready to conquer my husband.
“Are you sure you brought along enough charges and spare batteries?” I huffed a fix nervously, outside of our cabin. The night air was cold and a little spooky.
“Yeah, Mom. If not, they’re sold everywhere.”
“Not in a national park, they don’t.” I had been keeping an eye out for emergency supplies. “And hey, aren’t you a little young to be buying vape goods?”
“Took you long enough to notice. I don’t. I pay adults to buy it.”
“Where’d you get the money?”
“I stole it from you.”
“Oh.” I’d almost forgotten he was limiting my funds. “Are you having fun?”
“Kinda,” He admitted in a teenager’s, half surly way. “I wish we were home.”
“That’s almost sweet, Tricks. But your father seems to be trying to give you his attention.”
“He’d be bored out of his skull if I didn’t play along.”
“Sure kiddo.” I hid a smile in the dark. “Why home? You got more textbooks flying in from Amazon?”
“I want to own you.”
“Should I open my pants right here?” I joked.
“It’ll be better after I’ve trained you.”
“The hell you say.” I walked off. He chased after me and took back the vape. Then he walked off. “Bastard!”
“What, Honey?” Ron appeared.
“You, dirty bastard. Where do you want to put it tonight?” I leered.
“Let’s fool around and find what fits best.” My husband kissed me. We rocked that night like we were teenagers.
All joys must end. We were dead beat returning home. Nobody had sex for two days, not even by ourselves. A letter summoned Ron to The Boss. He was given his old boss’s position. As I’ve already said, I was given a collar and chain.
“From a dollar store?” I shook the fragile looking combo. I think my fingernails could have cut through it, the metal parts even.
“It’s the thought that counts, Mom.” Patrick ran me through several paces: sit up, lay down, roll over, shake, and play dead.
Then he opened his pants and showed how hard he was. I’ll given him points for stamina. He made his father’s, every three days, as pathetic as I felt about it. Thank God for dildos and vibrators!
“Taste this.”
I shook my head. “Look, Son, I get it. You want the dom-sub thing. You bought the party favors. You got hard for your mom. Aren’t you a bit self-conscious about looking and acting so cliche’?”
“Are you embarrassed that you didn’t try to escape these trinkets?”
“I’m trying now!” I sassed.
“Suck it, Mom.”
“What if I refuse?”
He smiled. “That’s not a refusal.”
Stupid jibes were getting us nowhere. I shook my head, opened my mouth and swallowed all six inches of my son’s hard prick. Why talk when you can suck cock?
“How do you like this taste, Mom?” His body moved after I set the rhythm. He fucked face tolerably well. I gave him the best blow job he’d ever had. I gave him a better one an hour later.
I do like the taste of my son’s prick. It’s not as musty as my husband’s, but I can’t say I prefer Patricks. My husband’s musk tasted more like cigarettes.
That first one was special. I’d never considered biting clear through a dick before. The idea of it gave me a special thrill. I reached into my thighs and fingerfucked myself. He’d seen it before, but maybe not so close up. I think it turned him on, that first time.
“Oooohh, Momma, you are a dirty slut.” He bucked boy cock faster into his mother’s sucking mouth.
I fondled his balls, hoping to bring him to a big finish. My tongue darted and licked. His probing rod of flesh was tapped and rubbed and spanked with my tongue. I tried a few bites, but my son yipped at their touch.
“Hey! Ow, Mom. Watch the teeth!” He had been right on the edge, but the bites pulled him back, for a respite.
I smiled while gobbling my son’s rutting prick. I came into my hand and sucked harder.
He cooed. “Ohh, that’s great, Mom. Keep it up!”
I came again when I felt him shudder. “Geez, I’m never going to waste my cum on your nasty, skinny body again. I’m going to fill you up, until you grow some real titties.
So that was his game. He missed my milk inflated chest. Ten years ago, Patrick had weened himself from Mama. I hugged his bucking hips as best as I could. “Cum, Son. Cum down Mommy’s throat, Honey.” I mumbled excitedly.
“I’m going to cum, Momma! Suck my hot spend. Drink it up!” My good boy cried. His balls leapt and twisted in my jostling hand. Hot sperm hit the back of my throat and streamed down my neck. I sucked and swallowed, while knodding my face on and off of my son’s spitting snake. He came so hard, I thought I would have to hold him up.
“AAAHHHHHH!!!” He wailed. “You’re the best, Mom!”
I sure the fuck am. An hour later, I showed him I was even better.
