What Price My Mother?

This is a story of mother/son incest and female submission. If this offends you, please read no further. All characters are over the age of 18, and all characters and events in this story are fictitious, and any resemblance to any real persons, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

I would again like to thank my editor, Hatsuda, for his unfailing support and encouragement.

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"You fucking animal," I screamed at my stepfather. "You can't sell people, and especially you can't sell my mother."

He looked at me, his piggy eyes set in a heavy, creased, unsmiling face. "Don't be so naïve, little boy. Just listen for once in your stupid life. I owe certain people who shall be nameless a large sum of money, money I haven't got. Your slut of a mother could fetch a large sum if I was to ship her to certain contacts in West Africa—they're very keen on white meat, even if it is as old and used as that bitch."

I jumped out of my chair, but my stepfather, a large, brutal man could still hand me a sound beating even at fifty, and I knew he carried a knife.

"Get back in your seat unless you want to catch a flogging," he said with a sardonic grin. "Alternatively, I could give her to my main creditor to use as he thinks fit. She might last a year if she's lucky—or unlucky, depending on how you look at it. On the other hand, because I'm feeling generous, and I don't need there to be any, shall we say, 'complications', I'm prepared to sell her to you at the knockdown price of $25,000. Take it or leave it but I want an answer right now."

I knew I could afford the price from a legacy from a maiden great aunt, but I didn't trust my stepfather further than I could kick him. "Why should I trust you? As soon as you get the money, you'll renege on the deal and then we're in a worse situation than we are now."

"Well, you'll just have to trust me. Part of the deal is a complete set of divorce papers, and I shan't want to set eyes on either of you again. It's in my interests to disappear without any loose ends, and we can exchange the goods for the money here, but it must be by the end of the week. And in cash—no cheques, transfers or other traceable methods."

"And if I don't agree?" I asked, although I was pretty sure of the answer.

"She'll disappear, leaving behind a grieving widower. And any nonsense from you trying to persuade the cops I had something to do with it, will cause you to suffer substantial pain and injury."

He had me over a barrel and we both knew it. I sighed, "Does mum know about this 'deal'?"

Another sardonic grin confirmed this would be as big a surprise to her as it had been to me.

The alternatives were too appalling to contemplate, and I knew he was capable of doing exactly what he said. "Okay, you bastard, you've got a deal."

"Easy on the insults, kid or the price will go up. Be here at seven o'clock on Friday evening, and you can take the whore with you."

I gave him a look that ought to have made him curl up and die, but all I got was a sneer and shown the door.

I was able to raise the cash, 250 one hundred dollar bills, with some fast talking to a disapproving bank manager, and I arrived at Reg's place at the appointed time. Reg Rainbird, my stepfather, and a more inappropriate name I'd yet to hear. He nodded me in with his trademark sneer.

"Got the cash?"

"Maybe. Where's mum?"

"Oh Martha, you have a visitor." I knew how much my mother hated that name and always liked to be called by her second name, Suzie.

She appeared in the doorway, not looking at me, but knelt in a submissive posture in front of my stepfather. The shock of this scene must have shown clearly on my face, as he gave his mirthless laugh.

"Not quite what you expected, eh?"

I hadn't seen mum for at least twelve months; Reg had made sure of that. She had changed out of all belief; she looked gaunt, her hair greasy, her skin looking gray and unhealthy and her hands worn with broken nails. She wore a dingy, shabby dress and thongs, but worst of all, an air of misery and total hopelessness.

"Well, you pathetic slut, I've found someone who's prepared to buy your useless body. Say 'hello' to you new master."

She turned and looked at me through defeated eyes, laced liberally with fear. When she realised who her new "owner" would be, her eyes became almost impossibly wide; she screamed and fainted.

"Stupid bitch." Reg moved to kick her, but I swore at him.

"Fucking leave her alone, Reg. Here's your blood money, now give me the divorce papers and we'll get out of this stinking snake pit."

He produced the papers and a cursory glance showed they were in order. Mum had recovered, but surprisingly, clung to Reg's legs.

"Please master, you can't do this. He's my son; I can't bear for him to see me like this ..."

