Between Mother & Son

Mother & Son

 

Michael Claims his Mother’s love.

A Mother’s love forgives all sins.

 

R.R. Ryan

 

© Copyright 2024 by R.R Ryan

 

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This tale is a work of pure fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously—any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, real events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

 

Between

Mother & Son

Present-Day Greater Suburbia

 

Linda’s night took a dreadful turn. She gazed down from her window at her son and a girl from his high school a year younger than him. Michael tried to kiss her, but the girl slapped his face. Michael backhanded her with a brutal slap. The girl crashed into the grassy ground. He pounced on top of her, spun her face down, and pinned her hands above her head.

 

Linda stood statute-like, stunned as she watched her son abuse the girl. Pinching and squeezing her breast, her ass, slapping he butt with his free hand.

 

Michael tugged her bikini bottoms down. Releasing his cock from his swim trunks, he tried to rape her. The girl froze, not screaming or struggling. Like she retreated into a shell. His cock was enormous, and he jabbed at her pussy.

 

This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t her son. It couldn’t be.

 

He couldn’t get inside her. Linda believed he’d stop. But he didn’t. Mikey repositioned her, pulling her ass higher in the air, and pushed down on the back of her head with one of his feet. He spat on her pussy and hammered at the opening with the fat cock head.

 

One thrust, a second one, a third, and it broke inside her. Her body tensed up, and she kicked her feet into the grass. Mike plunged in harder, ramming down deeper inside. He pulled back, and in the rays of the overhead yard light shining on them, she saw his cock was covered in blood.

 

‘Oh, god,’ she thought, ‘Michael’s a rapist.’ She reached for her cell phone but stopped. Maybe it wasn’t what it seemed. Perhaps she was willing. Or so she hoped. Linda slid the window open. He grunted as fucked the girl. She cried, well bawled, actually, but soon her hips met his thrust.

 

She couldn’t take her eyes off the sight. Moisture and heat rose inside her own pussy.

 

They fucked for 15 minutes or more. At last, Michael stabbed the insider stayed. Linda watched as his balls rose and fell, pumping his seed into her. Michael jerked free of her cunt, and pulled her by the hair around to him. Forcing her to clean her blood, juices, and his cum, from him.

 

“That’s it,” Michael said. “Eat ‘er up like a good cunt.”

 

Linda opened her mouth. She wanted to scream at him, order him to stop. But he’d finished, and she was too late. She clamped her hands over her mouth and continued watching.

 

Rising, taking her by the hair, he pulled her head to his crotch. She opened her mouth, an obedient girl, and raped Michael’s throat for longer than he did her pussy. Pulling free of her mouth, he blasted on her face and chest.

 

Dragging her by the hair, he dumped her in the pool. He held the girl underwater for a bit, let her catch her breath, and plunged her under again. Let her lose and growled at her.

 

“Next time, Sally, you just drop your drawers and take what I give.”

 

“Yes, sir,” she said as she climbed out. “Will you kiss me?”

 

“No, you can kiss my asshole,” he said and pulled his trunks down back down. Sally kissed his ass and licked the hole. “Go home, don’t say shit to nobody about this.”

 

“Whatever you say, Mikey.”

 

Linda watched as the girl left, and Michael came inside the house. She couldn’t confront him tonight. She’d have to calm down first. The mother in her knew she should call the police and turn him in. But he was her only child. She wouldn’t do that.

 

And right then, at that moment, she felt particularly vile herself. Nastiness invaded her thoughts. At fifteen, her son was big for his age, 5 feet and 10 inches, and 175 pounds of hard muscle. And now, at 19, he’d grown to over six feet of hard muscle. And that cock, she’d no idea he’d gotten so big there.

 

She shouldn’t think of such things. Already his penis dwarfed his father’s.

 

Crawling in bed, she moved to Robert, “Sweetheart, do you still want to?” she whispered.

