Probing Tom’s mind didn’t tell me anything new about his early years, except for a burning resentment for his mother and her actions that she either didn’t realise or subconsciously blocked. But it did offer me his perspective on the events of his eighteenth birthday,
His mother, of course, hadn’t thrown him a party. She had become aware, on some level, that spending time with her made Tom miserable, and so (in a move that even the most sadistic person would have found excessively harsh) insisted that he spend the day on a walking tour of their town. Nothing but walking from one end of the town and back again, all under the claim that the excercise was “good for him”.
Eighteen years of depriving her son of pleasure had made Marion develop a unique sense of cruelness.
It was a Saturday, so she made sure that their route took them nowhere near the mall or the park or anywhere that could be an interesting or engaging walk. It was all back roads and suburbia, mostly without conversation.
They were less than a block away from his school when the storm hit.
Neither of them had brought wet weather gear, and they were a full half-hour away from anyone who could take them in, and an hour’s run from their own house. Fortunately Tom recognised the area, and directed them towards his chemistry classroom, which he knew had one window that never closed.
If it had been a shower or a drizzle then Tom’s mother could have brushed it off as “character-building” and insisted that they continue the walk, but after the first pieces of hail hit, she admitted that they needed to find somewhere to shelter from the weather, and didn’t even reprimand Tom when he broke the lock to let her through the classroom door.
They sat there in silence, shivering, watching the rain and the hail pelt down outside. Tom briefly tried looking around for something to dry themselve off with, or a change of clothes, but short of a lighting a bunsen burner his search uncovered nothing useful.
When the lights and electricity went out, it was all Tom’s mother could do not to swear. She glanced over at her son, and was surprised that for the first time since he was a baby, he looked…vulnerable.
Cold and exhausted (both physically and emotionally) Tom was at the end of his rope. He huddled up into a ball, and tried not to think about everything that he hated in his life.
“Well,” said Tom’s mother, at a loss for what to say. “Looks like we might be spending the night here.”
There was a long silence, and for the first time that either of them could remember, Tom let out a sob. His voice cracked as he dragged up the one moment of maternal comfort he could remember.
“Could you sing me a lullaby?”
As Marion’s heart went out to her son, her instincts flew out the window, and she responded.
“Of course, my darling.”
Even as she said it, knowing that Tom was drawing comfort from her made her go warm. But she pressed on, and put a hand out to grasp Tom’s.
“Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Mama’s going to buy you a mockingbird…”
Marion’s voice was nothing special, but to Tom it suddenly represented everything his mother had never been.
“If that mockingbird won’t sing, Mama’s going to buy you a diamond ring…”
Marion was aware that she shouldn’t be doing it. Not two lines in, her nipples were already rock-hard, and her cunt felt like it was on fire.
“If that diamond ring turns brass…”
She tried to concentrate on the words, tried not to moan. Eighteen years of sexual repression were suddenly catching up with her. She didn’t even have to look at Tom to realise what this must mean to him, what this must be doing to him.
“…Mama’s going to buy you a piece of ass.”
Without even realising it, her hand was no longer passively holding Tom’s, but stroking it, and her other hand had come up to her breasts.
“If that ass will not put out…”
The lines weren’t coming out as clearly any more. She was starting to pant, her body reacting to both her son’s obvious pleasure, and her own administrations. One hand was tweaking her nipples, her thighs were rubbing against each other. She was alternating between clutching Tom’s hand and playing with it, and it was all she could do to prevent herself from bringing it to her mouth and sucking on it…
Tom must have worked something out. She knew that she just had to get through this last verse. If she could finish this last verse without jumping her son, without pulling him deep inside of her and giving him that perverse, exquisite pleasure…
Lightning struck, just as Marion turned to catch her son’s eyes. Suddenly illuminated, she realised that he must have seen her pawing herself like an animal, panting and moaning like a bitch in heat.
She realised that he may even have been able to see her nipples, hard through two layers of wet clothing. She snatched her hand away from him, and opened her mouth to say something, anything, that would stop her going down this path again…
Lightning struck once more, and Marion realised that nipples weren’t the only erect extremity that could be seen through wet clothing.
Just that one, split-second glimpse of his mother, that image of her as something more than a repressed old maid, that single snapshot of her as a real live warm-blooded woman, that had been enough to get Tom hard. And Marion had seen it.
She had given her son pleasure. She had given her son a LOT of pleasure.
Marion’s lust immediately took over. Every other instinct was abandoned; her rational mind, her desire to protect her child from her own sick desires, her self-control. All that mattered was getting fucked. Giving Tom more of that sweet sweet pleasure, and getting more herself.
Marion leaned in close and whispered in her son’s ear in a deep, husky voice.
“Did you like that, baby?”
One hand went down and felt that wet, hard penis through his shorts.
“Did you like seeing mommy play with herself?’
She started to stroke it, as Tom stammered in disbelief.
“Would you like to see more?”
Without even waiting for an answer, she was taking off her clothes. It was still dark, but she quickly had his hands exploring what he couldn’t see.
Eighteen years of repression, combined with her one obsession of giving her son pleasure meant that Marion was orgasming before he’d even found her nipples. She was coming over and over again as he licked her wet skin wherever he could reach, as she took his cock in her mouth, in her pussy, wherever he could stick it.
The storm lasted almost two hours. Marion and Tom lasted eight, finally stopping from exhaustion and sleeping on the cold Chemistry classroom floor, both of them more satisfied than they’d ever been in their lives.
Had the next day been a schoolday, their story would have ended quite differently. Fortunately they woke up around noon on Sunday, cleaned up as much as they could, and left for home to start again.