Mommy Therapist

.: All sexually active characters in this story are at least 18 years old. Please be warned, this story contains depictions of coerced, not-entirely-consensual sex. :.

*

Twice a week, on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, I was expected to finish my homework as soon as I was home from school so that I could be done in time for counseling. My counselor would see me at home, in my mother's office. My counselor was, in fact, my mother. She treated all manner of clients out of her office in our home. How she treated me, however, was different, and maybe worth explaining.

I'd see them come and go sometimes, her clients, although us kids were largely expected to stay out of sight during office hours. Still, sometimes they'd be waiting in our living room if she was running late with another client, and somehow or another, well, some of them I got to sort of know over the years. Never their names. Just their faces, their personalities, the kinds of things they liked to talk about. I'm not proud to admit they were the closest things I had to friends outside my brother and sister. Mom didn't let us out much. Well, she didn't let me out much. And I eventually got to where I didn't want out anyway.

On Tuesday and Thursday evenings, the clients before me were Longface and Leggings, respectively. Longface was a sad-looking old man, tall and slow-moving, who always took his cap off before he went into Mom's office and then put it back on when he came out again. One of those driving caps old men wear. He preferred nods and waves to hellos and how-are-yous.

Leggings was a 30-something year old lady who always wore leggings. She was slender and sporty and had huge boobs for her size. I guess she was attractive if you're into that sort of thing. She certainly seemed to think she was. In the summer, she unfailingly wore short, short leggings that were basically underwear and showed off her sporty, 30-something year old legs.

My brother liked to flirt with Leggings, and she loved the attention. Even though we were only 18 and she was probably in her thirties, she practically swooned over him.

A couple times, since he and I were basically identical, she'd even flirt with me by accident. If I was aloof about it, she'd think this was the hottest thing ever and flirt even harder. If I pretended to be into it, she'd think this was also the hottest thing ever and flirt even harder. After a few months she started to figure out which one was me, though. That was also around the time I think my depression really started to show. Anyway, she still kept basically molesting me. I happen to know what her big 30-something year old breasts feel like, because on at least three occasions she found excuses to brush or hug or bump them up against me. They're big and soft and breastlike. Again, not really my cup of tea.

One Thursday, my little sister came to get me for my appointment because I'd lost track of time up in my room. My homework wasn't quite finished. She sighed impatiently. I closed my laptop immediately and followed her out into the hallway, across the foyer, through the living room, and into Mom's office.

Leggings was just leaving from her appointment, in no rush as usual, and of course she chose the moment I was coming through the door to make her exit. She paused only partway out the door, blocking me in fact, and turned so her butt was practically up against my crotch.

She said to my mother, "Same place, same time, next week, yeah Jenny?"

Mom raised an eyebrow at her. "Of course," she answered.

Leggings pretended to forget I was behind her as she turned back around to exit and said "oops" a moment before bumping ass-first into me. It was a nice ass, I will confess. Leggings has a tight little ass.

My younger sister muttered something that made my mother smirk just the slightest bit, then followed Leggings out the door, having served her purpose. I had been summoned.

Mom nodded to my seat. I crossed before her, feeling her gaze on me as I trudged begrudgingly to the loveseat opposite her chair. I could quite literally feel her analyzing my posture, my mood, my energy level, a sort of droning tingly feeling scanning up and down my person. She could see into and through me. Even if I was careful. Fuck, especially if I was careful. I knew she knew I was thinking about Leggings' butt. I knew she knew I was thinking about her thinking about me thinking about Leggings' butt. I could hide nothing.

"So?" she began, but then said no more. She remained standing, rather than taking her own seat in the plush leather armchair opposite my loveseat. She looked at me with lips pursed, arms crossed, posture perfectly erect. She liked to fold her arms not across her chest but down a little lower, across her upper abdomen, so that they crossed just beneath her breasts. Mom had smallish breasts. This pose sort of accentuated them, though, and made them look nice.

I stared back at her, unsure what to say.

She did this sometimes, this whole staying-quiet thing. And but she also mixed it up just enough that I never knew for sure if she was waiting for me to speak, or if she was just preparing her next thought. Sometimes the moment I started saying something she'd launch into her own thing. God help me if I dared interrupt her. Yet if I went too long without saying anything, and it turned out she was waiting for me to speak, then she could get on my case about not engaging. There was no right decision to make here. I decided to speak up.

