Like Mother Like Son Ch. 03

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She confronts him, and the unthinkable happens.
5.6k words
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Part 3 of the 5 part series

Updated 11/02/2022
Created 11/18/2012
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He watched her for a moment, the feeling of fear prickling at his neck. She rarely did anything for him, and it wasn't his birthday, which led him to question her intentions. It was possible she was still angry about before, in fact, he wouldn't doubt it. The woman carried a grudge forever. He didn't know much about her past other than the fact that she seemed to hold every personal injury close to her heart, nursing it into some monstrous, ugly thing. She had never hurt him physically, not really; he would hardly count a slap. He still couldn't understand why she always managed to drag up the weakest, most pathetic fears in him. It was as though he knew what she was capable of, even if he had never personally been the victim of her full-fledged wrath.

With a surprisingly steady hand, he opened the top of the box, then reached in through the mountain of Styrofoam pieces until his fingers wrapped around a slim case. It was wooden, painted the deepest of blacks, with small nails in the corners, revealing that it was likely handmade. He frowned, looking up at his mother, who was watching him intently, a hint of a smile on her lips.

"It's not my birthday."

"Mm." The grin only widened.

He carefully began extracting what was in the box, his fingers catching on a silk pocket square that was bundled around the sheath. He quickly pulled the blade free, a wave of pleasure washing over him at the snick it made. It was sharp, deadly even, and despite its age, it still had a near perfect, mirror-like surface. It was another Nazi dagger. She hadn't given him one like it since he was a child. His fingertips relished the smooth surface, moving of their own accord. Engraved into the blade was, "Meine Ehre Heisst Treue". It gleamed in the light, almost winking, like it had a secret it wasn't about to tell.

"Why?" he asked, trying not to sound incredulous.

"I don't know, because you certainly don't deserve it."

"It's not a replica." He could see from the condition of the sheath that the blade had been passed through many hands.

"No, it's not a replica." She had turned back to the food, seemingly uninterested again. He was confused, but he didn't want to seem ungrateful.

"Thank you." For once, it wasn't sarcastic. It almost made up for all the attention she gave to Izzy, buying her an endless supply of dresses and glittery things.

"I don't want to catch you with my book again. It's unhealthy and you need to stop," she said quietly. "I'm not going to tell your father, but if I find you doing anything similar with any of my things, you'll never see any of your knives ever again. Am I understood?"

Gabriel stared at the tabletop, trying to push down all the emotions that were trying to assault him at once. Shame was at the top of the list. "Yeah, I get it."

There was a pregnant silence where he got the impression she wanted to say something, but she was hesitating. She finally turned to face him again, leaning her body against the oak cabinets with her arms crossed and resting on the marble countertop.

"I want you to be honest with me," she began, her voice softer than he was accustomed to. It was almost gentle, but he could sense the hint of accusation that edged it, which made him automatically tense. "Were you using the characters or someone else?"

Gabriel fidgeted in his chair, his whole body gone rigid. How the hell was he supposed to respond to that? She wanted him to be honest? How? He couldn't even remember the last time she asked him how school was, let alone when they last had any kind of serious discussion. She would listen to him and his father bicker about things, but she would rarely give her own opinion, so it had always been a guessing game as to what she was thinking.

"I---" he stopped, shaking his head and biting down on the inside of his cheek. He struggled to formulate an answer that wouldn't sound entirely appalling, but he could come up with nothing. "What do you think?" he finally said bitingly, glowering at her.

Of course I was thinking of you! He wanted to say, but he held back, even as his irrational anger made it a challenge. If she had ever bothered to show even a hint of concern for his wellbeing, he was willing to bet none of it would have ever happened. It was her fault, and he wanted to hate her for it, even though in the end he knew he had consciously made the decision to give in to his private fantasies.

"How long has this been going on?"

How could she? Was she so intent on destroying him? He ground his teeth until his jaw ached, averting his gaze from her searching, condemning one, knowing there was no right answer, only damnation. Part of him was giving up, knowing that it was already lost. He had seen to that when she caught him with the book and his pants bunched up around his legs.

