Lt

© 2009 Roi-Tan Smokes

[All characters are fictional and over the age of 18 years in all scenes, without exception]

*

Prologue.

Just so there's no confusion here: yeah, my mom's last name was Smokes, but she didn't name me Roi-Tan, like the cigar; no, my mother had nothing to do with my naming. In fact, she didn't even know she was pregnant with me until her water broke. It was the doctors at Grovner's-Group Mercy Hospital (which my mother always called "Grope-The-Girls Mercenary Hospital) emergency room that named me after Roi-Tan Cigars and, since my mother's greatest skills did not lie in her reading and writing abilities, when the county forms needed to be filled out, the doctors named me Roi-Tan Smokes. Whenever my sister or I got scraped or banged up beyond my mother and grandmothers comfort level of treatment, they would take us to Grope-The-Girls Mercenary for a quick patch-up job.

My mother hadn't explained to me why she called the hospital Grope-The-Girls but she did tell my sister. My sister declined to tell me, of course, but intimated that the free service our family got from the emergency room and other hospital services weren't exactly "free." It was paid for "in kind" by my mother and my sister in ways about which I was neither to know nor inquire. These admonitions were designed to avoid their embarrassment, not any confrontation I might have caused. You see, although I hated the doctors at Grope-The-Girls because they used to sing the television commercial, "Man to man, Smoke a Roi-Tan" whenever they saw me -- even in the waiting room, it was clear that I was not going to engage in any sort of physical confrontation with them. Among other things, I was a fat, mouth-breathing, bed-wetting, lactose intolerant, asthmatic short boy, and somewhat dependent on these guys and their free meds to make it from month to month. I'm not sure what I would have done had I officially "known" about the abuse that was inflicted on my sister and mother at Grope-The-Girls, but I suspect I would have ignored it. To this day, I have never let on that I have any clue whatsoever as to why these two dominatrix women living with me and my grandmother called the hospital Grope-The-Girls.

The summer that my grandmother enrolled me in kindergarten, she had re-named me, for school purposes, "LeRoi Thomas Stokes." The anorexic at the card table who checked all the medical documents and birth certificate information noticed the error right away. "It says here, 'Roi-Tan Smokes!'" Then she paused a beat. "Oh my, that is unfortunate isn't it? Oh, I see, Roi-Tan, err... "LeRoi" was born at Grovner's-Group Mercy Hospital. That explains it. You know what my mom and I used to call that place?"

Throughout my school days, I was known as LeRoi Thomas Stokes, or "L.T." for short, a name not too far from the one on my cruelly crafted birth certificate. It was close, but no cigar.

Part 1.

I could never understand why we always were so poor. Except for the high blood pressure and diabetes plaguing my grandmother, my mother and sister were in pretty good health, and I got my maladies treated for free, thanks to my mother and sister's "output." We ate a normal quantity of food, and the house we lived in (my grandmother's house) was paid for decades ago. My mother worked as a receptionist at a place where Mexicans stuffed cartridges and springs into pens, pens into boxes, and boxes into cartons. She also turned tricks in the trailer parked in our driveway for that purpose. It wasn't until I was eight years old that I realized that her crack habit was the black hole into which all of the money flowed.

When my mother had clients, which she called "guests," neither my grandmother nor I were permitted to disturb my mother out in the trailer. My sister was allowed to visit there sometimes, but never me. I was bored most of the time when my grandmother and I were in lock-down mode in the house, since we had to watch what she wanted to watch on TV, notwithstanding the fact that she usually fell asleep during the first commercial. That said, she would awaken instantly were I to muster the courage to change the channel. But once she was asleep, I could slowly, very very slowly, turn down the volume on the TV remote, still in my sleeping grandmother's iron fisted grasp. On summer nights, when they kept both the windows of the house and my mother's trick-trailer open for ventilation, I could hear my mother's screams as she "entertained" her "guests" in the driveway. Were my grandmother to awaken and hear my mother's screams, she would simply amp-up the TV volume and fall back to sleep.

