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My name is J.J. Wallace – Jon Robert Wallace, Junior, actually. I was named for my father and I consider myself lucky to be called J.J. and not Jon Bob or Jonny Bob. I’m twenty-five years old and I live in West Virginia in coal mining country, in the same county where I was born and grew up. My father, John Robert Wallace, Sr., is a miner, as were his father and grandfather before him. He expected me to follow him into the mines, but I didn’t. Instead I went into law enforcement, a profession that causes him more than a little discomfort. He doesn’t like cops, which may be part of the reason why I became one.
Even though I’m named for him, I don’t like my father. I don’t hate him, either. He isn’t very likeable. He was a good provider, but not of any sort of love or affection. We’ve had several major battles over the years. The first came when I decided I wanted to finish high school. Nobody in our family ever got a high school diploma and my father didn’t see the need to change that tradition. I didn’t need one to work in the mines, he said. When I got a job as a counselor in a youth program run by the local sheriff’s department, he became even more upset. He told me it shamed him to have his son doing “sissy social work” stuff.
Our second and even fiercer battle came when I told him I wanted to go to college. “No fucking way am I paying for fucking college,” he told me. “You already got way fucking more fucking education that you need.” He didn’t pay for my education; I did, with student loans, scholarships, and hard work at many part-time jobs.
I especially didn’t like the way he treated my mother. He married her when she was fourteen and she had me the same year. Her family lived in South Carolina, in an area even more rural and impoverished than where we lived, and she was one of seventeen kids. Dad somehow knew about the family, went down, and negotiated with her parents to be allowed to marry her. He gave Mother’s family a two-year old pickup truck to seal the bargain. It was something he’d occasionally throw up in her face. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard him say, “I wish I still had that goddamn truck I gave your folks, it worked a helluva lot better than you do.” Every time he says it, I want to deck him.
He brought Mother back to the little house he’d built way back in the hills, and although he never beat her, he pretty much treated her like a servant. She was expected to wash his clothes, cook his meals, and bear his children. Unfortunately, something happened when she had me that kept her from having any more children. That was something else he threw up in her face quite a bit. I later learned that Mother’s not being able to have children did have one benefit. After a few years without any more kids, my father stopped trying to have any more.
Other than to go to the doctor a few times during her pregnancy with me, Mother never left our home once my father got her there. She didn’t know how to drive and he never wanted her to know how. I think he also preferred that she not have any close friends. As I said, once he knew she’d bear him no more children, he kept her because she was a hard worker and kept a good house. She washed, cooked, and split and stacked wood against the winter. My father didn’t feel obligated to help because, he said, “I work and pay the goddamn bills.” He did do the grocery shopping, mainly to keep Mother isolated, I think. He expected mother to make most of her clothes, and what store-bought clothing she got came from mail order catalogs.
As soon as I was old enough, I was expected to help my mother around the house, and did so gladly. I enjoyed being with her. She loved me without question and her love more than made up for the love I didn’t get from my father. Although my father didn’t have a lot of regard for Mother’s intelligence, I learned when I was very young that she was a lot brighter than my father thought she was.
Mother was forced to quit school in the sixth grade and conditions around our house weren’t exactly intellectually stimulating. Mother did try to help me with my schoolwork, though. In a sense, we wound up going to school together and learning from each other and together. In fact, she did the same homework I did. I actually had my high school English teacher review a few of the papers Mother wrote and was told they were quite good. Mother loved hearing that.
Since my father didn’t agree with my finishing high school, he didn’t come to my graduation, which meant my mother wasn’t able to be there, either. I could tell that the day I left to go to college was one of the worst days of my mother’s life. It didn’t help that, since I had to earn my way through school, I was only able to get home a few times during the four years I was in school. Mother and I did write, but I was never sure how many of my letters my father allowed to get through. It bugged him that mother had learned to read and write, something he never learned to do. And because of my father, my mother didn’t get to attend my college graduation, either. I did have friends take lots of pictures, which I shared with Mother when I returned to my home.
