Becoming Sharon Ch 02

[Author's Note: I'm torn on this one. First, the video I described in Chapter One exists, and my thought was to see what would happen if "Mommy" actually delivered her "special snack." But Curvy Sharon does remind me of my mother, and, well, I

was

a motherfucker for the last five years of her life, so it became pretty autobiographical. No, I never ate a double handful of her shit, but analingus was a regular part of our lovemaking, and, well, accidents do happen. So, in a way, Chapter One was autobiographical although when Mom and I were a couple the internet wasn't even a dream and any pornographic videos around were black and white, 8mm things that had no sound. I took the poetic license and moved the scene to a more recent world.

But here's why I'm torn. This story has a very low reader ranking, a 2.69 the last time I looked. But it also has a high number of "favorite" indications. So I can't decide if I should continue it or not.

I'll say this. Chapter One was probably (I won't say certainly because, like any other storyteller, I'm not really sure how David and his mother's relationship will progress) the most riddled with scat. There may be other surprises, indeed, probably will be.

Anyway, I know how it worked out in the real world of the 1960s, but I'm hoping for a better outcome for this beautiful couple. Damn, my mind does wander early in the morning, doesn't it. Let me start that again.

I'll say this. Chapter One was probably the most graphic in terms of scat. Oh, I enjoy the human body, especially the female human body, in all of its shapes and functions. But elimination shouldn't be the focus of a love story although that particular video does get to me, every time I watch it.

And don't worry, like all of my stories, it will continue to be graphic. We read stories in Literotica for the sex after all. And I think I do a pretty good job of writing clear descriptions of physical love in all of its forms. And, yes, it was my mother who taught me that phrase you've seen often in my work - - Good sex is almost always messy but never dirty.

So take a few seconds, when you finish Chapter Two, and let me know what you think. Should I continue this (mostly) autobiography or should I drop it?

And now, Gentle Reader, let's see how David and his mother handle the proverbial morning after, shall we?]

I woke, and the memory was there, full-blown, in detail. I didn't have to open my eyes to see her, bent over, holding her cheeks spread, her turd slowly emerging. I could remember the earthy scent and that odd, almost tasteless taste. My jaws worked, slowly, almost involuntarily, as I remembered the feel of Mom's special snack in my mouth as I chewed and swallowed. The image of the salty, slightly bitter taste of her hot piss was so clear I could almost taste it again.

I smiled at the memory.

As I came fully awake, the now took over from my memories. I felt her warmth beside me. I heard her soft snoring. And I smelled her, the light scent of her sweat and the faint underscent from what we had done last night.

I smiled then, as I realized I wasn't hungry, well, I wasn't the ravenously hungry I usually felt when I woke. And then the thought hit me and I wondered if I would have trouble digesting Mommy's special snack.

Something about the realization, thinking about it, tipped me over the edge. I ran for the bathroom and started throwing up about halfway there. I slipped and fell and started laughing hysterically. Then Mom was there and she was laughing too even as she started wiping my face with a wet handtowel.

"Maybe," she started and then broke into more howls of laughter. It was contagious and I joined her, laughing and puking and gagging and laughing until I couldn't breathe anymore.

"Maybe," she started again when we had ourselves under control. She was still washing my face with that wet towel and I realized I was sweating. "Maybe Mommy's Special Snack isn't such a good idea."

And I felt one of those little rushes in my belly as my adrenal glands squeezed.

"Mom," I said, holding her eyes, "we both enjoyed it. But maybe as a special treat, not a regular thing."

"Only if I can have a special snack too," she said.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

She grinned then, that crazy-eye grin that told me she was being as serious as she ever was.

"I can't wait," she said and giggled.

She helped me up, got me into the bathroom, and helped me sit. I couldn't miss the interesting little brown semicircles on her ass as she left me there.

I sat and peed and pooped, my head hanging and my belly aching. When I was done I stood, flushed, and found Mom on her hands and knees, a bucket and a towel there as she cleaned up my mess.

I watched, fascinated, as she performed that domestic chore.

She smiled up at me and wiggled her stained ass.

"A quick game of Dealer's Choice?" she asked.

I smiled.

"As tempting as that is, Mom," I said, "I'm desperate for a shower and breakfast."

