For Love of Mother Poor Ch. 01

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I deceive my mother into giving me affections not due a son.
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OldHatter
OldHatter
11 Followers

(In which I come into fortune, and conspire to deceive my family and bed my mother.)

My name is Bill Jacobson, and just a few short years ago I considered myself a relatively ordinary young man. For the last month, I have been regularly fucking my own mother, and she doesn't even know it! I know that sounds crazy, and to be honest, it probably is – incest alone is crazy enough, but that a guy could be fucking the woman who raised him without her knowing that it was him? You'll see.

To make sense of all this, let me first tell you a little about my family.

My mother is Janice Barnes, her maiden name, which she uses between husbands. She is the older of two daughters, raised in New Hampshire almost solely by her mother, owing to the relatively early death of her elderly husband. I don't really know much about Janice (the name she has insisted I use ever since I turned thirteen) before she was in high school, but I do know that she hit that stage of life convinced that her assets were almost entirely physical and that her goal should be the ensnarement of a rich man. Her photo albums show her hanging with a steadily older crowd until finally, at just fifteen years of age, she met and seduced James Jacobson, the decade-older scion of a moderately successful clan of car dealers. James, my father, supposedly did not know her age at first, and did not much care once she passed the age of consent (16) already pregnant with me. They were hastily wed, and with his assignment as the manager/owner of a few of the family dealerships in Massachusetts they settled into what I think they both hoped would turn into a happy marriage.

It didn't.

The years of their marriage waxed, waned, and ended before I was even into big-boy pants. It turned out that my mother did not really even want kids, she just wanted to use pregnancy and parenthood to help her snare a rich husband, unlike my father, who came from a large family and wanted the same. She hated being a mother, she hated being a housewife, and she hated being married to a man who worked long hours and expected to come home to a smiling wife, a clean house, and a hot meal. From what I have heard, they spent their time either arguing or fucking, the latter of which managed to produce my sister just 18 months after I was born. Their divorce apparently surprised nobody, but the fact that Janice fought for and got full custody of my sister and I surprised many – it took them a while to realize that she was leveraging us for more alimony. Janice took my sister, myself, and James' money and moved back to New Hampshire, near enough to her old haunts to be comfortable, but far enough to have some distance from her mother and her ex.

Of course, it did not take Janice long to realize that even her generous alimony would not pay for the lifestyle she wanted, especially with all the work of two young children, so after a couple of years she married Tom Waite, who was a nice, naïve guy who loved kids and worked from home. Tom was the closest thing to a real parent that either my sister or I ever really experienced, but once we were both in school Tom's days were numbered. He took it well, and was such a hopelessly nice guy that he did not even contest contributing more alimony to the cause of Janice's happiness.

After that came a few boyfriends, off and on. Janice liked fucking and liked money, and after Tom we were old enough to mostly (by bad parent standards) take care of ourselves, so she devoted herself to seducing all the rich and singleish men in town she could. She briefly married a douchebag named Mark, a male version of herself – shallow, sex-crazed, and interested in rich idleness – but after a while he found someone younger and prettier, escaping somehow without having to add to her financial support.

During most of this it was just me and my sister Alexi – we took care of ourselves, looked after each other, were much closer than it seemed most siblings were. Janice? She wasn't really a mom, she was just this lady who showed up every now and then to sign things, but groceries, or bang some guy late at night in her room while Alexi and I spied through the door. I didn't really think this was all that weird, or even bad, until Alexi turned 15.

That was 3 years ago, not long after Mark left. Janice suddenly started paying a lot more attention on Alexi, doting on her, buying her new clothes, taking her to parties. I am not sure if Janice wanted more introductions to the increasingly younger men she was pursuing, or if she felt that turning Alexi into her disciple would somehow validate her existence, but in just a few short months Alexi went from being my closest confidante to being, well, younger Janice. I was shocked at Alexi's conversion – we had always despised what Janice represented, and was stunned to see how much stronger was her need for parental attention. I lost her.

