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Hey.

Do you like reading porn?

Would you like to keep porn legal so you can continue to read stories like this?

In the United States, there’s a group of people fighting to take away your right to look at sexual media. I don’t want to name too many names, but I do want to make you aware of Project 2025, a long running initiative by evangelical conservatives to conform all law to their perception of Christian morality. One of the many changes they want to make is to make all pornography, and anything else they deem indecent, illegal to purchase or produce. 

It would mean I would be breaking the law by writing these stories and sharing them with you. It would mean you would be breaking the law just for buying them.

If you would like to fight for your freedom to read what you want, then please vote in all of your state and local elections, and not just the presidential ones. I don’t want to bash any of the candidates, but I do want my readers to be aware that Donald Trump, despite his claims, supports Agenda 2025, and has even been a keynote speaker at the Heritage Foundation where Agenda 2025 was created.

I understand that this is just smut, but if Agenda 2025 is fully enacted by a new wave of conservative politicians, you will no longer be able to read my work. You will no longer be able to read any of your favorite erotica authors. Nor will you be able to look at pornography at all. Your internet providers, if they somehow allow you to look at pornography, would be shut down.

If you look into Agenda 2025, you will find many other things they wish to enact that will destroy the freedoms and rights we have taken for granted. Please consider the freedoms that you want to keep, and please, please, vote.

You can read a summary of Agenda 2025 here on Forbes: and you can find the part on pornography by pressing Ctrl F, and typing, “porn”.

Mom stared at the pill bottle woefully. “I don’t know. How do they know it’s safe?”

“They’re doctors, mom. They’ve studied a lot for this kind of stuff.”

“But how do they know?”

I didn’t really have an answer for her.

Christ. My poor mom. About six months ago, after the divorce, dad put a little rancid cherry on top with the news that he had actually been cheating for five years, not two weeks as he claimed during the divorce proceedings. Since all the paperwork was done and the settlement was finalized, there wasn’t much mom was willing to do.

It’s not like she wanted more out of him—honestly, she just wanted her old life back.

But that was gone. My mom, Kelly, fell into a dark pit of anxiety and depression. And who could blame her? Twenty years of marriage; all that work, all that love, and all of her youth, down the toilet and gone forever.

While some women had the fortitude to immediately girlboss it up and to find new love, to reinvent themselves, and to enjoy their newly single (and arguably better) life, mom struggled. I offered to be there for her, and decided to put my college degree on hold so I could go to work and help pay some of the bills and help around the house, which she appreciated, but her path to normalcy was harder than we thought.

They say the only way to get over somebody is to get under somebody else, and, failing that, to refocus on your own life. Self-improvement, hobbies, going to the gym, going to therapy, drinking more water, yada yada. I think the theory was that if you made everything in your life better, then the pain would go away. And while that might have been true according to the therapist YouTube gurus, it didn’t have the desired effect for mom.

She did start going to the gym, doing all the exercises Facebook told her to, got into yoga and even some weight training, but it was accompanied by a little too much ice cream when she’d watch romance films, which was increasingly often. Her resolution to slim down and tone up instead resulted in a much shapelier end result. Her curves grew more pronounced, her hips swayed a lot more, and we started to get stares in the grocery store from dudes who couldn’t believe how tight her pants were around her ass.

No, I wasn’t looking. At least on purpose. But too many dudes were.

I’m going to admit that that’s another reason I decided to stay for the time being. Mom was in too vulnerable of a place to have dudes gawking and hitting on her—it could have been disastrous if she decided on a rebound with some perv who didn’t really understand or care for her.

And pervs abounded. I almost couldn’t blame them.

My mom was a conventionally attractive woman, rich brown hair, green eyes, a kind smile. She was still pretty, and, at least before the divorce, her spirit was still upbeat and youthful. She was a little more fit when she was married to dad, but now she had the kind of body that drew attention from college kids and married men alike—her waist had only thickened marginally while her hips and ass curved out, her breasts grew heavy and full, and she had the smallest, softest tummy, not enough for anyone to think of her as overweight, but just enough for her to hate it. She didn’t realize it, but the kind of body she had appealed to every red-blooded straight man that wanted to be inside a woman. She looked fertile. Soft. Breedable, fuckable—the vision of the perfect MILF.

At least, I’m sure that’s what others said. I won’t comment further.

Mom also started visiting therapists. I don’t know if that was working either. She said she just talked a lot about dad and while I guess that kind of talking is good for a person, mom just seemed to be a hell of a lot more stressed in the days following the therapy calls. They did give her a lot of advice, stuff about grounding, stuff about self-esteem. She even had a creep therapist tell her she was beautiful and who offered some additional sessions at his house for free, but at she had the sense to fire him and get a new therapist. This time, a woman.

Now, you’d think that with all this help and all these efforts that we’d see some improvement, right?

Wrong. The human heart doesn’t just heal with a routine, and it definitely doesn’t heal with advice from the internet. Sometimes, it takes time. And more time. And more help. And more patience, and more time. And sometimes, things just get worse.

Mom, right from the start, was losing sleep. As time passed and as solution after solution came her way, the lack of sleep interfered with it all. Her willpower was gone. Her patience with herself and everything else was gone. Her heart only seemed to get heavier. She slept less, and less.

It wasn’t that she even obsessed over the divorce or dad or the past, it was just that the bed didn’t feel the same without dad in it, and obviously, thinking about how he cheated on her using that same mattress, right under her nose for years, couldn’t have helped. I’m sure it would be just as traumatizing to you if the last five years of your life were a massive lie.