—
The next step in my ‘second chance’/recovery/bullshit, happened at my husband’s workplace. Some of the men who once worked with Ron, now worked under him. They decided they needed leverage over him. One remembered my name. I think he was the one I let fuck me five times. Three of them played hooky from work, to hook up with me again.
I met them at the door that signaled, I was somebody. The front one to my apartment had a working bell. It jangled. I jammed a smock over my body and opened the door. I saw their lecherous grins. “If you don’t have cigarettes, get the fuck off of my porch,” which consisted of a four by three stretch of cement. They had cigarettes and a camera.
They tried to either blackmail or embarrass Ron. After examining their photos of me hanging off their cocks, my husband restrained himself – from asking them to take more pictures. Ron brought the printouts to me and hung them on the wall of our bedroom. He managed to fuck me twice in one night, in the ass both times. “I’ll make them all managers.” A week later, one got into an argument with another, and the third shot both of them. Ron was passed over for promotion. He started drinking moonshine.
“Aw, fuck, Dad.” Patrick helped his staggering parent to our bedroom.
“Fuck your momma for me. I’m fucking out.” Ron hit the bed unconscious.
I was reading a romance novel. You think that’s lame? I was still trying to figure out how to break the neighborhood’s, secret housewives code. Hell, the woman next door, she left at the crack of dawn to avoid me after our first encounter. Maybe I shouldn’t have started the conversation by asking what she used to lube her vibrators. She reacted less than neighborly to the soul sharing I offered.
“What are we going to do about Dad?” Tricks sighed. He father lay like a puddle next to me.
“Nothing, Baby. He’s going to die in a car crash, and then we’ll move back to the slums.” I opened my arms to my son.
“Nah. Get out of his bed, Mom. You don’t deserve to sleep next to him.”
I grumbled, but maybe this was leading somewhere. I slipped out from under the covers and landed on my hands and knees. Tricks collared and leashed me. He took me for a midnight piss. The rocks and dirt scraped my ‘paws’. He took extra delight making me suck his dick under half a moon, with my leg in the air and urine streaming out of my vulva.
Our neighbors all worked long hours, men and women. The neighborhood was dead at night. “I can’t believe you’re not fucking me. If you like momma pissing, that much, maybe you’ll love when it pours over your balls.”
“You’re disgusting, Mom.” He wiped his wet, dick hole on my nose and tucked it back in his pants. He walked me back home, to the bathroom and applied iodine to my scraped knees. Dog walking is best left to dogs. I told him as much.
“Did you want a dog, Mom?”
“I draw a line at being cruel to animals.”
“It’s not like I would let it fuck you.” Tricks hissed.
“Oh, I get it. You don’t fuck me because you can’t handle it.” That shut him up just long enough to pique my interest. Aww. My boy, was he just a softie at heart?
“You’re the one on a leash.” He took off my collar and disappeared into the living room. The iodine on my wounded knees stung crisply. I pulled three orgasms from my cunt that night, but damn if the vibrator didn’t short out. Good ones are expensive!
Ron didn’t wake until after his son had left for school. He looked and smelled like smegma. At the breakfast table, he nibbled on toast but nearly puked at the sight and smell of the egg I’d burned.
“Can you be late for your job?” I wondered.
“What job?” He choked back his regurgitation reflex.
“You stopped working?”
“Until the heat settles over that double murder at the office.”
“I take it, it’s not paid time off.”
“I need a drink.”
I opened the cupboard. My lips pursed involuntarily. “I guess we’re out.” I closed the cupboard before he noticed his jars of shine, empty and full, were missing. “You want bathtub gin instead, until we buy more?”
“Whatever.”
He did puke after drinking from the gin bottle. It was his start to another awful morning. I didn’t complicate his mood by asking for money to replace my vibrator. Patrick would assume I’d spend it on cigs. It’s not that simple. Balancing my brain drugs is an artform I take very seriously. Who am kidding? I would have bought cigs.
Ron took a taxi to a dive bar, to meet his moonshiner who wouldn’t show up until after dusk. Till then, he’d stay barely drunk, until he got his fix. Alone at home, I threw away his untouched egg, and ran the dishwasher. I had a fucking dishwasher! The dishes came out dirty, but with washed dirt.
More solemnly, I wrapped up my dead vibrator and performed a burial service next to the tree I’d pissed on the night before. Walking back, I composed different ways to beg Ron for money and Patrick to make sure I spent it on a vibrator.
I found a note jammed in the bent screen door to the back of my apartment.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way. I saw you and the young man last night. If he’s your son, would you like to talk about your situation? You see, we may be in similar, unfortunate circumstances. Dearly, I hope you aren’t, but if talking to someone, who has no ground to judge anyone, might help. Put your answer under the oil recycling bin.
