Mother's Web

Boyd blew on Brenda's back, between her shoulder blades, and was rewarded with a sigh. He'd set this Christmas Eve up with a purpose. Just the lights on the Christmas tree next to the fireplace. A fire in the fireplace. A plush, soft Flokata rug he'd pulled out of the attic and laid in front the fireplace, and last, but definitely not least, a naked Brenda, who he also laid out on the Flokata rug and was working up to laying.

He too was naked. They were both on their sides, her rump nestled into his groin. He knew she could feel the intent—the need—of him, and she'd gone all soft and purry. His arm was lifted up to her head, the fingers of his hands running through her luxurious strawberry-blonde curls. The color, the texture, the curls—that it flowed free to below her shoulders—all a fetish with him. He used his hand to coax her left leg to bend and to be supported on her foot, buried in the nap of the rug. The hand then glided between her thighs and cupped her maidenhood. His fingers played momentarily in the curls of her pubic hair, as strawberry-blonde as elsewhere. Her deep sighing aroused him; the feel of the hardening of his cock pressed into her thigh aroused her. Arousal for them both spiraling up.

"Red," she murmured—all of Boyd's close friends called him Red. "Fuck me, honey."

"Soon," he whispered, as his fingers began to move, the middle finger sliding through the folds to find and rub the clit, his thumb to lodge just inside the opening into her cunt and start a flicker motion.

"Oh, Red, oh Red. Yes. Give it to me . . . but be gentle, be careful."

"Yes, I'll be careful." he gently moved her to her back, rolled to below her, laced his arms through her bent legs and spread them, palmed the roundness of her belly, and buried his face in the core of her, feasting on and gloriously torturing her cunt and clit with his lips and tongue and teeth, while she covered his hands with hers, emitted little yipping sounds, arched her back, and babbled of the pleasure he was giving her.

"Now, now, fuck me now," she whimpered.

But he sucked and licked and nibbled on.

"Oh, oh, I'm going to . . ."

And then she did, collapsing and moaning. He moved back up, stretched behind her, placed his lips in the hollow of her neck, positioned the bulb of his cock at her cunt opening, and gently entered her . . . and entered her . . . and entered her. And began a slow movement of his hips, which was joined by her own pushes back.

"That was so nice, Red," she murmured as they were cooling down, still in the back to front embrace, Boyd still inside her. "But you want to tell me something. I know you do. All of this. The fire, this rug, the attention, the worried look you've been carrying around for days."

"It's the bank," he blurted out. He'd been building up to it for days. He told her he'd take care of her. She'd trusted him and had come to him right out of high school, glad to be away from a home life she'd thought oppressive, sour, condemning. He'd been fucking her since her eighteenth birthday.

"They're going to foreclose on the store?" she asked, taking a logical guess.

"And the house too—unless I can come up with some cash."

It wasn't all Boyd's fault. He was a good worker. He'd really done well to be just a year out of junior college. But the fault was the season. He hadn't counted on winter. The ice cream shop he'd opened in Onancock, a picturesque tourist-attraction fishing village on the Chesapeake Bay side of Virginia's Eastern, had done well in the spring and early fall and great guns in the summer. But business had gone dead the 1st of November. It was Christmas Eve now. They'd need a cash infusion to save the business and the house. If he could do that, he'd just plan better next year to even the expenses out over the year. If he couldn't do that . . . well, he didn't want to contemplate that possibility.

"I could go back to work at the restaurant," Brenda whispered.

"None of that, not now," Boyd answered, embracing her and rocking their bodies gently against each other. His hand glided down to her belly. One of hers already was there, and he covered her hand with his, their fingers interlacing.

She'd come to him as soon as she could and he needed to protect her and cherish her. They had withdrawn to this isolated, hard to get to unless you were purposely vacationing village on the remote eastern Virginia shore just so they could live the life they wanted in peace and without hassle. They weren't married, and couldn't be. There was no reason for anyone in Onancock to know that. He had to think of some way to save them. It was just a slight miscalculation. He wouldn't make it again. They could survive this. He had a plan. But he knew Brenda wouldn't like it.

"I have a plan."

"How much money do we need?"

"$10,000 will do it—get us to spring, when the tourists start arriving again. Then I'll smooth the expenses out. This won't happen again."

