The Un-mother's Day

The Un-mother's Day,
by M.V. (pt. 1 of 3)

Discussing with other boys while watching porn we conveniently got a hold of was really entertaining, but, alas, I had to go home. Truth was that I wanted to see a cartoon that I really loved when I was 6 and it was on again. I wouldn't tell that to my friends, though, so they insisted that I would stay. How I walked and entered my house, how I left my boots near the door and went to switch the telly on, and how I felt like some snacks were a must, I don't need to tell. This story resumes as I entered the kitchen - and saw my mom talking with a man I didn't know. Let us not keep from the reader that what would follow was an awkward spontaneous threesome and it's aftermath, so that he or she would know for certain what to expect and whether to care, and would not be betrayed at their expectations.
Now, my mother was a divorced of thirty seven, moderately cute, I guess, for her age, and, despite all the hardships, a woman sometimes-cheerful. She was quite shapely, not as a girl, but in a respectedly wider and curvier kind of way, and thus somewhat more feminine, both warmly and soothingly so. I wasn't at all interested in her feminine aspect, though, which I still maintain even as of the end of this story, and am relating this only for reader's convenience. Now, this woman stood there, hugging some man.
- Hi there, - said that man as I entered the kitchen.
Mother turned and noticed me, and I saw her move backwards.
- Oh, are you already back?.. Did you guys have a quarrel?
- We didn't, - replied I.
- So, kid, if everything's okay... - said the man.
- Wait a second. Young man, wait outside.
- What's going on? - asked I with a silly face.
- Nothing's going on, - replied the man and hugged mom.
- Come on, leave, - she told me as I just stood there.
Her face was slightly reddish and her lips moist. I saw her press her breasts on the man's chests even as we spoke, while her hand - well, when I entered the kitchen, she seemed to have been keeping a hand on his crotch. I was a little bit petrified.
- Aren't very obedient, your son, - the man observed.
- Come on, - mom moaned as she looked back at me. - You tell him!
- I'm no boss to this young man, well.
- Please leave, didn't you hear. We're busy! - she insisted as his hand slipped below her waist and, I fear, grabbed a buttock - covered by the long blue skirt with colourful flowers she always wore at home when friends visited.
It so coinceded that we've just been watching very fake rape porn, actually, and talking about rape fantasies with the guys, and this was the starting point for my train of though.
- Wait, wait, - she whispered onto his neck, watching me with one eye.
- Why are you still there? - said the man. - Do you wanna see your mom go at it or something?
- Are you just going to rape her here? - fired I what was on my mind - finally.
- What? No, dear, he isn't raping me! - mom stumbled, somewhat appalled.
- Of course I'm not. Damn, don't make up things on the go, kid.
Perhaps he wasn't indeed, but I was offended by the very concept, and deep inside was feeling really defensive.
- If I call the police, you're dead, - I told him. - You were raping my mom. I'm calling them right now, and they'll shoot you in the dick.
The man didn't expect this, and looked slightly bewildered. He twisted his hand so that it would force the skirt between her buttocks and rubbed a bit of her in-between, which made mom arch her back slightly and involuntarily exhale.
- She's a bitch in heat, - he said somewhat apologeically. - You know. Come on, look, idiot.
- Wait, wait, - whispered the woman as he rolled up her skirt until it was all in a bunch on the back of her waist.
What other choice did he have, us being characters in a hundred-percent pure porn story at this point? The man raised his voice.
- Here's you proof, - he said, pulling her underwear and letting them slap back on unevenly, a bit of a buttock now showing. - Know what it means when a woman is wet? Nobody's raping nobody. Now, you leave: you heard 'er, she's busy. She busy, son, leave the kitchen!
My mother took a long breath, her eyes wide and moist.
- Shit, - she whispered as I just stood there. - It this happening to me?
- And I thought he'd get out, - said the man in after half a minute of me staring at his hand on her butt, her skirt stuck up onto itself, her underwear white and wide, and sticking tightly to the sweat on her bottom. - Is he sick? To hell, suck me off or something.