 

Waking up for a moment, he apologized for bothering her and fell straight back asleep.

 

Rolling her back to him, Linda snuck her hand down in her lace panties, thumbed her clit with small circles, and thrust three fingers in out. Michael was so big, everywhere, so handsome, so sexy. This was so wrong on so many levels.

 

But her sweet child was more of a man than his father. When Michael was 13, his father hit him for the last time. Only because Michael hit him back and knocked Robert on his ass. But that didn’t stop Robert from hitting her.

 

Linda brought herself off, imagining her son was fucking her. Her guilt gnawed at her, and she found it impossible to fall asleep. Before she realized it, day was breaking.

 

Sunlight sneaked through the cracks of the curtains. A burglar stole her sleep from her in the dim room. Linda’s eyelids, heavy and reluctant, fluttered open to the intrusion, her pupils contracting against the glare that sliced the shadows apart. She lay still for a moment, the softness of the bed a contradiction to the stone of reality waiting just beyond its edges.

 

Linda remembered her son raping the girl. She’d have to confront him about it.

 

She stretched, arms reaching towards the ceiling, fingers splayed, as if trying to claw some extra minutes of respite from the encroaching day. Yawning, a soundless cry, her body felt the weight, an anchor sinking slowly into the depths of another twenty-four hours. Her limbs moved with a lethargy that seemed to pull at the very marrow in her bones, the groggy haze clinging to her like cobwebs.

 

That dreadful cock of Michael’s splitting the girl open. Was she the first? Had there been others? Why had Cindy given in without a fight? And why had she fawned over him, almost as if he were a god, afterward?

 

Linda’s breaths deepened as she sought to face the day. Each inhalation was a deliberate attempt to clear the fog of her son taking that girl from her mind. The stretch pulled at her muscles, the well-toned figure beneath the nightgown belying the strain of skirmish she felt inside.

 

A vessel strong on the outside while the contents churned with silent storms. The blow across her face had to have left a mark. Where there are bruised cheeks, mothers and fathers have questions.

 

Her eyes, those striking green windows revealing more than they should, scanned her bedroom’s familiar yet increasingly foreign landscape. She glanced to the left; her husband was gone already. She wouldn’t tell Robert. He’d kill the boy or at least beat the hell out of him.

 

She and Robert had grown apart. Each object witnessed the estrangement between them. It seeped through the walls of her home: photos smiling back with the frozen cheer of better days, the dresser holding her carefully chosen garments.

 

Mere armor against the world’s gaze. Linda no longer loved Robert, and she was sure he no longer cared for her beyond the physical comfort she granted him now and again.

 

However, she loved Michael more than life. She had to find out what had happened to him. How he became this monster. She had to keep him from hurting anyone else. Linda had to find a way to keep him from getting into trouble.

 

And so, with the unwelcome light of morning casting long, distorted shadows across the room, Linda Thompson braced herself. Another day had come, unasked and unannounced, with it the relentless gravity of life that she must endure.

 

Linda peeled the sheets from her body, a reluctant molting. The fabric slid across her skin, a sensation of a release and a reminder of the night’s solitude. Linda settled for her hand rather than her husband. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, toes seeking the cool familiarity of the hardwood floor. Each foot planted itself with purpose as if she could root herself against the drift of her own life.

 

She shuffled a slow migration toward the bathroom.

 

The passage was short, yet each step felt measured in increments of resolve. Linda’s silhouette cut a solitary figure through the stream of morning light that breached the doorway, casting elongated shadows that danced upon the tiles like mocking specters.

 

As a 15-year-old boy, Michael had been quite strong. At nineteen, he was a formidable man. A college man and learning about the world. Where had she gone wrong to make him a rapist? Or was that out of her control? Was there an influence she didn’t know about?

