The Wrong Treatment

Where am I?

I looked up from a moonlit balcony. The night sky spread out like a Van Gogh canvas, a symphony of stars twinkling in celestial harmony. The moon cast a soft glow upon everything it touched.

There, facing away from me, stood a woman in white. Her presence radiated its own beautiful energy, piercing my very soul like Cupid's arrow. It was as if the universe itself had conspired to bring us together. Her sleek, angelic form sashayed to the balcony's edge. Her obsidian-black hair shimmered under the moonlight with an iridescent brilliance, like the night sky reflected in water. Her flowing gown swayed gently in the breeze, and as I inhaled deeply, I caught the scent of honey and mint—a sweetness that made my heart ache with longing.

As I stepped closer, captivated, the more I yearned to see her face, to unravel the mystery cloaking her identity. She sensed my presence, for she turned slowly. The air cooled around me as if time itself held its breath.

Her hair tumbled over one eye in a feral yet graceful way, and her beauty was undeniable. Deep-set brown eyes locked onto mine, filled with a mixture of surprise and something else. Her pouty pink lips parted, and her voice, soft and melodic, reached out to me.

"Ryan?" my mother whispered. Her voice caressed my ears and sent shivers down my spine.

The dream began to fade, like sand slipping through an hourglass. Yet the memory lingered, etched into my subconscious like a cherished ballad, forever imprinted upon my heart.

************************************************************************

"Okiro! Me o samase!"

The acrid scent of ammonia jolted me awake. I found myself lying on the antique couch in my grandparents' shop. My grandpa held a small vial of smelling salts under my nose. Behind him, both my girlfriend, Misty, and my mother looked with worried expressions etched on their beautiful faces.

I blinked, disoriented, trying to piece together what had happened. The party. The love potion. Brent. The overwhelming emotions. I must have been out for only a few minutes, but it felt like an eternity.

My grandfather gave me a scrutinizing look. "You think it's fun to drink? You scare your mother half to death." I can tell he's angry because his English always devolves. Misty must have told them we were at a party. If I wanted to, I could tell him the truth—admit I stole the love potions from the room marked, "Strong: Not for Sale"—and that I'd just ingested a dose that would cripple a god.

"I—" I tried not to look at her but the compulsion was too strong.

"We should get you home," my mom insisted. "Both of you."

Cramped knee-to-knee in the back of my Mom's small Corolla, Misty kept glancing at me. I tried to reassure her by squeezing her hand.

"Don't forget your purse," my mom said as we pulled up to the Armstrongs' house.

"Bye, Mrs. Hitomi. It was... nice to meet you," Misty waved and then gestured that I call her when I could.

My mom drove in silence, her gaze fixed on the road. Every now and again, she would check on me through the rearview mirror. Her lips tightened into a firm, disapproving line. Her gorgeous brown eyes, the curve of her collarbone, what I would give to just see the strap of her bra peeking—I tore my eyes away, horrified by the inappropriate thought. A sick feeling gripped the pit of my stomach. I felt a stirring in my loins. I attempted to rationalize the sudden foggy wave of desire. This was my mom. My own mother. I couldn't succumb to these feelings.

Her fingers clenched tightly around the steering wheel as she pulled up into the driveway of our home.

"What is wrong with you?!" she yelled. "Do you have any idea how irresponsible you are?"

The car condensed under the pressure of her rage.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled.

"Sorry? Sorry doesn't work!" She shot a quick look over her shoulder, like an avenging goddess. "You think you can just say sorry and it will all go away? Do you know the shame you've brought on this family? On me? Your grandfather had to be woken up in the middle of the night because his grandson passed out drunk in his shop! Do you have any respect? Any responsibility?"

I bowed my head, ashamed. The words stung, but the way her lips curled, hot skewering venomous emotion, God help me, it was turning me on. Her eyes burned in me. Her chest heaved with each breath. She spewed her condemnation. I'd never made her so pissed. I was supposed to feel remorse, but when I look back up, I'm too transfixed by how stunning she is.

"You want to act like a man, but you're nothing but a child! A reckless, thought-not child! Do you have any idea? You could have died! That girl could have died! You could have hurt someone else..."

Sweat formed at my temples. Not from her tirade, but because she was right there, inches away. All I could think about was kissing her, feeling her anger melt like her lipstick on my mouth.