- What the shit, - mom kept whispering, as she knelt before the man, breathing profoundly.
Then I saw her unzipping him and how she must have started sucking him off, as the man suddenly looked pleasured. Her left hand burrowed in her panties, and her bottom waved slightly as fingers moved under the white fabric. Yea, the noises, and motions her head performed around his crotch - we've seen it all on the Internet, after all. It continued for maybe five tense minutes, at which point the man told her to stop and rose her by the hand.
- Show us your tits, - he told her, and mom rose her shirt while he undid the bra and dropped it on the floor.
- Fine, - said the man, seeing how smoothly everything seemed to have went. - There we go.
He went for a stool with a back, put it conveniently and seated on it frivolously, letting his dick - I saw it now, as it dripped foaming saliva down the pink and purple veins - stick up like a soldier.
- Put yourself on it, - he said to my mother.
She looked back at me still standing there, then looked forward.
- Go ride it, - I told her. - Why would you keep yourself from it?
- Dear, - she whispered as she hastily approached me and knelt before me. - Aren't you scared? This is very strange.
- Go ride his dick! - yelled I in her face as she kissed my brow. - Go on, whore!
She rose and walked over to the man.
- I'm dreaming a dirty dream. Oh my, - she murmured as her skirt was risen up again.
- Good girl, - the man said as she let herself hang right over his penis.
I got closer. Somehow, at this point she wasn't my mother anymore, but a kind of original meat, never intended for me, never ever desired by me - I would rather eat my dick than stick it in this - which I exclusively wanted to see plowed; and so I watched the dick pierce the cunt unambitiously, and it slipped in somewhat boring. But then her hole spat a whole load of liquid, which stuck in her hair and leaked down the dick and on-to the balls, and that turned the spectacle all over; the man moved his hips, and the cunt produced a sloppy sound that seemed to, funnily enough, spell "slut", and kept doing that with every single further thrust. I kneeled beside them and watched closely - really close, enough to feel sticky springs on my face, - distinguishing every part of her cunt, and how it operated with a dick inside it, how it contorted and with what relation to the moans she let spill off her mouth. The look and smell waere mine, and so, then, I opted for a taste. I didn't want to "eat" my mother "out", not at all, I only needed the taste for the fullness of experience, which consisted of that cunt, The Cunt, being plowed by something mean and external. It was kind of like watching somebody masturbate with your amputated hand; and so I licked it, and it was salty and disgusting enough; but the man gave mom a lift, freed his dick, and before I knew it, stuck it in my face. Once again, as that one wasn't really incentious, this one didn't at all feel homosexual: I say, it was only a study of the experience. What is it to see your mom plowed without putting a dick that plows her in your mouth first, I thought, as I opted to not resist, and sucked it thrice, and in three blows it was clean. Mother trembled as she looked back; she petted my hair with unsure hand, while her cunt once more spilt a whole sticky puddle on the man's lap. He took his dick, of which I wasn't taking any part of anymore, because it really was pretty disgusting to continue, and put it back in her. Then he let her skirt fall back behind her, and under it, obscured from my sight, he did mother, until she couldn't any more contain herself.
- There we go, - he croaked and pushed the post-orgasmic woman off him.
- How would you like to come? - she pleaded, trembling.
- On you dress, sweetheart. Bend. - Which she did, her skirt down, as the man gave himself a few strokes and ejaculated on the blue and the flowers.
Her face looked funny, kind of like a face of a cat that's taking a piss; the man groaned, and when he was done, mom spread on the floor, took off her filthy skirt and threw it into the kitchen sink, her tits still bare, panties down and moist pubic hair sticking to the floor as - I was guessing - her hole gaped widely under the palm of her hand, with which she covered the crotch protectively. I left, and some time later I heard the man leave, but I really didn't want to see mom that day anymore, so I mostly stayed in my room and went to bed early.

