The Good Mom Ch. 01

"Now don't go gettin' all feisty on me there pussycat," Buddy floundered on the bed trying to stand.

"You fucking pig!" Emily ripped the camcorder off the shelf.

She opened the camcorder and ejected the little video cartridge and pointed it at Buddy like the pastor pointed his bible at the congregation when he was in the evangelical throes of a sermon.

"Who are you showing these to?" Emily screeched, oblivious to the fact that her son was asleep in the next room.

Buddy rolled over and looked at his diminutive wife standing tall on her high heels, the red and black bustier cinching her waist, pushing up her heaving titties, her long legs sheathed in the tan fully-fashioned stockings, her red hair tousled and sweaty, framing her pretty face, her gaudy makeup ruined, her shaven cleft visible through the transparent panties, holding the little cassette up defiantly.

She looked like an X-rated version of the Statue of Liberty and he chuckled.

Buddy's snickering enraged her further if that were possible and she felt the veins in her temple throb and her vision became tinged with scarlet.

"It's just a bit of fun pussycat. Something to look at when I need a little entertainment," Buddy looked like a hippo emerging from the swamp as he tried to extricate himself from the sweaty coverlet.

"You fucking pervert Buddy! Who else has seen these?" Emily hissed.

Buddy pushed himself off the bed and rose to his full height.

"Don't you get mouthy with me Emily. I told you it's just a bit of fun," Buddy growled and took a step towards his wife who still held out the cassette like an accusatory tome.

"Oh my god!" it suddenly dawned on Emily why Buddy was so insistent on the way he posed her when they were having sex.

Sitting in the centre of the bed facing the camera with her legs spread wide while she waited for Buddy and then using the vibrator on herself. Side-on to the camera while Buddy used the toys on her and she sucked his cock. Facing the camera as her face contorted with lust and pain. Then side-on again when Buddy fucked her.

Buddy had been directing his own pornography and she was the starlet. How long had he been doing it? How many tapes were there?

"You're fucking sick Buddy. I can put up with your wild sex games. I can put with your drinking. I can put up with your whoring. But this! This!" Emily shook the little tape in Buddy's face.

For a big man Buddy moved quickly and bounded across the room and snatched the cassette out of Emily's hand.

"Just settle down now pussycat. It's just a little fun. Don't get your panties in a bunch," Buddy breathed whisky and cigar fumes into her face.

"A little fun? Where are the tapes? Who else has seen them?" Emily hissed defiantly.

"You little cunt!" Buddy grabbed Emily by the neck and launched her at the bed.

She staggered across the room, her high heels skittering on the polished wooden floor, and fell face first on the coverlet.

Buddy pounced on her and lay on top of her. He began to laugh, a deep rumbling belly-laugh that she'd heard many times when he whispered a dirty joke to his buddies as they stood around the barbeque ogling each other's wives lazing around the pool in their swimsuits and bikinis.

"Bob Swanson, Don Mitchum, Bradley Connaught. Willy Longmire likes it when you take it up the ass. Say's it inspires him to go home and give it to Elspeth the same way," the belly-laugh droned in her ear.

Emily felt her stomach clench and she choked back the bile that filled her mouth.

Buddy had shown the tapes to his poker buddies. They all worked for Buddy in some capacity and played poker in his study behind locked doors eating the cold cuts she had prepared and drinking icy-cold beer from the cooler that she had filled with Bug Light and ice before they arrived. She could imagine them watching her on Buddy's big lowboy television, making lewd comments, becoming aroused as she performed for them, oblivious to the fact that she being filmed.

She could feel Buddy's cock becoming fully tumescent in the crease of her buttocks as he taunted her.

Blind rage coursed through Emily's psyche. She summoned every ounce of energy she could muster and snaked a hand under Buddy's fat belly and grabbed his scrotum and squeezed it, simultaneously giving it a vicious twist.

Buddy bellowed like a wounded buffalo and rolled off her and Emily scampered off the bed.

"You cunt! You'll pay for that!" Buddy bellowed.

