Suspended Sentence

It's sometimes said, 'Never let a Good Deed go unpunished' and I'm thinking that I must be a good example of that old saying inasmuch as here I am some years after the 'good deed event' and, in my mind, still paying the price for helping somebody out. The ironic thing is that I can't even remember the name of the person who I 'helped' in the first place.

It was back in the last century and I was an only child who grew up in Boston suburb with my mother who had a husband (aka, my father) who was some 20 years older than her. I guess I wasn't too much aware of the age difference at the time given that he was a stern and distant father figure who mostly left any parenting to my mother who I loved dearly. My relationship to my father was something else and can best be described as whenever he was around, I tried to keep out of his way as it seemed to me that he was programmed to making my life as unpleasant as possible.

I never did consider if he loved or even liked my mother but such concerns became unnecessary when suddenly, just about the time I began High School, he died.

His passing was met with mixed emotions but for me it was an event which thereafter lifted the air of gloom from our family dynamic; I no longer had to worry if I had somehow offended him and, if I had (or not) suffer the consequences of his bad temper.

However, whilst I had reasons to celebrate, I did come to understand that it presented another unpleasant situation given that my mother discovered when his affairs were being sorted out that he had spent and squandered any savings that she thought they had, including what was laughingly referred to as my 'college fund'. The impact of that discovery was no longer did I have the comfort of a 'stay-at-home Mom' to greet me when I got home from school as she had to get a fulltime job and if that job offered overtime, then so be it, she took it and so I was often left to my own devices which for a teenager was a recipe for trouble.

My mother's name was Ruth. She must have been in her late 30s when my father died but whatever her age I will always remember her as being mature, conventional, yet feminine and lovely. She dressed stylishly, conservatively but in my mind she fitted the description of truly being a MILF. She was a little over 5 feet tall, slim with auburn hair alabaster skin and blue eyes and lovely breasts; I used to fantasise over those breasts with the thought that there must have been a time when she suckled me. There was no internet in those days but I didn't need it for she wasn't at all shy about letting me see her when she got dressed or undressed and, unbeknown to her, it was almost like she was giving me a private sex-ed lesson when she was around. She certainly gave me plenty of other things to fantasise about without the help of the internet.

However, what was endemic in those days was what would now be called 'social segregation' or some phrase like that. Like it or not there was systematic racial separation and the suburb where I grew up and went to school, although at that age I was unaware, there were very few people around who were not white. Negroes, as 'people of colour' were then called, were certainly a minority and this clearly did not sit well with the progressive aims of the government of the day. As a consequence of their radical thinking, positive measures were legislated to right what was seen as a wrong and much to the outrage of the majority of the population a system of 'school bussing' was introduced whereby Black public school students were being bussed out of their black neighbourhoods to public schools in 'our' predominantly white areas. There were protests made at this imposition with dire warnings that this bussing was guaranteed to bring trouble and although these predictions failed to come about in the general sense, for me it was true and this is where my story really starts.

******​

The forced integration of these black students was a revelation. Previously to their arrival in my school I'd never had anything to do with kids other than those of my own colour and background so (and I'm not saying this from any prejudice point of view) I had a degree of fascination and curiosity that led me to discover not only were these new kids nothing like I had been told to expect but in fact were 'cool' and a lot less buttoned-up than my upbringing had taught me. Indeed, I had no problem at all with what bussing had introduced and I soon became friends with a lot of the black guys.

Not so a lot of my white school buddies, they maintained the racial attitudes of their families and kept their distance which actually created another problem for them and, ultimately, a bigger problem for me.

We high school kids were of an age when drugs became a part of our scene. Not hard stuff like Heroin or Cocaine (leastways, I didn't see it) but the soft kind, weed. It was regarded as acceptable and the height of cool to smoke a joint but for the white kids there was always that problem of supply and where to get it. Cue, my friendship with the black kids who seemed to have no such problems.

I'm a bit hazy how it came about but due to my easy relationship with the black kids I soon found myself being the middle man, a go-between, connecting those who had the weed and those who wanted it, aka, the black kids and the white kids. I didn't consider myself as being a drug dealer, per se, but rather as an entrepreneur who had found a way of earning a little extra cash given that I added a few dollars to any transaction. Where's the harm, I thought. I'm earning money to help out my widowed mother; nobody gets hurt, indeed, everyone gets well and the racial status quo is maintained.

The authorities didn't see it that way and I guess in hindsight I should have been more discrete and little less cocky about my own status as a drug supplier. Long story short, one particular transaction did not go well and when parents and the school got involved and it was discovered I was the guy who had, in their words, 'been peddling drugs', the full force of the law was directed my way with the result that my high school days were over and I was sentenced to six months in juvenile detention with a further 18 months suspended.

My mother was devastated and I have no doubts that those 6 months must have been harder for her to bear than it was for me who was actually doing the time but somehow the months passed by and I was released back into her care for the remaining period of my suspended sentence but 'with conditions' for the future. Those conditions were that I continue to live at home for the next 18 months and that a probation officer would be appointed to check and make certain that this measure was maintained and to provide 'assistance' and guidance to make me a model citizen.

