A Reluctant Corruption

Sorry for the wait. This story is long. It is a sequel to 'A Reluctant Corruption II.' I would love feedback, and I hope you enjoy it.

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Monday

'It was here. I'm NOT crazy. It was right HERE!'

The brakes squeal as I slam my foot down, swerving left into the empty shopping complex parking lot. My eyes scour the abandoned strip. The dusty windows of the vacant stores and sun-bleached foreclosure signs toy with my fragile psyche.

'Zeebras knick knacks?'

I thumb the dumb phrase into my smartphone for the 50

th

time. No results.

'If only I could access the search history on my busted phone. Then I'd at least have the name of the place.'

I dial my ex. I am out of leads.

"Pick up, pick up, pick up." Rachel has been dodging my texts since dropping the truth-bomb about her aunt. That was three days ago. Three days since my father returned from Italy, and more than 72 agonizing hours since the necklace disappeared. Voicemail.

Resting my forehead against the top of the steering wheel, I feel my opportunity slipping away. Every second I waste hurts the odds that I will be able to fix things and win my mother back. And losing her will break me. The hollow void I feel is worse than any pain I have ever had, and it is only growing.

"I'm coming over. We need to talk." I text Rachel.

The midmorning summer heat creates a blurry surface fog over the streets while weaving through traffic. Even with the A/C maxed, my shirt sticks to my back and bunches up uncomfortably. Zipping past lines of cookie-cutter houses, trimmed lawns, and polite people walking their dogs and going about their happy lives...

'Fuck them.'

I skid up to the foot of the driveway and shuffle up the front pathway.

'What if her parents are home? First, I dump their daughter, then show up like a bumbling oaf demanding to speak to her?

I press the tiny buzzer nesting on the frame of the screen door. A two-cadence gong rings from within the house. When no one answers, I rap on the screen. The entry door swings open, but even through the metal mesh, I can tell it is not Rachel or any of her relatives.

"What do you think you're doing here?" Heidi Ballard spats in an obnoxiously bitchy tone shockingly reminiscent of my mother's.

Her trademark fiery red hair, crossed-armed stance, and stiff-lipped expression that she perfected in high school is intended to make her unapproachable. Staring me down, I step back on the welcome mat.

"Is Rachel here?" I cannot see past her silhouette.

"I'm house sitting, so no," she responds as though this is old news.

"Do you know where she is? She's not answering her phone."

"Yeah, I don't blame her. She doesn't want to talk to you." Heidi makes no attempt to hide her condescension.

'Like a valley girl minus the airheadedness.'

I try again. "Can I use your phone for a minute? I need to speak to her. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important."

"Like when you spoke at the party, and she left bawling? Yeah, I don't think so." She begins to shut the door.

"I know how you passed Mr. Gerupp's class," I say, burning the ace up my sleeve. As one of the biggest teases in my grade, Heidi's scandalous reputation was less an open-secret and more a jaunty tagline publicized by her wardrobe of crop tops and mini jeans. In her defense, most of her shirts would probably fit better if her girlish figure was not enhanced by a fully developed pair of 36D-size tits.

Last semester, a couple kids started a nasty rumor that our history teacher was a closet perve with a hidden cache of pictures on his computer featuring some of the girls in his classes. The married, middle-aged dude did have a habit of placing the more attractive students near the front of his lessons, but I doubt he would risk saving a personal spank bank of material on a school monitored laptop.

Heidi, precocious spitfire, ditched most of Gerupp's lectures yet still managed to pull off a B in the class. I did not know the details, but Rachel confided in me that her rebel of a friend had persuaded Mr. Gerupp it was in his best interest to excuse her absences. She did not need actual dirt to jeopardize his career. One note to the school board describing how "uncomfortable" she felt in his proximity, attached with an old yearbook photo, was wisely not the type of drama any teacher wanted to gamble with.

"Like anyone would believe you." Heidi prickles.

"I'm willing to keep your shit under wraps if you help me with mine." I press on, "I'll be gone in five minutes."

We standoff in suspense as her hand lingers on the door. Then the metal gate swings forth to reveal the sassy teen. She huffs, offers me an exaggerated glare of repugnance, and lifts her arm in mock civility welcoming me indoors.

'Didn't think I'd ever be back here again.'

