Vengeance is Mine

Vengeance Is Mine

by

Little Dan

I was standing over my father's grave at Sunnycrest Cemetery as the cleric spouted empty words and prayers, and as my mother wept crocodile tears into her lace hankie.

"Be strong, Lucinda," said my Great Aunt Martha, patting my mother's shoulder. Aunt Martha was my father's mother's sister.

My mother sobbed even more energetically into the damp embroidered rag, and her shoulders shook with false emotion.

"Now, now, dear," said Aunt Martha. "You'll make yourself sick. You've got to be strong now, dear. Strong for you and Phillip (I was Phillip.) You know Norton would have wanted that. Don't you?"

My mother nodded her head in agreement, as she again began to weep uncontrollably.

What an act! I knew how much she missed my father. I knew exactly how much she had loved him. Not very much.

The fact that my father had had a fatal coronary and was now lying at my feet in his coffin, was not entirely due to high cholesterol. My mother had hounded him to death. Nag. Nag. Nag. Pick. Pick. Pick. Hound. Hound. Hound. What a bitch! My father had finally found peace.. In the next world. My mother had killed him. I knew that.

I had loved my father so much. What a kind sweet man he had been. Warm, loving, gentle. But my mother had never appreciated him. Nothing he ever did was good enough. He snored. He wore mismatched socks. His table manners were atrocious. He smoked stinky cigars. Nag. Nag. Nag. Pick. Pick. Pick. Hound. Hound. Hound.

My girlfriend, Joanne, took my hand and squeezed it. She was trying to comfort me. Nothing was going to comfort me. I had lost my dearest parent and best friend. My father, Norton Hormquist. Now, my late father. But more than grief for my dear father, I felt another emotion. I felt glacial hatred. Hatred toward my mother who had driven my father into his grave. Somehow I would avenge his death. I didn't know how, but somehow, someday, somewhere. Vengeance would be mine.

We got into the limousine and they chauffeured us back to our house. Aunt Martha had come in from Cincinnati and was staying in the spare bedroom. And yes, I was still living at home. I was 23 years old, and had been out of college for two years, but was unable to find a job. I was still living in the family manse. A prisoner of the ?booming? economy.

We had a light supper, Aunt Martha, my mother, Joanne, and I. Later in the evening some people stopped by to offer their condolences. Harry Milbard, my father's lawyer drove over and sat down in the library with my mother and me. He had some documents in his briefcase. He took out the papers, and after clearing his throat gave us the news.

"I don't understand," said my mother.

"It's very simple. He left you fifty thousand dollars. Everything else: the house, the stocks, the bonds, the bank accounts. All the assets. Everything goes to Phillip."

"But I was his wife," protested my mother.

"And Phillip was his son. He chose to leave his entire estate to Phillip."

My mother's face went white. Her mouth was working silently. Her jaw was moving, but no words were coming out. She had thought she was going to be sitting pretty, living in my father's house, spending my father's money. But all that was going to me. Nice. Thank you, dad. Already I was tasting the sweetness of my revenge. Maybe I should just kick my mother out of the house. Make her get a job, rent an apartment. That would be nasty. But not nasty enough. But everybody would think I was a cruel son. No. I had to come up with something better to punish her with. I would ruin her life forever. I would make her sorry for the way she had treated my father.

At eleven o'clock Joanne left to go home. We would not be fucking tonight. I was in mourning. I had to exercise some proprieties. I had to make some sacrifices. And giving up fucking Joanne for a few nights was not such a great sacrifice. We would probably end up getting married, but I was not deliriously excited with the prospect. I had a feeling there was an incipient 'mother' buried deep inside her female heart.

After a few days, Aunt Martha flew back to Cincinnati, and I was alone in the house with my mother. She had regained her equilibrium. She figured, after all, I was her son, and she was my mother. So what if I had control of the purse strings. She could still do as she wished. After all, I certainly loved my mother. She thought. She wished.

