บท 1138: LOSING THE HOUSE BUT WINNING MOM
Mother and son share a motel room as their temporary residence after losing their home to a bank foreclosure on Halloween.
"Trick or treat. Trick or treat," the children running from room to room could be heard all over the motel complex.
Only, the trick was on Jennifer and Michael when the Sheriff was at their door with a court order to evict mother and son from their home. After threatening them for months, Bank of America finally foreclosed on the mortgage they took out with the now defunct, Angelo Mozilo's, Countrywide Bank. They were losing their beautiful four bedroom and three bath home. With all of their possessions out in the street, they rented a truck to move everything to storage and were now officially homeless. Having purchased their dream house nearly four years ago, they never thought they'd be homeless but they were.
Saturday, Halloween, the last day of the month, with tomorrow November 1st, the bank wanted Jennifer and Michael out of their house today. Slated for eviction by the Sheriff, the bank finally foreclosed on their 3,000 square foot house. The bank didn't care that tonight was Halloween night, the day that Jennifer planned her big, Halloween party all year. The bank didn't care that tomorrow was Sunday, the Lord's Day, and the day of rest. The bank didn't care that mother and son were homeless and had no place to go other than to rent a room in a seedy motel on the other side of town.
This human tragedy played out every day to someone else, somewhere else throughout this great country, supposedly the greatest country in the world. Why did this happen? How could this happen? Not fair and not right, they were sold a mortgage that the bank gambled that they couldn't pay. With the bank having bought insurance in the form of derivatives, junk bonds, the bank won and they lost.
Moreover, the bank didn't care that the government had already reimbursed them for their loses, pumped up their bottom line, and made them whole again with the TARP bailout monies they received from Secretary of the Treasury, Henry Paulson. Refusing to refinance anyone's mortgage, not wanting to take those bad mortgages back, the banks still foreclosed on people's homes. After receiving TARP money and still selling foreclosed homes on short sales, in effect, the banks were paid twice for the dubious and sometimes illegal mortgages they wrote. Even after the financial meltdown, the banks, insurance companies, investment houses, and car manufacturers still paid out their six and seven figure bonuses to those men who caused the financial crisis and who stole money from the American middle class.
Not allowing them to refinance, with their house now worth much less than when they bought it and what they owed was so much more than what their house was worth on the market, they were underwater. Not wanting to hear it, the bank didn't care that their adjustable rate mortgage that ballooned their mortgage payment out of reach was the reason why they could no longer afford their mortgage payments. Having given them enough warnings, more time, and second chances to come up with all of the back mortgage payments they missed, all the bank knew was that today was the last day of October and they wanted them gone from their property.
Having tried everything, pleaded with the bank, written to their Congressman, and participated in groups who protested the banks unethical banking practices, there was nothing more they could do but to obey the Sheriff's order to vacate. The banks, insurance companies, and investment houses were the ones who caused the financial markets to collapse and yet were the ones to reap the rewards of TARP money bailouts. That's not fair. That's not right. The banks, insurance companies, and investment houses were the ones who caused the financial meltdown but it was the middleclass that had to pay for the financial fiasco with job loses, home foreclosures, and 401K devaluations. Yet, rubbing their dirty deeds in the faces of people everywhere who lost everything and who had nothing, the banks still paid out their multi-million dollar bonuses to those most responsible for the financial collapse.
* * * * *
There was something always so eerie about Halloween night that the rest of the nights of the year didn't have. Halloween was actually spooky. As if expecting a ghost, a ghoul, a monster, or a witch to pop out in front of them, a day before the time change, the night felt darker on Halloween. Every corner they turned, there were kids in costume with bags of candy. Every corner they turned, whether it was kids in costume or homes decorated for the holiday, there was a reminder of Halloween.
With a full moon just a few days ago on Tuesday, October 27th, Michael still felt the effects that the full moon seemingly always had over him. Always making him nervous, jumpy actually, full moons unsettled him. More sensitive to full moons than most people, there was something about a full moon that unsettled and unhinged him. As if he was about to go crazy, he had this impulsive reaction to howl at the moon. As if expecting something bad to happen and as if the full moon was his visual omen, something bad did happen when the bank foreclosed on their house just a few days later.
It was a cold and windy night and it was already dark, so very dark when they parked their truck in the motel parking lot. They carried what few possessions they didn't put in storage to the motel, mostly food, clothing, and toiletries. Sadly depressed, a whirlwind of a day, Jennifer and Michael walked to their motel room, room #13, as if they were walking to their deaths.
Normally not superstitious but with tonight Halloween night, Michael suddenly had a bad case of Triskaidekaphobia, the fear of the number 13, or more specifically, the fear of the 13th person. Related to the Last Supper with Jesus and his 12 apostles, Judas, late for supper, was the last one to attend. The fear of the number 13 is also related to the fear of Friday the 13th, called Paraskevidekatriaphobia. Put the room number 13 in combination with Halloween and with a full moon just a few days before and anyone would be jumpy.
"I'm glad I changed out of my short skirt to wear jeans," said Jennifer giving her son a sexy look. "If I had worn my short skirt while carrying boxes, with the wind whipping like this, I'd be exposing my panties to everyone. I'd be exposing my panties to you," she said looking over at him again to give him another sexy look along with a naughty laugh that was almost a dirty laugh.
Jennifer gave her son an image that he would no doubt not forget to masturbate over later. Suddenly, the image of imagining seeing his mother's white, bikini panties gave him the start of an erection. Ever since he turned 18-years-old four years ago, he had always been sexually attracted to his mother. A pretty woman with a shapely body to match, she had long, sexy legs. Imagining a gust of wind blowing her short skirt up to the middle of her back while he walked behind her, he would have loved to see his mother's sexy, white, bikini panties. Giving him a prolonged and uninterrupted view, imagining a gust of wind blowing up her short skirt while he walked behind her up that stairs as she carried boxes, he'd be in voyeur heaven.
Normally a back breaking chore, there was something sexy about moving to a new place with his mother, especially when that new place was a motel room instead of a nine room house. There was nothing sexy about loading a truck with the possessions to unload the truck to put it all in storage. Yet, somehow he felt closer to her, not just physically closer to her but emotionally closer to her. They were going through something together that was as emotionally charged and devastating as a job loss or a divorce. Albeit a bad memory, a nightmare, this would be a disturbing memory they'd remember for the rest of their lives.
As if living in a prison cell with his mother, with not much space to get lost in, there'd be no place for either one of them to hide from one another while living within four walls. The only difference between their motel room and a prison cell was there was a door on the bathroom. With them having no privacy but for the bathroom, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd be seeing more of his mother's hot body than he had never seen before.
Imagining sleeping with his mother, holding her, hugging her, cuddling her, and spooning her, he wondered if the room had two beds or just one big bed. If the room only had one bed, he wondered if he'd be sleeping in the same bed with his mother. He imagined his mother's nightgown moving higher than her shapely hips. He imagined dry humping his mother while sticking his hand down her nightgown top to feel her breasts and finger her nipples. Now, with his incestuous imagination running wild, he imagined seeing his mother topless. He imagined seeing his mother naked. He imagined his mother seeing him naked. He imagined having sex with his mother. Only, nothing more than just a sexual fantasy, he knew that none of that would happen.
'Oh, my God! I'd give anything to see my mother topless. I'd give anything to see my mother naked.'
With the wind really whipping and blowing up more than just dust, now he wished his mother hadn't changed out of her short skirt. He would have loved to have seen her shapely ass cheeks filling out her white, bikini panties. Now relegated to only imagining her sexy panties, giving him something to masturbate over tonight, Michael would have loved to see the wind blowing up his mother's short skirt and her exposing her panties to him. Other than a few, quick flashes of up skirts peeks between her legs, he had never had a good look of his mother's panties. Going a step further, going where no son should ever go with his mother, he wondered if his mother's cunt was trimmed, shaved, or bushy.
* * * * *
Unprecedented weather for California this time of year, it was in the 90's just a couple of days ago. It was so dark that it was difficult to see more than a few yards. Had it not been for the motel lights illuminating their way, sucking them in and beckoning them to walk closer, they'd be tripping over curbstones and tripping all the way up the stairs. Their room was the corner room on the second floor. A three story motel, every floor had 12 rooms and all the rooms looked the same on the inside as they did on the outside too. In the way the motel looked, with it lacking in style, character, and personality, it could have been a minimum security prison or a halfway house.