I had gone from being one of a pair of neglected children to being the lone outcast. Despite living in the same house, the activities of Janice and Alexi were known to me only by rumor, and my life become one of sullen solitude. My anger at Janice's continued neglect and Alexi's sudden betrayal poisoned the few other friendships I had, and in an effort to shut out the world I focused entirely on academics and the kind of art favored only by the brooding and lonely. I wrote modern jazz, and went to poetry sessions. Not proud of it now, but I did it.

Regardless, my anger bore surprising fruit. Those were my last two years of high school, and seeing sustained academic improvement and artistic bent (and not knowing my family situation), the college admissions boards apparently thought I was a hot prospect on the rise. I was accepted into several universities, even a couple of great ones, leading to one of my few real attempts to get something out of Janice – money. It was hopeless. Her alimony was going to go down when I graduated high school, and she sure was not going to spend party money on my tuition when some cow college in the Midwest was willing to give me a full ride. Unable to move Janice to generosity, and unwilling to join the military, I took the best path out of town and went West.

My first semester at college sucked. Away from the constant source of anger that was my family, I lost much of my passion, and somewhat bereft of social skills I had trouble fitting in with my peers. I wound up hanging around with a band of high-achieving misfits, the kind who drank a little, smoked a lot, and tried just hard enough to remain in that academic band that showed you were smart but not a nerd (at least not to each other). It was not fun, it was just coping, self-medicating with a group of people who thought depression meant you were deep, and among whom I was the deepest of all. Neither Janice nor Alexi ever visited, or called, or wrote, and I was constantly unsure how I felt about that. By going to college, it was like I had ceased to exist for them.

I lost my virginity with Carol, the first of the several random stoned hookups that characterized that group's attempts to balance lust with apathy. None of them worked out. Even in that group I stood out as off-kilter, and none of them wanted to get too close to me. Loveless, depressed, tolerated only by the intolerable, God only knows where I would have wound up if not for my 18th birthday.

See, the misfits had a tradition for birthdays that you had to follow – whatever that new year let you do, you had to go do it (unless it was permanent and uncool), just so you could show how you yourself were unchanged and thereby prove that the milestone was meaningless. At eighteen, this meant you had to get a tattoo, and buy cigarettes, and gamble, and do a few other things that sounded cool when you were younger. My tattoo was the grim reaper on my shoulder (stolen subconsciously, I now realize, from Airheads), and I was amazed at how much I actually enjoyed the pain. The cigarettes were Camel non-filters, and tasted like ass – I mostly smoked pot, being more interested in the high than in the cancer. And my gambling, out in the flat, corn-saturated, casino-bereft vicinity of my school, was a handful of lottery tickets. Whoop-de-fucking-woo, was I ever an ironic adult badass.

But I won. One of the tickets I had bought was a quick-pick for the state lottery, and I was the sole winner, twelve million dollars as a lump sum after taxes. I didn't even realize it until the semester ended – I was packing to go back to the old homestead when I found it at the bottom of my laundry bag and decided to check the numbers. In the era of half-billion dollar multi-state lotteries it barely made the news in the state, and certainly never made it all the way back to where Janice and Alexi were slutting it up with the finest in douchebags, but I was rich nonetheless. It was shocking.

I convinced some of the misfits to hang out for a week while the paperwork went through, and then treated them all to a weeklong party. It wasn't fun, but it was trying desperately to be, and I was not surprised when they gradually wandered off, one by one, back to the families that they claimed to disdain. My roommate Josh was the last one to leave, something that I think he planned out. His father (who apparently was a really nice guy, despite Josh's professed emotional distance) was a lawyer, and Josh talked to him and got the name of a good financial guy in the area who could help me to control the money, keep it from killing me, or turning me into something even lower than I already was. Probably the only thing that kept me from dying in a bad drug deal before I hit thirty.

"So what do you want to do, son?" He asked me.

"What do you mean? Like stocks and sh... stuff? I don't know anything about that, I'm going to be a philosophy major, I'll do whatever you think is best here!" It was hard to censor myself, but swearing in front of him seemed childish somehow – I wasn't sure I could do it right.