"Shut up and get out, the pair of you. You wimps make me sick. I'm out of here tonight and this is the last you'll ever hear of me."

Without another word, I picked up the battered cardboard suitcase and two plastic shopping bags holding my mother's world, and guided her out to my car. We drove back to my flat in silence, but she gasped when she saw the complete disarray that greeted her eyes.

"Sorry, mum, but this place has got too small for me, and I'm in the middle of packing to move to a new place. So we'll both be camping in this muddle for a couple of days." I had found a place with 3½ bedrooms on a long lease, and although it needed some renovations; it was supposed to be haunted, so the rent was dirt cheap.

"Yes, master, I'm truly sorry for causing you these problems." She dropped to her knees in a submissive posture.

"Okay, first things first. Please get up and stop this 'master' nonsense. I'm Brett and you're mum. Hungry?"

She nodded. "Okay, mum, I have some instructions for you. First, I want you to have a hot shower, then come out here and we'll eat. Then I want you to have an early night and get some decent sleep. We'll have a good talk in the morning."

She disappeared making no sound; I imagined she'd had to be careful around Reg. I prepared a pot of spaghetti Bolognese enough, I thought, for both of us, although mum was clearly ravenous. As soon as she finished, she rushed to clear the plates, but I slowed her down. "Take it easy for a while, mum, then get yourself to bed."

She obeyed without hesitation and after sitting in silence for a while, watching TV and watching me with some uncertainty, she disappeared to bed. I camped on the lounge, and next morning, I seemed to be having a wonderful dream. My favourite movie star kneeling beside me, sucking my cock, working her tongue around the head and taking me deep in her throat. Her hands juggled my balls and she made incoherent sounds of lust and desire. I stayed with the dream, my climax getting ever closer before I woke—to discover it wasn't a dream at all.

My mother was kneeling naked by the side of the couch, with my rigid and highly excited cock buried deep in her mouth. I jerked awake, shouting, "Mum, what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

She pulled off me, skittering backwards across the floor with terror chasing fear across her face. "I'm s ... sorry, ma ... master; this slut m ... must wake master this way at eight o'clock every morning or be punished severely. This ... this s ... slut apologises for doing the wrong thing." So saying she got to her feet and touched her toes, presenting her bottom to me for punishment.

I knew we had a lot of issues to work through, but maybe not right now. "Mum, go get your robe, then come back and we'll have breakfast and then talk." She reappeared in a ratty old dressing gown, but then insisted, "Master, it is my duty to make your breakfast; please may I serve you this way?"

I had a sense that to try to break previous patterns of behaviour too quickly might create problems, so I agreed to bacon and eggs, toast and coffee. She was fast and very efficient, but then walked away falling to a submissive posture when I prepared to eat. "No mother, regardless of what has happened before, we eat together. Now, make yourself whatever you want and come and join me."

She did, but watched me surreptitiously, trying to gauge whether I might erupt in anger. We ate in silence then dressed, both of us almost identical in worn jeans and tee shirts.

"Mum," I started, "you are now free of that bastard, Reg, and we need to stop this 'master' nonsense. I am Brett and you are mum, and that's how it should be. I see it as my role to protect you and help you get back to being the real Suzie. Would you like me to arrange some psychological counselling for you?"

"No, no thank you, ma ... Brett. You're all I need, and I shall be eternally grateful if you can be there for me while I find myself again. It won't be easy, though, and sometimes I may slip back into old patterns. Please forgive me if I do."

"Forgiveness won't be necessary, but if you feel a need to be forgiven, you may take it for granted. Would it help to talk about what has happened to you?"

"Brett I think you're the only person I can talk to and who would understand and not judge me. It's a long story though; can we take it slowly and in bits and pieces?"

The rest of the day was chaotic as I finished packing for the move. Mum tried to help, but she found the adjustment to being with me enormously difficult, and half way through the afternoon, she broke down in tears and hid in the bathroom. I coaxed her out, and held her until the storm passed, and her gratitude was almost embarrassing. When she told me she could never remember being treated with such kindness and compassion, I wondered about the full extent of her suffering.