For the next two weeks, my mother moped around the house, eating cookies, candy, putting on weight. Her ass was getting rounder and rounder. Her tits were getting bigger and bigger. She was developing an hourglass figure. She would have been really in style in the 1890's.

She drove down to the department stores and shopped a couple of times. She came back with expensive new dresses. I was not happy about that. I was the one who was going to have to pay the credit card bill. But I decided to say nothing. Not yet. This was all new territory for me. I had to feel my way.

A few days later, Margo Spillinglass, my mother's best friend, insisted that my mother come down to the club. It would be good for her to get out of the house. We were members of the exclusive Sunnycrest Country Club, but we didn't really take advantage of our membership, other than to dine in the fancy clubhouse restaurant once a week. Occasionally, my father had gone to the club to play tennis or squash, but my mother was not athletic. She even hated the pool. She said pools were unsanitary.

"Do you want to come with me?" she asked me.

"No. I'll stay home. I'm reading Crime and Punishment. I don't know what you're going to do at the club."

"Margo and I are going to play canasta with two of the other women, and we've signed up for golf lessons. Margo says there's a new golf pro down at the club, and that he's a very good teacher."

"You? Play golf?" I gave a really nasty laugh.

"Just you wait. I could turn out to be another Martina," my mother said.

"She doesn't play golf," I corrected her.

"I'm determined to get a hole in one," she insisted. And then she left for the club. I picked up my book, and worked my way from the crime to the punishment.

When she got home from the club, she was all a twitter. I had never seen her in such a good mood.

"He's wonderful," she enthused.

"Who's wonderful?" I asked.

"Glen," said my mother.

"Who's Glen?" I pursued.

"The new golf pro," said my mother, who looked at me like I was an idiot. "He's so handsome. Tall. Big muscles. Black wavy hair. Dimples in his cheeks. A cleft in his chin." She went on and on. I had never seen her so excited.

The next morning, she drove down to the club. Early. Very early. She had signed up for golf lessons. A lot of golf lessons. From Glen, the golf pro. Glen, the handsome, muscular, sexy, dimpled, clefted, new golf pro.

I wanted to remind her that she was a recent widow. That she had only three weeks ago lost her husband. My words would have floated, unheard, through the empty air, and drifted up into the sky. She was besotted with Glen, the golf pro. She was like a high school girl having a first crush. I was totally disgusted. I said nothing.

Then one afternoon, she didn't come home from the club. She called me and told me to take a hamburger out of the freezer and put it in the microwave. Glen was taking her out to dinner and to the movies. She had lost her husband five weeks ago, and she was going out on a dinner/movie date??? I said nothing. I took the hamburger out of the freezer. I defrosted the hamburger. I broiled the hamburger. But I, myself, was stewing.

Wait. It gets worse. She started coming home late. A lot. Like ten or eleven p.m. She was dating the golf pro. And when she got home, she would tell me how wonderful he was. How handsome. How funny. How she loved to see his dimples when he laughed, which was all the time. I wondered if my recently widowed mother was screwing the golf pro. Actually, I was sure she was screwing the golf pro. I just didn't want to think about it.

I, myself, was not having sex, and I wasn't even the widow. Joanne kept begging me to sleep with her, but I said 'no' I wasn't in the mood. And I wasn't. I was still in mourning. And although my mother was wearing black, she, apparently, was not still in mourning. And on the golf course, she was not wearing black. She was wearing white. A fashionable, expensive, white, linen pants suit for lady golfers, which I had just been billed for. Nice.

"Come down to the club with me today," said my mother.

"I don't want to go to the club," I resisted. "I have to finish Middlemarch."

"But I want you to meet Glen," she pouted.

"I have to finish my book."

"But you've never even met him. I've told him all about you."

"Not today, mother." I was firm.

And I remained firm. I did not go down to the club. I did not meet Glen. Mother continued to get home very late. It had gotten to be such a regular occurrence that she no longer bothered to call me to get something out of the freezer.

