A River in Egypt
by DiscipleN

— my first story posted here — don’t be gentle

Why would a mature woman find pleasure in resisting her desires? I ask myself that question about three times a day, and usually my family has to suffer the answer. I know I am not normal. No responsible mother would risk her children’s future sexuality simply to resolve emotional troubles that have haunted her since her own childhood.

My mother drank because my father liked to fuck drunk women. They would carouse the night away while I was tucked into bed or, on a better planned night, given a baby-sitter. Sometimes more than the two of them would return, filling their bedroom with a stranger’s laughter. Once, when I was ten, they returned with the baby-sitter’s face glued between my legs. They laughed a lot over that one. I think my father fucked the baby sitter, while my mother rested on a couch arm and gave me the strangest look. I didn’t like the baby-sitter, I told her. Her only response was to lift her skirt up, she never wore underwear, and told me not to judge in ignorance. Her eyes swirled with alcohol inspired lust. The next day, she and dad refused to admit anything had happened with the baby-sitter. They went to great lengths to assure me they hadn’t hired that particular girl in over a month.

I grew older, and my parents’ open sexuality grew less oppressive. Was it just me beginning to grasp adult feelings for the first time, or did they actually change their ways? Mom still drank, a lot. Dad took her out less often, but he went out more often. Their marriage kept degrading until I remember thinking when mom and dad had sex, it was like their fuse had blown, only the bed made a noise. I remember coming home one afternoon to find my mother slumped over the kitchen table, drooling the worst smelling phlegm upstream of a gutter drunk. She mumbled.

“Rat bastard and yer young girls… I oughta call tha cops. Rat bastard.”

Her arms circled a pile of Polaroid’s on the table, drool ruining their cheap finish. I scanned them until my stomach cramped. Rat bastard. There he was taking pictures of himself fucking girls, some of them nearly as old as myself. There was a note too. ‘These girls like it! You’re already a fucking drunk, let me know when you want to try this new shit.’

I didn’t know it at the time, but my dad was dealing. Coke was just becoming popular, and dad found out early that teenage girls ate it up like candy. I still don’t know how a white, suburban salaryman like him had hooked into the game, but the cops never caught him. I heard stories that a manager at his advertising firm was busted for giving his employees coke as the ultimate work motivation, and then he’d fire the ones who burned themselves out. He was the fastest rising manager in dad’s company. Dad was the slowest. My father enjoyed a different kind of power.

He wanted to fuck himself to death and sought the power to remove any obstacle to his lusts. If a pretty teenager flashed by his BMW, he’d stop and ask directions. On the seat next to him, he’d lay a vial of cocaine in plain view. If the girl stared at it, he’d invite her to a party, take the bitch to a hotel, and they have coke sex until the coke or his sperm ran out. If an older woman flirted with him at a party, he’d tell her she was perfect for a tv commercial; you know, the ‘real woman’ look. That line got his cock between plenty of cellulite. He took all the sex he wanted, but on the day he died from a heart attack, mother was humping a plastic dong into my ass.

The worst of my troubles reaching adulthood stemmed more from my mother than my father. As their sex life disintegrated, I turned first to support my mother. To me, she was the obvious victim. Little did I realize I only set myself up as her private sanitarium. She came to rely on me as her emotional support column, but when her natural sex drive came a knocking she eventually turned me into her little cunt maid. One day I was holding her as she cried over dad’s photos. One day, not so many months later, she was holding me down with her waist smothering my face.

After I blew my mother cunt juice out my nose and wiped it, I raced to my bed where I cried myself to sleep. Mother apologized the next day, but not three days passed before she sneaked into my bed and sucked on my pussy. By the next morning, she refused to admit any such thing had happened. She turned her sexual assaults on me, her 13 year old daughter, into the phantasms of an alcoholic. She used her control over a family’s basic necessities to coerce me into more deviant escapades. If I wanted a new dress, I had to fist her. If I wanted to invite a friend over to play, that cost a rim job. If I asked her for pocket change, other than my lousy dollar per week allowance, she’d get to ream my ass with her double dildo. On the day my daddy died, I needed five dollars for a rock star poster.

I think I grew to like her attentions, but my memories are too fragmented with my own delusions to be sure. In truth, we probably only had sex a couple times a week, and most of the rest of the time, my mom was better than a lot of mothers. She didn’t shirk parenting simply because I was her fuck doll. I said she refused to admit ever having assaulting me. Her drinking was like curtain. When she didn’t drink, she took me to art galleries, bicycling along the river, helped me with my homework, and let me go out and play. If I asked her for anything as simple as a new pair of gloves, Mother reached for the bottle. Two hours later, I would be sucking on her cunt like a girl scout.

