Interlude

“Well, Marilouise,” I thought, smiling, “your boobs droop but they’re still pretty good and,” and I shivered as I let the thought progress, “that tattoo Valerie drew would really be beautiful.”

My conversation with myself went like that as I stood, transfixed, my tit out, the picture covering it, and a sudden rush in my belly building.

I thought of the things he had said and I felt, I truly FELT, the way my body responded, the way my sex responded, the sudden desire between my legs, something I hadn’t felt in months, maybe years.

And I realized, suddenly, with a frightening clarity, that I wanted it. I wanted it ALL. I wanted all of those things he said he would do. I WANTED the pain and the humiliation.

This fucking disease might be taking me, and I couldn’t do anything about that. But I damn sure COULD fight.

And surrender, a complete surrender, giving myself to my son as his toy, his plaything, yes, his goddam slave, was the one way I could fight.

I giggled and wiped my lip where I had started drooling a little in my new decision and the excitement it brought.

I turned and kissed him, a sloppy kiss but it felt right somehow, and said, “Unless you want to watch your mother pee and poop, go on down and start some coffee.”

I gave him a little push and turned to sit and deep in my mind I kind of hoped he’d stay and watch. Breaking the taboo of a lifetime, dating back to when your mother says “ewwwww” as she changes your diaper, would be fun.

But he didn’t.

He left and I took care of business.

Interlude Finis

She giggled, reached over, picked up my cellphone, never more than an arm’s reach from me, and handed it to me.

“Call her,” she said, “Please.”

“You’re sure?” I asked.

“God yes,” she said, “Those tattoos would make even my floppers pretty.”

I laughed and said, “You have great tits.”

“If you like them floppy,” she said, lifting the T-shirt and then lifting her boobs and letting them fall.

Okay, they did flop.

“Are you sure?” I asked again.

“Please,” she said, batting her eyes, making me laugh.

I made the call.

“Which one did you like?” Valerie asked after I identified myself.

“Care to guess?” I asked.

“You want the whole life cycle, don’t you?” she said.

“Yep,” I said.

She giggled and said, “Well, she has the boobs for it.”

“Hang on,” she said.

“Okay,” she said, “That is extensive work in a very sensitive area so I’m going to schedule you in four settings, is that okay?”

“You’re the expert,” I said.

“Okay,” she said, “How are your Wednesdays?”

I laughed and said, “You give me the dates and times and we’ll be there.”

So she rattled off four dates, starting the following Wednesday, all at 9:30 a.m.

Mom held out her hand. She was smiling and it was tremor-free.

“I look forward to going to work for the first time in years,” she said. Then she kissed me before sipping her coffee, leaning back with a contented sigh, and watching the news on TV.

“I can’t remember,” she said, her eyes on the TV, not meeting mine, “the last time I could drink coffee with this hand and not spill any. Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome,” I said, smiling, and getting up.

I went upstairs, brushed my teeth, and put on jeans and a T-shirt, this one advertising Margaritaville, grabbed my little Google Chromebook, and headed downstairs.

Mom was still on the couch, looking at the hand that held the coffee cup, her eyes dreamy and unfocused.

I kissed her quickly, danced away before she could grab me, and said, “Gotta go. Test today in Earth Science and that isn’t my best class.”

“Yeah,” she said, “I should make an appearance at the nursing home too.”

I had two classes, a history class, Western Civilization 101, and that damn Earth Science class. Western Civ was interesting as we worked through the Fertile Crescent and then into Egypt, Greece, and, of course, Rome.

For some reason, Earth Science was kicking my ass though. It was the way it jumped around. One week we’d talk about Geology and the discussion of sedimentary, igneous, or basaltic rocks drove me silly. How the fuck do you keep that shit straight. Then there’d be a week of meteorology and cirrus or cumulus or nimbus clouds. A week on hydrodynamics and how hydraulic pumps work. A week on electromagnetism and ohms, volts and amps and God knows what. But I figured I was ready. This was hydrology and the water cycle week, water to vapor to clouds to rain to water, and I was confident I understood that.

During a break in the Student Union, Beth, one of the girls in my Western Civ class, sat down with me and flirted shamelessly.

The thing is, last week I would have been all over her. She was blonde and cute and wonderfully plump and bouncy. But today I steered the conversation back to Rome and the declining years.

She seemed disappointed and, left. I watched her big ass leave with just a twinge of regret, but not too much.

