Chapter 1: Moving In With Mom

Emily Carter fiddled with what she called her church nylons. She was sitting at her dressing table on a vanity makeup stool dressed in her Sunday best: a dark-blue pleated skirt and a polka-dotted white silk blouse. She had finished her makeup which was a little on the heavy side for church but she was the kind of woman who liked to present herself a little sassy.

Underneath her blouse, a white satin and lace brassiere cupped her perfectly proportioned perky breasts. The matching full-cut ‘granny panties’ were laid out on the bed.

Emily stood and lifted her skirt out of the way and put one foot on the stool and shimmied her red-painted toenails into the toe of the stocking and rolled the shiny tan pantyhose up to her knee and then the she did the same with the other foot. She stood upright and hitched the nylons up her thighs and smoothed the waistband around her stomach and firm buttocks. Emily had the beginnings of a little potbelly and her figure was more voluptuous than most of the skinny church ladies at the congregation.

She knew that they talked about her behind her back. They called her the Merry Widow despite the fact that she hadn’t invited a man into her bed for quite some time but she did like to socialise. She was in a mid-week women’s bowling league, she played golf on Saturdays, sometimes hosted ladies card nights after church and on Friday nights she went out to dinner, sometimes with a man but mostly without.

Despite having not bedded a man for a while, Emily’s pubis was completely shaved. She stepped into her panties and pulled them up her legs and smoothed them around her crotch and bottom. She still got a thrill out of the feel of her satin undergarments sliding over her nylons. She wore her panties over her pantyhose for both the aesthetic and practicality. She slipped one foot into a white four-inch high heel and then the other foot into the matching shoe. She put on the blue blazer that matched her skirt and checked herself in the mirror and liked what she saw.

“You’ve still got it mom,” Richard commented.

Emily jumped. She hadn’t realised that her son was standing in the doorway to her bedroom leaning on the doorjamb. How long had he been there? What had he seen?

He had his hands in his pockets and Emily wasn’t sure if it was an attempt to hide an erection or whether it was just her son’s usual lackadaisical stance. Richard liked to slouch, recline or lean rather than stand up straight. His late father was always telling Richard to stand up straight when Richard was a boy. Richard looked a lot like Emily’s long-dead husband when he was that age and the resemblance sent a shiver of guilt down her spine.

“How long have you been there Richard?” Emily said in an accusatory tone but Richard just smiled.

“You knock ‘em dead at church mom. See ya later,” Richard slunk away without answering her.

As well as being a slouch, Richard was a slinker, always sneaking up on people. Emily regretted that she had let him stay with her but she felt guilty. She didn’t feel guilty that Richard’s marriage had finally fallen apart. Like his father before him Richard was a womaniser although he was never violent to his wife, who Emily had to admit looked a little her when she was younger. But Richard had always been a mummy’s boy, especially after his father had died.

Guilt washed over Emily and she recalled the night her husband had died...

“Stop that Richard and go your room,” Emily called from the kitchen of the large ranch house.

“I’m not doing anything,” Richard lied and his face blushed with guilt as he put down the remote control to the TV.

Richard had been scrolling through the channels trying to find cartoons. He ran to his bedroom and Emily followed him, making a game of chasing him.

“Get into bed tiger,” she pulled the sheets up over his Start Wars pyjamas and tickled him and then she kissed the top of his head.

“Take your medicine honey,” Emily handed Richard the measuring cup filled with Benadryl and told herself for the hundredth time that she was not doing any harm.

Emily sat beside the bed and read Richard a story until he fell asleep. She listened to his Benadryl–assisted steady breathing for a little while and then kissed his sweaty brow. It was just as well that Richard was fast asleep because he was way too young to know what went on in the Carter house on Friday nights.

Underneath her innocent pink quilted housecoat Emily was wearing a black and red satin bustier which cinched her waist quite painfully when she bent one way or the other. The garters attached to the bustier where clipped to the gauzy welts of her tan fully-fashioned stockings. Her feet were unshod at the moment but a pair of black high-heeled fuck-me shoes were sitting on the floor of the master bedroom waiting for her.

