Mother Whorest

It had been a horrible day. One of those days where you wake up to shit already starting, in this case my dog vomiting over and over again, and it only continues to escalate. That kind of day where the shit just builds and builds until you catch your shirt on a door handle and then Fred Durst is on your shoulder telling you to break stuff. The shitvalanche: dog in the vet, no job call backs, truck overheating, and I'm having to do asinine odd jobs for cheapskates knowing I'll never make enough money to pay for whatever extravagant bills were headed my way. Yeah, just one of those days.

I had already been to Lowes five previous times, this one making my sixth. The first three had been one and dones for a couple cheapskates, netting me 80 bucks, 65 after gas. Then, it had been Miss Beverly. Now, Miss Beverly was one of my favorite customers; super sweet sixty year old widow that was still gorgeous, and called me anytime she needed anything. One of my best customers really, even if she did stay out in rust-n-dust county. She had simply needed a new garbage disposal, one trip to Lowes. After I finished, "My hot water heater is leaking."

I should have asked then, "Anything else?" But I didn't. Checked the hot water heater, just need to replace an outgoing pipe. But wait, it looks like whoever did this before used pvc pipe instead of cpvc. Another trip to Lowes. Then... then she tells me, "Can you put this fan up in the living room?" No sweat, all the tools were in the box. There's no way I'd have to take another trip all the way into town from the dirt roads of Podunk USA, right? Well that's where I fucked up. Thinking something would go smoothly. Turns out the light fixture didn't have a mount in place.

The only thing that kept me from going on an Ed Gein inspired massacre with a chainsaw, was thinking about Cool Hand Luke. I gripped the steering wheel tight, teeth clenched, just breathing. Imagining I was at that card table, shitty hand and all, unwilling to let on. It was all I could do, the fully peaked temperature gauge of my Ford jalopy mirroring my own mental temperature. And as I, unsuccessfully, strove for calm, my mom called. Just a blown head gasket waiting to happen.

"What?" I snapped.

"You don't sound happy," her voice thick with insidious motherly love, "what's wrong?"

"I don't have time for this, what do you want?"

"Now, that's no way to talk to your mother."

And that's when one of my gaskets blew, "For fucks sake. You only call when you want something. Cut the motherly love shit, we both know that's above you. Get to the fucking point or I'm hanging up the phone."

"Fine," she snapped back, her voice resuming the cunty quality I had known since I was little. "I need money."

"You always need money, what your pipe broke and you need a new one?"

"No," she didn't even acknowledge the crack at her expense. "I need it for rent. I'm a couple hundred short for the week."

"Well, tough titty," I almost spat into the phone. "Maybe you should get out of that motel and actually find some work."

Her retort was just as acidic, "Maybe you should stop being a terrible son and help your mom."

"Really?" I was flabbergasted, and enraged. "I've helped you more times than I've made trips to Lowes. You are unhelpable. You don't want help, you just want pity. It's pathetic. Anytime I help, you just fuck it up. Even if I gave you the money, you'd just blow it on something else and be calling me tomorrow. That's what you do, you fuck everything up."

"I fuck everything up huh?"

"You heard me."

"Guess you're living proof of that," she spat. "Look, fine. Don't help me. I'll figure it out on my own."

"Good job, one step closer to being an adult," I sneered. "Next time, skip the phone call and just figure it the fuck out by yourself!" I hung up and tossed the phone onto the bench seat of my truck and let out one long, infuriated growl, "Fuck!"

Somehow, I felt calmer. As if enough of the pressure had been released to shut the chainsaw off. Still irritated, but no longer quite on the verge of a train wreck, I finally made it back to Mis Beverly's. Cool and calm, just like Luke.

"Oh honey," Miss Beverly met me at the door, "I'm sorry, I've got you running like a hare from a pack of hounds."

I smiled, and stepped inside, "It's okay. Next time we will know to make a list."

"I do enjoy a good list," she closed the door. "Now," she patted my arm, "you get to work and I'll make some food. You hungry honey?"

"Yes ma'am," I said with the fervor of a man who hadn't had a chance to eat so much as a chip all day. Things were looking up for me, pressure relieved, work almost done, and there would be food. There was a reason Miss Beverly was my favorite customer, biscuits. Her biscuits were as legendary as Aunt Meg's gravy, practically it's own food group. I was humming as I dismantled the light fixture, the taste of lightly buttered biscuits on my tongue. My stomach adding the bass beat to my internal song of the south.