(pt. 2 of 3)

We didn't talk about that, thought we did hint at it sometimes, or see it in each other's faces, so history was bound to repeat itself. Second time around was different, though, as it was both less explicit and much more arousing.
As I came home on some otherwise unmemorable Sunday, I heard noises, and the stuff of masturbation on my recent teenage nights revived and sprang back to life. Wasn't mom having a "visit" again, I thought, as I walked the dimly lit corridors to the guest room. And there she was, on the table, facing up, milky breasts rolling about her chest, legs spread wide apart, with blue panties orbiting her left ankle as a (new) man was on top of her.
- What? - he said as he saw me.
I stood in the door, watching and coping with my heartbeat.
- Leave, - mom ordered.
- Is that your son? - asked the man, looking somewhat confused.
- He is. Leave, - she repeated to me in a stern voice, - or I'll give you trouble. Hey, make him leave, - she asked of them man, and then I left indeed, closing the door behind me and hearing my mother's soft love-command, which shortly resumed table-rattle and girl-moan. No less than half an hours had passed until I heard them talk near the exit. I crept to the stairs to see - and saw them kiss casually, after which the man hugged her behind and, putting his coat on, left to the darkening streets outside. I, too, got back to my room before mom would see me.
I wasn't expecting to interfere with her today, neither her with me, but when we were having dinner that evening she suddenly talked.
- Are you mad at me?
- Not at all, - I said.
- Are you really not mad at me?
- It was fine, as was the other time, but let's not talk about it when all is done.
- I'm glad you understand, - she said then. - I love you, dear.
- I love you too, mom.
She leaned to me and whispered:
- He came inside my butt, hear what.
- Did you suck him off after that? - I asked, confused, disgusted and slightly aroused, as a man that disturbs his wound for the fun of it.
- Sure.
- And how did your own hole taste?
At this she stuck out her pink tongue and smiled.
Did she want me to taste it, I pondered.
I shortly meditated on this as she waited with her tongue on the open. It wasn't a kiss, was it? After all, I certainly did live inside her womb - for three quarters of a year, no less, - and sucked on her tits daily for about the same time, so, in comparison, tasting her shithole from her tongue couldn't have been too much, could it? If I bent her over a table and fucked her, as I once of twice imagined after too long with no masturbation, - that would, perhaps, be incestous; but this was a sexual experience of a completely different, inner kind. Letting me taste the tip of her tongue was to her the same as politely not entering my room without a knock after I went to bed. And so I tasted it, which aroused me immensely, even though it didn't taste of anything in particular.
- You should film them bang you, - I said, and this remark had most entertaining of consequences.

Yea, it was done. After a month of sexual idleness she found some time and two men to bang her and film her on her camera and for her own private use. That "private use" was kind of peculiar, though: we watched it together, seated on a sofa, eating snacks and drinking tea, as if it was a family-friendly movie with some funny innuendos no healthy family is ashamed to laught at together. Video was around two hours long, some shots better than others, and I attest that they did her pretty good on that one. Opening oral sex was trivial, but when she choked on two dicks at once, we really laughed, kind of pretending it was a French comedy. Our hips were touching, and boy were we aware of it, but none of us ever did a single move on another over the course of the film - because it could kill the precious, artistically sexual atmosphere with only the slightes of incestous undertones, to which all of us humans have a decently working psychological lock: I assure you, that under normal circumstances my mother is just as potent a boner-killer to me, as yours is to you (I hope); the movie was different, though. High point of the film was a "scene" where she stood on her knees, breasts to the floor, and the men took turns doing her newly sexualized opening until she orgasmed anally without as much as touching a hair around her cunt. She passively laid there for 40 minutes, shaking in rhytm with her lovers' hips, and when after this 40 minute buildup she finally burst into tears as she came and ejaculated piss, we laughed so hard our tummies hurt.
- They messed your ass, haven't they, - I told her, still laughing.
