Faithful readers of my main series: I apologize for the teasing diversion. I felt the need to test a hypothesis and had to take a break from gifts and girls. But rest assured, this is a one-off and won't keep me from continuing my harrowing tale of many debaucheries. Consider it a warmup for when you-know-who gets home.
For anyone who may find this depravity to their liking: please do let me know. If you supply the motivation, I promise to find the time for another go-round.
And to you, my unintended muse: I'll never claim I did this for you, but I certainly did it because of you. So I hope you're happy. And I hope you and yours don't plan on having nachos for dinner.
I need to take a shower.
Thanks & Enjoy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mom Is a Mess
I heard a crash and a cry from the kitchen and rushed downstairs.
"Fuck!"
"What happened?" I asked unnecessarily. There was a pool of soup on the floor below the microwave and Mom stood ankle-deep in chicken and dumplings.
"Fuck!" she repeated, her face twisting into a snarl of annoyance. She stomped her bare foot in frustration, splashing the cabinets and sending a chunk of carrot careening across the hardwood.
"I'll take care of it," I offered. Reaching for a drawer, I pulled out a stack of towels and went to work containing the mess. Mom didn't move; she stood quaking in the quagmire of her own creation, too livid to function. I worked in slow methodical circles around her feet, gradually mopping up her cold spoiled lunch. Standing, I went to the sink and warmed a washcloth, then returned to my task on hands and knees.
"Lift up," I said, taking hold of her bare calf. Despite her fury, she did as I asked and allowed me to clean the flecks of thyme and bits of ruined chicken from her skin. Gods, her feet were sexy. I traced each knob and knurl, slipping fingers between her toes and along her graceful arch. With focused effort and much regret, I set her free lest she discover my perverted delight. Satisfied with the job, though wishing she'd spill something else, I looked up from my crouched position and committed what would perhaps be the most breathtakingly profound action of my life. There, not two feet from my awestruck visage, was the glowing dome of satin-wrapped pussy. Short dark hairs poked through the shiny white fabric, spoiling an otherwise perfect picture of Mom's secret feminine gifts. I lingered, unable to shake my eyes from the stolen glimpse up her skirt.
"Thanks, Jax. I can't believe I did that." Mom glanced down, swinging her hips to the side and swaying her hem away from my immoral gaze. We made eye contact and
surely
she knew the sight I'd just beheld, etched as it was for eternity in my mind.
I stood, my face growing hot. "Are you alright?" I asked, hoping a distraction would alter the course of her thoughts.
"I'm fine," she sighed. "I just wanted to have a quick lunch. I have to get to work."
"Sit." I indicated toward the table. "I got this." I watched her shoulders slump in resignation as she accepted my help, dejectedly if not gracefully gliding toward the dining room and pulling out a chair. I joined her minutes later, two steaming bowls in hand.
"Here, eat," I said, glancing down at her forlorn face, her cropped sandy hair shading a pair of pretty made-up eyes that screamed sadness.
"It's alright, Mom. It's just soup," I said, sitting opposite and hoping to lift her spirits.
"It's not that," she said with a heavy sigh and set to eating her lunch in a depressed funk.
I knew, of course. Nothing was going right for her. It seemed nothing ever had. She was a single mother stuck in a job she could ill-afford to lose or leave with no chance of betterment and no man to comfort her in her misfortunes. I owed her everything; she toiled endlessly to afford my meager tuition and never asked for more than that I succeed where she had failed.
Mom was a mess.
My own course had been set in large part because of her travesties, not in spite of them. Divorced at thirty, she'd crossed the country to flee a toxic family and bitter memories. A decade later, she'd forced me into the local community college with the demand that I make something of my life. I'd never done well in school, but I did show an inexplicable aptitude for numbers. So I enrolled in any mathematics class that struck my fancy and somehow managed to capture the attention of my statistics professor. Home for the summer, I was continuing my studies at his behest and interning remotely as an analyst for a small startup.
But this isn't a story about me. At least not entirely.
Mom had few friends and her job at the local diner seemed only to bring her into contact with the type of men who had but a singular objective in mind. And once they'd achieved that goal, little thought was left for her. I'd seen it a dozen times in recent years and yet she still persisted, hoping incomprehensibly that Prince Charming could be found in the dregs of a greasy spoon beside a neglected highway sitting behind a plate of soggy fried potatoes and a sloppy burger. Her tenacity at persisting through it all was a great source of my own inspiration and I'd never sought to let her down because of it. It seemed her only source of comfort was that I was becoming the man she'd expected, and perhaps unintentionally, the one she needed.
