Becoming Sharon Ch. 01

[Author's Note: This is a hardcore story. It's a love story, as almost all of my stories are. But it's hardcore and make no mistake about that. If stories about scat offend you, if the thought of eating shit disgusts you, then read something else. I have plenty of stories out there that don't look into this theme. But if you're curious, as I was when this story sprung, like Athena from Zeus's brow, full-blown one morning as I woke, about how something, hell, about how pretty much anything, can be an act of love, well, come along. Let's see how David and his mom explore the limits, all the while making all they do acts of love. It's up to you, Gentle Reader, but for me, this is something I want to explore.]

I was watching my favorite pornstar, Curvy Sharon 42HH, who regularly did "mommy" porn. She would offer the viewer, her "son," for example, his first blowjob. Or be caught in the bath and show "son" all about a woman's body, or get caught masturbating, or be filmed in a lesbian shoot. She has dozens of videos and thousands of pictures floating around on the web.

I think the thing that fascinates me so much about Sharon, and who knows, that might even be the name on her birth certificate, is how much she reminds me of my mother. Oh, Mom's a brunette, her black hair shot through with grey since she was 30, and it's worn short where Sharon's thick blonde hair hangs well down her back. But Mom's body is so much like Sharon's it's actually kind of spooky. She has the same boobs (Mom's bra is "only" 40 FF), the same bubble butt, the same almost-belly-apron, and the same cellulite.

Anyway, I was watching Sharon when I heard Mom clear her throat. Almost instinctively I shut my laptop, even as I knew it was too late. Her hands came down on my shoulders, and her cheek brushed mine as she reached past me to open the laptop.

"Whatcha watchin', Honey?" she asked.

I groaned and said, "Nothing you want to see."

She giggled, and whispered, her breath making warm, moist little puffs in my ear, "Oh, you know me, Honey. I like to see lots of things."

When you're raised by an alcoholic single mom, well, some lines get pretty damn blurry. So I opened up the laptop and the video started up again.

"Like this, Son," Sharon was saying as she accepted an erection into her mouth.

I felt Mom's fingers dig into my shoulders.

We watched, her fingers continually digging into my shoulders, as Sharon slowly fellated her "son." In the closing scene her smile was the smile of a perfectly satisfied woman as her "son's" semen, what she hadn't swallowed, noisily and greedily, dribbled out of the corner of her mouth, and the video cut to credits, it was a professionally done piece, as all of Sharon's are. Mom breathed out a long-held breath.

"Oh my," she said in a soft, breathy voice sounding like Sharon.

Then the pressure on my shoulders was gone and I watched her leave the room. I'm pretty sure she was putting extra swing into that big bubble butt for me.

I went back to the paper I was working on, my dip into internet porn had been a diversion, and looked up some data on enrollment in Medicare, Medicaid, and S-CHIP, the State Child Health Insurance Program if you're interested although why anyone not taking a course in Government Economics and writing a course paper on the economic impact of government-funded single-payer health insurance would be is beyond me. This was a graduate-level class as I started working toward my Master's Degree.

I was living at home, tending to my mother as the tumor in her brain slowly killed her, making her crazy along the way. The sexual disinhibition was just part of the process. She was self-medicating with a quart of vodka every three days fighting against almost constant headaches. And the strange thing, the truly strange thing, is that she seemed even healthier and certainly happier than she had when she put me on the plane for my four-year stint in the Air Force, doing my trick for my country and along the way, financing the college that I was attending now.

I hadn't planned any of this, but when she came to my bed, my second night home, naked and needy, I hadn't said "no." And when she told me of her, as she put it, "little problem in her head," I held her while we both cried.

"Make love to me, Davey," she asked, and I did, slowly, gently, thoroughly, watching her face turn beautiful as I took her through orgasm, and then the years return as she relaxed and smiled.

