A drunk driver took out my old man when I was 14 and my little sister was 12. Mother worked a succession of low-paying jobs to keep the rent paid on our trailer in a seedy trailer park outside a small town in Georgia, not too far from Atlanta. I had to take part-time jobs to keep food on the table and clothes on our backs. We never really starved, but money was always tight. While we never did without necessities, we seldom had many luxuries. Ma always seemed to have a few more things than we did, but she was the adult. And she worked late a lot, leaving my kid sister and me alone to fend for ourselves. But Ma could come through if something came up that was really necessary. As soon as I graduated from high school, I went to work full time to help send my sister to college. I tried not to resent that too much. It was simple economics. I could earn more, and the plan was for her to finish college, and then she'd help me.
It wasn't until a couple of months ago that I realized just how Ma could turn up that extra cash so readily in a pinch. It's funny how things turn out.
Ma is a statuesque woman in her late forties, though she could easily pass for five to ten years younger than that. She has rich red hair (and the temper to match), and green eyes that often sparkle with laughter and a shrewd intelligence. When she works as a waitress she makes good tips, sometimes even a little more if she doesn't complain about the occasional pinch to the bottom. She's a bit on the tall side standing over five-eight in her bare feet. She weighs about a hundred forty to a hundred fifty, with that distributed nicely in her delicious curves, generous ass, and shapely long legs. Ma is what is called a "looker" in out part of the country.
My sister is nineteen, and almost the physical opposite of Ma. Sharon is slender with smallish boobs and a tiny waist. Her face is pretty, with lips that seem to be in a perpetual sensuous pout. Her hair is more brown, but with reddish highlights. She's a lovely little fox, and damn well knows it.
As for me, at twenty-one, I'm over six feet tall, weighing in at about two hundred to two twenty with no fat. I played fullback in high school, and my job in construction keeps me in pretty good shape. My belly is flat, and my arms and legs are heavily muscled from long hours of hard labor. My hair is close cropped, and my face is more square compared to the softer oval faces of my mother and sister.
It was a hot sultry Friday evening. I'd been working with a crew putting a new tin roof on an old warehouse. A sudden rain shower came up, and we were called down to wait it out. But as the rain fell steadily, the foreman shrugged and told us to take the rest of the day off. I thought I'd have a few hours to kick back, knock off a few brews, and maybe pick up a girl with more tits than virtue if I was lucky. Last summer, several new businesses were relocating to our town, and they needed either new buildings or serious remodeling of existing structures, so I had more work than I could handle. I was tired a great deal of the time, but the money was too good to pass up.
The honky-tonk bar was busy, but not too busy as the rain apparently put a damper on business. The women were either married or with their boy friends and I was too tired to get into a fight over any of them. So I ate some fried chicken, had a few beers, and played the jukebox before deciding to head home. I was pleasantly tired and had a decent buzz on, but I wasn't drunk.
There were a number of cars and trucks parked on the road we lived on, but I found a place, and strode through the rain to my place, and slipped the key into the door that opened into the kitchen. I kicked my muddy work boots off just inside the door, and pulled a beer from the fridge and sat down at the table and lit a smoke.
I was startled when a man came out of the hall, tucking his flannel shirt into the waistband of his jeans. He saw me, and grinned sheepishly.
"Oh, sorry," he said with a sly grin. "Don't mind me, I'm just on the way out. You may want to give her a minute before you go back, though." I didn't know what to say. I'd never seen him before, but that didn't seem to phase him. He took a jacket off the back of a kitchen chair that I'd failed to notice and slipped into it. "Unless you like sloppy seconds, I mean." He chuckled. "She didn't tell me she had somebody after me. You must be a little early."
"Enjoy yourself," he said letting himself out of the door. I caught a whiff of whiskey as he went by.
I sat for a minute trying to figure out who the hell he was and what the hell he was doing here. I got up and went down the hall towards the bedrooms making no noise in my stocking feet. I noticed the door to my mother's room was open. I peeked in.
The only light came from a dim night-light. Ma was lying naked on her stomach across the rumpled bed. A bottle of good whiskey sat next to an ashtray with a cigarette butt still moldering in it on the bedside table. The air was ripe with stale smoke and the musky aroma of sex. Ma's legs were slightly parted. An opaque trickle oozed from the moist lips of her labia under the smooth rounded globes of her ass. Ma stirred languidly, turning her head on the wrinkled pillows.
Then I noticed a crisp new fifty-dollar bill under the ashtray.
"Forget somethin', sugar?" Ma's contralto voice was slurred and muted. "Just get it and go, honey. You gave me quite a ride, and I'm sleepy."
"You bitch," I hissed, fury coiling in my gut like a cold fist. "You goddam bitch!"
Ma turned and opened her eyes. Obviously she'd been drinking, and it was taking a moment or so for her to grasp that her "guest" had left.
"Tommy?" she said with a puzzled expression. "Tommy, is that you? What time is it, baby?"
She fumbled for the clock on the bedside table. I strode into the room, and grabbed her wrist.
"Just what is this scene, Ma?" I shouted. I've got a strong grip, and I was squeezing her wrist tightly. "Just what the fuck is going on here?"
I rolled her over on her back. Her generous breasts were taut and firm, and her bush was neatly trimmed. In spite of my rage, and in spite of the fact that this was my mother, I felt a stirring in my own loins.
"Tommy, you're hurting me," fear made her voice soft, urgent. She looked up at me wide-eyed. She tried to cover her mound with her free hand. This close to the bed, the smell of sex and cum was stronger. It fueled my rage, and in some strange way, her look of fear and embarrassment added to my own unnatural arousal. She tried to pull away from me, but I pressed her back down with the wrist I was holding and with my other hand on her shoulder, kneeling on the mattress over her. "If you'll just let me explain, baby . . . "
"Explain?" I shouted. "Explain? Explain how you're fucking while I'm out beating my brains out to keep us from getting thrown out of this dump? Explain why I can't date like a normal guy because I give all my money to you for food and bills that you run up? What are you going to explain to me, you fucking bitch? All right," I said, snatching the bill from under the ashtray and waving it in her face. "Explain this! What did this buy that guy, Ma? A quickie? A few grunts while he poked you? Or did you let him go down on you?" A sudden idea, terrible in its suddenness and yet fitting in its terribleness, came to me.
"No," I said. "I bet he just come in here, plunks down his money, and climbs aboard," I balled the bill up in my fist and threw it across the room. I pulled out my wallet, and pulled out all the bills. "Well, look what I got, Ma."
I fanned the currency in front of her face. "Two weeks pay, less three beers and a fried chicken platter down at the diner." I was kneeling across her, holding her down. She was trying to struggle, and Ma's a big woman. But I am bigger and stronger, and I was furious. "Over seven hundred dollars," I hissed. "And every other Friday, I walk in here and just hand it over. I give you every goddamned dime, except my gas and cigarette money."