The biscuits were just as good as I remembered and hoped them to be, and the food was spectacular. Fried porkchops, lima beans cooked with fat back, and some roasted butternut squash. I ate like Terrence Hill in the old west, and Miss Beverly picked at her food while making conversation, all gossip. "So, Patsy made a scene at the church this Sunday."

"What was it this time?" I asked around a mouthful of squash and porkchop, tearing into a biscuit as punctuation.

"Remember how I told you she was talking to Dale?" I nodded. "Well, turns out what she thought was talking was really just her constantly annoying him. It's just like I told Cheryl, Dale wants Jean, not Patsy. I mean, bless her, but she can just be too much." She regaled me with the local geriatric gossip, mostly relationship kerfuffles between widows and retirees. It all sounded very juvenile and Jugheadlike, and I ate it all up.

When the stories ebbed, and my pants nearly split, I helped her clean the dishes, which she half-heartedly protested against, "Now, now. I can do that."

"I got it Miss Beverly," I said, my faith in existence restored. "You already cooked. Least I can do."

She trailed me into the kitchen, "Okay, but save the bones for Popcorn. I'm sure she will love them." I winced at the thought of my dog still at the vet, no phone call yet and as late as it was, she would be staying overnight. No news was good news.

"Thank you."

As I was leaving she handed me three plates wrapped in tinfoil. She tapped the top one, "These are some extra biscuits for you, and then there's two plates, one for you and," she looked at me, wrinkled face placid and sweet, "the other one I want you to give to your mom." She must have seen the scowl cross my face as her eyes softened with a sad smile. "I don't know everything, and I'm not asking, but she's your mom. She may not have loved you the way you wanted, but she did love you the way she could."

I nodded, feeling sad and empty, "Yes ma'am."

She smiled with a warmth that only a stranger who doesn't know the real you can smile, "Good." She kissed my cheek, handed me the plates and said, "Just remember. She's in pain. She needs comfort and love."

I left with a single resolution, no way I would give my mom a damned thing. I rode home, the sun slowly fading. That point in the evening where dusk is just stretching it's dark yawn and the street lamps were on but gave off no light. Where people should be driving with their lights on, but over half selfishly drove under the haze, lightless. I chewed over every failure my mom had bequethed me. Every absence, every fight, every lost house, every night she had been passed out under the influence while a lit cigarette dangled errantly in her hand threatening to burn the place down.

And somewhere, Miss Beverly's voice reminded me, "... she did love you the way she could." The time I had fallen off my bike and scraped my forearm from elbow to wrist and she had given me half a loritab. The time my first girlfriend had cheated on me and my mom had slashed her tires. The first time I had sex and she had bought me condoms and some special lube that was supposed to make me last longer. It may not have been the right way, but it was her way.

I turned down my road, guilt and some small thread of Jiminy Cricket humming in the back of my mind. "Fuck!" Without a look at the temperature gauge, I jerked the wheel and turned around. "God fucking damnit!" I tried to convince myself otherwise, but I knew what was right. What little money in my pocket there was, and this second plate of food, would be given to her. Sometimes, being a good son was simply being there in whatever capacity she needed.

I pulled into The Quad, a small motel on the edge of town. Eleven rooms semi circled around a pockmarked parking lot, more residents than cars. Smack dab in the middle between a Waffle House and a liquor store. Whoever had built it long ago knew exactly what their clientele wanted.

I parked, somewhere between trying to convince myself this was the right thing to do and the worst mistake of my life. With a throaty sigh I grabbed a single plate and made my way to her door. The sun had fully set by now, streetlamps doing their job of obscuring the stars in the sky. A few kids ran and laughed in the parking lot playing some version of tag where it looked like all of them were "it." An oldman on a milk crate hefted a harmonica to his toothless mouth and blew:

'Oh, I tried, I tried to change,

But it didn't take, oh no,

Made my mistakes, now,

I'm singin' the snakeskin blues'

Before I could knock on the door it opened, a surprised fifty year old man that looked like he had been born in the tumble of a concrete truck just as surprised to see me. "Don't worry," he said with a wink, "best sixty bucks you'll spend." I stood there, perplexed, as the door swung shut, and the man strode quickly to one of the few vehicles in the lot. The laughter and squeals of the children mixed with the melancholic wail of a lone harmonica.

