Becoming Sharon Ch. 03

It's amazing what you can find on the Internet. As soon as Mom left I started research. I started with the obvious, entering the Google search term "rape fantasies." I discounted the first couple of articles, the ones that dealt with "rape fantasies" in terms of being little more than rough, or even "frisky" sex. It seemed to me that Mom, especially with the video she had shown me, was looking for something more than that.

A few things quickly became clear. In my mind, I almost composed a "How to Rape Properly" textbook. The outline ran something like this.

It must be unexpected.

It must be sudden.

It must be violent.

It must leave visible evidence.

I'm almost ashamed to admit it, but as read and pictured doing it to Mom I found that I liked the image.

That led me to a more serious search. Something she mentioned got to me so I started checking into "loss of sensitivity." It turns out, although I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised to learn this, that there's a clinical term for it. Hypoesthesia is, literally, a mashup of the Latin hypo (below, as in hypodermic for below the skin) and the Greek aisthēsis, sensation.

Several specific diseases and conditions were identified as being associated with hypoesthesia. Mom's little problem in her head wasn't among them, but I figured it made sense. If we're being honest here, and why wouldn't I, it's not like you and I will ever meet now, is it Gentle Reader, I have always assumed that the tumor in her brain was a good part of her sexual disinhibition, another term I ran across while doing this research. I mean, hell, until a little over a year ago she had been June Cleaver, well, more Mary Tyler Moore. A good mom who dated a little. And then, one night, she crawled into my bed, all warm skin and soft boobs and wet pussy, and, well, here I was today, researching how to properly rape her

And that thought led me down yet another path.

The Google search term, "How to properly spank a woman," left me with a fresh set of guidelines to develop. Well, not "guidelines" as much as understanding a pretty basic concept. The trick, it turned out, to properly spank a woman was to remember the old story about how to boil a frog. You don't drop the frog into boiling water. Even a creature with a brain the size of a Number 8 buckshot will jump out if that happens. You drop the frog in a pan of cool water and turn on the heat. By the time Kermit figures out what's happening, he's too relaxed to move.

That's how you properly spank a woman. You warm her up, slow and easy, allowing her to accept a deeper, more painful, and, my favorite turn of phrase, more meaningful spanking. I made a mental note, feeling an anticipatory tingle in my hand as I pictured Mom across my knees, her panties around her knees, hobbling her, as her ass turned first pink and then red under my loving palm.

The thing that was so surprising, though, was how much formal academic research was available on the subject. Much of it focused on a growing movement among Christians to accept the need for what they tagged Domestic Discipline. I scanned through a dozen articles on why, in a "true Christian" family, the wife must be submissive to be proper. I got a little tingle in my belly when I encountered a few articles from an organization called Female Led Relationships on the need for a wife to "discipline" her husband.

But I focused on technique mostly, because, deep down, I knew I wouldn't be able to refuse Mom anything. And the more I read, well, the more I wanted it.

One of the things that help me maintain a 4.0 grade point average is my ability to focus. I don't think I'm smarter than the other folks in class, well, maybe a little smarter, but I focus and am prepared. That's why I'm at my desk until 5:00 p.m. and don't waste a lot of time in the student union. I was into a completely new topic, researching and following where the research led, and when I'm in that zone, well, time kind of loses meaning.

I was definitely in the zone right then. I had about a dozen tabs open on the computer screen and was bouncing back and forth, comparing what different articles said. I was fascinated by two articles I had found, one by a wife who claimed she "needed" the discipline or she just "got out of control," and the other by a woman who claimed she hated the discipline but loved her husband. And I found both of the arguments persuasive.

I jumped and spun on the desk chair, my hands coming up as I stood, all of those hours spent in a karate (well, a Shaolin do) dojo kicking in when I felt hands on my shoulders.

But she knew me too well and had stepped back and was giggling.

And I stared.

