Simon's Jungle

"Yes?" he said, lowering his face, only one answer would do.

She nodded, a single tear at the corner of her eye. Lips trembling. She nodded. "Yes . . . I will be your . . ." And hung her head in shame.

He felt himself throbbing against the softness of her palm as she crumbled before him. And he knew she knew her discomfort only excited him and that he would not relent. Finally she closed her eyes, and two tears fell across her cheek. Then she opened them, defeated and submissive, but she met his eyes unblinkingly.

"I will be your Slut Mother," she whispered. "And your Italian Whore."

And her hand began again, her pleading eyes staring out from the angelic mask of her face.

Victorious, Simon sat back and relaxed, right hand hanging off the armrest, the other kneading his mother's memory foam-like ass. Her saliva had evaporated during the lull so he gave a sharp pinch to her ass. She jumped with a hmpf, then dutifully leaned over his cock and drooled. Feeling the slick heat spread over his head, Simon massaged where he'd pinched. He could be kind to his mother.

"You'll need a new wardrobe," he stated. He squeezed her ass hard, until she couldn't hide its effect on her face. Goodness he loved that.

He relented and she stared at him demurely, waiting to hear what he would have her wear. Her left hand resting right of her thigh, the other moving skillfully, up-down, determined to pull him under the mounting waves beneath her fingertips. Simon never understood why his father dressed her so conservatively. As if she was a Catholic daughter than wife. Still, drab turtlenecks and flowing smocks were mere border fences to determined curves with no regard.

"I'd have you dressing like a woman," he said, watching her jerking hand.

"Like those office whores," she spat.

Simon smiled. Sarina habitually denigrated the many single women that populated his father's empire. Shrewd and sexy, each was a modern-day Cleopatra, viewing men as pickaxes to chip through the shit and muck for jewels and deep wells of non-renewable resources—wives and girlfriends be damned. From this sprang a culture of true equality, where the weak, regardless of gender, were devoured. No one batted an eye for the exec who couldn't manage both his assets and his assistant's ass. And no one cared for the assistant beyond her now vacant and unemployeed ass.

A glob of semen dripped to Sarina's thumb, and she looked down at it, watched it smear and shine over his swollen head. Her wrist and arm moved with ease and nudged her breasts each time. Yes, giant grapes within satin black sleeves, a silver cross dangling in between. Simon reached for one, the left one, the one farthest away. Much softer than her rump, deliciously squishy, no memory at all.

"Yes," he said, mesmerized how his fingers sunk into her bosom. "I suppose they are mine now," he mused. He took his hand from her breast and placed it back of the armrest.

There would be internal skirmishes in the coming months. He, of course, would fill Father's role, but would leave behind several vacancies. Son or no son, with Murry F. Vess, everyone earned their keep. And Simon earned his and more, taking on additional responsibilities as his father's health waned in the past year. What's more, he paid his dues, doing it all for a dollar, earning him the respect and admiration of not only his father, but his colleagues as well, gentleman and women who would serve him loyally.

"Fuck," he muttered, contemplating the consequences of loyal but cut-throat subordinates jockeying for his favor. Staring half-eyeing at the partition, Simon said, "It's gonna be a fucking blood bath."

A sharp squeeze from his mother's hand that swelled his already swollen head. "Language, dear."

"Yes, mother," he said absentmindedly, still focused on the upcoming carnage. "A thoughtless outburst. Would you have the driver reduce his speed?"

"Of course, dear." And she pressed a speaker button, relaying the message to the driver.

Despite the occasional sexual exploitation and sadistic tendencies, Simon was a courteous young man. Back to his thoughts: There would be massive overtime logged: execs fighting for Simon's old seat and the substantial plate at the table before it. Even half could finance a lavish vacation home with a chef or a Swedish mistress with vanilla-wafer nipples.

And then there were their secretaries . . . God bless. Lustrous, long flowing, bouncy hair drizzled with superglue. Eyeliner spiked with pepper extract . . . Or acid.

He'd have to call a meeting.

"I'd have to call a meeting," he muttered, staring blindly at his reflection.

Still, he couldn't help but smile. Wives and mistresses were the real Fat Cats, sitting back with their figurative and literal heels kicked up; and given the fact that two-thirds of those women began as secretaries and assistants—making secretarial positions de facto internships for easy street—compared to the men, their fight would be ferocious: the difference between a lion fighting for a meal and a lion fighting to never have to fight or hunt or leave the shade again.

Maybe Rach can—

"Sweetie?"

Simon shook the office from his mind, but was pleased he could slip into dutiful CEO mode so easily. He'd loved his father and he loved his empire and the people within. And right or wrong, regardless of how many lives it ruined or took, he would see them well-feed and strong.

"Sorry once again, mother," Simon said, giving her—all of her—his attention again. "I believe you were criticizing my company's workforce—specifically the female half, I believe." He grinned, giving her ample rump a hard squeeze.

Ignoring his hand—and hers—she looked at him unamused. "Don't you dare get snotty with me, young man. You know what I meant."

"I know, mother. I'll schedule you an appointment with Rachel. She knows my tastes and I . . . trust her, and her discretion."

At the mention of Simon's executive secretary, Sarina sighed disgustedly and muttered what was probably a malicious, profanity-filled, verbal assault—at least three lines of dialogue. Hearing authentic Italian spoken low and angrily, French bitch was all he could parcel out. His mother's rabid animosity toward the voluptuous redhead was longstanding. While Rachel did speak fluent French, she was American, born and raised. Why Sarina insisted on denigrating her with French inspired slurs, Simon didn't know.

Italian women—beautiful, but fucking nuts. Wise words from Father.