Here we were, three years later, not quite husband and wife but far beyond boyfriend and girlfriend although mother and son was never forgotten. To say she was sexually disinhibited is to say Jimmie Johnson is a pretty good driver. She was borderline nymphomaniac, and her need seemed to grow more intense as her little problem spread.

But even after three years, she could still surprise me, as she did now, when I walked into the bedroom and found her lying in bed, her chin propped on her palm, the bedspread and top sheet laid artistically across her hips. She had put on her makeup, a bit heavier than she usually wore it, and had on her simple strand of pearls. She was recreating the scene from the video we had watched earlier.

I wasn't surprised at all when she crooked her finger, beckoning me, and said, "Come here, son, let mommy teach you something."

She may be dying, an alcoholic, and crazy, but her mind is still damn sharp. She might have missed a couple of lines, or got some of them garbled up, but for the next ten minutes, we came mighty damn close to recreating that video. Her voice was soft and breathy, different from her normal sort of hard-edged enunciation. And as she directed me, just as Sharon did in that video, my body was reacting.

She did all of the work. If you watch that video closely I think Sharon is actually using a rubber dildo for the scene. Mom used my erection. She's an expert with her mouth, but it was the way she was talking through it that really got to me. She would stroke and tell me what she was doing. She would lick and suck and explain how it should feel.

Normally, after oral sex, Mom prefers the facial and hair conditioner, but this time she took my release in her mouth, swallowing noisily as Sharon had done in the video, and then letting the final big dribble out of the corner of her mouth.

She went off script then when she said, "Thank you, Honey, for your beautiful gift."

And she went to sleep.

For the next couple of weeks, our sex life was, well, hyperactive, which is to say, "normal." She was kind of a breakfast, lunch, dinner, and midnight snack girl, and at 25 and healthy, I could keep up with her. Well, the beer I consumed in quantity and the pot I smoked in clouds helped. Breakfast was typically, well, "regular" sex, missionary or doggie position. Lunch was a quickie, often oral. That "schedule" was part of my being a serious student. I would study, or teach, or attend classes, or work on papers from 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. Then, at 5:01, I'd turn off the desk lamp and we could party.

And party we did.

It was a couple of weeks after "mommy" taught me about blowjobs before I realized just how crazy she had become. Well, okay, let's be honest here, how crazy we both had become.

It was Friday, and I was done early. I taught my last class at 2:00, and had no papers to work on so I headed home.

In the house, I headed to the bedroom and changed out of my school/work clothes. When I taught I wore slacks and a button-down, Oxford cloth shirt. I changed quickly into a pair of cut-off shorts and a T-shirt, this one proclaiming "I don't play guitar because I'm good at it. I play guitar because I like it," and went in search of my mother to see what treat she might have in store.

I heard some rattling in the kitchen, surprising since she cooked rarely, and when I went through the door I stopped cold.

I recognized the scene.

She had obviously been watching more of those Curvy Sharon 42HH videos. This was a scene out of one of the kinkier ones.

As I stood there, watching, she bent over, opened the oven door, and pulled out a pan of cookies. The sweet scent of baking filled the room, all the more surprising because I could not remember her ever baking.

She had recreated the outfit from the video. She had on a red net top, almost a body stocking, that covered her from the waist up. It covered her partially anyway, a scoop neck and short sleeves leaving pale skin showing while even where she was covered it left her completely naked, her big boobs on display through the red net. She had on an apron I didn't remember ever seeing before, something looking like Gramma had passed it down with a homey pattern on the material and lacy trim. From the waist down she wore white leggings so tight the cellulite of her ass showed through until they ended right at her ankles. The bright red pumps with three-inch heels finished the image.

And I had seen it before, except Sharon was blonde with long hair and Mom had that black, salt and pepper hair. Mom even had on black horn-rim glasses, another feature I didn't remember seeing before.

"Oh, hi Honey," she said, mimicking the dialogue from the video, "would you like a snack? The cookies are still warm, but I think there's some lunch meat in the refrigerator."

She paused, for dramatic effect, and smiled her sweet smile.

I saw it coming and my dick suddenly got hard.

