I want to tell you about my son Donny. I guess I brought the whole thing on myself, but I don't regret what I did. Especially after what I found out. In truth, it's kinda funny.
I was downstairs in the laundry room, out back, washing clothes. Our weekly wash. I heard the front door open and that little bitch Cindy creep in. I craned my neck to see her, but she scampered up the stairs before I could get a glimpse. She went straight up to Donny's bedroom without so much as a 'Good Morning', as usual. My son deserves better than her, but of course I can't say so. I looked out the window at the yard. It was sunny and very windy, our scrubby dogwoods bending and shaking in the gusts. The old house was full of creaks and groans, like it was alive.
I folded Donny's clean shorts, T-shirts and pants. I put them in a neat pile ready to take up to his bedroom. I wondered what was going on up there. Hell, I knew what was going on up there. He's always been a wild one. Don't think I don't have feelings, too. Not always feelings a mother should have, either. Yeah, sometimes looking at him in the yard, playing with his pals or his stupid little girlfriends I rub myself. I'm just glad he's of age now and finished high school. I don't have to worry about the police anymore now he's settled in a job. At least not so much.
I poked around in another heap of his dirty clothes, skidmarks aplenty. But there were others, not so nasty. A pair of boxers I bought him last year. Crusty yellowish stains on the front. I picked them up and held them to my face. You have to know what you're washing off if you're going to do it right. My son's stale dried cum, in this case. I inhaled deeply, visualizing his sweet stiff cock that I caught a glimpse of just the previous week when I peeked in the bathroom as he took a shower. Jacking off as usual. Boy, what a treat to see. He has a great cock, I'm proud to say. My pussy dripped like a watering can after that. I had to change my underwear.
Anyway, so what... now I was stuck doing the laundry -- again -- while that little tramp got to play the daylight hooker with him, no doubt adding her slimy contribution to my son's underwear. I heard a thump from upstairs. What was going on up there? I needed to check. I walked softly out to the foot of the stairs and listened. Nothing. I mounted the stairs, avoiding the creaky steps - as my son had never learned to do - and listened again. Halfway up the stairs I could hear voices, one high, both faint and indistinct because of the wind outside but discernible. I stopped again to listen.
"Mom's downstairs. Be quiet."
"Who cares about that old bag? Come on, give me your cock again. It's so fat and long."
Old bag? Really? This charming exchange was followed by silence, then a very loud groan that sounded like Donny.
"Ha! Told you. Let me go clean up. I'm covered in your cum. I'm going to take a shower and wash my hair. If your mom asks why, we just played racketball, OK?"
"You can't leave me like this. What if she comes upstairs?"
"I saw her. She's busy doing the laundry. Don't be such a pussy. I'll latch the door."
A door closed, clicked, then I could hear the heavy little cow padding along to the bathroom. My bathroom with my stuff in it. She better not touch anything. Well, except maybe the hairdryer.
Leave me like this? What did that mean? I needed to check on my son. I didn't trust the little bitch. I heard the shower start. I had time. I crept up to my darling boy's bedroom door and ever so quietly turned the doorknob. I knew how to slip the latch from outside. I opened the door six inches and peeked in, ready with all sorts of smartass responses if I was caught. But it is my house, after all.
I know my son. I'm hard to shock. I love him, but that doesn't mean I'm foolish about him. He can be a little prick. And washing his crusty underpants over the years I've little doubt about his disgusting boy habits. But even I was surprised by what I saw.
My son was lying on his back, spread-eagled on the bed. He was wearing a Lynrd Skynrd T-shirt but nuthin else. Naked below the waist. Oh, wait, he still had his socks on. His wrists and ankles were attached to the bedframe by pantyhose she'd wound around the four corners. He was tied up good. He couldn't move much. She'd blindfolded him, too - a towel sweatband over his eyes, and his own white jockeys pulled over his head for good measure. But he was lying there quite serene. Not in distress.
The wind rattled against the window. He hadn't heard me.
My son is an athlete, track and field, and still competes even now he's a fireman for the Local 237. He's young and very fit. Every muscle in his body is defined; pecs, washboard abs, all the rest. I think he looks like a young Ben Affleck. I like to look at my son. I never get tired of it, like most moms I guess. But I'd never seen him like this before, even though I'd seen him jerking off over the years as I spied on him through keyholes and doors ajar. My heart started to go pitter patter. I was getting wet down there in my pants. Tingly.
