The Freedom

I woke the next morning, stiff, nauseous, and instantly in the grip of anxiety. Given the disorder of my bed and soaked then dried quality of my sheets, it seemed the Freedom had not gone quietly. However, as I took in deep gulps of air to calm myself, the intense need for sex, to fuck and be fucked, to humiliate myself and others did not come rolling back. The feeling of a passenger in my head urging me towards depravity was gone. I raced to the mirror and had my hopes confirmed: no extra ring of that eerie green in my eyes. The Freedom, whatever it was, had taken leave, I concluded.

After a moment of relief, the events of the night before rushed back over me. My queasiness exploded from the background, twisting my stomach in knots. I raced to the bathroom and dry heaved impotently, tears rushing from clenched tight eyelids. While I knew, logically, The Freedom had been in control, emotionally, I was stuck on the reality that was my body defiling my mother and being defiled by her.

As my stomach came to terms with the memories, I shoved my face underneath the bathroom sink water spout and slurped greedily. I could not think of a time I'd ever been as thirsty. Even when I felt sated, by the time I had dried my face, my mouth felt arid again. It was three sessions of guzzling before the thirst felt dealt with.

Slaked, I stared at myself in the mirror, noting that the changes The Freedom had enacted on me, such as the thinner thighs and the better hair, remained. Seeing my flesh only further reminded me of what I had done the night before. To suppress what felt like the beginnings of more dry heaves or a panic attack, I ran from the bathroom back to my room. I had to get dressed.

As I returned, I noticed for the first time the state of my room. If you told me it had been sacked by a task force hunting for drugs, I would not have questioned the truth of that. Drawers pulled out and cast aside, seemingly at random, a pile of hangers, many bent out of shape, sat in a haphazard pile in the closet. I paced the room, searching for any scraps of clothing and found almost nothing.

Somehow, after looking high and low I managed to assemble an outfit. Under normal circumstances, I would have deemed it too ridiculous to leave the house in, but I knew I had to make compromises in this case. Disconcertingly, I didn't recognize the pieces of it as my own. A short tartan skirt, argyle knee high socks, black spit polish saddle shoes, a light blue button shirt, dark blue varsity sweater, and a black, very lacy bra and thong set. My mother, I had reasoned, must have stolen all my clothes early on in the night last night, I reasoned. Sometime after I changed into my yoga clothes and before we... I stopped myself from completing the thought.

"Desperate times," I mumbled and began to put on the strange outfit. A quick glance in the bathroom mirror confirmed my expectations. After repeatedly complaining in my gender studies class about the kind of perverts that asked women to dress as schoolgirls or cheerleaders, I looked like their wet dreams given flesh.

"Only clothes I've got," I argued with my reflection and forced myself to stop staring. I had to admit that, for the first time, I could somewhat understand the appeal.

Grimly, I concluded I could no longer put off the last task on my list: checking in on my mom's state. I walked the first floor to find no sign of her. The vial of whatever she had injected me with still lay in the center of the hall, half full of the odd green liquid. I read the label, Dr. Grispo, her new therapist, was the apparent prescriber, and it was to be injected. Besides that, however, there was no mention of what the medication was called, what it treated, warnings about side effects, how often to take it and so on. Everything you'd expect to see on a prescription label was missing. I forced the vial into my bra, so the authorities could use it to arrest Grispo and figure out what the hell it was. Confident my mother was definitely not on the first floor, I resolved to move on.

Steeling myself, I crept down to the cellar, body tensed and ready to run, slutty schoolgirl costume or not. The basement was nearly silent, only the mechanical thrum of the water heat breaking the soundless monotony. Tension slid off me like water cascading down a waterfall.

"Mom?" I called out, "Mom? Are you there?"

I heard a mumble coming from the closet, weary and confused.

"Okay, Mom, just relax. I'll let you out and...I guess we can try to figure this out," I assured her, my voice shaky with a mix of guilt and thankfulness that my mother did not sound like the...creature she had been the night before.

The door to the storage closet, however, gave me pause. It was open slightly, splintered around where the padlock was latched. The lock now lay ineffectually on the floor nearby.

I froze, ready to flee. Again, the muffled moan sounded and I forced myself to find the source. What I found did little to alleviate my concerns.

Slumped in a chair, nasty bruise on his head, was our neighbor Mr. Barron. Forty-ish, athletic, and handsome with salt and pepper hair, I always figured he was a fantasy figure for most of the ladies of the neighborhood. His presence in my basement in that state was not a good sign.