With the wind blowing the branches of the trees as if they were long, scary arms with long, scary fingers, the shadows created by the moon made the trees look like scary monsters. Once in their room, closing the door from the wind blowing in leaves and trash, Jennifer sat on the bed, the only bed, while obviously listening to every noise and every bump in the night. No doubt, even the wind blowing the leaves across the parking lot made her wary of what was lurking out there and what may happen next. Suddenly, as if she had willed it to happen, there was a light knock and voices next door.
"Trick or treat. Happy Halloween. Trick or treat."
A minute later, there was another light knock and another light knock. Someone was at the door on the floor below them and at the door on the floor above them. Already on edge, not even thinking that it was children trick or treating, she was scared. Her nerves were shot after the Sheriff threatened to breakdown her door and drag her out if she didn't open it. Never had she felt as violated as she did then when forced out of her home in front of her neighbors and those she thought were her friends.
"What was that? Did you hear that Michael? I heard a knock and then a bang."
Fortunately for her, her son was there to comfort her, console her, and protect her from harm.
"It was nothing Mom," said Michael getting up from his chair to go to the door and squint out the peephole. "It was just the people next door closing their door."
Normally, they'd be home decorating their house in preparation for Halloween. Normally, they'd be home passing out candy to the trick or treaters. Normally, they'd be hosting their yearly Halloween party but tonight they were huddled against the cold in a seedy, downtown motel room. Normally cleaning the house after the party and relaxing before going to bed. Normally Michael would be in his room masturbating over the imagined thoughts of his mother topless, naked, and having sex with her topless and/or naked body.
Suddenly, it didn't feel like Halloween. Then again, suddenly, it most certainly did feel like Halloween. With no treats in store for them, the trick was on them. Out of their house, the bank got the last laugh and the better of them.
* * * * *
A relatively safe haven for drug dealers and prostitutes, the police left them alone to do their thing as long as they stayed within the confines of the motel and as long as there were no shootings. The motel was filled to capacity with Welfare mothers and others who had lost their homes to foreclosure too. Part of a bigger complex, there were two more motel additions with each housing 36 rooms, 108 rooms in all.
The place took on more the feeling of an inner city, affordable housing project than it felt like a motel. With each room sheltering four or more residents and more when counting all of the kids, there were 600 to a 1,000 people residing there in such a small, cramped space. Then, between the drug dealers hanging around outside and the prostitutes going from room to room, there was a constant flow of cars and people at all hours of the day and night. Now with the trick or treaters in the middle of all this lunacy, there was a constant and continual knocking and opening and closing of doors. To go from living in a nice house in a good neighborhood to living in this slum environment and criminal atmosphere was shocking.
Normally, as they did every year, opening their home to neighbors and friends, they'd have a Happy Halloween party. This would be the first year since they moved into the neighborhood four years ago that they wouldn't be having a Happy Halloween party. Now with no friends and no family by their side, they were alone. Mother and son against the world, after learning a valuable lesson in not trusting anyone, especially the bank, albeit a bit too late, they now made a good team. Suddenly, in the way that the Sheriff knocked at their front door and banged at their front door with a court order in hand to evict them, there was another knock, a louder knock this time at their motel room door.
"Mom? There's someone at our door," said Michael.
Already gun shy, Jennifer muted the TV, stood up from the bed, and took a step back to stand in the corner as if someone was going to barge in her door and evict her again.
"Don't open the door," she said in a panic while clutching the television remote control in her hand as it was a gun or a Taser.
Michael stood and peered through the peephole again.
"It's just some kids trick or treating," he said seeming ready to open the door.
"Trick or treat. Trick or treat," said the kids in unison as if they were part of a Halloween choir. "Trick or treat."
Jennifer sighed a big breath of relief. She sat on the bed more relaxed and turned off the television. Suddenly but for the bathroom light that illuminated half of the small, gloomy room, the room was dark, dingy, and depressing. Seemingly the darkness from outside had somehow seeped in the room to make it feel just as gloomy. Only, it was more than just the dark. The room was nothing like being at home. A tenth of the size of their beautiful craftsman style house, this 300 square foot, 15' by 20' rectangular room was a much smaller than the beautiful home they had been evicted from and had become accustomed to living in.
"Don't open the door Michael," ordered Jennifer. "We don't have any candy to give them. Pretend we're not here. Besides, I don't want to meet our neighbors. With the element who live here, I'd rather not meet any of the people who live her. I don't want anyone to know we're living here in this run down, rat, and roach infested motel room," she said with false pride while looking around the room as if looking for rats and roaches. "I'm embarrassed enough as it is," she said pulling her sweater tighter across her breasts and wrapping her arms around herself against the cold.
Only, with Michael there with her, she needn't worry about roaches. Not afraid of bugs, he used to have a job in pest control. The first thing he did when entering the room was to remove the bedspread from the bed, the biggest germ collector, and check the bed for bedbugs. He had already seen some things that average people never see or experience. Most people don't even know that big roaches can fly short distances, especially when launching themselves from high places, such as trees and ledges, and silently gliding down. Yet, whether they were eight legged, six legged, four legged, crawling, jumping, or flying bugs, her son would protect her from all insects. Even if they were two legged parasites, he'd protect her from human insects too. No harm would come to his mother as long as he was there with her to protect her.
"Trick or treat," more kids were knocking at their motel room door hoping for candy. "Trick or treat. Trick or treat." There were a big bunch of kids outside their door.
* * * * *
It was just them against the world was something his mother always said when things were bad and at their worst. With them out in the street and homeless, things were pretty bad now and couldn't possibly get much worse. Yet, at least they had their health and they still had one another. With them cast out of their home and thrown out in the street with their possessions, Jennifer put on a strong face when she was humiliated in front of her friends and neighbors. The events of today obviously took a toll on her. With her always being a bigger than life image to him before, Michael stared over at his mother sitting on the bed suddenly looking so small and so scared.
Seeing her looking like that made him want to hold her, hug her, and protect her. Seeing her looking like that made him want to take her in his arms and kiss her. Seeing her looking like that made him want to part her lips with his tongue and French kiss her. Seeing her like that made him want to feel her through her clothes while kissing and kissing her. Seeing her like that made him want to undress her, actually strip her naked. Seeing her looking like that made him want to have sex with her, his own mother. Seeing her looking like that made him what to strike out against the army of faceless old, white men who hurt her and who did this to them.
As far as he was concerned, all of these white, old men were all the same. Whether they were accountants, lawyers, and/or politicians, they were all guilty of committing horrific crimes against modern society for the sake of money. Money, money, money, everything was all about the almighty dollar. Only, with them no one and nobody, they were powerless to do anything but to suffer the consequences of the greed of others. They were just pawns in a bigger, more powerful game of us against them, the rich against the middleclass, a middleclass that is now poor and an upper class that is now superrich. Now with the middleclass dissipated and bogged down by unemployment and underemployment, there was just two classes of people in America the superrich and the poor.
They had no money to fight the good fight and to fight the wrongs of the rich and powerful in a court of law. If they tried to fight those old, white men who had all of the power, all of the influence, and all of the money, if they weren't massacred now, they'd be crucified then. In the way of Cervantes' Don Quixote on his horse with his sword, they had no hero to come to their rescue and to defeat their giant windmills. They had no beacon to summon Batman to make those bad men who rigged the financial system and forced foreclosures demand that the big, bad bank give them back their home. With no friends and no family there to help them, comfort them, and support them in their time of need, alone with their bad selves, they had no one but themselves.Now with laws passed against them by those so called public servants that they voted in to supposedly serve the people, they seemingly only served themselves and the top one percent of voters. Their representatives in Congress and in the House of Representatives turned their backs on the rest of the population for greed, for money, for power, and for influence. Other than small segments broadcasted on the nightly news and those forgotten articles written in yesterday's newspapers, no one cared that much of the middleclass were unemployed, underemployed, homeless, and disenfranchised.