- Not really, but back then it really felt like it, - she answered, choking on laughter.
- Remember how they gagged you?
- That was priceless, - she kept agreeing merrily. - Wait, look how I'll taste cumstains on the floor.
In the video, she was doing exactly that, and I giggled again.
- Your hair's all sticky with come, where did you wash it off? I didn't see you like that when you came back.
- They had a bathroom in their place, of course.
- I see, - I replied, as I was literally seeing "it all" while she was walking away from the camera-man on all fours, lapping cumstains.
- Okay, - she said with a sigh. - Didn't I just do all that!
- You did, - I answered.
- Well, that I did.
- You sure did.
- Okay, - nodded she.
- What?
- Could you do something for me?
- Wait. - I backed. - I'm not doing anything of the kind. I'm not the whore, you are.
- No, no, of course it's me and not you, dear. How could you think anything of the kind? No.
- So, what do you want?
- Could you, well... could kizz some over my face please?
I sat silently. On the first look, it was heart-breaking.
- Please, dear. I had you taste my crotch once and didn't protest, did I? I let you lick my tongue, let you call myself a whore, didn't I? Can't you do a me a small thing once in a while?
Still keeping silence, I stood up and unzipped my pants. I understood what she was saying, because I knew how she felt and what she really meant by this; yet still, I was barely keeping myself from insulting the horny bitch back - like, getting on top of her and throat-fucking her while suckling like a child. Now, it wasn't particularly hard for me to do that for her, since the porn aspect of the video was unmistakingly playing on me in some kind of a subliminal way (as was made clear by the suckling idea, and also some others like having her finger my asshole instead of me stroking), and so I took out my dick and handled it a bit. Looking away from that, she laid herself on the sofa, faced up, and closed her eyes.
- I'll open them when you're done, - she whispered.
Don't know if she really did that or went to sleep like that, because when I was done, I left her to her own devices, not wanting to interfere and mess everything up. At least, at this point in time I personally understood that when dealing sexually with a relative, it better be a fictional relative from a fantasy sex land and not a real one - unless you want psychological trouble or are a really sick little weirdo.

(pt. 3 of 3)

Now, if it wasn't a short story, I'd call the following part an epilogue. Since it is a short story, though, I can't legitimately do that. Anyway, when I hit nineteen, and her forty one, we had an experience of a different kind, very much so from those previously described, but certainly related to them the same way a child is related to it's father. In short, we arranged for a kind of an "un-mother's day", in which she wore a mask and it was established that we weren't mother and son until clock struck midnight. The point of this was to partake in a sweet insult to both of us. It was only a game, but, in hindsight, it certainly had me feel through the act of hurting own mother, and her being hurt by her child, both really strong emotions, to farthest extents.
What we did was, as was already pointed out, making her wear a mask. She was temporary "considered" not a mother of me anymore then, and the instant she signed a "contract" we wrote together same morning, I got a hold of her and dragged her to the basement. Both of us knew what was going to happen, but neither - not her, at least, - how.
