The Bimbo Pill Pt. 01 - Mom

Ah, screw him. When she finally decided to divorce Donny, she had been generous in the settlement, though she had never told her children that, in effect, she was paying their father to go away. She had even taken back her maiden name for herself and the kids.

Maiden name. That's too appropriate, these days. I might as well be a maiden. The thought scurried through her mind like a mouse in a pantry, but she put it firmly aside. She knew she was attractive. The mirror and the covert stares of her coworkers told her the truth. But the allure of her own body was something that was known but held no real interest for her anymore, like the capital of Peru or the population of Los Angeles.

She finished toweling off her hair and put on her sleep clothes against the March chill - a long University of Minnesota t-shirt over a pair of sensible cotton panties. Though spring might be right around the corner, there was still nearly a foot of snow on the ground in Minnesota, so that corner was looking quite a fair distance away. Besides, she thought, as she snuggled under the thick, warm comforter. She had always loved going to bed on a cold winter night, the feeling of comfort as her body and the heavy blankets combined to warm her bed.

She set her reading glasses on her nose and began to read, an old favorite by Judith Tarr, grimacing slightly at the fact that she was unable to hold back the tide of time. Small print seemed to be shrinking on her lately, and she had been forced to get a pair of cheaters for when she was reading in bed or at the office. Luckily, she hadn't reached the point where they were necessary to read her computer screen on her laptop.

But her mind couldn't focus on Tarr's lush prose, or the book which had been a favorite of hers since she discovered it in junior high. It kept spinning back to the infuriating encounter with the self-righteous dweeb from the government. Oh, at an intellectual level she knew the man had a point. But that didn't take away the sting of having years of research and development treated as if they had been a huge waste of time, money, and resources. Unfortunately, the current political environment, fractured and gridlocked as it was, made the populace extra suspicious of anything that might smack of an intrusion into their jealously hoarded rights.

Tomorrow, she decided, turning off the bedside lamp and setting her glasses on the closed book as she pulled the covers up over her shoulders. I'll think about all of this tomorrow.

*****

"Morning, Mom," Max said, wandering into the kitchen late the next morning.

"Morning, sleepyhead," she returned with a smile, stretching up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Sleep well?"

"Meh," he shrugged, looking out the window. A bleak wintry landscape met his eyes, with a brisk wind tearing tatters in a veil of snow flurries that fell unevenly from a slate-gray sky. He shivered, happy that he had no plans to go outside until Monday morning, when he would have to go back to school. Basketball season had ended a few weeks previously, as his team had been eliminated from the regional playoffs all too quickly, and with no date with Gwen, he had two days to himself.

"What are your plans for the day?" his mother asked, as he pulled a jug of orange juice out of the fridge.

"Not a darn thing," he smiled. "I'm going to lay around on the couch and watch basketball all day. Maybe Minnesota can shock us all and actually win a game this afternoon. Why? You need some help with something?"

She nodded, a short, decisive gesture. "Yes. I've decided to give your suggestion a try."

"My suggestion?" He floundered for a moment, then recalled his casual remark at dinner. "Are you serious? Mom, isn't that sort of thing dangerous?"

She flipped a hand at him. She was dressed in her usual weekend clothes - a pair of well-worn jeans, old tennis shoes, and a heavy sweatshirt worn over a lighter t-shirt. Her hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck, giving her a slightly scruffy look, as if she were a college student home for the weekend. "It's not like I'm going to be shotgunning a glass of rat poison, Max. Mentothal is perfectly safe for human consumption. Otherwise, we would never have gotten past the animal trials.

"What I want to see for myself is the effect on my personality. Will it do anything? Mentothal is supposed to take away the ego, the part of everyone's personality that reasons, judges consequences, that sort of thing. Supposedly," she stressed the word, "a person who is under the influence of Mentothal can't think much beyond the here-and-now. So he or she can't lie. Or think about the long-term repercussions of their actions. That's why we wanted it as a tool for interrogations." She frowned in remembered frustration. "Think how much good this could do. Police wouldn't need to work so hard to find out who committed crimes. Once they had a suspect, boom! Just give them a little pill, and the sleazebags wouldn't be able to avoid confessing."