"As long as I can remember," Gabriel responded flatly, feeling the apprehension crush down on him in its irony grip, until it was hard to breathe.

"You use me specifically?"

"Do I have to spell it out?" he asked, easily falling into his more traditional sarcastic tones, his first defense, as flimsy and tried as it was.

"You realize it's not acceptable, don't you?"

"I'm not an idiot," he said quietly.

She paused in her questioning, studying him with her malignant, unsettling stare. Her nails clicked on the stone, and his gaze settled on them, looking for any excuse to avoid eye contact. "Exactly how deep does this fantasy go?"

He felt like he was being interrogated, and he steeled himself, knowing he was already far passed the point of no return. He could make it worse, easily, but he already knew how to get out of her line of questioning with the least amount of damage: if he kept his feelings out of it, he would be fine.

"It involves a lot of sex, if that's what you mean," he admitted, again finding it difficult to look her in the face.

"That's it, just sex?"

Her words confused him, muddying up his already scrambled emotions. Was she asking him specifically about the fantasies he had? What did she want, a play-by-play to humiliate him further?

"It's bad enough just admitting that," he commented, his fingers finding solace in the coolness of the metal in his hands.

"So it's just sexual scenarios, nothing rooted in reality? Is that right?"

"Well, I wouldn't say..." he shook his head, as if to clear it. "It's not as though anything could ever happen," he laughed shortly and humorlessly, "I think you might hate me more than I hate you." His look was scathing and bitter.

She ignored it. "Have you thought about it?"

He was getting that strange prickling at the back of his head, like he was encroaching on dangerous territory. Her questions were sending him for a spin, and he wasn't sure what any of it meant. Why was she asking him all of this?

"You mean about acting on it?" he asked for clarification.

"Yes."

Gabriel sighed nervously, finding it hard to hold her gaze. "I don't...I mean, yeah, I guess. Why do you want to know?"

She went quiet again, eyes searching his. "I just want to know what this is all about. It's obvious that it's worse than I thought."

"Can't we just forget about it?" he asked hopefully.

"This isn't something you thought of just once, Gabriel. There is something really off if this is becoming usual for you."

"Well it hasn't been a problem up until you found out about it!" he argued defensively, not liking how cornered he was feeling. She always did it to him, and he hated it.

"You've had sex, haven't you?"

"Yeah," he murmured quietly, feeling perverse for admitting it to his own mother. He almost snorted at the absurdity of it. Where was this going?

"There must be something you're not getting out of it if you have to resort to this," she concluded, tending to the food for a moment without completely turning away from him.

"Fuck, I don't know, okay?" He stood up from the barstool, his breathing uneven as he unconsciously mirrored his mother's posture. "It's not like I did it on purpose. It just happened. I'm not sick and there is nothing wrong with me!"

"I never said there was anything wrong with you, Gabriel," she asserted, for once offering him more understanding than he could ever recall being given by her.

He was taken aback. "You were disgusted when you saw me. I saw it in your eyes. I get it, really," he countered, letting out a shaky breath, and trying to wrestle with the shame and self-disgust that was eating away at him.

He felt like she was trying to play his advocate, but he knew all too well how quickly she could turn it on him. Despite the small stab of pleasure her defense of him has caused, he didn't trust her. She never said things that didn't evoke a reaction. There was always intent behind her words, secret machinations that would catch you up with little difficulty. She was playing on his vulnerability, she had to be. He clenched a fist, willing his breathing to even out. He wouldn't let her know how much she was hurting him.

"And you were thrilled that I saw you do it," she answered darkly. Her eyes glinted dangerously, in that way he had always been terrified of as a boy. It was a look that said she meant harm. It was always present just before she slashed at him with another one of her painful remarks.

Gabriel released the breath he had been holding waiting for her response. "And so what if I was? Just fucking forget about it, okay? I'm sorry, I won't do it again. Can't we just leave it at that?"

"Your father would put you in therapy."

He laughed hatefully. "I'm not going to some shrink. It's not happening."

"I said your father would, I never said I would. You know I don't believe in that. You are who you are and it's your business to come to terms with it, however if it involves me, then you leave me little choice but to intervene."