That’s plenty to fuck up the mind of any child. But what I hated most of all were her outbursts. Once a month, she’d totally lose it, drinking way to much, and having to chase me down for a hard raping. She would curse and scream that I should have been a son. A son knows how to please a mom. A son wouldn’t need to be taught how to respond to her needs. A son loves to fuck and suck and drive his cock into his mom’s ass, suck on her tits like a good boy, and shoot a steaming load of cum into her womb. I grew up believing I was only a younger version of what she was, a horny cunt without a man to give herself. At best I would be just another cunt tease for daddy to coke-up and screw. I was mom’s enemy!

Daddy never did fuck me. He died when I was fifteen, not too young for his tastes, but too young as his daughter. Dollar to nickels, he’d have offered me a white snort on my seventeenth birthday. Instead, that was the day I left home.

Mother caught me in bed with a young neighbor boy, Raymond. He couldn’t have been older than twelve, but I felt safe with him. My parents were my only example of adult sexuality, and I was scare to death of it. That doesn’t mean I didn’t get horny. I grew to inherit both my parent’s sex drives. Sick of my mom’s raping lesbianism, and spiteful of my father’s lechery, it’s understandable that I took to seducing little boys, before they could grow up and hurt me emotionally, like dad had mom. On my seventeenth birthday, mom baked a marvelous cake and had invited a few of the neighbors along with my friends to celebrate. It was a lovely day, and by the end of it, I was feeling brave and very horny. I told Raymond to meet me in our backyard, and I’d give him something to thank him for visiting. He really was a sweet boy.

Mother began drinking while she cleared the house of party wreckage, but I didn’t notice. I figured I could sneak Raymond into my room, through the kitchen back door, and I did. Unfortunately, he was really shy and it took me a lot of patient explaining that what I wanted from him would be really good for him. I had hardly begun to suck on his delicious young cock when mother barged into my room waving a well used double dildo. I got more than an ass reaming that night, and Raymond got a scare that made him piss in my mouth. Mother froze at the sight of my young conquest. You could see the flame in her eyes, the flare of her nostrils, and her short but powerful intake of breath. Her alcohol supercharged desire kicked her into a mental orbit of the room, unable to reenter until she’d burned up most of her fuel. She froze solid.

I spit Raymond’s piss back into his groin, grabbed up his jeans and snapped them back together. Mother started screaming. I don’t remember what she said. Raymond looked like a kitten facing a deadly tomcat. I tried to intervene, but mother grabbed my ear and pulled me away like a naughty little girl. She hit me once with the dildo and dropped it. Then she lunged for Raymond. She would have put a vise grip on him, but I grabbed her arm spun her around, leaving a space between her and the door. Raymond got a clue and leaped. I held on to mother for his dear life. At seventeen, I hadn’t fully realized how much I had grown. I was nearly my mother’s height, but not half her weight. She clobbered me more than I ever thought I could take before I fell sobbing beneath her blows. I had to stay a week out of school to recuperate. The next day, Mother swore all she remembered was saving me from that horrid hooligan. She tried to make herself and me believe that Raymond was older, bigger, meaner and my real assailant. I didn’t care what she wanted to fantasize. I was through with her. I had found my strength.

I guess it was fortunate that Raymond’s parents called the authorities. I was still a sight when they showed up with questions, five days later. They hauled my mother to jail and put me into foster care for the remainder of my minority. Before that though, mother was released into an alcohol treatment facility, and after promising me she’d never drink again, I moved back in with her. She never did drink again. There were nights when I caught her doing something else out of the corner of my eye. She would sometimes finger fuck herself when we were in the same room, as long as she thought I couldn’t see her. I didn’t really care. I had begun to set my future on a course that made her perversions seem quaint by comparison.

***

My twenties flash across my memory like a 30 second commercial. Father’s life insurance paid my way through college. I fucked a lot of teenage boys. I graduated with honors in physical therapy. Unlike most children of alcoholics, I never fell into drinking beyond an occasional glass of wine or cocktail. My mother wasn’t a classic alcoholic, she’d been driven to it by her husband, and when she dried out she dried out for good.

I met a physics graduate in my senior year and found myself at odds with my feelings. He was a good man. He wasn’t much to look at, nice eyes, dressed like his mother had told him, quiet unless he was with his science friends. I know I didn’t love him, but neither was I afraid of him. And for me that was a solid gold key to my cunt. Henry loved my cunt! He fell head over heels in love with me a few minutes before he began fucking it. I was getting too old to pick up high school boys, and by no means was it a compulsion. It was simply my most comfortable sexual relationship. Henry was sweet. He had a nice cock, and it didn’t take me very long to teach him how to use it. We went steady until I graduated. Then we moved together into my apartment. I got a job at a very exclusive medical center, and he worked on his master’s degree. I let him get me pregnant the day he landed three job offers. He knew how babies were made, but I had let him think he was in control of his sperm. When I broke the ‘good news’ to him he scratched his head and made sort of a embarrassed smile. We were married within the year.