He hadn't spoken to Rachel since yesterday, when she'd very kindly asked for the weekend off after he'd refused a request—the debutante way of calling him an ass.

I'll have to do something special for her.

She'd asked him to ride in the limo, then begged to be allowed to attend the funeral. Not even Simon had the balls to approach his mother on the first; and the second proved just as impossible. When asked, his mother stared at him silently, as if gathering her thoughts. Finally, with a surprisingly calm and even voice, she said, "If that French bitch places a heel on that hill, I'll have her ass-raped, beat, and her head shaven with 'french bitch' tattooed across her scalp in Italian." Simon stared speechless as his loving mother pecked him on the cheek and urged him to not work too late.

"On second thought," Simon said, "I'll send her your measurements."

"And you know them?"

Her dark eyes settled on his and all he could feel was her soft hand and ass. He pinched her and nearly came when the pain registered on her face—a faint grimace playing across her lips, a slight twitch in her eye. He really, really liked that.

"Not as well as I should," he said, rubbing her now. "But I will—now that there's nothing in my way."

Sarina said nothing, her face one of dejection, before drooling again on his cock.

"What?" Simon asked, his hand liberal with ass. "You thought I would let you go? Get bored of you?"

"Find a woman your own age," she answered. "Someone who could give you marriage, children, a normal life."

"A fucking airhead dedicated to spending my company's money," Simon spat.

"Regardless, you'll need someone to play girlfriend. Especially if you intend to dress and use your widowed mother as you intend. People will talk."

This again. Simon wasn't a fool. Like most mothers of driven and successful sons, Sarina believed pressuring her son into a marriage of her design would bring about world peace.

"You're right, of course," Simon said, seeing the wisdom of her words through his half-closed eyes, relishing the efforts of his mother's loving hand. The natural choice was Rachel. A fine red bush to distract the masses—like bull fighting, where the bull's a dumb animal. Rachel . . .

No. It would be foolish to dabble with such danger this early into his reign . . . Those eyes, though.

"I'm close, Sarina," Simon warned, pinching her ass hard enough to make her hiss. "Now be a good Slut Mother and suck me."

Poor Sarina, she looked to him imploringly: to be spared that indignity. But he grabbed the back of her neck and gave her a little shove. A defeated expression on her face—she swung her head around, whipping her hair back, and kneeled her face into his lap. He felt her tongue first. Then her lips. Then . . . then sweet heaven. He slapped her ass, and her head rose and fell like a black tide spilling out across his leg like a silk stream. She made little hmpf! sounds at each slap on her ass.

"You're going to be an obedient Italian Whore for me?" he asked, delivering a firm slap to her ass. "Without fighting me?"

She pulled away from his cock but only nodded. And the resulting slap rung throughout the cabin. She cried at the sharp flash of pain, then said, "Yes, Simon, just don't hurt me. I'll be a good slut for you. Your obedient Italian Whore."

He was so close, ready to shoot ropes of cum into her wet-velvet mouth while he rubbed her ass. "Tell me you love me, and that you'll never leave me."

Sarina slowed, incorporating much more of her hand as she felt his approaching release. "I love you, Simon. I'll never leave you."

Simon rubbed her entire left side as she sat leaned over into his lap. Her head and hand moved in natural harmony, like the front and rear legs of a prancing gazelle. A smooth motion as her tongue massaged the looping brim of his head. A smacking sound came from her wet mouth: water dripping into a faraway pool. The perfect blowjob—a marvel only mother nature could engineer.

He was close and then he was there, cuffing the bottom of her left ass cheek while he thrust upward, once, twice, then again.

Cumming hard in her mouth while her hand and mouth braced him like clamps for a vine. Her nurturing spirit overrode her reluctance, as her tongue rubbed his cockhead like a cooing mother burping her child—coaxing that nasty poison out. He'd cum so hard, and felt each rope as it leapt from him.

But the passion was off him now, and he saw his bereaved mother in her funeral dress, her veiled hat next to her. He'd been rougher this time around: pinching, squeezing her lovely hand. His guilt rose as the aftershocks of pleasure calmed, and still he felt her tongue move, her mouth and hand prancing like that gazelle, her innate nature urging her to do what she was programmed to do—to nurture her child.

"I'm sorry, mother." A final, gentle, loving squeeze, and his mother raised herself upright and reached for her purse, leaving him to look down at his spent cock.

She hadn't spilled a drop.

"It's fine, dear," she said, inspecting her lips in her makeup mirror. "Losing a parent is traumatic for a child. I know this better than most. Now tidy yourself. We're nearly home."

"Yes, mother," he said quietly.

Once he was tidied, he rubbed her back and kissed her shoulder. "I'm sorry, mother," he said softly, watching her put her purse aside. "I love you. I'll try to be . . . better in the future."

She sat back and patted his leg, staring at their joint reflection in the partition. "We're all we have now, Simon. We have to take care of each other. There's no one else."

And as Simon rubbed his mother's arm, she seemed marginally content with her lot. He would work doubly hard to be good and kind to her. He would give her that much.

The limo's tires echoed off the smooth pavement, signaling their imminent arrival. Simon rubbed his cheek against Sarina's shoulder. So warm. And for the first time in a long time, he felt like a scared child running from a bogey man. Her touch, the scent of her, was all that kept the monster at bay. She was so soft. He rested against her arm. His breath slowed and his eyes closed. Micro sleep.

He jerked awake, grabbing his mother's arm, heart racing. The monster with the black cape, screaming murder, stabbing sharp sticks down his back and side. The pinhole scars on his back burned with goosebump-like pricks and he shuttered. His mother made no acknowledgement, but quietly slipped her hand in his.

"I love you, Simon," she whispered. "I'll take care of you . . . always."