"A plan? What sort of . . . not Amelia. You aren't planning to get it from Amelia?"

"It would just be this one time. Don't cry, honey. Oh, please don't cry." She was shuddering in his embrace and he knew she was crying. He settled her down with kisses and by gliding his hands over her voluptuous body. Barely nineteen and she had a curvy, sensuous body of an older, riper woman. She glowed with happiness. And the strawberry-blonde hair. That drove him crazy.

Amelia. His mother. That would always be the sticking point. But it need be just this one time. He'd make sure it didn't need to happen again—and neither one of them would ever have to see the woman again.

"It's just this one time, Brenda, honey."

"Have you asked her?"

"I've said I was coming home and had something to ask her. Nothing more at this point."

"So, when . . .?"

"I'm going up to Philly on Sunday. I'll come home the 2nd or 3rd at the latest, after New Year's. There may be something that has to be done at the bank. Then I'll be home, I promise."

"You promise? You know Amelia and her web."

"Yes, I promise."

Brenda clung to him as if she didn't believe that Amelia would let him out of her web, would let him come home to Brenda. Such was her fear and need to hold onto him that she rolled him onto his back, mounted his cock, and fucked herself on the staff, pressing his waist close on each side with her knees, pressing down on his pecs with the palm of her hands, as if she was staking him to the ground—her ground. Not Amelia's web.

* * * *

Boyd timed his arrival at his mother's for after 9:00 p.m. He could claim fatigue and go straight to his room, thus avoiding the pitfalls of being in the vicinity and clutches of his mother for one of the nights he was here.

As he drove into the subtle street and residence lighting of the exclusive Bryn Mawr East suburb of Philadelphia, he felt his chest start to constrict. It was a very nice neighborhood. And as rich as Croesus. Most American would think that they'd died and gone to heaven for the chance to live here. It was something else for Boyd, though. He felt his mother's web start to come up over the tops of the big mansions and wave the ends of its sticky strands at his car—the Mustang his mother had bought for him and that Brenda was begging him to get rid of in favor of a small SUV.

Boyd wasn't stupid. He knew that much of his issue with his mother and her hold on him was his own fault. He was weak. She was strong.

He somehow needed to stronger between now and the new year.

She met him at the door, decked out in a white linen pants suit. Somehow she wasn't made for white, even though it looked good on her.

"You're answering your own door," Boyd said. "Where's Theo?"

"I've given Theo and Margaret the week off."

Boyd's antenna went up. It was generous, of course, for an employee to give household staff a week off, especially between Christmas and New Year's. But Amelia was not the generous type. And she was having company—him. Why would she . . . unless she wanted them to be alone. Was she planning to yell the house down while he was here to unleash her fury that he had left—and more?

She remained in the doorway, subtly blocking his access, unless he touched her in brushing by. Touching her was the very last thing he wanted to do. The strands of that webbing floated in his brain. He sensed that just touching her might lose the battle for him.

She asked three questions before she turned aside and let him enter. "Are you still with Brenda?"

"Yes, mother, I'm still with Brenda. If we are going there, I'll just return to the car and leave. Is that what you want?"

She didn't answer that. She moved on to the second question. "Are you here because you need money?"

Boyd sighed. If she wouldn't consider giving him money, he might as well know it now and head back to the Eastern Shore.

"Yes. But just because the business is in a temporary bind I didn't foresee. It won't happen again."

"I don't want to know what you need it for." This didn't really surprise Boyd. He knew that his mother was fine with manipulating him through finances—that what he spent money on meant far less to her than that he was dependent on her for the money. "How much do you need?"

"Just $20,000. And I'm sure I'd be able to pay it back at the end of the summer. I got caught—"

"Come on through. You can take your suitcase to your room. It's still your room. It always will be. And then come down to den for a nightcap."

He watched both her shapely, rolling rump when she'd turned and walked into the depths of a foyer that was larger than the ground floor of Brenda and his house in Onancock. And he looked at the back of her head. She'd let her hair go natural again. That enticing strawberry-blonde, the hair cascading down to her shoulder in fluffy swirls. The last time he'd seen her she'd dyed it a darker shade of auburn. The last time he'd seen her, she was using every signal she could to express her outrage at the choices he'd made.

