tagIncest/TabooLacey's Story Pt. 03

Lacey's Story Pt. 03

byMarkGoodson©

Over indulgence and intemperance always come at a price, and I paid for mine dearly in the days following our little demonstration for Michael's friend, Gary, the boy who was suffering so terribly from his unrequited desire for his mother. Physically, of course, Michael always put me through the ringer. But the spiritual hangover was just as intense and painful. I could not shake the feeling that something precious had been lost. Part of the delight of our relationship for me was that no one had known about it. It was our delicious little secret. To the world, we were like any other mother and son. How sweetly delightful it was to think while we were out and about in public what happened between us when we were alone. The spankings and whippings. The brutal manner in which Michael used my body, how he violated and humiliated and controlled me like an abhorrent pain-slut.

Now those days were over. I did wonder, though, for there is nothing new under the sun, how many couples like us existed in the world - and not just in the world, in our own state, our own town. When I was in church, out shopping, going to a movie, and I saw a mother and her teenaged son or sons, I could not help but wonder, Do they? I would sneak glances, looking for the telltale look, the subtle body language of lovers. Surely Michael and I were not the sole human beings out of seven billion who had ever indulged in our most wicked desires. Wicked desire is as demanding as any sin and it seemed ludicrous to me that we were the only mother and son who had fallen into debauchery.

Still, as I think I've made abundantly clear, everyone has a limit. It was one thing to play with Michael in private and quite another to put on a porn show to satisfy someone's prurient curiosity. It was utterly debasing and objectifying of a very intimate and personal act. To each her own. I suppose some women might enjoy displaying themselves for the pleasures of strangers, but not this gal! I was deeply disappointed in my son, feeling I had failed him in some way in his upbringing, the way he allowed Gretchen to manipulate him and then compounding his mistake by inviting Gary to watch as well. Of course, of course, whenever I thought of that decrepit old hotel, when I thought of straddling Michael, for example, while his wicked little girlfriend knelt at his feet, craning her skinny little neck to watch his cock sink into me, of course I became a little bothered between my legs and perhaps once or twice, but no more than once or twice, I quenched the fire in the privacy of my room, picturing pinch-faced little Gary sitting on the bed forbidden to touch his throbbing erection while Michael fingered me to a squirting, G-Spot orgasm. It was undeniable that putting me on display pleased Michael. What lover worth her salt would not do anything within reason to please her beau? It was very flattering, really, his pride in me, his desire to show me off a bit. A conqueror with his spoils, I could understand that.

But no more, I vowed. Fool me once, shame on me and all that. I had walked into a trap both times. It wasn't going to happen again, ever.

A few days after our little show for Gary, I had the dream for the first time. A couple of days later, it happened again, then again a couple of days after that. I'd never had a reoccurring dream before. It troubled me, the dream itself and the fact that I kept having it. Michael and I are out on the town, a big city I don't recognize, not a mother-son outing, but as a true couple, and he's dressed all out in a tux and I'm wearing a low-cut evening gown that accentuates my bust and my heart-shaped bottom. We walk arm-in-arm down a busy city sidewalk. Though it's quite late, there are throngs of people of every age and nationality. Everyone is dressed like us, as if the entire metropolis has pulled out the stops for a special celebration. Young girls glance at the handsome man on my arm and young men ogle my breasts and sneak a peek at my ass as we walk by. I am giddy with anticipation, for Michael has promised me a special surprise that evening. What can it be? Like most girls, I simply adore surprises.

We walk for blocks, Michael leading the way, and eventually the crowd thins out and we turn onto darker and narrower streets, until Michael makes one last turn into a dark and abandoned alley. Now what is this? I hesitate. This place does not look nice at all! I thought he might be taking me to an intimate, secluded bar for a nightcap before we returned to our room for him to use me. Michael urges me into the alley with a sneaky little smile. He promises me I will enjoy his surprise, he asks me to trust him. We come to an unmarked door painted black and he knocks twice. After a moment, a withered old man opens the door wearing a tan vest and black pants. He eyes Michael and me, and his lips twist upward into a lascivious smile. "Oh, Mr. Coleman, that will do nicely," he wheezes. I look up at Michael's face, deeply concerned by this point. My son gives my hand a reassuring squeeze and leads me inside.