Neither Henry nor I believed that we should limit our sexual experiences to each other. My man wasn’t a creature of repressed religious doctrine, or America’s sexually ignorant culture. I taught him good. Funny thing was, we never really did go outside of our marriage for sex. Henry was not my perfect sexual partner, but he was ready with a hard-on when I needed it, whereas many before him had failed to produce wood consistently over time. I never brought a sopping cunt home for him to suck, and the phone never rang with his bastard’s manic mother on the other end.

I was twenty seven when Michael was born. I hardly remember much of those three years, except how much I hated motherhood. He was a whiney, fussy, messy, smelly son of a diaper bulge. Henry tried with the best of intentions and all of his precise logic to convince me to have another child. Two children near the same age were bound to grow up better individuals than a lone child or two separated by many years. I almost left him for his eagerness. Instead we hired a nanny, and I issued one beautiful and healthy girl into the world a year later. My thirtieth birthday struck a month after Julia’s.

I think I panicked. After thirty years of living in the world, I had accomplished everything a woman might desire. The problem was, I realized, never had I actually faced what it was that ‘I’ desired! Suddenly, it seemed like I had been living someone else’s life. I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted. I was entering my prime, but the only thing ahead was the traditional long fade into retirement. This did not sit well with my psyche. Some long lost, root of my soul wailed within me, and I was inconsolable. I cried for weeks.

The doctors said it was postpartum depression. They prescribed drugs. I took them, threw up, and took some more. My shrink said it was a dangling thread of my personality, and the best way to sew back into place was with his cock as the needle. I fucked him. Then I fired him. Henry was no help at all. I’d married him for material and sexual security, not emotional support. The poor dear tried but hadn’t a clue about mending a female soul. He wouldn’t have had a clue about women’s sexual needs if I hadn’t taught him. No woman can teach a man how to bridge her psychological rifts. She has to find the one man who happens to fill hers. Out of options, I turned to the only other emotional support I had.

I was never one to make women friends. I saw them as either leeches or competitors. My experiences of forced lesbianism colored my natural instinct to forge social links with my female peers. I saw men as either potential orgasm donors or emotional Jack the Rippers. I flew cross-country to my mother. We met mingling our tears upon her doorstep.

Mother was now forty-seven. Ten years earlier she had begun to date again. Three years earlier, she had married again. I did not attend the wedding, but I sent her a basket of fruit in the form of a gift certificate. For my prodigal return, she sent Vincent out of the house for a week. After twelve hours of sobbing my life’s story into her breasts, she offered me a drink to settle my nerves. I gulped it down. Three glasses later, I couldn’t feel her remove my dress. Head spinning, I lied prostrate on her couch. It’s worn floral pattern was lucky I hit the carpet with my first gush of vomit. Mom hurried me into the bathroom, globulous projectiles marking the path. I threw up into the toilet bowl until the dry heaves left me too weak to drool. Mother knew what was best for me. As I hovered over the porcelain receptacle her fingers sneaked into my cunt and eased my suffering. She took me to her bed and tucked me in. I slept for an entire day.

I awoke over the course of two hours. Full daylight struggled against thick curtains. I eased my aching body out of bed and showered. I felt better after that. I dressed and entered the hall where a promising smell led me. Mother was making coffee in the kitchen. When I timidly poked my head in, she turned and looked at me, a little pained.

“Mother did you…” I began to accuse her.

“Yes, I did.” Her lower lip trembled. “I don’t regret it.”

My voice lost its strength. “What am I going to do?”

“Stay with me, until Vincent returns.” She crossed the room and placed her hand against my forearm. “I’ve missed you terribly.” Her hand smoothed down my arm until she gripped my hand. It burned with need.

I reached for her, and we embraced. We spent the remainder of the week in her bed.

My return home was no happier than when I had left. I was stronger. My path remained uncertain, but fraught with fewer pits. Mother had helped me face one thing, but it was not the important one. I did not forgive her for betraying her maternal trust, once again, but I understood it. Understanding it, I had begun to glean something new of myself. I was a sexual predator, the daughter of a sexual predator. In the jungle of nature’s passions, cluttered with mechanical rabbits, I was the she leopard. My range overlapped the males’. Their domains remained isolated and interlopers were driven off by tooth and claw. In my season, the males should copulate with me and dispersed. Unlike leopards, I would remain in season until my pores ran with cum and my breast burst with milk. From that moment on, I had bound myself to a dreadful and irrevocable decision. I spoke nothing of this to anyone, hardly even unto myself.

