I never asked for it

I never asked for what has happened to me in the last few days; but maybe I should have?

I grew up in a strict household. From Monday to Friday, I went to school, while Mom did her "duties" as a housewife and Dad was the branch manager of our local bank. I came home from school and then had to sit in my room until my homework was finished. Mom prepared dinner until Dad came home.

Then Dad poured his usual Scotch, and then we ate as a family. Wednesdays and Sundays were reserved for church. Dad was working to replace the current pastor, so most of his free time was taken up with that and not with his son.

Mom wasn't exactly a saint herself. Her day mostly consisted of getting up, having a glass of her "special grape juice," making sure I was dressed to her satisfaction, pouring herself another, watching Good Morning America, pouring herself another, taking a nap, having another glass, cleaning up after dinner, and having the last glass before Dad came home. As you can see, the local liquor store could thank my family for the monthly rent.

I always wanted to see myself as a typical only child. Not quite "normal," but for the most part, I had everything under control. I had good grades, I had already chosen a college, I had a summer job at the local diner,
which allowed me a little freedom outside the house; when I was allowed to go out.

I never had a girlfriend or any boyfriend at all in high school.

I always considered myself a loner, or a loner, which always sounded cooler. My father called me "some kind of wimp" or "one of those girly-boys." He told me, "Get yourself a girlfriend before the boys start calling you gay."

Which brings us to our next dilemma: I think I'm gay. Well, maybe not entirely, but I do like some girls, or at least I think I do. This battle has been raging in my head for as long as I can remember. I saw some boys at school and couldn't help but imagine what their penises would look like under the red sports shorts we had to wear.

Then I saw some girls from my school days and really wanted to see their breasts. They were sitting in front of me in class, their thongs barely visible above their low-cut jeans. I got butterflies in my stomach and started imagining the bodies beneath those jeans.

This tug-of-war continues to this day.

The beginning of those three days was like any other. I showered, ate a small breakfast, and then went back to my room to start packing for college. Mom was already on her second glass of grape juice when I came downstairs with a packed box full of knick-knacks to decorate my dorm.

"How far along are you?" asked Mom, who was sitting on the sofa in front of the television. Her voice wasn't completely indistinct yet, but her words seemed to be getting denser.

I placed the box next to the front door. "Most small things are..."

She interrupted me. “We told you to have everything packed by tonight. If you'd maybe stop playing video games, you'd already be done. Your father and I have worked hard to teach you what it means to be an adult, and you still don't seem to get it.”

Come on, pack your stuff and don't leave your room until you're finished." 

I want to say that her reaction surprised me, but to be honest, I wasn't. Mom usually has a certain sharpness to her palate that doesn't soften, but only gets sharper the more she drinks.

“Yes, Mom,” I said, turning away from the box I had just sat down on and going back to my room.

I closed the door behind me. My room was empty, like a prison cell, except for the boxes my father had brought home from work, containing all the things that had ever meant anything to me. My bed was still a single bed, covered with the quilt my grandmother had made for me when I was only seven.

I sat down on the blanket, not angry about the interaction with my mother, but rather indifferent. These interactions with my parents were normal, so the feelings of having let them down faded around the same time I got the blanket I was now sitting on. The only thing that ever got me through my parents' mental Olympics, or at least lessened them, was touching myself. Usually, I'd open something on my computer, jerk off, and then realize with absolute clarity that the Olympics could start up again at any moment. The five minutes it took me to get my penis out and ejaculate were my only escape from what my life had ultimately become.

The lock on my door was removed a few years ago. My parents weren't stupid; they knew I was getting to the age where Hot Wheels and action figures were being replaced by the toys I'd been given at birth. My ears were attuned to footsteps in the hallway, and that was always my protection against someone coming in and seeing something they might not want to see. Today was no different, or so I thought.

I went through my usual routine to prepare for a successful masturbation session. I dropped my pants and underwear and laid them next to me on the bed, in case I needed to get dressed quickly afterward. I lay down on my blanket, closed my eyes, and fantasized about every kind of porn that came to mind. (I was getting damn good at it.) I put my hand around my still-limp penis and started moving it to make it hard.

In my fantasy, I was walking down a cobblestone street in ancient Rome. The smell of bread and excrement felt as real as the stone buildings lining the street. People were going about their daily business when a young, olive-skinned Roman man approached me. His tunic only partially covered his long penis. I looked at him, then back up at him.

I briefly opened my eyes, looked away from Rome, and examined my penis, which had reached its final hardness of 15.5 cm. I closed my eyes again.