During gorukle escort my high school years I developed a close friendship with the local sheriff, Lincoln Ames. He helped me get the job with his department’s youth program-the one that bugged my father so much. I also spent a lot of time hanging out with him and his deputies and that prompted me to major in law enforcement in college. Sheriff Ames told me I could have a job with his department when I finished college and I took him up on the offer. I’d seen far more of the world than most of the kids I grew up with, and part of me didn’t want to go back to my home county, but Mother was there and I didn’t want to abandon her. At that point in time, my reasons for going home weren’t in the least sexual. Well, not that I was aware of, anyhow.
“You think I want some fucking cop living here?” was what my father said when I told him I had a job with the sheriff’s department and wanted to live at home.
“I thought maybe you could use a couple hundred dollars a month rent,” I told him. Dad wasn’t much for liking people, but he did like money. His face changed immediately. It was the look of greed I’d come to know only too well over the years.
“Gonna have to feed you, too,” he grumbled. “Make it three hundred a month and I’ll feed you breakfast and dinner. You can get your own damn lunch.” I loved his comment. “I’ll feed you…” Yeah, sure. He’d starve to death if he had to cook.
“OK,” I said. I didn’t mind. Even in our economically depressed part of the state, it would have cost me a lot more to live somewhere else.
I was renting my old room. I redecorated it, put in a king-sized bed, and had a separate phone line put in. I bought a computer and set up Internet access with a satellite dish hookup, along with a satellite dish set up for two televisions. The second TV was in the living room, and that made my father very happy.
On the other hand, my father thought the computer was totally stupid. “What the hell do you want to waste your money on one ‘a them things for?” he grumbled when he saw me setting the machine up.
“It will help me keep in touch with what’s going on in the world,” I told him. “And I need it for work, too.”
“Fucking computers,” he grumbled as he stomped down the hall.
Mother tried hard not to show it when my father was around, but she was clearly thrilled to have me home. She was also fascinated by both the TV and the computer; especially the computer. I taught her how to use it and she did use it a little when my father wasn’t home.
I chose working second shift so I’d have as little contact with my father as possible. He worked seven to three and I worked three to eleven. That meant I was gone from the house when he got home and he was asleep when I got home. It also meant I got to spend days with Mother. On good weeks, I never saw or heard my father. I did occasionally have to put up with him on the weekends when I wasn’t working, but he was generally gone then, too. He claimed he was off hunting and fishing. Both mother and I knew that was a lie. West Virginia does have a hunting season and it isn’t year-round.
After I went to work with the sheriff’s department, I found out that my father’s idea of “hunting and fishing” involved drinking a lot of booze and screwing as many whores as he could. I found his conduct and attitude interesting. In his mentality, Mother was the woman he’d selected – purchased, really – to bear his kids. Sex with her was strictly for purposes of having kids. When he accepted the fact Mother wasn’t going to give him any more kids, he stopped having sex with her. He even bought them twin beds so he didn’t have to sleep in the same bed she did. Whores, on the other hand, were to be used for pleasure and, from what older deputies on the department told me, my father was legendary among the scarlet women of our county. The deputies seemed surprised that his behavior didn’t bother me more.
“Anything that keeps him busy and helps to keep him mellow is OK by me,” I told them. It also kept him from bothering Mother.
I remember exactly when I first started seeing my mother as a sexual being. Truth be known, I’m pretty sure it was long before she began seeing herself that way. About six months before the night she came to my room, she and I talked about sex for the first time and after that, I never looked at her in quite the same way. The day it happened, she and I were working on the woodpile. I was splitting wood – manually, of course, my father wasn’t about to waste money on a gas-powered wood splitter – and mother was stacking the wood. She was wearing a pair of well-worn jeans and one of my old sweatshirts. She had her hair pulled back in a ponytail and, for the first time I looked at her and saw an attractive, intriguing woman, not just my mother.
After we’d worked for a couple of hours we took a break. “How come you have those sex places on your computer?” Mother asked, surprising me. And embarrassing me, too.
“Ah…you know…it’s…um…” I stammered. “It’s just something…I…um…like to…you know…read about…um…sometimes.” altıparmak eskort bayan It isn’t easy talking to your mother about sex.
“I mean, what’s the big deal about sex anyhow?” she went on.
Her comment stunned me. “What?” I asked.
“Well…I mean…I suppose there’s gotta be somethin’ about it,” Mother went on, “…cause there’s sure a lot of stuff about it on the computer and all…but I don’t get it. I don’t see what the big deal is.”