Henry was the first to sense my change, but he was the last to know what hit him. I took a lover, a random one. Kevin and I met outside a department store, waiting for it to open. I followed him to the menswear and raped him in the change booth. He dangled from my key chain for weeks thereafter. Kevin was a younger man, twenty five, salesman, the kind of man that use to intimidate me. I devoured him whole until the day when he showed up on my doorstep with a gigantic half-gross of carnations and a promise to rid me of my ‘weak and insufficient’ husband. I sicked the dog on him. The best thing I got from Kevin was getting over my fear of emotionally crippling men. Instead I began to hunt them like foxes.

Henry figured out I was cheating on him. I think he rationalized it by telling himself it was a phase I was going through. He didn’t act cuckolded, but I knew his misery was just beginning. I left plenty of scraps for him, not just occasional morsels seeping from my pussy lips, but full intercourse, oral, anal, vaginal, mammarian, whatever he asked for. Henry just wasn’t a sexual athlete. His sex drive dropped into gear only when I sought him. I doubt he craved sex all that much when I was out trying three different colors of cock. He tended his research and theories as meticulously and passionately as he tended my dripping pussy with his reliable hard-on.

After five years of total un-inhibition, I felt like I had just graduated from college all over again. There wasn’t a man alive who could bend me to their will, and all of them had fallen to my voracious appetite. From state congressmen to local starlets, I had made them beg to partake from my sex. In my third year of full sexual awakening, I returned to the gender that had laid the foundation for my perversions. I sought women out for sex as men became too easy. I even tried to share them with Henry, but he was rapidly loosing the one thing he needed from me, his wife. I hardly gave him the time of day. My cunt was open to him whenever I crawled home, leaving a slime trail of sexual juices, but my heart soared far out of his reach.

Let me say this. I am not the most attractive of women. I am good looking, but when the heat spills from my eyes it mesmerizes my prey like headlights. My internal nature makes up for my external mediocrity. Sure there were men who could resist me, but in my book that made them less of a man. Their reasons were not so noble, religious fanatics were easier seduce than freshmen college students. The men who did not fall prey to me were either too distractible like schizophrenics or sexually retarded. My husband was nearly the first case. After five years of getting the sopping end, Henry finally broke down.

“Come back to me, honey. Let the others go. Your family needs you. Your children need you. I need you.” He held me dearly, but he could feel the stellar heat burning in my depths. I considered him, seriously. Henry was still a good man, a nice man. I did not want him to finish last. I maybe even loved him. I came back each time to his house and our children even after weeks of perversions. Michael was eight and Julia was five and a half. I might have quit my rebellious antics for them and Henry. I could have done it. I didn’t have to sacrifice all of my new freedoms and power to give my family what they needed from their mother. We could have came to an arrangement that satisfied everyone. We could have, until our nanny, Nancy, turned up pregnant.

“You miserable, CHEATING, SCUMBAG!!!” I screamed at Henry.

“But Honey, I thought it was a logical thing to do. I just made a mistake with our contraception.”

“Just like the mistake you made with me! Your silly little condoms are no match for a sewing needle. And I bet Nancy is an expert with sewing needles!” I accused. Somehow, I kept my tears behind my facade of hate.

“She said she was on the pill.” He offered meekly.

I didn’t dare look at him anymore. My mask was melting from the flood of water dammed behind it. I fled my home. My heart felt as if it had burst. I cursed myself. How could I have ever let that geek-ridden creature into my life? He did not deserve to affect me so. That stupid little man… I left Henry to let him muddle through his mistake. For two years I abandoned family and friends. I lived no better than a whore, selling my sex for money, clothes, food, and shelter. My ability to lure men to their demise quickly faded as the power in my soul drained away through un-mendable rips. Eventually, I was selling blow jobs to alcoholics for ten bucks a pop. Sick, broke, and unhinged, I found myself ready one day to crawl back to Henry and beg his forgiveness. Mother met me at the door. She welcomed me with arms like snakes.

It was only natural, I guess. Henry had to dismiss Nancy. He paid every cent of the child support she demanded from him, and we never heard from her again. From court documents sifted from the internet, he discovered she eventually married and had named their son James. He left it at that. To help him raise little Michael and Julia, mother jumped at the chance to offer her services. It was only natural our children’s Grandmother took the place of their wayward mother. She had recently sent Vincent packing, permanently this time. “He wasn’t my sort of gentleman after all.” She said. In other words, even Viagra couldn’t help him against my mother’s tide of sexuality. Likewise, it was only natural that she discovered Henry could withstand it. Once again, my mother had stolen my sexual core being, but she was willing to share. She and Henry welcomed me back with open arms, a warm place in the bed beside them, healthy food, attention to my physical ills, and even outreach for my tattered being.

Mother had changed Henry. He dressed better in those days and he regularly sought out satisfaction for his own sexual needs, instead of waiting for me to open my legs. I was resting on the living room couch, watching 10 year old Julia play with a train set when Henry, uncharacteristically marched out of his den, ignored Julia and I as he passed by, entered the kitchen and dragged mother back through the living room to the master bedroom. Julia looked at me with a bright pair of eyes.

