Okay...here is a revised version of what I recall as the earliest story I ever posted on the web...at a long gone site a long time ago. It has certain sentimental value and so I decided it would serve well as my 90th posted story here at Literotica! I look forward to your comments about another "Early Ahabscribe" story, be they positive or negative.
As always, this is a work of fiction and all characters within exist solely in the story and in my imagination. Enjoy!
I unlocked the door to my room and went inside, turning on lights as I went. Nothing impressed me. It was a hotel room just like the million others out there. It had a king-sized bed and a dresser with a television bolted down to it. The bathroom/shower compartment was as plain and sterile as they all were. I unpacked my bag, hanging up shirts and pants. From my backpack, I pulled out the latest King novel and set it on the bedside table. I pulled out the large manila envelope from my backpack and started to undo the clasp again, but then hesitated and dropped it on top of the bedspread.
I pulled back the heavy curtains, allowing what little natural light the overcast day had to offer into the room. Early October in Ohio...cool, breezy and cloudy with yellow and reddish leaves skittering across the parking lot. Three floors down, I could see the little Japanese rental car I'd picked up at the airport. With the sun hidden behind the clouds, it was hard to guess the time of day and adding to the mystery was that I was three time zones behind California time. It had been a long flight in from San Diego and I'd had little rest over the last few days...ever since that damned envelope had come in the mail. A glance at the room's alarm clock told me it was almost 4:00 in the afternoon. I imagined I still had a few hours.
I picked the envelope up again and brought it over to a lumpy, armless chair by the window. Undoing the clasp, I shook out its contents. They hadn't changed...still three photographs with lurid, pornographic shots of a woman and three men...the lewdness perhaps accentuated by being black and white shots rather than color.
The first photo showed a lush bodied mature woman getting fucked by three men – hard cocks buried in her pussy, up her ass, and balls deep in her mouth – her face obscured by her hanging locks of darkish hair. The second picture showed that the woman with her face screwed up in pain and pleasure, being double penetrated by two guys while a third was ejaculating thick streamers of semen in her face. The third picture showed the same woman naked and spread-eagled on what I recognized as my parents' old four poster bed with the contents of all three men's dicks covering her face and tits...my mother's face and tits.
Although I hadn't seen her in seventeen years, as soon as I looked at the second photograph, I had instantly recognized my mother – not looking quite as old as I had expected. Mom looked happy in those pictures. She looked happier than she had ever been those last three years I'd been at home.
Mom had definitely changed. Those were still Mom's huge, out there in your face tits although I had never before thought of them in a sexual way until I looked at those pictures, but she'd tightened up her body. Mom still looked a little thick through the middle, but there was a certain muscular definition to those legs and arms, and that ass looked rock solid! I tried to remember Mom's age, recalling that Mom had been seventeen when she'd had me and I was now thirty-three. It was a bit of shock to realize Mom was now fifty years old.
On the back of the last photograph was printed in block letters, "JOANNA IS WORKING AT THE STEP RIGHT INN." I remembered the place, a slightly rowdy tavern situated on the outskirts of my hometown. Joanna was my mother's first name. Obviously, someone wanted me to know that something was terribly wrong with Mom. Who that might be, I didn't have a clue. The envelope was postmarked as coming from my hometown, but it had no return address and addressed to me in the same plain block letters that were on that last graphic picture.
I studied the pictures again for maybe the hundredth time. The men, from what I could tell were younger than me and didn't look familiar. The photos held me though as I studied my mother's naked body and the sheer wantonness and joy of her expressions. It was my mother as I had come to remember her...the image of the woman of my memories made real even if I knew those memories were more or less false...or at least unproven. Even more troubling was the fact that looking at my mother engaged in such hedonistic sexual behavior had triggered a definite male response in me each and every time I had looked at them.
I slipped the photographs back into the envelope and tossed them back onto the bed, trying to ignore the erection in my pants even as I tried to sort out my feelings about Mom...feelings I thought I had buried deep never to be resurrected again...
