Mother slave. Part 1

  • Where are we going? She asked anxiously.
  • You will see.

The headlights cut through the evening twilight. I was driving along the suburban bypass. A light rain was falling. The interior light was off. Next to me was a blonde woman in a long black cloak. It is a woman, not a girl. She was forty-three, I was nineteen. I put my hand on her left thigh. More like a thigh, big, fleshy, not thick, just a little more flesh than young girls. Previously, young girls with slender thin legs and sharp knees were sitting in this passenger car. But now with all my gut I felt that I was carrying a woman. My hand stroked and squeezed her tender soft thigh. With my fingers, I felt the top of the elastic of the stockings, and above the bare warm skin. A very nice thigh, I like them, there is something to grab onto, to wrinkle.

I looked at her through the rearview mirror. Beautiful. Proud wide cheekbones, a thin nose, straight eyebrows and native brown eyes, like mine. Several plexus wrinkles in the corners of her eyes betrayed her age.

“You know, you’re beautiful,” she said, continuing to stroke her thigh. – Put your face up.

She bent down slightly and turned her head towards me. I slapped her in the face. A savory slap rang out loudly in the silence of the car. My mother took a slap in the face and didn’t even sigh. She returned to her original position, only her breathing increased noticeably.

“We’re almost there,” I said.

Five minutes later we stopped in front of a large red hangar, in a God-forsaken place. We got out of the car, the cold wind pierced us from head to toe. The mother grimaced, her hair fluttering in the wind. I took her by the elbow and led her to the hangar. The thud of her heels sounded dull in the twilight silence.

I pulled the door open. It opened with a terrible creak. It was dark inside, only moonlight shining through the wind windows. Mother wanted to say something, but she just opened her mouth and closed it again. She knew how much I disliked unnecessary questions. I looked around.

The hangar was empty, with only a few boxes piled up along the walls, out of the reach of light. In the center were three chairs and an old spotlight. I dragged my mother there. He took one chair and set it farther away, the other aligned in the center and aimed a spotlight on it. I twirled the light bulb, and a bright light came on, illuminating the center of the room with one chair. I pushed the spotlight back a little so that it didn’t blind her.

  • Sit down.

Mother sank into a chair in the spotlight. I sat down on the second chair a few meters opposite her, behind the spotlight. Mom crossed her legs and dangled her foot in a black narrow boat shoe with a thin stiletto heel. She was clearly nervous, but tried not to show it.

“Let’s talk,” I said.

She was silent, waiting for the continuation, trying to see me behind the spotlight.
• • •
Background.

My family has always been prosperous. The mother worked in a large company in the logistics department, the father was there, but in the legal department. The mother was an ordinary woman, beautiful, but nothing special in her behavior was ever noticed. I mean, I never thought she had, so to speak, a dark side. What they had with their father in terms of sex, I never worried. And here the question is relevant for everyone: “How much do we not know about our parents?”

I returned from the army as a different person. I began to notice in myself notes of cruelty. He smiled a little, thought a lot, answered only to the point and sternly. I hardly talked to my friends, they avoided the new me.

Let’s go back to mother. Let me remind you that she was forty-three years old. All my life she was an exemplary mother, clean, warm, homely. Like any son, I saw in her exclusively a mother, that is, a sexless being, mother is mother. As a woman, I never looked at her. But recently, something has changed.

I burned her masturbating. Unseen business, right? Usually, parents scorch their children for masturbation, but here the opposite happened. How many of you have had to catch your own mother masturbating? Imagine this. A case out of the ordinary. I was, to put it mildly, in shock.

That day, I returned from university early, and my mother was then on sick leave. I wanted to say hello and went into her room, or rather opened the door, because I thought I was sleeping and did not want to wake her up. She was awake. She lay on the floor in front of the TV and fucked herself with a kitchen mallet wrapped in a condom. There was hardcore porn on the screen, I remembered everything in the smallest detail. One woman of Balzac’s age was fucked hard by a crowd of men. Orally, vaginally, anally. They humiliated her in every possible way, spanked her, spat in her face, then she greedily licked their hairy asses, and in the end they finished her off and pissed. And it was not clear from the video whether this was violence, or she was such a whore. But it is not important. The important thing is that this kind of porn turned on my mother since she masturbated to it. She imagined herself in the place of this woman.

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