He couldn't help himself. He felt himself going hard. Mercifully, though, they split off from one another at the bottom of the stairs, Amelia to the dark hinterlands of the vast mansion and Boyd up the stairs to his old room.

He found her in the den, mixing drinks at the bar, when he came down.

"There's a tuxedo laid out on the bed in my room."

"Yes. You'll be escorting me to the New Year's Eve ball at the Ritz-Carlton. I want to show you off."

"I still have a tux . . . back in Onancock. You could have told me and I would have brought it."

"It won't have been from this season. I want to show you off at your best."

"But the sizing."

"I know your size. I know everything there is to know about your body." The statement came out almost in a hiss, the start of the war. But then the volcano subsided. "If something doesn't fit, we have three days to rectify that."

Three days. Three long days, Boyd thought. How would he survive in this web for three long days?

"As I remember, you take your Manhattan on the rocks," she said. She'd taken the jacket of her pants suit off to show a lacy, tight-fitting blouse that he almost would have believed was lingerie. yes, mother, you have very good tits, he thought, with more than a touch of bitterness.

"Thank you, Mother. But it's late and I had a difficult drive. I think I'll turn in early, if you don't mind. I'll try on the tux to make sure it fits."

"Suit yourself," she said, lifting a glass to her lips and then taking it away with a dramatic sweep of her arm and striking a Bette Davis pose, the glass lifted at shoulder height and jiggled a bit to create music with the ice. She was licking her scarlet-red lips and giving him the coquettish eye treatment. If he wasn't going to consider her age, she sure as hell wasn't going to bring the image up. As it was, she looked more like the older sister he didn't have than his mother.

Three days, he thought, as he climbed the stairs, the basket of his trousers feeling the constriction. Shit, no, probably five days, if she's got to have time to pull the money out of the bank.

* * * *

Boyd had a hard time getting to sleep and then staying asleep. When he drifted off into a dream concerning what was plaguing his mind, he forced himself awake again. He had promised himself he wouldn't go there, wouldn't get trapped in the web. But every dream started with him between his mother's legs.

Yet, when he opened his eyes, invariably he was looking at the connecting door into his mother's room. Six bedrooms in this house, and his bedroom had always been right next to his mother's room, with a connecting door that had been open for years. It wasn't open now. He'd closed and locked it from his side. His sister's room had been at the other end of the house.

There hadn't been a father since Boyd had been a toddler. The father had died young and unexpectedly, unexpectedly enough that he'd made no separate provisions for his two children. Amelia had inherited everything, which was a lot, and she'd held it close to her with her claws, only doling out money that gave her a satisfactory return and a victory trophy.

He finally gave up, rose from the bed, and padded down to the kitchen, barefoot and wearing only the loose lounging pants he normally slept in. He made a pot of coffee, found Amelia's kitchen pack of cigarettes and matches and an ashtray, and sat, his side to the kitchen table, his eyes roving around the expansive, lit back garden with a pool and gazebo and the over a hundred azalea bushes his mother was so proud of. Settled in the chair, he drank coffee, smoked cigarettes, and thought thoughts of wanting to be away from here as soon as possible.

Big mistake to have come down to the kitchen at all.

"Couldn't sleep?"

She looked terrific, he was frustrated to acknowledge. Wearing a negligee and panties and might as well not have been there—he bet she was doing that on purpose. Her body was voluptuous, her breasts, as he well knew, a real handful. Her nipples taut. The curls of her pubes showing through the panties. He knew they were strawberry-blonde as well.

"No, I couldn't sleep. This money thing is weighing me down." He'd stay on point, if he could. Of course, Amelia, again, as he well knew, had her own point to stay on.

It had been a mistake to come here. He should have found another way—any way other than this. But with Brenda now, there had to have been some way. He'd just do what he had to do. If it was an inclination he couldn't fight, then so be it.

Already he was weakening. He just had to try not to show Amelia he was.

"I could help you go to sleep," she said, giving him "that look."

"Then you've decided to give me the money?" He knew that wasn't what she was suggesting, but his mind was fighting it. Stay on point, jackass. You knew you shouldn't have come here. Brenda knew. She begged you not to.

She gave him a sour look. "Those my cigarettes?"

