Confessions of a Motherfucer

Interlude

"Okay, Marilouise," I thought, laying on my son, spent, feeling his semen leaking, feeling my nipples so hard they hurt, knowing, deep down, that my life was changed, "what now?"

And I had no answer to that.

"What?" I asked myself, "Do you think you're in love?"

And I smiled.

"Oh, fuck," I said to myself, "You are, aren't you?"

He nipped my earlobe and I jumped.

"Going STEADY for Christ's sake!" I said to myself, "What are you? 13?"

His breath came in little warm zephyrs as he whispered, "I love you, Mom."

"Oh, Jesus Christ, now you're fucking crying?" I said to myself.

"And I love you too, Honey," I said aloud.

And God help me, I meant it. Not in the way of a mother saying "I love you" to her son as she tucked him into bed or sent him off to his first day of school. I meant it as a woman, head over heels, crazy, stupid in love.

His hands "Your son's hands, Sluterella,"

my conscience's voice, my aunt's this time reminded me, were exploring my back and I could feel my skin tighten as he raised goosebumps wherever he touched.

"Are you crying?" he asked.

"I'm just being a stupid woman," I said.

He pushed me up, separating us enough that our eyes could focus.

I think I'm reasonably attractive but I know that I'm not one of those lucky women who are pretty when they cry. My eyes would be swollen. My nose would be red and running and surrounded by swollen sinuses. And if I opened my mouth, thick mucus-laden saliva would connect my upper and lower lips. And knowing how hideous I looked, I started crying even harder.

He didn't say anything but the pressure on my back was irresistible as he pulled me down for a kiss.

It was a sloppy kiss. It was slick and wet and salty. When I felt his tongue probe and meet mine I felt a rush of, well, "fear" is a good word. I was afraid he'd pull away, disgusted by the feel and taste of my mouth.

But he didn't. He held me to him, his fingers digging into my hair, and his tongue was a wild thing, probing and tasting.

I felt him, against me, getting hard and I was suddenly desperate for him.

I moved in that way every woman knows from her first menses and took him into my body.

And there it was again, that perfect fit. That flawless match. I was filled exquisitely, that vague emptiness that every woman knows was gone.

"Oh, God, Honey, give your old Mom a good fuckin' now," I said, thrusting my hips to meet him.

"No," he whispered, "but I'll make love with you."

I was glad I said "Yes," that I'd go steady with him.

Interlude

Finis

"Oh, God, Honey, give your old Mom a good fuckin' now," she said.

"No," I said, pulling her down so I could breathe the next right into her ear, "but I'll make love

with

you," emphasizing the "with."

"Oh, Jesus," she breathed softly, and I realized she was crying.

There was something about it that got to me. This was not just fucking as we had done before. This wasn't me wanting to drain the old dragon. This was truly making love. And I liked it.

But it wasn't what she wanted. Well, what she needed.

"Harder," she said, her hips thrusting against me.

I tried to find a middle ground. I pulled out slowly, held that position, kissing her as her hips bucked and thrust, trying to reach me, and then ramming into her.

"Honeyyyyyy," she cried, "please, HARDER."

I pulled out and SLAMMED into her hard enough that it hurt when our pubic bones crashed together.

Her breath caught and she whispered, "Yessssssssssssssssss."

I dug my fingers into her hair and twisted, drawing a cry from her.

"Mom," I said, holding still inside of her, "why?"

"Fuck me, Honey," she said, her voice thin, reedy, her tone desperate, "Fuck me HARD. We'll talk later."

I twisted my fingers in her hair harder and she hissed, "Yessssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss."

"Mom?" I asked, holding her eyes.

"DO IT!," she cried, and the look in her eyes can only be described as batshit crazy.

And, well, if we're being honest here, I joined her in Bedlam.

I twisted my fingers in her hair until she cried out and then SLAMMED into her again.

"Is THIS what you want?" I yelled.

"YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!" she yelled back.

She screamed and I caught it with my mouth covering hers as I SLAMMED into her again, my fingers in her hair holding her helpless.

