She looked up at me, tears running down her cheeks, and with a look that clear as day said, "No, please God no." I looked down at her and the look on my face told her more than words ever could. She watched as I unbuckled my belt and let my trousers fall. She moaned, "No, no, no, please no" as my boxers fell and when I forced her legs apart she cried, "No, you can't, please don't do this to me." There was one final, "No, please don't" as I worked the head of my cock between her cunt lips.
"Shut up and take it like the whore that you are." And I drove my cock home with one hard push.
And then I fucked her!
I had her legs pushed back, her knees almost to her ears and I rammed myself deep into her with each stroke.
"Come on bitch, scream for me, beg me to fuck you harder. Scream for me mother dear, scream for me like you did for him. Beg me to fuck you mother, like you did him and all the others."
I didn't start out that night planning to fuck my mother. I didn't start out the night thinking of women at all. It was spring break and I had come home because I couldn't afford to go any place else. Several of my buds from high school were in the same boat and I ran into two of them at the mall. They knew of a couple more who were at home and so we made plans to get together at Spike's Bar & Grill to shoot some pool, toss some darts, sip suds and catch up on what had been going on since leaving high school.
It was a good night and I had enjoyed myself. Since I'm not much of a drinker — I'm the kind of guy who will nurse two beers all night long — I ended up as the designated driver. It was almost two in the morning by the time I got home. I used my key to let myself in and when I walked into the house I walked in on an altogether too familiar scene.
My mother was a slut, a whore, a fuck pig, a round-heeled tramp, a bar floozy, take your pick, but the bottom line was that she was an easy piece of ass and had been for as long as I had been old enough to know what she was doing. When I first found out, at an early age, I didn't know any better and I just thought that it was stuff that grown-ups did. But as I got older I came to realize that my mother was a cheating whore.
My father was a traveling salesman and he was gone three or four days out of the week, and when he was gone my mother would dress up and leave the house and sometime later on that night she would come home with some man. I'd usually be asleep, but the noises from the living room as she lay on the couch getting fucked would wake me up. If she had been a quiet fuck, like most of the girls I'd been with, I might have never known what was going on, but mother was a screamer. Her "Fuck me, oh Jesus God fuck me" echoed through the house and the first time I heard it it brought me out of a sound sleep and I had rushed to the head of the stairs and looked down to see her on the couch with a man between her legs. She looked up and saw me and blew me a kiss and then went back to fucking her lover.
I took the kiss she blew me as an invitation to watch and many are the nights that I watched her grip some man's body with her nylon covered legs and saw her high-heeled clad feet kicking in the air. A couple of times she saw me masturbating while I watched and she would smile at me and lick her lips. But even with the smiles and the licking of lips nothing was ever said the next day and mom always behaved as if nothing had happened. Some people would have called what she was doing cheating, but not me. Hell, she was my mother — not some cheating whore. I knew this because a buddy of mine had come across a copy of Gallery magazine and we had looked at the pictures of the naked women and wondered if that was what Becky Thomas looked like out of her clothes. I had taken the magazine home with me and I had read the letters in the Feedback section from men who loved for their wives to fuck other men. That's all my mom was doing, keeping my dad happy.
At least that is what I thought until one night when my dad was home I overheard him and my mom in the kitchen:
"Honestly George, you know me better than that."
"I don't know shit about that Stella, but I'm warning you, if I ever catch you cheating on me I'll put you in a grave so fast that it will be a week before God knows you're dead."
So, he didn't know what she was doing and that meant that my mother was a cheating whore. I don't know why, but that knowledge had an effect on me and I stopped going to the head of the stairs and watching; I stopped jacking off while thinking of her legs in nylons and her feet in stiletto heels and I stopped seeing her as part of a loving family. All my mother was was an older version of Becky Thomas. Two days after her fourteenth birthday the guys had gotten Becky out of her clothes and while she didn't look like the girls in Gallery that little patch of hair between her legs drove us just as crazy as the pictures in Gallery had. Becky fucked every boy who even hinted that he might like to try her on and soon everyone was calling her whore, slut, cum bucket, sperm bank and that is just what my mother was.
It made me feel bad. Not that she was a whore so much as I didn't have the guts to tell my dad. I don't know how mom felt about him (although her actions could have been an indication), but he loved her and it showed in everything that he did and said when they were together. Then again, maybe it wasn't a lack of nerve. Maybe I subconsciously knew what it would do to him to find out and I didn't want to be the cause. Whatever the reason, I lost all respect for my mother. I never let it become obvious, but I did avoid her as much as possible. But she didn't try to avoid me. Once I stopped looking at what she was doing she made it a habit to stop by my room and look in at me on her way to bed. She would stand in the doorway of my bedroom, naked except for her nylons and high heels with the hall light on behind her and look at me in bed for a minute or two and then she would close my door and go to her own room.
.... There is more of this story ...