I shook him until he roused, groggy and confused.

"Wendy?" he mumbled, eyes struggling to focus, "What are you wearing?"

"Hard to explain, sir," I said, gingerly touching the ugly purple mass on his forehead and seeing a matching egg jutting out on the back of his head.

He hissed in pain before asking, "Is your mom okay?"

"No, Mr. Barron...I don't think so."

As I helped him to his feet he began to relate how he ended up there, "I was walking the dog this morning and I saw your mother. She was in your front yard sort of stumbling around, babbling and naked. She seemed like she had escaped an attack or a torture session...I don't know how to describe it. Not good though.

"So I approached her and she seemed relieved to see me. She was practically begging for help. I told her I was there and I'd make sure she was safe and got help when Gordo just barking and snarling like crazy. I turned to calm him down and then I felt this really sharp pain in the back of my head. I tried to see who hit me, but before I got a glimpse the plank of wood hit me again. It must have knocked me out because I have no idea how I got here."

"Okay, we'll just get you out of here and get those bruises checked, make sure you don't have a concussion or anything," I said, rushing him toward the stairwell.

"Wait," he requested, "Your mom! Have you seen her? Whoever hit me might have attacked her too. Maybe that's why—"

I cut him off brusquely, "It's not but we really don't have time to talk about that now. I'll explain later."

I steadied/dragged him to the stairs just as the door eases open. Glimpsing my mother's bare leg I immediately turned Mr. Barron around and began to push him towards the hatchway.

"But Wendy, your mom? She was righ—"

"I told you, we'll talk about her when we get out of her!" I scolded, my face making it clear I was not screwing around.

I pushed him through the hatchway door and pull it closed behind us. Without thought, I grabbed a piece of splintered wood off the floor and shoved it under the base of the door, making a reverse door stop. I did not have to wonder for long where the wood came from. As I turned around, the answer was made obvious.

The staircase was, to be blunt, no more. Shards of wood were scattered through the small concrete room, the twin metal doors stood above us, just out of reach.

"Dammit," I cursed, my heart thumping with panic.

"I don't understand. Why can't we just—" Mr. Barron started, confusion written across his features.

"My mom is sick, ok?!" I shouted at him, louder than I meant, louder than was smart, "She's sick and...it makes her act in ways she wouldn't otherwise. Whatever it is might be contagious so we need to get out of here."

He did not respond, just regarded me with a mix of fear and skepticism. I have a good idea that part of him wondered if perhaps I was ill, mentally so, and he should be running from me. Then, the door thumped behind him.

"I'm coming for you, Glen, and I'm going to make your forget all about that bitch of a wife!" my mother yelled. While it was muffled, Mr. Barron got the idea. He blanched.

"See?" I confirmed.

He nodded and glanced around, looking for the angles. After a few more thumps on the door from my mom battering against it, he spoke.

"Look," he gestured, "There's still a small lip up there. I'm too big to balance on it and throw open the door, but I bet you can do it. I'll help you get up there, you get out, grab that ladder you have in your garage, and get me out."

Knowing there was no better option, I agreed. It was difficult work. The doors were heavy and the angle from the small lip was all wrong. I tumbled off my perch multiple times only to have Mr. Barron hoist me up again.

As time wore on the door began to visibly bow and crack. The stop I had improvised was holding but the door itself seemed to be giving up the ghost. Mr. Barron, face tight with concentration thrust me up again. Moments later, his face took a momentary dazed quality. He shook his head and tried to focus.

"You smell that?" he asked. "Like...vanilla and brown sugar."

I sniffed the air and realized the odor was filled with the same tropical scent my mother was emanating the night before.

"I...I smell pina coladas, something like that," I offer shakily.

"No, no," he said dismissively, "Definitely brown sugar and vanilla."

"Whatever," I replied, returning to the task at hand, "It's not a good thing, ok? My mom's doing it somehow...our brains must be perceiving what the smell is differently, but it's my mom and it's dangerous."

"How could this be dangerous?" he asked, pupils dilated, accurate orientation in time and space doubtful. "It smells so good."

I kicked out at him, connecting but falling for my troubles. He blinked hard and returned to the moment.

"It feels like...like my head's filled with bubbles and cotton," he whispered, his fear palpable.

