Confessions Of A Motherfucker Ch 09

Interlude

My hand, as I lifted it, was still steady.

I felt the smile spread across my face.

"Ear to ear," I thought.

This cannot be a cure, can it? But of course, it can't. It's probably something psychosomatic.

I smiled as I thought of a T-shirt I got from one of the dozen specialists I had been to since I was diagnosed. "The body achieves what the mind believes," it read.

"Well," I thought, "if all it takes is the occasional strapping from my son, I'm good with that."

He was lying there, his lips almost touching my breast.

God, he looked so sweet, so innocent there. But then I remembered that feral, predatory look on his face as he swung the strap, experimentally at first, getting the feel of it.

But my hand wasn't trembling and I used it to brush a stray hair away from his forehead.

"Thank you, my beautiful boy," I said, smiling as I drifted off again.

Interlude Finis

When I woke she was smiling at me, lying on her side, her chin propped in her palm.

"You are a beautiful sight to wake up to," I said.

Yeah, it was flattery, almost automatic from me, but it was true too. She was disheveled. Her hair was a mess. Her makeup was mostly gone except for a bit of smeared eye shadow and mascara on one side. She tended to drool a bit in her sleep and the corner of her mouth had a little crust.

"And you are a wonderful flatterer," she said, giggling a little but kissing me when she said it.

I caught her hand, held it at the elbow, and watched.

"Steady as a rock," she said.

I grinned, kissed her, and used that leverage all of those hours in karate dojos had taught me to roll her onto her back.

I slipped inside of her, naturally fitting, no guidance with my hand or hers was needed. We fit. Hell, we matched, and she sighed, a deep sigh of relaxation, of contentment, and kissed me back when I brushed her lips with mine.

Our joining lingered. Our "I love yous" were whispered at first and louder as our mutual excitement increased. She cried "I love you" as she came, an almost gentle orgasm, our legs locked together, her fingers digging into my back, my lips kissing that soft place at the hinge of her jaw just below her ear.

I felt the tension slowly drain from her body, and I held still, letting my own body relax but staying hard inside of her.

We lingered like that, basking.

The monster in my head frowned, but he knew his time would come.

Mom's hand remained still for a week. I attended my classes and then, when I got home, would spend time in the basement, working on what I had dubbed in my mind the

Therapy Room

. It was coming along nicely I thought. I had built a pillory that would make the Puritans in colonial New England proud. The

Spanish Donkey

was under construction and coming along nicely. I had worked out the pulleys and cables and hooked up a small winch rated at 8,000 pounds, something with plenty of power to do whatever I wanted with her body. A small water line ran along the main beam where the pulleys were bolted and terminated right at the point where the cable made its final descent from the beam. I experimented and found that the water would, as I had hoped, follow the cable. I could see, in my mind's eye, how it would work, dripping down her wrists onto her head, adding a special level to her discomfort.

I smiled.

On one wall a board, painted bright white, displayed the collection of devices I was accumulating. The place of honor, center top, was reserved for that first switch she cut. The rest of the board included cuffs, a big coil of soft nylon rope, starter cord for power lawnmowers if you care, and, my personal favorite, a buggy whip.

The buggy whip was a thing of beauty, almost art the way the long braided, semi-rigid rod dipped with another foot and a half of braided leather. It rippled and flowed in the light. It drew my eye and drew my hand whenever I was down there and I was getting very good with it. I could hit a sticky note with it now, ten times out of ten, hard enough to dent the paper but not tear it. My dick got hard as I pictured the way it would raise little welts on her body when I used it.

I bided my time.

It was Wednesday, a week later, when she got home, with her shoulders slumped, obviously sad and upset.

Even as a student, I wasn't completely oblivious.

"What happened?" I asked, holding and kissing her, "Somebody die at work?" a real possibility since she owned that nursing home and she always took it hard.

"No, Honey," she said, giving me one of those wan smiles.

She pushed me away, looked into my eyes with tears running down her cheeks, and held out her hand.

It was trembling in that oddly rhythmic way I would come to hate.

I wrapped her in my arms and just held her while she cried. I said the sort of things you said in cases like that. "It's okay," I said although it, manifestly, was most certainly

not

okay. "I've got you," which was true. "Dave's here," another truth.