"Leggings rubbed her butt against me, did you see?" Mom knows all the nicknames I use. She's comfortable using them, too. Helps with HIPAA and whatnot.

"And?" Mom asked, still standing there looking at me. She didn't sound abashed. Why would she? She'd known before I did how Leggings felt toward my brother and me. Heck, she probably knew before Leggings knew.

"And it was weird, Mom. She's twice my age."

"So am I. Am I weird? In fact, I'll be exactly twice your age on your next birthday." She smiled. "Don't do the math," she joked. I didn't. "I'm curious, what does Leggings' age mean to you?"

"It means her butt is old."

I thought this might elicit a chuckle since Mom seemed to be in a chipper mood. But Mom's face remained a mask. I guess I was expected to give a better answer.

"It means... if she were doing this same thing a year ago it'd be statutory rape?"

"I see. So you feel raped?" How she could ask this so calmly, almost soothingly, to her own son was a testament to her professionalism. Or her psychopathy.

"Mom," I squirmed. "Please don't."

She took a step closer to me. I must have flinched. She smiled.

"Jake, at our last session we talked about sex positivity. You remember? We're sex positive in this office."

"Mom."

She took another, slightly smaller step. Somehow the smallness of the step made it feel that much bigger. She was almost close enough to reach out and slap me. Her hand moved. Again, I might have flinched. But she only had a bobby pin in her fingers.

"Please, you can call me Jennifer," she said as she put the pin between her teeth. "I like us to use first names in here. It keeps us on equal footing."

She reached up with both hands and pulled her hair into a ponytail, removing a hair-tie from her wrist and looping the pony through it in a single practiced motion, and then bobby pinning some of the longer pieces too short to reach the ponytail onto the side of her head. The movement of her arms stirred the air, and just like that I could smell her. She was only a step or two away from me.

Mom always wore a special scent during her sessions with me. It was a little bit floral, a little bit fruity, a little bit... off. Hard to place. The smell did something to me I'm not entirely comfortable describing. I mean, I guess we'll get to it soon enough.

"Mom--"

Slap. She hit me. Fuck me, that first one always hurt. Not even, like, on the skin where it hit, but just what it did to the brain. I took a moment, suppressed the reflex to swear, and drew in a quick shaky breath.

"Jennifer," I corrected myself.

She returned her arms to their crossed position, boosting her breasts again. I could see, unfortunately, that her nipples were starting to harden. Mom did not wear a bra when she was working (or ever, for that matter) as she liked the power it afforded her with certain clients.

"What's up, Jake?" she asked, her voice earnest, suddenly friendly again. She could control this incredibly well. It wasn't acting. It was scary.

"Could you please sit down?" I pleaded. I was getting antsy with her standing over me like that.

Mom stared at me sweetly, menacingly.

"--Jennifer," I hastily remembered to add.

"Sure," she laughed. "Where should I sit?"

I hesitated.

Slap.

"Where should I sit, Jake?"

"N-next to me," I stammered by accident. It was like I was eight years old again. Her slaps could take years off of me.

Slap.

"Next-t-t to me, Jennifer," I corrected, wincing, fully expecting yet another slap.

"Do you like it when I slap you?"

"No, Jennifer."

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes, Jennifer."

"How do you feel right now?"

"B-bad. Jennifer."

"Bad?" she frowned, suddenly sounding sorry. She sat down beside me. She fixed her skirt beneath her. The smell she was wearing was doubly intense now. She put her hand on my hand on my leg. I dutifully turned my hand palm-side up. She laced her fingers through mine. Her hand was soft, but cold. Her skin, dry and quiet to the touch. "Why do you feel bad, Jake?"

"Mom--Jennifer," I stumbled. She squeezed my hand on my lap threateningly but continued to wear her mask of concern. "I feel bad because--because you hurt me."

"I see. Why do you feel bad when I hurt you?"

"Because, Jennifer..." I considered for one insane moment saying, 'Because you're my mother.' But I wanted to live to see the end of this session. I had homework I needed to get back to. "Because you only hurt me when I make mistakes, Jennifer, and... I feel bad when I make mistakes?"