“I’m sorry, I can’t reveal who I am, but I do care.”
Well fuck me with a frying pan, what the hell was this? It didn’t sound like a joke, but it had to be. I crumpled it and threw it on the floor. Patrick would toss it the next time he cleaned house.
At noon, my son phoned to let me know where he hid the vape. It had just enough of a charge to keep me from killing him when he returned home.
“I need money for a vibrator.”
“Yeah, Mom, that and two, two-way bus fares. I gotta be sure.”
“Do you have the money?”
“No. I spent your allowance from dad, on school lunches and a copy of The Catcher in the Rye, for English class.
“Is it any better than Nurse Titwell in the Tropics?”
“It’s total shit, Mom. Some delusional rich kid get’s bent over fucking a hooker.”
“Your father won’t get home til late. If we’re lucky, he won’t spend all his cash to replace the shine you stole.”
“I didn’t drink it, Mom. I hid it.”
“You’re not going to control his addiction like you control mine. He controls the money.”
“Yeah, until the next time he tries to use his ATM card.” Patrick plucked it from his wallet.
“He’ll kill you.”
“Not if I play you right.”
“I may suck your cock, but I won’t take the first bullet.”
“Dad doesn’t own a gun.”
“He runs an office full of men with guns.”
“..that he can’t return to until the cops stop swarming the place. Odds are, they’ll shut down his boss’s dummy company, for good.”
My son was a smart boy, and he was getting a better than nothing education. He knew shit while I pooped shit. If Ron’s boss lost the company, he might want his share of the money in our special saving account sooner. Even the ATM in Patrick’s hands couldn’t access that account.
“Come on.” I dragged my son outside and down the street to the bus stop.
“Mom?” He begrudged my intense silence.
A bus pulled up and opened its door.
“Where’s the first bank you go past?” I asked from the first step.
“Not till we get to the shopping mall.” It was the kind of suburban mall that didn’t carry sex toys.
I stepped back. Every ten to fifteen minutes another bus pulled up. The third one was heading to our quaint downtown. We boarded without paying.
“Sorry, Mr. Bus Driver. We’ll pay double when we take the bus back.” Patrick apologized for me.
Stopping at the first bank, Patrick plugged Ron’s card into the ATM. I knew the pin number. I didn’t let him see it.
“Just get the balance, Mom.” He slapped my hand away from the quick withdrawal button.
“$0.00 – checking.” Why we had a checking account but no checks, I didn’t know.
“$12,822 – savings.”
I turned to my son’s gaping face. “We’re going to buy the best damn vibrator, and then you’re going to fuck me in the damn store.”
Turned out, the bus we rode in on was the bus we took home. Tricks tipped the driver five dollars, after paying the machine for four adults.
“Mom, that’s a lot of money, but you know, it’s not a lot of money.”
I refused to hear it. I felt set for life, seeing all those digits on a bank balance. I would have masturbated on the bus, if the driver wasn’t keeping one eye on the rear view mirror and the other on his radio microphone.
By the time we shot through the front door of our home, all I wanted was nicotine.
Tricks let me vape until dad’s taxi arrived. The driver carried him inside and claimed he was owed eighteen bucks. Patrick asked to see the meter. They settled on ten.
A week later, my husband was in a state. “That’s my fucking money!”
“It is, Dad, but you haven’t been yourself. If you want to divorce Mom, she’ll get half.”
Ron rolled soggy eyes at me. “Why can’t I have more drink?”
“Drink yourself to death, Ron. Then I get it all.” My throat constricted, saying that. Why did this living piece of shit mean so much to me? It was all the shit we’d been through. That’s why.
“Dad, this is for your own-”
“Shut up, Patrick.” I shouted. “Get out of our room.” I wedged a chair under the doorknob after he left. Returning to my husband, I took his hand. “You stupid, drunk, fuckwad.”
“I never fucked you enough, did I?”
“And you were never any good at it.”
“Am I dying?”
“No, but we’ll keep you on a drip, until you dry out.” I patted his hand.
“Do you want a divorce?”
“Yes.” I started crying.
“I love you, Jess.”
“I know.” I managed to smile. He was drunk. I was jonesing for a smoke, a real, fucking, smoke. It was as good as conversations got between us.
“Why?”
“Because I’m not yours anymore.” I told him the truth.
“Does he fuck you?”
“No.”
“Does he fuck anyone?”
I hadn’t thought about that. I sat quietly next to my abused husband, until our son knocked an hour later, bringing us a cup of moonshine and a partially charged e-cig.