“Daddy’s going to fuck Grandma now.” She tittered.

I was speechless. I had known what Henry was up to. It was as plain as the wetness that started seeping into my pussy. I had almost jumped up to join them. Instead I froze at Julia’s revelation. How did she know what her father and grandmother were doing? And when did a ten year old, say the word ‘fuck’ openly in front of her parents?

“Do you know what that means?” I decided I needed to learn more about my young daughter’s life.

“Well, uh, they go to bed and wrestle around, and uh…” Julia began to shy away from her outburst, and I almost sighed with relief. “I-I don’t know all of it, But Daddy said he’d show me when I got a little older.”

“That son of a bitch!” I cursed through my teeth, smiling. He was going to rape his own daughter. I could have marched in the bedroom and killed him. If mother hadn’t begun to roar from her effort in the master bedroom, I might have. I didn’t calm down. I was pissed!

“Can I go watch them, mommy?” Julia snagged my attention. “Sometimes I watch.”

The thing I now regret most is, at her innocent words, my anger suddenly transferred to her.

“Fine!” I snapped. “Go and see what your dirty daddy and your nasty gram are doing in there. Soon you’ll be doing it too, whether you like it or not!”

Julia shrunk back and began to cry. I didn’t catch myself then, either. “Go on!” I urged. “Take yourself a good look at fucking, and see what it does to women.”

She ran out of the room, sobbing, but she ran to the master bedroom. Still angry, I followed, walking with a slow but deliberate intensity.

Julia stopped just inside the open door. The bed was hardly able to contain the action ravaging across it.

“Fuck that cunt!” Mother ordered Henry. She was biting on his left ear. Her hands scratched his chest and upper arms and shoulders. Henry was giving her back as much. His experienced tool drilled into my mom’s leaking cunt. He shifted her upon the bed, hands gripping her shoulders. “You scabby old bitch. I’ll teach you to make my cock hard. I’m going to stuff your own spit back inside your guts.” His knees tightened their grip on her legs and he bounced in a circle, hoisting her figure around clockwise. Mom’s head left the support of the mattress, but her neck muscles held it firm beyond the edged of the bed.

I felt my anger draining, but excitement reenergized me. I spoke less maliciously, but with similar intensity.

“That’s fucking, daughter of mine. That’s fucking done right. Your father knows how, and your gram knows who. She’ll take his cock into all of his holes before they finish. She’s already sucked his dick. Maybe he already came, wasting his baby making goo into her mouth. Your daddy doesn’t care if he cums, when he cums, or where he cums. He’ll keep fucking until his dick bleeds or his aging joints crack.

“Oh, I don’t want to get fucked!” Julia wailed.

“Are you sure about that.”

“Yes mommy. Daddy is like a beast. He scares me.”

“Your daddy is a beast, but on a short chain. He wouldn’t dare hurt you honey. Have you seen enough?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good, how does it make you feel?”

“It’s just awful!” she wailed.

My mother had grabbed Henry’s head and was pushing it away as she screamed at him to drive it deeper.

“I asked you how it made you feel, Julia.” I persisted with my question.

“I-I feel sick, like I have a flu.”

“You mean it makes you hot, don’t you.” I pressed. “You feel dizzy, and uncertain, and hot, and you’re afraid of it at the same time. Am I right?”

“Yes momma, I feel real warm, and dizzy.”

“What about your cunt? You know what your cunt is, don’t you. If you know what fucking is, you know what your cunt is, right you little slut?” I reached for my daughter and spun her around to face me. Her tears continued to flow.

She nodded.

“How does it feel, your cunt?”

“It’s all slimy, and it itches!” She bawled. “Please mommy, let me go. I wanna go!”

I let go of her, and she raced away. Again I followed, staring down the hallway like a hunter. I followed her to her room. I went inside and slammed the door.

That was the first time I raped my daughter. She wasn’t even close to the age of my first rape, but she was ready. I knew it, right then. She was a natural. The only thing I used was my hands and my tongue, but she got off. The little slut screeched with her first orgasm ten minutes after I shut us in to her room. She screeched twice more, the last was a plea to stop. I did stop then, but only after I was sure she had learned proper respect for fucking.

It was the worst thing I could do. Very quickly thereafter, guilt crashed around me like bricks from a demolished building. I had raped my daughter, and forever erased her childhood.

Now there are those who might imagine a girl forcibly introduced to cumming suddenly goes wild for sex. Orgasms are the ultimate drug, they think. Once dose and you’re hooked. That’s pretty fucking stupid, even for ignorant perverts. But it gets them off. Julia did not talk about sex, in front of me or anyone else, for the next year. She stayed in her room, a chair against her door, for the first month after my raping her.

Michael wanted to know what the hell was the matter with her. I told him.

