Note: This is a work of fiction and is intended to delight, not offend. There are few, if any, real world circumstances where the incest situations depicted in this story would result in the positive outcomes depicted. Fictional literature is a healthy outlet to explore situations that are not possible in real life. All characters in this work are age 18 or older.
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The voice was cruel and gravelly as it echoed through the paper thin walls of my mother's house.
"Suck it bitch," he hissed. "Use your tongue. Use it good or I'll warm your butt again."
I rolled over in bed and covered my head with my pillow, as I'd done on many nights for the past three months, muffling out all but the loudest grunts and expletives.
I couldn't understand what mom saw in Max. The burly truck driver was crude, balding, and overweight. When he arrived forty minutes late for the dinner mom had made him, he smelt of sweat. By the end of the evening, he smelt of beer. In between, he spent most of his time sitting on mom's sofa flipping channels between sitcoms and a repeat of the Cannonball Run, while mom alternately cuddled next to him and scurried to bring him refills.
To be fair, I wasn't used to sharing mom's attentions. Since she and dad had split years before, she'd dated only a handful of men, each one only briefly. But even as a naive 18 year old, I knew she could do better, and wondered why she had settled for the likes of Max.
"OHHHHHH YEAAAAHH!" Max yelled from my mother's bedroom, leaving little doubt about the cause of his satisfaction. "Yeah, yeah, that's it. Don't stop sucking. Swallow it down. Drink it like you mean it babe. Lick me clean. Yeaaaah."
There was a brief pause and then I heard the sound of my mother's voice. Through the walls, I couldn't discern what she was saying, only Max's reply.
"Sorry babe, not tonight," he said, in a gruff, half-apologetic tone. "I've got a run tomorrow. Be an hour before I could get it up anyhow, after that. You got a vibe, you go handle it yourself. Now let me be. I gotta get some sleep."
A minute passed and then I heard soft footsteps travel down the hall past my door into the bathroom on the other side of my room. I heard the bathroom door close. Moments later, a gentle buzzing sound began to emanate from the wall beside my headboard. Minutes passed and the buzzing was punctuated by faint feminine whimpers. Mom's whimpers were all but drowned out by the snoring that now came from her bedroom, but they grew slightly louder over time. I knew what a vibrator was, and I knew perfectly well that physical gratification was the immediate sources of my mother's cries. But on an emotional level, I processed them as cries of pain. By the time they reached their muffled climax, teardrops rolled down my cheeks.
It wasn't until the humming stopped, and the soft footsteps retraced their path past my door towards the snoring, that I realized my cock was rigid beneath the covers.
---
The next morning I sat across the breakfast table from Max the Snorer. He buried himself in the sports section, obviating the need for me to make an attempt at conversation.
"Jarrett's gotta use another Provisional this weekend," he grumbled to no one in particular. "And Stewart's pissin' and moanin' about yellow flags. Shut up and drive you little pussy."
Mom, still dressed in her robe, was making omelets. She set Max's on his plate without so much as an acknowledgement from him.
"It's only June and the Cubs are already ten games back," Max snorted, setting aside the paper. "Thank the Lord my daddy raised me a Sox fan."
Max took a sip of coffee and then a forkful of the omelet. After a moment he made a face.
"Oh shit woman," he snapped. "Are you stupid or something?"
"What's the matter?" mom asked plaintively.
"You put onion in this," Max carped. "You know I hate onion."
"I'm sorry," said mom softly. She paused for a second and then slid the plate in my direction. "Justin can eat this one. I'll make you another."
"Sorry crap," Max roared. "I'm runnin' late already."
Max grabbed the offending omelet and threw it across my mother's kitchen, shattering the Pyrex plate.
"Stupid cunt!" he shouted, standing up.
Mom started to cry.
"Don't talk to her like that," I said, softly.
"Aw now the cunt's gonna cry," he said, ignoring me.
"Don't talk to her like that," I repeated.
"You stay out of this pussy boy," he told me. "It's between me and the cunt."
"DON'T TALK TO HER LIKE THAT," I shouted at the top of my lungs, rising to my feet.
Max shrunk back slightly, stunned by my sudden anger. It was foolish of me to challenge him. I was a slender young man with skinny runner's legs and barely out of high school. Max had 3 inches, 20 years and 70 pounds on me. Judging by the scar running along his tattooed left arm, he had been in at least one more fight than me, and likely many more. But whether out of surprise, haste, fear, or even a touch of decency, Max was in no mood to fight that morning.
"Well shit," he said, brushing a piece of onion off his trousers. "I'm late anyway, or I'd whip your fucking ass, pussy boy."
Max retreated up to mom's bedroom to collect his duffel bag, while mom knelt down to begin cleaning egg, cheese, ham, glass and onion off the kitchen floor. Max didn't enter the kitchen when he returned downstairs.
"I'm leaving now," he called on his way out the door.
Mom rose to her bare feet and followed him out the door in her robe. His cab was parked in the gravel alley behind our small house, so I could hear their conversation through the kitchen window.
"I'm sorry," mom said. "He was just sticking up for me."
"Don't start with the sorry shit again," Max said crossly. "He goes Charles Bronson on me again and I'll kick his pussy ass. What's he still living with his mommy for anyway?"