Five minutes later, Patrick charged into the room and ripped the vape out of my mouth. “Come with me, Mom.” He led me by my addiction, to the small kitchen. With a fierce whisper, he asked, “What the fuck is this?” His hand shook a folded paper at me. It was the note I’d tossed on the floor a couple weeks ago.
“Wait.” I almost yelled. “You haven’t cleaned up the apartment since Ron lost his job?”
“I was cleaning it, Mom. I found this. What is it?”
“I don’t know – a prank? Some clueless bitch who saw you walk me like a dog at midnight? Maybe she wants to get in on the action. I don’t fucking know! I threw it away.”
“It’d better be a prank, or we’re dead.” Patrick was serious. His voice steadied. “One thing about the mob, Mom, is they’re more religious than that pastor you fucked. If they get one whiff of incest, they’ll pull the rest of what Dad owes them, out of the bank, to spite us. They won’t give a shit about the IRS if they think one of their own is being cuck’ed by his son.”
I tried to match my boy’s levelheadedness. “Ron isn’t a made man. He was lucky to get as far as he did in the organization.”
“Well, that company is on trial, and I expect the boss will save legal fees and simply close it down.”
“We knew your father would be out of work, regardless.”
The paper in my son’s hand now shook from fear. “You gotta find out who sent this.”
“It’s too late to answer it.” I told him. The note was weeks old.
“We might as well try.” My son relaxed a little. He’d done everything he could. Having lost control of the future, he exerted his power over the present. He ordered me to me fetch my cheap collar.
I’d been enjoying how his sperm lacked the sour, corn mash taint of his father’s cum. Sucking off my son helped to calm me too. Usually, afterwards, he let me vape or use my vibrator, or both. I drained both of their batteries while Patrick studied for his finals.
The next day, I put my answer to the note, under the apartment’s oil recycling pan.
I remained relaxed. The writer had gone to great lengths to avoid frightening me off. They tagged their own situation as “unfortunate.” Mine was in no way similar. They didn’t have to worry about being gutted by the mob, financially if not physically.
I pretended to play ‘good housewife’, while Ron partially detoxed, and Patrick studied at the library. By the end of the day, I felt proud of myself, having only broke a couple dishes and one arm of a kitchen chair. I even managed to replace the vacuum bag, not that I dared to turn it on. I went out back to hang clothes on the complex’s shared lines. When I re-entered, a pink business had been tucked into the screen door.
I discovered our stalker had a flair the dramatic and the stupid. Printed on the front was, “S.M.O.M.S. Sharing strength to survive our boys.” On the back, handwritten in black ink, it said, “Come alone where languishing books are first available. Ask for Ingrid.” Was that suppose to mean something? I nearly binned it. It was a prank. I was certain.
That night, Patrick took less than a minute to figure it out. “They’re talking about the library, Mom. Ingrid is the librarian.”
“Why didn’t it say that?”
“It could be some kind of test, that only moms can figure out.”
“Maybe moms raised in this neighborhood.” I sulked.
“Go tomorrow, before the library opens.”
“Only if you let me have the vape. It had better be fully charged.”
The next morning, cruising on maximum nicotine, I rapped on the glass door. I hoped my hat, full overcoat, and sunglasses didn’t make me look like I was part of the mob.
A middle aged, blonde glanced at me, on her way from the half buried floor to the upper floor. She walked right past but stopped on the first step up. Ingrid turned around and cracked the door open. “Were you invited?”
I showed her the pink card.
“Please, come in.”
I followed her up the half length of stairs and into her office.
“Hi, I’m Ingrid Muldurhoek.” She held out her hand. She stood, in flats, a head above me in heels.
“Did you write this?” I accosted her with the card.
Her offered hand dropped to her side. Taken aback, she answered, “No. It was another member.”
“Is this group involved with the cops?”
“Heaven’s no!”
“It’s not some public service paid for by the state?”
“Miss, I-I don’t know what to say. Ours is incredibly private. I can’t answer your questions. I don’t even know your name.” She shied away. “I-I mean, I don’t need to know your name.”
“What does this have to do with my son walking me on a leash?”
“Um, oh.” Ingrid hemmed and hawed. “Are you okay with that?”
“Hell no!” I railed, “I’m sick of sucking his cock!” I wanted to get fucked.
That’s when Ingrid knew I would become a member, just not on the terms she expected. When I cried out against my son’s behavior, it was real, maybe the most real I’d spoken in years. I was born with more bluster than a tornado, but it was bluster instead of truth. I couldn’t stop shouting.