How do you respond to a comment like that? If you have good sense, you probably don’t. I did respond, which obviously means I don’t have much in the way of good sense. “Sex can be an incredible experience,” I said. “When two people care about each other…” I stopped and realized that Mother, who had only ever had sex with my father, probably had no concept of what I was trying to say. “Mother, this might sound like a dumb question,” I said. “But what do you think sex is?”
She frowned, blushed, then replied, “What do you think? It’s what your daddy done to make me pregnant with you.”
“What was it like?” I asked. I had no illusion that she’d tell me my father was a competent lover, but I wondered just what her sexual experiences with him were like.
Mother shrugged again. “First time he done it to me, it hurt like hell and I bled a lot,” she said. “I thought I was gonna die for a while. Scared the shit outta me.”
Now I knew my mother was a virgin when she married my father. “What about after that?” I asked. I was surprised Mother didn’t seem at all embarrassed to be talking about this. Of course there was nothing in her experience that would have taught her to be embarrassed to talk about it. “What about after that?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Didn’t hurt as much after the first time,” she said. “Never bled when he done it to me after that. Mostly it was just kinda messy, I guess.” She looked at me and smiled. “Best thing about lettin’ him do it to me was that it got me you.”
I felt tears welling up in my eyes at her comment. I walked over to her, put my arms around her, and hugged her. “It didn’t ever feel good?” I asked.
Mother looked at me as if I were stupid and shook her head. “Nope. Like I said, after the first couple of times it didn’t hurt all that much, but it sure as heck never felt good.” She seemed to sense what I was thinking. “Why, is it supposed to feel good? Is there somethin’ wrong with me ’cause it didn’t?”
I pulled her into my arms and held her tightly against me. I kissed her cheek and said, “Don’t worry, there’s nothing wrong with you,” I told her. “Nothing at all.” My words apparently satisfied her because I felt her relax a little in my embrace.
She leaned back in my embrace and smiled at me. “Now havin’ you hug me,” she said, giggling softly, “that feels real good.”
“It feels good to me, too, Mother,” I told her. I leaned forward and pressed my lips lightly against hers, kissing her just as I had thousands of times before. Except that it wasn’t at all like it had been thousands of times before. I’m not sure why, but that kiss, intended to be innocent, sent powerful feelings through me. I was surprised by it and didn’t hold it very long and when I finally did lift my face from Mother’s I saw a look in her eyes that told me the kiss was different for her, too.
“We…um…we gotta get this wood done,” Mother said, looking away from me. Her face was bright red. “So I can get going on makin’ dinner for your daddy.”
“Ah…yeah…we…um…I guess so,” I stammered in reply. I finished splitting the wood I’d cut into chunks and mother finished stacking the split wood. Then she went into the house and I used my father’s chainsaw to cut more of the logs in the pile in the back yard into chunks that I would split the next day. I needed to keep on working. I hoped it would keep me from thinking about what had happened between my mother and me, but it didn’t.
I finished cutting up the wood, cleaned, oiled, and fueled the chainsaw, and put it away in the shed where we kept it, then I walked into the house. It was late and I needed to get ready for work. Mother was standing at the kitchen range, stirring a pot, and when I saw her I knew that at least my life had changed forever. I was no longer looking at Mother, I was looking at a woman and it was a woman I found intriguing and alluring. For the first time, I wondered what the body hidden by mother’s loose clothes looked like…and felt like.
Mother looked over at me and smiled. “This stew’ll be done ’bout the time you’re changed,” she said. “Want me to put some out for you ‘afore you head off to work?”
“Ah…sure…I…I’ll…um…” I stammered.
As I stood in the shower, I found my thoughts again drifting to Mother, and what she might look like nude. The result of my lascivious, forbidden thoughts was an erection, which I took care of by masturbating while imaginary pictures of my mother’s naked body flashed through my mind.
Dressed in my uniform and feeling more than a little ashamed of the thoughts I’d been having, I walked out into nilüfer eskort bayan the kitchen. Mother had a steaming dish of stew waiting on the table for me. She smiled at me and said, “Eat up.”