“I raped her.” I didn’t even look at him. My thirteen year old was standing behind the couch. I was watching some stupid sit-com. It was late. Henry dozed in his chair, and my mother was messing around with a crochet hook. She looked up.

“Your mother hasn’t been feeling well, honey. Come talk with your gram.

But Michael stayed behind me.

“What’s the matter mom? Did you really mean what you said?”

Bless this child, I thought. “No honey. I’m just angry with myself.”

“Golly, why are you angry?”

“Because your mother isn’t any better than her mother. She’s a stupid slut with manic-depressive episodes. She’s a cunt without a clue. She’d rather jab her tongue into her daughter’s cunny than hold her gently and kiss her forehead.” I reeled off my sins, my mother’s sins, as if they were not mine to keep.

“I-I’m sorry mom.” He might have actually known what I was talking about. In this house sex wasn’t a dirty word, it was the word du-jour. He didn’t really believe me. Michael reached for my hair and picked up one lock in his hand. “Can I help, somehow?”

“No.” I sighed. My mother couldn’t leave well enough, alone.

“You could take your mom into your room and stick your hard-on into her cunt.” Mom suggested, not even looking up from the mess of yarn in her hand. “It’s about time you took care of your mom. She’s in dreadful need. She wouldn’t have had to rape your sister if you had been forceful with her. I’m getting too old to keep her and her husband in line.”

I felt Michael’s involuntarily tug on my hair. “Ow!”

“Don’t fool me boy.” Mother told him. “You got a prick filled with half your blood, right now, and you’re probably trying to hide it behind the couch. You know what you want to do with it but don’t have the guts. Well you’d better get some soon, or this whole family will wreck worse than a ocean liner against a battleship.”

“We all know who the battleship is.” I muttered.

Michael let go of my hair, and I couldn’t tell if he just stepped back or shied completely away. I could hear his embarrassment. He caught his breath.

“Sure, go ahead and fuck me. I don’t give a damn anymore.” I said lifelessly.

“Hmmnn?” Henry shifted in his sleep.

It seemed as if the the television kept repeating the same five minutes of show. It was the only sound in the house. I remember mother started breathing heavier, thinking about what I’d just said. Michael didn’t utter a peep. He didn’t even breath. He stepped silently across the shag rug. He took my hand in his and waited for me. I placed my lap blanket carefully on the sofa arm and stood. My son led me to his room.

We entered in silence. He flicked the light switch. My eyes saw only darkness. He guided me to the center of his room and hugged me. He would have just hugged me if I hadn’t begun to pull my top up from my waist. I pulled it through his warm but firm arms and tossed it over my head. My left breast brushed curls of his brown hair. It was cool in the room, but a heat was already growing inside me. I acted on instinct, instinct honed by a thousand passes of my mother’s tongue, shaped by a willing multitude of men: married, unmarried, fathers, sons, all shaped by my father without ever having touched his prick.

I reached between my son’s legs and touched his prick through his loose pants. It was hard, harder than any I had know.

“Mom, I-I don’t know what to do.” Michael admitted.

I placed one arm around his head and drew it to the top of my belly, just below my tits. If he had looked up to meet my eyes, he would have seen two dark nipples growing hard. “Shhhh.” I answered. We continued to hold each other. I felt empty. I had no guilt left to guide me. I acted on instinct.

My free hand fumbled with his fly, unbuttoned it, unzipped it. I reached in and felt warm cock pressing against his stained briefs. He pushed at his pants, down past his knees. I fondled his member.

“You have a good cock, son. It will serve you well.”

“Will you serve me, mother?”

“Shhhh… yes, child.” I pulled at his briefs, and he rolled them down straight away. While he stood in the room cluttered with books and action figures, pants and underwear clinging to his legs, I released him and stepped across to his single bed. I sat down and began to remove my shoes. Michael bent over, almost fell and hurried to untie his. One knotted like a stone, and he had to lower himself to the floor in order to fight the sneaker off of his foot. He followed quickly with his pants. His cock shimmered like a sword in sunlight, then it began to droop.

My son looked up from his position. A new kind of embarrassment moved him. “Mother, help me.” He saw my cunt then. I had raised my skirt above my knees and spread my legs just wide enough to educate him.

“You’re doing fine, Mikey.” I teased him with his baby name. “Come to mommy.” I reached my hands out.” Damn, if the boy didn’t crawl on his hands and knees. I held his head. “Stand up and show your mother what a fine son she has.”

Michael smiled then, and his cock saluted once more at full attention. I reached for it as he stood. I gripped it lightly and jacked it slow. “It’s beautiful, son. You have a beautiful cock.”

“Why are you doing this mother?” My son’s eyes cleared. His body betrayed him. It pressed his dick into my hand.