The young Roman and I were now inside his small stone house. He pulled his tunic over his shoulders and then let it fall to the floor to show me the complete package he was working with. He gestured for me to turn around and then said something in what he thought was Latin. I did as he said and placed my hands on the sturdy wooden table that adorned his small palace. He wasted no time and mounted me from behind. I opened my eyes and looked down at my throbbing penis. Pre-cum glistened at the tip, and I greedily licked it up with my free hand. I pushed my finger deeper into my mouth and then took a second to moisten both. I placed the two wet fingers between my legs and began to move them around my entrance, coating it with my saliva. I pressed my index finger against it, letting it slide inside me, and then added a second, so that both of them penetrated me up to the second knuckle.

A worker's rough hand gripped my hip as he thrust himself inside me. The coarse stubble on his cheeks scratched against mine as he pressed his face against mine from behind. His cock jiggled deep inside me as he slowly picked up speed, growing more and more greedy as he thrust in and out.

"What do we have here?"

I opened my eyes wide. I saw my mother standing in the doorway to my room, holding onto the doorframe. She held her wine glass still, a smile flitting across her face. I pulled my fingers out of my bottom and crawled under my covers. She pushed herself off the doorframe and came towards me, her smile never fading.

"Did I just walk in and catch my son fingering his ass?" said Mom as she approached the foot of my bed.

"Mom, I swear, I can..."

"Can you do something? Explain why you were fiddling with your ass while you were wildly hitting your little penis? I think you can just explain that to your father when he gets home," she said, turning away from me.

“But Mom! Please!” I begged.

"We have nothing more to discuss, Michael. You simply have to answer to your father, and don't even think about leaving your room. And for God's sake, try to keep your dirty hands out of your ass," she said, closing the door behind her. That sealed my fate.

I gathered my clothes, which were now scattered under my duvet, and put them on. My heart was racing in my chest like a pair of shoes in a dryer. I paced my sparsely furnished room, trying to imagine what my father would say to me. Would he simply throw me out of the house? Would he just write me off? Beat me badly? I didn't know what reality to prepare myself for, even though I knew there was nothing I could do.

"Michael! Get your ass down here!", my mother shouted from the foot of the stairs.

I was lying on my bed when I got the call. My nerves didn't calm down at all. I was more tense than a rope holding a boat back from the dock. I resigned myself to my fate and dragged myself to the door.

I went into the dining room where my father was sitting at the table. He was twirling his whisky glass under one finger, his eyes never leaving it. Mom was standing at the counter that separated the dining room from the kitchen. She had replaced her Yeti mug with a proper wine glass, which was so full that it almost overflowed when she rocked it back and forth.

"Sit down, Mike," said Dad, still in a trance with his glass.

I sat down at the other end of the table and kept as far away from him as possible, betting that he would hit me. I kept my hands clasped under the table.

"Your mother told me she barged in somewhere this afternoon." He took a large gulp from his glass. "Something that was... a little... unappetizing, wasn't it?"

I nodded. "Yes, Father."

"And you weren't just masturbating, were you?"

"No, Father."

“I want you to tell me what you did,” he said, letting go of his glass, then leaning back in his chair and putting one arm over the back.

“I … I …”

"You have …"

“I fingered myself,” I said with a new kind of shame, like a child whose hand is trapped in the cookie tin.

“Oh… you fingered yourself. Now tell me, what were you thinking when you committed this despicable act?” His expression remained unbroken and serious.

"I... I," I gargled the words like murmurs. "I was thinking of a man..."

"A man? And what did this man do?"

“He… he loved me… from behind,” I said, avoiding my father.

"Interesting. I should have always known you were some kind of fairy godmother, Michael." He drummed his fingers on the table for a while. "But luckily for you, your mother and I have a plan that will hopefully keep you from going down the path you've chosen."

I heard my mother put her glass down on the granite counter. I turned to look at her as she stepped into the space between the table where I was sitting and the counter where she was standing. She was wearing the typical black leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. She paused for a moment to look at me, then reached for the hem of her shirt. She lifted it, exposing first her midriff and then the underside of her breasts. She pulled the sweatshirt over her head and dropped to the floor. She swept her hair from one shoulder to the other and hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her leggings. With a swift movement, she pulled them down and stepped out. Kicking them aside with one foot, she straightened up, looking at me. My gaze traveled down her figure, from her feet to her sparkling, half-glazed eyes. Her body was that of a clear-headed drunk who got most of her daily calories from fermented grapes. Her breasts hung so low that her broad, dark nipples pointed almost directly at the floor, and she had a round belly that didn't sag but jutted out like a sweet bulge. Her pussy was hidden behind a veil of chestnut-brown pubic hair that hadn't seen a razor in months but hadn't yet shown any gray. This brought a strange thought to me at that moment: Had my mother dyed her bush? She stood there looking at me silently, her knees bent, as if imitating a Betty Boop version. "Mike, you're going to spoil your mother the way she likes it." I thought my eyes couldn't open any wider while I looked at my naked mother, but when I heard my father's words, I thought they could. I looked over at him, who was still sitting in his chair, his arms casually draped over the back. "What am I supposed to do?" I asked. "You understood me. You will spoil your mother. I want to teach you that you no longer need to think about men."

Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked toward the spring and saw that Mom was now standing beside me. Her right breast was only inches from my face when I looked up to meet her eyes. She leaned forward to kiss me on the lips, which I returned with surprised delight. As her embalmed lips touched mine, a rush of alcoholic scent wafted toward me, followed by the scent of her purple-tinged tongue. I could taste the wine as her tongue danced with mine. Her hand traversed my chest before moving south toward my penis, which was slowly approaching the rock. She placed her hand on my penis, and I reached up to cup her sagging breast. Her hard nipple landed in the middle of my palm, and I was immediately surprised by the weight of my mother's breast in my hand. I began to knead it, like a baker kneading dough. I gently pinched her nipple, to which she responded with a moan into my mouth, her wine-red breath flowing down my throat. She broke our kiss and then sat up straight again.

"Take your clothes off, now!" she demanded.

At that request, my throat tightened. Somehow I knew that would happen as soon as she kissed me, but I couldn't prepare myself for it.

“Do what she says, Mike,” said Dad, who no longer leaned back in his chair but bent forward over the table to have the best possible view.

I stood up and pushed my chair under the table. My mother took two steps back, giving me the seat where she had undressed moments before. I looked back at my father, who still looked at me with the face of a policeman about to drag me out of a car. I grabbed my shirt at the back and pulled it off with a quick tug. I unbuttoned my jeans, and they fell into a pile beneath me. I stood there in my boxer shorts, staring at my mother, who had both hands on her hips and was trying to look as impatient as possible. I grabbed the sides of my boxer shorts and let them lie on the floor with my trousers. I pushed them aside with my right foot and stood completely naked in front of my mother.

"He's definitely not your size, honey," she said, covering her mouth to hide her laughter. She grabbed my shoulder and turned me around so I was facing my father.

"I didn't think he could be a bigger disappointment, but I guess I was wrong." He shook his head.

My cheeks burned like fire as my parents yelled at me. I tried to hide my package from them before my mother turned me back to her.

"I know this thing isn't going to be fun for me. You just need to eat something, boy," she said before she woke up around me.

She sat on the chair where I was sitting, her bare buttocks squeaking as she leaned against the wooden back. I saw her stomach scrunch up as she sat down to get comfortable. She spread her legs wide, snapped her fingers, and pointed at her feet. I looked over at Dad, hoping he'd finally say it was all a joke. Instead, he didn't offer me any comfort, just took small sips from his whiskey glass. I resigned myself to my fate. I slowly shuffled in front of my mother. She had slid her bottom down so far it was almost falling off. She snapped her fingers again. "Knee." I nodded, then knelt down until I was at eye level with my mother's pussy. My knees ached as they hit the hard wooden floor. She used her hand to pull her pussy up, scrunching the folds together, then opening them again. I still couldn't see much behind all that unkempt hair, but I caught a glimpse of what looked like chewed gum. She spread her lips with two fingers, and that's when I got a full view of what I was supposed to be doing. "Lick it," she said, staring down at me over the folded skin of her waist. I started to move my face closer to her open pussy, trying to take in the whole sight. The next thing I noticed was the smell coming from her open cleft. It was a mixture of piss and yesterday's sweat that hadn't been washed off in the shower. The smell wasn't awful, not great, just how I'd imagined a pussy would smell. When my lips finally reached her hairy mound, I started aimlessly running my tongue between her labia. The already wet pussy left a moist film on my tongue, which, I thought, didn't taste half bad either.

"That probably won't be the last time that happens, honey," my mother said. "He still has a lot to learn if he's ever going to be able to satisfy a woman."

"He has plenty of time before college. He'll learn it," said Dad, and even his words began to blur together.

"Stop just licking me, Mike. Lick my damn clit."

I stopped my aimless tongue dance between her lips and then looked at her in confusion.

"The clitoris... lick my clitoris."

She must have noticed that I had no idea what she was talking about.

"Lord, no wonder you're gay."

She spread her pussy wide with both hands and pointed with the other to a small bump at the very top of her opening.

"There, play with it," she said, running her finger over her clitoris.

I did as she asked and plunged my tongue back into my hairy pussy. The tip of my tongue touched her semi-hard clit, and I knew I'd hit the right spot because her hips began to shift on the chair, squeaking against the leather, and her breathing deepened. She moaned softly as I rubbed her clit, making gentle circles, and then took it into my mouth with soft sucking motions. I looked at her for a moment, and she had her two long, dark nipples between her fingers, pinching and rolling them. Her head was thrown back, and she moaned as I continued licking.