The inside of Rachel's house is exactly as I recollect. The piano hasn't moved, which is a huge relief. As Heidi marches toward the kitchen to retrieve her phone, my eyes dart around for the necklace. After days of searching for it in my own home, sneaking around my parents' room, and ransacking the areas it was most likely to be hiding, I am left with nothing but my old driving permit, which had slid under the washer. The more shocking and relevant discovery was that all markings of our taboo relationship had disappeared as well. The divorce papers, her new clothes, the sex-tape... It is as if-

'Mary Poppins zapped away the goddamn evidence.'

"Here." Heidi flips me her phone.

"And not that it's my business, but what kind of idiot dumps a girl like Rachel for Jenny 'ball-sucker' Tekker? I'm surprised you didn't catch something. Her mouth is a trough of bacteria and STDs." I scroll down Heidi's contacts as she chews me out.

"Like I said at the party. I'm not with Jenny, it was a one-time thing. And it's not as if your reputation is much better." I click Rachel's name.

"Huh?"

"You've had like four boyfriends just in the last month," I mutter hastily before it starts ringing.

"Oh, I'm not slut-shaming! But any girl willing to fuck Beck Stenson on the floor of the boy's bathroom during lunch needs to rethink their hygiene."

I wave her off.

'Answer the phone, Rache.'

"Your call has been forwarded to-" I hang up and try again.

Heidi smirks. "Guess she's busy shagging some hotter dude with a bigger dick."

I reject her incessant bickering, but my heartbeat ratchets up at the mention of sex. The torrid love affair with my mother ended so abruptly that I am suffering from heavy withdrawal. The symptoms are so serious that I cannot concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes before my penis begins to stir like a hyper Labrador Retriever. I've given up closing porn browsers. I must have made new accounts to at least seven sites in the last couple days. The mounting list of smutty fetishes: older women, MILFs, moms, stepmoms, girlfriend's mom, impregnation, cheating, blackmail. Hell, even some non-consent, though I am not proud of it. None of it is enough to keep up with my voracious sex drive. I need the real thing.

Admiring Heidi's smooth, alabaster shoulders and milky white thighs, it occurs to me that I haven't been around a real woman, except for my mother, in days. My cock fidgets as I breathe in the full magnificence of Heidi's budded sexuality. Her casual summer outfit, composed of a white tube top and eye-snaring ass-imprinted yoga shorts, would only take seconds to peel off. There is only a foot of space separating us. With every small exhaling breath, her firm, prodigious tits expand gracefully outward a fraction of an inch, her puffy pink nipples form bumps in the flexing fabric. I register the thin gold chain and the minuscule cross ironically posed above her corpulent, beach ball breasts.

"Earth to asshole. Can I have my phone back? Or are you hoping to snag a pic of my boobs first?" Her pouty pink lips curl defiantly. She snatches her phone from my grip.

Girls like Heidi were the reason I ended things with Rachel. Not for their incredible personalities or because they make refined company, but universities contain nothing if not an abundance of lascivious, lippy girls looking to get out from under their parents' supervision to flaunt their barely legal, scantily clad asses for every morsel of attention they can get.

'Kiss her.'

Blood rushes to my cock like water through a firehose. My body is starving and Heidi, with her ivory-white face and Taylor Swift haircut looks like an ice cream sundae with a cherry on top. She even smells sweet. I move in. As quickly as my lips find hers and the taste of her strawberry lip balm bleeds into my mouth, the same kind I watched her apply when bored in class, my hand clamps to her left breast and gives it a rough squeeze. My palm absorbs the feel of the shirt fabric while my fingers nudge her exposed cleavage. Her large, emerald-green eyes widen into orbs as she stiffens. My other hand slides over her belly button to the V of her crotch, which I hastily begin to rub. Her legs buckle, nostrils releasing a breath of hot air as our lips graft together. My fingers continue their torment, rubbing her sex, coaxing her eyes to lose focus so I can stimulate her enough to rock against me.

'Ouch.'

My bottom lip stings as I pull away.

"Ew bit meh!" I yap.

Heidi, a little shaky in her senses, blows a mess of scarlet hair away from her face and raggedly rasps, "What's the matter with you?"

I stare at her, not sure what to say. How could I have thought that would turn out well?

'The symptoms are getting worse.'