Mother was so relieved to have me back home again as was I, especially whenever she would give me those special hugs that reminded me of the feel of her soft, curvy body; so much nicer than some of the embraces that I had from some of the wardens in prison! She gave me the impression that she was starved of love and affection and while I would have been willing to have helped satisfy that deficiency there was no way that our embraces went any further than for us to feel through our clothing the evidence of the emotion that we were both experiencing. For myself, the pent-up emotion was frequently relieved by masturbation when I would jerk off with the recent memory of the feel of her breasts pressing against me, the evident warmth that seemed to radiate from her groin, the feminine aroma that I fondly imagined to surround us. I also wondered as I spurted my cum over the bed sheets whether she might be doing much the same in her room; certainly there were times when I thought I detected her soft moans through the thin walls of our house.

I was relieved to be released from prison but nervous at the prospect of living back home with my mother who I knew was terribly hurt and disappointed in having a son who now had a criminal record even though she recognised that my offence was not one of violence or that the circumstances 'were not my fault'.

No matter, I went home to be placed under a different set of restrictions which didn't involve sexual abuse in the wash-block by wardens or other inmates. The new boundaries included a curfew whereby I had to be home by six o'clock in the evening through to eight the next morning; a stupid measure that was supposed to deter me from reoffending. It made little difference to my way of living given I was always a 'stay-at-home' type of guy in the first place but the other, but major, change to my life was that the courts had appointed a probation officer to oversee my routine for the remainder of my suspended sentence. It was made clear that this court appointee and the advice that followed was the way it had to be; that to disobey would result in me being returned to Jail. ('No pressure then', I figured!)

The first encounter with the probation service occurred the day after my release from prison when I had to attend the local courthouse where I was 'processed' and told that an officer would be appointed to my case and be making a home visit a couple of days later.

Mother answered the door and I'm sure she was as surprised as myself when she saw this tall, well-built black guy standing on the porch. He introduced himself, making a great show of displaying his official badge, and so she didn't hesitate inviting him in where we could both get a better look at the guy who was destined to become my 'father figure' for the next couple of years.

His name was Eustace (I forget his surname) and I figured him to be in his late 20s, early 30s; not much younger than my mother. From the moment he entered the house he showed great charm and intelligence but also, I was troubled to note, that he seemed to have more interest in my mother than he did of me.

What my mother's impression was at the time, I don't know, but he certainly impressed the pair of us as he sat there and explained in clear and no uncertain terms how under his supervision he would assist me in becoming a useful member of society; how he could find me a meaningful job; how, if that's what I wanted, to go to college and complete my education. However, he also emphasised that if I screwed up doing any of those things or failed to follow his advice that the consequence was most likely a return to prison. Mother thought this advice to be fair; I saw it for what it was, a subtle form of blackmail from this black male as in between his 'advice' he continued to flirt with my mother.

This first visit ended with a promise that he would make a follow-up visit in a couple of days by which time some other arrangements would be revealed. Mother led him to the door to see him out and it was not lost on me that when they shook hands he took a long time to release his hold and that he also leaned in close to whisper something to her that obviously amused her for she smiled and nodded her head. She made no mention to me of what he said after he had departed.

As promised, Eustace returned a few days later and this time it was to inform me that he had a plan that would allow me to go to college even though, due to my arrest for dealing, I hadn't graduated High School. He said that he had found me Summer employment at a retirement resort hotel in New Hampshire and that due to the work being of a social nature and beneficial to the 'retired veterans' who stayed there that it would earn me sufficient credit to go somewhere other than just a Community College.

I was unsure how to react given I had already gotten used to be back home after my enforced absence and now here I was being told that I needed to go away again. My gut feel was that I would rather stay at home and be the 'Man of the House' but I knew that there was no point in objecting to the proposal if I was going to redeem myself for my sins.

By contrast, Mother, who had been hanging on his every word and looking at Eustace with lovelorn attention, had no hesitation in declaring my going away to work to be a great idea and so there was little further discussion made other than Eustace expanding on what the job would entail and other conditions relating to the employment. I really had no say in the matter.

Once again his visit came to an end with them going hand-in-hand to the front door together. However, this time she didn't just see him out of the house, she stepped outside with him. A few minutes passed and she didn't reappear. Being unsure what might have become of her, I crept toward the slightly open front door and was bemused to see them standing close together in the shadows of the porch. It was clear that they were doing more than just shaking hands.

She did not come in for a half an hour and when she did it was to reveal a flushed face, shallow breathing and buttons that were unfastened on her blouse. Clearly they had been making out on the porch.

I was confused, angry and jealous. But mostly I was turned on. Indeed, that night when I got to bed all I could think about as I stroked off was Eustace and his black cock fucking my mother. It was an exciting vision.

As the weeks ran down to me going off to New Hampshire, Eustace's visits became a regular thing with him coming by at least twice a week, supposedly to check on me but then things began to escalate and, although it must have been against the rules, professional conduct and all that stuff, he asked her out on a proper date. I was shocked when she accepted wondering whatever she was thinking, going out with a black man in our predominantly white neighbourhood but, at the same time had to admit to feeling horny at the thought of them being together and what they might be doing in intimate surroundings.