And then one night, the rest of my world came crashing down. It was about three months after my father had died. About two months since she had started taking golf lessons. I heard the car in the driveway around ten o'clock at night. I was on the last paragraph of Finnegan's Wake, but I heard talking out on the porch and shut the book. She hadn't brought him to the house, I hoped.

The key turned in the door. The door opened. My mother entered the house. Following her was a man carrying two heavy suitcases. A tall, handsome, smiling man with black curly hair, ruddy skin, dimples in his cheeks and a cleft in his chin. I had no doubt that this was Glen. Glen, the golf pro.

"Darling," said my mother, rushing up to me, and throwing her arms around me. "What a surprise I have for you. This is Glen. My husband. Glen this is Phillip, my son."

"Your husband?" My voice quivered.

"Yes, darling. Glen and I eloped today. We were married at City Hall. Look at my beautiful ring." She flashed a diamond-encrusted wedding band before my eyes. Where was the plain gold one my father had given her?

I didn't speak. I couldn't speak. I was stunned. My mother, the grieving widow, had married the golf pro, three months after she had buried my father? Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Oh, dad. Thank god you aren't here to see this.

"Glad to meet you, Phillip," said Glen, the golf pro, dropping the suitcase in his right hand on the living room carpet, and reaching out his right hand to shake mine. I think I shook his hand. I'm not sure. I was in a total daze.

"He's staying here?" I asked.

"Of course, darling. He's my husband. We're married now. And that's exactly why we decided to get married today. The lease on Glen's apartment was up, and he would have gone back to Buffalo. He would have left the club. I couldn't let that happen, now could I, sweetheart?" The sweetheart she was referring to was him.

"No, baby, you couldn't let that happen," Glen told her. And then they gave each other a cute, little, sickening kiss right in front of me.

I was appalled.

"So at last you get to meet Glen," said my mother.

"Yes," I said stonily.

"And I get to meet you," said Phillip. "At last I have what I always wanted. A son."

A son? His son? Was he crazy?

"Come, baby. Let's get your stuff up to the bedroom," said my mother to her new husband.

He picked up the suitcases and followed her up the stairs. They were going to the bedroom. To my mother's bedroom. To my father's bedroom. He was going to sleep in my father's bed. He was going to fuck my mother. Oh, hideous, hideous deed. Can such torment be endured? I pushed Finnegan's Wake onto the floor, and slumped back into my armchair, where I buried my face in my hands, and wept bitterly.

After an hour, I went up the stairs, and as I passed the closed door of the master bedroom on the way to my own room, I heard giggling from behind the door. Giggling. And noises. I knew those noises. Fucking noises. They were having their wedding night fuck. They were on their fucking honeymoon. In my house. Oh, hideous, hideous deed. Torment. My mother, my torment. Oh, god.

When I finally fell into a fitful troubled sleep, my brain spilled with images of iron-maidens, bullwhips, chains, padlocks. Torture chamber goodies. But there wasn't a torture in this world sufficiently gruesome for my mother. Cold, faithless whore.

At breakfast the next morning, Glen tried to make chitchat with me, but I was having none of it. I was cold, distant, and barely polite.

"We're gonna be good friends," he assured me, ruffling my hair, when he got up from the table. Good friends. Yeah. Sure. "You'll see," he added. Then he and my mother went out to the car and she drove him down to the club.

When they had gone, I went up to the master bedroom and stared down at the defiled sheets in pure disgust. They had rutted in this bed. In my father's bed. He had slept on my father's side of the bed. He had stuck his golf-pro cock into my mother's cunt, which had until very recently been occupied by my father. He had taken everything. I bent down to sniff the sheets. I wanted the full impact of the horror.

Everything was peachy-dandy, lovey-dovey for a few days. And then one evening I heard loud voices coming from behind the master bedroom door. They were arguing. They were having a fight. I planted my ear against the door, trying to get the gist of the disagreement.

"Come on, Lucinda, honey. Please."