She gawks back, astonished by my brashness. Her face is flush, but her eyes are aglow and spewing hate.

"I'm gonna go." I swivel back, stumbling over my own two feet as I hightail it out of there.

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I squeeze through the cramped garage, between my parents' parked vehicles, trying to make as little noise as possible. A month ago, it was my mother's white sedan that inevitably made me uneasy. Now, I fantasize about hurling a bat into the windshield of my father's stupid BMW.

Since his return from Italy, nothing has gone right. His newfound confidence, stabilized finances and doting wife have him loitering around the house on self-awarded sabbatical. I weighed confronting my mother about her behavioral shift, but she hardly ever leaves his side, hovering around him like a salivating fly.

Besides, it is obvious she has no memory of the past few weeks. Every look is a stiff dagger to the ribs meant to remind me how unwanted my presence is.

Despite losing the benefits of her latest shopping spree, her wardrobe still packs quite a punch. She traipses around in the skimpiest dresses and camisoles trying to entice my father. It is agony to my elevated testosterone and augmented senses. My eyes gravitate to her and follow peripherally as she cuddles up to him, all made up and smelling like an angel. The sound of her kissing his cheek is enough to exorcize me from the room so I can restrain my boner.

I thought last night was the worst. They turned in early, so I plunked down on the living room sofa to surf the channels and relax when a muffled thudding began radiating out from the insulated walls. They fuck like bunnies. It is slight consolation that I am not the only one desperate for sex. My mother's adamant attempts to seduce my father not because she wants something, but because she is permanently horny, signals an insatiability in her subconscious, even if she cannot remember why.

It's midafternoon when I step through the garage door. The whirring of the laundry room fan and the fact that my phone isn't buzzing with a thousand angry texts from Heidi lulls me into a placid state. The moment is short lived, for as I step into the hallway the hair on the back of my neck stands straight. Chills run down the length of my spine, as the subdued commotion emitting from beyond my parents' sealed bedroom door isn't punctuated with the heated staccato of irritated voices, but bedsprings.

Drawing in a breath, I trudge past their room through the hallway. The distinguishable skin hammering against skin, creaking wood frame, and thumping headboard are all variables to a math problem I wish I did not know the solution to.

"Har-har-harder!" I hear my mother shudder, followed by a splurge of hard slaps. I stop cold, penis flexing and stiffening to her behest. My yearning muscle is conditioned to respond to such requests. The barrage of groans and high-pitched yips that follows sends me into a confused state of arousal.

"MOoore! Push baby!" she pleads.

"Oh, Miranda you feel so good!" my father stutters.

"Deeper! Keep going!" she begs.

"It's all in. Uhhh. I can't last much longer!" I grimace.

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

I am in the kitchen buttering toast when I hear the door slam 30 minutes later. I lower the volume of my headphones enough to make out the squabbling pair of adults. The cadence of my mother's harping amplifies into a tantrum.

'Well, this is new.'

"You're not being reasonable," my father interjects. "I'll be at the office for a couple of hours. I'll be back before you know it."

'Finally.'

A minute later, my mother storms into the kitchen barefoot wearing nothing but a wrinkled navy-blue chemise and the pearl necklace my father gifted her upon his return. The flimsy garment practically begs me to gawk at her cleavage.

"Jesus, Fuck!" She jerks and throws up an arm to cover up when she sees me.

"When did you get home?" her tone less a question and more an accusation.

"Half hour ago," I respond with as much nonchalance as I can muster.

"Well FYI, you're on your own for dinner. I have special plans with your father tonight. You can go barricade yourself in that room of yours and do whatever you do."

'Mostly just jack off thinking about you.'

"Yeah, Dad sounded super excited as he rushed out of here a minute ago,"

I remark snidely before taking a bite of my toast.

"Don't test me, Jacob..." She mutters something about disobedience, still clutching her partially hidden bust.

My eyes follow her as she turns heel and storms back into the hall.

'What a bitch.'

Chewing my toast, I consider what to do with this opportunity. Finally, we have the house to ourselves.

'Kiss her.'

As horny as I am, I am under no illusion that my mother would ever see me as a viable partner with her current mindset. The stories that see a son seducing his mother by paying more attention to her, staring at her chest, and trying to catch her naked were as helpful as praying for a miracle. Pulling a move like that is more likely to get me committed.