Soon he was being invited for meals and it was clear to me that in more ways than one he was getting very comfortable in my mother's company. Come the end of the evening I would be despatched to the kitchen to clear up leaving them alone in the sitting room and I got a perverse pleasure from glimpsing through the doorway their heavy petting and to hear her sighs as his hands unseen to me were obviously playing with her body. I had no doubts that she was returning the favour which was evidenced when come the time for him to leave and to see the outline of his erection bulging his pants.

The time came for me to take up my new employment at the hotel and Eustace, the ever-helpful probation officer, suggested that he could take me there given that the location was remote; that there was no public transport that served the area; that I had no car of my own as I neither did I have my driving licence.

Mother, who was clearly now besotted with him, thanked him profusely for his intended trouble and kindness and had no hesitation in agreeing to his further suggestion that, as I needed to check-in for work at the hotel first thing the next day, he stay over the night so we could make an early start in the morning. I was amused at just how that part of the discussion seemed to be very contrived and rehearsed.

So it was that Eustace was again invited for dinner but in anticipation, rather than him departing at the end of the evening, as we had no guest bedroom the couch in the sitting room was prepared so that he could sleep over.

With the prospect of an early start the next day, once dinner was over and I had cleared and tidied the table and kitchen, it was declared that it was time for bed so we said our goodnights and I went to my room while mother went to her's, leaving Eustace to make himself comfortable downstairs in the sitting room. I was a little suspicious at the absence of affection shown when the good night was given.

My suspicions were justified when half an hour later (when it should have been assumed that everyone was sleeping) I heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs. I had no doubt who's footfall it was and in my mind I followed the progress of Eustace to my mother's bedroom. A pause and then I heard the distinct sound of the door click shut followed by what I convinced myself was the noise of the bedsprings giving way as he lowered his weight onto the mattress beside my waiting mother.

I got out of my bed and went to the adjoining wall between our rooms and climbed onto a chair so that I was positioned to peer through a narrow crack that had formed close by the ceiling some years earlier. (I gave silent thanks to my father who had never bothered to have the defect fixed). I stretched up onto my tiptoes and pressed my face to the wall and there was greeted by the sight of Eustace sort of hovering over my mother as he leaned down to kiss her. The room was dimly illuminated by the outside streetlight shining through the drapes but was sufficient for me to see that the bed covers had been pulled back to reveal her wearing her usual cotton nightie while he was clad in just his boxers... but not for long.

As they kissed and caressed he somehow managed to use a free hand to pull them off to reveal what seemed to me to be a monster erect black cock that almost sprang to attention once the boxers had been freed. Mother gave me the impression that she was familiar of just how big as I distinctly heard her giggle as she reached down and grasped him with her small white hand. No doubting that their previous good night sessions on the porch had provided her with the opportunity of comparing him to my father!

In the gloom I watched as he pulled her nightie up to her waist and with her still holding onto his cock I almost fell off the chair as she spread her legs to reveal to me her hair-fringed pussy, a sight that I had only once, fleetingly, previously enjoyed when months before I had accidently seen her in the shower. Then, as of now, I felt my cock begin to swell at the erotic sight but this was an altogether different display, she made no attempt at hiding her modesty as she guided that fat knob between the pouting lips of her vagina nor was there any stifling of her squeal of pleasure as he pushed into her.

They settled into a comfortable rhythm of him fucking her while she reciprocated with meeting his thrusts by pushing up against him. I was not so comfortable given I was on my tiptoes struggling to maintain balance as I squinted through the small gap trying to see what was happening whilst at the same time stroking my own cock. I had to choose to do one thing or the other and common sense (and cramp!) told me to get down from my perch which I did but I didn't move away, I sat on the chair and put my ear to the wall and with my pyjamas now around my ankles listened to the soundtrack of their lovemaking and stroked my rigid cock as I visualised what was occurring.

I should have felt guilty about listening to them but, if anything, I was conflicted. I mean, where was the harm? Mother had been starved of love for so long and it wasn't as if they were not being discrete. OK, their being intimate like this, him black; her white, went against all the social norms of the age but, nevertheless, it just seemed so taboo for my own mother to be giving herself to him like this, never-minding that he was taking advantage of his position with regard to me.

However, such thoughts were dispelled (and I'll always remember the moment) when I heard my mother gasp to Eustace, " I never imagined it could be like this. Fuck me, I'm yours".

She squealed, he grunted and I stifled a moan as I had my own climax, cumming all over my hand as my own orgasm spurted onto the bedroom carpet.

*******​

The job at the hotel was arranged for two months of summer. It wasn't a particularly tough call, I was employed as a kind of general dogsbody/busboy/cleaner, doing whatever was required to make life comfortable for the vets and families who took their vacations there. I was never given the opportunity to go home but that wasn't a problem for me as the living was easy and in any case I had no means of transport. So I was content to bide my time as I fulfilled my part of the arrangement.