"Just like your father!" she spat. "Never think about anyone but yourself. Always bringing shame. You think this is how you make me proud?"

All I wanted to do at this moment was prove myself to her.

"You're grounded. Indefinitely. No phone, no friends, nothing. Go inside and think about what you've done," she spat out the last sentiment, then hissed, "I am so disappointed in you."

"I'm sorry, Mom," I managed to whisper over the roaring desire in my head.

"Get out," she sighed, and I scrambled to obey, stumbling out of the car.

I sat alone in my bedroom, trying to shake the thoughts, feelings, and nonsensical visions swirling in my mind. Guilt and lust warred inside my heart, my head, and most shamefully, in my crotch. The last thing I could allow was any type of positive emotions directed towards my mother.

"It's just the stupid serum," I repeated to myself. Rage bubbled up from my core as I remembered who put me in this position. This was all Brent Young's fault. I grabbed my laptop and tried pulling up the feed of the douchebag's house. Fuck. I had the camera in my pocket. I'd taken it down just a few hours ago.

He needed to pay. That bastard tried to kill me. My finger scrolled to his folder and I felt my dick twitch restlessly. The compulsion hit me.

I needed to get off. Now. I unzipped my pants.

Porn. I pulled up a tab on my browser, fingers shaking as I typed in the first thing that popped into my head, "Japanese MILF!"

I clicked on the thumbnail labeled, "Horny Jap wife gets screwed in kitchen." The cinematic shot of a middle-aged woman wearing an apron cooking at the stove drove my blood to boil. A 40 second ad popped on. I tried to click it away but that just caused another one to replace it. I growled. I couldn't deal with ads right now.

I closed out of the video and did something I'd told myself I wouldn't do anymore since getting with Misty. I moved to the desktop and opened a file in the History: Extra Credit folder.

Mrs. Watson popped on screen. This was sometime a few weeks back; I didn't check the marker. I sped through until Andre was pulling the demure work dress from her shoulders, exposing the flimsy strings of her purple-striped thong. The history teacher was just as thirsty as him, pawing desperately at Andre's ass through his gym shorts. After some wet, heavy kisses, Mrs. Watson gave her lover a shove, pushing the six-foot-two, muscled teen against the edge of the desk. She then pointed commandingly for him to kneel. He smiled but did as she instructed. Mrs. Watson hopped her sweet ass onto her desk. Hiking one leg over Andre's shoulder, she spread her thighs in open invitation for the eighteen-year-old. Like a dying man presented with an oasis, he buried his head eagerly between Mrs. Watson's meaty thighs. Her hand found the back of his curly black hair as she moaned and rocked her hips. I tried to stroke my cock, to jack it to the sexy, debauched scene of the rigid teacher reduced to a sweaty, pleasure-riddled mess.

Despite my horniness and the lewd affair I was witnessing, my body just wasn't responding. My cock remained limp in my hand. This video wasn't good enough.

I switched over to one more familiar. I had it earmarked. It wasn't even a sex scene but rather when Mrs. Watson was redressing herself. Andre had left, and the janitorial staff walked in while the woman was still cleaning her nethers. The way she was forced to use her own textbook to disguise the creampie leaking on the floor as it stained her dress, while having to wait for the custodians to finish vacuuming her classroom always got me off. Well, until now.

I tried videos of Mrs. Watson after school, before school, in every state of undress.

I thought about giving up. I intentionally avoided Brent's folder, but after another disappointing minute of staring at my monitor with nothing to show for it, my hand reflexively moved to Brent's file. I clicked it open and found a huge cache. I felt my dick pulse again the second Mrs. Young's smooth, sensitive skin, as pale and inviting as whipped cream, came into focus.

Yatta! Her legs wrapped around her son as he shuddered.

My cock ballooned in my hand. The bully rutted his mother reverse wheelbarrow on screen, his hands pressing her tits together as her blonde head lolled, luscious lips parted. I blinked.

I remember being horrified when I first realized they were together. I couldn't comprehend how someone would fall for their own flesh and blood. It disturbed me. But... if it really was so bad, then why had I saved so many files on my computer? Why did I see her as so alluring? Was it just that she was gorgeous? That's what I'd told myself... But it's something more. He was about to be a father. And I had the evidence; in fact, I probably had the day they conceived. I must. I'm sure of it. How hot would it be if I could find that video? I needed to find the video. Why? Because it's insane—insanely sexy, and, sinful, and disgraceful, and maybe if I watch it... Maybe I can purge these thoughts. I started going one by one, sifting through all the files until the climax—five, ten, twenty, then I lost count. Mother and son. Son and mom. The love. Their passion. The image warped in my mind, Brent's face shifting until it mirrored my own.