We are backstage in a large auditorium. Straight ahead I can see the harsh glare of stage-lights. There are dozens of people milling about, stagehands and crew people, and one or two couples of varying ages and colors. Michael ushers me into the wings, until we are just off-stage with a clear view of the action. I gasp, pressing my hand onto my open mouth. Dear Lord, what kind of performance is this?

Beneath the brutal brightness of a spotlight, a young girl around Michael's age is bound to a straight-back, armless wooden chair. Completely naked, her ankles are bound to the front legs, her arms are tied behind the chair's back. A tall, very fit older man, fully dressed in a tuxedo, with a flowing mane of silver-gray hair is flogging her small breasts with a leather strop. The suffering on that young woman's face is extraordinarily exquisite. Though behind us there was the soft buzzing of whispered conversations, from the auditorium itself I can hear no sound. From the stage, beneath the harsh white light, the sharp, measured pop-pop-pop of the whipping, but from the crowd itself - if there is a crowd, I cannot see from the wings - there is only silence.

Oh, my heart aches for this poor thing, for her helplessness, her shame, the unbearable pain and humiliation she must feel! I want to run onto the stage and untie her, set her free. The strop has stimulated her nipples. They are painfully distended and seem obscenely large in relation to her small bust. The whipping goes on and on until I can hardly bear to look. Beside me, Michael watches, a look of extreme concentration on his chiseled features. Surely he's not enjoying this? His fingers rub absently on my bare shoulder as he holds me close to his side.

Finally the elegant gentlemen drops the whip. It falls to the stage with a loud thump. Now all I can hear is the girl's ragged breathing, her choking sobs. Her tormentor turns his back upon the audience and he leans forward, putting his left hand between the naked girl's legs. His face is turned away, stage-left, as his fingers work her. She grows very still, her head down, her long black hair falling over her tear-streaked face. Her body, covered in a fine sheen of sweat, quivers. Punishment/reward. Punishment/reward. I know where she has been and I know, too, where she is going. For the first time that evening, I feel that familiar dull ache between my legs. This poor girl! How terrible to put her on display like this, tying her to a chair, exposing her to God knows how many strangers. And for what? To satisfy their sick curiosity. I understand her despair, the hopelessness of the orgasm that is barreling toward her. My heart roars in my chest. It's like those cartoons or silent movie westerns, the girl tied to the train tracks while the train, her orgasm, bears down.

She throws back her head and howls into the rafters. Her bucking body would have toppled over the chair if not for the man pleasuring her holding it down. For the first time, I hear evidence of a crowd, as a soft murmuring cry of appreciation rises. The older man shows the girl absolutely no mercy. He continues to work her little pussy long after the first orgasm subsides, bringing her off again and then again and then again, until she is whipping her head from side to side and blabbering gibberish, her stubby toes clenching, digging her fingernails into her palms until they bleed.

Beside me, Michael murmurs, "The old guy's got game, doesn't he, Mom?"

All I can do is nod. I am so ashamed to be watching this, like a motorist slowing down to gawk at an accident. But there is nothing accidental happening here. That becomes all too clear a few moments later, after he finally releases her, after she cleans her silky pussy-milk from his fingers with her tongue, after he gallantly offers his hand and she takes it to be led center-front for several bows. The crowd goes wild, cheering and whistling and clapping, yelling "Bravo! Encore! Encore!" The girl blushes with genuine pride and satisfaction. Her face is radiant, glowing beneath the lights, such a contrast to the angry red swath across her chest. Her thighs glisten with the remnants of her cum. She rises to her tiptoes to give the old gentleman a demure kiss on the cheek.

"Michael," I whisper. "What is this place? Who are these strange people?"

"They aren't strange, Mom," Michael says, frowning. "They're family. That's Reginald and his daughter, Emily."

My mind reels at the revelation. A father doing that to his daughter? In public? To a cheering crowd? I'm nearly overcome with disgust and despair. What kind of father would do that to his own daughter and what kind of daughter would allow it? Oh, is there no bottom to human depravity and wickedness?

"Michael, I want to leave," I whimper. "Let's go back. Please."

"We can't, Mom," he answers.

"Why not?"

"Because we're next."

It happens very fast. Before I can say a word or move a muscle, Michael is pulling me onto the stage, into that harsh light, before the raucous crowd hungry for the next performance. I pull and strain against Michael's iron grip, my high heels scraping and popping against the boards. The audience erupts in thunderous applause. I turn my head to look, shading my eyes against the light's glare, and before me is a sea of black suits and glimmering ball gowns and a thousand upturned faces, the crème-de-la-crème of the city, the very same people we had passed on the street on the way to the theater.