"I said 'no'."

"But it's my favorite thing. You said you would, after we got married."

"I changed my mind. I don't want to do it. It's dirty."

"It's not dirty, Lucinda. It's beautiful."

"No. Absolutely not. No anal intercourse. And that's final," my mother said.

Ah, so that was it. He wanted anal intercourse.

"You promised," he said. "Bitch," he muttered.

"You'll just have to do it the old-fashioned way," my mother said tightly.

They were still arguing when I walked down the hall to my room, and shut the door. An idea was beginning to form in my fevered brain. Just the germ of an idea for a possible punishment. I suddenly got deliriously hopeful and happy. I laughed, and I laughed. If I could pull it off, vengeance would, at last, be mine.

The next morning, at breakfast, they had apparently made up. They were kissing and nuzzling each other between sips of orange juice. Her hands were tangling through his thick black curly hair. I could even see his tongue snake out between his lips, between her lips, into her mouth. At the breakfast table. Disgusting. Disgusting.

My mother was enchanted with her handsome, athletic, new male-toy. Her sexual motor was running in ways that it had never run when my father was sitting across the breakfast table. Bitch. Cunt. Whore.

I made an unanticipated announcement. "I want to go down to the club today," I said.

They both looked at me in shocked surprise.

"You want to go to the club?" asked my mother in disbelief.

"Yes. I want to take golf lessons. I want to learn how to play golf. Will you teach me to play golf, Glen?"

"Sure," said Glen. "Be glad to." He was absolutely delighted. This was his chance to bond with his new son. He gave me a wide, wide smile, and his dimples disappeared into creases. Yes. I was going to take golf lessons from my mother's new husband, Glen, the golf pro.

My mother dropped us at the club and went on to Margo Spillinglass' house. They were going to have a shopping day.

I was still in mourning, and wearing black pants, and a white shirt, with a gray tie, but I noticed all the golfers at the club were wearing whites and yellows. I was the only one with a tie. I would have to get myself some club clothing.

Glen took me out on the green. We were at the first hole. Glen stuck a little white peg in the ground, which he said was a 'tee.' Then he took a little hard white dimpled ball---I knew that that was a golf ball. I had seen golf balls before. He took it, and placed it on the tee. Then he handed me a wooden club from his golf bag. Actually, the clubs weren't his. They belonged to the country club, and were used by members who had left their clubs at home. They were also used for lessons. I was now getting my first lesson.

"Now, you see the hole over there?" Glen asked me.

"What hole?" I asked. I was trying to follow his pointing finger.

"That one. Over there. Where the flag says '1'. " He pointed again.

I saw it. "It's so far away," I complained.

"Well that's the game. To get the ball from here, way over into that hole. Do you know how to hold the club?" he asked me.

"No. Is there a special way?"

"Yes," he answered, in forced cheerfulness. He hadn't realized that I was so stupid. This was not going to be the fun day that he had expected. "I'll show you how to hold it," he said. "You stand next to the tee, like this," and he positioned me. Then he walked around and stood behind me, and reached his arms around my waist, and positioned my hands on the handle of the golf club. The two of us got used to swinging it in a six-inch arc next to the tee. His hands were over mine. He was tight against my back.

Yes. This was what I had wanted. The fly of his pants was barely grazing the seat of my pants. As we practiced our mini-swings, I twisted my body slightly. I bent a wee bit more at the waste, until my bottom had made the intended contact.

He was explaining the dynamics of the swing, when the contact occurred, and his voice began to get a little funny. I just acted as if I didn't notice anything. I continued to swing the club. With each swing, I kind of twisted my bottom so that it moved against him. I turned my face to ask him a question, and I noticed that his face was ruddier than usual. He was a little embarrassed. But he was not backing away. With his hands over mine, we were continuing to swing, and I was continuing to tease.

