Bitch Mother.
As the name suggests, my mother is a fucking bitch.
Everything she ever did or said to me was to put me down, criticize, castigate, humiliate.
Nothing was ever good enough for her. Nothing could dare attain her imprimatur.
She was like that to everyone. Everywhere. Always complaining, always angry, frowning, inimical...
I don't think I ever saw her smile or laugh about anything.
It's probably why my father came to his senses and ditched her, when I was a teenager and able to fend for myself somewhat.
And I didn't blame him for leaving. He'd always been a solid provider, hardworking, and while he wasn't around much, being a high-ranking corporate type, he did the best he could, gave us a big house, plenty of everything and took generous care of Bitch Mother in the divorce settlement.
Not like it appeared they were in love, my mom and dad, so it was no surprise when they split...
Since I can remember they'd looked miserable and distant. Our sporadic family gatherings a painful theater of cold shoulders and silent dinners.
But I could see why she married him, with his cash, and he, her, with her looks.
For as much of a fucking harridan cunt as my mother is, nature did bless her aesthetically.
With the sleek Russian features of her lineage, Bitch Mother was a true Siberian beauty...
5'10, long legs, a perky ass, creamy white skin, perfectly symmetrical oval face and big round crystal blue eyes, golden blond hair flowing to her picture-perfect hourglass waist; her figure basically flawless, especially her firm C-cup tits and taut belly.
Bitch Mother maintained it, too, into her middle age, becoming a fitness fanatic, in the gym every day, eating kale, fruits, veg, the California diet. Never drank or smoked, which might be why she was such a cunt. Not sure if in her 48 years she'd once touched a bottle...
I didn't really know much of her past, aside from her being a former professional swimsuit, runway, underwear model.
After marrying and having me, she went back to the modeling industry as a consultant for lingerie companies.
My introduction to the work of art that is the female body was seeing portfolios laying around in her office, sometimes our kitchen table, of models in skimpy lingerie, their slim bodies sparkling in stockings, garter belts, push-up, gossamer bras, thongs...
As a little kid I didn't understand it sexually, but knew I liked the images, their curves, shapes.
Coming of age, into puberty, I began to appreciate the female form in a deeper, more profound way, sometimes stealing and wacking off to the glossy glamour shots of leggy Euro 19 year-old exotic lovelies, imagining myself thrusting into them, nestled between their impossibly long satiny legs, their legs on my shoulders...
Bitch Mother once caught me in my bathroom, jerking off to a lingerie shot I'd stolen, and she slapped me across the face and kicked me in the gut...
It was the first of many times she would hit me, slap me, throw things at me, demonstrate her feral rage.
As a youngster I took it and obeyed, but part of me knew and awaited the fateful day I would have my ultimate revenge...
The beatings left me awkward around the opposite sex. They left the subconscious impression in me that gazing at and admiring the female form, femininity was wrong, immoral.
And while I continued to beat off, the internet and its plethora of flesh shots serving my budding needs, I found myself unable to talk with girls, being shy, nervous, intimidated around them, perhaps afraid on some subconscious level they'd lash out at me like Bitch Mother.
Not that I was a bad-looking guy, though. I'd grown to 6'2, with sapphire eyes, wavy brown hair, got cut, physically fit, and played sports, eventually overcoming my shyness around women, but I only fucked the sluttiest, easiest, nastiest ratchets. I had little patience for games or courtship.
I also found a calling to voyeurism. Voyeur porn being my favorite genre of smut.
I enjoyed upskirt shots, hidden cams, for a time I planted a spy cam in my college's female locker room and would beat off to the beaming images, think about the young pretties undressing while I bitch-fucked whatever current floozie.
In addition to voyeur, I also took a liking to incest porn, fetish. Mother/Son in particular.
And not the romantic, but aggressive, angry, often non-consensual. This undoubtedly attributable to, since my earliest sexual awakenings, my carnal lust for Bitch Mother, wanting to hate-fuck her, do all sorts of horrible perverted things to her.
I'd read many stories on the net of sons fucking their mothers, watch roleplay videos, even found and spanked off to underwear, swimsuit shots of my own, younger, Bitch Mother that I'd discovered online...
Never did I think I'd actually one day be playing out my definitive fantasy...
Oh, how things change...
I'd graduated college with a degree in Computer Science (unusual for a jock, I know, but I was somewhat of a nerd inside, and many of my college bros were also nerds), and shortly after graduation my bro and I sold an app we'd developed for college students and it made us rich.
I wasn't crazy stupid Facebook rich but was well-off and able to work part-time consulting gigs, buy a big high-rise luxury condo in South Beach and live an insanely chill life.
Bitch Mother, on the other hand, wasn't faring too well.
I'd heard through the grapevine that her consulting gigs had dried up, and she'd squandered most of the divorce settlement on antiques, shopping sprees, and poor investments.
Virtually broke, she was forced to sell the house in Coral Gables and was dismayed to discover that her equity in the property had shifted to me according to the inner-workings of the divorce agreement, which she'd obviously been too stupid or lazy to read thoroughly, and I was delighted to find a most hefty sum of cash transferred to my bank account after the sale.
The following day, while sipping a mojito, chilling on my balcony, watching the Atlantic Ocean sparkle in the hot noon sun, listening to "Girls" by Lil Peep, I received a most panicked phone call...
It was from Bitch Mother.
"Hello?"
"How fucking dare you?!" An accusatory voice shrieked, my headset's audio distorting...
"How dare I what?"
"You know what you did! You stole all my money!"
"I didn't steal anything. Like I needed to steal your money?"
For the first time in my life, I felt emboldened to stand up to her, and not prevaricate, back down...
It's not like she'd done anything for me in years. I'd not taken a cent from her or my father since I finished high school and went to Miami U on a full scholarship.
Hell, I'd not even spoken with Bitch Mother since I left for college. She'd never returned my holiday phone calls or anything since freshman year, and I'd instead spent holidays, vacations with my dad and his new family or my bros, their families.
"I've not even talked to you in years, mom. Now you call me all pissed off..."
"Give it back! You don't need it. I do."
"Nope. I don't think so. It'll be a nice buffer; the capital gains, I'll have to work out, but my accountant is pretty crafty, so I'm not worried..."
"Give it back! I'm your mother! You want me to live on the street?"
"Don't you have a friend or boyfriend or somewhere to go?"