Mom squeezed my hand gently this time, and with her other hand touched my cheek so that I would turn to look at her. I couldn't meet her gaze right away. There was... something in my eye.

"Look at me, Jake," she said affectionately.

I looked at her. She held my gaze, unblinking, for a moment. She was looking at me with a perfect mimicry of love and worry. Her cold dry finger stayed on my cheek. I could feel a tear escape my right eye and start to roll down toward the corner of my mouth, but she intercepted it partway down. She brought that finger to her lips. She sucked my tear off of her fingertip.

Then she caressed the side of my head, tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, did a little scritch on the back of my head. She held her hand there. All of this without breaking eye contact with me. I dared not blink.

"Jake, why have you been making mistakes?"

"Because, Jennifer," I said. I was her puppet. "Because I'm a bad person."

"Oh, come on," she chuckled tenderly. "There's no such thing as 'bad people.' Tell me the real reason."

"Um," I searched my slap-addled brain for a better answer. This was a new line of questioning. The torture never changed, but neither did it stay the same. Why did I make mistakes? What was wrong with me? "I make mistakes because something is wrong with me."

"Jake," she said, sounding a little impatient. "You're avoiding the truth. Out with it."

"I fuck up because you make me nervous!" I blurted. Oh dear.

Mom's eyes widened just the littlest bit, but she did not lose her composure. She continued to hold my hand in my lap with one hand, and the back of my skull with her other hand. Clutching the short sensitive follicles back there, she brought her face close to mine, and mine close to hers. I broke eye contact, I think. It's hard to keep eye contact with someone whose eyes are only an inch away from yours. I would look at one eye, then the other, then the other again.

"Why are you nervous?" Mom asked me quietly. I could feel her breath on my nose. It didn't smell like much of anything. It was just very warm.

"Because you're so close to me," I answered honestly, on fear-driven autopilot.

"Oh? What's wrong with a mother being close to her son?" she asked, dragging out the s sounds in her words. She smiled, now, an evil, self-satisfied smile. Someone not her son might call it a horny smile.

"N-nothing, M-Jennifer."

She dug her nails into the back of my scalp.

"Nothing is wrong, I like being close to my mom," I lied eagerly.

"Aww, Jake," she cooed, and bit my nose--playfully at first, but then a little too hard. I winced at the surprise, but made no sound. She laughed, sighed, put her forehead to mine. She rested the weight of her head against mine like this for a minute. For nearly literally a minute. I was afraid to breathe audibly.

"It sounds like you and your mother have something special," she finally whispered. She nuzzled my nose with her nose, her forehead rocking against mine. She had done this with me all my life, since I was a baby. She used to call it nosy-rub-rubs. Sometimes, when she was feeling cruel, she still did call it that.

"Tell me what kinds of things you like to do with your mother."

I didn't answer. I was at a loss. All I could think of, suddenly, was how strange, how terrible, how criminally unfair--how literally criminal--this moment was. I could feel teeth marks on my nose. I could feel her hand just inches from my semi-erect cock. I could tell where she was taking this. Rape is all that I could think about right now, and honestly, it was not something I liked to do with my mother. Contrary to what you're about to read.

"Jaaake," she sang softly. A person's voice, when it's within very close proximity to your face, takes on a whole new resonance and weight. If you haven't experienced it recently, it defies active recall. It's that surreal. And if you've never had your own mother sing your name an inch away from your face as she found the shape of your cock you through your pants with one hand and dug her sharp nails into the fragile skin of your scalp with the other, well, good for you, and fuck off.

"I like to, uh..." I needed to think of something.

Images flashed through my head, impressions really, notions more than memories. Times I thought Mom was being nice, but she was toying with me. Times I didn't realize I'd let her down until it was too late. Times she'd hit me out of nowhere.

"Mom, I--"

"Call me Jennifer, you stupid fuck," she spat, and the searing strips of heat I suddenly felt on the back of my head told me she'd drawn blood.

"JENNIFER!" I yelped.

"Tell me you like to do with your mommy, Jake."

"I like to sit with my mommy, Jennifer!"

"What else do you like to do?"

"I like when my mommy hits me, Jennifer!"

Slap.

"What else?"

"I like it w-w-when she--" Had I started crying without realizing it?

"When she what?" Slap.

