The Freedom Ch 01

My life was not supposed to be like this. This was never the plan. Sitting here, isolated while people with faces pinched in concern and fear stare at me, prod me, ask me questions. No, this was not supposed to be Wendy Coughlin's fate. And yet, here I was.

In many ways, this all began years before. I was looking towards my high school graduation and getting the heck out of dodge, East Coast and Ivy League bound. But then the accident happened.

My parents were headed out of town to celebrate their anniversary at some hotel in the city. I imagine them as excited and silly, talking about their plans, the dinner, the show, the dancing. Instead, a truck driver fell asleep at the wheel and his tanker truck spun across several lanes of traffic, destroying several cars in its wake, including my parents'. My father was killed instantly, my mother badly injured.

She survived but with the need for extensive physical rehab. I withdrew from college and took a year off. My mother's progress was slow but steady. By the next year I felt confident enough in her to go to college, but opted to stay local, attending a small liberal arts school in town. It had a decent reputation nationally and a strong network of alums, so while it was not an Ivy school, it still felt like a good fit for me.

While my mother's body was fully healed at the end of that school year, her mind was nowhere near okay. She was fully in the throes of seemingly unending grief and survivor's guilt, her depression a cloud so thick around her I could barely find the woman that raised me within it. I could not leave her and so I continued at the school in town for my sophomore year.

Thankfully, there were signs of changes in my mom starting two or three months ago. She was seeing a new therapist a few towns over and he seemed to have cracked the code. She began to leave the house more, to enjoy old hobbies like watching films and quilt making. Her exercising, once a grim affair that seemed to be more about some kind of self punishment, became something she looked forward to. At 45, she looked better than ever. Clear eyed, curvy, skin radiant. She could've passed as my older, more voluptuous sister. For the first time, it seemed like our lives might become something more than biding time after the accident.

On the Thursday when things changed forever again, hard to believe it was a mere two weeks ago, I had only my Organic Chemistry class on my mind. The class was kicking my ass all over campus and I was working closely with the TA just to survive the experience with some semblance of a passing grade intact. Math, English, History, French, Film Theory...these classes had been a walk in the park for me. This one though...it was making me feel quite mortal.

In retrospect, perhaps if I had been more present in the moment, things may have gone down differently. But I was so in my head that what greeted me at the door did not raise enough red flags.

My mom was standing in front of our refrigerator, both doors wide open, shimmying to a soundtrack seemingly heard only by her. She was wearing a black spangled skintight sleeveless shirt and a pair of red leather pants. I recognized it as the outfit I had worn when my friends and I jokingly decided to go out in "club wear" to a bowling alley. I might have been wearing it ironically, but my mom certainly did not appear to be.

"Oh, hi, honey," she said, noticing me looking at her confused, "I hope you don't mind me raiding your closet. I just felt like wearing something...different."

I waved her off, "Don't worry about it Mom. Interesting choice."

She shrugged in response and I continued on to my room. It was odd, for sure, but she had worked hard to get to where she was and if she was enjoying wearing age inappropriate, although she was making it work, clothes I hardly felt it was ok for me to give her a hard time about it.

Still buzzing with stress, I decided to distract myself with some painting. It was an emotional management trick I had developed in the wake of my dad's death and had carved out a section of our attic as a sort of de facto studio. Now, whenever I felt really sad or stressed out or pissed at the world, I'd throw on an old t-shirt and my painting overalls and get it all out on the canvas.

Rooting through my drawers, it quickly became clear I had no painting shirts. Sighing, I just buttoned my overalls over my bare breasts and headed over to the laundry room to find a shirt. As I pawed through the clean clothes basket, I felt my mother's presence behind me.

"I'll fold these later, Mom, but I just had a really awful day so I'm going to paint first," I assured her.

"Oh, it's okay, baby...you just take your time," she replied. Her voice sounded...off to me. Thicker somehow. Like honey pouring out of a bottle.

I finally found something to wear and spun around victoriously, surprised to find my mom still standing before me.

"Umm...hey, Mom...."

"Hey yourself," she said in that...voice again, "I like this look on you. You should do wear this more often."

I smirked and responded cheekily, "Sure Mom. Nothing better than bouncing around town with the possibility of a nip slip every few steps basically guaranteed."