'Maybe I wouldn't have to seduce her if she took off the new necklace.'

It is a theory that has ruminated ever since the old necklace went missing. I am not boneheaded enough to believe my mother would take off the gift without pretense. Just as I have no idea why she took off the first necklace. What had my father said that night? I need an excuse. An excuse to see whether removing the thin, Italian string will unlock the part of her that loves me.

Appealing to her vanity is my best course of action. A woman so fastidious about her look is ironic considering her natural beauty. If I tell her one of the pearls is scratched, she might be gullible enough to unclasp and inspect it. Bothering her in her current state is risky, but...

'Who knows how long Dad is going to be gone?'

Placing my dish in the sink and my headphones on the counter, I walk briskly to my parents' room. Pausing before knocking, I hear the low hum of water running and deduce my mother is taking a shower. An image from the first day we had sex flashes into my mind; her hands pressed against the glass wall, my fingers grasping her slippery, soft thighs, as the steam shrouded our naked bodies in a humid, incestuous fog. I twist the knob to the door and step into the carpeted room.

As expected, my mother is in the bathroom. Sure, I could have walked in on her undressing, but the memory had emboldened me with enough courage to chance my luck. Perhaps I could just get a few free minutes to do another thorough search of the room...

Ducking into the closet, I rifle through the hanging clothes, cabinets, and considerable number of pumps and slingbacks stowed on the shelves. Next, I check around the nightstand and under the dresser. Something glimmers as I flash the light from my phone under the bed. I stoop to my knees. The rushing water cuts off just as my torso squeezes precariously under the King-size frame, my arm extending blindly.

'Just a few more seconds.'

I can feel the tips of my fingers brush something cold. I spread flat on my stomach and inch the tiniest bit forward when I hear the door to the bathroom creek open. A pair of dainty feet with dark purple nails tread the surface of the beige carpet towards the closet. The whirr of the bathroom fan provides just enough cover for me to shuffle the rest of my lower half under the cramped bed space.

Spying out from the overhang of the duvet, I watch my mother, wrapped only in a white towel, saunter over, and disappear into the closet. She returns a second later outfit in hand, passing the dresser where she keeps her underwear with not so much as a cursory glance, before heading back into the bathroom. I let out a breath I wasn't even aware I was holding.

'Too close. I should get out of here while I still can.'

I don't move. My forehead sags to the floor. Three days with no leads. Turns out, the object under the bed is a quarter. I have an erection, again. The steam from the bathroom humidifies the room and as the blow dryer drones, I catch the scent of her shampoo and conditioner. She is taking her time, long enough for me to inch closer to the foot of the bed so I have a better vantage point.

She postures in front of the mirror, playfully tousling her blown-out wavy hair, and primping herself as I play peeping tom.

'How do voyeurs find this fun? It's excruciating.'

I cannot deny how incredibly sexy she looks shimmying into the black, open-back cocktail dress. It cuts off at the upper thigh, snugly hugging her hips and pressing her tits together to emphasize an already pronounced cleavage. She fusses with the straps, staring absentmindedly at her tits. Her lustrous brunette locks fan out across her shoulders.

Rubbing moisturizer into her palms she leans in and squints, applying the product onto the delicate skin around her eyes with the tip of her index finger. There is something hypnotically erotic watching how much care she puts into just her face when the rest of her is so bewitching. She wipes her hands across her chest and picks up the pearl necklace from the countertop. She holds it up, linking it around her neck so it rests smugly above her constrained breasts, mocking me.

'Well, that rules out that.'

"Not being reasonable... Who does he think he is?" she fumes to herself, sweeping a mascara brush over her naturally long lashes to complete the "smoky eye" look. She pouts and applies a coat of shiny red lip gloss over her full lips. It is the same bold, candy shade she used the day the maids had stopped by, bright and glossy enough to resonate in the dark.

Strutting out of the bedroom, she takes a clear bottle from the dresser and sprays the perfume on her wrists and rubs it into her neck, then she wanders back into the closet. When she emerges, she is sporting a pair of classy silver patterned stiletto pumps and touting a textured black clutch bag in her right hand. The juxtaposition of the dark material from her dress with her light, unblemished skin sends me into a cold sweat. At this point, it feels like my cock is getting rug burn.