She closed the door to Richard’s room and retired to the master bedroom. Buddy Carter liked the term ‘master bedroom’ because, after all, he was the master of the house. Buddy had been raised to believe that women belonged in either of two places: the kitchen or the bedroom. Emily had married Buddy straight out of high school and had come to dearly regret it.

It wasn’t that Buddy’s toned quarterback body soon went to fat. It wasn’t that Buddy drank too much most evenings. It wasn’t the stench of the White Owl cigars that he loved so much. It wasn’t that Buddy gambled away a lot of money with his poker buddies. It wasn’t that Buddy wasn’t a good provider. In fact the opposite was true. Buddy had inherited his father’s two car dealerships along with the substantial dwelling in which they lived and he made a respectable living. It wasn’t even that Emily was almost positive that Buddy was banging his eighteen-year-old secretary. Emily didn’t mind that one little bit because it meant that Buddy didn’t bring his libido home from work.

Except for Friday nights.

On Fridays Buddy didn’t bang his secretary, he didn’t stop at the bar for a drink or twenty and he didn’t hook up with his poker buddies.

On Friday nights Buddy drank a flask of whisky and smoked a White Owl in the car on the way home thinking about all the unspeakable things he was about to do to his wife.

Emily actually didn’t mind the indignity of what Buddy made her do and what he did to her. She had been raised in a house where her mother willingly did as she was told by her father and Emily was no different. In fact some of the things that Buddy did to her were quite pleasurable. It was the fact that she knew what they were doing was dirty. If it wasn’t dirty then why did they never speak about it? Why did Buddy make Emily drug their son so he wouldn’t hear what they were doing or walk in and see them doing these things? Why couldn’t Emily tell the minister about it when she confessed her sins at church?

The door connecting the garage to the main house opened and Emily slipped on her heels and sprayed herself liberally with perfume. She cringed every time a floorboard creaked as Buddy made his way upstairs. She could smell the stink of cigars and the bourbon on him even before he entered the room. She sat in the centre of the bed with her legs spread wide so that Buddy could see her shaven cleft through the gauzy material of her transparent panties.

This was how Buddy demanded she prepare for him. He told her what to wear, how to pose and which toys to lay out. Buddy was very specific about how he posed her while he did the things he liked to do to her.

Buddy entered the bedroom, crashing through the door, banging into the shelving and laughing almost manically. Everything Buddy did was loud and grating. He fiddled with the books on the shelf, straightening them.

“There’s my pussycat,” Buddy grinned at her lecherously, laughing at his own joke.

He thought it funny that he called Emily pussycat. He told her that he called her pussycat because he owned her pussy. One of the crassest jokes that Buddy liked to tell his drinking buddies was that a wife was just a life support system for a cunt.

Emily made herself smile and ran a red nailpolished fingernail along the cleft of her sex just the way she knew that Buddy liked her to. After ten years of marriage she knew what Buddy liked alright.

“Keep doing that. Get yourself ready,” Buddy burped out a miasma of whiskey and cigar breath.

Buddy took off his jacket and flung it on the floor near the dresser while he watched Emily stroking her labia through her panties. She worked a finger into the cleft and found her clitoral hood and circled it, all the time looking at Buddy with her big babydoll eyes.

“Use the vibrator. The pink one not the big black one,” Buddy growled as he hopped on one leg to take off a shoe.

Emily obliged and picked up the six-inch vibrator from the assortment of sex toys laid out on the nightstand. She switched it on and the fresh batteries did their job and the toy jolted to life and reverberated in her fingers. She placed the tip of the device where her finger had been and gasped when the vibrations brought her clitoris alive.

Buddy heard the gasp and smiled. He was pulling his shirt over his head not bothering to unbutton it but it caught around his fat belly and he impatiently tore it open, scattering buttons across the wooden floor. It didn’t matter. He had a wife whose job it was to find the buttons, sew them back on, and then wash and iron the shirt. Sometimes Buddy liked to sneak up behind Emily while she was ironing and bend her over the ironing board and fuck her from behind, the iron perilously close to her face while he did so.

He dropped his pants and kicked them over to join the shirt and jacket. Emily would take the suit to the drycleaners when they opened in the morning, barely able to walk straight because of the sting in her mons and the ache deep inside her vagina.

