Pat's Pounding

All persons participating in sexual acts in this story are over the age of eighteen.

When Patrick, or Pat as his Mom insisted on calling him, arrived at his summer retreat, he knew that there was

something

he was obviously not privy to. If such was not readily apparent in the sly, reminiscing grin gracing his mother's beautiful features, an expression he had never seen on her usually stern visage, then it was abundantly clear in how the same or a very similar countenance was on the faces of the other mothers arriving with their sons.

Pat, a youth newly 18, slight in stature, took great pride in his intellect, especially his prodigious ability to notice that which often alluded others. As such, the unfamiliar expression on his mother's face as they arrived at what he had been told would be his summer lodgings was not the first strange detail he had noticed. On the contrary, it was merely one among many.

The first and still one of the most distinctive instances of strangeness occurred last week: Pat, arriving home from school, overheard his mother talking to someone on the phone. Now, such an occurrence was not strange or weird as he often heard his mother talking to one of her many business associates, invariably female, over loudspeaker. However, everything about this one specific instance was bizarre.

Entering the house quietly as he always did so as to not disturb his mother, he heard her voice from her office. Usually, he would do as he had done a thousand times before and tip-toe past her to his room. However, this time, some instinct, unidentifiable but intense, urged him to stop, press his ear to her office door and listen. So he did, and what he heard, unbeknownst to him then, was the first step on a path that would see his life totally change.

Despite a nearly total lack of business knowledge, something his mother often sought to remind him was an embarrassment to her, a third-generation CEO, it was instantly clear that whatever else the phone call was about, it wasn't business. Such was immediately apparent in his mother's tone; never before had he heard her speak with such intensity, her voice dripping with such passion that if he were not so familiar with her low purr, he would have questioned whether it was indeed her on the other side of the unyielding wood. Adding to his certainty of this not being anything business-related was what she was saying; ear pressed as hard to the door as possible, he could vaguely make her out.

'I can't believe the day is nearly here, Sam. Soon we'll turn them into our sheaths, locking them up and making them accept our love.' As his mother spoke, Pat heard a steady but unidentifiable noise coming from, he guessed, her phone.

Schlick. Schlick. Schlick.

'Imagine it, Sam. We'll have them under us as we, after waiting for so long, claim them as ours forever... marking them... owning them.'

In response to his mother's vivid description, Pat heard a long, low, sinful moan from whoever was on the other end of his mother's phone. Hearing such, Pat attempted to, impossibly, press somehow further against the door in a desperate attempt not to miss anything being said. Lost in his desire to listen to the lurid audio of his mother's voice, Pat unknowingly adjusted his weight such that the wooden floor under him gave out a loud squeak. Heart in his mouth, he quickly realised that all sound from the other side of the door had been consumed by silence. With clarity brought on from the cold rush of adrenaline, Pat, knowing his damning role of eavesdropper would result in swift and harsh punishment if caught, took off down the hall towards his bedroom.

From that moment on, during the remainder of the week until this morning, Pat had noticed innumerable examples of

strangeness

. If he wasn't catching his mother looking at him when she thought he didn't know with an unsettling, almost manic gleam in her eye, then he was the recipient of her unfamiliar affection, such being peculiar in its blend of gentle forcefulness. And then there was this morning. As usual, Pat rose early, ensuring that his mother's breakfast was well on its way to completion before she came downstairs into the kitchen. But as had happened so often before during the surreal last week, the familiar routine became rapidly less so due to his mother's new behaviour.

The first oddity Pat noticed when his mother entered the kitchen was her unusual attire. Never before had Pat seen her in anything less than the most conservative clothing, skin always covered, with whatever she wore being loose so as to not cling to her shape. Now, however, she walked in dressed in such tight and skimpy clothes that would make even the most promiscuous pornstar blush; a top so low her enormous breasts nearly fell out of it with each tiny movement and a skirt so high that even though she was facing him, he knew that the bottom of her equally massive ass must be visible to the world. Despite the two awe-inspiring mammaries that most would have assumed dominated his attention, he could not take his eyes off the peculiar prominent cylindrical bulge his mother's too-short shorts done nothing but emphasise; for some strange reason, the sight of it sent a cold pulse of

something

to his anus, his virgin ring twitching in unexplainable delight.