Michael twirls me beneath his upraised arm, and my gown swirls around my wobbly legs. The crowd goes wild. They approve of us as a couple.

"No, Michael!" I gasp, trying to pull free and escape. "We can't!"

"Listen to them, Mom. They love you." He yanks me into his arms and presses his warm lips against my ear. "A thousand men will bed their wives and girlfriends tonight thinking of you. Wishing it was you."

He raises his hand to signal the men high in the flies, who lower down the chains, two of them, on the end of both an iron cuff. Cries of "Yes! Yes!" as the chain rattles down. Michael smiles and waves to the crowd. He says to me out of the side of his mouth, "I've been planning this for weeks, Mom. We're the top billing. We can't disappoint them."

He pulls me center-stage, in the middle of the harsh spotlight, and unlocks the clasps. My head spins, my breath is short, my legs weak. The dull ache between my legs pulses now to my heart's rhythm. He slides a cuff over my right hand as I face the crowd, then the one for my left. He signals again to the rafters overhead, and the chains draw upward, pulling my arms up from my sides. I can feel my panties sticking to my crotch. I am betrayed by my own body.

A stage-hand darts from the wings with a metal bucket. He hands it to Michael, who lifts it high to the enthusiastic approval of the crowd. He turns to me with a single command: "Bow your head, whore."

"Michael!" I cry. "Don't call me that! I'm your -"

He lifts the bucket and pours the contents over my head, drenching me, ruining my carefully coiffed hair. Ice water, freezing cold. My beautiful silk gown now clings to my body, tighter than a glove, accentuating every curve, every hill and valley. The crowd has fallen silent, settling in for the show. With the light in my eyes, I cannot see their faces. Oh, Michael, Michael, why are you doing to this me?

Then my son whispers in my ear. "You're both. You are my mother and you are my whore. Say it."

"I am your mother . . ." I whimpered. In the vast space, my voice seems to go on and on. There is the creaking of chairs as the audience leans forward, hanging on every word. "And I am . . . I am your whore."

Michael holds out his hand and a whip is run out to him. The chains tighten further, drawing me up, sending jabbing pain into my shoulders, my neck, down my back. I'm lifted to my toes, the backs of my shoes falling from my heels. They've dangled me like a piece of meat. So degrading! My wet dress nearly translucent, I am shivering, water running from my wet hair over my heaving chest, my breasts straining against the silk, betrayed for all to see by my hard nipples poking obscenely at the assemblage.

"You look stunning, Mom," Michael compliments me before he takes the whip to my backside.

By the fourth or fifth whack, the crowd has begun to egg him on. With each loud crack, they clap, once, in counterpoint. WACK-CLAP. WACK-CLAP. WACK-CLAP. I twist and turn on my toes, trying to escape, but there is no escape, which my body realizes before my mind, and I become very still, accepting my humiliation and punishment. I even thrust out my rear for him, as tears of pain and shame roll down my face. He has broken me, you see, as only a son can break his mother. Anyone reading this who's experienced her child in that special way, she knows of the truth I speak. No man can make her feel the things her son can. No man can possess her, complete her, like her beloved child. It's simply impossible.

Michael tosses the whip aside and steps before me, for a moment blocking the bright light from my eyes. His face is flushed with desire, his breath is rapid and oh it smells so sweet! He grasps the top of my dress with both hands. In a single, violent motion, he tears my dress down the middle, from top to hem. The crowd falls into utter silence at the reveal, holding its breath as Michael steps aside to display me. I'm wearing no bra. My panties, wet with ice water and my own juices, clings to my private as if painted on. My son rotates me until my back is to the house. He lifts my dress and tugs down my panties to show our admirers his handiwork. There is deafening applause. He lets go and the chains whip me forward again.

"Let's get rid of these, shall we?" he says. I shake my head violently.

"No, Michael. Please don't . . ."

He eases the underwear down the long traverse of my legs. With a dramatic flourish, he tosses them into the front rows, and I see a dozen hands rise into the air to catch them. Michael's moves behind me now. He scoops up one leg, hooking his arm behind my knee. I feel the lips of my pussy open as he stretches me wide.