When she grinned I laughed and added, "Not one of Mom's Special Snacks. Maybe an omelet?"

"Pussy," she said, giggling, and accepted my hand and stood.

We showered together, it didn't turn sexual as it often does but it was, as always, sensual.

I scrubbed her face, cleaned the smeared residue from last night, and then shampooed her hair. I always enjoyed doing that. Her hair is thick and coarse and when it's wet it's like I'm running my fingers through a bunch of ropes.

"What would you think if I went blonde?" she asked.

"I'm not sure I'd recognize you," I said, laughing.

"Welllllll," she said, drawing out the

alvolar lateral

"L" sound, "Sharon is blonde."

That stopped me.

"Mom," I said, serious now, holding her eyes with mine, "I enjoy Sharon's videos because she reminds me of you. I don't want you because you remind me of her."

She smiled at that and said, "I know, honey, but I think I'm due for a new look."

I laughed and said, "You're crazy."

She gave me an odd look and said, "That, my love, is beyond dispute."

"But a good crazy," I added, kissing her and using that opportunity to start on her back with the soap.

We did each other's bodies then, washing thoroughly, giggling a lot as we found well-explored ticklish and sensitive places.

To finish I covered the faucet with the bell-shaped adapter I had made, set the water flowing through the douche syringe making sure all eight of the holes streamed freely, and slipped the syringe into her until I felt it bottom out. She shivered and smiled and kissed me.

"Flush me out good," she said, deliberately garbling her grammar, "After last night I need it."

So I did. I slowly increased the volume of hot, feeling it as it flowed over my hand until it was as hot as she could stand, and let it run cleaning her out after last night. Then I added cold until what flowed over my hand was just warm but the volume was higher, it was spraying out of her now. To finish, I cut the hot feed suddenly until the water running over my hand was cold and she shivered. I cut the flow and hung the syringe and adapter hose to drain.

We toweled each other dry, always fun. And then we padded naked into the kitchen.

I had that quick flash of yesterday and her cookie baking but this was more like it. Mom doesn't cook much. We do a lot of take out, delivery, or going out. But she does do breakfast well and I always like watching her move around naked.

She started with a hard pull on her vodka bottle and then poured two glasses of orange juice, adding a healthy pour to hers before putting them on the table and getting to breakfast. She broke a half dozen eggs into a bowl, added a splash of milk, and whipped them vigorously with a fork, making her body jiggle in interesting places and interesting ways. While the eggs were coming to room temperature she laid a half dozen strips of bacon on one pan, taking time to put on her apron - "Bacon pops" - she said, as she always did, set the big cast iron pan on a burner to begin heating, sliced two English muffins in half and put the halves into the big four place toaster, and quickly cut a potato into little cubes, her knife work making more interesting jiggles.

We ate then and I had enough self-awareness to recognize how bizarre it was to be sitting naked, sharing a breakfast with my mother, and chatting casually about Mom's desire to emulate a porn star.

"You know," I said, finishing the omelet and then popping the last little cube of fried potatoes into my mouth, "I did enjoy your special snack."

She giggled and said, "Well, I do aim to please."

I leaned across the table and touched her nipple.

"This," I said, rolling her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, "would be an even better snack."

Her eyes got big for a moment and then, without a word, she got up from the table and walked out of the kitchen.

She was back in just a few seconds with her cell phone in her hand. She held my eyes for a moment and then touched the screen. After it lit up she started scrolling. I watched as she touched again and then found my eyes with hers. She was smiling.

"Hi Sarah," she said, "This is Arlene Morgan. I need to schedule an appointment with Dr. Bob."

Pause

"No, Dear, it's not an emergency."

Pause

"Well, it's kind of a personal matter."

Pause

"No, I don't think it will take long."

Pause

"Really? This afternoon? Oh, Sarah, I'll tell him he's not paying you nearly enough."

Pause

"Two fifteen? I'll be there and thank you again, Dear."

"What was that all about?" I asked.

She reached down and lifted her heavy breasts, rolling her nipples. "I want to give you everything you want," she said, "so I'll talk to Doctor Bob to see what it takes to become a good cow for you."

I laughed at that.

"And how will you explain it to him?" I asked, curious now.

