Author's note: I've re-submitted an edited version of this story with a few modifications to the ending.
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I pushed my mother's bedroom door open with my shoulder and walked inside, setting the pile of clean laundry on her bed. The smell of floral shampoo wafted out of the en suite bathroom.
"Those clothes better be folded." Her voice came from behind the bathroom's door, left ajar by about six inches. Would she ever stop nagging me?
"Yup," I replied shortly, turning to walk out. I had been given many more chores to get to that Saturday afternoon as part of my punishment.
As I passed by the bathroom door I happened to glance through the gap and saw the mirror's reflection. Though it was a bit foggy from her shower, I could see Mom standing in front of it. She was putting on earrings. Her wet hair was brushed backward behind her ears and hung over her shoulders. She was completely nude.
I froze.
I was now in a situation in which all young men will eventually find themselves. When through some accident or coincidence, our merciful God decides to grant us one chance to truly
see
the woman who brought us into this world -- to look upon her true form. Today was my day, and though my mother was one of the coldest women on this planet, proudly vindictive and cruel, I did not squander the gift the Lord had offered me.
From the thick patch of blonde hair between her legs, across her toned abdomen, to the meaty teardrops on her chest, I scanned her entire body -- committing the sight to permanent memory.
As I spied, my dick swelled and my hand instinctively rubbed across it and squeezed.
What a body!
Mom might be a bitch, but she was
gorgeous.
She finished with her earrings and picked up a tub of cream, dipping her fingers inside and retrieving a large glob. I stood and watched, mesmerized and unable to move. She rubbed the cream together in her hands for a moment, warming it, before applying it to her breasts, arms, legs, and ass. She really took her time to rub all of it into her smooth skin. Minutes passed.
Then she retrieved a different tub and took a much smaller glob of lotion out of it with just her finger tips. She leaned forward and was about to apply it to her cheeks when she froze, her face mere inches from the mirror. A sly grin spread across the reflection of her face and her head remained still as her eyes moved to meet my own. We looked at each other for a long moment, her grin remaining. She returned her eyes to her own reflection and continued dabbing the cream onto her face. She said nothing and made no effort to cover up.
What the hell?
After 18 years of psychological abuse she was now basically telling me, "go ahead and watch."
The image of elegance, my mother, Claire, slowly turned and cocked her hip to the side while facing the mirror over her shoulder. Her eyes approvingly scanned up and down her thin body. She was
very
aware of her sex appeal, and I, too, was becoming aware of it while she gifted me the opportunity to ogle her small ass.
Incredible!
Thoughts of burying face between those cheeks ran through my mind.
Finally, she took a thin blue robe from the hook behind her and dawned it, loosely tying the sash.
The bathroom door flew open and she stepped out, her satisfied eyes boring into my own. She was still grinning and I knew what that meant. "So, my only son is both a thief
and
a pervert?"
It had been a trap. I should have known.
---
"So did anything happen this week that you'd like to talk about?"
The event in Mom's bedroom from the day before flashed through my mind. I remembered her soft laughter as I had stormed out of her room, leaving her standing there in her thin blue robe and still sporting that satisfied smile.
"Nope," I said. I wasn't about to tell anyone about
that.
And I definitely wasn't ready to start analyzing why I had been compelled to stay up half the night wearing my cock out thinking about what I'd seen.
"Okay, then perhaps we can continue our discussion from the last session? You were beginning to tell me about your childhood."
After acting out in school too many times, my school counselor had recommended that I speak with a professional therapist as a way of dealing with my anger. My parents had reluctantly agreed to pay for it and I had reluctantly agreed to do it. I didn't want to feel like this forever -- with bottled up rage -- and if talking to some old guy about it would help, I was willing to try. It turned out not to be an old guy, but a rather refined woman in her mid-60s. She had wavy, silver hair and a full body. I was surprised by how much I enjoyed meeting with Jillian.
Jill's office was a plain beige with comfortable, brown furniture. Few ornaments adorned the walls and there weren't many decorations apart from a couple small corner tables holding leafy, green plants. She had created a calming environment without much to be distracted by.
On her desk were little more than a few pieces of paper and a single picture frame. I happened to have glanced at it as I had entered 20 minutes earlier. It was a photo of a middle-aged Jillian, looking much younger and prettier. There was an even younger man at her side with his arm wrapped around her. They had the same eyes.
I took a sip of the tea she had offered me.
This was our third session. The first couple of meetings had been awkward and quiet. Turns out it's not so easy to open up after suppressing your feelings for over a decade.
"Brent?"