Even when the President of the United States gave his speeches to declare his outrage, with him powerless to get anything done in Congress, it was nothing more than lip service. It was nothing more than grandstanding that he was for the people, of the people, and with the people when he was bought and paid for like every other public servant. Already beholden to the rich, influential, and powerful, Congress had their priorities and it wasn't the middleclass they were publically serving.
* * * * *
With Michael learning early what most people never know, whenever politicians were talking, they were lying. The bottom line was, no matter how outrageous and obvious this act of greed and power was, no one went to jail. No one was arrested. No one was even charged for the financial meltdown.
Why would they be? Why should they be? The faction of good old boys all made money, lots and lots of money. As long as those players were paid for taking advantage of the hardworking middleclass, nothing personal, it was business as usual.
It was nothing personal when Americans lost their jobs. It was nothing personal when Americans lost their house. It was nothing personal when Americans had their 401K's flushed down the toilet and their retirement savings gone. It was nothing personal when Americans had no health insurance and were burdened for the rest of your miserable lives to payback student loans for college degrees that couldn't get them a good paying, full-time job, with benefits. It was nothing personal when banks hounded everyone to accept credit cards debt that they couldn't afford. It was nothing personal that the average American now had no savings, no future, and no hope other than hoping to win the lottery. Good luck with that. The odds are against you as the lottery is more rigged than a crooked slot machine in a mob run casino.
Yet with everything happening for a reason, with every dog having its day, and with every cloud having a silver lining, Michael was comforted by clichés. His mother professed a million of them learned from her grandmother who learned them from her grandmother before her. With them having little money and now no home, he had nothing but his clichés to maintain his positive attitude, his sense of self, and his sense of family. No doubt, for clichés to be overused phrases, and with them having been used at the right time and in the right place, the clichés must all be true and effective in summing up things that begged a definition.
'Thank God for clichés,' he thought to himself.
He had nothing else but clichés to stop him from going ape shit crazy, to grab a gun, and to kill those dirty bitches and filthy bastards at the bank he felt were responsible for them losing their home. Only, bank managers, loan officers, and tellers weren't the villains. Like everyone else, they were just doing their jobs. Unable to target and shoot the real criminals, those powerful men at the top and those who were truly responsible for taking their home, they were hidden behind their mansion walls and protected by those soulless lawyers who graduated from Harvard and from Yale. An old boys' club that still exists today, no one, not gangbangers, not drug lords, and not foreign governments could ever get the better of those mighty men who graduated with law degrees to go into public service, banking, and/or international finance. In the way that sitting judges and congressmen and congresswoman are, they are all above the law that they are sworn to uphold and to protect.
Earning their law degrees, their licenses to legally steal, with Jennifer and Michael totally defenseless, there was nothing that he and his mother could do. There was nothing that anyone could do but to drop their drawers, bend over, and grin and bear while being fucked up the asses by these thieving cocksuckers. The American middleclass as a whole, whether losing their jobs, having their unions busted, having their 401K's dissipated, or being forced out of their homes, were all fucked up the asses by the billionaire, big, Wall Street players.
With their dirty deals done behind closed, boardroom doors, the average person wouldn't hear the real story of what happened for years. On the bad side, their new reality, they were homeless. On the good side, a positive benefit to losing their home, no longer having to pay for their interest inflated mortgage, they were free. Cash strapped before, they were flush with money now. Yet, even though these assholes who ruined the economy and who ruined the equality and quality of life for most average folks, no one went to jail. No one was arrested. No one was even charged. Unbelievable. Go figure.
Those bank robbers who hold up a bank at gun point and get nothing more than a few thousand dollars are doomed to spend ten years or more behind bars. Yet, accountants, lawyers, stock brokers, bankers, and politicians who routinely steal billions of dollars don't see a day behind bars. Where's the justice in this country? Politicians point to Mexico, Russian, China, Cuba, and Iran as the worst places in the world to live, yet, the United States of America leads the list as the worst place for the average American to earn a living and to live the American dream.
God bless America my ass. There is no God and if there was a God, he should never bless America just as he should never bless a priest who abuses children and Bishops, Cardinals, and the Pope who don't do anything about the atrocities. Dante Alighieri had it right when he wrote, Dante's Inferno more than 700 years ago. Indeed, with Vatican City, the city of Gold and the richest city in the world made from the backs of the poor, the Popes, the Cardinals, and the Bishops all belong in the 9th circle of Hell when they die. The only good people in the Catholic Church who should not burn in eternity are the nuns who live their lives in obscurity and poverty while helping the poor and the sick.
Now that the bank took their house, the pressure was off them to come up with the big, balloon payment money every month for a house they couldn't afford to keep and for a house that continued to fall in value. With their house gone, their credit ruined, and their lives in shambles, starting all over again, once they get back on their feet, they'll find an apartment. This motel room was nothing more than a temporary roof over their heads with a door to protect them those who lurked in the darkness. This motel room was only temporary accommodations to keep them dry from the rain, sound from the wind, warm the cold, and safe from those wanting to do them harm. Now freeing up their monthly budget, at least they had enough money to afford this room until they found better accommodations and something closer to work. If Michael could find a place nearer work, he could walk to work and leave his mother the truck.
* * * * *
"Trick or treat," there were still more kids knocking at their door and hoping for candy. A barrage of children dressed in Halloween costumes knocked at their motel room door every few seconds. "Trick or treat."
Michael looked at his watch. It was only 7 pm. He couldn't wait until all the kids went home to eat their candy before going to bed on a sugar high.
Not opening the door, ignoring kids still walking by and knocking, Michael opened the closet and pulled out the extra blanket. He smelled it. It smelled musty. Giving his mother the bed, he planned on sleeping in the chair.
He put the blanket by the chair and moved the chair closer to the bed so that he could at least put his feet up on the bed and stretch out his legs more to be somewhat more comfortable. Sleeping in the chair, even though he sexually fantasized of sleeping with his mother, would afford his mother the modesty she deserved and give his mother the privacy she needed. Sleeping in the chair would be better than sleeping on the floor. God knows what creepy crawlers would crawl on him during the night.
Not afraid of bugs but he didn't want to be bitten by a spider again, especially if he could help it. Having been bitten by enough spiders during his job as a pest control worker, with his hands and legs swelling up like a balloon, he had some nasty spider bites before to know how much they can hurt. If he had bug spray, he'd spray all the vents and the doorjamb before going to bed. He'd stop at the hardware store and buy some tomorrow.
"May I have one of your pillows Mother?"
Jennifer looked at him with confusion. She made a face seemingly at his foolishness in sleeping in the chair.
"What are you doing?"
He returned her look of confusion with his look of confusion.
"I'm getting ready for bed," he said while trying to get more comfortable in the small chair in readiness to sleep in the chair rather than in the bed. "I'm tired, achy, and sore from loading and unloading the truck. It's been a long, emotional, nerve wracking day," he said letting out a big sigh along with a big yawn. "I don't know which took more of a toll on me, the physical labor of moving all of that furniture or the emotional drain of losing our home," he said looking at his mother.
In the way she looked at the Sheriff evicting her, Jennifer looked at her son with steadfast determination, motherly love, and incestuous desire. Someone who usually got her way, she was a strong willed woman. Never afraid, not backing down from a fight, or unprepared for a challenge, Michael could only imagine what she'd be like in bed. Indeed, imagining her to be a spirited lover, she'd be quite the wild cat. Only, unable to experience his mother sexually, he'd never know what she was like sexually in bed.
"Physically and emotionally, the combination of both is what drained you," said his mother. "But you can't sleep in a chair honey," she said with a nervous laugh while looking at him as if he was insane. She looked at him in the way he looked at her. She looked at him as if she was suddenly horny. She paused in her thoughts of what she was about to say next to look at him while biting her lip before blurting out her words. "You'll sleep in the bed with me," she said giving him an inviting smile, a sexy albeit naughty look, and hitting the bed with her open hand.
Mother invites her son to sleep in the same bed with her.
Continued from Chapter One:
"May I have one of your pillows?"
Jennifer looked at him with confusion.
"What are you doing?"
He returned her look of confusion with his look of confusion.
"I'm getting ready for bed," he said while trying to get more comfortable in readiness to sleep in the chair. "I'm tired from loading and unloading the truck. It's been a long day," he said yawning and stretching before letting out a big sigh.
As if she was looking at a man in a bar or at a club, she looked at her son with sexual interest.