Buddy watched his wife push the vibrator into the satiny crotch of her panties and work it into the fleshy folds of her labia, her lips slightly parted, her eyes slightly closed, her breathing ragged. He tore off his underpants and he was ready. His large boated phallus poked out from under the overhang of his belly.

He waddled over to the bed and took the vibrator out of his wife’s hand.

“Open your panties,” he growled and Emily obliged.

She pulled the gusset of her panties aside and Buddy pushed the vibrator inside his wife’s tight cleft. Emily was glad that she had been able to get herself aroused to the stage where she was sufficiently lubricated because the hard plastic toy was unyielding and sometimes Buddy had made her bleed when he got carried away.

“Suck me,” Buddy ordered, ripping the vibrator out of Emily’s cunt.

He pushed her sideways on the bed and knelt in front of her.

She obliged and leaned forward, still on her knees and held her breath as she put her face into Buddy’s putrid crotch. He didn’t shower or wash himself before sex and his pubis reeked of sweat and stale piss.

She took her husband’s phallus into her mouth, knowing not to use her hand to guide it. That would incur a painful slap. She scooped up the monstrous organ with her lips and suckled it, using her tongue to lash at the fraenulum while her lips clamped down on the meaty shaft. She gagged on the fetid smegma but she swallowed it and cleaned her husband’s cock with her tongue so that it was tolerable.

“Good girl,” Buddy patted her head like a dog.

“Use the big black one,” Buddy ordered and Emily knew what he meant.

“Put it in deep and fuck yourself with it,” he growled.

Emily reached out and her fingers sought the large black flexible dildo. She did so blindly because she was still sucking on Buddy’s huge cock. She found the big sex toy and thanked god that she had remembered to lubricate it when she had laid out all of Buddy’s favourite toys.

Emily eased aside her panties again and slowly inserted the big dong while Buddy watched. It didn’t feel as good as the six-inch pink vibrator but at least it was flexible.

“All the way in pussycat,” Buddy watched his wife push the dildo deep into her snatch while her slut-red lipsticked lips sucked on his cock.

“I bet you wish that was a real black cock don’t you? I’ve seen you looking at those Negro boys on the corner in their tight jeans. You imagine two of them are holding you down while the other one fucks you in your church clothes don’t you,” Buddy watched his wife suck on his cock while she drove the big black dildo in and out of her vagina.

Emily nodded.

Buddy liked to debase his wife not only physically but mentally but inwardly Emily was smiling. Being held down and ravished by those black boys on the corner was indeed one of her masturbatory fantasies. She knew it was a racist trope: the young Southern Belle defiled by young black men but it was only a fantasy.

Emily’s grandmother had told her that back in her day a Negro boy could be lynched for just looking at a white woman the wrong way but that was a long time ago and now mixed-race couples were not that uncommon. Still the thought of being held down by two muscular young black man while their partner tore off her panties and fucked her with his huge black cock, knowing the others would go next once he’d finished was a chimera that Emily often employed when she masturbated.

Buddy grabbed the little wooden paddle off the nightstand and lightly tapped Emily’s buttocks. She winced because she knew what was coming next.

He lifted the paddle and brought it down hard on Emily’s pantied bottom, a resounding smack echoing around the bedroom. She felt the sting but knew not to cry out, or to bite down on Buddy’s cock. The penalty for that was unthinkable.

She continued to suckle her husband’s cock while she worked the big black dong in and out of her vagina while Buddy slapped her ass with paddle. Buddy huffed and grunted. Emily was an expert fellatrix. He’d spent hours teaching her how to suck his cock and scrotum just the way he liked it.

Emily was wet. Years of debasement had trained her to exact whatever pleasure she could to counteract the pain. The big dildo opened her vagina and pressed against the nerve endings at the entrance and along her vaginal walls and rammed into her g-spot. She slavered at her husband’s big cock, ropes of saliva dribbling down her chin, her buttocks turned pink and then bright-red as Buddy paddled her ass. The sting of the paddle became almost pleasurable.

“Gimme the pink one,” Buddy demanded, dropping the paddle on the bed.

Emily’s fingers found the pink vibrator where she had dropped it on the coverlet.