Emily bolted for the door and Buddy followed her. She could hear his footsteps gaining on her as she scrambled in her heels. She stopped and pulled off her shoes and threw one of them at him. It bounced off his forehead like a stone bouncing off a bull elephant.

He roared and came at her and Emily managed to pull herself through the door as Buddy lunged for her. She had made it to the top of the stairs and she gripped the newel post when she felt Buddy's paw grab her shoulder.

Emily spun around and banged the other high heel as hard as she could into Buddy's rage-filled face. The stiletto raked down his forehead and chin, blood filled his eyes and he stumbled and Emily nimbly stepped aside.

Buddy crashed face-first down the stairs. She heard his neck crack as his head hit one of the risers halfway down.

Emily knew that her husband was dead even before she checked his pulse. His head lay at an impossible angle, his fat body lay on its side. There was surprisingly little blood.

Emily made up her mind immediately. Her life and Richard's would not be forever ruined by what had happened to her fat, evil husband. She ran up to Richard's bedroom and quietly opened the door and saw that he was still fast asleep and then she closed the door and began to quickly orchestrate the scene.

She started in the bedroom, collecting all the sex toys, throwing them in a box along with the camcorder and the cassette. She replaced the books and bric-a-brac that had been knocked off the shelves then she changed the bedding. Emily hung Buddy's suit up in the wardrobe, taking his keys and wallet from his pants and put them on the bedside table. Then she had a thought and snatched up the keys.

She ran down to Buddy's study and rifled through every drawer and cupboard but didn't find what she was looking for. She eventually found the mini-cassette tapes in a box locked away in the top drawer of his filing cabinet. They were labelled: Pussycat followed by the date of the recording. There were eleven of them so Buddy hadn't recorded every Friday night's debasement, just on select evenings. At least she hoped that was the case.

She carried the little box of recordings upstairs and threw them in with the sex toys. She stripped off her lingerie and collected her high heels and threw them on top. She showered and dressed in clean underwear and a chaste cotton nightgown and carried the box down to the basement and threw the contents into the old furnace.

Emily went back into the master bedroom and took a bottle of bourbon from the tray that Buddy kept in the corner and poured a double-shot into a crystal glass and downed it in one gulp. Then she refilled the glass and took it to where Buddy lay at the bottom of the stairs and dropped the glass beside his body. She took a sheet from the linen press and laid it over Buddy's body, just like any distraught loving wife would do when she found her husband dead at the bottom of the stairs.

Had she missed something?

Not that she could think of.

Emily dialled 911 and sobbed into the phone and two hours later Buddy was gone and she and Richard had the house to themselves. The next day the detectives swallowed her story hook, line and sinker. She blushed when she told the detectives that she and her husband had made love and then Buddy had poured himself a drink and decided to go downstairs to get his cigars while still naked.

She'd heard the crash and found her husband dead at the bottom of the stairs.

While she told her tale to the sympathetic detectives the furnace in her basement was incinerating the camera, tapes, toys, lingerie and high heels. The evidence of her crimes was burnt to ash. The few remaining pieces of scorched metal from the camcorder and metal rods from her high heels went into trash.

Buddy's blood alcohol level was through the roof when he died and the coroner made a finding of death by misadventure.

Emily was unable to look Bob Swanson, Don Mitchum, Bradley Connaught and Willy Longmire in the eyes at the funeral service or at the reception after. She felt their eyes on her body and saw them huddled together whispering, but other than to offer their condolences, with their wives on the arms as they did so, they didn't speak to her. She wondered which of those wives had to endure the same burden that she did. She knew that Elspeth Longmire did to some degree because Buddy had told her so.

And that was that. Emily Carter had gotten away with murder.

*****

Alone in the house in which he had grown up, Richard lugged his suitcase upstairs to his old bedroom. It hadn't changed much since Richard's college days. When he came home for the holidays it was comforting to find that his room was exactly as he had left it.

Richard had grown up a 'mommy's boy'. Because his father had died while Richard was young and his mother had not remarried, there was no male role model. He was teased at school because he spent so much time with his mother who doted on him.