We did replace the mattress and the bed frame, but then it was the fact that the unmentionable repeatedly happened in that room that bothered her. We moved her bed into my bedroom, and my bed into hers, and after the swap, the reason she couldn’t sleep was because the cheating happened in the same house, and what more, all of her memories for the last ten years were here. We would have considered moving, but after looking at local rent and home prices, we weren’t in a position to move. We were stuck.

So, we had to figure out something else.

She got herself a day job to stay busy, but when they started catching her asleep at her desk, she got fired, leaving me to be the breadwinner to keep the bills paid. I will admit that a little bit of the alimony helped, but at some point, I couldn’t rely on mom to even get a part time job. She was staying up all hours of the night and only falling asleep at the dawn, and staying groggy through all the time that she was up before settling in for another sleepless night.

We had to break her out of this, and no number of nice words or fitness routines or half-hearted attempts at hobbies were going to do it. She was developing dark, dark circles under her eyes and was losing control of her emotions. Crying outbursts happened multiple times per day. At one point, she locked herself in her room and didn’t come out for almost 24 hours. I decided enough was enough and that we needed to get her some meds. She didn’t deserve to struggle like this.

I took her to the hospital a few weeks ago. Mom was half-asleep in the doctor’s office when he prescribed her anti-depressants, thinking they would solve the insomnia problem. “We’d like to address the root issue, which appears to be a chemical imbalance,” the doctor said patiently while mom nodded in and out of sleep. “Hopefully these will work.”

They didn’t. All they did was make mom antsy when she was awake, and they caused her to grind her teeth when she was asleep, which was happening less and less often. We were back this morning looking for something else.

The doctor looked at me and her carefully, thinking hard and trying to come up with a better solution. Mom was awake this time. “I just need to sleep,” she said, almost crying. “I don’t care how. I’ve been taking melatonin gummies like crazy and it’s not doing anything.”

After further thought, and some additional questions, the doctor prescribed a little pair of white pills, twice nightly. “They’re strong,” he warned. “They’ll knock you out in fifteen minutes flat, and you’ll stay asleep for eight to ten hours. It’s the kind that we give to people with the most severe cases of insomnia, which, I suppose you have.”

“Now, this is important,” he continued. “These pills are designed to act in aggregate. That means no stopping early, no skipping doses, do you understand? They’ll reset your system and help your body to feel like it’s actually done resting when you’re through, but if you stop before then, you’ll likely go right back to the insomnia issue. The regimen needs to take its course.”

Mom’s eyes were closed and she was leaning on my shoulder. I spoke up in her stead. “You got it, doctor. Thanks.”

Along with the pills, he admonished us that to take them with alcohol meant certain death. That wasn’t a problem—mom didn’t drink. He also warned us that there were a lot of side effects to look out for, which mom awoke to listen to. “Sweats, confusion, surges of energy followed by crashes, occasional lapses in memory; you’re going to get these and a few more. Understand? We don’t prescribe these pills often, if at all, because they’re so extreme.”

“That’s fine,” said mom, mumbling and desperate. “I don’t care.”

That night, with pills in hand, she wasn’t sure if it was fine anymore.

“But how do they know? There were a lot of side effects he didn’t mention on this bottle. I mean, hot flashes? Excessive mucus production? Bladder irritation? Is this a hormonal thing, or what?”

I was at a loss. “I guess we’ll need to find out. You need to sleep, don’t you?”

Mom looked at me nervously. Then she looked at the pills. Her tired eyes were starting to look sunken from the sheer lack of sleep.

“Mom, please,” I urged her. She made a little noise of uncertainty and popped two in her mouth, washing them down with water.

“At least they’re small,” she muttered. “I’d better go lay down. He did say it would take fifteen minutes, didn’t he?”

I hugged her goodnight, surprised at how her breasts, larger than I was used to, pressed against my chest more than they had since I was a kid. Her lips came up to my cheek and lingered there for a second. “Thanks for everything, Cam,” she said quietly. “You’ve been very patient with me.”

“No problem, mom. Least I can do. Goodnight.”

I went to my room, which was formerly hers. It was nice to be in a larger space—to have a large closet, and enough room for a desk, computer, television, and a gaming setup, but even with all the new space and stuff I felt bad for taking my mom’s spot. I looked guiltily at the corner in the room where their bed used to be, and imagined how awful it must have been for mom to be in that same spot, looking up at the ceiling, wondering what kind of noises were playing out in her room, on her bed, with her husband, for years without her knowledge. It’d drive anyone insane.

After pushing those thoughts out, I played games on my computer and had House M.D. playing on the television at the same time, and after about half an hour, decided to check on mom.

I knocked at her door and went in. The light was still on. But there she was; mom was completely passed out for the first time in months, sunk into her bed, snoring softly. While before she struggled with fitful bursts of sleep, this kind of sleep was different. Her eyes were closed, her face in repose, all the lines and furrows of worry and anxiety and hurt finally smoothed out. I did notice that she had passed out without putting her covers on. She was lying in bed, mostly face down, her arms wrapped around her pillow, only wearing her t-shirt and a tiny pair of sweat shorts. I tried not to look too closely at how her ass swallowed the fabric and how plump and soft her cheeks looked compared to the curve of her smooth back. I pulled her sheet and blankets over her, and measured her reaction. Even with the cotton dragging over her, she didn’t stir. She was out cold, breathing softly, perfectly still and resting.

Finally.

I took a deep breath and let myself relax. Six months of hell for her was worrying me sick and it was nice to finally see her with a look that wasn’t tied up with anguish.

That was a preview of Ins(mom)nia -- A Mother / Son Dubcon Story. To read the rest purchase the book.

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