"Like THIS you cunt?" I whispered directly into her ear as I twisted and DROVE into her, deliberately trying to hurt her now.

"YEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!" she cried.

Okay, I'm not proud of how I handled it but, well, all I can say is sometimes you get, as they say, "swept up in the moment."

I don't know how long it went on, that first time when I found out the whole story. I kept my fingers wrapped in her hair, twisting and hurting her. And I kept up that brutal rhythm, slowly pulling out and then BANGING into her, thrusting as hard as I could, our bodies meeting with an audible splash the way she was flowing and a meaty smacking sound.

With each thrust, she would cry out, "YES," or, "LIKE THAT," or, more often, "HARDER."

And I would whisper my question into her ear. "Like that, whore?" "Like that, bitch?" "Like that, you slut?"

She would say "Yes."

When she came the first time I was sure she had just lost bladder control. She sprayed down my thighs and I felt the sheet sodden under my knees.

"AGAIN!" I yelled, driving into her.

I have no idea how many times she came like that. At the end, she was just whimpering a little and her body would just twitch. The rhythm was so slow, each thrust a disparate event, that while I felt those pressures deep in my belly building, but there were none of those final rapid thrusts that would put me over the top.

When I finally came, meeting her little twitch with my ejaculation, it was almost anticlimactic. Oh, it was good, don't get me wrong, and it lingered. Those muscles deep in my belly contracted and evolution's demand was met as I pumped seed deep into her. But I was as exhausted and as sore as she was and it was almost a relief to have it over.

We lay there, afterward, side by side, panting, hell,

gasping

, getting our breathing under control.

After a while, and no, I can't define "a while," it was that kind of afterward, I felt her fingers in mine. That was our only movement for a while.

Finally, she released me and rolled over, showing that odd athleticism she did sometimes, and grabbed the vodka bottle that was almost always on the bedside table. She did a situp, smooth, I could see her doing that in her gymnastics gym as a 13-year-old champion and then took a long drink from the bottle.

"Here," she said, smiling and offering me the bottle.

"Mom," I said, smiling, "you know I don't drink much except beer."

"Here," she said again, offering the bottle, "take a belt. You'll want it after what I'm going to tell you."

So I sat up, not nearly as graceful as she had been, and took a drink.

"Take another," she said, smiling.

The alcohol was still burning but this seemed to be serious so I took another. It burned and I could feel it almost instantly.

She pressed me back, then, putting the bottle on the bedside table, and laid down on her side, propping her chin in her hand and holding my eyes.

She held that position for several seconds, an almost uncomfortable quiet, and then opened up.

"I have Huntington's Disease, David," she said and the first thing that flashed through my mind was the TV series

House

and Olivia Wilde as "Thirteen." That formulated most of what I knew about that disease and I felt the sudden heat in my bowels as my adrenaline glands squeezed down, flooding my system with the urge to run away. "Fight or flight" is the term.

"No," she said with that strange telepathy we shared sometimes, and in an unbidden

non sequitur

I wondered if all mothers and sons shared that sort of secret communication, "You don't have the gene. I had you tested as soon as I was diagnosed."

She smiled, a sad smile, I guess I could say she "smiled wanly."

"Don't worry, Honey," she said, "you have a long, happy life ahead of you but you'll have to be careful if you want to have children."

She lit one of her

Kools

, reminding me that she was a rarity these days, who smoked.

I realized she was giving me time to "process," as they say.

"And?" I asked, at a loss what else to say.

"The disease is taking away my ability to feel things," she said, laying back, the ashtray on her belly, blowing a stream of smoke straight up at the ceiling, "that's why I kept saying 'harder.'"

"Isn't there something they can do?" I asked although I knew the answer.

She chuckled, that deep throaty chuckle I liked to hear, full of mirth.

"Remember last summer when I spent an hour every morning in the bathroom throwing up?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said, smiling a little, "I thought you were pregnant."

She chuckled again.