This was my plan. This was the diabolic scheme I had devised to destroy my mother. She was so proud and happy about having a rugged, handsome, athletic, new husband. She was strutting around. Showing her great catch off to all the other women. Suppose she were to lose him? Lose him to someone else. And not just someone else. Not even to another woman. Suppose she were to lose him to her son? To her own son. To me... HAH! Yes. I had decided that that would be my revenge. I would alienate Glen's affections. My mother would lose her exciting new husband. She would lose him to me. I had now taken the first step. Step number one. But other events would unfold in an orderly course.

Glen stepped back. It had been decided that I would actually take my first swing. I would whack the ball, and send it flying hundreds of yards onto the far green where the '1' flagpole was. I swung. I missed.

Glen moved back behind me, and we again practiced swinging together, as he explained what I was to do. I'm afraid I was concentrating more on gluteus-genital contact than on golf. When he stepped back, I tried again. I gave a great swing. The ball went only about ten feet. And also it went way to the left. Not at all straight ahead, where I had been aiming.

But Glen was very patient. He worked with me, and worked with me, and instructed me in the gentlest fashion. Never once did he raise his voice in total exasperation.

I finally took my final putt and sent the ball skimming nervously on the edge of the hole before it finally gave up and dropped in. Par on the hole was seven strokes. I got it in sixty-one.

We only got to play three holes that day, because it was taking me so long to sink the ball, and because Glen had other people to teach. I went back to the clubhouse and nursed a coke, waiting for the day to end. I would do better tomorrow.

As I sipped my coke, I reminisced about our ever-so-slight gluteus-genital contact. I couldn't be sure, but I think I was having an effect on Glen. I don't think I imagined the hardness I was beginning to feel against my buttocks. A hardness, decorously packed inside his white trousers. I had learned that Glen was a devotee of anal intercourse. My mother was not permitting him to indulge his dearest fantasy. Silly woman. What a man can't get in one place, he'll find in another. I was another. Inexperienced as I was, and even though the thought of guy/guy sex had always repelled me, I would do anything to destroy my mother's life, as she had destroyed my father's and thus my own. I would not deny Glen his deepest desire, anal intercourse, if the occasion should arise.

Now that she had snagged Glen, and was out of mourning, wearing cheery bright colors again, my mother reverted to her old habits. She was behaving exactly as she had behaved when my father was alive. She was going out to play Canasta with the girls three nights a week. She had a game this evening, with Margo Spillinglass, Edna Michaels, and Barbara Zotz, at Barbara's house. After dinner, she gave Glen a big wet kiss on the mouth, and went out the front door. I heard the car motor start. She was off to Barbara's.

Glen went up to the Master Bedroom, and reclined fully clothed on the bed, with his back against the backboard. He reached for the TV remote, and switched on a sitcom. I went into my own room. I got undressed. Completely undressed. I grabbed a copy of Buddenbrooks, and lay face down on my bed, under the reading lamp and opened the cover. It looked like a very good read, but I had other thoughts on my mind. My literary concentration was not totally there. The central air conditioner was on, cooling the house in the hot summer, and I could feel a slight chill on my upper arms, my back, my bare buttocks. I should have gotten up and put on a pair of pajamas, but I was not going to do that. I was only worried that my behind might get goose-pimples, which would mar their natural beauty. Joanne was a great admirer of the male-buttcheek, and she was always telling me that mine were the best. The roundest, the tightest, the bounciest, the most perfectly sculptured. I had always laughed at her. Cause, like, who cares? But now I cared. My whole plan depended on the perfection of my butt.

At this moment, I was stretched out lengthwise along my bed, with my perfect butt facing the open bedroom door.

"Glen," I called out loudly.

He didn't hear me. The TV was too loud. I raised my voice. "Glen."

"Yeah?" he called from the master bedroom.

"How do I keep from hitting the ball to the left?"

"What?" he asked.

"How do I keep from hitting the ball to the left?" I repeated. I heard the sound of the television go mute.

"What?" he asked again.

"Never mind. Never mind," I said in an annoyed tone of voice.

