Confessions Of A Motherfucker Ch 11

Well, Gentle Reader, we're entering the dark realm now. Oh, don't look so surprised. Did you not understand that "Confessions" was part of the title of this memoir? Is it possible you did not see this coming? Hell, I did from that first stroke of the Willow switch. But if you're uncomfortable with true sadism, if masochism makes you queasy, if it troubles you that a son might enjoy doing these things to the woman who gave him life, then you should call it quits with this story. We're entering a dark realm, and I can't really see any light at the end of this particular tunnel.

Interlude

"I should have warned him," I thought, lying there, helpless, the pain from the charley horse in my right calf a hot knife driving deep. But the pain was overshadowed by the sheer humiliation. I was lying on the floor, flopping like a beached carp, my traitorous leg kicking wildly and my brain unable to control it.

Denial is a wonderful thing, right up until the instant that it collapses. I felt that burning tingle for a week, and I convinced myself that this time my body was going to fight off the new expression of my disease. Now I lay here, hoping that at least I wouldn't suffer the humiliation of my bowels or bladder releasing.

I felt the sudden flare of pain when he hit the back of my leg, and then a brief rush of relief when I realized that at least it wasn't flopping around outside of my control. But something had changed. There was no tenderness in the kick to my ass he gave me, or to the shove that made me lose my balance and scrape my face as I crawled along.

I closed my eyes when he told me to and then closed them again suddenly when the bright light pierced my brain when I opened them.

And then I did suffer that final indignity. My bowels and bladder let loose as I turned slowly and saw my future.

"You can always say 'no,'" he said.

But, of course, I couldn't. Low in my belly, I was feeling something.

Interlude Finis

The monster in my head was howling.

Then, in a moment of self reflection I thought,

"No, asshole. No monster. Just you with the mores of society left behind."

The monster and I danced a jig of joy as her bowels and bladder let loose, leaving her standing in a wet, stinking pile, her thighs wet and stained from what she had done.

I smiled at her then.

"Ready for a treatment?" I asked.

She was crying, tears and snot dripping onto her breasts and belly, but she smiled, a gentle, tentative smile.

"Please," she said, "help me."

I smiled, gave her a slick, snotty kiss, and walked her over to the circle of bare concrete with a drain in the center.

"Stay," I said, leaving her with her bare feet on the steel grate while I went to my bench for the cuffs.

She was sort of wobbling when I got back to her, and I realized that she was fighting against her leg that was wanting to start kicking again. Well, I'd take care of that.

She watched, her face slack, as I cinched the heavy leather cuffs on her wrists, their soft sheep's wool lining providing a needed cushion, her face an odd mixture of anticipation and an almost fatalistic acceptance.

"Stay," I said again, moving to the control with its big red and green buttons on one of the

faux

columns I had installed for ambience. I pushed the red button, the "lower" button, and the electric motor began whining in its high-pitched one-note song as the hook on the end of the ⅜ inch cable slowly, dramatically I thought, lowered.

Her eyes watched it, and I thought of the mouse frozen when it sees the snake that will be its doom. She made no attempt to move away, just watched.

When the hook was low enough, I used the chain between the cuffs on her wrists to pull her arms up high enough to loop over the hook, said "Stay," again, and hit the green "lift" button. The winch whined, and her arms were slowly pulled up. When I had her on tiptoes, taking away any chance that she would show some of that residual athleticism and jump high enough to release herself, I stopped the winch.

I spent a few seconds just looking, thinking how beautiful the female form is in that position, arms straight up so that her breasts were lifted, the sag gone, her legs straight, toes extended to ease the pressure on her wrists.

I went to my bench again, opened the little jar in which I kept my special treat, and pulled out one of the little squares of very thin dissolving paper.

Back at Mom, I smiled, brushed her cheek, and said, "Open your mouth."

"What's that?" she asked, and I slapped her.

"Open. Your. Mouth," I repeated, each word a separate command.

She opened her mouth.

"Touch your upper lip with your tongue," I said, "like you're trying to touch your nose."

Her tongue came out and up.

I touched the little square to the bottom of her tongue and watched, curious, as it began to dissolve almost instantly.

"Okay," I said, smiling, "relax."

I kissed her, a soft, tender kiss, and said, "Time for your treatment."

I pushed the green button again and she moaned as she was lifted clear of the floor, all of her weight now hanging from the cuffs, putting terrible pressure on wrist, elbow, and shoulder joints.

I lifted her until the fork of her legs was about four feet off the ground. I hadn't expected it, but she began slowly turning, and for some reason, I found that image wonderfully erotic.

I watched for a few seconds but then got about my business. I didn't want to damage her joints, well, to damage them permanently anyway. I walked past her, giving her hip a light push, increasing the speed of her turning, and got to the

Spanish Donkey

I had crafted so carefully.