Not only had she gone blonde, she had done it properly. Her eyebrows were reduced to delicate arches, tweezed from her formerly heavy, very dark brows. The most obvious thing, though, the thing that took my breath away, was the way her hair, in that same honey blonde shade Sharon had, hung well down her back. I would later learn it was done with something called "weaves," and it felt so real that after the first shock, I didn't notice it. It looked natural.

And I recognized the outfit she had on. It was a shiny green blouse I hadn't seen before and a tight black skirt. I knew without seeing it, that under the clothes she would be wearing a nursing bra, black panties, and thigh-high nylons that fit so tight at the top hem that her thighs would bulge out above them. The black horn-rimmed glasses completed the transformation.

I had seen it before. The video she was imitating was called "Curvy Sharon 42HH Nursing in My Bare Butt Girdle," and she had the look down perfectly. She wore no jewelry, but I could see that besides the time spent changing her hair, she had her face done professionally. And she looked great.

And I was looking at Sharon, come to life. A fantasy had come into my life.

I covered the three steps between us while she stood still, an odd little smile on her face.

I held her eyes with mine, laid my palms on her cheeks, holding her so she couldn't look away, and said, "Hello, Sharon."

"Do you like it," she asked, looking up at me, eyes bright.

I slowly ran my fingers up the back of her head, letting that thick blonde hair run through them as I slowly pulled my hand away. Her eyes closed as I did that. I couldn't feel where her hair ended and the extensions began.

"I love it," I said.

Those shiny eyes overflowed then and tears started running down her cheeks.

It turns out, my Sharon is pretty when she cries. The tears just added to her natural beauty and when I bent to kiss them away the salty taste was addictive. Even the way her nose ran was pretty. The shiny sheen it gave her upper lip wasn't off-putting at all. The kiss was slick and salty and I liked it.

"Come on, Honey," she said when I broke the kiss. She took me by the hand and led me into the front room where she had me sit on the big wingback chair that we practically never used.

"Okay, Son," she said as she bustled (another word you see written but never have the opportunity to use) into the room, "It's bedtime."

When I didn't move she smiled and said, "Oh, all right, I know what you want."

She sat on the couch and unbuttoned her blouse slowly, saying, "You need your snack, don't you?"

"Yes," I said in a soft voice.

"Well, Honey, Mommy needs it too," she said.

Even knowing what was coming, I leaned forward, my eyes locked on her hands as she pulled the blouse loose and to the side, showing her bra, something new, something I hadn't seen. It was heavy-duty, the phrase "industrial strength" ran through my mind, and so white it glowed.

I realized I was holding my breath and let it out.

"Ooooooh, you look hungry, Son," she said as her fingers started working the little hook where the cup of her bra met the shoulder strap.

My mouth was watering and I was swallowing to catch up.

"Starved," I said and she giggled.

Her fingers got that hook undone and she took her right breast out.

And that's the way to put it. She just used her fingers to pull the cup flap down and took it out. There was no strip tease involved. Nothing alluring. No soft noises, or hums, or little sighs. She just pulled it out like a piece of meat.

"Is this what you need, Davey?" she asked, "Mommy's teat?"

And she pronounced it "teet," as Sharon did in the video.

"Please," I said, my voice breathless because I was so goddam aroused right then it was as if I had just run a couple of miles.

She worked both of her palms under her breast and her thumbs met at the top. She lifted it, and it overflowed her hands. She jiggled it and her own breath caught.

"Okay, Honey," she said, scooting to her right so she could be supported against the arm of the couch, "come on."

I was harder right then than I think I've ever been. When I stood I had to adjust my erection before I could move.

She giggled softly, her hands busy, massaging her breast, her teet as she called it, and she said, "Take off your pants, Honey. You don't need them."

I damn near fell on my face and the line from that Blake Shelton song ran through my mind making me laugh. "I fell down, tryin' to kick off my jeans," the line went, and I damn near did as I did that awkward two-step to get my shoes and socks off before I got busy on my belt. But I managed to strip from the waist down uninjured.