I got through class küçükçekmece escort and the test (I later found out I did get an “A”) and headed home.

Mom wasn’t there so I went into the basement and started planning her, well, our future.

The monster inside me danced a jig as I looked at the ceiling of the basement, mentally working out where joists were and where I could put pulleys to lift and stretch and torment. I let it run, my dick getting hard, as I sketched in my mind where I could hook up a small electric winch and how the cables would run to do what I had in mind.

“You’re a bit over the top now, you know?” I thought, tracing possible lines of force and imagining how they would work on her body.

I smiled and could almost hear her muffled scream, barely audible around the tennis ball I would stuff into her mouth, as I suspended her by her tits or stretched her legs into full splits as I worked the winch attached to the cuffs on her ankles.

“You’re going to torture her?” I asked myself, standing in the basement, imagining it as a damp dungeon, and surprising myself to hear that I had said that aloud.

“Yes,” I said, the single word echoing in the big open room making it real somehow.

I looked up. The basement was unfinished, and floor joists showed clearly. I imagined stuffing the areas between joists with insulation, soundproofing the room.

“You want to hear her scream, don’t you?” I asked myself, comfortable with saying it aloud now.

“Yes,” I said, smiling, doing a slow turn, picturing the various devices in my mind, “I want to hear her scream until her voice is stripped away.”

The monster in my head capered his delight.

I took a deep breath, pushed the monster down, and went back upstairs to make a sandwich and study. The sandwich was good, Mom always keeps a good selection of lunch meats. The study was bad. I couldn’t concentrate so told Google to go “incognito” and started searching for “modern dungeon equipment.”

And Jesus Christ, there was a whole industry devoted to such stuff.

As I learned the language, the nomenclature, and refined my search I was fascinated. You could get practically anything you could imagine, but you had to be prepared to pay the big bucks for it.

For example, I found a reference to the Spanish Donkey. If you don’t know what that is, well, picture an oversized sawhorse standing about four feet high. The central bar connecting the two pairs of legs has been shaped into a triangle with a sharp point at the top. The victim, the torturee?, is lowered onto it and weights are attached to her, or his I suppose, ankles.

Looking at the damn thing on the computer screen made me sort of squirm, and I did a Google search for “BDSM Spanish Donkey for sale.” Sure enough, you could get one, but prices started at $495. Being reasonably handy, I gave it a little thought, got on the Lowe’s website, and realized I could make one, and make it better at that, for under a hundred bucks.

I looked at things I hadn’t known existed. Hell, things I hadn’t imagined.

And my dick stayed hard.

For some reason, and I suspect it was just that monster in my head whispering his suggestions, it was the items devoted to the face that had me so hard I had to masturbate before I could concentrate. I sat, staring, at the image of a pretty woman’s face with mascara streaks running down her cheeks and a pair of nose hooks stretching the nares, the nostrils up. The tears running down her cheeks made it clear it hurt.

I stared, a paper towel in one hand and my erection in the other as I jacked off, catching my ejaculate in the towel and then tossing it into the trash.

Relieved, and able to concentrate again, I continued my research. I wound up Googling “face porn” and spent the next half hour watching as women had nose hooks stretch their nares, ball gags stretch their jaws, leather masks cover their faces, bridles and bits give handlers control, and damn near had to jack off again when a video of a woman about Mom’s age had a round device forced into her mouth and within two minutes drool was running down her chin and soaking the T-shirt she wore.

The thinking part of me pushed the monster down.

Yeah, I know, I was rationalizing like crazy. But I had, I think, the legitimate thought that something like the “Scold’s Cap” I saw, a ring that would hold a woman’s (or a man’s I suppose and when I had that thought I realized I would try it) mouth open with a small disc attached that would hold her (or his) tongue pressed down to the bottom of her (or his) mouth. The video marketing it showed a pretty woman with her jaws forced wide, the strap tightened behind her head, and she was drooling in less than a minute.

I bought it. Well, I ordered it, using Mom’s credit card. It seemed overpriced at $39.95, but, rationalizing like crazy again, I persuaded myself that such a slow, lingering, humiliation might accomplish the same therapy as the strap or whip.

“Yeah, küçükyalı escort yeah,” I said aloud to myself, “maybe. But mostly you want to see her drooling onto her shirt. Be honest.”