"Or would you like one of Mommy's special snacks?" she asked.

My knees actually got weak.

In the videos, Sharon is the only one who speaks. So I had to fill in the "son's" side of the dialogue.

"You know how much I love your special snacks," I said, not moving. In the videos, the "son" doesn't approach until the next scene plays out.

"Well," she said, giggling softly, "I hope you're hungry."

That last line was off-script and I felt a little quiver in my belly, but I stood still, waiting for the scene to play out.

She was back on script as she took the apron off, turned her back to me, and sort of walked in place as she worked the skin-tight pants down, not all the way down, just far enough to expose her big ass.

"Okay, Son," she said in that soft voice, "here you go."

She turned, faced the sink, bent at the waist, reached back, and spread her cheeks.

Now, don't get me wrong. Analingus has always been part of our lovemaking. She enjoys the special intimacy of feeling me spread those cheeks and then blow on that special sensitive place. She's one of those women with enough padding back there that there is a distinct deep tunnel before you get to the puckered exit of her alimentary canal. That tunnel was always damp and darkly stained.

So I moved behind her, still fully dressed, and got to my knees.

The smell was there, strong, but not really unpleasant. I thought the word "earthy" was appropriate as I kissed the insides of her asscrack, her gluteal cleft to be precise, and inhaled deeply, enjoying the special intimacy of, well, "servicing" her like this.

"That's right, Son, get in there," she said and the little catch in her voice told me I was getting to her.

So I did. I pushed deeper and probed with my tongue. The dampness, as it always did, got to me and I felt myself get even harder as I probed and she squirmed.

And then I felt the sudden heat in my bowels as my adrenal glands flooded my system. I was panicked as I felt her powerful anal sphincter muscle start to bulge.

"I hope you're hungry," she had said, and I thought, "Oh, Jesus, she's going to do it.

"All special for you, Son," she said.

In my last sane thought during an insane event, I thought, "Stop this, David. STOP IT! Just pull away. Tell her it's too much."

But I didn't.

Instead, I buried my cheeks in that damp tunnel, opened my mouth, and welcomed her special snack.

Did I mention I was living in Crazytown with my mother? Hell, I had taken out a lease and was hoping to convert it into a contract to buy. I was hooked and I knew it. She might be crazy, but so was I. I think the only difference between us is that I recognized that this was insane and I don't think she did.

I felt her bulge against my mouth and I opened wide, not just accepting her deranged desire, wanting what she was offering. She bulged further and I felt, with the tip of my tongue, as that special snack started emerging. It was hard and oddly lumpy. I barely stopped the giggle that tried to force itself out when the image of a Baby Ruth candy bar came clearly into my mind's eye.

I felt it entering my mouth and I could tell, I don't know how, that she wasn't pushing. She was just letting her body's natural function slowly push out what it was done with.

And it was such a special joining together that it didn't feel dirty at all. It felt like a special intimacy.

I bit it off and pulled back far enough that I could focus as I chewed and savored Mommy's special snack. There was no taste, well, just a hint of an odd taste that I couldn't really identify. I chewed slowly, enjoying the feeling of what was in my mouth, as I watched her asshole, distended with what was slowly emerging from her body. Only the end, the part in my mouth, showed that hard lumpiness.

What I saw now was soft and round and as the second inch started to push out it was drooping from its own weight. I knew, down at that non-thinking level, almost a cellular level, that Mom wouldn't want me to waste her special snack, so I reached up and supported it as it slowly emerged and I chewed and swallowed.

I took my next mouthful, and there was no hesitation now, like I was taking a bratwurst into my mouth, my fingers guiding it until I had to bite it off.

But I couldn't keep up. Mom's a big woman and he shits big and even though she wasn't pushing, what came from her came faster than I could eat.

I cupped my hands as that long soft bratwurst doubled and then tripled before she pinched it off and I watched as her anus became, once again, that tiny puckered rosebud I knew so well.