I sobbed. I guess is what you'd call it. Actually, the noise I made was more embarrassing and bizarre, but let's just call it a sob.

"When. SHE. WHAT?" Slap. SLAP. SLAP.

Snot splashed out of my nose across my cheek. It felt strange on my tingly skin.

"I like it when she shows me her tits!"

SLAP.

"JENNIFER!" I cracked. But she was laughing.

"That's disgusting!" she guffawed, loudly, there on the couch just inches away from me. The door to her office is not entirely sound proof. I worry about this more often than can be mentioned in this story without driving you nuts. "Jake, you like to look at your mother topless?"

"Yes!" I cried. I was saying whatever I needed to say. The back of my head really hurt. I wanted to touch it to see if it was bleeding but I didn't dare move without her go-ahead.

"You like your mother's tits?" She laughed again.

I laughed, too, for some reason.

No slap? Mom went quiet. She was looking at me dangerously.

"Jake, do you want to see your mother's naked breasts right now?"

I stared at her like an idiot. Well, like a victim of sexual abuse. But you know. She moved her hands. I winced. She didn't strike.

"Jake," she smiled, momentarily Mom but all the stranger for it, "do you want me to take off my shirt so you can see my tits?"

It occurred to me that I was no longer remotely flaccid. I nodded.

Mom sat back a bit and with one quick motion slid her blouse up over her head and off. Her ponytail stuck in the shirt for a moment, then flopped quietly free. She tossed the shirt to her office floor and adjusted her pony with both hands--partly out of habit, partly because she knew she looked incredible reaching up topless with both hands to adjust her hair. She gazed at me through half-lidded eyes as she did this.

"Tell me. What else do you like to do with your mother?" she asked, clearly amused with whatever expression I was making back at her.

"I, um," I choked for a second. My throat was dry. The smell of her had doubled in strength again. She wore it directly on her skin.

"Jake," she said, and brought her hands down, letting her breasts relax into their classic teardrop shapes. She found my hands, held them. "You can be honest. It's me. I'm here for you."

She brought my hands to her bare shoulders. I grabbed her shoulders. They were slender, the skin warm and soft. She held my wrists, gently but firmly.

"What else do you like to do with your mother?" she asked again.

"I like to--um--I like to touch her?"

She arched an eyebrow and squeezed my wrists.

"Jennifer!" I realized. For fuck's sake.

Jennifer--Mom--whoever--drew my hands down across her collarbone, past the soft pectoral tissue just above her breasts, and finally to the breasts themselves. This close to her on the loveseat, and facing her, it was a tricky angle to fondle her. But she clearly wanted me to have at them, so I contorted my wrists and uncomplainingly pretended I was having the time of my life.

I sort of pinched at her hard pink nipples, rolled them around between my thumb and forefinger until they were practically purple. Mom didn't moan or smile or anything. She just watched. I groped the soft fatty globes themselves. They were each just a little larger than a handful. They were really nice medium-small tits, if you're into that kind of thing. I'm unfortunately into that kind of thing.

"What else do you do with her, Jake?"

"I um--Jen. I suck her titties."

"Your own mother lets you suck on her breasts?" she gasped, professionally aghast.

"Sh-she likes it when I do it," I smirked.

Mom went icy cold. She frowned. Whoops. She wrenched my hands off of her breasts and stood up off of the loveseat.

"Stand," she said. Her voice was flat, devoid of affect. Devoid of affection. Classic Mom, am I right?

I stood. I did not try to hide the bulge in my pants. I had learned better from past sessions. Mom reached out and grabbed my junk through my pants. I knew what was coming, and still couldn't prepare for it. Her fingernails searched swiftly and intelligently for their target, my balls, and then dug in. A familiar heady, almost flavorful, agony shot up through the floor of me, up my spine, and out the top of me.

"Who likes it?" she asked, coldly.

"M-me," I whimpered. Oh f--

Squeeze.

I hollered, "ME, JEN!"

"You what?" Squeeze.

"I like it, Jen!"

"You like WHAT, Jake?" SQUEEZE. I made a wild, bestial noise in my throat, involuntarily.

"I like--s-sucking my mom's titties!"

"I could have sworn," she hissed, digging her nails in still harder, "that I heard you say something different."