Left mute by his body's strange reaction to his mother and whatever she had decided to stuff into her shorts, Pat stared at the vision of breathtaking beauty before him. However, his mother didn't give him much time to appreciate her beauty. 'Pat, I should have told you this sooner, but you'll be going somewhere different this year for summer camp.' Instantly, Pat's attention was no longer held captive by his mother's lush body but now by her words.

'What?!' he demanded, tone crackling with anger. 'Why?! What about my friends?' At hearing his defiance, his mother's change in demeanour was swift, from playful to stern in the blink of an eye. Reaching out, she roughly caught his chin between her thumb and index finger, pinching with force. 'I've made up my mind, Pat. By the end of this summer, you'll thank me for this decision. If you haven't, I'll pound a 'thank you' out of you.' She growled. 'And who's to say?' she purred with a grin, her mercurial mood swings leaving him feeling dazed. 'Maybe you'll see some of your little friends this summer... just... not as you are used to seeing them.' Releasing his chin, she stormed from the room.

With great effort, Pat forced his mind from its reminiscence, trying to focus on the present. The long drive from their house to this secluded location had been one of quiet tension. At least it was for Pat, as every time he dared to look at the strange new version of his mother, she had that same unfamiliar grin, eyes bright with poorly hidden glee. Eventually, despite the arduous journey, they arrived at their mysterious destination.

Parking their car in a crowded car park, Pat, desperate to avoid another confrontation with his mother, especially now that there were people to witness what would no doubt be a one-sided altercation in her favour, meekly accepted her tightly holding his hand. They walked together, loose gravel crunching underfoot, their way lit solely by the dim glow of the moon and the flickering light of braziers, toward a large ivory pavilion located an equal distance between the car park and an extensive imposing Victorian-era mansion. As they walked, it became immediately apparent that they were not the only mother-son duo heading towards said structure, as more couples materialised out of the darkness the closer they got.

Nearing the pavilion, Pat noticed numerous tall oak stands with a crystal goblet and silver decanter resting on top inside. His mother, still holding his hand tightly in hers, led him to one of the said stands and paused as the other mother-son couples took their positions until every duo had a tall but narrow table to stand next to. At this point, Pat felt significantly disconcerted, the cold, slithering weight of worry and burgeoning panic heavy in his stomach. Still reluctant to meet his mother's gaze, fearing he might again see that predatory gleam, he studied the ostentatious decanter before him. Blushing, Pat realised that the decanter's decoration was sexually explicit, featuring what he thought must be some pagan sex celebration: it was covered in iconography depicting women with immense phalluses chasing, capturing and fucking young boys in their asses.

Keeping their hands together, Pat's mother reached for the decanter, pouring its contents into the crystal goblet. Whatever the liquid was, it wasn't anything he had ever seen; it glowed and pulsated, changing colours rapidly. 'Pat,' his mother leaned forward, whispering into his ear sensually. 'I know all of this has been sudden and confusing, but I need you to trust me now. You're going to hear, see... and feel things that might overwhelm you. The potion will help you with that. It'll keep you calm... and help you to take my womanhood as I open you up and pound you.'

Struggling to understand, Pat opened his mouth to give voice to some of the many questions he had about this bizarre situation.

Potion? Magic's real? Pound me? What the hell is she talking about?

His mother, though, expecting such questions, silenced him before he could speak, placing her thumb in his mouth, gently but firmly pushing down on his tongue. 'Shh, darling. No questions. Not now. Trust me, drink, and I'll introduce you to a world of pleasure.' Though hesitant and wary, he was more turned on than ever before and trusted his mother to keep him safe. So he drank. Instantly, his mind became calm, no longer oscillating between anxiousness and mild terror.

Allowing himself to be buoyed along on an ocean of peace, he followed his mother as she pulled him by the hand, other couples joining them as they approached the decadent manor. Eventually, arriving near the entrance of the magnificent building, they stopped at the base of a grand stone staircase, which led up to a pair of closed glass doors, from which a welcome orange glow shone through. At the foundation of those stone stairs, a crowd formed, made up of roughly, if Pat was correct, half a hundred people, meaning twenty-five mother and son-couples.