 

The ritual of the shower beckoned—a sanctuary of steam and solitude. Linda twisted the faucet, and the pipes groaned, a mirror of her inner weariness. Water surged, droplets coalescing into a warm downpour that enveloped her flesh. She stepped beneath the cascade, her body absorbing the heat. Each rivulet had a fleeting balm for the aches nestled deep within her bones.

 

The most extraordinary ache was between her legs. Husband and wife hadn’t made love or even fucked in months. Because fucking wasn’t making love. All they’d done for two years was fucking and precious little of that.

 

Robert doesn’t think she knows about his girlfriends. He’s wrong. To avoid a beating, Linda kept her mouth shut to his assignation. But that was only out of his fear of his son. The very same son who’d raped a girl. The son who’d defended her and him from the monster inside Robert.

 

Which was the more dangerous monster?

 

Linda stood still, allowing the water to trace the contours of her figure. It sluiced down the curves wrought by years of meticulous self-care. Years were spent sculpting an exterior that defied the tumult within. Growing old sucked in every way imaginable. The loss of intimacy with Robert had grown for ten years.

 

She’d never seen anyone fuck a woman as brutal as her son. And she could tell the little whore loved it. ‘Yes,’ she concluded, ‘she was a cock tease. She’s thrown her body at Robert for months. The cunt got what she deserved.’

 

The shower offered a momentary reprieve from the inexorable tide of thoughts. The guilt gnawed at Linda’s conscience, and the confusion clouded her heart. Why couldn’t she blame him for what he did?

 

Her hands glided over her skin, mimicking the caress of the water. They moved with an intimacy born of necessity, the touch not of a lover but of a warden. Confirming that all was as it should be on the outside, no matter the disarray lurking beneath the surface.

 

In the sanctity of the spray, Linda closed her eyes, her lashes capturing beads of moisture like dew on spider silk. For a suspended breath, the world beyond the shower ceased to exist. And she was unmoored from the expectations that awaited her beyond the fogged glass.

 

Her hands went to her crotch, and she fucked herself thinking of Michael using that pig bitch. Mike was nothing like his father. His father was a passive, weak-willed man other than with her. Robert was mediocre, at best, in his job. Nothing passive or feckless about Michael.

 

Once she came, she realized all things must end. The reverie dribbled away, spiraling down the drain with the soapy remnants of her temporary haven. And with the turn of a knob, the water’s embrace retracted. Leaving Linda once more exposed to the air, to the day, to the quietude of her existence.

 

She had to talk to Michael, her sweet little boy, Mikey, who’d be such a joy.

 

Linda stood there, the chill of the room as she toweled off. She moved to the mirror, a specter in the fogged reflection. Her hand, almost reluctant, wiped away the condensation, revealing her form. A curvaceous woman, an artifact of discipline and silent battles waged on yoga mats and gym floors.

 

If she could trade places with that girl, have her son fuck her where he wasn’t her son, she would. But his being her son made it impossible for her to have that type of relationship with him. It was sinful, taboo, ungodly.

 

She drew the dress over her head, the fabric clinging to damp skin. A soft touch against her curves. Eyes flickered up to meet their likeness. A smile was summoned, a spectral thing, fleeting as it stretched across her lips.

 

It wasn’t quite a happy smile. Linda’s mind drifted back to when Robert last beat her. When her fifteen-year-old son beat the every living shit out of his father. Mikey told his father he’d kill him if he ever touched his mother that way again.

 

He hadn’t, but they hadn’t fucked much either in the intervening years. Found himself other lovers who she was sure he beat. Robert wouldn’t hit anyone that might hit back.

 

A breath in, held, then out, slow and steady like the rhythm of a sea long forgotten by its shore. Linda’s fingertips grazed the vanity, lingering on the surface, seeking something solid. Anything to anchor her to this moment. But her reflection only offered the image of a woman who straddled two worlds—one of outer poise, another of inner chaos.

That was a preview of Between Mother & Son. To read the rest purchase the book.

Add «Between Mother & Son» to Cart