"You already took my laptop, and I don't see the point of you giving me a gift when you're just going to take it away. Even you aren't that cruel. What do you want? You want to slap me around? Will that make you feel better?"

She closed the distance so quickly that he nearly jumped from her nearness. He could see her eyes much more closely, see the blood pooled around one of the dark irises from a burst vessel. She must have been vomiting, he thought, almost gasping from the overwhelming scent of hard alcohol. Her face had more lines than he remembered, and it appeared to be on the verge of swelling. Her cheeks were ruddy instead of their usual paleness, and upon closer inspection he realized that her nails were chipped and jagged. He could smell that she hadn't bathed, though it wasn't a bad scent, simply the scent he associated with her when he was a child and he had been close enough to smell her hair. Oddly enough he found himself drawn to it, unconsciously breathing deeper to catch the underlying tones of her sweat through the taint of alcohol, which was already making his head pound.

"So that's what you think of me?" she laughed, seemingly in disbelief. "Haven't I provided for you? Given you whatever you needed?"

"You just don't get it, do you?"

"You disrespect me far too much, and I don't deserve it. It needs to stop, all of it. Move on to something else. I can buy you whatever books and movies you want, if that's what it takes."

His fury was rising. He decided to take a lesson out of her book, and strike at weakness. She deserved it, he told himself. "You think giving me porn is going to make it all go away? You were right before: it runs a lot deeper than you think," he finally confessed, feeling confident enough to look her in the eyes. You can't win, he told her silently. I won't let you. He wanted her to feel what he felt: disgust and pain.

"Get a girlfriend. Find someone to be with," she provided, looking more tired than she had only minutes before. "Find a person who enjoys the same things you do."

"Right, because it's just that easy."

"You know what I mean. You're only doing this because I'm nearby and convenient."

"You know why I don't have a girlfriend?" he said suddenly, feeling bolder. "Because I can't get close to anyone, and it's your fucking fault! You can't even have a conversation with me half the time! I don't know how to do anything except have sex and leave," he choked out, nails digging into his palms.

"Don't go Freud on me," she commented irritably. "I'm not to blame for how you choose to conduct yourself. I gave you the tools you needed, but it's your choice on how to use them." Again, she was accusing, that bully in her coming to the surface.

"Oh bullshit. If you'd even given me the time of day I wouldn't be half as fucked up as you secretly think I am!"

"It's normal to not be attached to people, Gabriel. You can't expect to find someone you like within the first few girls."

"Oh, trust me, it's been more than a few," he breathed, running a hand through his dark hair, trying not to look at his mother. He hated himself in that moment.

She sighed loudly, leaning into the countertop heavily, as though it was getting too difficult for her to even stand. "Why do you think it didn't work?"

"They didn't like what I like," he said with a shrug. He was trying not to think about how odd it was that they were having this discussion.

"Then it's a matter of going places where you might run into someone with similar interests."

"It's not..." he paused, trying to decide if he would be admitting too much. "It's not just that."

"I take it you like it a little rougher than they are comfortable with?" his mother guessed, raising a dark, enquiring eyebrow. Just hearing her say it made the blood rush to his groin. In fact, the whole conversation seemed to be having that traitorous response.

"It doesn't feel good for me otherwise."

"Just say it," she ordered, straightening. A secretive smile was pulling at her lips. "Say it."

That prickling was back again, and he felt a coldness descend on his neck and shoulders. Somehow, he knew what she meant. He couldn't say it, could he? He felt like he was being given an opportunity to be brutally honest, but he found himself balking at the very idea. He felt like he would be crossing a line, and part of him was thrilled, while the logical part of him warned of the steep drop below. He wasn't David, he told himself, and he had never been afraid of a freefall. Without risk, there was little to be had. He was more like her in that respect.

"When I put my dick in a girl's mouth, I want her to choke on it," he admitted, feeling his face heat from the confession. He could say it without problems to anyone else, but saying it to her made him cringe, as he imagined all the negative reactions she could have. God, how did they even get into this topic?

"They should choke on it," she agreed, wearing a grin that would have been more familiar on his own face. She looked a lot less worn that way.