I rolled it around to get it in position, pleased with how smoothly it operated.

The tail of the Donkey worked as a handle, by design. I stopped her spin, got my arm between her legs from behind, and slowly pulled the Donkey back, its smoothly curving back functioning as a wedge to push her thighs apart. When she was centered on the middle of the Donkey where the body was widest and the sharp wedge at the top the sharpest, carefully shaped until a mere one-eighth inch of flat kept it from actually cutting her, I hit the red button and watched as she settled, groaning, until there was slack in the cable ensuring that her entire weight was centered on that tender area.

I looked and damn near came in my pants. Christ, she was sexy, her arms straight up, her legs spread, and the tears and snot flowing freely.

I went back to the bench, leaving her there for a few moments, and got the two shiny stainless steel one-gallon buckets I had purchased from a medical supply place.

She watched, and there was that image of the mouse again, frozen by the snake that would eat it.

I carefully tied the buckets to her big toes, using the leather boot laces purchased specifically for this purpose.

I went to the column again, turned the valve that allowed the slow flow of water to begin following the chain down, and then went back to check to make sure my handiwork was doing what I had designed it to do.

I grinned, the grin of a handyman whose structure does what he intended.

The water followed the chain and split into three streams where the cuff-connecting chain looped. Some flowed down each side of the loop, wetting the wool lining of the cuff and then running down her arms. In the middle, water dripped down onto the top of her head.

I watched long enough to hear the first patters of water into the buckets tied to her toes and see her hair starting to hang lank and wet.

And I left her. On the way out I turned off the lights, leaving her in darkness, and flipped on the other switch, the

special effects

switch that started my haunted house soundtrack with screams of pain, ghostly moans, chains rattling, and all the rest of the cliches, along with the bright strobe light.

I shut the door behind me, went upstairs, said, "Alexa, timer please, fifteen minutes," opened a beer, and then opened my laptop, called up my spycam program, and began watching.

It's amazing, isn't it? The quality you can buy for a couple of hundred bucks at

Best Buy

.

I watched, sipping my beer, as the lysergic acid drop in that dissolving paper took hold, the psychotropic chemical making the demons the sound effects and the strobe light called up become her reality.

She shook her head and jerked away from an imagined threat.

And I realized that for all of the clarity of the camera, I was denying myself the full experience because the fidelity of sound just couldn't keep up. I knew she was singing the

Canticum doloris

, that beautiful song of pain, but I couldn't get the full impact. It was the difference between watching a NASCAR race on television and being in the stands. The television gave a much better

view

of the race, but it could never replace the experience of being there, where the smells of burning rubber and the incredible loudness of race engines almost overwhelmed the senses.

So I sipped my beer, and watched and listened, disappointed.

It was better than any of the dark pornographic videos I had ever watched because I knew it was real. I knew there were no special effects involved, well, beyond those I had installed. I knew the pain she was suffering was real, not some actress pretending.

But it was disappointing too. I thought that leaving her alone to suffer the physical pain along with the psychological torture of the strobe and the sounds would be more interesting, more, well, satisfying to the monster in my head that I now knew was just me.

It wasn't.

The liquor that I had anticipated turned out to be watered down by the filters of the electronics.

I watched her scream and writhe.

I chuckled and said, "Oh, that's a nice touch," when she threw up violently.

I laughed softly when she obviously came, her body shuddering, unable to lift her legs against the weight of the water-filled buckets tied to her toes.

But it was still a video.

And I wanted real life.

"Alexa, timer off," I said when the chime started.

I closed the door to the basement stairs behind me and turned off the light, leaving me in almost total darkness. A little scatter of light under the door, from the kitchen, gave me just enough to see the stairs. At the bottom, I took a deep breath and opened the door.

I'm sure I didn't register on her as the door opened and I slipped inside.

The Halloween sound effects program was doing its job, with moans and shrieks clearly audible. The strobe light was disorienting even without the LSD.

And my mother hung limp, her legs spread across the shape of the

Donkey

, her arms straight above her, her hair hanging lank and wet, and her voice weak, making me wonder if she had stripped it away with her screaming, and I could hear her almost babbling, "Please, not again," and her body shuddered, her head thrown back, in what I recognized as an orgasm.

I hadn't thought this one through, so I looked around and found the little two-step stool I used when I worked on things up high.

I flipped the strobe and sound effects off and turned on the ultra white lights.

I stepped onto the stepstool and paused, watching her.

The LSD had her. The monsters the strobe and the sound had put into her head were still there. Her eyes were rolling like a frightened horse seeing the rattlesnake, her mouth was wide open, and thick drool was pouring down her chin and breasts, joining the puke there, her nose was running like a hose. She was screaming, well, her mouth was wide open and she was forcing air out, but her voice was so stripped there was no sound, just a faint whistling.

