A lot of children, even those grown, complain about their parents. It's understandable. Natural, even. We learn as we grow older and we judge our parents through our modern lens, rejecting them in our minds for being too cold, too smothering, too distant, too demanding, too uncaring... the canned critiques go on. Really, a lot of those internet whine sessions would stop if they realized their parents probably weren't that bad.
Of course, they also haven't met my mother. Enter Betty. 42. My mother, a pretty, warm and sweet-looking lady who breaks that suburban housewife beauty mold by having an actual job. She and I have been alone since as far back as I can remember, really only having a few second cousins in terms of family. Dad - well, "my father" - was an alcoholic who we left in the dust when I was about 5.
As you could expect, she's helicopter mom to the max. Behind her bewitching oak-brown eyes is the mind of a dictator, a manipulator. Not the authoritative and commanding, type, no - a player of the heartstrings. She'd mope and interrogate if I mentioned any girls or staying out past a curfew. Whining in that sing-songy, fake melodious voice about me leaving her and paying less attention to her.
It'd make more sense for her to be that intense if at least she was here most of the time. She works at a high end restaurant, and the money has more than kept us afloat, but I was never really her priority until it came to control. She pretends to love me, but that - and every aspect of her appearance and demeanor, from her flawlessly curled eyelashes to her gentle, inviting smile to the lines of her cleavage that tease an ever-unattainable glimpse of more - is an act. It has to be.
And here I am... in a long, dark, hot hallway. I feel something around my neck... a long wire, or leash, dragging me into a speaking darkness. Forcing me to walk slowly... against my will. Odd... I don't feel a pull. To my left and right, endless doors, Weirdly placed. All with no doorknobs.
I continued forward, the voice continuing to mumble as if from an entirely different room or hallway. The words, or word, now discernible: "Da..vey... Davey...". It was calling my name. Somehow, I felt compelled to walk faster, the hallway's warmth and humidity evolving into a more burning sensation, almost as if I were drawing closer to a house fire.
With every step now, the darkness receded to reveal more and more of a figure. It was... her. Mom. Mommy. My mother. Clad in nothing but her clear skin, a silver tiara with a crimson gemstone, and a pair of mint green flip flops. Sitting on a red, winged chair and resting her feet on what seemed like a stool. With one, she played at the string of the sandal with her big toe and second toe, threatening to slip it off and reveal her sleek, perfect sole, but torturing me by not pushing beyond the point of falling. The other foot she laid flat, spreading her toes out and lifting her sole off the shoe just barely so that I could see more of it.
I'm disgusted, but something takes over me. A need, a passion, a fire. A desire to look and to savor. My eyes leave her pink toes and follow her legs up to see her right hand with two fingers in herself, using their base to rub her clit. Farther north even, her perfect breasts, inviting... no, commanding my mouth to them.
"Davey... honey!" Rang out again, muffled.
I picked up my pace and the darkness receded even more to reveal what her left hand was doing.
An upward and downward rhythmic motion as it clasped around something. A penis that looked... agonizingly hard. I could almost feel the sensations of her movements on myself, and for a few seconds stopped moving to moan and savor them. I then opened my eyes to see the man's face.
My face.
"David, hun, wake up!"
The walls, all their doors, the chair and stool, my mom and the other "me" all condensed into a blur, in which I could for a fraction of a second only see my mother closing her eyes and moaning in ecstasy.
I shot up, eyes open.
Through the morning haze, a pair of sharp oak-brown eyes beamed at me, decorated by the slim and elegant crow's feet of a working woman.
"Pretty..." I thought amidst confusion, still in a daze for a couple seconds as my view clarified.
"David, it's almost 11, you're gonna miss your only class!" It was my mom's voice. Her face came into view rapidly, and I saw she had a sincere but somewhat mocking smile on her face. "I made you breakfast, a spinach tortilla just like you like. That class is long, so I don't want you fainting halfway, sweetie. You had a long night so I snuck out of bed about... 3 hours ago! Up now!"
She giggled, ruffled my hair and gave me two long forehead smooches. I caught a whiff of her flowery skin lotion and, as she straightened up to walk away, the briefest glimpse of her breasts hanging down, complete to the pinkish-red nipple. I felt a pulse shoot through my body, from the base of my groin out. Then, disgust and shame that I had to hide.
"Alright, mom. Thanks." I was dry. I always am. She always does these big gestures. I kind of brush them off - they feel a little insincere and I don't really know how to react. I hoist off the blanket and, as I rose, she turned around to speak: "Oh, by the way..."
But for some reason, after looking me up and down in a brief moment, she paused. "Uh, never mind. Just go freshen up and I'll meet you in the kitchen, hun!"
She walked away slowly, and my treacherous eyes couldn't help but wander to her waistband, over which the tiniest glimpse of her purple panties were visible. My dick twitched again, and I realized I felt a little irritation on its head. I looked down and saw it straining just barely past the waistband of my tight shorts, my bulge completely outlined up to my tip, from which droplets and streaks of milky whiteness were falling. I had a massive wet spot forming at the front of my shorts, too.
Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!
I ran into the bathroom, jolted awake, and douched myself off in a hurry before changing my clothes out. This isn't the first time I wake up like this. But is it the first time she sees me? Sees it?