Buddy pulled down the seat of Emily’s panties and slid the pink vibrator all the way into her anus. Emily tried not to clench her sphincter around it even though it hurt. She’d been prepared for this and had douched and greased her anal cavity with lubricant as part of her dressing ritual. Buddy flicked the switch and it came to life inside her and Emily moaned.

She was working the big black dong in and out of her vagina in time with Buddy as he worked the little pink vibrator in her ass. She sucked Buddy’s bloated rod while the pleasure centres in her anus and vagina lit up. She moaned like a slattern, hating herself for enjoying the debasement.

“Ok. Time for round one,” Buddy grunted.

Buddy would fuck her at least twice, more likely three times tonight, helped by the little blue pill he took before the session started.

He ripped his engorged cock from Emily’s mouth and the pink vibrator from her anus and manhandled Emily so that she was facing the wall where his beloved football jersey hung above the shelving. He pulled the big black dildo from her vagina and replaced it with his cock, not even bothering to remove her panties. He held her down on her hands and knees and rammed his cock into her gaping maw. He dug his fingers into her shoulders and began to fuck her.

Emily’s face contorted with pleasure and pain as her husband ravished her bruised sex. He drove himself all the way inside her and then pulled back so that his glans were nestled in her labia and then thrust again. He pushed the vibrator into Emily’s hand and she knew what to do.

She plunged the vibrator inside her panties and rested the buzzing toy on her clitoris and moaned like a whore as her husband slowly fucked her, ramming his cock in and out of her sodden clunge. Ringlets of pleasure radiated from her clitoris and a deep resonance spread outward from her g-spot.

Although she was wracked with pleasure she was also wracked with shame. She shouldn’t be enjoying this.

Then Buddy snatched up the big black dildo and slowly inserted it into her dilated anus and Emily whimpered and moaned as a massive orgasm washed over her.

“You’re such a whore pussycat,” Buddy laughed.

Emily wriggled like a wounded animal, impaled on her husband’s huge cock as she worked the vibrator on her clitoris and pressed back against his phallus and the black prong plundering her asshole.

Her body began to shake and Buddy held her to him as she began to collapse. He followed her down onto the bed and whipped the big black plastic dildo from her ass and replaced it with his cock.

He drove Emily into the mattress and expressed his semen deep in her bowels as she kicked and shuddered and moaned. Buddy pinned Emily down under his enormous weight, his fat lips and vapid tongue licked the side of her face while he jackhammered his cock in and out of her anus. Emily pressed the vibrator harder against her clitoris to offset the pain that radiated from her ass.

The amalgamation of pleasure and pain, of solicitude and degradation had become addictive over the years and she craved it. She both loved and hated Buddy for making her feel this way. For making her dress and behave like a harlot, for making her both hunger-for and dread Friday nights.

The last waves of her orgasm dissipated and Buddy lay on top of her grunting like a pig, his cock still hard but his passion spent. For now at least.

She switched off the vibrator and ripped it out of her panties and tossed it aside. She lay squashed beneath her husband looking up at the bedroom wall, the door wide open, thanking the lord that her son, who in the adjoining bedroom, was in a deep drug-fuelled sleep.

Buddy grunted as he put his weight on his hands and pushed himself up off his wife. He watched a trickle of semen dribble from her sphincter and then he daintily adjusted her panties so that her buttocks were covered. He rolled off her and lay on his back panting, looking for all the world like a beached whale.

Emily lay on her belly. She was panting too. Her vagina and her anus felt battered and bruised but she knew there was more to come as she stared at the wall.

Beside the open door was a set of shelves filled with books and Buddy’s college football trophies. His numbered jersey was framed and hung above the bric-a-brac. Emily had wanted to move all that crap out of the bedroom and into his study but Buddy had steadfastly refused because he liked to lie in bed looking at the mementos of his glory days while he drank himself to sleep.

Emily was finally regaining her composure when she saw the pinprick of red light between two of the old books on the shelf. She had never noticed it before and for a brief second she wandered what it was and then it dawned on her and her vision blurred with anger and she climbed over Buddy’s inert body and stood upright, rocking on her high heels.

“No!” she screamed as she staggered towards the bookshelves.