'So I grabbed a forty,

And I grabbed a fifth,

Drank 'em both down,

To cure them snakeskin blues'

I knocked hesitantly on the silent room, then knocked again with purpose. Soon enough she came to the door, toothbrush in mouth, scowl on her face. "What do you want?" she said, lips thick with foamy toothpaste.

"What the fuck mom?" I pushed past her into the little room. TV on mute flickering between ads, a half-drunk bottle of vodka next to an unkempt and filthy bed.

"What do you mean, what the fuck?" she pushed by me to the sink next to the bathroom and rinsed her mouth out.

"Who was that?"

"Who was who?"

I pointed out the door, rasing my voice, "The fucker who just left and said you were the best sixty bucks he's ever spent." For a second I thought I saw a flash of pain cross her eyes, but I knew better. Knew she was incapable of such an emotion.

Her eyes hardened, "Well, you told me to figure it out."

"Mom," I exhaled. "That's not what I meant."

"Well," she crossed her arms over her stained white t-shirt, the hem coming up just enough to show the edge of grey spanks. "What else was I supposed to do?"

Numbly I sat down on the edge of her bed, tinfoiled plate forgotten in my hand. "Not like this. Anything but this."

She shrugged, and grabbed her pack of Kools, "Well, maybe next time you'll actually come to help me." She lit her cigarette and exhaled the smoke at me like an angry dragon's first warning.

I shook my head, too many thoughts racing around so fast I couldn't catch them. While she stood there smoking, aggravated, spearing me with a look that said this was all my fault. "I-I...."

"Use your words," she said sardonically.

With a deep calm breath I put on my best cool hand visage and dropped the plate on her bed, "I brought you food." And just as calmly I left without her uttering a thank you, a sorry, a please forgive me, even a 'It's not what you think.' She just stood there, arm crossed about her midriff, cigarette to mouth, eyes cold and unfeeling. And I left.

The symphony of joy and sorrow outside were muted. The only sound I heard was the thump of my boots on pavement, the groan of my truck door, the squeak of springs in my seat, and a deep sigh as the door slammed shut. I was in the middle of a vortex, calm and empty while the razor blades of thoughts swirled around me, anger fighting pain. I sat there for some time just trying to collect my bearings. I wanted to be angry, to cry, to shout, to beat my hands on the steering wheel, but I couldn't. I was mired in some ineffable emotion halfway between ennui and apathy. Somewhere amidst the rage of my emotions that I couldn't actually feel, a noise rose above the muffled world. A simple knock. I looked up, another man entered my mom's door.

I watched in mute horror as the hours passed and man after man entered my mom's hotel room. Hands gripped around the steering wheel so hard my knuckles hurt, I found my way through my emotions. Anger won the fight between it and pain. I watched each guy enter knowing my mom would be waiting, on her knees, mouth wide. Images of cock after cock entering my mom's mouth swam through my head. Them grabbing her hair and fucking her mouth, blasting her face with cum. Bending her over, fucking her ass. And slowly, the images started to get lively. Soon enough, in my mind, my mom was enjoying it all.

She would be on her knees eagerly waiting, moaning as a cock slid into her mouth. Lifting her big breasts up high, tongue out, begging for cum. Screaming as cock after cock entered her and pounded away. Again and again, I saw her face, my mom's face, happily sprayed with cum. My hand strayed to my hardened cock, and I immediately snapped out of it, "What the fuck?"

I quickly jammed my keys into the ignition shaking my head. I had to get out of here. A frantic turn of the keys, a guttural roar of engine and I slammed it into reverse. Arm on the back of the seat, head looking back I went to switch my foot from the brake to the accelerator and stopped. Just passing by my tailgate were three men, and they looked like they were headed to my mom's room. I could almost hear the creak in the tendons of my neck as I followed them straight to her room, which they quickly entered.

The engine idled against my heavy boot pressed firmly against the brake, and my hardened cock throbbed against the fabric of my jeans. Cocks in all my mother's holes flashed through my mind. Images of three men roughly grabbing my mother and passing her around, laughing. Her kneeling, head working like a circus seal, mouth on one cock, hands on two others, switching back and forth, moaning. I squeezed my cock, and groaned through my teeth.

As image after image of my mom doing the sluttiest things I could imagine flowed through my brain, I put the truck in park and turned it off. The kids were long gone, and the old harmonicist had ceased playing as he nodded off into his forty. I crept out of the truck, sneakily walking across the public, well lit, parking lot, until I was at her door. I leaned my ear against the door.