That was my only direct purchase that day, but I also started a list of stuff, a “Bill of Materials” for those of you who understand how to build things, I would need to convert the basement into the dungeon I now knew was in our future.

I had one more bit of research before I could study. I started with “BDSM clubs in,” well, never mind what city. I was surprised to find a dozen listed. But then I tried “BDSM theme restaurants.” There were only two. Both did have web pages. The one, called Dungeon Planet looked like, well, a dungeon. I didn’t really think we were ready for that. The second, though, called Home Discipline looked like, well, a high-end restaurant except that the wait staff was dressed very skimpily in black, mostly leather, with plenty of tattoos and piercings on display. The patrons looked, well, “normal,” whatever that means.

I smiled and made a reservation for two.

All of that had satisfied my need (my compulsion?) to plan my mother’s degradation, so I could study again. I was working my way through a problem in the market implications of a new tax when I heard the door open.

I stayed where I was, deliberately making her come to me while I pretended to ignore her.

I felt her hands on my shoulders and then her kiss on the top of my head.

“It’s after five,” she said, her lips close enough to my ear that I felt the words as soft zephyrs of warm breath, “and I have something to show you.”

“Wellllllllll,” I said, chuckling.

“Please,” she whispered, following the word with her tongue tracing the shell of my ear.

“Well,” I said again, reaching up to close the laptop and standing.

“If you’re going to beg,” I said, smiling.

She dropped to her knees with that strange gracefulness she showed sometimes and took my hands in hers. She kissed both palms and said, her voice soft and husky, “Please.”

I grinned and said, “Oh, okay. Whatcha got.”

She got to her feet, that gymnast she had once been on display in the smooth movement, took my hand, and without another word, led me to the bedroom.

In the bedroom she turned to me, still silent, and started tugging my T-shirt up.

I figured this was her show, so I just allowed her to do what she wanted to do. I lifted my arms to help her peel the shirt off of me.

I realized, as she started on the button of my cut-off jeans, that her hand still was not trembling. She had no problem with the button or the zipper.

She pushed the cut-offs, along with my shorts, down and I stepped out of them.

She was still silent as she helped me onto the bed.

It was my turn to watch as she unbuttoned the shirt she wore, her fingers obeying her commands, and then unbuttoned and unzipped the slacks, pushing them down and standing, posing, in just her bra and panties.

I smiled, whistled, and said, “Take it off, Baby, show Davey the goodies.”

She smiled, a happy smile, and did that double-jointed thing women seem to learn with that first training bra, to reach behind her and unhook her bra. She held it to her, her arms pressed against her sides, smiling and snapping her hips side to side in a passable Bump and Grind before moving her arms and allowing the bra to fall.

I whistled again and said, “Nice tits, now show it all.”

She giggled, shimmied getting those big boobs sort of flopping back and forth, and pushed her panties down.

She crawled onto the bed with me and showed me her hand, held still with no trembling at all.

“I have wanted to do this since that first time,” she said, reaching down and cupping my balls, “but I was afraid I’d hurt you.”

She squeezed, very gently, and whispered, “Thank you for returning my control.”

She began stroking me, slowly, gently, smiling at me as she did it.

“I’ve wanted to do this since you took me but didn’t know if my control would hold,” she said and kissed me, the slow stroking continuing.

“Your control feels pretty secure,” I said, struggling for my own control.

“Shhhh,” she whispered, moving her hand to cup my balls, gently separating them and squeezing just enough that I could feel the pressure.

I laid back then, letting her have her fun. Well, my fun too.

I don’t know how long we remained like that. Long enough that I was getting hungry. My masturbation earlier gave me stamina, and she was reveling in the control she had over her hand. She played with me for a while, bringing me along, and then rolled onto her back and began masturbating, smiling at me as her fingers played so delicately.

I watched and kissed her gently, smiling, saying “You’re welcome” each time she said, “Thank you.”

Her orgasm was breathtaking.

She hissed, a long, drawn-out “Sssssssssssssssssssssss” sound, did a half-sit up, and came like a fountain. I used my kültür escort hand to support her while her fingers stayed busy and she came in waves until she was sitting in a puddle of her thick, white grool.

“You are so beautiful,” I said as she finally wore out, panting and straining for one more orgasm.

She lay back, smiling.

“Thank you,” she said, “Come on, I’ll finish you.”

“Nuh-un,” I said, laughing, “I’m taking you out and showing you off tonight.”

