Mother's Fall from Grace

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sex.

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Work in progress - No sexual encounter yet in the first chapter - Appreciate feedback - and see which direction to go with the story.

Chapter 1: That first night.

The waiting area was sterile and unwelcoming. Whitewashed walls and cold steel furniture to line the walls. As with most hospitals, there was a particular smell to the place. A smell most would associate with pain and suffering.

I was tired. The long flight had been rough, but there was no rest tonight. In the hallway, my whole family huddled around my mother. Her sisters and brother were finding different ways of telling her that "it would be okay".

But I knew it wouldn't. From what I had seen, Dad was not on the way to recovery. After two connecting flights and a cab ride through rush hour, I had been escorted in the Intensive care unit. And there he was, a shell of a man. Propped up on the bed. My mom sat on the edge of the bed. Everything in that room was tired. Waiting for the end. Dad acknowledged my presence with a weak nod.

My relationship with him was strained to put it lightly. The years of abuse that I had witnessed didn't make it easy. I felt empty. I didn't feel sorrow or the fear of what I knew was coming. But that was me.

Mom looked deathly pale. Caught between hope and fear, I could tell her mind was wreaking havoc on her. For a brief moment, she had looked at me, I could see a glint of happiness in her eyes. But now, her eyes were hollow staring into space.

It was no secret, that mom adored me. I was the golden boy, the ace student, one who had overcome immense odds to help financially support his parents. She felt immense gratitude and pride. She made no secret of it. She would shower me with compliments. And always remind me what a dutiful son I was.

Dad, on the other hand, was reticent on any topic regarding my success. He was too proud, and old-school to acknowledge that his son had overshadowed him. As the years had progressed, we had somewhat decided to ignore each other for the most part.

My main issue with him was the years of emotional and occasional physical abuse he had put mom through. Some of my earliest memories were of him screaming at her. Of my mom crying and sobbing as she implored him to take a kinder tone with her. But her words felt on deaf ears.

To the outside world, mom would keep up appearances of a happy marriage. But anyone close to the family knew what a tyrant my father was. As I reflected on it, I understood, that he was a flawed man, and that he was also a victim of his own circumstances. But despite having some understanding of what made him who he was, I was hard pressed to find sympathy for him.

The nurse came into the room to remind us that visiting time was over. I ushered mom out of the room. She leaned against me. Clinging for some comfort and re-assurance. Holding her close, I told her that everything would be ok. I knew I was supposed to lie.

In that brief moment, I looked into mom's eyes, and that horrible part of me came roaring back to life. A part of me that I had tried unsuccessfully to put to sleep. In that dimly lit hallway, my mother clung to my body. I should have felt a monolithic sense of pity and sorrow. But what I felt was complex.

All those years of uninhibited fantasies had left their mark on me. I had often wondered if my dark fantasies would creep into my feeling in reality. I now had the answer. I was caught in an intense battle for self-control. I had to play the role of the loving son whose mother needed him, but not so deep under the surface, I yearned to be the man in my fantasies.

The look in her eyes was that of a despondent women; A woman used to seeking comfort and assurance from the stronger men in her life. Her eyes embodied a sense of defeat and helplessness. I thought about the other times she had that look in her eyes. I was overwhelmed by what I was feeling. In what seemed like a brief second, I felt my mother's body against me. My thoughts wandered, as I imagined what she looked like naked. I had pictured it many times in my mind. I shouldn't have felt that way, but I did. She was a short woman and a bit overweight, but I had been keenly aware of what womanly treasures lay beneath her drab matronly clothes. She always tended to wear loose fitting clothes. I must have been in high school, the first time I saw my mother in way that no son should.

There had been the usual fight between her and dad. He had called her names. He had called her a worthless whore and left home in a huff. I had been in my bedroom, but came out to check on her after I heard the front door slam. I felt mad at my father and felt overwhelming pity for her. I found her curled on the dining table with a distant and forlorn look. He sparse makeup was ruined and there were streaks of mascara running down her face. She slowly looked up at me. Speechless. I sat down next to her, but we didn't say a word.

She started defending him as she would always do. Regardless of her own feelings, she wanted me to think that he was a good man. She dare not disrespect him.

"Your dad was upset about dinner not being ready. I just caught up with the laundry and it wasn't ready. You can understand how he gets..." She said in a low voice.

"Ma! I don't get it!" My voice was tense. I had been here many times before. I had run out of patience with her submission to him. " I need you to stand up to him. He treats you so poorly. He called you a..." My voice trailed off.

Her eyes snapped to attention as she realized that I heard the demeaning things he had called her. There was a tense moment as she struggled to say something, but no words came out. She couldn't defend him. And she knew I was no fan of my dad.

