People in this story are all over 18. This is a work of fiction.
This is part 4.
10
We had sex two or three times a day for the next three weeks. I won't go into every detail of the rough handling my son has put me through. Sometimes I can't walk to the bathroom without him grabbing me and pulling me to the floor. Since I allow it, and do enjoy it, I let him.
Sometimes he's quick and pushes his dick, dry into me. He'll ravage me with great, generous strokes until I'm numb and sweating. Sometimes he pushes me down on my knees and whips his cock out in my face. He won't let me taste him until I beg for it. On occasion he'll throw me over a piece of furniture and tear aside whatever I'm wearing just enough to pound me doggy style. We've broken furniture, yes we have. Once in a while he'll just call my name and be available. Laying on something; naked, or close to it.
"Mom," barely a touch of sound and my skin raises goose bumps.
I would go into the room and he'd be on his bed in clean sheets draped in sunlight. I would peel back his covers to reveal his tender body. I would kiss tenderly until I found a spot I liked. Then I would suck and suck until he was quiet. His heavy hand left resting on my head, maybe stroking my hair; caressing my head or my face. My head resting on his bare hip, arm draped over his legs and holding him.
The sex was changing me, because it was so wonderful in every way. But when it ended I began to close off emotionally. It was getting harder to open up, in fact. When I was alone I would become deeply depressed. A sinking feeling of despair washed through me. For all the joy we had, there was something terrible with what we were doing and I couldn't shake that. As the revulsion took me over, I got so that I stopped enjoying everything. Even fucking him wasn't enough to pull me out of my pit.
I do enjoy pleasing him though; on some level anyway. But I couldn't release any more. We had sex for 4 days and I didn't have an orgasm. My despair grew until I couldn't hide it.
"What's wrong mom?" he asked while we were in bed.
"Dear, I can't say, I think...," I started to sob, "I think I'm a horrible person. I've become a monster for doing this to you!"
He tried to tell me I wasn't horrible, that he loved me, and we talked for a while but it didn't stop me from feeling horrible. We stopped having sex altogether after that.
11
Three days later we had a fight. Things have been tense lately. I know I'm responsible for my own mood swings but damn it all, he's not going to treat me like this in my house. The fight got out of control this time; normally we just yell and walk away. This time I punched him in his chest as hard as I could.
That son of a bitch laughed at me. I hit him again! And I hit him again! I threw my fists at him until my arms were tired. Then I screamed at him! All of my rage, weeks of angst were unloading on him and he just laughed at me. The nerve... the gall! So, I picked up his guitar and smashed it.
"Is that funny?" I shouted, "Is that fucking funny!?"
"Jesus Christ, lady, now I'm gonna whip your ass."
And I wanted him to do it. I wanted him to roll up his big fist and lay me flat for all the shit I've done to him. He pulled back his arm and I closed my eyes. Sweet oblivion, my catharsis; I put my chin up and waited for penance.
I waited, but the punch never happened. He just grabbed me by my arm and put me sideways over his knees.