Confessions of a Motherfucker

Gentle Reader, I apologize. It has been far too long since we checked in to see how David and his Mother's relationship is progressing. The blame is mine. I have been working on other stories and other series, but mostly, it is that this particular series hits pretty close to home, and sometimes I just need to take a step back. In the real world, as opposed to here in fantasyland, my mother died when I was, well, let's just say I got my draft card after she was gone. She didn't have a wasting disease, but she did have a brain tumor that gave her headaches, which she self-treated with a quart of vodka every couple of days. And yes, I shared her bed the last couple of years of her life. She didn't need the pain of a masochistic son, but she did need the support of a son who would feed her the alcohol she needed. I'm neither ashamed nor proud of all of that. It is, as they say, what it is, but this story gets to me like none of my other stories do.

Anyway, enough of my whining. Let's see how things are going with our couple, shall we?

Interlude

I could barely walk. Christ, it felt like someone had held me down and driven a nail, a big fucking nail, up between my pussy and asshole, probably driving it into the bone of my pelvis. Each step was a separate little agony.

Oh, fuck that. Each step was pure agony that required me to draw a breath.

How long was it? Days? How fucking long had he left me on that thing?

But my leg was working.

And Jesus Christ, the orgasms, that pure blast of white pleasure that drove the blackness and the monsters away, I never had anything even close to that before.

And I knew, God help me, I knew with perfect clarity, that I wanted it again.

Interlude Finis

I watched her climb the steps. She moaned at each step, stopping to rest and catch her breath.

I was smiling. It felt good, on some level, to realize that it wasn't some entity that had made me like what I was doing to Mom, it was just me. And my hands twitched with my desire to do it again.

From my angle, following her bare ass up the stairs, I caught the occasional glimpse of the swollen, dark purple line between her pussy and her asshole. I thought it was sexy and beautiful.

Then I thought how much sexier it would be if her ass had matched handprint-shaped bruises.

But now was the time for tenderness again. One of the things I learned while researching the realm of sadism and masochism was that it couldn't always be pain. Without respite, the receiver, usually a woman, but some men craved the pain too, the love would finally turn to hate or simple madness.

As I walked her to the bathroom, I told her how beautiful she was, how much I loved her, and how proud I was of how she was handling her disease.

She didn't respond beyond a soft smile. I think she was probably in some kind of shock.

I kissed her, noticing she was still having trouble focusing, and drew a hot bubble bath. As the tub filled, the soft floral scent of the mild bubble solution filled the air, and I kept telling her how beautiful she was.

She hissed when the hot water covered where she was hurting so badly, and then sighed, such a long, slow exhalation of relaxation, I watched closely to make sure she didn't go to sleep. But she just relaxed, and her smile was a smile of happiness.

While she soaked, I changed the sheets and made the bed. Then I went down and did the dishes and tidied up the house.

When I got back to the tub, I thought at first that she had drifted off to sleep. She looked peaceful and relaxed, and, I suppose, most importantly, there were no ripples in the water betraying any unwanted tremors or shudders.

I just watched her for a while. She really was a pretty woman, and that black hair streaked with silver was striking. Relaxed like that, she looked about my age.

"When will you take me back down there?" she asked, surprising me.

I got to my knees beside the tub and began bathing her, something I knew she enjoyed.

"Are you anxious for another treatment?" I asked, touching that line between her legs where she was bruised and swollen.

She opened her eyes and met mine.

"David, I'm terrified," she said, but I noted that there was no break in her voice.

She held my eyes for a long time, unblinking but focused.

"But yes, David," she said, "I'm anxious too."

"Tell me why," I said, smiling and carefully washing her face with the soft washcloth.

"Really?" she asked, her eyes closed, accepting what I was doing.

"Yes," I said, using the plastic cup we kept on the side of the tub to pour water over her head, wetting her hair, "I want you to tell me all of it. How it felt. How you responded. But mostly," and I stopped to kiss her lightly, "why you say you're anxious for more."

She paused, and I could almost hear the gears in her head as I began shampooing her hair.

"It's the sensation, of course," she started, "just feeling something, but that's only part of it."

She paused, and I kept working my fingers through her hair.