"Let's see how we're doing here," he hissed into my ear. His fingers explored me from behind. "Tell me something, Mother. If you hate this so much, why are you so turned on?"

"Please. Please stop, Michael."

He has three fingers inside me, pressing, rolling, rubbing. The only sound I can hear is the squish-squish of my son's fingers exploring me. I arch my back, pressing the hot cheeks of my freshly-whipped bottom against the palm of his hand. Oh, how I want him to stop. Oh, how I want more! I am hot and cold all at once. Hot from his attentions, cold from the water that pools beneath my arches. Then there it is, the familiar tightening in my stomach, the muscles of my thighs and calves seizing up. I glance down at my hard nipples and the puckered flesh around them, my flushed chest, the water droplets sparking in the bright white light. It is too much, for my darling son knows me too well. I grind myself into his hand, and right as I reach the edge, right as the black hole yawns open to swallow me, Michael stops. He pulls out his fingers and steps away.

I cannot help myself. I cry out with frustration and anger and utter shame, and the crowd goes "oohhhhhh" in response. I hear a woman's voice cry out, "Good for you!" and then some smattering of applause. "Good boy! Don't let the whore cum too quickly! Well done!"

Michael slowly walks downstage. A young woman, the same young woman named Emily who had been displayed by her own father for the edification of strangers, trots out, still naked, her perky breasts bouncing, and stands beside my son, lowering her eyes submissively, her arms outstretched. Michael slips off his tuxedo jacket and lays it across her arms, then his tie, then his shirt. He kicks off his shoes, pulls off his socks, then drops his pants and underwear, all of which the girl scoops up. He gives her a little, patronizing pat on the head, as if she's a good little pet, and she scampers off stage with his clothes.

He turns toward me, and my son is rock hard, as I knew he would be. Despite myself, I feel a rush of maternal pride, happy in that instant that others can see his special gift, that enormous rod, as firm and solid as a tree trunk. What mother wouldn't be proud of a son so well-endowed? The ladies of the house gasped. They squirmed in their upholstered seats, imagining my Michael's monster cock inside them, the disgusting perverts in their diamonds and pearls and expensive gowns. What well-bred and educated woman would willingly attend such a gathering? Who would gladly go to witness the spectacle of a woman being used and molested by a child of her own loins? It's hard to imagine such people exist. So sick.

Hanging there I'm sure he'll turn back to me. Perhaps he will pick the whip back up and resume my punishment. That's what I think. Instead, the white-haired gentlemen emerges from the wings, hauling the naked young woman behind him. Her head is down, long hair hiding her face, hands crossed demurely in front of her crotch. Her father pushes her to her knees in front of Michael's swaying cock. Oh, no! I pull and strain against the chains that bind me. No, Michael! The girl kneels compliantly before him, eyes closed, head tilted slightly back, wet lips parted. Her father remains behind her, a fistful of her hair in his hand. Michael allows the tip of his cock to brush her lips. She takes the cue and opens her mouth to receive him. Her father forces her head forward. He makes his little girl take my son all the way down to the back of her throat. Her eyes fly open, her pretty baby-doll lips stretched wide over his girth. The audience responds with appreciative gasps and murmurs. What a talented young lady!

I yank against the restraints in utter panic and despair, crying out for Michael to stop. The thought of that slutty harlot sucking him sends me into a fit of jealous rage. Worse than being chained, worse than being doused in cold water, worse than being whipped and displayed for the pleasure of a thousand strangers, is watching my son force his cock down some random floozy's gullet. How could he to this to me, his own mother? With her father controlling her, Emily bobbed her head back and forth, slobbering over Michael's penis, her drool trailing languidly to the stage floor. My son looked upstage to me, a wicked smile playing on his lips. Oh, it is cruel beyond words! Betraying me right to my face. Bringing me to the brink of orgasm then abandoning me to consort with this much younger woman. What is he thinking?

I don't care anymore about all the people watching. My whole world is Michael and the girl kneeling before him. She's taken my place. His cock belongs to me!

Report Story

byMarkGoodson© 5 comments/ 6751 views/ 7 favorites

Share the love

Report a Bug

Next
2 Pages:12

Forgot your password?

Please wait

Change picture

Your current user avatar, all sizes:

Default size User Picture  Medium size User Picture  Small size User Picture  Tiny size User Picture

You have a new user avatar waiting for moderation.

Select new user avatar:

   Cancel