"It has been a very, long day," she said.
She continued looking at him while watching him feebly trying to make the chair more comfortable and into a bed.
"I don't know which took more of a toll on me, the physical labor of moving all of that furniture or the emotional drain of losing our home," he said looking at his mother.
In the way she looked at the Sheriff evicting her, Jennifer looked at her son with steadfast determination. She was a strong willed woman.
"The combination of both is what drained you," said his mother. "But you can't sleep in a chair honey," she said with a nervous laugh while looking at him as if he was insane. She paused to look at him while biting her lip before blurting out what she said next. "You'll sleep in the bed with me," she said giving him an inviting smile and hitting the bed with her open hand.
* * * * *
Chapter Two:
Now, he was the one who looked at her as if she was insane.
"What? Mom? No," he said looking at her as if he wanted to do more than just sleep with her. "I can't sleep in bed with you," he said while the thoughts of having wild, forbidden sex with his mother filled his head with incestuous lust.
He felt his cock hardening with the thoughts of sleeping next to his mother. He felt his cock hardening with the thoughts of seeing something or touching something of his mother's body that he shouldn't see and/or touch during the night while sleeping with his mother. His lips were saying no but his cock was saying yes.
"Don't be silly Michael. We can share the bed. It's a queen sized bed," she said looking at the bed and then looking from the bed to look at him. "We have plenty of room. You stay on your side and I'll stay on my side. We'll sleep together in this bed. Okay?"
She invited him to share her bed. What man in his right mind would turn her down? Only, she was his mother and he was her son.
"I'm comfortable enough here in the chair Mom. Really, don't worry about me," he said suddenly looking pathetic. He knew by giving his mother that look of self-pity that she'd never allow him to sleep in the chair. Definitely, he'd be sleeping in bed with her. "Besides, I can't sleep anyway with all the noise outside and the motel filled with people coming and going."
She rolled her eyes and sighed in the way she does whenever he was being difficult and/or stubborn.
"Please. You must sleep with me. You need your rest," she said pausing to look at him and as if to read him before giving him a valid argument why he should forsake his modesty and sleep in the same bed with his mother.
When she said that he must sleep with her, he wasn't thinking about sleeping when sleeping with his mother. He was thinking about sex. He was thinking of having sex with his mother. Now he wondered if she knew what she said when she said, you must sleep with me. Now he wondered if she was sexually teasing him in the way that she teased him about her being glad that she didn't wear her short skirt and flashing him her panties on such a windy day.
"Mom, I don't know. That would be really awkward sleeping with you in the same bed," he said hoping that she wouldn't take no for an answer.
She made a sad, pouty face that she does whenever she wants him to give in and allow her to have her way.
"Besides, it's the only way we'll stay warm. We'll keep one another warm. This room is already cold and will soon get even colder. The thermostat doesn't work," she said wrapping her arms around herself while shivering.
Stay warm? His mother wants him to keep her warm. Oh, God, this just gets better and better. He'd like to keep his mother more than warm. He'd love to keep her sexually satisfied.
Instead of walking to the bed, Michael walked to the heater to play with the knobs and buttons. Nothing. Obviously it was broken. Then, he walked over to the phone and picked up the receiver.
"I'll call the office. Maybe they can fix it or give us another room," he said.
Just as he said that, more kids knocked at their motel room door.
"Trick or treat. Trick or treat. Trick or treat."
She looked at him in the way she looked at him when she told him they didn't have any food and had no money to buy any. Now with the bank not taking all of their money and no longer having to pay house insurance, the utilities, and the upkeep, at least now they had enough money to pay for the room and to buy food. Except for their terrible living accommodations, they were in a better financial place now than they were before.
"Don't call the office. I don't want trouble," she said. "Besides, this is the last room they had. We're not the only ones who lost their house today. The Sheriff's Department was out in full force today. Seemingly we're not the only people down on their luck," she said. "Besides, the motel owner gave me ten dollars off of the daily price of the room because there's no heat in this room. The heater is busted and won't be fixed until sometime next week," she said pointing to the silent unit.
As if he was a homeless man and by definition he was, instead of a 22-year-old man with a good job that earned decent money, he removed the blanket from the chair to wrap it around himself.
"What about the hot water? Do we have hot water for showers tomorrow?"
Happy to report, as if glad to give him the good news, she gave him a motherly smile.
"We have hot water. I already checked. The broken heater had no effect on the hot water. Thank God," she said. "You know how much I enjoy my long, hot showers."
He wondered if his mother masturbated. He wondered if his mother masturbated while taking a long, hot shower. He remembered all of the times he wished he had the courage to barge in on his mother while she was taking a shower. He always wanted to see her topless. He always wanted to see her naked.
Opening her bathroom door on the pretense that he had to pee, but with them having three bathrooms, that excuse wouldn't float. Instead, he just imagined what she looked like without her clothes while masturbating himself. Now, she invited him not to have sex with her but to sleep with her. What are the odds of his sexual fantasy ever happening? He hadn't slept with his mother since he was a child after having a bad dream.
Imagining himself in bed with his mother, he could feel his cock pulsating in his pants. He wanted to say yes but he couldn't. He couldn't sleep with his mother. He just couldn't. He couldn't trust himself sleeping in the same bed with is mother.
"Mom," he said.
He looked at her as if she was nuts when, already filled with incestuous lust, he was the crazed one and not her. While only concerned for his welfare, she was a normal mother who wanted them to stay warm and he was a perversely perverted man sexually attracted to his mother. His sexual dream come true, he'd love nothing more than to sleep in the same bed with his mother. He'd love nothing more than to accidentally on purpose touch and feel some part of her shapely body while she slept.
"What?"
She gave him the smile that only a mother can give her son.
"I can't sleep in the same bed with you," he said shaking his head side to side as if he needed that extra bit of negativity to stop him from climbing in bed with her.
* * * * *
He wanted to add that the reason why he couldn't sleep in the same bed with her was for her own protection against his inappropriate, incestuous, sexual advances. He wanted to tell her that he couldn't trust himself not to touch her and feel her as she slept. He couldn't trust himself not to lift the sheet to see if her nightgown was high enough for him to see her naked ass or pussy. Now she looked at him as if he was nuts while he looked at her wishing she was drunk and horny.
He remembered that night two years ago when she came home drunk from her 40th birthday party. Her girlfriends took her to one of those CFNM strip club shows. She was so drunk. She was so horny.
As soon as she opened the front door after her girlfriends dropped her off, she fell in his arms. Kissing and kissing him, he had the urge to slip her his tongue but he didn't. He didn't dare. He couldn't. He had the urge to feel her where a son should never touch and feel his mother but he didn't. He didn't dare. He couldn't. If he had French kissed her while touching her and feeling her where no son should ever touch and feel his mother, how would he face her in the morning?
He had the urge to put her to bed. He imagined undressing her while touching her and feeling her everywhere. Only, he didn't. He couldn't. Yet, that didn't stop him from masturbating while imagining French kissing his mother and feeling her through her clothes. That didn't stop him from imagining removing her clothes and putting her to bed topless and/or naked. Only, he didn't. He couldn't.
"Why not? Why can't you sleep in the same bed with me? I don't smell," she said laughing and lifting her arm to smell her armpit. "And I promise not to fart," she said laughing again.
He looked at her in the way that a man would sexually and lustily look at a woman when alone in a motel room with her instead of in the way a son should be lovingly and morally looking at his mother. She was his mother and he was her son. How could he even think of taking sexual advantage of her? Why was he so tortured with having forbidden sexual thoughts for his mother?
If only she knew what he was thinking, he'd be so embarrassed. If only she knew what he was thinking, she'd tell him to get another room. Only, there weren't any other rooms. This room was their last room. The motel was full.
"Because you're my mother and I'm your son," he said averting his stare when he caught himself staring at the shape of her ample breasts through her blouse and bra. Instead of telling her the truth, instead of telling her that he didn't trust himself to sleep in the same bed with her, he gave her a lame excuse. "People will talk."
For all that he was incestuously and sexually thinking about his mother, now he looked at her with embarrassment, guilt, and shame and she looked at him with anger and frustration. The best excuse, the only excuse that he could come up with was that people would talk. Well, that excuse was enough to set her off on a tirade.