After another one of those long pauses while I worked the lather in her hair and wondered if she had gone to sleep, she spoke again.

"It's not the pain I love, David," she said, eyes still closed, "it hurts and that's not what I crave but, I suppose, in many ways it IS what Ineed. But when you put me on that thing," and her eyes opened for a moment, meeting mine, "What do you call it?"

"The Spanish Donkey," I said, continuing to work the lather.

She shivered, and I worried it might be another expression of her disease, but then she started talking again and was under control.

"When you put me on the Spanish Donkey and left me in the dark with those sounds and the flashing light, part of me knew you had given me something," "LSD," I interrupted, "given me LSD and I was lost in a world where there was nothing but pain and fear. David, I felt like I was being split in two. I could SEE the monsters circling, ready to tear me to pieces and eat me. I was terrified and screaming. And it went on and on," she stopped then and took a deep breath.

"David," she said, opening her eyes and quickly closing them again when soap got in them. I carefully washed the soap away.

"David," she started again, "I was dying. I was being split in half, and I could feel my blood, hell, I could feel my guts running down my legs to drip into those damn buckets you tied to my toes. I could feel my heart pounding, and I got a high blood pressure headache on top of everything else. I felt my voice fail from the way I was screaming."

She took a deep, shuddering breath, and I realized she was crying again.

"But then, suddenly, with no warning, it was like my body screamed 'ENOUGH!' I came, David, and it was like nothing I ever experienced before. The only way I can describe it is that a sudden blast of pure white pleasure drove away the blackness that had engulfed me." As she finished, she reached and found the washcloth, dipped it in the water, and wiped her eyes before opening them and looking at me.

"So yes, David, yes, I WANT you to take me to your dungeon. I WANT you to use all of those things I saw. I WANT you to make me think I'm dying so I can have thatPERFECTpleasure again," she said, holding my eyes.

"Even if it means perfect pain?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"Yes, David, even if it means I scream myself hoarse from the way you hurt me," she said and then smiled.

"Even as I see the smile, the pleasure in your eyes, terrifying as you do it to me," she added.

I thought hard for a long moment, holding her eyes.

"Until the first symptom returns," I started, speaking slowly, dramatically, I hoped, "you get tenderness and love." I kissed her and began pouring water over her head to rinse the shampoo from her hair.

I waited her out, dipping and pouring, running my fingers through her hair until it was clear.

She took a deep breath, let it out, and asked her question.

"At when the disease expresses itself?" she asked.

"Are you sure you want to know?" I asked, "Or would you rather have a surprise?"

I watched her face, watching her think.

Another deep breath slowly pushed out between pursed lips.

"Tell me," she breathed.

"I'm going to make you strip naked and lead me down to the basement," I said, and I felt a stirring in my groin as I was talking, describing what she had coming. Her eyes were locked on mine, and got bigger as I went on.

"You're going to do the work to get ready. I'm going to make you select two leather cuffs and then put them on your breasts," I was careful to be clinical, call them "breasts" rather than "tits" or "boobs," "and tighten the cuffs enough that your mammary glands are forced forward and your nipples get distended. I'll show you how to work the winch, how to select and connect a chain to the cuffs, how to hook it over the hook from the winch cable, and how to make the winch lift until you're just on your tiptoes."

As I talked, her eyes got wider, and her breathing got shallower. I could tell I was getting to her, and I knew that if she wasn't sitting in the tub, I'd be smelling her arousal.

"Go on," she breathed.

"I'm going to lift you then," I said, smiling and giving her a tender kiss, "and watch as your hands strain to take some of the weight as you wonder if they're being torn off."

She shivered as I used the washcloth on her body now, giving her time to let the image develop.

"While you hang there," I went on, trying for a casual, almost conversational tone, "trying to keep your tits from being torn off," I deliberately reverted to the cruder "tits" from the more clinical "breasts," "I'll whip you with one of my toys, maybe the extension cord. Something that will leave nice welts."

She was breathing hard now, my words getting to her.

"But that's for then, and this is now," I said, gently washing her body.

"Mmmmmmmm," she hummed, "I feel that," as I washed her breasts and then her belly.