"See, and then you go and say things like that. How am I not supposed to take that the wrong way?" he questioned, feeling a wave of hope wash over him. How had this even started?

"You can't seem to distinguish between banter and genuine lust," she commented offhandedly. "Are you hard?"

"What?" he asked instantly, too shocked to properly respond.

"Are. You. Hard." She was inches from his face now, and her eyes were gleaming like polished obsidian. She was genuinely amused, a rarity for her.

He swallowed nervously, finding it almost impossible to look her in the eyes. The erection in his pants was quickly becoming painful, and he suddenly regretted his penchant for too-tight jeans. If he moved even a few inches away from the counter she would be able to see it. Somehow it was humiliating and thrilling at the same time. A flood of elation had pooled in his gut, making him suddenly feel shakier than ever.

"Are you being serious?"

"What, you don't like it? Want me to stop? You seemed to like showing it off to me before."

The conversation was quickly escalating, almost too fast for his brain to comprehend. Was she flirting with him? It almost sounded like she was daring him, and had he not suspected it was the alcohol talking, he would have taken it entirely as her cruel excuse for a joke. Gabriel was trying to hold down the panic and fluttering that was rising in his chest. It was ridiculous to feel so conflicted by someone. He wanted to simultaneously choke her and kiss her. Then maybe bury his cock in her wet and willing throat. If only. He couldn't resist playing along, even if she was just being a tease. Why she had decided to tease him, he would never know. Nothing about her made any sense, and she was hot and cold in flashes that were so quick that he almost couldn't tell one from the other. There was a good likelihood that she was fucking with him just to get a reaction. She often said outrageous things, simply for the response she would get for it. Suspicion ate at him, but he battered it into a corner of his mind, willing himself to focus on the here and now. Fuck doubt, he told himself, just get on with it.

"Didn't get a good enough view last time? I can't blame you, it's quite nice," he answered arrogantly, trying to keep his voice from wavering. He couldn't keep his smile at bay."I have to be more satisfying than that limp dick you take to bed with you."

She snorted inelegantly. "What would you know about it?" Normally she would have gone on the defensive, but he could hear the difference in her tone. She was enjoying it. He felt an extreme sense of satisfaction.

"I've heard you. I hear more of him than I do of you, and that's never a good sign."

"I've never been very noisy."

"Oh?" he questioned, realizing that it was probably true.

He felt like the scent of alcohol itself was seeping into him, making him heady, but he knew it was just the strangeness of the situation. The smell should have disgusted him, but he wanted it, because he knew it was his only chance to get her so uninhibited. If there is a chance, his mind offered traitorously.

"If you're so amazing, why don't you show me? Undo your pants," she instructed, smiling in a way that was almost a leer.

He studied her for some sign that she was joking. It had to be a joke. They had just got done talking about how fucked up he was, and now she was asking him to pull out his dick and show it off?

"Are you kidding?" he asked, losing some of his bravado. His hands were shaking, and he had to rest them against his thighs to keep it from being obvious. She made him feel like an inexperienced idiot, and he hated her for it.

"Do I look like I'm joking?" She was watching him intently in that way of hers, that at times made his skin crawl.

He fumbled at the button, his fingers clumsy as they worked his jeans down his upper legs. How was this even happening? He tried to rationalize it, but couldn't. Nothing had ever led him to suspect she would ever reciprocate his desires. He tried to ignore the fact that his boxers were tented, and there was an obvious wet spot on the front.

"Pull them down; I don't have all day," she ordered, a hint of annoyance tingeing her tone, as though his slowness were inconveniencing her.

He did as he was asked, nearly breathing a sigh of relief as the cool air hit his heated skin. He almost couldn't believe it was happening. Almost. But it was too hard to write off anything when his mother's dark eyes were interestedly taking in his jutting cock. She was not making any attempt to hide her intrigue, as she leaned over the marble slightly, the hint of a smile at her lips. She was close, but he wished she was closer. He was trying to memorize her every expression to store away forever. It was a million to one that they would ever repeat their sick little game, and he intended to enjoy it to the fullest, damn his mind and all of its suspicions. He would worry about that after.

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