“No! No! No!” she screeched as she tore the books off the shelf, tearing a fingernail down to the quick in her haste and anger.

And there it was. The tiny pinprick of red light was the LED on a camcorder. Buddy wasn’t straightening the books on the shelf when he entered the room. He was switching on the camera.

“Now don’t go gettin’ all feisty on me there pussycat,” Buddy floundered on the bed trying to stand.

“You fucking pig!” Emily ripped the camcorder off the shelf.

She opened the camcorder and ejected the little video cartridge and pointed it at Buddy like the pastor pointed his bible at the congregation when he was in the evangelical throes of a sermon.

“Who are you showing these to?” Emily screeched, oblivious to the fact that her son was asleep in the next room.

Buddy rolled over and looked at his diminutive wife standing tall on her high heels, the red and black bustier cinching her waist, pushing up her heaving titties, her long legs sheathed in the tan fully-fashioned stockings, her red hair tousled and sweaty, framing her pretty face, her gaudy makeup ruined, her shaven cleft visible through the transparent panties, holding the little cassette up defiantly.

She looked like an X-rated version of the Statue of Liberty and he chuckled.

Buddy’s snickering enraged her further if that were possible and she felt the veins in her temple throb and her vision became tinged with scarlet.

“It’s just a bit of fun pussycat. Something to look at when I need a little entertainment,” Buddy looked like a hippo emerging from the swamp as he tried to extricate himself from the sweaty coverlet.

“You fucking pervert Buddy! Who else has seen these?” Emily hissed.

Buddy pushed himself off the bed and rose to his full height.

“Don’t you get mouthy with me Emily. I told you it’s just a bit of fun,” Buddy growled and took a step towards his wife who still held out the cassette like an accusatory tome.

“Oh my god!” it suddenly dawned on Emily why Buddy was so insistent on the way he posed her when they were having sex.

Sitting in the centre of the bed facing the camera with her legs spread wide while she waited for Buddy and then using the vibrator on herself. Side-on to the camera while Buddy used the toys on her and she sucked his cock. Facing the camera as her face contorted with lust and pain. Then side-on again when Buddy fucked her.

Buddy had been directing his own pornography and she was the starlet. How long had he been doing it? How many tapes were there?

“You’re fucking sick Buddy. I can put up with your wild sex games. I can put with your drinking. I can put up with your whoring. But this! This!” Emily shook the little tape in Buddy’s face.

For a big man Buddy moved quickly and bounded across the room and snatched the cassette out of Emily’s hand.

“Just settle down now pussycat. It’s just a little fun. Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” Buddy breathed whisky and cigar fumes into her face.

“A little fun? Where are the tapes? Who else has seen them?” Emily hissed defiantly.

“You little cunt!” Buddy grabbed Emily by the neck and launched her at the bed.

She staggered across the room, her high heels skittering on the polished wooden floor, and fell face first on the coverlet.

Buddy pounced on her and lay on top of her. He began to laugh, a deep rumbling belly-laugh that she’d heard many times when he whispered a dirty joke to his buddies as they stood around the barbeque ogling each other’s wives lazing around the pool in their swimsuits and bikinis.

“Bob Swanson, Don Mitchum, Bradley Connaught. Willy Longmire likes it when you take it up the ass. Say’s it inspires him to go home and give it to Elspeth the same way,” the belly-laugh droned in her ear.

Emily felt her stomach clench and she choked back the bile that filled her mouth.

Buddy had shown the tapes to his poker buddies. They all worked for Buddy in some capacity and played poker in his study behind locked doors eating the cold cuts she had prepared and drinking icy-cold beer from the cooler that she had filled with Bug Light and ice before they arrived. She could imagine them watching her on Buddy’s big lowboy television, making lewd comments, becoming aroused as she performed for them, oblivious to the fact that she being filmed.

She could feel Buddy’s cock becoming fully tumescent in the crease of her buttocks as he taunted her.

Blind rage coursed through Emily’s psyche. She summoned every ounce of energy she could muster and snaked a hand under Buddy’s fat belly and grabbed his scrotum and squeezed it, simultaneously giving it a vicious twist.

Buddy bellowed like a wounded buffalo and rolled off her and Emily scampered off the bed.