She stepped closer to me resting her hands on my shoulders. She smelled different too, I realized; almost tropical. She looked deep into my eyes and I noticed that her brown irises were ringed by another that was pale green in color and almost iridescent.

I opened my mouth to comment but she beat me to the punch, "Well," she whispered, licking her lips, "You could just wear it for your Mommy."

I tried to giggle to break the tension, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. She leaned forward and brushed her lips across my cheek. It was not unusual for us to give each other a kiss now and then, but there was something odd about this kiss. I gasped despite myself and the tropical odor of my mother clogged my nose making me feel too warm and spacey.

She kissed me again, closer to my lips. My brain was signaling my body to move but something was getting in the way. Her hand deftly grasped and unsnapped my left coverall strap as her mouth drew another bit closer to my mouth. Her fingers lightly brushed my nipple before her hand flattened over my full breasts, caressing it with a pleasurable firmness.

"Mmm," she whispered, "Such a perky tiny tit."

My brain screamed louder. The enzymes of panic ignited my heart rate. But still my body refused to move.

Her lips completed their journey to mine and kissed me roughly. Still I remain like a statue.

Then her tongue was darting forward, pushing my lips, urging them to open. Finally something broke and I pushed her away.

"Mom!" I shout, eminently aware of breast still being exposed but too adrenalized to confidently re-button myself. "What the hell was that?!!"

She looks at me wild eyed and confused. I can see her nipples jutting through the fabric of the borrowed shirt. She looks less like my mom and more like...I don't know...a wild animal. Frightened, cornered, and very, very dangerous.

"I....I," she stuttered, "Oh Wendy, I...I know it's wrong. It wants you though. It wants you soooo bad."

And then, like that, her eyes change. The green seemed to glow brighter, her gaze became more fixed, the fear dissipated. And I recognized what I saw there. Lust. Nothing but pure uncut lust. And I was afraid.

"Mom..." I began, words piling up unspoken in my throat.

"I know you liked it, naughty girl," she, or perhaps it, replied, "You love my hand on your proud little tit."

I began to angle towards the door, keeping my back to the wall and my eyes on Mom, and did not respond.

"It's okay," she whispered, voice coiling in my brain like a snake, "I don't mind that I raised a nasty slut. Mommy understands."

"I'm going to go now, Mom. Give you some...umm... some air," I babbled. As soon as I felt the wall open up behind me, I was racing through the hall and down the stairs to the basement. My body felt panicked and sluggish all at once. I could not process the information I was taking in: the sound of my Mom's voice, the color of her eyes, her scent, the feel of her hand on my breast, her lips on mine, the undeniable urge I had to yield to her advances. None of it made sense. I might be tempted to call it a dream but there was no dream logic to it, no sign of the unreal.

I heard my mother at the top of the stairs calling to me in a sing song voice dripping with sexual threat. As she descended the stairs, I crawled into the spot where my friends and I used to hide alcohol when we were in high school, a cut out underneath and to the left of the hatchway staircase, replacing the wooden panel behind me. Through the slats that faced into the cellar, I watched, doing my best to hold my breath and be very quiet.

My mother stalked the room like a feral cat, breathing heavily. She seemed to be clawing at herself, peeling the borrowed shirt away from her heaving breasts. She looked different to me, even more so than recently. Not just in better shape, but in incredible shape. Her abs appeared even better than my own! Her breasts looked fake: full, firm, and gravity defying. Her hair somehow shinier and more impeccably styled. What was going on?

Sighing in frustration, she leaned against the wall opposite my hiding place. She began to play with her nipples first almost absentmindedly, then with increased intensity. She grunted and groan and writhed as if her very skin were on fire. Before long, she briefly abandoned her chest and undid the leather pants, rolling them downward to below her thighs. I recognized the panties she was wearing as the very same I had slept in the night before, a pair of pale blue silk bikinis. One hand disappeared behind the blue curtain and the way it pushed out I could tell right away she was fingering herself. The other hand returned to her breasts, scratching and pinching them. She ground her teeth, groaned, and murmured. Before long, she dropped to her hands and knees, positioned as if preparing to be taken doggy style. Then she began to talk loudly.