She pushed me away and I only caught a glimpse of her face, running mascara making dark streaks down her cheeks and clear mucus from her running nose hanging in a thick string from her chin, before she turned and went to the dining room saying, "Stay there."

The monster in my head started dancing with joy as I watched her carry one of the dining room chairs back to me. She placed it, carefully, in the middle of the room, came to me, and said, "Please, Honey, make it stop."

The monster danced and I said, "Stay right here," and went into the basement. From that rack where I was displaying my growing collection of discipline aids, I selected the

Slapper

. It looked like a black leather ping-pong paddle with a slightly overlong handle. I hadn't used it on her, hell, I hadn't used any of my toys yet, and my dick got hard as I took the handle in my hand.

Back upstairs, after carefully locking the door, I didn't want her to see what I was preparing until I was ready, I liked that she was still standing beside the chair, her head hanging,

I moved behind her and whispered, "Don't look at me."

My hands went around her and I found the button on her uniform pants. Her breath caught as I unbuttoned and then unzipped them.

"Don't look at me," I said again as I worked the pants down, just enough to expose her ass, the waistband of her panties just below her

gluteal sulcus

, that line where her ass met her thighs.

I moved around the chair and sat, watching her face, liking that she was obeying, her eyes were focused on a spot on the wall.

"Assume the position," I said and she breathed a deep sigh, I thought it was probably a sigh of relief, as she bent forward to lay across my knees, still fully clothed, even wearing her glasses and shoes, her ass the only thing exposed.

"Now," I said, trying for a pedantic, a teacher's, or maybe a doctor's voice, "this is a temporary fix but I think it will get us through until Friday night."

I caressed her ass, making her squirm a little.

"If you scream, I will stop," I went on, "and you will count. There will be ten strokes."

I dragged my fingertip very lightly up her asscrack and there was no reaction. Her sensitivity was blunted.

I gave her no warning.

I gave her no warmup.

The first strike was hard, hitting right at her cleft, leaving a red mark on each cheek right where she sits.

The way the slapper is made there are two layers of heavy leather with a third, lighter layer between. The layers serve to cushion the blow a little, but the layers mean that when I hit the loud crack was almost like a gunshot.

She squirmed and cried, "ONE!"

In my head, the monster drooled and giggled.

The "treatment," I really wasn't thinking of it as a spanking although the thing in my head certainly was, lasted about fifteen minutes. I gave her time to relax between each stroke. Along with the monster, though, I did enjoy the

saltare doloris

, the dance of pain she did between strokes. I had forbidden her the

canticum doloris

, the song of pain, but her soft groans and sharp hisses as she danced and groaned were almost as beautiful.

After she cried "TEN!" I allowed her to rest across my knees.

The womanscent of her arousal was thick in the air and my cock reacted to it. I was hard and throbbing against her.

"Okay," I said after she was fully relaxed, "stand up."

She stood.

"Show me," I said.

She took a deep breath and held out her hand.

When she saw that it was steady she sobbed and whispered, "Thank you."

I grinned. The monster grinned.

"Wash your face," I said, "We're going on a date night."

She took the step to close the distance between us and kissed me. I wet, slick, slightly sloppy kiss. A very good kiss.

"Make love to me," she said.

"Later, Wench," I said, chuckling, "Now wash your messy face and put on something sexy. I need dinner and a drink."

She grinned then and said, "Give me ten minutes."

It was really more like a half hour, time I spent on the xBox, killing Japanese soldiers in a World War II game.

I was deep into the game when she said, "Well."

I looked up and literally dropped the controller.

What she had on put any "Naughty Nurse" Halloween costume to shame.

Her face was more heavily made up than usual. Between a heavy purple eye shadow, overdone liner, false eyelashes I had never seen before, scarlet lipstick, and oversized hoop earrings, she not only looked like a Naughty Nurse, she looked like a Naughty Nurse working in a whorehouse.