Spoons rattled and I stood, taking her emptied bowl with mine to the sink. "Working late tonight?"
"Closing again," she said, a bitter twinge tainting her otherwise melodic voice.
"I'll stop by for dinner, then." Mom hated closing, that's when the weirdos came out.
"Okay. Bye, Jax. Keep your head down." I watched her leave; fetching her coat, stepping into her frayed pumps, and tossing her worn purse over a drooping shoulder before swinging out the door.
'Keep your head down' was our thing; a saying born of years of toil and bad luck. It was a cautious reminder to work hard, stay in our lane, and above all else, avoid trouble. It's the mantra that got us through the most difficult years after we'd set off together on a path of uncertainty without a safety net or even a bank account with a positive balance. I often wished I could remember more of those early times because what little I ken painted an entirely different picture of the woman to whom I owed everything.
Mom was fierce back then, even fearless; pissed off at the world and determined to carve a piece off for me and her and hold it up by the balls screaming in victory. But it all came slowly crumbling down as a monotonous reality set in; the bills mounted, the broken relationships piled up, work stagnated, and hopes dissolved into a mess of failures and shattered dreams. Keeping her head down was all she could do now, lest she look up and see the shambles she'd made of her life. Or more to the point, that life had made of her. I longed to have the Mom of my early childhood back; to bask in her ferocity as she tore the world a new one. But she was gone, buried deep, and I feared nothing could bring her back.
I spent the afternoon in my room, hunched over a laptop and applying myself to my studies and work as she would want. My job was quickly becoming a passion the likes of which I'd never experienced. It combined the two things I enjoyed most in life: baseball and math. I found the internship by chance, a random posting on my community college's website. It was obscure enough to draw my curiosity and after a series of phone calls and a glowing recommendation from my favored professor, I had my first paying gig. It wasn't much, but it was enough that I could occasionally spoil Mom and lift a small burden from her hunched shoulders.
The startup I worked for was building a fantasy baseball app. It was a shot in the dark in an industry already crowded beyond reason. But the job was fun and I was being paid to do something I enjoyed, which was more than I could say for Mom. Between a handful of online classes, I filled my time crunching numbers, analyzing baseball statistics, and devising new ways to slice and dice a mind-bogglingly complex array of data. The surprising depth of the math behind such a simple sport was what held my interest. Who knew hitting a ball with a stick had anything to do with higher order mathematics?
I tinkered away, coding a script to run an analysis and test a theory that I'd had kicking around in my head. If it proved true, I may finally have my first contribution to add to the small company that placed their trust in a young unproven kid they'd never met. The function churned on my screen and spat out an error. Bah! Fucking Python!
I had taken a couple of programming classes in my first quarter, thinking it may be the field I could find success in. The introductory lessons were far from enjoyable and I struggled mightily making the infernal machines do as I demanded. But it was a necessary evil; pen and paper were no longer good enough and to get to the bottom of complex statistics using huge sets of data, I had no other option.
My stomach growled and drew my attention to the clock on my laptop. Six hours had passed since lunch; gone in a blink, it seemed. That sort of focused obsession is what kept me coming back, frustrating code aside. I hadn't even considered the glimpse I had stolen of Mom's panties, though it came back then in a flood of hormones and misdirected teenage lust. I shook my head, futility attempting to rid my mind of its incestual notions.
I stuffed my laptop into my backpack and bolted downstairs, hoping I hadn't missed the bus. With seconds to spare, I hopped inside and swiped my student pass through the slot, smiling at the driver who grunted and paid me no mind. Three stops later, I rang the signal and waited until the doors fanned open. Jumping onto the street, I turned up the dirty sidewalk and walked two blocks to the town's only late-night eatery.
I nodded at a couple of old-timers seated at the counter and tucked into a booth. The scent of rancid grease and stale coffee hung heavy in the air, but it was a smell that reminded me of Mom and that made it bearable, if not enjoyable. I pulled out my laptop and continued my work, oblivious to the familiar diner and its wrinkled inhabitants.
"Hi hun, the usual?" Mom asked in her practiced sing-song tone.
"Please," I said, looking up and smiling at her. She looked tired. "Long day?"
She nodded. "Stacy's out sick so I'm all by myself aside from George."