I nodded dourly and gestured above once more. "That's why we need to get out of here."

He shoved my upward and, finally, I was able to push open the rusty doors. Gasping with exertion I tumbled out on the lawn and hazarded a look back. The head of sledgehammer perforated the wooden door standing between my mother and Mr. Barron.

Panic in his eyes he shouted to me to hurry and I took off running for the ladder. As I did, I could hear the door continuing to be pulverized until Mr. Barron began to alternate between trying to calm my mom, I assume, and shout for me to hurry. As I fumbled with pulling the ladder from the hooks in the garage ceiling I could do nothing but listen.

"mumblemumblemumble. HURRY UP WENDY, SHE'S IN! mumblemumbleGET AWAYmumblemumble. OH GOD! WENDY! WENNNNNNNNDY! I CAN'T GET HER OFF ME. SHE'S...SHE'S RIPPING MY CLOTHES. WHERE ARE YOU?"

"JUST HOLD ON!" I screamed back, one side of the ladder finally clattering down, "WHATEVER YOU DO, DON'T ENJOY IT."

"mumblemumbleOh Deidremumblemumble WENDY, WENDY SHE'S OOOOOOOOOOO, SHE'S USING HER MOUTH! OH GOD! OH GOD! SO GOOD! NO, STOP, PLEASE! I'M MARRIED! OH GOD! HELP ME!"

With a desperate pull, I ripped the ladder down, ceiling hook and all. I awkwardly ran towards the open hatchway, bleating, "Just another moment, Mr. Barron! HOLD ON! I'm right here!"

I slid to a stop by the hole and prepared to drop the ladder in. "Head's up, Mr. Barron," I shouted, peeking over the edge.

As he indicated, my mother had done a number on his clothes. His shirt hung in tatters around his torso, his pants were visible just outside the shattered wood door. He stood, seemingly by himself, back to me, head staring at the floor. I could not see my mom, but heard a wet, repetitive smacking sound that made my skin crawl.

"Mr. Barron," I whispered, forcing myself to speak.

Finally, he looked up and smiled. My mother was revealed by the movement; on her knees before him, cum already plastered on her face, she greedily and messily filled her mouth with his cock. His eyes showed the tell tale green ring.

"Come on down," he called to me, licking his lips, "Your whore of a mother needs you to clean her up."

"Oh god..." I croaked, stumbling backwards, bile rising in my throat. She has already made him cum and I had missed the brief refractory window that allowed me to shake loose from The Freedom the night before.

"Oh come on Wendy, I'll make you feel so good," he persisted, "You must miss your Daddy so much. I'll be your Daddy now. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Wendy? To call me Daddy while I fuck you? To suck Daddy's cock while your Mommy eats that nasty little cunt of yours."

My mother's voice joined his, "Remember last night? Remember how good we made each other feel? Mommy's hungry for some more! Come down here and let Mommy taste you, Wendy!"

Tears running down my face, I ran away, away from their terrible taunts and the odd honeyed sound of the voices and the sound of my mother's mouth and the image of her, covered in cum and still wanting more. I ran to the car and escape, peeling out of the driveway far too quickly and racing down the street. I sobbed and gripped the wheel tighter, trying to squeeze out that last image of my mother. On her knees, faced glazed with a layer of cum, happily blowing our married neighbor and joining in his calls for me to descend into their madness.

I eased out of our cul de sac and angled for the more populated part of town, mind whirring. I was trying to make sense of The Freedom. Obviously, my mom had been exposed to it for too long to shake it like I did. Or maybe the sleeping piles were the difference...maybe if she took them too she'd revert as well? I refused to even consider the idea that my mom was gone gone... that she had passed the point of no return... that The Freedom was, eventually, a permanent pilot of the mind.

I reached inside my bra and grabbed the vial I had stowed there. As I pulled it out, my watch clasp caught on my nipple, pinching it. I gasped and gritted my teeth, surprised at how quickly the sensation spread through my body.

"Still sensitive," I wrote the feeling off as I swished the green liquid around in its glass prison.