“Because I can’t help myself.” I told him. “I’ve got nothing left to be proud of, except you. I applied my tongue to his swollen head, licking the base of it. He shuddered. I continued to jack my son.

“I want to help. I want you to be proud of me.” His boyish grin, broke out of the facade of his innocence. “I can already tell you’re proud of one thing about me.”

I nodded. His shaft continued to strengthen in my grip. I slid its skin up and down the length of it, never rubbing the skin directly, but used it to massage my son’s interior meat. I could do this for hours before his cock skin got sore. He wasn’t ready to wait that long. Pulses deep in his root began to quicken.

“Oh mommy, th-that’s so goood.” My son whispered.

“You’re mommy’s bad, Michael. Always remember that. I’m nothing but bad.” I didn’t want to ever think that I could redeem myself. I abandoned any prospect of future sanity. I was called by my mother to fuck my baby boy, and he had led me to his bed. I would ensure that I never fought my nature nor used it to my advantage over others. I would be nothing but a slave to my depravity.

“Gram-ma-ma says you are a whore.” His dick jumped in my hand, but it didn’t spit.

“Your grand-ma-ma is a bigger whore.” I responded sincerely.

“She said you’re a slut.”

“I’m much worse than that.” I hung my head.

“What are you mother? Tell me.” My son’s voice carried an edge to it.

“I’m a rapist and a molester. I am a cunt who has lost all self-esteem. I am anything you want to make of me.”

“I want you to be my whore, mommy. I want you do the things I tell you.

“Yes Michael, I’ll do whatever you tell me.” I shut my eyes to the single tear in each of them.

“Wow, mom, really? Would you even suck my penis mom. Would you do that?”

“It’s not a penis, Michael. You have a cock. Your father has a penis.” I corrected him and silenced myself on his twitching cock. My lips gobbled up his shaft like a soda straw. It almost spurt immediately upon the sudden warm and moist contact. Somehow my son was able hold on a little longer. He wanted to experience my whole mouth and tongue before blasting his young seed into oblivion.

“Ooohhh, that’s like woww! Mommy, you’re doing what I told you, sucking my cock. I’ve never felt anything that good!”

My mouth pulled hard on his turgid stem, while my lips nibbled gently. My tongue lashed beneath it’s tip. Then I dragged my head back over the lightly veined skin. It shined, bright red from suction. He had trouble standing then, and just as my mouth slurped the bone swiftly to the back of my throat, he couldn’t last a heartbeat longer. Salty cum burned into my gullet. I sucked it greedily and my hands grabbed my son’s naked ass and pressed his hips to my face.

Michael shouted and grunted, both of them at once. He gripped my thick hair and pulled hard. I nearly bit him, but the soothing, hot sperm soaking into my intestines gave me a rush that nearly masked his desperate grip. I felt dizzy, electrically so.

The best thing was, he stayed hard. My son’s virginal cock had blasted his proto-progeny into his mother’s mouth, and he was stronger for it. I continued to suck him and play with his ass, draining his every seed. His hands released their grip, and he steadied himself with one hand on a bedpost. When his head cleared, his free hand lifted my head by the chin, his prick nearly slipping from my straining lips. He looked down at me and grinned.

“Momma, can I fuck you now?” His own eyes blazed!

I had readied myself to be content with sucking my son off, but now he wanted more. He wanted cunt. It was what he had led me in his room for.

I nodded and uttered an assenting mumble.

He pulled his cock from my mouth and stepped back. A last trace of embarrassment seeped into his cheeks.

“You have to do it mommy.” He told me.

“You’re a very confident boy.” I complemented my son and slid back on his bed, laying myself back on it. My skirt was still coiled around my waist, and my long legs lifted and widened. “Here honey,” I pointed. “Come here.”

He gave a brief grin and ambled towards me. His cock shifted like a metronome counting down the end of his virginity. In the cunt of his mother he would find transcendence.

His knees bumped into the bed, and he leaned down, aiming his prick with one hand while he lowered himself further over his mother’s waiting pussy. When his cock head touched my outer lips, a surge of voltage ripped across my belly.

He showed me then that he was already a man and thrust his stiffness inside my cunt burying himself to the root.

“Uuunng!” I couldn’t suppress my surprise.

“Now I’m going to fuck you mommy.” My son pulled back and plunged his cock deep into his mother’s pussy. His hips beat into my exposed ass cheeks. My legs flew up parallel to his body angle and they trembled and twitched as his whole form rocked into my flesh.

His child’s bed shifted easily from my 13 year old son’s efforts. He punched cock more diligently than my husband had ever since I returned. The boy’s father spent his main energies on my mother, and I hated it. Here was the fucking I had been looking for! Michael wasn’t just young and naive. He was single-minded. His entire ambition was devoted to cumming inside his mother’s cunt. He knew fucking led to pregnancy which led to crying babies and shitty diapers. He wasn’t thinking about how his youthful seed would climb into my womb, where it belonged, and spark new life inside his own mother. He wanted me for what I was, his whore. He didn’t have to think about fucking his whore any more than he would tying his shoe, but it was all he was thinking about and that made the difference, to me.