I never knew whether my mother's screams resulted from extreme pain or extreme pleasure. But once the guests were gone and my mother would come back to the main house and join us in the living room, she didn't look all that bad. I came to presume that the screams were either fake or from pleasure. They could have been from pain, I guess, but I really didn't care. As I grew older, I got off listening to her screams. Once my grandmother was sound asleep in front of the TV, I would go upstairs to my sister's and my room, which overlooked the driveway. I would lie in bed enjoying the sound of my mother's screams. Indeed, this was one of my fondest memories; I still get off on it.

Part 2.

When my sister joined the Army, I finally had the room to myself, I stole a laptop from some geek at the community college and began chatting with strangers online. I was amazed by the amount of pornography one could see online for free. By this time, my grandmother no longer tried to shield me from my mother's trailer activities, so I pretty much could stay in my room and enjoy listening to her without interference.

The crack had screwed up my mother's body and mind to the point where most reasonable men weren't interested in her. Well, that's not true; they weren't interested in paying for it anymore. Knowing that my mother had "no limits" in the trailer, so long as she got both drugs and money by the end of the events, her clientele tended to include men and women with bizarre sexual appetites. This became increasingly true as her ability to attract normal men diminished. Many of the older men liked to stuff bits and pieces of drugs into my mother's ass -- a fact disclosed to me in a letter from my sister while she was stationed overseas with the Army. My sister's letter explained that the men did this in order to overcome the dick-softening repulsive figure my anorexic and pathetic mother's body presented. The drugs kept them hard much longer. It also made her scream louder -- something we all enjoyed. Eventually, I learned to distinguish the faked screams of pleasure from the legitimate screams of pain. I preferred the latter.

Part 3.

A few years later, my mother was actually hired by a couple in Florida to service their guests at a Super Bowl Sunday two-day BDSM party held at their enormous mansion. The man and wife who threw the party every year hadn't any children and had become bored with their lives. They formed an informal group of BDSM enthusiasts who met to employ and enjoy their proclivities whenever the mood struck a sufficient number to warrant formally announced festivities. Scantily clad girls were hired to serve cocktails and hors d'œuvres. In the basement, next to the wine cellar, the house had a special room used by the couple and, when a party was in progress, by their guests. In the center of the room stood a large wooden table in the shape of an "X". Women were strapped to the "X" and used to pleasure the couple and/or their guests. To visit the special room, guests had to be members of the BDSM club. Ordinary party guests were not aware of the room's existence. The room was equipped with various supplies and pieces of auxiliary equipment, such as sterile needles, clamps, hooks, cattle prods, candles and so on, plus more complicated plug-in-the-wall types of equipment that could stretch the girls' limbs as might a medieval rack, and other equipment that could rapidly insert and withdraw rubber prods into the girls' orifices as slowly as once a minute, or as fast as several hundred times a minute.

While planning their party months in advance, the couple decided to down-size the Super Bowl party recently. They felt it appropriate to scale back their excesses while the rest of the country was in such economic distress. Died in the wool socialists, the couple saw their continued bizarre lifestyle as dependent upon their keeping a low profile in their affluent and generally conservative community. Thus, the famous and high-priced Miami club strippers, accustomed to earning $5,000 per event, were not going to be employed by the couple for their special room party offering. Instead, the couple had settled on a local homecoming queen who said she would do it for $2,000. When her boyfriend discovered the job assignment, her protests that she was only going to do it to 'help them start their marital nest egg' fell on deaf ears. He vetoed her participation.