"Are you watching me, Wendy? Are you seeing what you did to me, you fucking tease?" she spat out. "Bouncing around our house, just showing off your tits to me, practically begging me to suck them. Letting me kiss you. Then you run away?! You like seeing your Mommy on her knees like this? I bet you are getting off on this, aren't you, my nasty whore daughter?!"

The odd thing was, I kind of was. I was revolted and disgusted and horrified, but I also could feel how wet I was getting, how hard my nipples were. Her words echoed in my ears at once awful and utterly enrapturing.

"Oh, baby, you made me so wet with that tight body of yours!" she groaned, "Do I make you wet too, Wendy? Did you see that I'm wearing your panties? Your dirty panties? I put them on this morning and they were already all wet. I wonder what you were thinking about, you dirty girl?"

I blushed fiercely to myself remembering the bizarrely intense dream that had me masturbating this morning.

"Come on out Wendy! Come out here and taste your mother. We can make each other feel soooooooooooo good."

I felt myself inexplicably moving towards the exit of my hiding place before noticing and restraining myself. But the desire to burst out pulsed just beneath my skin, like bugs crawling through the muscles and nerves.

"Mommy can use that dildo of yours on you if you want, Wendy. Yeah, you didn't think I knew about that, did you? Oh, I knew, you bad little girl. I found it in your room. I could smell your filth all over it, your dirty, whorish desire. Tell me, Wendy, tell me how you fucked yourself with it. Tell me what you fantasized about while you abused your little pussy."

I balled my hands into fists so tight the nails pierced the skin on my palms. I sat on them. I bit my lip, hard. I did whatever I could think of to stop myself from giving in and touching myself, something I wanted to do even more with every word my mom spoke, or to announce my presence to her.

Her voice grew desperate as she drew closer to orgasm. "You fucking bitch!" she growled, "How could you did this to your Mom. When I get ahold of you, I will rape you silly!"

I should've been cowering in fear, but instead I was pressed against the wood to get a better look. My mother was pure id, snorting and finger fucking herself with abandon. She seemed to be talking to herself endlessly, but too quietly for me to hear about the sound of the wet pounding. Eventually, she collapsed fully on the floor, writhing and grinding against the hard, uneven concrete.

"Look at meeeeeeeeeeeee!" she screamed and came, her entirely body vibrating and twisting into a tight ball. She rose moments later as if nothing had happened, her breasts red and raw with scratches and bits of gravel. I could have swore the scratches began to fade right before my eyes. She walked up the stairs as if in a trance.

I listened to her moving around on the first floor and shook with adrenaline. Horrified, I found myself beginning to dry hump the random pipe I was sharing the crawlspace with. Then, I was shrugging out of the overalls as mind called out to me to stop. My pussy was hot and slick to the touch, the tiny square of barely there hair above it tickling my wrist. The hormonal chemical need to get off obliterated the rational disgust of the cause of my arousal and I gave myself over to it fully, two fingers inside, two fingers on my clit. I was more than aware of how much I probably looked like my mom, just a mindless quivering pile of flesh focused only on the pursuit of orgasm.

When it arrived, the release of tension was incredible and the world went out white. I came to what I would've sworn was only moments later, but actually turned out to be just short of three hours. Early evening had given way to night. I stumbled out of the hiding place, stiff, my thighs sticky with my shameful excitement. I shrugged out of the panties, wrapped them in the overalls, and creeped up the stairs in nothing but socks.

The house was quiet and dark with no sign of Mom. I allowed myself to relax slightly and walked to my room. There I slipped into a pair of comfortable worn cotton panties, yoga pants and big t-shirt I had cut the neck out of at some point. I put on a pair of running shoes and grabbed a book bag and threw my keys and wallet to it. With a heavy sigh, I steeled myself and vocalized, "Mom? Mommm? Are you ok now?"

No answer.

I walked down the hall to our living room and flipped on the light. On the floor, she was laid in the fetal position, obscenely large dildo nestled between her legs. The room was a mess, the coffee table lying on its side, a lamp shattered, couch cushions strewn everywhere. She no longer looked monstrous, but small and vulnerable, her bizarrely firm breasts looking ridiculous perched on her newly svelte frame.