"Yeah. If they were guilty." Max judged it not to be the best idea to let his mother know about his own personal problems with what she was proposing. People did have rights, after all. And he didn't think the government needed any more power than it already had. But he didn't want to hear her rant from last night all over again. "So what do you want me to do?"

"Just watch," she said. "Take some notes, if you feel like it. Your impressions about what the drug does to me. And don't let me do anything silly, like take the car out for a drive. I might decide to run every red light between here and the grocery store, just because I didn't feel like stopping."

"Okay." He was sure this wasn't the best idea. But at least Veronica was putting some safeguards in place.

"All right." She pulled a foil-wrapped packet out of her pocket, stripped the backing off the pill, and popped it into her mouth, washing it down with a glass of water. "And don't stare at me like I'm going to grow a second head, Maxwell," she said, smiling wryly. "I'm not about to go all crazy. Besides, if all our data is right, it takes about half an hour for the drug to kick in, anyway. Relax."

Easy for her to say, he thought, as he toasted a bagel for breakfast. She's not the one watching her mother dose herself with an experimental drug.

Shit. I should have called Linda. Maybe she would have been able to talk her out of this. His sister seemed determined to follow in their mother's footsteps. A sophomore at Minnesota State, she had made the Dean's List three times running, and was already talking about medical school when she completed her undergrad work.

He finished his bagel, watching bemusedly as his mother whisked his plate and glass away, sticking them in the dishwasher with the rest of last night's dirty dishes, and started the machine up. Then she went upstairs, returning with a hamper of dirty laundry, and started to sort the clothes.

He followed her. While she stood in the hallway, in front of the opened wooden doors that hid the washer and dryer from everyday view, he sat on a couch where he could observe her. She caught him staring, and smiled at his nervousness.

As the minutes ticked past, he frowned. His mother's movement seemed to be growing slower. More jerky. She would stand motionless in front of the heap of clothes for long moments, then shake herself and start sorting again.

A sudden realization struck him. She's having to think about what she's doing. An ordinary task, one that she had doubtlessly performed hundreds of times, now needed her actual attention.

The drug was taking hold of her.

He cleared his throat nervously. "How are you feeling, Mom?"

She turned to him, her movements graceful and easy, and smiled. Something was missing, he thought. Some internal barrier which she used to guard herself.

"Just fine, honey," she said. "I'm really horny, though."

He blinked. "What?"

"I'm horny," she repeated, with amazing simplicity. She frowned and blinked, then her expression cleared. "I haven't had a good stiff cock in my pussy in ages. Not since before your father left." Her expression clouded in sudden anger. "Bastard. Stupid, selfish, needle-dicked little weasel. He said he couldn't get it up for me. That I intimidated him." She threw one of his dress shirts into the washer in a gesture of fury that was as frightening as it was sudden. "But it was just fine for him to sleep with every two-bit whore in town, wasn't it?"

He stared. He knew that his parents' marriage hadn't been a happy one. But the raw, visceral rage behind his mother's calm mask was shocking.

This is what the drug does. It strips away all our inhibitions. We say what we really feel.

"I mean, look at me," Veronica continued. She set her hands on her hips. "Don't I look good?"

"Of...of course you do, Mom," he stammered, hoping to calm her down.

"And I hate these clothes," she said, changing subjects abruptly. She fingered her sweatshirt disdainfully, her fingers plucking at the thick fabric. "They're just like the ones I wear to work. Too heavy. Too long. But I have to look pro-fesh-shun-ul," she sneered, drawing the word out in a mocking sing-song tone.

Her eyes lit. "I know what I'll do! I'm going to put on different clothes! Fun ones!" She stabbed a finger at him. "Wait here!"

God, she's like a kid, he thought, as she pelted up the stairs to her bedroom. Or a ditzy teenager. One of the cheerleaders at school who can't think past her date next weekend.

His mother was down quicker than he would have guessed, but dressed in an outfit that made his eyes widen. Gone were the heavy jeans and the confining sweatshirt, the grubby old sneakers and the sensible white socks.

Instead, she wore something out of a teenage boy's fantasy. A pair of skintight denim shorts clung to the curves of her hips and rear, ending in a scattering of white threads which drew attention to her slender thighs. Her feet were in a pair of low-heeled sandals, which made her long legs look even longer. And instead of the heavy sweatshirt, worn and faded from innumerable washings, now she wore a button-down shirt, the tails knotted just below her breasts, the neckline open all the way to her cleavage.