I realised she needed to talk, to get her experiences out into the open and to explore how our relationship was going to work. Just then, however, I needed to concentrate on moving, a good thing in retrospect. It gave mother time to adapt to being with me without hurrying herself too quickly into the story of her life.

It took a couple of days to move into our new home, and there were extra furniture and accessories to be obtained. This was a longer term project, and my mother took great pleasure from being part of making decisions and fitting out the house.

A day or two after we moved in, foul weather found us sitting in front of an open fire, relaxing. Mum took this opportunity to tell me some of her story. She told me her father had been a hard man, demanding absolute obedience from her or else some harsh physical punishment. Mum came to understand this as a reaction to her mother dying as she gave birth to my mother.

This pattern continued until at sixteen, she fell pregnant with me. She told me there had been a monumental row, but her father paid my father money to, as he had said, "take her off my hands." Mum told me her relationship with my father, Don, had involved discipline and physical punishment, but he had been emotionally unavailable, being distant and unsupportive.

I knew a lot of his energy was focussed on me, but he had a rigid and patriarchal view of my development, trying to minimise my relationship with mum. I never fell into such a trap; we started to argue a lot and he became progressively less interested in me.

When I was sixteen, the world changed; my father died suddenly from a ruptured aneurysm and my mother and I were pretty much alone in the world. I remembered that time clearly, but mum seemed disoriented and unable to cope, even though I tried to support her as best I could.

Now mum screwed up her courage and started to tell me the whole story, looking at me with an uncomfortable expression. "Brett, honey, I don't know how you will take this; please don't think too badly of me. Even as a young child, I understood I had to obey. After I reached puberty, it dawned on me; I needed someone to control me, to make personal decisions for me, and to dictate my life. I found I needed certainty, and knowing there was someone I could lean on gave me the only confidence I had. Being a lonely child without any real friends caused me to rely more heavily on the adults in my family.

As a result, the men in my life had me submit to them, humiliate me and punish me and in this perverse way, I could gain pleasure. When my father spanked me, I told myself that as the man, the "superior being", I must please him. And regardless of the guilt, I enjoyed the spankings. He never abused me sexually, but sometimes I almost wished he would so I could get satisfaction from someone else."

She continued with her narrative. "At first, when I started to pleasure myself, I really enjoyed all the wonderful sensations, and then my father discovered my secret and showed me all about his view of domination. He spanked me, called me demeaning names and humiliated me by making me stand in the corner of the room wearing a dunce's cap with "Slut" printed on it. But, in my odd way, I assumed this must also please him, so I let it continue, not that I had much option."

"Then I met your father, and he took the idea of domination much further. He spanked me and whipped me as my father had, but he also humiliated me in public and made me do things I'd never dreamed possible. He tied me up and dripped hot wax on my nipples, bound my tits and flogged them until I screamed, pissed on me, bound me to an A frame and filled my pussy and my arse with various objects. And each time it happened, I reached an orgasm that shook my whole body. I loved it. I loved all the nasty stuff and I wanted more; it became like a drug to me and I couldn't get enough. I'm sure this had become a substitute for a real loving, caring relationship I never had with your father or with Reg. I found my pleasure in perversity."

"But then things changed. As your father started to lose interest in me, I became needier and it must have shown. Eventually, he became brutal, beating me with anything that came to hand, and it was no longer exciting but scary. And then he died."

"I became lost. I didn't know what to do. I was still driven. I had depraved, degenerate needs and no way to have them met. I had one or two short relationships, but they were never able to satisfy my needs."

"I remember that time, mum," I commented. "You seemed so lost, and I didn't know what to do, except encourage you to talk to me and be there to support you however I could."

"You know, Brett, you saved my life. If it hadn't been for you, I would probably have killed myself. Or worse, just sold my body on the streets. Then I met Reg Rainbird, and I thought all my luck had changed. To begin with he seemed so considerate, so supportive I agreed to marry him. He performed really well in bed too at first, and gave me what I needed."

"After a short time, a honeymoon, I suppose you might call it, he changed and turned into the monster you saw the other day. He had a gambling problem and drank too much. I begged him not to throw you out when you turned eighteen, but he told me he didn't give a damn about you. It soon became obvious he didn't give a damn about me either. He brutalised me with straps, floggers, paddles and canes. He made me go down on him at least twice a day and I sometimes had to clean his arse with my tongue. It was so bad I often vomited, and got a beating because of it."