Hesitantly, I tried to rouse her with a gentle shake. No response. I shook harder and she flopped onto her back. She opened her eyes slowly. She was glassy and unfocused, as if she had never seen me or this room before.

"Come on, Mom, let's get you in bed," I whispered and began to pull her to her feet.

She leaned against me as we shuffled towards the stairs. "Mommyssick," she mumbled.

"What?" I asked, not understanding.

She slurred it again, "Mommyssick," and once more I had to ask her to repeat herself.

"Mommy's sick," she managed, parses out each syllable with a wince, "Need medicine."

I nodded and helped her to the bathroom. She leaned against the wall behind me as I searched the cabinets.

"What does it look like, Mom?" I called over my shoulder, moving bottles and small cardboard boxes back and forth. Amongst the assortment of pills, syrups, and topical creams, I came across a small vial that gave me pause. Inside was a thin green liquid, similar in shade to the color of the second irises in my mom's eyes. I pulled it from its spot and gave it a shake.

Before I could contemplate doing more or asking my mother about it, she encircled in her grasp.

"No, no," she coughed, "No medicine I need in there."

I could hear shades of the heavy rough voice she was using earlier and twinges of panic sprang up around my body. I swallowed the fear and focused on the task at hand.

"Okay...where should I look?"

"It's right here," she replied and began to kiss my neck, "You're the medicine it...we...I need."

"Please, Mom," I whispered, my ability to act already feeling suppressed again, "Don't, please."

"You'll enjoy it," she cooed, biting my earlobe. Her hands slipped underneath my loose t-shirt and moved upward until they were cupping my breasts. Teasing my nipples. I heard myself sigh, cursed myself for next taking the time to put on a bra. I sensed myself leaning back into her.

"Give Mommy a kiss," she demanded, her voice taking hold in my brain like a harpoon. I complied. God help me, I did. And I led with my tongue, searching out her lips, her mouth, her tongue. "Good girl," she praised me as we separated and I felt flush with the childish appreciation of a kid receiving a compliment from an adult.

My hand drifted behind me, seemingly of its own accord, and sought out my mother's sex. My mother shift to allow it easier access. When I could feel the hard nub of her clit, my body shudder. I nearly vomited and came at the same time. Something is horribly wrong, my mind told me, recognizing an ancient evil. But still I remained in that bathroom, Mom's hands on my breasts, her lips and tongue on my neck and shoulder, my fingers pushing deep inside her.

She moaned, "Do you feel how wet you make Mommy?" I could only bring myself to nod in reply.

I glanced in the mirror and was taken aback but what I saw. The look on my face was one I had not seen in weeks. It was one of sexual hunger, not one of fear or disgust or whatever else a normal daughter should feel in the same position. It was enough to break the hold of whatever has happening to me and I spun away, knocking my mother deeper into the bathroom.

I could see my mother in the figure sitting on the floor, back against the tub. But it was as if something else had taken residency inside her body with her, curdling who she was.

"Don't leave," she begged, her hand already pressing between her legs, "We can make each other feel so good."

I gaped at her as she began to masturbate right in front of me. "You...you're my mom," I croaked.

She came immediately as she heard those words tossing her head backwards and moaning.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," she panted as the orgasm dissipated. Her eyes settled on me, solemn and scared, the iridescent green disk having grown larger. "Run," she implored me, "I can't stop this, Wendy. Run now."

"Mom, let me help you," I said, trying to sound braver than I felt, "You don't have to do this. Whatever's got a hold of you...it doesn't have to be like this."

"You don't understand, Wendy. It makes you different. It shows you what's inside you. I'm not being forced to do anything anymore. I want to fuck you. I want your face buried in my cunt. I want your hair in my hand as I abuse your cute little pussy with my strap on. I have freedom now. So run, Wendy. Because if you don't..."

I didn't need to hear more. I was already awkwardly bouncing off the walls, rushing to the front door and escape. I hit the landing after leaping off the top step and reached for my keys.

"Shit!" I shouted to no one in particular. I had no pockets in these pants. My keys were in that damn bag. Which was....where? Where? "Living room," I remembered.

I hesitated. It would mean going to the back side of the house to retrieve it. But we lived on an isolated part of an isolated street. Without wheels, whatever had seized my mother could catch up with me. I had to take the risk.