#
My old man died when I was thirteen. It had been a sudden death...a heart attack at age thirty, and it had shattered me and my mother. He had been my best friend. Being a young teenager, it never really occurred to me how bad his death had to have been for my mother. They had been together since they'd met in high school and had married when they were seventeen and Mom was pregnant with me. Dad had worked in a local tool and die shop and Mom had been a housewife. We weren't rich, but we'd gotten by. Mom and Dad were happy together.
After his death, I quickly decided that my mother had turned into the worst shrew in the world. Mom was forever harping on me to improve...get better grades, get better friends, have better goals...on and on and on, she never seemed to cease nagging me. Even worse was that within six months of Dad dying, Mom began to go on dates again. These were awkward events for her as she had had little experience in dating at all since she and Dad had been each other's only sweethearts. Mom never brought her dates home and I had no proof as to whether she was sleeping with any of her "dates." Still, I decided as a "worldly and knowing" teenager that Mom was a "unfaithful to my father's memory" whore.
At least that was the perspective of an angry teenager who missed his dad and couldn't see the pain his mother was experiencing. I never considered how tough it was for Mom who suddenly found herself forced to be the breadwinner, paying the bills and making sure the mortgage was paid or how lonely she might have been. I was even scornful of her taking a job as a waitress at the local coffee shop, assuming she had done it to get out and meet more men rather than that she was trying to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads without the benefit of marketable skills.
When I was sixteen, after a raging argument with Mom, I told my mother that she was a whore and that she and my stupid hometown were out of my life forever. I swiped money from her rainy day cookie jar and took the next bus for the West Coast. I swore never to look back – to cut Mom and her shrewish and whorish ways out of my life altogether. Sad to say, now I couldn't have told you the specifics of our argument even if my life depended on it. What can I say...I was your typical teenage asshole.
Years passed. I had to grow up real fast, never having considered how difficult it was to be on one's own, especially for a stupid under-aged kid, but after a few lean years I got my shit together...getting my high school diploma in a night school and I even managed to put myself through college. Once I got out, I landed a good job as a computer analyst and in general, did everything my mother had been after me to do to begin with.
Still, I never grew tired of being angry at my mother. Mom tracked me down of course, but I learned if you ignore enough letters and phone calls, eventually everyone will leave you alone. I pretended not to hear the pain in Mom's voice as she pleaded with her only child to talk to her, but I would hang up the phone without saying a word. Mom's efforts slowly diminished and finally came to a halt. In my still immature anger, I felt pleased that I'd gotten my way. You'd think I would have been happy, but the anger never seemed to fade...even as I let my adult life take over and the memories of that time began to fade.
Then the envelope with those photographs arrived. The next few nights were sleepless ones. Images of my mother being gang fucked drifted through my mind again and again. That last picture of her smiling at the camera, ropes of thick semen dripping off her face, her tongue sticking out, showing a mouthful of cum, kept appearing in front of me. Questions of how Mom came to be in those pictures, doing and apparently enjoying those acts haunted my thoughts.
My memories informed me that my mother had been a shrill harridan and that she had acted like a whore, I'd never seen anything that had actually supported that supposition. I just couldn't reconcile my memories of Mom with those images of the wanton and I had to admit, beautiful slut in those pictures.
I was surprised with how much it bothered me. I thought I had all but erased Mom from my mind and heart, holding on only to remnants of my teenage anger, unreasonable and immature though it was. I had always assumed that I would never see her again and when the day came when I got the news that she'd passed away, I'd just shrug and go on with my life. But I couldn't quite get my mind around this new image of my mother. It troubled me and for the first time I really began to wonder what the last seventeen years had been like for my mother. Had her life improved? Had it been hard? How had my dowdy mother, the epitome of nagging shrews everywhere become the woman in those lewd photographs? After a couple of days, I knew I had to go home and find out what was going on.
I had plenty of vacation time available, so the next morning, I called my supervisor and told him I had a family emergency and by early afternoon I was sitting in this hotel room on the outskirts of the town I had grown up in.
#
As dusk approached, I left my room and climbed into my little rental. I drove around a while looking at old landmarks, even passing by Mom's home – dark and apparently no one at home – the old Craftsman house still looking much as I had remembered it from all those years ago.