"Well," she said, and I watched as her eyes moved up and right as she thought, "I'll just explain that your cousin Rose, my favorite niece, doesn't want to have droopy boobs after the baby's born so I've volunteered to be her wet nurse if I can."

I chuckled and said, "Very good."

There was a cousin Rose, but since she was seven or eight, it was unlikely she was going to have a baby anytime soon. But purely as a story for her doctor, I thought it held up pretty well.

"Now," she said, "We seem to have a few hours before my doctor's appointment. Any ideas on how to fill them?"

I laughed. "Fill you, don't you mean."

She giggled again. "Well, now that you mention it."

"Well," I said, "chores first. I'll wash, you dry."

"I must have been very good in a former life to deserve you," she said, standing and starting to gather up the dishes.

We did the dishes, me washing, her drying. I wasn't surprised when, as she put the last plate up, she snapped my ass with the wet towel. It was a good hit. I felt a welt when I reached back to touch. She giggled and then squealed, dropping her towel and running away.

"Oh, that's gonna cost you," I said, following slowly, stalking her.

I caught a glimpse of jiggly ass as she ran around the corner, laughing.

" Now why, in the world, would she run into the office?" I asked myself.

In the office, Mom was standing beside my open laptop, and as I walked in, still moving deliberately slowly, still "stalking" her, she bent over, giving me an interesting view of heavy breasts hanging free, hit "Enter," and pulled the office chair out, obviously offering it to me.

So I sat and watched as the "Curvy Sharon 42HH" screen came up with its fancy brown border, the word "Curvy" in a purple script font in the upper left corner, the word "Sharon" under it in a yellow heavy-serif font, "42HH" under that in a purple san serif font, the quarter page five-panel montage of Sharon in various states of undress in the upper right corner, and the title, "Mommy Deals with an Intruder" centered in the bottom third of the panel in another san serif purple font.

"I haven't seen this one," I said over my shoulder as Mom laid her hands on my shoulders.

"I paid to subscribe," she said.

By then the show had started. It was typical Sharon porn. She was doing housework, wearing tight, Daisy Duke cutoffs that showed her

gluteal sulcus

, that sexy line where her bubble butt met the top of her thighs, and what looked like a man's work shirt, unbuttoned but tied under her breasts, looking kind of like a bra but, when you got down to it, functioning as a titsack. As always, she was made up, had on her engagement ring/wedding band set and a strand of pearls, and her nails, french cut and white, drew attention to her hands and the toes that peeked out from her sandals.

Some music was playing in the background and I realized it was Etta James' incomparable version of

I'd Rather Go Blind

."

Then, as she often did in her videos, she started talking to herself, setting the scene.

"I need to get the house cleaned up before my son gets home," she was saying, a little breathless suggesting she had been working physically hard.

"Oh, darn it, look at that spot," she said and then bent at the waist, very artistically, as the camera zoomed in on her big butt.

"There," she said as she stood, and looked at her watch. "Oh, wait," she said and I couldn't help but roll my eyes. Who writes this crap, but at least there was some sort of plot, unlike so much of what you see if you surf porn very much. "That's right, he's staying over at Georgie's tonight. Well, I guess I'll just do a sandwich for dinner and then," and she looked directly into the camera, "maybe I'll get into my secret box."

There was a knock on the door in the background and her eyes got big.

"Who's there?" she asked.

"Utility company, ma'am," came an off-camera voice, "there's a report of a gas leak in the area and I need to take my sniffer into your basement."

"Oh, dear," Sharon said, adding a dramatic back of the hand to the forehead, doing her best Scarlet O'Hara imitation.

"Coming," she called.

As soon as she opened the door it crashed open, I gave the special effects guys an "A+" for that one. It looked authentic.

A guy all dressed in black was on her, his gloved hand digging into her hair and twisting, making her yell.

"Please don't hurt me," she said over and over.

Mom's hands were massaging my shoulders and we watched the whole thing, one hour and 17 minutes based on the little line across the bottom of the screen.

Sharon was slapped, shutting her up, raped with much yelling and carrying on, and then handcuffed to the bed while her rapist got on the phone and invited friends over to "join the party."