She turned then, those white pants still down past her ass, and smiled at me.

"You like my special snack, don't you?" she asked and her smile was the smile of the little leaguer who has hit his first home run.

"I love it," I said, smiling, knowing my lips and teeth were brown-smeared.

She reached down and drug her middle finger through the pile in my hand like it was peanut butter or the leftover frosting from a cake, and sucked her finger. Her face puckered up like she had just taken a bite of lemon. "I guess I'll be sure to eat plenty of sugar before I make you another special snack," she said, giggling.

"Do that for you if you want," I said, smiling, "but I like it just like this."

As she watched I lifted my hands and took another bite.

She smiled at that and said, "Let me get you something to drink."

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised at that point, but I was when she reached up into the cabinet, brought out a water glass, and held it between her legs while she filled it with her urine. I watched and chewed, noting on some level that what filled the glass was a healthy pale yellow color and didn't foam at all.

She watched and when I swallowed she held the glass to my lips and tipped it up.

It was warm and salty, just a hint of the alcohol she consumed in such quantities, and, God help me, delicious.

She pulled the kitchen chair over and watched as I continued eating my snack, offering me a drink from time to time.

And then, as if this whole scene wasn't crazy enough, as if we weren't inhabiting a world where the Red Queen might well start demanding heads be removed, she asked, in a perfectly conversational way, "Would you rather have Mommy's special snack on a plate?"

I almost lost it then. I did cough leaving spatters of shit on the floor by my knees. And I realized she was asking a serious question.

I swallowed and said, "Honestly?"

"Of course, honestly," she said in that same casual way.

"Then, well, no," I said, "I like it this way."

She giggled and said, "Pervert."

And then I did laugh.

"I'm on my knees, with a pound of your shit in my hands, another half pound in my belly, drinking your piss, and I'm the pervert?" I said.

She smiled and said, "Yep. Just like I like it."

I opened my mouth wide and as she watched pushed her snack in until my cheeks bulged. I left brown smears on my lips and cheeks when I did that.

Holding her eyes, I began chewing with my mouth open.

After I swallowed I grinned and said, "Kiss me, pervert."

It was a good kiss, all lips and tongue and passion and, yes, love.

As I finished Mommy's Special Snack, I was so goddam hard I hurt.

I finished my drink too, without hesitation.

"I can think of other uses for that beautiful ass of yours," I said, standing.

"Oh goody," she said, giggling a little, "Dealer's Choice?"

"Dealer's Choice," I said, taking her hand and leading her into the bedroom.

She crawled up onto the bed, staying on all fours. In that position I could see the way the long crack of her beautiful ass blended into the long slot of her FUPA, that's Fat Upper Pussy Area for those of you who don't pay attention to the Urban Dictionary or spend much time looking at porn. Her ass was smeared, she hadn't wiped after all, and her pussy was shiny with her excitement.

I kept her nether lips waxed and smooth, and her age showed there as much as anywhere with the wrinkles of her full labia and the way those delicate pink inner lips peeked out.

I quickly undid my belt, unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans, and pushed them down far enough to get my cock free. Then I mounted her.

I took her vaginally first, but that was mostly for the lubrication her body provided. I thrust a few times until I was nice and slick and then took the "dealer's choice" option and entered her anally.

As I played "dealer's choice," swapping holes with every second or third thrust, she was almost chanting. "Yes, Baby," she would say, "That's right pervert. Fill me up, Honey." She was talking almost constantly until she came, spraying her release all over my cock and balls and jeans.

I didn't slow down as she came, I just kept swapping holes and thrusting away. She was grunting and laughing and cumming again every few seconds.

When I came I happened to be up her ass, but that wasn't particularly planned. It was just the luck of the draw.

We lay there, spent, sharing giggles and touches for a while.

"Maybe," she said, giggling, "you can make me a snack sometime."

"Maybe," I said, "we can make a meatloaf snack."

We were still giggling when she fell asleep. Well, when she passed out.

I wasn't far behind her.