"Sure. Want one?" He handed the pack out toward her, but immediately pulled his hand back and dropped the pack on the table. He wouldn't put it past her to touch his hand while taking the pack.

"Maybe later." She came behind him, put her hands on his shoulders, and began to massage his shoulders and neck muscles. "Maybe all you need, honey, is to work those muscles out."

The thought entered his mind that she had one muscle of his in her mind in particular and, indeed, the rubbing at his shoulders, his peripheral visit being able to take in the movement of her long, bright-red-painted nails—claws, really—was having an effect below his waist.

"Mother, don't. We shouldn't . . . we can't . . ." This is how it often had started in the past—a shoulder rub. Coming home from a high school football game when he was a senior, euphoric because his team had won, but sore all over from the rough play.

She snorted, slapped him on one of his shoulders, and marched out of the room.

Was it really going to be that easy? No, it wasn't. She was back shortly, carrying two stacks of money, which she slapped down on the kitchen table. She gave him a searching look and must have seen what she wanted to see, because she returned to behind him and went back to rubbing his shoulders.

Her hands came down onto his pecs and her lips to top of his head. With his downward peripheral vision he again could see the long, red fingernails scratching on his breast, rubbing and pinching at his nipples. He couldn't hold in the groan.

"Mother," he whispered.

"The money is there on the table. You have to earn it."

"Mother," he repeated. But not even he knew what we intended that to convey. Amelia didn't pay any attention anyway. Her lips were travel down the side of his face, kissing his ear, his cheek. The hands glided on down from his pecs, down his abs, reaching far enough that the fingernail tips pressed just below the waistband of his sleeping pants where his hips joined his groin. He shuddered, feeling undressed.

"Mommy," he whispered. She gave a little laugh, knowing she had him now. He knew it too, and he turned his face to hers. They kissed, hungrily. Her hands were back on his pecs, her fingernails working his nipples.

"My sweet little boy," she cooed as they came out of the kiss.

"Yes," he answered in a small voice.

"Just like old times."

"Yes."

"Are you hard for Mommy?"

"Yes."

"Mommy's going to suck you big now."

"Yes." It came out as a moan.

"Then I'm going to . . ."

"I'll have to go to my room. We'll need a—"

"Don't worry. No need. Mommy will take care of everything." She came around in front of him, knelt between his spread legs, pulled his cock out of the fly of his lounging pants, muttering, "Oh, sweet Jesus, Boyd baby's already huge for Mommy," slid her lips down the cock, and began to suck.

Boyd, arms dangling at his side, lay back in the chair, letting her have her way with him. One part of his mind was there, returning to and reveling in old times. The other part of his mind was denying this was happening, insisting he had managed to stay out of her enveloping web. That he hadn't lost control—although he obviously had.

She stood, untied the laces of her negligee top, and tossed it on the floor, to be followed by her panties. She moved in over Boyd's lap, encircling his head in her arms and forcing his face down into her breasts, where he suckled her teats like a baby. His arms no longer were pretending to be elsewhere. He clasped her buttocks and kneaded and rolled and separated them. He positioned the head of his cock at her cunt entrance, but it was Amelia who sank on the staff and then rose and sank again, rose and sank, rose and sank.

When he ejaculated, they held for a few minutes. He was whimpering, Amelia taking that as a return to the controlled pleasures of his earlier life in the house, but Boyd knowing that it was frustration and disappointment in himself on how easily he had given in.

"Come upstairs now, baby. Come to Mommy's room, and be a man for Mommy all night."

He fucked her bent over the foot of the master bed, palming her belly with one hand, and gripping her cascade of strawberry-blonde hair and brutally arching her body back at him with the other. She laughed at the roughness and strength of his thrusts.

On the bed, stretched out against each other, spent, if only momentarily, Amelia whispered. "I only gave you half what you asked for. There's a condition for receiving the other half."

Boyd sighed. He was accustomed to his mother's control games. "What is it, Mother? What's the condition?" Something inside him told him he already knew, though.

"You must leave Brenda. Come back and stay here whenever your business allows. But don't bring Brenda with you. Don't see her again."

Boyd rolled over to the side of the bed and stood up. He swept a hand down to retrieve his lounge pants and jerk them back up his legs. She's seen enough of me for tonight, he screamed in his head. "Goodnight, Amelia," he said, and stormed out of the room.