This was different from the "usual" Sharon video. I wondered, in that corner of my mind that was studying economics, if she had made enough during her glory days to retire in comfort or if she would sink deeper and deeper into degradation until, like so many common whores you read about, she wound up giving blowjobs in the bathroom for a drink. She WAS starting to show her age, especially in this video, evidently fairly new. A closeup of her neck showed an incipient wattle and there were three little skin tags in that wrinkled skin where her arm met her body.

As the camera got close, showing how the belt they were using on her ass was leaving real stripes, it caught a red blemish that I later looked up and found was a

dermatofibroma

, a little red bump with a cluster of dark coarse hairs. As she was being pushed around her breasts had lost the fullness that always made her so attractive and, if I'm being honest, had always reminded me so much of Mom. They were, well, an old woman's tits now.

I watched the whole thing, aware of Mom's hands on my shoulders massaging gently and the occasional sudden intake of her breath as she watched with me.

It ended with Sharon, haggard with her hair in tangles and matted, looking like someone had opened a half dozen yogurt containers and poured them over her head, onto her face and boobs, and her face, where you could see it, showing the raccoon eyes of streaked mascara. Her nose was running, she was drooling and whimpering, and it hit me that this wasn't acting. Those bruises on her boobs and ass were real and that dark circular bruise where, in one scene, one man had punched her in the kidney.

"Mom, what happened," an off-camera voice asked.

"I'm okay," Sharon replied, her voice thick, "help me up," as she tried to stand and almost collapsed.

A figure entered the frame, his back to the camera, face carefully avoided, and helped her to her feet.

"I'm okay," she said again, leaning on him, "help me clean up."

As they walked out of the room, the scene slowly fading to black, her "son's" hand moved down, casually cupping her ass, and she giggled.

I stood, turned, and met her eyes.

They were shiny, and the womanscent of her arousal hit me like a shot of concentrated Viagra. My cock jumped erect.

"Mom," I said, my own breathing pretty ragged. Hell, that video got to me too, I won't deny it, "Is that what you want?"

And, oddly, that seemed to break the mood. I watched her eyes move up and right as she thought, those little vertical lines between her eyes showing her concentration.

"Davey," she said, taking my hands, and since she was being so serious the touch wasn't sexual, "that little problem in my head is affecting my sensitivity to nerve stimulus."

For about the bazillionth time I was fascinated by how rational she could be about something that was killing her, and how thoughtful she could be even as she drank a quart of vodka every three days. I guess, when you get down to it. I was just taken with how damn smart she was.

"And you think what we just saw would help?" I asked.

And there were those little concentration lines again.

"Davey," she said, holding my eyes, "I honestly don't know, but I'm willing to try."

"Come here," I said, and wrapped her into my arms.

I held her and kissed her and held her some more.

I didn't say anything, I just took her by the hand and led her into the front room. I stood her, as close to the exact center as I could, still saying nothing, and then opened the curtains and pulled up the Venetian blinds on the two big windows.

I went back to her, kissed her quickly, and said, "Right now I'm going to give you a good old-fashioned American blow job, right here where anybody walking by can see, I'm going to make you cum like a garden hose, and then I'm going to send you off, smiling, to your doctor's appointment. When you get home, well, depending on how my research goes, I just may give you what you want."

"Davey," she started but I cut her off with a kiss. When I broke the kiss I slapped her cheek, not hard, but enough to sting I figured, and said, "Hush and accept what I offer."

I eased to my knees, cupped her big butt in my hands to hold her to me, used my forehead to butt her belly up and out of the way, and started at her with my mouth and tongue.

Mom was the one who taught me that good sex is often messy but never dirty. I made this beyond messy. I made it sloppy. I used my saliva to lubricate her as I licked and sucked. But I didn't have to do that much because she's a pretty wet woman and soon enough she was flowing and I was lapping at her like a dog with a wound.

Her nectar, her natural lubricant, the product of the mucus membranes lining her vagina and the deeper Bartholin's and Skene's Glands, was thick and white, oily and salty. I love her taste and her scent and licked and sucked and swallowed noisily, demonstrating how much I enjoyed her.

And she responded. Soon enough her hips were thrusting and her fingers were entwined in my hair, twisting, hurting, pulling me to her.

"That's right, Honey," she was saying over and over, "eat Mommy's pussy."

When she came, I squeezed her ass drawing a yell that merged with her "YES" becoming something like "AAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhYESSSSSSSSSSSFUCKEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."