“You cunt! You’ll pay for that!” Buddy bellowed.

Emily bolted for the door and Buddy followed her. She could hear his footsteps gaining on her as she scrambled in her heels. She stopped and pulled off her shoes and threw one of them at him. It bounced off his forehead like a stone bouncing off a bull elephant.

He roared and came at her and Emily managed to pull herself through the door as Buddy lunged for her. She had made it to the top of the stairs and she gripped the newel post when she felt Buddy’s paw grab her shoulder.

Emily spun around and banged the other high heel as hard as she could into Buddy’s rage-filled face. The stiletto raked down his forehead and chin, blood filled his eyes and he stumbled and Emily nimbly stepped aside.

Buddy crashed face-first down the stairs. She heard his neck crack as his head hit one of the risers halfway down.

Emily knew that her husband was dead even before she checked his pulse. His head lay at an impossible angle, his fat body lay on its side. There was surprisingly little blood.

Emily made up her mind immediately. Her life and Richard’s would not be forever ruined by what had happened to her fat, evil husband. She ran up to Richard’s bedroom and quietly opened the door and saw that he was still fast asleep and then she closed the door and began to quickly orchestrate the scene.

She started in the bedroom, collecting all the sex toys, throwing them in a box along with the camcorder and the cassette. She replaced the books and bric-a-brac that had been knocked off the shelves then she changed the bedding. Emily hung Buddy’s suit up in the wardrobe, taking his keys and wallet from his pants and put them on the bedside table. Then she had a thought and snatched up the keys.

She ran down to Buddy’s study and rifled through every drawer and cupboard but didn’t find what she was looking for. She eventually found the mini-cassette tapes in a box locked away in the top drawer of his filing cabinet. They were labelled: Pussycat followed by the date of the recording. There were eleven of them so Buddy hadn’t recorded every Friday night’s debasement, just on select evenings. At least she hoped that was the case.

She carried the little box of recordings upstairs and threw them in with the sex toys. She stripped off her lingerie and collected her high heels and threw them on top. She showered and dressed in clean underwear and a chaste cotton nightgown and carried the box down to the basement and threw the contents into the old furnace.

Emily went back into the master bedroom and took a bottle of bourbon from the tray that Buddy kept in the corner and poured a double-shot into a crystal glass and downed it in one gulp. Then she refilled the glass and took it to where Buddy lay at the bottom of the stairs and dropped the glass beside his body. She took a sheet from the linen press and laid it over Buddy’s body, just like any distraught loving wife would do when she found her husband dead at the bottom of the stairs.

Had she missed something?

Not that she could think of.

Emily dialled 911 and sobbed into the phone and two hours later Buddy was gone and she and Richard had the house to themselves. The next day the detectives swallowed her story hook, line and sinker. She blushed when she told the detectives that she and her husband had made love and then Buddy had poured himself a drink and decided to go downstairs to get his cigars while still naked.

She’d heard the crash and found her husband dead at the bottom of the stairs.

While she told her tale to the sympathetic detectives the furnace in her basement was incinerating the camera, tapes, toys, lingerie and high heels. The evidence of her crimes was burnt to ash. The few remaining pieces of scorched metal from the camcorder and metal rods from her high heels went into trash.

Buddy’s blood alcohol level was through the roof when he died and the coroner made a finding of death by misadventure.

Emily was unable to look Bob Swanson, Don Mitchum, Bradley Connaught and Willy Longmire in the eyes at the funeral service or at the reception after. She felt their eyes on her body and saw them huddled together whispering, but other than to offer their condolences, with their wives on the arms as they did so, they didn’t speak to her. She wondered which of those wives had to endure the same burden that she did. She knew that Elspeth Longmire did to some degree because Buddy had told her so.

And that was that. Emily Carter had gotten away with murder.

Alone in the house in which he had grown up, Richard lugged his suitcase upstairs to his old bedroom. It hadn’t changed much since Richard’s college days. When he came home for the holidays it was comforting to find that his room was exactly as he had left it.

Richard had grown up a ‘mommy’s boy’. Because his father had died while Richard was young and his mother had not remarried, there was no male role model. He was teased at school because he spent so much time with his mother who doted on him.