“My marriage is a mess! I suck at being a ‘housewife.’ I’d rather risk AIDS than pass up a cigarette.” I rattled on.
Ingrid’s stance gained confidence. She opened her heart to me, by listening.
“We’re about to lose our home, and we’ll sink back into the slums just when we had a shot at living without sacrifice every fucking day!”
“And you blame your son?”
“I blame everyone! My son is the only thing that keeps me from exploding!” I exploded. “How the fuck can you help me?” My early life had been hopeless. For a year, I’d discovered what hope was. Before me, I felt, was the only hope I had left. I’d confess anything, if this woman had a shit ball’s chance in a sewer to save my life.
Then she told me off. “Ma-am, I have never met a woman like you. You don’t fit into this town, do you? You came from outer space or was it more like purgatory? You barge in here expecting miracles, when you have more life inside you than all the Smoms put together.” She leaned in. “Help yourself, damnit!”
“Fuck you.”
Her face was stone. “That’s my son’s prerogative.”
“Oh. My. God.” I slipped beyond the ratcheting of time. “This was a group of moms getting fucked by their sons.” The brightest, most educated boy in the universe would never have guessed. Patrick didn’t have a clue.
I was never more turned on. Theirs was the most sexually radical thing I’d ever encountered. I would have mounted a jar of pencils, if her desk had been less organized.
Her pause stopped short. “Normally, I’d reject a woman like you from our group. At best, I might suggest another area that might discover you. Our groups try to keep out of touch. It’s for everyone’s protection.” Then she backpedaled, “No, it’s not because you don’t fit in with the locals. What mother, sexually controlled by their children, would fit in any society? It’s because, I’m not sure you need help nor can you help.” She continued, sounding more like a practiced pitch.
“Help works both ways. Sure, new members can coast for a while, but if they can’t share their troubles, and those troubles can’t be felt by the others, nobody’s helping anyone.”
She sat on the edge of her desk, resting her case.
I had to think. Thinking didn’t come naturally to me. Patrick must have inherited those genes from his grandparents. Ron was as dumb as me, or I never would have married him. I tried, “What would I have to share? What are the other women like?”
“We’re all different. The tales of our sons and how they took control, none are the same. We share our fears, our hopes, our pains, our ecstasies. We don’t bond over it. None of us want to entangle our lives outside of the group, but if the group didn’t exist, we would be driven mad.”
“You don’t think I’m being driven mad.” I suddenly understood.
“No.” She bit her lip. “I think you went mad a long time ago.”
“Let me try.” I heard myself beg. “Please.”
“We’ll never drag you back to sanity.”
“You think I want what goes for sane in this world?”
“What do you want?”
That was the stupidest thing of all. I actually believed I deserved what everyone else got. I told Ingrid Muldurhoek the truth.
—
“What did you find out, Mom?” Patrick pestered me on the walk back home.
I told him the truth. He didn’t believe it. I never changed my story. He chained me, spanked, fucked me with my toys, implored, begged, even bribed me by putting his cock in my cunt, FINALLY! …but he pulled out, when his father found us.
Ron came out of the bedroom, forgotten during his son’s assault on my naked, frail body. He had a hell of a hangover…
Sitting beside my son in his hospital bed, I told him exactly what I told him the first time. S.M.O.M.S. was a group of self-entitled, lazy-ass, mother-fucked moms, pretending to help each other. If Patrick had fucked me until I came, before his father slammed him against a wall, I would have lied through my teeth ease his worries.
To save my battered son from Ron’s addiction enhanced wrath, I promised my husband I was his to fuck. I promised I’d stop fucking our son. I promised I would buy him all the liquor and barrels of in-game currencies he wanted. Each promise I made got me hornier and hornier, knowing I would break every one, after he relapsed.
“Mom, you don’t really believe in those meetings, do you?”
“Hell no!” I lied through my teeth.
—
“I want to tell, all you crazy bitches, OFF!” I laid into the group with every curse I knew. I coined the word, hippo-fucking-crits, just for warm ups. “You think getting fucked by your damn children, impregnated, raped even, matters to a world gone mad? Women have been the shithole for man cum, boy cum, dog cum, for a million raping years. Bitches, there ain’t nothing special about you if you’re getting regular cock.”
I had Patrick help me with the historical parts of my rant. He’d never believe what I needed it for. What I told those bitches is what I told Ingrid during my interview. What I wanted was to find out how to get my son to fuck me.
THE END
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/81kltg/sub_moms_jessica_part_22_momson_inc_slow_oral