Wasn't it amazing that she was his mother? That's what the real hottest part was. It was so perverse. So taboo. So. So hot... She was his mom. Oh god, his mom.

I finally came.

I finished brushing my teeth and was filling a glass of water in the sink, about to head to bed and try to get some sleep. I had just turned off the faucet when—

"Ryan?"

"Mom?!" I nearly fumbled the glass, splashing water over my wrist. She stood at the entryway in her pajamas: a light green fleece top and coral capris. My parents usually turned in by now. I cast my eyes downward. Every second she was in my proximity, we were both in huge danger.

"It's late. Are you hungry?" Her voice had softened compared to a couple of hours earlier.

I shook my head.

"Can you look at me?"

I kept my eyes down and pressed past her.

"Those things I said in the car. I lost my temper. You're not a disappointment. I understand—"

"It's fine, Mom." I interrupted, wanting her to move so I could get back to the safety of my room. Mom took this as impetus that I was upset with her. She took a step forward, and that's when I smelled it—the faint, sweet aroma of her herbal shampoo and oil conditioner. She wasn't one to wear perfume, but she didn't need it. Her skin had an almost sweet scent of its own. And I loved it. It was warm, and natural, and womanly, like a mom should smell. The air was charged as my chin snapped up. I felt myself reacting and pushed past her, her soft touch causing electricity to spike through my veins. I froze. The sudden urge to close the remaining distance between us was maddening. I wanted to feel her. My eyes trained on her face: smooth, pale, fresh, and unadorned with makeup. Her almond-shaped, dark brown eyes stared back at me.

"I should have never gone to that party. You are right to be mad," I explained.

She pursed her lips. "You are almost grown up, but you are still my son. When you fainted... You must promise not to scare me like that ever again. Is that clear?"

I swallowed the lump lodged in my throat. "Y-yes, mom."

She released a tiny sigh and moved to close the cupboard where I had gotten my glass from. "Okay. Well, that girl Misty seems very nice."

The thought of Misty hurt. She had texted me, checking to see if I was okay. The notification had popped up on my computer. I hadn't had the heart to respond.

"She is." I took another swig of water. Mom casually placed her hand on my shoulder. Her cool fingers seared through the thin fabric of my nightshirt.

It was my opportunity to leave. But in that moment, I could feel her emotion, read the sullenness emanating from her plainer than any language. I lowered my glass and wondered aloud.

"Why are you up still?"

My mom withdrew her hand. "It's not important. Goodnight, Ryan."

Her fingers had hardly left my shoulder when I reached out and grabbed her wrist. "Tell me."

"Wha—" she started to pull away but then disclosed abruptly, "Jirou fell asleep as I was telling him about tonight, and I... I just can't deal with your father's apathy sometimes," she fumed before catching herself. Her nostrils flared a bit as she gave a tiny tug, hoping for me to let go.

I clenched my hand tighter. The feeling of her skin was incredible. A warmth and energy coursed through me, zapping me with more confidence than any vial I'd tried from my grandparents' shop. Power. I could feel it. Somehow I knew—the next words I said, she would take in. Not just hear and brush off, but something that would burrow deep and be absorbed. The feeling of control buzzed through me like static, sharp and electrifying. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once. Vulnerable. Suggestible. Brain pliable. I could tell her the sky wasn't blue, and despite a lifetime of counterevidence, she would gain the smallest of doubts.

"I—I—." The power, the rush, the impulse to say something. Hunger gripped my libido. I had to fight the crassness, the perversion. I'd seen what it did to Mrs. Young, to Misty, to Eva Watson. I had enough resolve not to want to see my mom as a brainwashed slut. To my utter revulsion, an absolutely stunning image of her in see-through lace panties, a choker, fishnets, high heels, and makeup—the whole nine yards—flashed in my mind. This was unacceptable. But I had to give some instruction. I had no choice. The fever in my head was too strong.

"Don't... be... so hard on Dad." I grimaced, looking up at her.

