Samuel's Mom

When Mom turned to check the oven, I palmed the little vial from my jacket pocket and tipped a quick dash into her glass. The powder dissolved instantly, a trickle of cloud that vanished as soon as the surface rippled. I had to respect it: the taste was nearly undetectable, and after the last few years of practice, I’d learned to do it in one motion. When she turned back, I was just polishing the rim of my own glass with a napkin. I poured her a refill before she even asked, topped it off so it looked generous. “So who’s coming tonight?” I said, trying to sound invested.

She rattled off the list. Neighbors, one retired teacher, one doctor, and the divorcee who’d moved in two houses down and wore yoga pants like they were a flag of surrender. I let her drone, picking at the edges of each name to see what weaknesses might come up later. The conversation drifted to the state of the world, then to the neighborhood, then to my work, which she never truly understood but always tried to weaponize as a bragging point for the HOA.

“It’s not a real office job,” I said, “but the hours are flexible.”

She wagged the knife at me, the tip glistening. “You could do better. You always could, if you tried.”

The salad pulled her attention away from harping on my life. Mom swayed a bit and I caught a patch of a tune hummed under her breath. The next time she tried to grab a serving spoon, it skittered out of her grip and hit the floor with a muted clang. She stared at it, as if betrayed by physics. “I’m fine,” she said, mostly to herself, and bent to retrieve the spoon. I watched her fingers clutch at the counter for support on the way down. She gave me a tight smile when she stood. “Just lightheaded. Probably the wine.”

“Do you want water?” I asked. I guided her over to the little bistro table she used for breakfast.

She shook her head, but the movement made her wince. “Just a minute,” she said, voice slurred at the edges. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a lot.”

I sat across from her, folded my hands, and watched. She stared at the wall, eyes half-lidded, and for a second, her face looked so young I almost felt bad. Then she blinked, and the mask reset, and she was herself again, only softer.

“You know what I never understood?” she said, words tumbling out as if they’d been building for hours. “Why you never just…let things be easy. Everything is a fight with you. You come into the world clawing, and you never stop.”

“It’s what I am.” I shrugged. “It’s what I do. But I’m learning. For example, once I decided that tonight was the night, I picked up a little something special for the wine.” Mom blinked at me, her jaw gaping slightly. “A sedative, Mom. I put a sedative in your drink so this next part wouldn’t be so much of a fight.”

“Sedadadive…”

It was a minor achievement not to laugh at her. So prim and proper. It still hadn’t sunk through her addled brain that she was in danger. I stood up and stared at her. Unzipped my pants as I stepped towards her.

“What…”

“You’re going to suck my dick, Mom.” I grabbed her hand and shoved it inside my pants. Wrapped my fingers around hers and made her pull my half-hard dick out. Pumped it to get it to full length. “Dinner time, Mom.”

“No.” There was no force in her denial. Outrage still fought to come through, but it lost the battle. When I released her hand, she stopped jerking my cock, but she forgot to let it go. I slapped her face to get her attention. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what? This?” I slapped her again. Hard. Her head banged against the wall. I grabbed a handful of hair and made her look up at me. “I’m doing whatever the fuck I want, Mom. You’ll be lucky if you get out of this with nothing more than a mouthful of cum.”

“I… No…” Mom looked at her hand. Saw it was wrapped around a dick. Tugged a few times. “I don’t think I should…”

“Don’t think.” I pinched her nose so she’d keep her mouth open. Used her hand to guide the head of my cock to her tongue. “Suck, Mom. You remember what to do with a dick, right?”

The taste of the crushed pill carried on the clabber and copper of the wine, bitter and basic as a bloody nose. She gagged as I pushed in, barely enough to cushion the flattening pressure of my hand on the back of her head. The first mouthful was just teeth and spit and a halfhearted jab of tongue, nothing close to the competent, broken-in efficiency she’d learned after decades of bad men.

I held her there, watching the nervous system race between outrage and collapse. She slapped weakly at my wrist; I gripped harder and saw the bones map out under her skin. In the background somewhere, the oven fan cycled up, a ...