I tried not to act as if anything had changed, sat down, and began to eat. Mother was a great cook and the stew tasted wonderful. While I was eating, she came over and set a glass of milk on the table. “Here,” she said. “You need somethin’ to wash that down.” Instead of walking away, she put her hand on the back of my neck and tickled it lightly. I don’t remember her ever doing anything like that before, or if she did, I don’t remember it feeling like that. It was as if there was a direct connection between the back of my neck and my penis, a connection that only carried wonderful feelings. A delightful current shot along that connection, causing my penis to stiffen slightly and surprisingly nice feelings to spread up through me. For a second, I had a problem breathing.
“Ah…thanks…Mother,” I croaked. I kept eating, although I really couldn’t taste the food any more. I finished my meal, stood up, took the dishes to the sink, and rinsed them. When I turned around, Mother was standing there, looking at me, smiling.
“You look real handsome in your uniform,” she said. She grinned. “But don’t tell your daddy I said that. You know how he feels about you workin’ for Sheriff Ames.” Then, before I could move, she walked over to me, hugged me, then she kissed me on the cheek. “Come home safe,” she whispered in my ear before she let me go and backed up a step.
The reaction she’d begun by tickling my neck was intensified by her hug. She and I always hugged a lot when I was small – as long as my father wasn’t around, of course – but the hugs had been few and far between since I’d come home as an adult. I walked out of the house, got in my cruiser, started it up, picked up the radio mike, and called dispatch. “4125 to dispatch,” I said. Almost before the words were out of my mouth I realized I’d used my radio number from my campus security days.
“4125? Who’s 4125?” the dispatcher responded. I could tell from the sound of her voice that she was laughing.
“This is County fifteen,” I said, correcting my mistake. “Show me 10-41.” That’s the radio code for “on duty.”
“10-4 County fifteen,” the dispatcher said. “Or should I say 4125 – fifteen?” This time she didn’t try to hide her laughter.
I can’t remember having an odder shift than the one I worked that night. It wasn’t that so much weird stuff happened, it was more that I was distracted most of the night. At least a half-dozen speeders got a break because I was sitting in my car lost in reveries about my mother’s nude body and not paying attention to the readout on my cruiser’s radar unit.
I was lucky it was early in the week, because my shift was relatively quiet. We had one fight at the local bar, but it only involved three patrons, not the dozen or so we can expect Friday and Saturday nights. Most of my time was spent on patrol, which gave me a lot of time to think. And the only thing I could think about was my mother. By the time I headed home at the end of my shift, I’d made up my mind that if I could, I was going to help my mother learn what it was like to be loved by someone who really cared about her. She’d spent far too much of her life deprived of that knowledge.
I knew teaching her about sexuality meant she would have to have sex with someone. I also knew that whoever she had sex with had to be a person she knew and trusted and who loved her. From the way I saw it, there was only one person who met those criteria. Me. I was going to seduce my mother and cuckold my father.
It was eleven fifteen when I turned off the highway onto the road our house was located on and picked up my radio mike. “County fifteen to dispatch,” I said. “Show me 10-42.” That meant I was going off-duty.
“10-4 County fifteen,” the dispatcher, a different one than had been on when my shift started, said. “You’re 10-42 at 2317. Good night, 4125.” That last was followed by cackling laughter. I shook my head. It looked as if the mistake caused earlier by my state of mind was going to stay with me for a while.
I pulled my cruiser up to beside my pickup truck next to the barn, shut the engine off, then I got out, locked it up, went inside, and went to bed. I had to go by my parents’ room to get to mine. I stopped in front of their closed door and closed my eyes. All I could think of was my mother, in one of the flannel nightgowns she always wore, lying in her bed, sound asleep, with her beautiful long hair fanned out around her face. That caused an immediate reaction. I could feel my penis stiffening. I took a deep breath and continued on down the hallway to my room, took off my clothes, and fell into bed. As I laid there in the darkness, I tried, but couldn’t keep sensuous images of my mother from forming in my mind. I visualized her walking through my door, completely nude. Apparently I have a dramatic streak I wasn’t aware of, because in my fantasy, Mother was backlit and, somehow, a gentle breeze was fanning her hair. I knew it wasn’t real, but that didn’t keep my body from reacting as if it was. I think I mentioned that I’m twenty-five years old, so you know masturbation isn’t something new to me. Just the same, that night, while my mother’s face filled my thoughts, I experienced the most intense orgasm I’d ever had by my own hand.
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