Mom took in a defensive breath, her shoulders tensing, as if preparing to parry my remark. Her eyebrows raised, and I caught a flicker in her eyes, and then she let the breath out. I managed to let go of her wrist.

She didn't move her hand, though, not for a few seconds. "Your dad is so taxed with work. I can be so selfish sometimes. I'll make it up to him tomorrow." And then, for the first time that night, I saw the faintest smile.

"Goodnight, Mom," I said, pushing myself out of the room.

************************************************************************

"Don't be so hard on Dad." The words reverberated in my mind long after I'd fallen asleep. As my subconscious wrestled with a black hole of anxiety, a series of jumbled images and disjointed sounds invaded my thoughts: Misty, the laughter of Brent's posse, the bell of my grandparents' shop, Jada and Jordan, my first crush, days hanging out after school with Spencer... My parents.

The world morphed into my family's living room. The couch was different, striped—more worn. The one we'd gotten rid of years ago. I saw myself on the carpet, no more than 6 or 7, absorbed in the flicker of the television. Voices drifted out from the kitchen. I heard a crash. Young me turned his head toward the sound and then back to the TV.

I tested the dream, moving toward the sound. I found Mom on the floor picking up the pieces of a plate.

"Are you okay?" Dad asked, sounding both concerned and frustrated. They both looked younger—my mom's hair was longer, her face rounder, still pretty.

"I'm fine," Mom said curtly, not looking up from the shattered porcelain. She was clearly embarrassed. "Just go sit down. I make another plate."

"You need to be more careful," Dad said, still irritated. "We can't afford to break dishes."

Mom's hands paused for a moment. "It slipped," she said. "It's not like I did it on purpose."

Dad paced. "This wouldn't happen if you were paying attention. Organization matters."

Mom stood up, her face flushed. "Organization? I cook, clean, take care of our son, and now, my parents need help with the shop. What more do you want from me!?"

Dad's face didn't soften. "I want you to prioritize our family. How can you expect me to believe you take care of him when you can't even be home to make dinner on time? Your parents have been here for years. They should either be able to handle their own shop or shut it down. It's making you tired working there part-time."

"I only go a few hours a day while you're at work. And what about you? You leave at 8 and come back at 6—you miss the whole day, Jirou."

"I have a real job. I'm providing for us," Dad retorted, pointing at her. "That's what a father does."

In an instant, the image shifted. Mom goes from holding a plate shard to now a broken piece of glass, standing outside my room with its door ajar. From inside, I could hear... Well, I could hear myself crying.

"What was that about?" Dad's voice came from behind her.

Mom held up the broken glass. "One of the kids at school took his show and tell at recess. I think I need to call the school."

Dad took the glass and held it up to the light. It was labeled 'Codonopsis Root.' "Better not. What's he even doing with that stuff?"

"Mom gave it to him. He'd picked it out himself. She uses it as a talisman."

My dad rolled his eyes. "Best he learns now how little this means to the rest of the world."

"Jirou," she said, sounding hurt, "he shouldn't be embarrassed."

"Eh," he shrugged, "let him be. Unless this thing was supposed to help him study, I don't see why a handful of dirt is worth making a fuss about."

I peered through the crack in my door, shaking my head as the memory of that day—of feeling alienated—washed over me all again.

I blinked, and it's several years later. I'm seated in the backseat of the car with my younger self trying to pick the mud from my shoes. Two honorable mention ribbons stick out of my pocket from Field Day. "I thought Mom said she was coming."

My Dad's perturbed eyes look back through the rearview. "You know, Ayumi, she'll say one thing..." His words trailed off as little me stared out the window, watching the trees pass by. I think I caught him muttering something—"damn shop"—under his breath.

Now I'm back in the living room. The couch has been updated, but it's still a far cry from high school. Across the room, my twelve-year-old self was busy tearing into his presents, surrounded by my grandparents and a few friends from school. My mother's sweet scent hits me as she brushes past and steps through the sliding door to confront my father. Amid the background chatter of children, Dad held a hand beneath the phone while Mom spoke.

"We could use some help," she pressed him.

Dad glanced at me amid the rustle of wrapping paper and the shriek of one of the few kids who bothered to show up.

"There aren't that many of them. I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Today is important for him. Please, set aside the call."

He once again raised his finger to her. This time, I felt a bit of anger well up in my own stomach.

"Yeah, Hank, I'm still here." He puts the receiver back to his ear and moves away from my mom.