"Do you like it?" she asked artlessly, her eyes pleading for his approval.

"It's very...nice," he said, trying to be tactful. "But don't you think you're going to get chilly?" He folded his arms across his chest and shivered for dramatic effect.

"Oh, that's okay,' she responded cheerfully. "We'll just turn the heat up!" She bounced across the room to the thermostat and stabbed at one of the buttons. In seconds, the furnace in the basement gave out a low moan and warm air began to pour up from the heating vents in the floorboards.

"Much better," she nodded. She spun back to him. "So, Max, what do you think? Am I attractive? Your dad didn't think so." Turning her back to him, she smacked one of her butt-cheeks. Even through the denim, he could tell her rear was taut with muscle, and the sharp whack echoed through the lower floor of the house. "I tried wearing clothes like this to turn him on, after you and Linda went to bed." Her eyes pooled with sudden tears. "I dressed like a whore for him. Did things that would have made Daddy reach for his shotgun so he could put a hole through him. But nothing worked."

Tears trickled down her cheeks and instinctively, Max reached for her. "It's okay," he said quietly, taking her in his arms. "He's gone. You've got me and Linda. We love you, Mom."

"Do you?" she sniffled. "Do you really love me, Max?"

"Of course I do."

She burrowed deeper into his arms, her face pressed against his chest. Tears dripped onto his shirt. "You feel good," she murmured. Her hands hugged him around his shoulders. "Strong. Warm. I've bet you've got a nice big cock, don't you?"

He jumped away from her, his arms falling to his sides as he stared. "Huh?"

"Oh, I don't need to guess, actually." Her dark blue eyes looked up at him. In their depths, something hungry moved. "I've seen it. Last month, when you and Gwen had Presidents' Day off of school. I came home early."

She giggled suddenly, and he blushed, remembering. "You were screwing on your bed upstairs, so into each other that you didn't even hear me come in the house or up the stairs." She laughed, the sound low and throaty. "I thought you were going to pound a hole through your mattress, you were fucking her so hard. And she was making the cutest little squeaking sounds while you did it.

"I saw your penis." Her voice went soft. "All hard and wet and shiny where it went into Gwen's sweet little fuck-hole. God, it turned me on. I watched and watched through the crack in the door, where you hadn't quite closed it all the way. And then I went back downstairs to my car and pulled off my panties and fingered myself until I came."

Max swallowed. "Mom," he said. "Maybe we should talk about something else." His mind spun, trying to come up with a less dangerous topic.

"But I think I've got a better body than Gwen does." She undid the knot that held her shirt closed. Max drew in a startled breath. His mother's breasts were held up by a sheer lace bra, the material so thin he could almost see right through it. The lace swirled in delicate patterns, at once both exposing and disguising her body.

Before he could say anything, she had turned around, popping the button on her jean-shorts and wiggling out of them, her hips swaying as she pushed the tight shorts down over her slim hips and down to the floor. As she did, the white ribbon of a lace thong came into view, the thin strip of cloth all but disappearing into his mother's ass-crack. As she bent over, he could see the puffy outlines of her nether-lips, framed by her rear and her incredible legs, barely covered by the lacy triangle of cloth.

"There!" She turned around, her hands clasped behind her head, her chest thrust out aggressively. The pose made her breasts stand out even more from her body, and as he watched helplessly, Max wondered if the small indentations in the fabric were the results of his mother's nipples stiffening. "Who looks better?" she demanded. "Me, or that wet blanket of a girlfriend of yours? If you were my boyfriend," she went on, "you wouldn't find me breaking up with you just because I was going away to college in five months. Fuck that! I'd spend every day between now and when I took off for California fucking that sweet, sexy body of yours."

This was getting out of control. He tried to focus on something other than his mother's body, which was displayed with such a carefree lack of concern that he felt himself, despite his best intentions, starting to respond. "Mom," he stuttered, "maybe you should sit down. You can't talk about...about screwing me. I'm your son."

"You're right." He let out a breath of relief. "We shouldn't be talking about fucking,"

His mother giggled. "We should be actually fucking."

And then she reached behind her back, unclasped her bra, and leaped into his arms, her hands snaking around his neck to draw his head down into a passionate, searing kiss. Her mouth opened, her lips soft and sweet, and the darting tip of her tongue played along his lips, seeking entry.