"People?" She laughed. "What people? We don't have any people," she said with rage. "With no one lifting a finger to help us, we're all alone in this world. Just as you're the only one that I have, I'm the only one that you have. It's just us against the world Michael. It's just us against the world."
She looked at him with tears in her eyes.
"Sorry Mom," he said.
Not wanting to upset her any more than she already was, instead of going to her to hold her and hug her, he just stood there and stared at his mother. Afraid to touch her, he feared that he'd try to kiss her while feeling her through her clothes. Besides, afraid to touch her when she was like this, he knew she needed to have her moment to vent. She needed to rant and to rave. She needed to get it all out of her system. She needed to think. She always came up with a plan and/or an idea to move them higher up the ladder of the food chain after she thought about what to do next. Once she cleared her mind of old problems, she always found the solutions to the new ones. Leave it to her, she always came up with an idea before developing a plan.
Yet, with her always in control before, seemingly she was losing it now. With him always trusting her judgment before, he didn't know if he could trust her judgment now. Maybe, with her getting pregnant right after graduating college, still angry more than twenty years later that she didn't live her dream of having the ideal life, she was getting too old to continue to fight. Maybe her days of battling the demons that hid in the dark to prey on the helpless and the powerless are over. Maybe with her unable to fight the good fight anymore she had resigned herself to accepting the misery that was now her life. With her protesting and taking a stand against those people who abused their power and their influence, maybe now she realized, as one, lone woman against a barrage of rich and powerful men, that there's nothing that she can do.
"We had no one offering us a place to stay," she said with her voice shaking and her finger wagging. "Even after I told them all that we were losing the house and were going to be put out on the street, not willing to beg, our friends and neighbors didn't lift a finger to help us. As if we were diseased and were already gone from their lives and from their minds, they turned their backs on us, closed their doors, and shaded their windows," she said.
Having gone through it all with her too, he looked at her with understanding eyes. Even when she was this angry, she was so pretty. Even when she was out of her mind with rage, he wanted to hold her and kiss her while feeling her through her clothes. A sexist remark and yet another incestuous thought, maybe she needs to get laid.
He'd love nothing more than to make love to his mother. He'd love nothing more than to fuck his mother. He'd love nothing more than to pound her pussy until she had orgasm. Then, maybe she'd be so grateful that he gave her an orgasm, with his cock, she'd give him one with her mouth. He couldn't help but wonder if giving his mother hot sex would relax her. Only, with him her son and she his mother, giving his mother hot sex would no doubt make her even more crazed.
"Mom, I'm sure that if they knew how bad it was, they would have helped us," he said trying to calm her.
Instead he riled her even more. She looked at him with fire in her eyes. She looked at him as if he was the enemy.
"They saw us standing out in the street with our furniture. They knew we were out there. They saw you loading the rental truck. Still no one lifted a finger to help us," she said looking as if she was about to cry. "They didn't even offer us a cup of coffee or ask where we were going?"
Michael looked at his mother with sadness. She was all he had. He didn't want her flipping out now. He didn't know what he'd do if he didn't have his mother in his life.
"Mom, it's okay. We'll get through this. Don't worry," said Michael. "Calm down. Take a breath. Relax," he said.
Only when he looked over at her, having seen her like this before, she was getting angrier instead of calmer. As if she was Granny Clampett jumping up and down on the front porch while holding a shotgun in readiness to shoot revenuers, he was glad that his mother didn't have a gun.
"When I think about all the food and booze that I put out every Halloween to entertain the whole neighborhood, now that we're in our time of need, not one person offered their help. Well, they can all go and fuck themselves. Do you hear me?" She looked up at the ceiling. "Fuck you too God because there is no God for something like this to happen to good people. It's apparent to me now that God is dead but the Devil is alive and well and he's right here sitting beside me on this bed in this stinking motel room in Thousand Oaks, California."
Michael walked over to his mother and took her in his arms to give her a hug. When hugging her, instead of thinking about losing the house and instead of thinking about comforting her, perversely and incestuously, all he could think about was that he could feel the back of her C cup bra through her blouse with his horny fingers. When he hugged her, he imagined having sex with his mother. When he hugged her, all he could think of is how good it felt to feel his mother's firm body against his hard body. When he hugged her, he imagined kissing her while feeling her through her clothes.
If he was horny before, after hugging his mother he was even hornier now. Holding his mother, his dream woman, made him sexually want her even more. He wished he could have sex with her. While hugging her, he so wanted to reach down and feel her ass while squeezing her ass but he didn't dare. Not wanting to disrespect her, especially at a time like this, she had already been through enough. She didn't need him making an incestuous, sexual pass at her.
Besides, his mother wasn't like that. She wasn't a slut or a whore. She wasn't into incest in the way he was into incest when thinking about having sex with his mother whenever he was masturbating himself. Knowing his mother, she probably doesn't even masturbate. Knowing his mother, she probably doesn't sexually think about him in the way that he sexually thinks about her. Knowing his mother, she'd think him a monster if ever he made his incestuous feelings known by making a sexual pass at her. Especially at a time like this, when she was so upset over losing the house, how dare he even think of having sex with his mother?
"Don't upset yourself again Mom. What's done is done. We did everything we could to keep the house. We fought the good fight," he said knowing that he was lying and that they were helpless and unable to put up any fight against the bank taking their home.
With her clinging on to him, hanging onto him and holding him tight as if he was her husband instead of her son, he imagined leaning down to kiss her. He imagined parting her lips with his tongue and French kissing his mother. He imagined making out with his mother while feeling her beautiful body through her clothes. With him living in a small room with his mother while continually breathing in the same air, feeling as if he was even more part of her than just being her son, his incestuous thoughts were inflamed and amplified.
"We never should have bought that house. That house was evil from the start," she said looking like she was going to cry again. "The Devil lived in that house."
Michael kissed his mother on the forehead even though he so wanted to kiss her on her lips.
"Don't get yourself upset all over again. It's over. The worst has happened. Actually, that's not even the worst that could have happen. We're both healthy and alive," he said. "Tomorrow is a new day and our fresh start. We'll look for a place to stay this weekend. This isn't so bad," he said looking around the small room. "There's everything we need here and food is just a block away."
* * * * *
In the way she had always encouraged him and made him feel better about his failures and his disappointments, he did the same for her. They were their own cheering club. Soon to find out, he wondered what it would be like living in this small room with his mother. Definitely, it wouldn't be so bad. They liked one another. They were not just mother and son, they were friends, best friends.
Yet, living in such a small place and a suffocating space with his mother would be so much better if he was sexually intimate with her. Even though he knew he'd never know what it would be like to be intimate with his mother, he wondered what it would feel like to kiss her, French kiss her. Even though he knew she'd never agree to have sex with him, he wondered what it would feel like to make love to his mother. Then, suddenly feeling perversely perverted, he wondered what it would feel like to fuck his mother, really pound her pussy to orgasmic pleasure. Humping her harder and humping her faster, he'd love to hear her breathing hard in his ear.He wondered what she sounded like when having an orgasm. He wondered what it would feel like to having his mother's hand on his cock. He wondered what it would feel like to have her stroke him before kneeling in front of him to suck him. In the way he wondered how it would feel like to have his cock buried in his mother's pussy, he wondered what it would feel like to have his cock in his mother's mouth. He wished he could masturbate without his mother knowing that he was masturbating. Only, with neither one having much privacy in this motel room, he'd have to save masturbating himself until later.
If they were sexually intimate, he wouldn't have to masturbate. If they were sexually intimate, they could pass the time and temporarily forget their worries and woes by having sex, incestuous sex. With him imagining how she looked naked not quite enough, he would love to know what his mother looked like topless. If only he could see her tits, just once, giving him enough fodder for him to masturbate more accurately over the imagined image of her naked breasts for the rest of his life, he'd be so happy.
Having never seen her without her clothes, he wondered what she looked like topless and/or naked. He could only imagine what she looked like topless and/or naked. A sexual, sexy, incestuous dream come true, if only for a split second he could see his mother topless and/or naked, he'd no longer have to imagine what her tits, her ass, and her pussy looked like. Knowing that he couldn't and wouldn't ever see his mother topless and/or naked, nothing more than an outrageous, incestuous, sexual fantasy he enjoyed having when masturbating himself, he wished he could sleep naked and in the same bed with her. Only, his mother didn't sleep naked. She always wore a nightgown. Making himself unbearably horny, now, he was just sexually teasing himself of thoughts that would never happen.