"No no, I can make the money dance, but I need to know the tune. You've got millions – not enough to rule the world, but enough to at least try just about anything else you want. You could start a business, live in high comfort without work, give it all to charity – until I know what you want to do, I can't tell you where to put the money."

"Shit, man. Sorry, I mean, I'm not really sure! Can I just sort of, you know, cruise for a while, then decide? How would it work, anyway?"

"Well, we can set aside some money for immediate use, put some into short-term instruments that we can access quickly if we need to, put the rest into some riskier, long-term markets. I usually tell my clients to figure a sustained 5% return, adjusted for inflation and after taxes, in perpetuity on whatever you invest – the actual rate of return will vary, but it is convenient to have a number to plan around, and that number has been safe even in tough economies. As long as you give me a little time, and don't spend too much too fast, I can work around whatever plans you come up with. So how about you keep two million out, buy a car, a house, maybe see the world, and we invest the other ten. That'll give you about half a million a year in steady income while you decide this one thing – what do you most want in your life, and what money do you need to do it?"

This occupied me for a few weeks. I didn't do what I figure most people would have – no Vegas, no Riviera, not even a trip out of town. I sat in a cheap local motel, and stared at the ceiling.

What did I want? I batted around dozens of ideas, business, art, all of it was just stuff, it wouldn't make me happy. So what would? Why wasn't I happy now? Janice, that's why. And that's what I really wanted - I wanted the attention and love of the only parent I really knew, the attention and love that had been denied to me all my life!

Okay, a starting point. But how? I mean, I had a ton of money, but I could not just show up at home with a ton of money and expect Janice to love me. I couldn't force her into therapy (and would hate it if I could!), and wouldn't recognize her maternal love even if I saw it. She would probably just hang around me, use me for my money, but the only people who ever got her full attention were the rich studs who she was banging. That was the closest to love I had ever seen her give. Okay, so I would sleep with Janice.

Damn, that was a weird place to end up. Made me stop staring at the ceiling, sit up, and start staring at the wall.

Some part of my brain knew I should be disgusted with the idea, but I wasn't – she was Janice, and while that also meant she was my mom, we never really had that kind of closeness, and she had never really instilled in me the kind of moral code that most people took for granted. It made sense, to me at least. I could try and change her, but then she would be some different person, and I didn't want some different person to love me, I wanted HER to love me. And the only kind of love I had ever seen her show was to men who fucked her silly and spoiled her rotten.

"I think I'm okay with that." I spoke to the wall, but it was like an oath. From that point on, it was just planning.

To get her love, I needed her to be her, and that meant that I could not be me. What would that mean? Well, I would need to look different, and act different, and be in a different place than I was now. All of that was possible, even legal, and a fake ID should be enough to complete the illusion without risking jail time. I spent a week planning, surfing the internet, making phone calls. And already, I realized I was happy.

I would need to live nearer to Janice, but I wanted to stay a college student, as graduating (eventually) was important to me, a way to show that I was her superior. Her house, my childhood home, was practically next door to Dartmouth College, so I contacted the admissions department. Between my excellent high school performance, my better-than-average work at cow college, and the observation that I would pay my own way without scholarship or aid (and possibly donate much more as an alum!), they agreed to admit me starting the following fall. It would be under my own name, but that would be easy enough to hide, I thought. She never paid attention to me before, I could not imagine she would start searching the rolls for either my real name or whichever false name I assumed.

As soon as that was set up, I boarded a plane for Europe. Legal identity notwithstanding, I needed to look, talk, and act like someone else for my plan to work, and Europe offered the right array of quality services without being easy to trace. I forked over hundreds of thousands for very high-quality plastic surgery, designed to make me look a little better, but mostly just different – my chin, my cheekbones, my teeth, the surgeons found small changes that made me look completely unlike the depressed boy who had left for (and was presumably still attending) that cow college in the Midwest. Any distinguishing marks were removed – old scars, distinctive moles, things like that – were removed, and where possible new ones were added. They even had a way to change my voice a little.