Despite having so many people gathered together, they made no noise. They waited there, Pat's hand clenched tightly in his mother's unrelenting grip, with the sounds of the mild wind and crackling braziers, all heeding the unspoken expectation of focusing upon the doors at the top of the staircase. Eventually, in a time that felt a minute and a millennium to Pat, the door finally opened to reveal a woman shrouded in shadow, wearing an elaborate but chilling mask, its mouth open and features contorted as though that false face was experiencing the greatest pleasure. She stood there for a long moment, no doubt glorying in the avid attention of those below, before she moved forward into the light, each move impossibly sensual.

She stopped at the top of the stairs, masked face slowly gazing from side to side upon the small crowd. Now fully visible, her outfit could be seen. She wore a gown vaguely similar to that of a Catholic nun. However, it shared only its shape, colour and traditional habit, with the rest being wildly different. The first of these differences was her plunging cleavage reaching her navel, leaving her massive breasts visible to the world, emphasised by a cupless bra, her pink nipples hard in the cold air. Next was the slit on the side of her gown, reaching all the way to her hip, giving tantalising glimpses of her lightly muscled pale legs as she walked, feet encased in six-inch stilettos, with an upside-down crucifix as the heel. With her arms spread parallel to the ground as if she had been crucified on an invisible cross, she held a coiled whip in her left hand and a human-sized collar in the other.

Even now, after seeing a woman so sexy that he usually would be near drooling, Pat remained calm and serene; the drink, Pat realised, did work wonders, just like his mother had said. As the woman, nay, the goddess, started to loudly chant in Latin above them, Pat felt his mother, in sync with all the other mothers around them, exchange whatever hold they had on their sons until they all stood in the same position; the mothers, all to a woman significantly taller than their offspring, pressed themselves flush against their children, hands possessively resting on their hips. Again, Pat, as distracted as he was by the alluring spectacle in front of him, still noticed that he could now feel whatever his mother had crammed in her shorts earlier that week; if anything, Pat thought, it somehow felt larger.

Feeling lightheaded from the intoxicating feel of his mother's svelt body pressed tightly against his and her glorious scent, it took Pat a moment to realise that the masked woman had ceased chanting. Trying to ignore the uncomfortable sensation from whatever his mother kept grinding into his lower back, Pat attempted to focus on the figure in front of him.

'Ladies, I know you have waited, but now, finally, the time is here. Rejoice! You soon will become one with your son.' Her voice, no longer stern and harsh from her chant, was melodic. 'For many of you ladies, this will be your first time forging a son-sheathe, but I trust that your mothers will have done their duty in informing you of your roles.' Looking at those around him, Pat could see two dominant expressions; the moms had hungry, anticipatory grins while the sons, all of slight build and stature like himself, he noticed placidly, seemed just as confused as him. 'Three questions I will ask, and three answers I will receive.'

After a brief pause, during which a heavy silence reigned, the woman resumed, her voice again stern and authoritative. 'Mothers', do you take your son to be your sleeve, to cage his clitty and conquer his boi-cunt?'

'Yes,' the mothers answered in unison. Unable to look back at his mother, Pat, mind still under the influence of the potion-induced calm, was left to deal with his growing confusion singlehandedly.

'Mothers, do you promise to pound his prostate till his caged clitty runs dry?

'Yes,' the mothers intoned again, one responding with such enthusiasm she was distinctly heard over the others, provoking much laughter from the other women present.

'Mothers, will you dominate his dicklet, locking it away forever, leaving him only his boi-pussy for pleasure?'

'Yes,' the mothers responded for the final time, a thick and weighty silence immediately descending upon the crowd. After a short but pregnant pause, the woman who, until this point since her appearance despite her verbosity, had not moved even minutely, turned around, arms still parallel to the ground, and walked back towards the doors she first appeared from. As she walked away, she spoke over her shoulder, 'Come, let us indulge.'

At this invitation, the crowd ascended the stairs together, with some mothers so desperate they lifted their son from the ground, held up like a bride, and sprinted forward. Pat, feeling himself being swept from his feet and clutched to his mother's voluptuous chest, could only wonder to himself,

Just what kind of summer camp was this?