With her a modestly moral woman, she'd never go for having incestuous sex with her son or even showing him her topless and/or naked body. She'd never show him what she looked like in her bra, never mind showing him her tits. She's never show him what she looked like in her bra and panty, never mind showing him her naked body. If she never show him her naked body, she'd never sleep with him when naked. In all the years he lived with her after his father left her for another woman, a much younger woman, he had only seen brief, up skirt flashes of her panties and brief, down blouse flashes of her bra and cleavage. Yet, he had seen enough of her through her sheer, thin nightgowns to know that she had a sexy and shapely body beneath her clothes.
"Too good to be true, I knew there was something wrong with the bank giving someone like us a mortgage," she said looking at him for his agreement. "What was I thinking? Blinded by the dream of owning our own house, I should have went with my instincts," she said blaming herself for something that was totally out of her control. "They tricked me into believing that I was deserving of a mortgage. They took advantage of me. They deceived me into believing that we would financially afford and finally have our dream home," she said continuing to beat up herself.
Michael was quick to defend his mother.
"You couldn't have known Mom what they were doing behind the scenes. No one knew what was happening back then," said Michael. "Even the financial experts were mystified that someone could devise such a wicked scheme with such a dastardly plan."
Jennifer fisted her hand in frustration.
"We were nothing but pawns in an economic, criminal game of lying, cheating, and deception of Wall Street hedge funds and derivative managers," she said. "Banks were betting against us and against their own mortgages in hopes that we would fail and couldn't afford to pay our inflated mortgages. As if they all had side bets, with us the tiny ball rolling in the opposite direction on a giant roulette wheel, they sold junk bonds as insurance to cover their business loses when we didn't have those safety nets in place. They made more money with us not paying our mortgage than they would if we paid out mortgage," she said with bitterness mixed with anger.
He patted her hand in his feeble attempt to calm her.
"You're right Mom," said Michael.
He knew that she needed to go through this to come out the other side sane and with a clear head to thing what their next move should be.
"Those assholes. Either way, whether we paid our mortgage or not, they made money. Then, even after they made their money, they still took our house. Those banks didn't lose a penny. To add even more profit to their bottom lines, Treasury Secretary Paulson gave them golden parachutes with billion dollar bailouts. Where's our golden parachute? Where's out bailout? Instead our bailing us out, the ones who need it the most, we get evicted from our house."
She looked at her son with sadness.
"It wasn't our fault Mom. They used us. They played us. With billions of dollars at stake, greed and power corrupted them, especially when there was no one to call them on any of it, not even the SEC," he said. "Then, leveling the playing field and to avoid prosecution, Angelo Mozilo, CEO of Countrywide Bank, President Bush's close, personal friend, gave any member of congress and of the house, who wanted one, low interest bank loans. Nothing more than hush money, I don't know why they all weren't charged with conflict of interest and/or conspiracy at the very least," he said.
She looked at her son with dejection.
"It was a well-orchestrated scam of bright men over average, hardworking, people, common folk who just wanted to own their own home. By offering me, an average American a home mortgage and making me believe that I could afford it, the bank turned my head around for me to think that I could live in a nice house and in a safe neighborhood," she said.
He was angrier that his mother was upset than he was that they lost the house.
"It's okay Mom. It's okay," said Michael patting her hand when he'd much rather feel her tits while fingering her pussy.
She looked at him with fire in her eyes. She looked at him in the way that he imagined her looking at him with sexual passion should ever they be intimate with one another.
"All of those bastards and bitches who crashed the stock market should have gone to jail but no one was even arrested or even charged with a crime," she said letting go of her son to pace the room. "When a black man is shot in the back by the police for stealing a loaf of bread to feed his family," she said wagging her index finger, "how could Wall Street's, Caucasian, stock traders steal billions of dollars without penalty?"
As if she was she was Ellie Mae Clampett from the Beverly Hillbillies of old, she was getting all riled up again. Only, they didn't leave a shack in the Ozarks for a mansion in Beverly Hills. They left a three thousand square foot, four bedroom, and three bath house in a nice neighborhood to rent a 300 square foot room in the seedy part of downtown.
"Well, like millions of others who lost their homes, now we know we've been scammed out of our dream and out of our money. Yet, we held onto that house longer than most folk did or would. When the interest rate went up and the valuation of our house went down, and we were unable to refinance, we should have stopped paying the mortgage. We should have known right then that it was all just a scam," said Jennifer.
With his mother continuing to feed the flame, Michael was angry all over again too.
"We should have walked away from that house like all those other people did," he said sharing his mother's anger. "We would have ruined our credit but we would have salvaged our pride and left ourselves with more money than we have now."
Not knowing how to make his mother feel any better other than to stop feeding her more fuel, he remained quiet while looking at her with sorrow.
"If I knew then what I know now, I would have had them take the house a year earlier," she said with sadness.
She looked away from her son to stare down at the mattress.
"It's not our fault. We were just trying to take our piece of the pie to live the American dream. We didn't know that the pie was already poisoned. We didn't know that our dream was a nothing but a nightmare," he said careful to not raise his voice and further upset his mother any more than she was.
Then, expecting her to still be upset, instead, she gave him a sexy look that she had never given him before. She gave him a sexy look he had seen on her face before but not a look that she had ever given him. She gave that same, sexy look to that man who brought her home from work. When they pulled up in his car and he got out to walk her to the door, Michael peeped out at them from his bedroom window. Expecting them to kiss, expecting the man to feel his mother through her clothes in the way he wished he could feel his mother through her clothes while kissing her, the man didn't kiss his mother. While waiting for the kiss to happen, he watched them standing on the porch and staring at one another in silence.
In the way she looked at that man then was the way she was looking at him now. He could tell his mother liked that man who drove her home from work. It was obvious she liked him when she twirled her hair between her fingers and looked at him with those big, green, beautiful eyes in the way she was curling her hair between her fingers and looking up at him now. Definitely, he could tell his mother liked the man. He could tell his mother wanted and expected to be kissed. Only, just as he wouldn't dare kiss his mother, that man didn't kiss his mother either.
'God, damn it! Why didn't he kissed her? She deserved to be kissed. If that was him standing there on the front porch with his mother, he would have kissed her,' he thought while remembering that awkward moment his mother experienced.
Yet, here he was sitting with his mother and even though she looked like she wanted and expected to be kissed, just as that man didn't kiss her then, he didn't kiss her now either. How could he kiss her? He couldn't kiss her in the way that a man kissing a woman. She was his mother. He didn't dare kiss her in a sexual way. What was wrong with him for even having such a thought of kissing his mother sexually while feeling her though her clothes.
"Would you like to come inside?"
His mother looked at the man seemingly already knowing that he wasn't going to accept her invitation to come inside. He was just giving her a ride home and nothing more than that. Instead of giving her an interested look, he gave her a panicked look. He gave her the look that a married man would give a single woman. He looked from her to look at the front door before looking back at her.
"Thank you, no, um, sorry, I have to get home," he said turning towards his car and walking down the steps. Seemingly feeling as if he needed to give her more of an explanation why he declined her invitation, he turned to face her before leaving. "I just had a messy divorce. I'm not looking to begin another relationship. Not yet. Not now. Sorry," he said getting in his car.
As if he was her last hope, he remembered seeing his mother standing there dejectedly while watching him drive away. Obviously, she was lonely. Obviously, she liked him and thought that he liked her too. Obviously, she expected more from him. Obviously, she was looking to latch onto a man, but not just any man. She was looking for a man she liked. She was looking for a man who she thought was good and who would help her keep her house. As if he was standing there with her on the front porch, he could feel her rejection from his bedroom. If he wasn't her son, he'd kiss her. If he wasn't her son, he'd feel her through her clothes while kissing her."Do you have a favorite?"
"Do I have a favorite what?"