I pulled my chair closer, and held mom's shoulder and pulled her in for a hug. The moment I did that, her resolve to put on a brave face shattered. She started sobbing. Waves and waves of sorrow washed over her as I held her. Her head rested on my left shoulder.

And my left hand held her close. My right hand held her up under her arm.

In the heat of the moment, I suddenly became aware as my hand touched her cool naked skin. She was wearing a night gown that had big cutouts for her arms. I supported some of her weight with my hand cupping her underarm. Her skin was soft and smooth. It hit me like electric shock. The following thoughts occurred to me. "Could I somehow take advantage of her?" and "What type of son am I?"

It was in the space of those few minutes, as mom clung to me, her body trembling with her sorrowful sobs, that I decided to comfort her in a way that would also serve me. Till this day, I don't know why I did it. I started stroking her back with my right hand first, and then shortly after started stroking the side of her chest. My fingers traced the side of her chest down towards the opening in her gown, till I just made out the soft swell of her rather ample chest. The very first touch caused my balls to stir.

I kept stroking her. It was obvious that she wasn't wearing a bra. Wracked with grief, mother barely noticed. Or at least did not raise any attention to the obviously inappropriate touching.

By the time, she stopped crying, a few minutes later, and pulled away. I had a raging erection. I felt hot under the collar, waiting for the admonishment. But she gently kissed me on my cheek and stood up. I had completely lost track of what had led me to her. I was in a lust rage. As she stood up, I unashamedly stared at the movement of her breasts under the thin gown. The width of her matronly hips and the obvious shape on her belly button under the sheer fabric.

And then I saw something that I would not forget for the many years that followed. Projecting out like hard pebbles were mother's nipples. They lifted the fabric of the gown in an obvious way away from her pendulous bossom. The image was forever burnt into my mind.

Mother was too shaken up to notice my lewd attention, But was she too distracted to notice her own body's reaction? I followed her as she walked away from me. I wanted to reach into my shorts, and start stroking my cock as I imagined what was under that gown. But I dare not. She was my mother, for Christ sake.

"I am going to lie down" She said as she left the room.

When I looked at her, I wondered exactly how large her breasts were. From the countless hugs, I knew that they were larger than any I had ever seen. And that they were firm. If I were to guess, She was bigger than the DD cups I had seen on some of my favorite actresses of the pornographic variety. Perhaps much bigger. I wondered if they sagged. They had to. How could they not. She was a woman in her fifties, and I don't ever remember her working out.

But it had been years, since I was in the same room as her. And in all our time apart, I had fantasized about her. It was the ways in which I fantasized about her that brought me great shame and guilt. The fantasies had become increasingly depraved over the years. It had gotten to the point that there was almost nothing that I would not imagine my mother doing in my wet dreams. I would spend hours surfing the internet, trying to find women who had just the right body type, who was submissive to the men in the scene.

I had a whole collection of these ideal scenes. Hundreds, if not thousands of older women letting the strong men in their lives take advantage of them. The scenes ran the entire gamut of sexual escapades. From the sensual to the utterly depraved. The collection was weighed heavily towards the latter end of the spectrum.

After my marriage had disintegrated two years ago, the hold my obsession had over me tightened even more. I was torn between the kind way in which I had always treated mother, and the horrifying and degrading ways I fantasized about her.

I had considered getting help many times. But since I had never acted on my urges, I thought I was ok. But as I held her, in that corridor, with my dying father a few feet away, I knew I should have asked for help. Because, something in me had been stirred. I could almost feel the machinations running through my mind. A weak-willed woman, grieving, and full of trust and adoration for her son, there for the taking.

I was snapped out of my dazed state, by my aunt Cindy walking in on us, and peeling mom from my arms, consoling her as they walked away. I stood transfixed in place, painfully aware of that all too aware of this tingling feeling in my testicles. I forced myself to think of the gravity of the situation to prevent what would have been a mortifying erection.

"Tom, are you coming", my Aunt called from down the corridor.

I should have been ashamed of myself. I had dealt with my guilt for years, feeling like I was a horrible son. But yet, I had never managed to find an erotic experience quite like my dark fantasies revolving around mother. Countless hours had been spent every week where I locked myself away in my room, watching porn. Imagining the woman on screen (often older, and heavyset) to be mother. The disgusting things these women were allowing to happen to them. I imagined my mother in all those situations, pliable and submissive, rarely putting up a fight. Letting me do unspeakable things to her.

I wondered, sometimes, if things did transpire between us, would she be enraged? Or would she be devastated? Would she meekly submit or would she prove to be a constant challenge that I would have to work on?

And then there were those moments where I was certain that mother wouldn't mind my attentions. That her years with father would make her welcome any attention. Especially from her loving son.