All that changed when Richard turned eighteen and went away to college. What had also changed was Richard's fixation with his mother. When he came home on the holidays his mother was still affectionate and he returned that affection but something was different.

He had dallied with plenty of college girls and liked sex but there was something missing. The college girls dressed differently: graphic tees, denim jeans or shorts, rompers, sneakers, baggy pants, hoodies, and sweatshirts seemed to be their staples. Few of them wore nylons, even when they wore skirts or dresses and their makeup was subdued.

Richard found himself cruising porn sites where the protagonists were sophisticated older women who seduced younger men. He'd asked a couple of his girlfriends to dress a certain way and they were not impressed and Richard soon learned to keep his fantasies to himself.

It was then that he realised that he was seeing his mother in a different light. She became a fictional character in his masturbatory fantasies and he felt guilty about it but he had no control over his impulsive obsession with his mother and women of a certain age who presented themselves similarly.

He opened the wardrobe. Some of his old clothing was still hanging from the racks. He found the loose panel at the back of the wardrobe and reached inside feeling both guilty and excited. He extracted three pairs of his mother's pantyhose and two pairs of her panties.

They had not aged well. The colour had faded and they felt a little crunchy. Richard knew what had caused the crunchiness. It was his dried semen. When he was home from college he stole certain items from the laundry basket and used them as masturbatory aids. He lifted the balled up garments to his nostrils and sniffed. The smell of his mother's vaginal juices had long dissipated but there was still a scintilla of her perfume.

He screwed them up and put them back in their hiding place.

Richard had returned to the familial home early that morning having spent the night in a nearby hotel. His wife Victoria had thrown him out after a prolonged and heated argument. It had been a long time coming. Richard and Victoria's marriage problems were well known to Emily and she was not surprised to find her son sitting on the porch with his suitcase when she had emerged from inside the house for her morning jog.

"We'll talk about it when I get back from the church service. I have a busy day Richard. You can have your old room for now," she had said dismissively.

Richard watched his mother's delicious bottom and long legs swathed in black lycra leggings, as she ran down the path and out of sight. He had lugged his suitcase into the hallway and gone into the kitchen and helped himself to breakfast. He heard his mother return from her run and skip upstairs to change for church and Richard had waited awhile before he tiptoed up the stairs and peeked through her bedroom door.

He had watched fascinated as his mother slipped into her church nylons and played out the little scene before him without knowing that he was watching. Images of her smoothing her nylons around her derriere and her pubic mound kept reappearing and he willed them away.

Richard unpacked his suitcase and put his clothing in the wardrobe and dresser and sat on his old bed. Images of his mother with her skirt hiked up while she fussed with her undergarments kept returning and he shook his head to clear it. He decided to look around the house while his mother was at church to see what, if anything, had changed.

His mother's bedroom smelled of her perfume: Dior Poison. Whenever he smelled that scent he thought of his mother and it often caused him to become aroused. He went straight to her lingerie drawers and looked at the array of panties. There was a selection of nylon 'granny-panties' but she wore mostly full-cut satin bikini panties of varying shades. No cotton 'passion-killers' here. He lifted a pair to his face and sniffed them. They smelled of laundry detergent. He carefully replaced them.

Emily's hosiery drawer was a delight. Sheer-to-the-waist glossy pantyhose in shades of suntan, black and fleshtones prevailed but there were also packets of cheap Walmart pantyhose which his mother called her 'church nylons' worn for convenience rather than the aesthetic. There were also several pairs of stockings, mostly holdups but also some nice fully-fashioned nylons and suspender belts to keep them up.

Richard knew better than to fiddle with them. His mother had told him more than once that she suspected that he was rifling through her intimates and knew about his obsession with nylons and he'd learned his lesson. He would visit the laundry and find something to satisfy his urges in the washing basket.

He opened her bedside dresser drawer and was surprised to find a vibrator hidden under the magazines. He sniffed it but it had recently been cleaned so he carefully put it back.

The shelving that had held his father's trophies and favourite books had been removed long ago and the wall repaired and repainted and the trophies and framed quarterback jersey had been relegated to the attic. His mother's wardrobe was filled with skirt-suits, stylish dresses, skirt and blouse combos and nice jackets. Nothing really designer but all good quality.