"Yes, yes, that's the spot. Lick Mommy's clit. Lick it, you little damn faggot," she said through gritted teeth.

I did as she said. I pressed my tongue firmly against her hardening nub and rolled it up and down. I used both hands to spread her folds, so I could see the rest of her pink flesh completely exposed. I tickled her clit a few more times, then ran my tongue along her slit, pausing at her clit before forcing it inside and moving it back and forth in her hot, deep opening.

“Oh, FUCK! Fuck yeah, fuck yeah.” Her hips jerked wildly and pressed her wet pussy into my face.

"Exactly. Make Mom come."

Her words made me work even harder. I wanted her to squirt on my face. I increased my pace, wildly slicing my tongue up and down her pussy. Her legs began to tremble and vibrate as she came. A torrent of fluid gushed from her pussy, splashing into my face, then running down my chin and over my exposed, naked body. She was still breathing heavily, her whole body shaking as she came down from her climax. A pool of her fluid lay beneath me as I knelt in it. I looked up at her face as she finally opened her eyes.

“Wow, Mike, I’m impressed,” she said, trying to catch her breath.

I simply smiled at her from my kneeling position.

"Get up," Dad said from behind me.

I stood up. I looked down and saw that the warm liquid was still running down my torso. I turned around and saw my father standing there, naked and pulling on his large penis. Mom stood up behind me and stumbled over to her wine glass, which was on the counter. She looked like she was walking on stilts, her legs were shaking so much. I turned back to Dad, who was coming over to me. He took my mother's place on the soaking wet chair.

"Kneel down again."

“Yes, Father,” I replied, kneeling in the cooling puddle of Mother’s fluid.

He was still stroking his penis as he sat in the chair. His penis was breathtaking. I had always tried to imagine what a real penis would look like, and now I did. It was a man's cock, hard, I estimated it to be almost 20 centimeters long, and his testicles hung over the edge of the chair from their own weight.

"Now it's my turn," he said, letting go of his tail and handing it over to me.

I wrapped my hand around it, absorbing its warmth and marveling at its smooth skin. Slowly, I began to pump it up and down. He didn't move, just looked down at me. I made eye contact with him as I worked his massive member. The only movement was his chest pumping air into his lungs. I gradually increased my pace, then took his testicles in my hand and knelt there as I stroked him.

"Taste it now. Taste what a real penis tastes like."

I looked at him for a moment, letting his steely eyes peer through mine, then I took my father's penis into my mouth. I gently sucked on his shaft, slowly sliding my mouth down the length of it, licking as I went deeper. I felt the tip press against my tonsils, and they gripped me, preventing me from gagging on my father's throbbing cock. I pulled it out, then forced it back in, repeating until a good amount of saliva oozed between my lips. I paused only to sip the wet juice, then pushed it back in and continued sucking my father. "That's it. I knew you were a little cock-slut," he said, grabbing a strand of hair and guiding my head so that my mouth became his fuck toy. I gasped as he forced his cock down my throat, blocking my airway. Then he pulled me away, just to see what he turned his son into. My eyes burned from gagging, and saliva flowed like a river down my chest. I swallowed and gagged, my chest rising and falling, and I could only rest for a moment before he shoved his cock back in and then continued fucking my face. He thrust in only a few more times before I felt his cock swell and inflate like a balloon. He tugged on my hair again, pulled his wet cock out, and held my face just inches from its tip. White semen spurted wildly from his cleft, spraying all over my face and down my lips. I could faintly taste the salty fluid as I tried to clean my lips. He painted my face and then leaned back in the chair, his breathing never quickening despite his gentle rising and falling.

"Well, now you really do look like a little softie," he said, grabbed the whisky glass from the table and drank the rest in one go.

I stood in front of him and ran my hand over my face to wipe away the semen that covered it.

"Don't even think about wiping the semen off your face," he said, putting his glass back on the table.

I looked down at him through the streams of his sperm, and then at my mother, who was still standing naked next to the counter.

"Yes, sir." I went to my pile of clothes.

"Leave them there. You won't need them tonight," he said.

“Yes, sir.” I stood there, covered in semen and female ejaculate, shivering, as the air conditioning switched on and cooled the fluids on my naked body.

Mom giggled to herself as she poured herself another glass of wine. Dad stood up from his chair and went to his neatly folded suit, the one he'd been wearing when I came out of my room. He started to dress as I walked past him toward the stairs to my room. "And Mike," he said, pulling on his white shirt. I turned to him. "Hopefully, the semen will be all over your face when you come down for breakfast tomorrow."

I nodded. "Of course, Father."