It took a little squirming and adjusting to work out the logistics of what we both wanted. I am, after all, quite a bit bigger than the baby who would normally be doing what we both wanted me to do.

But we worked it out.

My head was cushioned in the crook of her arm as she used her left hand to lift her breast, her "teet" as I was now thinking of it, and brush her nipple, a hard little pebble now, against my lips.

My shoulders were on her lap and I was turned slightly as I took her nipple into my lips. This was a first for me and I just didn't know what to do.

But Mom/Sharon was a good teacher and she knew how it worked. She used her fingers to gently push and it felt natural to open my mouth and take her areola and then some tissue into my mouth.

And nature took over. This was instinctive, far below the level of thinking.

I "latched on," a term I didn't yet know, not sucking now but holding enough vacuum in my mouth to make a tight fight. And my tongue started massaging her nipple and areola, both very firm now, against the roof of my mouth. This was so far beyond any breast play I ever engaged in the term doesn't even begin to apply. I was nursing. I was suckling. I was trying to draw nourishment from her body, and my body knew what to do even if I was still figuring it out.

"Oh, Jesus," she almost sighed as she brushed my forehead lightly and then let her fingers trail down my body until she found my erection, throbbing with my need.

The term "timeless," or even "time stood still," applies here.

This was intimacy beyond intimacy. And as a sexual activity, it wasn't necessarily better but it was completely different from anything I ever experienced before. As I nursed I could hear her soft breathing, the gentle little humming sound she made, and an occasional little catch in her breath.

As for me, her hand held me and she was stroking me so gently, so slowly, it could have gone on, well, forever, and I wouldn't have cum.

Timeless.

I nursed and she stroked and I realized that her womanscent was in the air.

For the first time, I felt her finger work between the corner of my mouth and the flesh of her teat and I felt the loss of our connection as she "broke my latch," another term I would later learn.

She giggled softly.

"Easy, Baby," she said, that soft little laugh striking me as one of the most sex-laden sounds I ever heard, "I'm getting sore."

I pulled away and saw how swollen her nipple and areola were, and I had to revise my list of the sexiest things I'd ever seen. This was the new number one.

I watched as she freed her other teat and did that lift-and-offer thing. I scooted down a little, the position feeling natural as I laid my head in the crook of her other arm and latched on.

I felt a sudden tension in her body, she gasped, and her womanscent flooded my senses as she came.

I held her nipple and areola in my mouth but didn't nurse until she relaxed.

"Oh, Jesus," she sighed as she relaxed and I started suckling again.

Time had no meaning.

Her hand kept up that slow, gentle stroking, and when I came, some fraction of forever later, I understood, at least a little, what had happened to her. Hell, what was happening to her as I would feel that little tension in her body and a fresh wave of her womanscent would hit those pheromone receptors and my body would respond.

When I came it was after a slow buildup of pressure, of need. There was no, well, no urgency. There was none of that frantic urge for completion. What I felt was that sensation all men understand. It was the instant when ejaculation starts, when my body had hit the peak and the demands of evolution were being met. But rather than the sudden burst of release, that sudden hard contraction deep in my belly that nature demanded I do to send my sperm deep into my mate's body in search of an egg, this held right there at that point of initiation.

I didn't squirt.

I didn't pump.

I flowed.

And it kept going.

I felt Sharon's body tense with me and this time her womanscent changed subtly with her release, with her, well, "completion" seems like a stupid word but I think it fits.

And it kept going for both of us.

In the end, it was me who brought this perfect intimacy to completion. My body gave one final pump and the sensation was just too intense. I jerked away from her hand and what it was doing, but the movement, almost a spasm, made me release her teat too.

And I knew, beyond any coming back, that my mother had become Sharon. That little problem in her head had taken her to a new place. And I loved her just as much in her new persona.