I heard him get up and start walking down the hall to my bedroom.

"What did you say?" he asked, as he entered my room.

I looked over my shoulder, and noticed that he stopped a little short at the door, and his face got that super-redness it gets when he's embarrassed.

"Sorry," he said.

"No. It's my fault. I wasn't expecting company," I said. "I should have put on my pajamas." I didn't get up to put on my pajamas. I let my gluteus muscles flex and ripple a little, as I lolled on the bed.

"What were you saying?" he asked.

"I was asking, how do I keep the ball from going to the left."

"You'll get the hang of it," he answered me. "It just takes a little practice."

I thought I felt an itch on my right buttcheek. I lifted my right hand and scratched it lazily.

"You should turn out to be a very good golfer," Glen told me. You've got the build and the muscles. You have a good muscular behind. That should give you plenty of power on your long drives up the fairway. It should also give you perfect balance." He approached the bed, and his fingers lightly grazed my right asscheek, where the itch had been. His face was red again. He was really studying my rearview. I let my cheeks ripple and flex again.

"Was that it?" he asked me.

"Yeah. That was all."

"Okay. Guess I'll get back to Bill and Patsy" (the sitcom he was watching).

"Okay. Night," I said.

"Night," he said. He turned and left the room. Somewhat reluctantly, I do believe.

Everything was progressing nicely. Without rushing anything, I had exposed my perfect bottom to him, and he had admired it. Step two-completed. On to step three.

Two days later, when I knew my mother would be playing Canasta that evening, I had a slight accident on the golf course. I tripped on the tee at the second hole, and went down, right on my butt.

"Yooowww," I screamed.

"Are you okay?" asked Glen, grabbing my hand, and helping me to my feet.

"I think I twisted something," I said. "You better help me back to the clubhouse.'

I limped as he led me back to the clubhouse, gently supporting my arm. I was rubbing my 'painful,' left buttcheek, and moaning slightly.

"I got to teach a couple more lessons. Will you be all right here till it's time to go home?"

"Yes," I assured him. "Go ahead. Do what you have to do. I'll be fine." I gently rubbed my asscheek and moaned a little more.

I made a big show of being in pain all through dinner.

"Do you want me to stay home, honey?" My mother asked me. As if she had any intention of missing her card game. She knew very well that I would insist that she go.

"No. You go ahead. I'll be fine. I twisted something. I just need time to heal."

After she left the house, I got Glen to help me up the stairs to my bedroom.

I flopped down on my stomach on the bed.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked me.

"I don't know. It hurts. Maybe if I had a little massage, it would help."

"You want me to massage it for you?"

"Yeah. That might be good," I told him.

"Let me get out of my clothes," I said. I hobbled to my feet and began stripping. It probably wasn't necessary to take off my under shorts for the massage, but I did anyway.

"Where does it hurt?" he asked me.

"Mostly the left side," I said.

My bed was too low for him. He really couldn't give me a massage bending over. He would have to straddle me. He climbed on the bed and straddled my calves.

"My pants are getting crushed," he complained.

"Take them off," I suggested.

He got up and took his pants off. Then he got back on the bed, and straddled my calves one more time. His strong hands started to work on my left thigh. Rubbing it, kneading it.

"That feel good?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," I sighed. "That feels wonderful. But where it really hurts is up a little higher."

He moved his strong hands up. He was at the top of my thigh. He was working both my left and right thigh. I felt his hands just at the bottom of my buttocks. Caressing the fold just at the bottom of my butt-swell. "That's better," I said. "But maybe just a little higher."

"My hands aren't moving smoothly enough," he said. "I should have some oil."

"There's some baby oil in the hall bathroom, in the cabinet under the sink," I informed him helpfully. He got up and went down the hall. As he walked away from me, I noticed his own powerful butt, his taut thigh and calf muscles, his expansive, tapered, mostly smooth back, but with a few black curly hairs, here and there. He was a good-looking man. I knew why my mother had fallen for him.