She looked at him with disgust, as if she'd been asked her favorite sexual position. It was a look he had never seen from her before, unless she was talking about her neighbor, Vicky, who had been married and divorced three times and who had slept with many of the neighborhood's married men. Now he wondered if she did not only have a favorite incestuous story but also a favorite sexual position. No doubt, his naked mother's favorite sexual position for him, would be with his mother her on knees looking up at him with his stiff cock buried in her mouth, while he played with her tits and fingered her nipples.
"Do you have a favorite story?"
As if a fast forward movie, Jason's stories ran through his mind. He thought of his story, Mom Catches Me Masturbating Over Her Panties, while remembering all the times he masturbated, while holding and sniffing her worn panties. When thinking of another one of his favorite stories, My Drunken Mother Forces Me to Have Sex with Her, he imagined her coming home drunk with him having to undress her for bed, while feeling and touching her everywhere. The imagined images of his story, Videotaping My Mother Undressing, ran through his mind, while the companion story to that, Watching My Mom Masturbating, stirred his cock to an erection. Then, he thought of his story, Helping My Mother Take a Bath. Rub-a-dub-dub, he'd love to wash her big tits in the bath tub. Taking my Mom to my Prom and to my Bed was always one of his favorites, where he imagined making out with his mother in the backseat of a car, before he thought of another one of his favorite stories, Mom Gives Me a Birthday Blowjob. Alas, the thought of his new, unfinished story, Mom Strips Naked for Nude Day, made his heart ache and his cock throb.
"Jason! I'm your mother," she said interrupting his remembered compilation of his incestuous stories about her.
He looked at her and she appeared embarrassed. Yet, he wondered, was she embarrassed by his question or by what she felt, while reading all his stories and by thinking about which story was her favorite.
"It's just a story, Mom and it's just a question," he said with a shrug.
"Just a story? Just a question? You wrote explicitly sexual, dirty stories about me, your mother, and then you have the audacity to ask me if I have a favorite, incestuous story about me having sex with you, my son. How dare you? What's wrong with you? Have I lost you to the Devil?"
Knowing her in the way that he did and in the way that only a son could know his mother, she was complaining too much. With much in common genetically, he wondered what else they had in common. Wouldn't it be funny, if his mother was as titillated by reading his incestuous stories, as he was writing his incestuous stories? Wouldn't it be sexually exciting, if his mother thought about bedding him, as much as he thought about bedding her? Wouldn't it be ideal, if his mother masturbated over him, as much as he masturbated over her. Maybe she feels and stiffs his underwear, before putting them in the wash. Maybe she licks and sucks his cum stains in the way that he licks and sucks her panties and in the way that she'd like to lick and suck his cock.
"Sorry, Mom," said Jason returning back to reality and looking at his mother with a sudden renewed insightfulness, while keeping in mind that she read all of his stories.
"I don't know what else to say to you, other than I'm very disappointed in you," she said, her way of always making him feel guilty.
Nonetheless, no matter what she said to shame him, he still couldn't believe that she read all of his stories. If she was so offended by all that he wrote, if she was so grossed out by incest, why would she read all of his stories? He couldn't believe he was about to ask her the question, but he needed to know the answer.
"Forgive me for being so boldly disrespectful, Mother, but if my stories so offended you and if you didn't stop reading my stories, after starting to read the first story, and if you continued reading, until you read all of my stories, you must have enjoyed reading them. Thusly, I dare say, you must have a favorite story or favorites."
Elizabeth looked at her son, while running her fingers through her long, lush, brown hair and biting her lip. She looked, as if she was about to do or say something impulsively out of character. With her words telling him no, her body language said the opposite. In the way she played with her hair, there it was, the first sign that he was getting to her. He's never seen her look this way, fearful and vulnerable, yet, excited, while still trying to be in control.
If she had a cigarette and was a smoker, he imagined she'd want a cigarette right about now. If she had a drink and was a drinker, he could see her sitting on his bed with a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other, while discussing which stories she liked the best and why she liked them. Only, his mother wasn't the smoking and drinking type. Not even if it was a discussion about the birds and the bees, never is when she'd ever talk to him about sex.
Too taboo of an off limit subject, she'd never openly discuss sex with him, especially incestuous sex between mother and son, especially incestuous sex between him and her. She was more than a bit uptight, when it comes to revealing her emotions, sexual or otherwise. Now that he saw firsthand how she reacted to his stories, he wondered if she was a victim and a survivor of sexual abuse. He wondered what happened to her to make her so uptight and nervous.
So quick to point him in the direction of a psychiatrist, he wondered if ever she had therapy over what may have happened to her. Discussing sex with her was taboo, which is why discussing his stories of incest with her and forcing her to talk so openly about sex, of all things, was so much fun for him to watch. He watched her squirming, while trying to remain in control. Only, she surprised him, shocked him, actually, when she finally, openly, and honestly answered his question.
"Actually, I do have a favorite story," said Elizabeth continuing to run her fingers through her long hair to fluff it out, as if she was brushing it in readiness for bed.
Then, she did his favorite thing. She tossed her full, lush head of hair back in eagerness to give him her opinion of which story she enjoyed the most. Now, instead of looking at him with distain, she looked at him with renewed interest. She looked at him in the way that he so often imagined her looking at him, when they were just about to kiss.
Every time she flipped back her hair with a toss of her head, he imagined his mother leaning over him and flipping back her hair, before taking his cock in her mouth to suck him. If Jason read his mother's body language correctly, in the way she continually touched her hair, when talking to him, and in the way she continued to make solid eye contact, when looking at him, unbelievably and undeniably, he'd say that she was as sexually aroused as he was. After reading his sexy and sexual stories about her, was she as sexually aroused by reading his stories, as he was sexually aroused in writing his stories. Only, more than a bit gun shy, after being wrong about her before, he wondered if he was wrong about her again, now.
Perhaps, her telling him which story she enjoyed the best would give him some insight into what she was thinking. Now, as if a fast forward movie, all of his stories about her ran through his mind again. Mom Catches Me Masturbating Over Her Panties, My Drunken Mother Forces Me to Have Sex with Her, Videotaping My Mother Undressing, Watching My Mom Masturbating, Helping My Mother Take a Bath, Taking my Mom to my Prom and to my Bed, Mom Gives Me a Birthday Blowjob, and his unfinished story, Mom Strips Naked for Nude Day. The sudden flash of images of imagining her naked, while performing so very many sexual acts on him was an incestuous overload.
"Which one or ones did you like the best, Mom? Aside from the deplorable sexual material, I'm just curious, which story interested you," he said switching out the word 'excite' with 'interest'.
She looked at him, as if he was a perspective boyfriend, than her son. In the way she looked at him, her stare excited him. He wondered if it was her pheromones giving off a sexual discharge that aroused him even more.
"First, I need to make this clear that I continued reading your stories not so much because of the vile content of the material, Jason, and not so much because they were all about me, but because the writing was so good. Not an easy thing to do, being that I'm your mother, but I was able to detach myself from the material and from the story by pretending that you were writing about someone else," she said a bit haughtily with attitude, while playing with her hair again.
"Of course, Mother. I realize that," he said, while wondering if she knew she was playing with her hair.
"I concentrated more on the writing than on the subject matter. To be honest, even if they were about someone else's mother, the subject matter was offensively deplorable and the explicit, incestuous sex was perversely horrible. Yet, I persevered," she said, while continuing to make finger curls with her hair. "I continued reading your stories because you, my son, created them, developed them, edited them, and wrote them. I'm so very proud you, Jason," she said pausing from playing with her hair to wipe a tear from her eye.
"I see," said Jason unable to hide his disappointment that his mother wasn't ready to have an incestuous relationship with him.
"You're a wonderful writer, Jason, very talented, indeed, but you need to chose a different subject."
"Thank you, Mother."
"Perhaps you could write a story about a boy and his dog or a love story about a woman your age and about you falling in love with someone, who falls in love with you, too," she said suddenly looking at him, as if he had just picked her up in a bar and was about to make the moves on her.
"Yes, of course. Perhaps, I should write those stories," said Jason confused by the look she was giving him. Then, he noticed the impressions his mother's nipples suddenly made through her bra and blouse. Was she cold or was she sexually excited, he wondered? "So, forgetting about the offensively deplorable subject matter for a moment, Mother, and forgetting that the incestuous stories were about me making love to you, just for creative writing sake, being that you already said that you have a favorite story, which particular story did you enjoy more than the others?"