"Yeah, I figured you did," she said, "I was in a clinical trial. A drug that showed promise. I'm not sure how well it works, maybe it will be released eventually, but my morning pukefest was a side effect."

"Did it work?" I asked.

"They said I was showing a fraction of a percent in slowing the progress but, Jesus, I couldn't feel sick all the time so I dropped out," she said.

I rolled up onto my side and laid my hand on her belly, just above the ashtray. Not a sexual advance, just a human touch. It seemed appropriate.

"Mom," I said but she lifted a hand quieting me.

"Honey," she said, "I've accepted it. I'm going to live my life on my terms. I'll be your whore and slut and cumdump and whatever else you called me," I cut her off then.

"Mom, it felt like that's what you needed," I said

She smiled then, a happy smile.

"Oh, Honey," she said, "it was, and thank you. But you're missing the point."

I kissed her. Again, it seemed appropriate.

She was smiling when I moved far enough for us to focus on each other.

"What's that?" I asked, not at all sure I wanted to know the answer.

"David," she said, and something in her tone told me we were there now, we were to whatever it was she wanted to say, and that it was important to her, "you're the only one I can trust with this. I didn't plan it," she giggled. "Hell, you started it when you sneakfucked me, but we're here now and I trust you and if you can't do it I'll have to find someone who will."

"Oh, fuck," I thought, "she's going to ask me to kill her when the time comes."

Again there was that communication without communicating.

"Oh, God," she giggled, "no, honey. When the time comes, and I'll know it, I'll take care of it. I wouldn't lay THAT burden on you."

"What then?" I asked.

She held my eyes for a long ten count.

"I need you to give me sensations," she said.

"Huh?" I said. Okay, sometimes I'm a fucking idiot.

She giggled.

"Like what you just did, David," she said, "That was special. I felt every bit of it, Honey."

"You mean like," but she stopped me.

"No," she said, eyes big as they met mine, "Don't tell me. Surprise me."

She reached up and touched her head, wincing a little as she rubbed her scalp where I had pulled her hair so hard.

"I need to FEEL things," she said, "and it's getting harder and harder."

Okay, I'll admit it, I'm ashamed of myself.

But I got hard, almost instantly, as images flashed through my mind.

My palm slapping her cheek hard enough to snap her head around.

My hands finishing tying the ropes that held her immobile, face down on the bed, spread eagle. I could almost feel the belt in my hands.

My mouth open in laughter as I watched her being gang raped.

Forcing her to her knees with my fingers wrapped in her hair and dragging her to a faceless man, making her suck his cock.

My hands spreading her ass cheeks and then pushing my hand into her while she screamed. Maybe in pleasure, maybe not.

I TOLD you I was ashamed, but I'm being honest in this memoir and there it is.

Ashamed or not, my dick was hard.

I reached over and took the cigarette from her fingers, stubbed it out, and placed the ashtray on the bedside table.

I swung my leg over her to straddle, and scooted up, drawing little "ooofs" as my weight settled on her belly with each little move forward.

"Push your tits together," I said, trying for a "snarl" although I'm not sure I pulled it off, "give me something tight to fuck. Not like that stretched-out thing between your legs."

She smiled, laid the heels of her palms where her breasts rose from her chest, right at her ribs, and pressed them together hard enough that she groaned a little. She was pushing hard enough that her nipples were distended.

I moved forward and pushed my erection between them.

"Hold them tight," I said, "I don't want them flopping around."

She smiled and pressed harder.

And I titty fucked her until I came on her face.

This wasn't making love. This was fucking, plain and simple.

I'm not proud. Okay, I'm ashamed of how I handled that day of revelations, but there it is. And on some level, I

was

doing exactly what she wanted. What she

needed

.

My ejaculation was thin and watery. Well, it

was

my third time.

But she seemed happy. She smiled and said, "Thank you, Baby."

I reached up and touched where my semen had her left eye closed.

"I'll try, Mom," I said.

"I know you will, Baby," she said, "now here," and she brushed her nipple across my lips.

I chuckled.

"Pervert," I said as I latched on.

"Harder," she whispered.