Options flooded my head and were cast aside. I refused to just run, to abandon my mother to her fate and other neighbors to be her possible victims. Going to the police seemed equally unappealing. I foresaw a psych screen in my future if I told them my story and precious time wasted. If I didn't tell them the truth though, and just reported any old crime to get them to storm the house, I feared they'd be sitting ducks. Obviously, given what happened to Mr. Barron, The Freedom did not need to be injected directly to spread. I wondered if the odor my mother seemed to give off, which smelled different to me that it did to Mr. Barron, was some sort of pheromone. Perhaps that's why I froze in place twice and allowed my mother to kiss and fondle me even before The Freedom was in my mind and coursing through my veins. Plots from movies like Outbreak, ...And the Band Played On, and Contagion sprung into my consciousness, leaving me to wonder about it being airborne or passed in bodily fluids or, perhaps, some measure of both.

With that in mind, I made my choice. The large hospital the next town over. I could be vague about what it was and how it was affecting my mom, get them to check out the green liquid, have them draw conclusions, and then they could explain it to CDC, police, whomever. I get help and don't get labeled crazy.

As I was patting myself on the back, I caught a glimpse of something in an apartment complex that gave me pause. Morbid curiosity gripped me and I pulled a U-turn and bumped up into the complex's parking lot. About 100 feet in front of me, a woman in maybe her late 30's sat cowering in a car. Alongside her, three figures, two men and a woman, were naked and grinding against one another with crazed, wanton glee. I eased my window open slightly to see if I could hear anything, wondering how far my mom's influence had already spread.

"Get out of the car, Cathy, you can't have any fun in there," one of the men called out in between moments where the naked woman's tongue was in her mouth. They were purposely yelling to ensure she could hear them. I saw the car trapped woman, Cathy evidently, cover her ears.

"Yeah, honey," the other man proclaimed, "Beth could use the help."

Beth gripped both men's dicks, one in each hand, and began to stroke them before adding her voice to the pleas, "Come on, Cathy. I'll be happy to share."

Cathy seemed to shrink into herself, growing smaller and tighter in the car. It occurred to me that she might not have the keys. Whoever these people were to her, she had fled from them to the car only to realize she had no means of starting it. I peered closer and saw she was still wearing a robe, confirming my suspicions.

Both men dipped their heads down and each took one of Beth's nipples in their mouths. She moaned and continued to jerk them off. I could not help but marvel at her coordination. It was a bizarre thought and really not where my mind needed to be, but one dick in each hand while two people play with your tits? That's an undeniable talent.

I found myself staring at them, almost hypnotized by their shamelessness. Part of me almost found it...admirable? I shook the thought loose, reminding myself that they were sick and that they were terrorizing someone else.

I focused instead on trying to identify them, hoping that, somehow, I would recognize one of them as a friend or co-worker of my mom's or the mailman or something. I analyzed each one in turn.

Beth was about 5' 2" and curvy. Her skin was olive in tone and glowing. It was difficult to tell how old she was, any of them were, really, because of the way The Freedom changes the human body. However, small hints still existed as the changes seemed to be subconsciously directed by the afflicted. In Beth's case, her black hair being styled in the tradition of "mom of middle school students on the go" put her in her early 40's, I guessed. I had never seen her before.

"Oh yeah, baby," the taller of the two men groaned, releasing Beth's nipple from his mouth. He was stocky with a shock of sandy blonde hair on top of his head. I found myself curious, since it seemed clear he did not thin himself out or pile muscles on his physique, how The Freedom changed him. I expected that blond hair, now so full and prominent, was quite a bit thinner 24 hours ago. He too elicited no memories from me.

"You like that, Rodney?" she goaded him, "What else would you like me to do?"

"You know what I like," he groaned.

"Say it!" she ordered him, visibly gripping his dick harder, "Tell your wifey how you want her to desecrate herself."

"Oh god, baby...Oh god. Puh-puh-puh-please fuck Larry."

The shorter, fitter man moaned in delight at Rodney's request. This was, I surmised, Larry.

"You want me to fuck my brother?"

"You know I do, Beth."

"My own husband wants me to fuck my brother while he watches?"

"Pleassssssssse," he begged.

"Get me wet!" she demanded, releasing his cock. Rodney dropped to his knees and slid himself between her legs, parting her labia with his tongue.

"Mmmm, good boy," she groaned, turning to Larry, "Did you hear that, Bro?"

Larry nodded, face almost giddy. Muscles rippled in his arms and chest as he grabbed Beth, his apparent sister, and kissed her hard. Even from my distance away I could see their tongues dart aggressively back and forth against one another.

"You gonna fuck your little sister?" she stage whispered, being sure to amplify it enough to reach Cathy's ears.