Chet's Mom

The secret to getting close was nothing more than patience. I let my breath steady, keeping it shallow, almost imperceptible, as I watched through the cracked doorway. The house carried the dry hush of late afternoon; my mother, hunched over the basket of shirts and underwear on her bed, was too absorbed in her folding to notice the faint shift of air or the shadow that slipped inside her room. She didn’t look up as I eased my foot over the threshold, barely bending the hardwood beneath me.

Mom sang quietly—an old habit when she thought herself alone. Something from her own mother, maybe. Her voice was papery and brittle, but every phrase landed on the precise beat. I stepped closer, matching the pace of her hands as they smoothed each hem, every line of fabric. Her fingers trembled a little; she paused, scolded herself under her breath, and forced them into rigid lines again.

Two steps away. Close enough to smell the heat of her skin under the tired floral perfume and the static electricity clinging to her blouse. Her wrists looked breakable in the late light, but I knew better than to underestimate her. She had survived things, this woman, but nothing like me.

The chokehold is all about leverage. You don’t need to be big, just accurate. I timed her motion—she bent to pluck another tee from the basket—and I slipped my right arm around her neck, locking my wrist against the crook of my elbow, my other hand anchoring the lock behind her head. She jerked upright, tried to shriek, but the sound caught ragged in her windpipe. Most people squeeze for the wind, but I angled my grip just so, letting my biceps cinch down on her carotids, starving her brain by degrees.

Her nails found my forearm instantly, scrabbling for any purchase. I held still, letting her dig in, letting the pain burn up my nerves without flinching. She raked four jagged lines, drawing blood, but I didn’t slacken my hold. I dipped my face next to hers, feeling the heat and the wet panic rolling off her, and whispered in her ear. “You’re going to sleep now, but I’ll be right here when you wake up. That’s a promise.” Her heels hammered the side of the bed, kicking clean through the pile of folded clothes. The basket tumbled, scattering socks and bras across the floor like bright, pointless confetti.

“You and I are going to have a lot of fun,” I whispered in her ear. “I’m going to fuck my mom. You’re going to learn what your son’s cock tastes like.”

She made one last grab for my hand, but the strength had started to drain from her. I counted the beats—one, two, three—feeling the pulse fade under my grip. Her eyelids fluttered, rolled white, and her body went slack against me, dead weight and a smear of blood where her nails had caught flesh. I let her down gently, like a lover or a child, laying her head on the rumpled laundry.

My hands shook a little. Not with fear. Not with guilt. It was the anticipation, raw and electric, like the moment before the first taste of something forbidden. I took a slow breath, knelt, and inspected the red streaks scoring my arm. Four perfect channels, already clotting. She’d fight again, when she woke, but now I had all the time in the world.

The sheets were her favorite—clean, soft, pink with a delicate pattern of roses. I rolled her over, arms flopping uselessly, and started stripping the linens from the mattress. I tied her right wrist first, looping the sheet tight around the bedpost and double-knotting it, then did the same to her left. The fabric bit into her skin, and I admired the way it looked: helpless, almost ceremonial. I took a pillowcase, tore it lengthwise, and bound her ankles to the footposts in the same fashion. A belt, scavenged from my father’s old closet, made for a solid chest restraint. By the time I finished, she was splayed across the bed, face-up, hair fanned wild on the rumpled pillow. I took a moment to step back and assess my work.

She looked small this way. Even vulnerable, if you ignored the blood drying in jagged lines down my arm and the bruising already rising at her throat. I reached under her shoulders and lifted her so her head lolled off the edge of the mattress, neck extended, hair trailing to the carpet. Her pulse still fluttered in her neck, fast but steady.

I sat on the floor and watched her for a while, letting the silence pool between us. The sun sank, painting the room in orange and gray stripes. Her chest rose and fell with each shallow breath. I wondered what dream she’d settled into—if it was a nightmare, or just the blank, heavy dark.

When she came back, it was all at once. Her eyes snapped open, wide and unfocused. She gasped, tried to sit up, but the restraints yanked her arms and legs taut. Panic flickered across her face, and she thrashed, hips bucking against the belt. The movement made her head dip lower, stretching her throat so she could barely swallow.

“Easy, Mom,” I said. I let her taste the sound of my voice, let her try to parse the word before I repeated it. “Don’t bother screaming. The neighbors can’t hear you, and they’d never believe it anyway.” I knelt beside her, let her see my face, my eyes bright with purpose. “If you bite, I’ll make it hurt. If you cooperate, maybe I’ll let you keep breathing.”

She tried to speak, but the position forced her tongue into the back of her mouth. I wiped the sweat from her upper lip with my thumb, gentle as a lullaby. “You always wanted me to be close,” I said. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Her eyes brimmed with tears, and for the first time she looked exactly the way I wanted: terrified, trapped, and desperate for mercy. I ran a hand over her breast, squeezing as her nipple rose under the soft fabric of her blouse. There was no need to undress her. Let her keep her dignity while I shredded it. My cock ached to be inside her as I bit her nipple through the fabric, squeezing both tits until she squeaked.

“Chester?”

The voice was soft as her intake of air. I ran my hands down her body. Bit harder until the squeak became a squeal.

“That hurts!” Then. “Please.” I rested the front of my pants against her face. Let her feel how hard her son’s cock was for this. “No. Please. Don’t do this.”

Her face was a mess already—eyes rimmed red, mascara streaking down her cheekbones, lips white where the blood had drained out. I let her squirm a while, savoring the low, animal sounds that slipped past her clenched teeth. The bedsprings groaned with every twist of her hips, the knots biting tighter into her skin with each useless buck. I wondered if the pain in her wrists matched the panic in her chest.

I looked down at her, savoring the moment. She kept blinking, trying to focus, trying to understand if this was a nightmare or if her own son was really straddling her at the foot of the bed, unzipping his jeans with a slow, deliberate hand. I saw her shudder when my hard cock sprang from my pants.

“You should be proud,” I said. “Never thought you’d raise a son with so much initiative.” Her mouth worked soundlessly, lips wet and trembling. She tried to spit, but the angle only made her cough, a strand of saliva swinging from her tongue. I knotted my fingers in her hair, right at the scalp, and wrenched her head farther back. The vertebrae in her neck ground audibly; her jaw opened wide in a startled gasp.

“That’s it,” I crooned. “Good girl. You always said a man appreciates a woman who listens.”

She tried to snap her teeth, but I was ready for it. I clamped her chin with my free hand, squeezing until the hinge cracked open. Her breath came fast and shallow, whistling against the roof of her mouth. I pressed my thumb over her lower lip and lined myself up, the head slick with anticipation and a faint tremor running down my spine.

Mom tried to turn away, but the leverage was all mine; the sheets and belts and pillowcase kept her torso flat and her head immobile, and the only direction she could move was toward me. I slid past her teeth, feeling the heat of her tongue, the resistance as she tried to gag me out. Her throat closed reflexively, a wet, desperate spasm, but I ground forward, inch by inch, until her nose rested against my ball sack.

The noise she made—wet, strangled, almost canine—sent a pulse of heat through me. I forced her to hold it, let her choke on the impossibility of escape. Her eyes bulged; tears rolled sideways into her hair. When she finally managed to suck in a thin shred of air, it bubbled around me, noisy and obscene. I ...