I snapped out of my daydream. The images of my mother in front of the mirror vanished from my mind. My mom lived in my head. Sure, I hated her, but I couldn't stop thinking about her.
"My childhood, huh? I don't even know where to start."
"Why don't you tell me about your parents?" Her gaze was direct yet compassionate. She was the kind of person you felt you didn't need to lie to -- a strong person.
"To be honest, I've never really felt like I had parents," I began, surprised to hear myself opening up. "My dad is pretty distant. Him and I have never really talked. I feel like I barely know him."
"Hmmm..." Jill made a note before meeting my eyes again. "And your mother?"
Reflexively I let out a snort of laughter. I couldn't help it. "Calling her my mother is stretch. She might have given birth to me but she's never done anything
motherly
for me." I began to play with a loose thread on the arm of the chair.
Jill's eyebrows rose slightly but she kept the rest of her face neutral. "Okay, then," she nodded. "I think we found a good place to start. Would you like to tell me more about her?"
"She isn't nice to me. Never has been. And... I really don't know why."
"Not nice? What makes you say that?"
"It's like... she enjoys making me suffer. Whenever she finds out about something I like, she finds a way to use it against me."
Jill made another note. "That must be really hard, Brent. Go on. I'm listening."
"Back when I was a little kid, once she found out which toy was my favorite, she would always take it away, just to have something over me. And she always had this cold expression when I cried, like she was getting some kind of deep satisfaction from it. I would watch other families in public, wondering why Mom never stroked my hair or hugged me the way those mothers did with their sons. It wasn't just that she was neglecting me. It was that she was actively working against me. She was working to prevent me from having things that made me happy."
Jill watched me intently as I continued. It felt strange to be talking to somebody who actually cared.
"As soon as she found out that I had a crush on a girl at school she would make sure to embarrass me in front of her. It's like... she is just
against
me. If I wanted to go on a school trip, she'd say no and keep me home to do chores. If I wanted to go to a party, she'd find some reason to ground me and keep me in the house--"
I started to ramble then. Jill let me go on for a while, listening attentively to my grievances as I dumped out my resentment. I talked about never being allowed to invite my friends over for my birthday, being forced to attend church most of my life, and the endless pile of chores I did around the house.
Jillian interjected once or twice as I spoke. "You must feel like you are in a straight-jacket, Brent. Like you've never been free to express yourself or do what you want."
Yes!
That was it -- a straight-jacket. Jillian was really empathizing with me. Was this the first time in my life that I'd felt validated?
I went on, now talking about the time Mom had caught me talking to Rebeckah, a girl from my class, on the phone. She'd listened in with the other receiver for a few minutes before announcing into the mouthpiece that it was past my bedtime and for Rebeckah never to call again. I was mortified, furious, and humiliated.
The stories flooded out. To finally release them was a huge relief. But it also put something into perspective for me. I realized why the incident in her bedroom had disturbed me so much. Mom's mission was to find out about anything I liked or wanted and then to use it to control me and make me suffer. She had always been like that. And after catching me looking at her she now knew about something else I liked -- her.
---
The reason I was in trouble in the first place was actually pretty stupid. For the first time in my life I had actually been invited to a party. I had been asked by Lisah, a cute girl I knew from chemistry class. Obviously I didn't want my folks, especially Mom, to know that I was planning to go out with a girl. But that wouldn't be a problem; I would just sneak out after they went to bed. The real issue was that Lisah had told me I had to bring a bottle of whiskey if I wanted to get into the party. I didn't have any money as I had never had a job and my parents certainly didn't pay me an allowance. Mom had always told me that my chores were payment for everything they gave me and that I should just be grateful I hadn't been kicked out yet.
I just
knew
that I'd be able to hook up with Lisah if I did what she'd asked. At age 18, I still hadn't gotten any real action. So, desperate, I'd stolen 40 bucks out of my mom's purse. Of course, it was just my luck when she'd walked around the corner at the perfect moment to see me with her purse in one hand and the cash in the other. Mom's dainty, soft footsteps had been my demise.
You'd expect, in a situation like that, that a mother would be furious -- her face contorting in anger. But not mine. She'd only smiled, knowing that she now had yet another reason, this time legitimate, to torture me. The list of chores I had been doing as my punishment was limitless.
The next day in class I'd told Lisah I wouldn't be able to make it. She hadn't seemed too disappointed. "It's okay. Burt can bring the booze," she'd shrugged.
Damn!
Now I was stuck at home paying for my sins. It wasn't fair. But I had stopped expecting fairness from life a
long