And, to his complete mortification and shame, he found his body responding. Inside his loose, comfortable jeans, his cock stiffened, rising and hardening until it was an aching bar of steel. His hands found his mother's back, her skin fever-hot. And when she released his mouth from the gentle prison of her lips, he found himself looking down between their bodies to where her breasts were pressed against his chest. How would they feel in his hands? What would her nipples taste like, caught between his lips? How would her-

No.

With a monumental effort, he somehow lifted his hands, placed them against his mother's arms, and gently pushed her away.

"Mom. We can't."

"Stop being silly. Of course we can. Unless," her lip quivered, "you don't really think I'm beautiful."

"Of course you're beautiful!"

"Then stop calling me 'Mom.' Call me...Ronnie."

"Ronnie?"

"That was my nickname." Somehow, her hand had reached his groin, and she was stroking his hardness, her fingers both gentle and firm. "When I was in high school. Back before I married your father.

"I love sex," she whispered, her lips nuzzling his neck. "By the time I graduated, I had fucked my way through half of my high school. Mom knew, I think. But Daddy never found out. Not until I was older and he couldn't do anything about it. But I love sex so much. Love fucking. It's the funnest thing ever. God, Max, you feel so good. A hot, hard man, right in my hands." She took one of his hands, placing it on her breast. Instinctively, his fingers cupped the warm mound, and she shivered, pressing closer to him. "Please, baby." Her voice entreated him. "Please fuck me."

Jesus Christ. My mom's a...a bimbo!

It was all there. The inability to think ahead. The delightfully innocent personality. The preoccupation, no, the obsession with sex.

Was this something that the pill had done? Or was Veronica's own frustrated sex drive simply taking advantage of a period of unexpected freedom, the same way a prisoner would respond to a cell door left conveniently open?

It was more temptation than any reasonable man could be expected to resist. His hot, sexy mother was writhing against him, her bare tit warm and heavy in his hand, practically begging him to fuck her.

So he kissed her. Not defensively. Not guiltily. But openly, warmly, passionately, wanting his incredible, gorgeous mother, wanting her more than any woman he had ever seen in his life. Her open, naked lust spoke to a need deep within him, something that howled with the primal desire of a horny male.

"Sure, Ronnie," he said, when their lips parted. "I'll fuck you."

Her eyes lit with joy. "Yay!" she squealed, spinning away. In a balletic move, she pulled a blanket, used when watching movies on cold nights, off the back of the couch and spread it on the floor. The she pulled a pair of small cushions off the love seat and placed them at the top of the impromptu bed.

"Wait. Down here?"

Her brow furrowed in a scowl. "I'm not making love in my bedroom. That's where he was." She sat down on the floor, patting a spot next to her with one hand. "Come on, Max. I want to see what's hiding in your pants." She giggled. "Is it big? Is it hard?"

Is it a good thing that the shades are down, so the neighbors can't look in?

He peeled off his shirt, enjoying the way his mother's eyes widened as his stomach and chest came into view. Max wasn't bulky. Basketball players needed speed, not layer upon layer of muscle. But his light weightlifting routine made sure his belly was flat and his arms and chest strong. Ronnie's tongue darted out, wetting her lips as he undid his belt and lowered his jeans to the floor. Briefly, he debated leaving his boxers on, but decided that they'd be coming off soon enough anyway, so he stripped those off as well.

"Oh, Max," she sighed, as his shaft came into view, bobbing in front of his stomach, so hard it was nearly painful. "You're gorgeous." She leaned back against the pillows, her honey-blond hair spread like a fan around her head. "Come down here and fuck me, sweetie."

He lay down beside her, propped on one elbow. "Are you sure?" he asked. One hand, less doubtful about what was going to happen than his own stupid, blathering mouth, ran a hand up her side, palming her breast.

"Oh, yes." Her lips curled in a lazy smile, leaning into his touch. In his hand, he felt a slight bump, and raised it to see the bud of her nipple standing up from the surrounding areola. "Why don't you kiss her?" she asked playfully. "I love to have my nippies kissed and sucked." Sinking back into the pillows, she set her hands on the lower curves of her breasts, the tips of her fingers dancing across her skin. "It makes me so wet."