"Later, he could never seem to maintain an erection, so he stopped having sex with me, but when money became very tight, he whored me out to anyone who would pay a few dollars. It became a living nightmare; sometimes I'd have to service two or three men a night. That started just before I last saw you, and the last year has been hell."

"Then he told me he was going to sell me, and made up lurid stories about how my life would be. I don't know when he thought about selling me to you, but when he brought me into that room and I saw you, I wanted to die. I couldn't bring myself to have my son, the one person I really loved, see me like that. But now I'm so grateful you're willing to listen without judging me."

"Thank you, mum—I know how hard this has been for you. One thing I do know is what happened to you was not your fault and I don't hold any of it against you. We need to draw the line and start again, and I'll do anything I can to help you."

An odd expression crossed her face, one of gratitude, blended with a sort of excitement I couldn't then identify. But she thanked me warmly, rewarding me with a chaste kiss on the cheek, and we left it at that.

We settled into a domestic routine, although much of my time was spent setting up my business; I had contracted to a big developer to produce computer games and had already gained something of a reputation. Mum started to reinvent herself; she had a major makeover, bought herself new clothes and enrolled in the local gym. We established an easygoing relationship, but somehow mum seemed uneasy, edgy and lacking in confidence. I put this down to her experiences with Reg and although I offered her what support I could, it didn't seem to make much difference.

That theory was blown out of the water a little later, and our lives changed completely. I had been out to visit a colleague, but I returned home earlier than expected. When I walked into the lounge, I was greeted by the sight of my mother, her jeans and plain white cotton panties discarded across the floor with her legs spread wide, her knees bent and her saturated pussy obscenely displayed.

She was being ridden by a small, rather weedy looking guy who couldn't've been much more than eighteen. He thrust into her and rode her hard, impaling her with short sharp strokes as she moaned and thrashed under him, both coming closer to climax. He slapped her tits hard, causing my mother to scream, but her scream had a wanton quality of excitement and arousal as if she relished her treatment by this stranger. "Take it all, bitch; take my cock up your needy cunt. Cum for me, you whore when I drown you with my jizz."

My mother screamed, "Fuck me, fuck me hard. Oh god, I need this so much. Treat me like the slut I am. Fuck me like a whore. Oh god, just make me CUM."

I had seen more than enough, and interrupted their fuckfest, shouting, "What the hell is going on here?"

My mother screamed, pulling away from her conqueror's pulsating prick and rolling into the foetal position on the floor. The guy jumped to his feet, backing away from me. "She wanted it, mister. She propositioned me at the shopping centre. She told me she was looking for someone to give her a good fucking and offered to pay me to do it. She ..."

"Get the fuck out of here you pathetic excuse for a human being. If I ever see you anywhere near here again, I'll give you a thrashing you'll never forget. Now, piss off."

With that gentle instruction, he ran out of the door as fast as his legs would carry him, leaving me to deal with my mother.

I said nothing, looking down at my mother's near nakedness, still curled up on the floor with tears streaming down her face. She got up slowly and grabbed a gown, struggling into it, her head down, refusing to look at me.

"You have two options, mother. Either tell me exactly what happened or pack your bags and leave now."

At last she looked at me, with the same air of desolation and hopelessness I had seen when I last saw her with Reg. "Please don't reject me, Brett. Please don't make me go," she sobbed.

This was way outside my experience, and I had no clear idea of how to deal with it. "Okay, mother, you've chosen the 'tell all' option, so you'd better sit down and give me all the details around that little cameo. Everything, please; don't leave out any details; I will know if you're lying." A bold claim and one which I doubted whether I could justify.

She sobbed and drew a deep breath.

"I don't really know where to begin, Brett, but I'll try. I've already told you how much I loved all the nasty stuff and it had become an obsession with me. I needed it like an alcoholic needs his next drink. Reg's vicious brand of punishment didn't cure me of that need but I just became trapped in myself, trying to avoid his beatings and keeping myself as safe as I could. But the need still smouldered."