"Actually, and I'm embarrassed to admit this," she said blushing, while looking away, before establishing eye contact again, "but the story about me having sex with you, my son, while drunk, seemed plausible to me," she said looking at him with desire.
"My Drunken Mother Forces Me to Have Sex with Her? Is that the story?"
"Yes, for multiple reasons, all related to naughty feelings of guilt and wicked feelings of taboo, I can see that happening," said Elizabeth, her face turning Ferrari red in color.
"Really," said Jason.
The fact that she was so deeply blushing was telling. He wondered if he'd have any sexual success in getting his mother drunk. Only, other than wine at Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner and a glass of champagne at New Year's Eve, she seldom drank alcohol and never indulged in drugs. If she was freely discussing incest now, he could only imagined how sexually excited his mother would be, when high on cocaine. No doubt, she'd be a wild woman in bed. No doubt, she wouldn't care, if it was her son that she was fucking and sucking.
"It's difficult for me to believe that any mother would have sex with her son, of course, but if the mother was so incapacitated by alcohol and if her son was so perverse in thought and determined in his incestuous desire to have sex with his mother, I could see how that could happen," she said curling her hair with her finger again. "That is, so long as their sexual union was a loving one, done in a loving way, as only a mother can do with her son, and not merely a sexual one," she said continuing to twirl her hair around her finger in the way that he imagined her twirling her tongue around his cock.
"I see, Mother. Thank you, that's valuable feedback, especially coming from a mother's perspective," said Jason wishing his mother was drunk and naked now.
"I don't think that any mother would turn away her son," she said turning red again, "especially when she was drunk or high and/or when her son was in desperate need of some emotionally understanding, loving affection, and physical attention, such as, if he returned home from war and was mentally or physically wounded or, after a bad breakup with his wife or girlfriend."
"I see," said Jason now thinking that, if only he had a sad enough story to tell his Mom, she may willingly give him sex. "Actually, that's very valuable and insightful feedback, Mother, something that I can certainly take away with me to use with my next story, if ever I find the inspiration to continue with and finish this Mom Strips Naked for Nude Day story first," he said with exaggerated sadness.
Then, he thought of all that she had just said. Was she asking him to get her drunk? Was she asking him to tell her something that so troubled him that she'd give him her emotional understanding, loving affection, and physical attention? Was she asking him to take advantage of her, while she was so incapacitated and/or feeling so motherly towards him? Treading on uncharted ground, he didn't know. So completely wrong about her before, and no longer trusting his instincts about her now, he couldn't tell what she was thinking.
"Having read how you wrote and worded that particular story about a drunken mother having sex with her son," she said seemingly preoccupied with that one particular story and that one particular scenario of a son taking advantage of his drunken mother. "When removing the incestuous sex, it was a truly beautiful and loving story," she said suddenly becoming more animated, as if she was imagining Jason taking advantage of her in that story.
"Thank you, Mother."
"I can see how that really could happen, a son taking advantage of his passed out, drunken mother," she continued, not dropping the subject, obviously having more to say on the subject. "Undressing her, removing her blouse and skirt, seeing her in her bra and panty, before unhooking her bra and sliding down her panty, stripping her naked, and seeing her completely nude, actually," she said pausing from quoting his story to toy with the top button of her blouse.
"Yes, that would be exciting for a son to see his mother drunk and/or incapacitated and nude," said Jason with his mind filled with the imagined image of his mother drunk, incapacitated, and nude.
"I imagine a mother wouldn't resist being put to bed, but would welcome the sordid, albeit seemingly innocent help from her son to undress her. Then, while freely feeling her naked body, I can understand a son wanting to touch his mother everywhere. Just as you wrote it, I imagine a son wanting to feel his mother where no son should ever feel his mother," she said pausing to bite her lip, while fluttering her eyelashes.
"Thank you for that valuable feedback, Mother," he said. As if she was confessing her incestuous, sexual fantasy to him, as if she was writing her own incestuous story, she was making him hot and horny for her.
"Being that she was drunk and so indisposed, I imagined him touching her, feeling her, and exploring her body would only be normal and natural for a son, excited from seeing his mother naked, to do. Under those circumstances, I can understand a son wanting to have his wicked way with his mother in that forbidden, sexual way and his mother wanting to have her sexual way with her son," she said becoming flushed and flustered, as if she was about to faint from sexual arousal.
"Thank you, Mother. I'll take your valuable feedback, as a compliment to my writing," he said now wondering how he could get his mother drunk enough for her to play out her sexual fantasy, if indeed, that's what this was.
Going with the flow in his thoughts about her being drunk and naked, maybe her friends could take her to dinner, he thought. Maybe then, so long as she didn't drive herself home, she'd use her excessive drinking during dinner, as her excuse to come home drunk and allow him to strip her naked and help her to bed. He imagined slowly undressing her, unbuttoning her blouse to expose her bra and unzipping her skirt to expose her panty. He imagined touching and feeling her through her bra and panty, before unhooking her bra and sliding down her panty. Once she was naked, fingering her nipples and fingering her pussy, he imagined picking her up in his arms and putting her to bed. Once she was in bed and with him leaning over her to suck her big tits, he imagined her touching his cock through his pajamas, while he felt her breasts and fingered her nipples. He imagined her removing his erect cock from his pajamas and taking him in her mouth.
"Or, as despicable as human nature can be, in the case of your story, a mother using her drunkenness, as her excuse to hide her true sexual feelings for her son and to seduce him to have sex with him, the story, My Drunken Mother Forces Me to Have Sex with Her, probably happens more than we know," she said picking up a magazine to fan herself.
"I see," said Jason, continuing to wonder if his mother was hinting at having sex with him by giving him the thought to get her drunk, along with the thought of what would happen, if he did get her drunk.
Just as in his story, he suddenly imagined his mother drunk, helpless, and naked. He imagined undressing her, stripping her naked, and putting her to bed, while touching and feeling her big breasts, fingering and sucking her nipples, and rubbing her clit, while finger fucking her pussy. He wondered the kind of sounds she make, when having an orgasm. He looked at her full, red lips and wondered what it would be like to kiss them and to French kiss her. After hearing her reveal her sexual feelings, even if he was to fulfill her sexual fantasy, he'd always wonder, was she really drunk or was she pretending to be so indisposed?
After stripping her naked, he'd so love to strip himself naked, while she was naked, too. Imagining himself sleeping in the same bed with her, moving her hand to his cock, maybe even moving his cock to her drunken lips to see if she'd take the hint and suck him, he could only imagine the reaction she'd have the next morning finding herself naked with him naked in bed with her, too. He wondered her reaction to seeing and feeling his cock. He wondered if his mother sucked cock. He wondered if she'd allow him to cum in her mouth. He wondered if she swallowed.
"Perhaps, without even realizing it, as a very talented writer, you've used your insightfulness for incest to capture the secret, forbidden desires of a mother for her son," she said almost in a whisper, as if she was talking to herself about herself, while admitting something to him that was so forbidden, yet so exciting. "Truth be told, I'm sure just as many mothers have wicked thoughts about sleeping with their sons, as sons have about sleeping with their mothers. Only, with a woman different than a man, a mother wouldn't act upon her incestuous impulses in the way that a man would. She'd have to be taken and forced to enjoy the incestuous, sexual encounter."
Was his mother asking him to take her? Was she asking him to force her? Was she asking him to rape her. He imagined taking her in her arms and kissing her hard, before ripping off her clothes and stripping her naked. He imagined her trying to fight him off, but too strong for her, he imagined having his wicked way with her. Then, finally, embracing the inevitable, he imagined her wrapping her shapely legs around his strong back to fuck him, as if she was a wild animal in heat. He could only imagined the blowjob that she'd give him then, after he gave her an orgasm with his mouth and another one with his cock. He could only imagine the hot sex they'd have every day thereafter.My Drunken Mother Forces Me to Have Sex with Her is one of my favorite stories, too," he said wondering if she liked that particular story because she imagined herself as the main character in that story or if she had thoughts about getting drunk and pretending to be incapacitated, as her excuse to have sex with him. "Because of the titillation factor, whether it was accidental or purposely done, there's a lot of teasing by the mother of the son in that story."
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