"That's it bitch, take that cock," one of the men said as another followed up, "You like that don't you, whore." If I hadn't have been listening so intently, I would have missed her moan, and missed the shiver it sent down my spine to my cock. Under the spotlight of a bare bulb I leaned, ear pressed to the door, hand clenched around my cock. Every time they called her a whore she moaned, and I clamped down harder on my cock as it involuntarily throbbed. I was fixated, dangling on every sound that emanated from the room, imagination taking each moan and twisting it into some semblance of what was happening.

"On your knees, whore," one of the men said, her moan making me throb. The groan of three men soon reached my ears and I knew they were done. The image of my mother smiling up, covered in cum, played out in my fantasy. Aroused as I was, it didn't enter my brain that they were done and would soon be leaving. I almost fell inside as the door opened, three surprised faces staring at me. One of them laughed, "Here for filthy fourths?"

"Well go on," another said as they walked by. "She's a little used up, but a used hole is better than no hole."

I didn't let the door close on me this time, and entered head first. My cock instantly throbbed as I saw my mom. Naked, on her knees at the foot of the bed, thick ropes of cum all over her face and chest. Her eyes were closed as one hand rubbed her pussy, and the other trailed a finger through a tendril of cum and entered her mouth. She moaned as she sucked it off then purred, "Mmmm, are you ne-" her eyes opened, and for an instant they held a sultry hunger in them, a hunger that pressed against my jeans. Then her eyes flashed with surprise, shame, then anger. She crossed her arms over her chest, "What the fuck?"

I shut the door behind me, flipping the swing guard, and stepped closer to her. One of her arms went behind her head, frantically clutching for the sheet to cover herself. "Stop," I said, and she did, eyes wide.

"What are you doing, son?"

I walked closer until I was standing over her. Her head back, she looked at me, a glob of cum dripped from her chin to land on her arm. My cock was doing all the thinking. My cock and rage. I pulled out sixty bucks and tossed it at her, "I'm next."

"What?" Her face ovaled out into an expression of utter surprise.

"Sixty bucks, right?"

"Son," she looked at the money then glanced at my hard cock, "I'm your mother!"

I leaned down until I was inches from her face, the salty smell of spit and cum rising off her like steam. "No, you're not a mother at all. You're just a whore."

The corners of her mouth twitched upwards then dropped, "Son, I-"

"Shut-up whore," I said, and she shivered. I unzipped my pants and pulled my cock out, "Now show me how much of a whore you can be, mom."

Her eyes focused on my cock as she bit her lower lip, "I can't do-"

I grabbed her roughly by the hair and she gasped. "Whores don't speak unless spoken to. Now," I growled at her, "open that little slut mouth of yours." Slowly her mouth opened while she looked up at me like a deer in headlights, streams of cum glistening in the lamplight. "That's a good whore. Show me how much you want my cock."

Her eyes went back to that same look of hungry sultriness I had seen for but a moment. She grabbed my cock and locked eyes with me, "I want your cock so bad, son." She swallowed my head and moaned.

"What a good little cockslut you are." She sucked frantically, one hand pumping on my shaft, another rubbing away at her pussy, all the while keening out a high-pitched moan. "That's it mom, suck your son's cock like the little whore you are." Her eyes were closed, rivulets of cum rippling as she pushed her head all the way down my cock and back. "That's a good little cockwhore."

I pushed her head all the way down on my cock, feeling the rough lining of her esophagus. She gagged, her whole body spasmed, and she pushed off, "Whuuff," she gasped for air.

I slapped her, "I paid good money for you, whore. You better take this cock."

"I'm sorry, son," she purred, hand never leaving her pussy.

"Now look," I said holding up the hand I had slapped her with. "You got your little whore mess all over my hand. Clean it up, slut."

"Yes, son," she almost moaned, and eagerly licked my hand clean of every sticky drop.

"Good whore," I said and grabbed a handful of her hair with each hand, then shoved my thick cock into her mouth. I gripped tight and fucked her mouth, "You're just a little cockwhore. A hole for me to use." I jammed my cock all the way to her esophagus and spit on her face. She burbled out a happy moan, but didn't gag this time. "At least you're useful." I let her slide off my cock and catch her breath but kept hold of her hair. "Say you're a useless mother."