And that's how it was. I put mother on her knees, slapped her and called her a whore. Promised her to show her who's whore she were, too. "I'm not a boy, I've got an iron stick for a dick, and there it is", I barked in her genuinely scared, yet aroused, eyes as I hastily undressed my below (the words rhymed hilariously, but effort and arousal kept me from laughing). Now, there are those masks that cover your eyes, and others that cover your full face. Of the second kind, some let you speak and some only let you breath; her's was the last-est kind of mask. She kept silent, thus, as I rubbed my dick where her mouth was, and since I clearly felt her lips through the mask, she certainly must have felt myself, too. I played with her breasts, meaning utter disrespect, and then left her alone for a little bit, locking her in the basement and even switching off the light as I went to look for something to whip her with. When I came back, she turned on the lights back again, and that was a perfect reason to slap her face again, force her face-down on the floor and raise her favourite blue skirt so violently it tore. "My skirt", mom spoke through the fabric of her white mask, and to this I angried immensely. I whipped her buttocks through her panties, and then had the panties in a fat string between her buttocks and beat her bare. Every once in a while I took my mother by the hair to see if she cried - explicitly explaining this - and when she finally did somewhat, laughed as I pushed my "fifth limb" everywhere on her face and then wiped her tears of with it. The idea was simple: we were to pretend tears were lubrication. The sweetest part was that we didn't discuss whatsoever whether we should have intercourse on this silly "un-mother's day" of ours, or refrain from it for good. I still was pondering the question, which indeed wasn't an easy one. Meanwhile, I whipped her some more, and though it was getting old, it still proved entertaining. "Let me see your tits", I told her when I was done. She seated herself on the floor and obediently rolled up her sweet soft sweater; I knelt before her and licked the nipples as tenderly as I could. "Lay down on your back and hold them in your hands", I whispered ater a while of licking. She did that and I laid beside her to lick them again. She tasted of sweat and salt at first, then of nothing. I kissed mom on her mask, and she attempted to kiss me back. Embracing as lovers, we faked kisses, and when I ordered her to hold me with her legs, she did that. "Whore", I told her calmly. "You're kissing everyone who orders you to. Know what?" She looked at me. "Now that you aren't my mother, I'll fuck you." Her chest rose with breath, she trembled slightly, and so did I, though I tried concealing it. "I'll tie you down to a table and fuck you", I whispered again, "I'll be fucking your holes many times over, whore." Mother looked me in the eyes and I slapped her for that. "Bitch", I said, "get over there, whore!" And so I rose her forcefully and, bringing her halfway to the old table in the corner, threw her on the floor face-down and, without undressing, slipped her a dicking, just keepeng panties to the side. Electricity circulated through my body as I felt her private parts with mine. If you ask me what it was like, I'll tell you that it was soft, softer than anything I ever touched, and warm. She moaned and yelled with each thrust, and when I ejaculated on the skirt and rose her up again, she was trembling big time. I finally brought her to the table, bent over it, tore away those white panties and gave her another dicking, harsh and rough, then let go of my mother as I hastily went for my improvised whip. She barely got off the table when I caught up on her, forced her back on it (now facing me) and whipped her tits though the soft sweater. She was crying, and so was her slit, so I forced myself in a third time, feeling how she was less of a sweet soft glove now and more of a squishy mess to the touch, eye and ear. When I was done ejaculating, I backed off from her as she was lying there, breasts going up down as she breathed, and whipped her right between her legs. That must have been painful, or unexpected, or both, as she screamed and jumped up. I then dragged her to the side, forced her face to the wall and ordered to "stick out her nude behind". "Do you want me to rape your shitter or do you want it in the drippin' cunt again?" I barked in her ear. "The shitter it is, isn't it? My dick's well lubricated, after all; but first the discipline", I told her. Holding mom's hands together, I whipped her until she cried again, and when she did, positioned mine protuberan in front of her anus and pushed it in, which must've hurt a bit, or, on the second thought, perhaps not. This was strange and only half-way enjoyable, but I came inside this time around, which certainly was satisfactory: you know, we've got an instinct which tells us that coming outside is uncool - evolution of species in the works; and thus I don't regret performing that awkward assfuck on the poor woman. Then I put mom on her knees, facing me again, and jerked right in front of her face: I couldn't ejaculate anymore, but there was enough filth on my dick and still coming out of it to make it all worth the effort. Then I whipped her face, first with my penis, and then with the real thing. "I'm done with you, whore", I told her, and, just as I promised, left her locked in the basement. In twenty minutes I was ready again, though, and went back in to "rape" the overlubricating woman further - more of the good old same, it turned out, as I dragged my mother around the house and plowed her every other step.
And I don't think I have much more to say on this. In hindsight, it was fun, but also strange, and entirely questionable to any kind of possible onlooker; and there, it seems, goes the "epilogue". I say, don't do this at home.