He seldom saw his mother or her friends for that matter sans hosiery except for when she played tennis or golf and then in winter she wore opaque tights with her golf skirt. They were 'ladies of a certain age' who had been brought up wearing pantyhose with skirts and dresses and they refused to follow the latest bare-leg trend and he loved them for it.

His mother seldom wore jeans, shorts or those horrible 'skorts' that promised so much but delivered so little. She did wear spandex tights when she went jogging or rode her bike or did her yoga and Richard approved because they showed off her long legs, pert bottom and clung to her pubis.

Richard adjusted a large framed print on the wall, moving it just a millimetre or two. Satisfied the picture was straight he headed downstairs to what had once been his father's study but was now his mother's office. It turned out that Emily had quite the head for business and had parlayed Buddy's two auto dealerships into five flourishing enterprises: four car dealerships and another business selling agricultural machinery. Richard managed two of his mother's Ford dealerships in the nearby town of Mirfield. He was still tied to his mother's apron strings, which was one of the reasons that he and Victoria fought so much. She wanted Richard to move to one of the big cities and live independent of his mother's influence.

The office had changed completely from when his father was alive. Emily had ripped out the old wainscoting, the tired rugs, heavy curtains, hunting trophies and old wooden furniture. Richard wasn't allowed to play alone in his father's study when he was boy but he remembered that when he was allowed inside the study it was dark with a green velvet topped poker table in one corner and a lowboy cabinet set against one wall with a huge clunky television and a VCR on it. The room had smelled of whisky, cigar smoke and man sweat.

Now it was bright and breezy with modern furniture, nice artwork on the walls, polished floors and smelled of his mother's perfume. He moved on.

The laundry was down in the basement and Richard rifled through the laundry basket and found a pair of his mother's satin panties sitting right on top. He sniffed the crotch and was delighted by the scent of his mother's vaginal secretions and her sanitary product. He was immediately erect but resisted the urge to masturbate with them there and then. He hooked a pair of his mother's pantyhose from the pile of dirty laundry and stuffed the garments into his pockets for later use.

With another an hour or so to himself Richard decided to investigate the attic. He hadn't been up there for years, not since he'd built himself a fort up there out of old boxes and packing crates as a kid. His mother had chased him out of the dark, dank space and made him play outside.

The space was still dark and musty with a fine coating of dust on the floor in which he left footprints. He could tell that no one had been up here for quite a while, possibly years. Everything seemed pretty much how he remembered it except now his father's trophies and framed quarterback jersey and some items from his father's study had been added to the collection of junk and forgotten treasures.

He picked his way through the more interesting items, stopping now and then to reminisce over an old toy or his collection of graphic novels and comic books. Way back in one corner, tucked away under a pile of old rugs he found a wooden box. He opened it and found a VHS cassette that was designed to have an 8mm minicam cassette loaded into it so that it could be played on a standard VHS VCR. Beside the relic of the past was a selection of VHS tapes labelled Pussycat followed by a date.

Richard scratched his head. He knew that his father had an interest in video recording and would whip out his camcorder at every family celebration and at parties and social gatherings. Any of the recordings that were worth keeping had long ago been transferred to DVR disks by his mother and the tapes thrown out.

Beside the wooden box were two old VHS VCR player-recorders stacked one on top of the other connected by the red, white and yellow video and audio cables. His father must have used the converter to transfer the video from the 8mm minicam cassettes to standard half inch VHS tapes.

He wondered what might be on the Pussycat tapes and decided to ask his mother about them later.

The garage door opener activated and Richard heard the door lifting and he peered through the tiny, cobweb encrusted attic window and saw his mother's Ford Explorer making its way up the driveway. Richard scrambled over the junk and down the ladder and closed the ceiling panel. He dusted himself off as best he could and made his way back to his bedroom.

His mother would change out of her church clothes into something more stylish because she had girlfriends coming around for drinks and to play cards. The old gals joked that after a couple of hours being preached at they needed to sin a little to put some zest in their lives. It had become a Sunday afternoon ritual.