The next six months were hard work, as I tried to make a new body and new personality to match my new (if slowly healing) face. I worked with a nutritionist and personal trainer to put some muscle on my poetically-thin frame. I spent hours a week with acting and lifestyle coaches, learning how to create and improvise within a character, even in the real world. There were other instructors, people who taught me to handle myself in a fight, dance and drink, drive a car or motorcycle with confidence, and have all those other little skills I thought I might need to impress Janice. Perhaps most importantly, I visited a number of high-class prostitutes, to develop the sexual confidence and skills I thought I might need to seduce Janice. My mother.

I had a little trouble at the airport on my return – I had to show them the records of my surgery before they believed it was really me on my passport. Had not expected that.

I arrived back in New Hampshire with a few more things to do. I bought a nice one-bedroom condo near my new school and near the local clubs, and bought a new car – a Mercedes CL63 AMG, luxurious enough to impress, no back seat to suggest a family, hardy enough to survive a NH winter. And a Ford pick-up truck, just in case it wasn't. I got a minimum of expensive and stylish furnishings, and a few decorative touches that seemed in line with my new persona. Finally, I topped it all off with a fake ID showing my new face, a California address, a 21-year-old's birthday, and the name "Jerod Douglas" - made convincing by the fact that the guy who made it makes thousands of real ones a week (albeit without the thousand dollar surcharge he required for this one).

I was ready.

It did not take long to find her. There were only a couple of clubs in town "nice" (i.e. expensive) enough to make for good trawling territory for Janice. I found her on the first Friday, swirling in wearing about half a dress and clearly already enjoying at least a light buzz. It was hard not to stare. Looking at her now, as a sexual object, it was hard not to consider her hot. She was lean where she should be lean, curved where she should be curved, and I knew that it was all genuine and natural. Her blonde hair was styled, her make-up minimal but still somehow both elegant and trashy. There were other women who might match her in some individual aspects, but overall she clearly owned the room. She moved seductively, confidently, scanned the room like a predator.

Caught me looking.

My breath stopped – for a moment, there was sheer panic, conviction that this plan could never work, but there was no recognition in Janice's eyes. She paused for second, broadened her smile a little bit, a small suggestion that she was available and not unattracted, and then she continued her evaluation of the room. I breathed out.

"Careful there, buddy. She's dangerous!" I had made a point of talking to and generously tipping the bartenders wherever I had gone in town, and it paid off.

"She's in here a lot, I've seen her walk out with a lot of guys, most of them come back a little poorer and a little pissed off."

"Why? She a thief?" I was curious how Janice was seen in her own world.

"Naw, nothing like that. Easy, supposedly a lot of fun, but expensive. Or so I hear. She likes guys who buy her stuff, but when the money gets thin she finds someone new."

"Aren't I a little young for her? She's what, 30?"

"Older than that, I think she has kids in high school, but I don't think she cares about age as much as she cares about money. Besides..." He gestured around the bar, "this is not that big a town. How many guys you think we have, can afford a woman like that?"

"Thanks for the warning. " I couldn't help but to smile. "Sounds like just my type, but I gotta go – see you tomorrow!"

I slid a fifty across the bar, tossed down the rest of my drink, and walked to the door. I had parked the Mercedes right out front, to make sure she saw it. A quick glance back showed her face in the bar window, watching. Perfect.

The next night, I was back. The place was mostly a dance club, but there were a couple of pool tables set up off in one large corner. I put my name on the board for the next game at one of them, and started to talk to people, casually. I didn't brag about my money, but I bought drinks for the people I played against and with, men and women both, and before too long was at the center of a happy group of stylish (for the area, at least) young men and women. I kept a subtle eye towards the bar, where yesterday's bartender was again pouring drinks, and was rewarded when he caught my eye, and nodded his head towards the dance floor.

OldHatter
OldHatter
11 Followers
12