"Ooooooooooo," she breathed, I feel THAT," as I washed between her legs.

Finally done, I helped her from the tub, dried her carefully, and helped her into bed.

"Hungry?" I asked.

She frowned prettily, her eyes going unfocused as she thought.

"I am FAMISHED," she said.

"Anything in particular you'd like?" I asked.

There was another pause while she thought.

She smiled, and there, for an instant, was the pretty little girl she had once been.

"A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, potato chips, and a glass of milk," she said.

I got up, quickly stripped off my clothes, and headed for the kitchen, calling "Don't run off. I'll be right back," over my shoulder. As I left, I put some extra wiggle in my ass for her, and she whistled.

I made the sandwich she wanted, added a big handful ofRufflesto her plate, poured a glass of milk, and went back up to the bedroom. She looked almost prim, reclining there against two doubled pillows, and the sheet pulled up to cover her breasts. I set the plate on her belly, finding the point where it was level, and climbed up onto the bed. I was on my knees, sitting back on my feet, as I fed her the sandwich and chips. Between every third bite or so, I supported her head while she took a drink of milk.

When she was done, I went down on her.

I tugged the sheet away, moved around so my knees were between her ankles, and locked my hands behind my back so that when I leaned forward, the only thing that touched her were my lips. I took my time, kissing very gently at first, and then harder. Probing with my tongue, I got her hips rocking as I touched and rolled her clitoris and then licked, probing more deeply.

I didn't try to edge her or anything. I just slowly brought her along until her orgasm covered my tongue with her delicious love honey.

I stayed where I was as she relaxed and then moved to stand at the foot of the bed and use my hands on her ankles to gently roll her onto her belly.

The analingus that followed was just as slow and gentle. I used my hands to part her cheeks, spreading them wide, revealing the darkly stained circle with the tiny wrinkled portal in its center, and gently traced it with the tip of my tongue. Mom's not terribly anal fixated, but I kept at her, slowly, gently, kissing, licking, and playing with my tongue.

When she came, it was gentle.

She's often quite vocal and pretty loud when she cums, but this was a sudden tension and then a flow of her thick, very white nectar, a treat I lapped at with my tongue.

She was sated then, so I crawled up, lay beside her, and we went to sleep together, our lips brushing each other's, every tiny movement a kiss.

I woke up earlier than her and woke her with breakfast in bed. After I fed her, I walked her into the bathroom, kissed her as she did her morning business, wiped her when she was done, and walked her back to bed.

I took my time with my fingertips, giving her her first orgasm of the day, watching her beautiful cumface get red, the lines in her forehead deepen, and her mouth wide open and drooling, as she gasped her pleasure.

When she relaxed, I used my whole hand to reach inside and massage her uterus until she came again, this time a very liquid orgasm that left my hand coated with her thick, white nectar.

When she relaxed, I took her in the classic missionary position, me on top, our legs locked together, covering her face with kisses as I told her how much I loved her and how beautiful she was. I took her to orgasm, and when I felt her soaking us both, I stopped moving, staying inside her while she relaxed in a third round of post orgasmic satisfaction.

"I think we should stay like this all day," I said, smiling and kissing her again.

"And I think I wish you could knock me up," she said, smiling up at me, "God, I'd love to have your baby."

I smiled and kissed her a dozen more times before setting up my rhythm again, slowly out, slowly in, hold, kiss, slowly out, slowly in...

This time, when I felt her clench around me, I came myself, filling her until she overflowed.

"God, I love you," she whispered.

"God, I love you," I whispered.

She grinned, that mischievous grin of hers, and said, "You know what I want now."

I kissed her, smiled, and said, "Tell me."

She smiled, a happy smile, spread her legs, pulled her knees back until they almost touched her nipples, and said, "Clean up on aisle one."

I kissed her, smiled, said, "Pervert," and kissed my way down her body to clean her up with my tongue in that way she liked so much.

As I licked her like an ice cream cone that I enjoyed, she came a fourth time for the morning. I laid my palms flat on her thighs, holding her in that hyper exposed position, as her body tried to pull away from the intensity of what I was doing.