I just watched, enjoying, knowing the monster in my head was gone, it was all me.

There was just enough slack in the cable to allow her elbows a slight bend, so I knew her entire weight was being carried on an eighth of an inch wide strip of her perineum. I sat on the

Donkey

once, after it was finished, and in about 10 seconds I was ready to scream, so I had some idea of what she was suffering.

I had no hope of stopping the smile that spread across my face.

I watched and listened for another couple of minutes, but this was the final scene, so I might as well let it end.

"I've got you," I said softly into her ear. I touched her back lightly, and she flinched.

"It's me, Mom, it's David," I said, "I've got you now. It's about over."

I kept talking like that, gentling her, as her eyes slowly focused, as she slowly came back from the hell into which I had consigned her.

"It hurts," she finally said, the first intelligent thing she said.

"I know," I said, brushing wet hair off her face, "but you needed it. Now it's over."

"It hurts," she said again in that toneless voice, making me wonder if I had done some sort of permanent damage.

I moved off the step stool to her feet and started to loosen and untie the buckets that added to her suffering.

And the damn things wouldn't come loose.

I used rawhide boot laces to secure the stainless steel pails to her big toes. I had selected them for the image, the ambience. And I obviously hadn't thought things through.

The weight had stretched the wet leather until the knots were just lumps with no way to get hold of the lace.

I suppose it ws inappropriate, but I couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled up through my throat.

"It hurts," she said, above me.

I went to the toy bench and selected a pair of wire cutters, something put there for shock and scare value, not as something I ever expected to use. I used them now to cut the laces, worrying about her big toes that had turned a dark purple.

"A little more pain," I said and pushed the green button.

She screamed, well, she made the strange whistling sound, the new pain in the tormented joints of her shoulders registering.

I lifted her enough to be clear of the

Donkey

and then rolled it out from under her. I left her there, turning slowly as I carefully put the

Donkey

back in its proper place and then turned and just looked at my handiwork.

She was limp, arms straight up, head hanging so her chin touched her chest, legs straight.

As she slowly turned, I saw first the brown smear where her bowels had let go and then the shiny coat of snot and drool and puke down her front.

Later, when I looked at the recording, I couldn't help but notice that the grin on my face as I tended to her would have gone unnoticed in a

Batman

movie with me cast as

The Joker

.

I got the hose out, set the nozzle to "jet," and hosed her down. The force of the jet set her turning a little faster, and the cold water made her gasp. When I had the mess washed off of her, I turned the jet onto her face. From this angle, the water was being forced up her nose, effectively waterboarding and triggering that atavistic fear, right up there with the fear of falling, the fear of drowning.

"Please, no more," she begged as the force of the water turned her back to me.

But, of course, I did it again the next time she turned to face me.

With an effort, I got myself under control, turned off the water, and coiled the hose.

Then I pushed the red button and lowered her.

I watched with a clinical interest as her leg took the weight and she stood, head hanging, panting a little.

But she stood, the leg supporting her without that uncontrolled kicking.

"Good job, Doc,"

I thought to myself with a smirk on my mental face.

I suppose, though, that it

was

a good job. She was standing, unsupported, something she hadn't been able to do when she got up.

I covered her with one of the oversized, fluffy bath towels I had in the basement.

"Can you walk?" I asked.

She was back now, her eyes focused, her breathing normal. I watched as she took a couple of tentative steps, walking in an oddly bowlegged way to protect where she was hurting.

She lifted her legs, first the right and then the left, tentatively, testing them.

She turned, faced me, and smiled that broad smile that made you smile back. In one step, she was in my arms, whispering in that stripped-out voice, "Thank you, Baby, thank you."

She pushed me away then and took a slow turn, taking in the basement, the "dungeon."

When she finished her turn, she looked up at me, her smile crazy but happy.

"I think," she said, giving me that sidelong look that always made me wonder what weird thing was coming, "we should schedule regular therapy sessions. I never want to be humiliated like I was this morning again."

I smiled back.

"You've had a rough morning," I said, "how about I take you to bed and let you relax."

She smiled and dropped to her knees.

"First things first," she said, "I want to show my gratitude."

So I let her.

I watched as she unbuckled my belt and unzipped my pants.

It was a noisy, sloppy blow job. I guess her voice was still pretty fucked up and her salivary glands and mucus membranes were working overtime.

Honestly, as blow jobs go, it wasn't very good. I suspect the pain between her legs was distracting. It was more like she was masturbating me with my mouth.

It had been a long, very sexually charged morning, and I was pretty hair-triggered anyway.

When I came, she pulled off quickly and accepted my ejaculation on her face and in her hair, leaving her looking like someone had poured a cup of yogurt onto her forehead to run down.

I thought she was beautiful as I walked her up the stairs.