Would I be finding out soon? I walked up to join them, emboldened to see what lay ahead for us.

The rest of the evening passed slowly. I was bombarded with advice from my uncles and aunts. I was a practical man, and I got busy figuring out how things would go for my mom in the case things didn't turn out so well for dad.

I knew that certain things needed to be addressed, but was not sure how I could broach the subject to mom without alarming her about the impending bad news. I figured, I should speak to the attending doctor to determine if my assessment of the situation was correct.

Dr. Michael Harding, was a busy man, and it took me a while to track him down. The meeting was brief and he confirmed the worst. In so many words, the doctor told me that Dad's organs were shutting down, and at this point they were trying their best to ease his pain. My uncle who came with me did not seem overly shocked. So, I gathered that everyone knew or had been already told this. But no one could gather the courage to inform my mother.

It struck me then. They were all waiting for me to tell her.

I looked at my uncle as the doctor walked away. His eyes drifted to the ground, and we walked back quietly to the waiting hall.

By 9PM, the family started the thin out, everyone pulled back into their own lives and children. Soon it was just mother and me. I had gathered that we were staying in a hostel adjoining the hospital for the night. Someone had moved my stuff into the room.

I coaxed mother into having dinner. We spoke about my life, and how I was coping with the divorce. She was clearly concerned about me. It was good to see that she was focusing on me rather than on dad. So, I encouraged her.

"I am glad you are here", She said, "You must be so lonely after...", her voice trailed off.

"It's ok, Ma", I reassured, "I stay pretty busy."

I left out the part about how I had been dating women much older than me. I left out how I thought of her when I had my way with them. I preferred finding older women who hadn't had lovers in a while. It was cold-hearted, but I had realized quickly, that I could get away with a lot more with older-more-desperate women.

I liked rough sex. And some of the older women were too happy to oblige.

I wondered if Mother was going to be like those ladies. Underneath her sorrow, would she let me do unspeakable things to her. Or would she need to be cajoled and coaxed. I did not have a clue as to what I wanted from her. Just a boatload of fantasies and until that evening, I had never imagined any of them ever coming true. But I had at some point in the chaos of the day, decided, that I wanted to test the waters.

"It's a small room", She said sadly, "I am sorry we couldn't go home tonight. It's just that I want to stay close in case dad needed me".

I wanted to lash out at her, but held my tongue. Her devotion to him was annoying. He didn't deserve it. There had been plenty of occasions that I had reprimanded her. Told her that she needs to grow a spine and stand up to him. And in every one of those moments, I would find myself angry and talking to a wall. She would sit quietly, look down onto the floor. Sometimes her eyes would shoot up at me if I said something particularly insulting, but just as soon they would lash with a hint of anger, the anger would fade and she would wait for the tirade to pass.

Those moments had grown ever more rare. As I realized that there was no point. She did not see a life for herself without him, despite his harsh mistreatment of her. It didn't help my feelings towards her. I saw her as weak and submissive, and I knew deep down it fueled something really dark in me. I wanted to punish her for it.

The room was indeed small. Fortunately, it had an attached bath, but otherwise tiny with what seemed like a double bed in one corner, and a small couch in the other.

"I will sleep on the couch, Tom" Mom offered and walked into the room. "You have had a long flight and a really long day"

I had packed only one suitcase, and my laptop bag was on the bed. The couch was way too small for me, but may have fit mom. On any other occasion, I would have quickly interjected and offered to swap places with her. But I had other things on my mind.

The clock said it was 9:06PM, but it felt decidedly later, perhaps due to the jetlag. I lay down my head on the pillow. I was surprised, the bed was rather comfortable. Or was it just that I was exhausted.

I could vaguely hear mom say something about taking a bath as my eyes became heavy and sound of her voice drifted away.

The sound of the flush in the bath room woke me up. I had fallen asleep without changing out of my clothes. Dazed and groggy, I looked at the clock, It read 9:21PM. It had been just 15 minutes. The bathroom door opened and Mom stepped out. What I saw woke me up in a snap.

My mother was wearing her nightgown and the thing was straight out of my fantasies. It wasn't raunchy, it wasn't sexy in a conventional way. But two things stood out to me. The first was how sheer it was. And the second was the clear shape of what was underneath the sheer satin. The light of the bathroom was behind her, and it almost seemed as though she were naked. In the back of my mind, I knew that mother could see me clearly. I knew that she could tell that I was staring at her. Her hands slowly reached up to her chest, and grabbed some of the fabric and lifted her gown off her obviously heavily and pendulous breasts. It wasn't nearly enough to avert my gaze.

I could tell that she was not wearing a bra, and that she was way bigger than a double D. I couldn't fathom what size they could have been. Just that the swell of them bulged well outside her small frame, and they swung almost as low as her belly button.