And that's where my mother comes into the picture. The man who delivered the couple's liquor and canned goods had met my mother when he was running a phony conjugal-visit scam for inmates at Vacaville State Prison for the Criminally Insane. He jimmied up the paperwork to make it appear the girls he would send in were the inmates' wives. Of course, the prison guards were aware of the scam, but they were compensated handsomely for the blind acquiescence. My mother had served as "wife" to some of the most psychotic inmates and it was one of them who had, in fact, impregnated her with me. The man remembered my mother and sent her a post card telling her of the job opportunity in Florida. My mother caught the next bus to Florida, only to learn that the Super Bowl game was nearly a month away. The post card had appeared to convey a sense of urgency to my mother, but it had neglected to actually state a start date for the employment. My mother was supposed to call the man for details but she overlooked that detail. But it all worked out, so I'm told, as in the ensuing month, the couple had decided to enjoy my mother in the special room without pay, sort of as an internship.

Since my mother had only enough money for her crack and a one-way bus ticket from California to Florida, during the pre-Super Bowl month, she remained in the couple's home and serviced them in the special room whenever the fancy struck them. They had cleaned her up nicely, they tell me, and had more or less cured her crack habit by getting her addicted to crystal meth. The couple's party guests expected a disease-free girl in the special room so, as it turned out, it was a good thing that my mother arrived early, so the couple could delouse her and treat her various STDs prior to party-time.

In fact, they even took her totally off all drugs and alcohol a few days before the party and, so the story goes, she looked pretty good as the big event drew near. I never learned how much the couple was going to pay my her for the job but I imagine it was at least $500, which is not bad, considering. I should call them and see if I can get the money.

Unfortunately, (or fortunately, depending on your point of view), my mother never survived those last few days before the party. The man who delivered the couple's liquor and canned goods -- the one who has sent my mother the post card -- had a young man working for him on the delivery truck. The couple had been downstairs working my mother when the delivery truck arrived and, as was their custom, they personally checked each and every item against the invoice. When a mild discrepancy had developed, the young delivery helper grew bored sitting in the cab of the truck. His boss had told him of my mother and the job and, while the couple counted and recounted the cases of whiskey, the young man wondered through the mansion looking for the special room in the basement. When he found my mother strapped to the "X" he was quite pleased with what he saw, he later told his boss. He said that my mother had explained to him that only special guests of the couple and members of some club were allowed to visit her in the special room. He said that he figured she was getting paid and so she wasn't in any position to complain if he wanted to enjoy her for a while.

He tortured and raped my mother for quite a while, but it all ended when he had misjudged the power of the "X's" stretching device. The man said he hunted around for an off switch of some kind but failed to find one before the machine ripped my mother's arms and legs from their sockets. Her skinny arms and legs just couldn't take it. The couple paid off the local police, some of whom were members of their BDSM club, so the matter was quickly and quietly resolved. I guess it's too bad she had to go that way, but at least she died clean and sober. That's a good thing. So anyway, the couple upped the price for the homecoming queen from the $2,000 to $3,000 and the boyfriend went along with the deal. I'm glad it wasn't a total loss for the couple. When I send them a letter demanding the $500 I'll see if they would send me a picture of the homecoming queen on the "X".

Part 4.

It seems to me that lately I have grown both bitter and resentful of skinny women -- particularly ones like those skinny lesbian bitches who used to visit my mother in her trailer one even the desperate men quit coming over. But I loved the way the lesbian teams used to make my mother scream out in agony as they worked her, but I always felt that their constant visitations -- nearly every night of the week -- detracted from my being able to spend quality time with Mom. A boy needs his Mom.

So now I go online and troll the skinny chicks. Once in a while I will meet one in real life, like at a party or something, but I can't get it up when I'm with real girls, even when I hit them or bite their nipples off. I prefer to whack off alone, in my room, anyway. I'm impotent for the most part these days, but I can still get off reading comic books. And I'm still a bit asthmatic and lactose intolerant. But now, oh yes.... now I create lots of different screen names for myself on various web sites and masturbate at the thought that nobody has figured out that all these so-called "different people" are actually just me! Me with a whole lot of different names. People are stupid. Particularly the skinny chicks. They think they are talking to a person ABOUT me when in fact, they are talking TO ME! It is very cool. I was thinking that such a dynamic and novel idea should be patented. But then people would only steal my idea. I have a lot of ideas.

I write this in memory of my mother. May she rest in pieces.