Her eyes got big.

“Showing me off?” she asked, a bit of a tremble in her voice but also a lot of brightness in her eyes.

“Yes,” I said, “showing you off. Now come on,” I offered her my hand, “let’s shower.”

She giggled and followed me to the bathroom. I got the shower running, and when the water was hot led her into it. We showered together, taking turns doing the face-hair-body sequence.

When she reached for the little can of shaving gel she kept in the shower I slapped her hand.

She looked at me, eyes wide.

“I’m throwing away your razor,” I said.

“DAVID!” she said, her eyes big.

I grinned.

“Tell me you’re mine,” I said.

“I’m yours,” she said without hesitation.

“Okay, then,” I said.

“But, Baby,” she said, giggling but serious too, “I’m a very hairy girl. God, I’ll look like a gorilla.”

I grinned, my best boyish grin, and said, “And I’ll show you off proudly.”

“Oh, God,” she moaned, but seemed to accept.

We finished the shower, dried, and headed into the bedroom. She smiled as I had her sit at her little makeup desk. I always enjoyed doing her makeup, even before we had started into this new phase of our lives, and I flatter myself that I’m pretty good at it.

I started with her hair. I used fingers and the blow dryer first, working most of the wetness out, and then worked with the brush. I like her with big hair. Not, you know, Dolly Parton big, but fluffy and, well, feminine. She smiled, her eyes closed most of the time, enjoying the attention.

For her face, I worked a base and then blush in, just a hint of a darker color dry brushed to highlight her cheeks. I used a black eyeliner and added little points at the outside corners of her eyelids and then a bright blue eyeshadow much heavier than I usually applied it. I wanted her to look a little gaudy but not like a streetwalker. I did her brows very black with the brow tint, making a sharp contrast to the grey streaking her hair. The finishing touch was scarlet lipstick, the reddest she had although I made a note to myself to see if I could find something even redder.

“God,” she said, staring in the mirror, “I look like a whore.”

“You look beautiful,” I reassured her.

“Well,” she said, giggling, “I guess at least I look like an expensive whore.”

“Would you like that?” I asked, nuzzling her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of fresh makeup.

“Like what?” she asked, meeting my eyes in the mirror.

“Like me to rent you out? Make you a whore?” I asked.

She shuddered, her eyes going big.

“Oh my,” I said, softly, my lips touching her ear, “You would, wouldn’t you.”

“David, I…” she started but I cut her off, the image strong in my mind now.

“Watching me take the money and then handing you over to a man you’ve never seen before,” I went on.

Her breath caught and her eyes got big, holding mine in the mirror.

“Knowing,” I went on, my voice very low now, almost subliminal, my lips brushing her ear, “that I have told him there are no limits. That he can do anything he wants to you.”

As I watched her lips parted slightly, thin threads of saliva connecting them, and she ran her tongue around them, moistening them, and smiling at me.

“No limits?” she breathed.

“Anything he wants to do to you,” I whispered.

The monster in my head giggled, wanting to watch my mother be degraded like that.

“But tonight,” I said, my voice bright, breaking the spell, “it’s just dinner and showing you off. So let’s get you dressed, Sluterella.”

She took in a deep breath and let it out in a slow hiss through pursed lips.

“How do you know me so well?” she asked, her smile wan but real.

I grinned and kissed her. “Hey,” I said, “You ARE my mother and we’ve been together all of my life. I should have picked up some things.”

She looked down at the floor and then up at me, meeting my eyes through the corner of hers.

“You enjoy whipsawing me like this, don’t you?” she asked.

“I enjoy it very much,” I said and took her hand, holding it up, demonstrating how steady it was.

I kissed her palm and then each fingertip.

“And I think the therapy is good for you,” I added.

She smiled, looked at her hand, and then ran it slowly, very gently, down my cheek.

“Okay, Doctor,” she said, “What’s next?”

I smiled and took her hand.

“Now we deck you out,” I said.

In the bedroom, her eyes got big when she saw what I had laid out for her to wear.

I grinned.

“I told you I was going to show you off,” I said, handing her the bikini panties.

Her fingers trembled a little as she took the panties. Not the uncontrolled tremor of earlier, just a little nervous shakiness.

I watched, staring actually, wanting her to know how closely I was watching her, as she did that little marching-in-place thing she does when she pulls her panties up.