When she relaxed, I leaned back and looked. Herperineum, that small area between her anus and vagina, was so swollen and bruised it looked like I had slipped a hot dog under the skin and then used a magic marker or something to dye it a purple shading to black.

I thought it was beautiful and I kissed it, very tenderly.

She moaned, and I licked that tormented area, a long, slow, wet lick.

"Oh, Jesus," she whispered.

I kept at it, long, slow licks. After the sixth, the taste of her womanhoney joined my saliva as she overflowed with her arousal.

The orgasm I gave her was just as long and gentle as one of my licks. I watched as a gout of her thick white nectar pulsed out. I kissed where I had been licking, liking the way she flowed, but there was none of the hard, muscular reaction that normally accompanied her climax. I thought I had managed to get her to that point that all men recognize. It was as if she had reached that point right at the beginning of my ejaculation, that locus of sensation in the instant before those muscles deep in my belly, thelevator ani, bulbospungiosus, and ischiocavernosusmuscles that send semen deep into a woman, were triggered. Her nectar flowed freely, and I drank it greedily.

I lost track of time. Hell, I was just as deeply into what I was doing as she was accepting it. I kept doing what I was doing, those long, slow licks, lapping at her pleasure, until I felt all of the tension leave her body.

As she relaxed, I moved up to lie beside her, smiling.

"You are beautiful," I said, covering her face with kisses.

Which, to be honest, was a bit of a stretch at that point. Oh, she still had the good bones, the good skin, and that wonderful mane of salt and pepper hair.

But she was a mess, too. Her hair was a snarled tangle after a night of lovemaking, before it was dry after her bath. Without makeup, the wrinkles around her eyes and at the corner of her mouth seemed highlighted. There was crust around her nose from where it ran.

"Flattery will get you everywhere," she said, giggling.

When she stretched, it was like watching a cat stretch. The movement started at her fingertips, ended at her toes, and in between, it seemed like every muscle was involved.

"Rest now," I said, lightly brushing her forehead and cheeks, "in a couple of hours, I'm going to take you to whole new levels."

She shivered, smiled, kissed me, closed her eyes, and in just a few seconds, I could see the perfect relaxation of sleep.

That is how we spent the next two weeks. I would wake her with breakfast in bed and give her at least three orgasms before I helped her dress for work. I studied, attended classes, took my tests, and worked on a paper for myAge of Jacksonclass that I had given the working title1824-1848: The Age of Polk.

When I was home alone, I made sure the house was clean and, more to the point, tidy. I became almost obsessive about dusting, cleaning the windows, and making sure there were never any dirty dishes in the sink. I didn't want her to be concerned about anything domestic.

In a moment of self-analysis, as I was carefully drying the dishes, I realized that while I might be a sadist, okay, while I WAS a sadist, my love for my mother was stronger than my sadism. I was happy that she hadn't shown a new expression of her disease, even as my thoughts were almost obsessed with planning her next torment.

I greeted her with a screwdriver every evening when she got home, soaked her feet in a tub of hot water with Epsom Salts, rubbed her feet, and then dressed her for dinner.

I didn't allow her underwear when we went out, and I carefully removed the makeup she wore to conceal the oversized hickeys I left on her neck. I'm not sure, even today, why I find that so damn sexy, but I always mark my women like that, as if we were in junior high school still. Instead, she wore clothes from the sexy side of her closet.

Friday evening, after dinner, I had a new symbol of our relationship applied.

"Where are we going?" she asked as I drove past our usual Club in Golden.

"A surprise," I said, smiling.

When I pulled into the strip mall and parked in front of a storefront with a sign over the door ominously stating - -El Diablo Tattoos and Piercings - Enter at Your Own Risk- - her breath caught.

"David," she started, but I talked over her.

"Are you going to say 'no' to me now?" I asked.

She held my eyes for a long second before dropping them and saying, "Of course not," in a soft voice.

Inside, I stopped at the front desk, rang the little bell, and told the heavily tattooed and pierced, immensely fat woman who came out, "Morgan, with an appointment with Mercado."

She didn't say anything, just disappeared behind the black curtains that separated the small entrance area from the rest of the building.

I hadn't met the man. The appointment had been handled online.

But he was about what you'd expect.