“Yes, child. I am your whore!” I shouted without provocation. I humped into his focused thrusts, trying to empty my own mind of everything spiteful about my mother and husband and all the stupid cocks in the world that had fucked me without a care for what they were really receiving. Michael knew it instinctively. Fucking was power. Women are engines, objects, soulless beasts, but the fuel burning inside us are men’s souls.

I felt my son tense. His breath labored as mightily as his legs. The bed rammed into the wall, leaving long dents. Had he not just cum in my mouth, he would have spewed his seed into my cunt. His cock beat into my moist flesh as his hands began to roam, experimenting with all the knobs and buttons and switches available beneath him.

“Oh, mommy. You are so fucking beautiful!” He shouted. His eyes burned like two bonfires. My son’s hands were shorted electric blankets, hot and shocking. They ran up my sides and zapped into my nipples. His fingers pinched and poked, and his palms stroked my tit mounds. Drool dripped into my navel. He hunched and bucked.

Already, I was cumming. Egad, my trained pussy erupted three times in the presence of my son’s passion. Liquid fuck juice spilled down his legs. I lost track of his rhythm each time and awoke from bliss to return to the experience of his minor battery.

“Fuck, oh yeah, mommy. I’m cumming!”

His incestuous spume burst into my cunt, spurt pushing spurt deeper inside my mother-fucked womb.

“You’re sucking up my semen, mom. I can feel your cunt vacuuming my cock. I don’t think I’ll ever stop cumming!”

“Fill your mommy with your incestuous seed. Fill me honey with your honey!” I gripped his cock with my cunt muscles and milked my boy for every drop of boiling cum. His fucking faltered only when the last jets forced themselves into my body. His body hunched lower, drooped while his eyes spun from erotic lightning coursing through his young brain. He slunk down upon my naked body and turned his head, panting. I stroked his neck length hair.

“That’s how to treat your whore mommy. Dear, that’s what you must do.”

“I’ll fuck you again. When can I fuck you again?” His inexperience spoke both command and request.

“You tell me. I can only be your whore if you tell me.”

“Yes mommy. What else do I do to a whore?”

“You fuck her and only her.”

He looked at me.

“I’ll fuck anybody I want.”

“Don’t fuck your grandma, please honey? She isn’t your whore mommy, she never could be…”

“I’ll make her my whore too.” He cut me off and ignored my every plea that followed. It was perfect.

***

It happened later than I expected. Michael used me for another two weeks to soak up his white hot semen. He learned not to care if I came or not. He learned to speak only commands. He told me to suck his cock in the morning. He told me to fuck him in the hallway when my mother and his father were fucking in the master bedroom. He told me to suck on Julia’s clit and make her cum, but he never fucked his sister. I think he told her to fuck him once, and his sister punched him in the nose. He came crying to me and ordered me to suck his cock until the blood ran dry from his nose. Then he fucked me and left me lying in the kitchen.

Mother found me there, her grandson’s cum dripping from my cunt. She dropped between my legs and sucked that still warm fluid from her daughter’s womb. I think Michael watched her. The next day he made her his whore.

My mother didn’t understand what happened to her. Her grandchild stomped up to her in the main bathroom while she was peeing and he pulled down his pants and showed her his cock. He told her she was his whore now and she would suck his cock ’til he came in her mouth. He told her she would drink his cum and then he would fuck her grandma cunt. My mother’s first reaction was to open her mouth, to protest. My brave son cut her off at the larynx.

I wept for joy, the first time I stumbled upon my son pushing his manly cock into my mother’s ass. She was crying from self-pity. He fucked his two whores without pity. And he cut off his father’s last source of pussy. I don’t know who was more miserable, watching Henry stamp around his house unable to punish his son, or my mother who was forced daily to offer her ass to an increasingly experienced master.

Michael told me he fucked my mother’s cunt too, but he never came in it. He either came in her mouth or her ass. He saved his cunt dousing for me.

I was the happiest mother in the world, for the third time. I had another son, Jason, and he grew up watching his father/brother command two aging women for his pleasure and cuckold a piteous old man. By the time Michael set out to conquer the rest of the world, Jason was greedily sperming his mother and grandmother while poor old Henry was left to clean our wrinkled cunts with his tongue.

Julia escaped nearly all of the horror life had inflicted upon her mother. The last time I tried to suck her pussy she kicked me off of her, and when I fell to the floor she kept kicking me until her foot hurt. It required six weeks in a cast. I was left to heal on a rug in front of the couch while my two sons fed me their cocks.

The last I heard of my daughter, she was piloting a barge up the Nile.

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