Rather than the white scrubs she almost always wore to work, she had on a classic nurse's uniform, the white dress with the notched collar and short rolled-cuff sleeves. The single button, just above her navel, made it obvious she had no bra on. The material was some sort of clingy stuff, the word "Jersey" came to mind although I wouldn't vouch for that very hard, which obviously irritated her nipples. They were distinct, hard little bumps, reminding me of that famous Farrah Fawcett poster. The skirt ended barely below the fork of her legs and when she moved the barest wisp of very sheer material covered her pussy. The suspender straps of her garter belt, four to the leg, showed, with the little wire and button attachments on display, holding up the sheer white nylons with a ruler-straight seam up the back. Her "sensible" nurse's shoes had been replaced by white stiletto heels with ankle straps.

When my eyes completed my slow inventory, nurse's cap (and where in the hell had she got THAT?) to shoes she giggled softly and did a quick turn. When the skirt flared I could see that her panties were a buttfloss bikini thong and the red marks from the slapper were very obvious.

"Where? When?" I asked, well, started.

"I thought it would be nice to be shown off sometime," she said.

"Even these?" I asked, smiling and patting her ass.

"Especially those," she said.

I opened my Uber app and got a car coming.

"You look like you're for sale," I said.

"And would you?" she asked.

"Would you like me to?" I asked.

She giggled and said, "I know I taught you better than that. You don't answer a question with a question. Now, would you?"

"No," I said, being honest with her, "You're mine and I won't share you."

I was surprised when her shoulders sort of slumped.

"Oh, shit," I said, "You wanted me to say yes."

"It might," she said, avoiding my eyes, "be a new sensation."

I cupped her chin in my hand, forcing her to meet my eyes.

"You're mine," I said, "but maybe, if you're a good girl, we can try something like that."

She smiled, kissed me, and said, "As you wish."

Date night was dinner and dancing. We had dinner at a local seafood house,

Ocean View

if it matters although we were well over a thousand miles from the nearest ocean. She had lobster. I had the shrimp sampler. We shared a bottle of the house wine.

Dancing was at a Club we knew in Golden, a place that featured country music and cowboy hats. The women tended to overflow their tank tops and the men tended to wear tight western-cut shirts with pearl snaps and pointed shoulder panels.

I liked, very much, the way Mom drew looks, and I'm pretty sure she put a little extra swing into her ass as we found a table. I got a pitcher of beer, unsurprised that the bartender who was almost falling out of her "uniform" of bib overalls cut so short that her

gluteal sulcus

was on display didn't ask for an ID. I've always looked, you know, "mature."

We watched the line dancing for a couple of dances and just sort of people-watched. I was struck by the way the place seemed to attract age-gapped couples. On the dance floor a skinny granny who just HAD to be 70 danced with a young man I guessed at about one-third her age. At a table, a fat man who I guessed had three-quarters of a century under his belt was being attended to by a 20-something girl who would have gone unnoticed in any of my classes. I thought our age gap wouldn't be noticed.

I was surprised when a ridiculously handsome man, a little older than me, leaned past Mom and asked me, "Okay to dance with your girl?"

I grinned at him and then at her.

"Sure," I said, giving an airy wave.

Mom's eyes were big as she took his hand and he led her to the dance floor.

I laughed.

The band's singer was doing a passable version of Conway Twitty's

Slow Hand

and as they stepped into the dance in the classic slow dance positions, his left hand out, taking her right, her left hand on his shoulder and his right on her hip, his hand started doing a slow exploration.

I loved the whistles I heard from somewhere when his hand slipped down to her ass, lifting her skirt, and showing her ass with its distinct red marks.

Mom and the cowboy came back to the table, hand in hand.

"Okay," he said, grinning, "How much?"

I met his eyes, locking my best poker face on, the one that was helping me get through college.

"Prime costs, my man," I said.

Mom's eyes got huge.

He grinned, "I expect so," he said, "How much?"

I grinned, my best "gotcha" grin, the one I use when the cards have turned up right.

"Five thousand for the night," I said, holding his eyes, "that includes unlimited vaginal and oral sex and a happy wake-up," I was making this up as I went along, "Extras are, well, extra."

"Extras?" he asked.

"Oh, you know," I said, leaning back in my chair and crooking my finger, beckoning Mom to come stand by me, "special things. Anal," and I rubbed her ass, "She likes that but the market says I can upcharge. Or maybe you'd like to spank her," I used my hand to guide her, turning her to face me, and then I lifted her skirt to show those red circles on her ass, clearly visible with the thong she wore.

I saw him break.

"Well, shit," he said, "too rich for my blood," and headed to another part of the bar.

"You really would have sold me, wouldn't you?" Mom asked.

I held her eyes for a very long ten count.

She smiled.

"Oh, Mom, you whore," I said.

"Take me home, Baby, please," she said.

I grinned and said, "Sit. I'm not leaving twenty dollars worth of beer sitting here."

She sat, perched on the edge of her chair, almost dancing in her excitement.

"I can smell you," I said.

I watched as she bent at the waist, her hands disappearing under the table, and squirmed. She was smiling as she pulled her panties from under the table, held them under her nose, and inhaled deeply.

"I can too," she said, holding the panties under her nose as she watched me finish my beer.

"And you call

me

perverted," I said, chuckling.

I finished my beer, scooted, and stood, offering her my hand.

"Okay, Sluterella," I said, "Come on, I'll take you home."

I had paid cash for our drinks so there was no need to settle up.

She stood and handed me the panties.

"Get my money maker swinging," I said, "Let's advertise."

I don't know when she had perfected it, but the walk was the same one I had seen one time in a movie in which the heroine was a streetwalker. She didn't just "walk." She "strode." She exuded sex and availability with each step.

I suppose I should have seen it coming, but I was excited and, well, probably a little drunk.

I heard the slight crunch of gravel and turned before they could close the distance.

"I don't have five grand," the cowboy said, "but I do have two friends and we're going to have some of that."

My last karate teacher, well, my last

Hapkido

teacher if you want to pick a nit, was a big Korean who had drilled into me, well, into everyone in the class, that if you must fight, hit first, hit hard, and keep hitting until the threat is eliminated. I had never been one of the guys who wanted to give demonstrations of how high I could leap or how flexible my body was. I had always concentrated on simple power and speed.

I didn't hesitate.

It's called something in Korean, something in Chinese, and something in Japanese, all of which terms I had learned at one time and promptly forgotten. In simple English, it's a side kick and my go-to move. There are four separate stages to the move although when done properly you can't tell. In stage one, the leg is raised to 90 degrees from the line of the spine, the knee is bent, foot pointing straight down. The foot is bladed, the toes turned up. The big bone of the heel becomes the striking object. In stage two, the leg is extended, the heel finds its target, and the full force of the quadriceps muscles, the most powerful muscles in the body are behind the strike. The body pivots on the off foot, adding the full mass of the body to the force of the blow. Stage three, return to the Stage one position. Stage four is to return to a fighting stance.

In reality, the whole operation takes only a tiny fraction of a second.

These were three guys a bit bigger than me, a bit older, and probably more experienced than me, and, well, it was my fucking MOTHER they were threatening.

I took the little shuffle step, you will never see a serious fighter do that crossed legs move they like so much in the movies, and the strike was accurate. My heel hit precisely the middle of his kneecap and ended about six inches behind it, his weight was on that leg locking it so that my strike stretched and tore various things in that fragile joint.

And just like my Hapkido teacher taught me, the fight was over.

Well, I was riding an adrenaline high so I dropped back into my fighting stance, knees bent sharply, almost a crouch, right leg forward, hands loose at my sides. I was pumped up when I yelled, "OKAY, WHO'S FUCKING NEXT?!?!"

The two other guys were bent over the fallen hero.

I called up the Uber app and ordered a car.

"Okay," I said, approaching the three carefully, "Here's the thing. Mary, here, really IS a nurse so if you'd like she can look at him. If you want to continue the fight that's up to you."

The oldest of the three, and by oldest I mean maybe 25, still pretty young, looked up at Mom and said, "Please. We won't try anything."

Mom looked at me and I nodded, keeping a wary distance, ready to attack if I needed to.

But I didn't.

They were done.

The guy I kicked was lying on his side, holding his damaged knee in his hands, making what can only be described as a "keening" sound."

Mom knelt beside him and ran her hand over his knee.

I think I'm the only one who noticed the display of bare ass. The other guys were tending to their fallen friend.

"Okay," Mom said, in a voice I could picture assigning nurses to stations during a serious crisis, a mass casualty event, or something, "Get him to an Emergency Room right away. They'll need to stabilize this and then have an orthopedic consult. He's going to need some rehab and physical therapy, but I'm pretty sure he'll be okay. I'm not feeling any loose end in there."