When he came back with the bottle of baby oil, I saw the large bouncing bulge in his slightly droopy, not-so-tighty whiteys. No doubt my mother was enamored of that as well. Whore. Cunt. Bitch.

Glen straddled me again, and poured some oil on his hands, and on my upper thighs. He went back to the crease at the bottom of my butt-swell. "Yes. That's good," I said. I started to spiral my ass around a little, pressing it up into his strong hands. "Maybe just a little higher," I suggested.

His hands moved up to my firm ample mounds and began the healing manipulation. I writhed and twisted under his palms, and gave him sonic encouragement, which let him know that he had found the right place. He now poured some oil directly on my butt, and got to work. I could feel his white-clad engine stiffening against the back of my legs. I smiled to myself, and sighed deeply in pleasure.

Now I raised my ass up, encouraging him. "Oh, that feels so good. The pain is going away. Thank you. Thank you. You're such a good therapist. That feels so wonderful." I managed to maneuver my bottom into a position so that my cheeks slightly separated and his two thumbs slid down into the crack. When he hit my ass-iris, I let loose with an ecstatic roar. "Oh. So good. So good."

Now I felt him oiling the area between my cheeks, and gently rubbing my little bud. I gave him every kind of physical encouragement to press on, and to press in.

"You have such a beautiful ass," he admired. His breath was a little short, and the words came out in a tight staccato.

"I do? Thank you," I said.

"Maybe I ought to stop," he said. "Massaging your butt is giving me a hard-on." He laughed, like it was a big joke.

"Don't stop," I pleaded. "It feels so wonderful."

"But I might have to rape you," he joked. Or half-joked.

"I don't care," I said. "Anything. It just feels so wonderful."

He was now purposely pressing his erection into my flesh. First I could feel it through the thin cotton, and then I could feel naked flesh. He must have moved the garment aside. His prick was naked now. He must have let it stick out through one of the leg holes. I maneuvered my body to press against his prick. To make him aware that I was aware of it, and that I accepted it. His hard-on, that is.

"Such a nice ass," he kept repeating. He was stabbing the end of his hard prick in between my thighs. Now he moved up on my body, and as his hands were massaging my two cheeks, I felt his giant spike move between them. His stiff cock was resting in my crack, lying outside my hole, just resting there.

"I love ass," he told me.

"You do?" I asked.

"Yeah. I love ass. I love to fuck ass."

"Wow," I answered.

"I'd love to fuck your beautiful ass. I'd love to slip my thick, stiff, ten inch cock, inside your tight little butt passage," he informed me in an aroused voice.

Ten inches, I thought. My god. I hadn't bargained on that. That would hurt me. That could damage me. But I had to continue. It was worth some physical pain to get my revenge. Yes, I decided. It would definitely be worth it.

I didn't answer him. I just raised my butt up, so that the length of his rod could sink deeper within my cleft. Then I tightened my cleft, and began a movement that was like frigging. I was jerking him off with my asscheeks.

He knew now, that he had my permission to stick his dick into my hole. He sat up for a few minutes, and slipped the rest of his clothing off. Then he oiled up his ten-inch erection. It was ten inches. I didn't even want to look at it. It was scary.

I turned my face away, while he poured oil into my crack and worked his slippery fingers into my rectum. Twisting, turning, opening me up, more and more, more and more, for his ten-inch engine.

"God. You're tight," he said.

"Yes," I agreed.

"Am I the first?"

"Yes," I admitted.

"Don't worry, honey. I'm gonna make it real good for you. You'll see. Glen is gonna stick his big golf club inside your tiny, little, number-one hole. You'll be like my little caddy. You'll be carrying my golf club for me. Yes. I'm going to stick my big birdie way up inside you. Would you like that? Would you like to have Glen's big birdie inside your tight little hole?"

"Yes. Yes," I breathed.

And then my flesh started separating around his ten-inch iron. His mashie stick was gliding down my narrow fairway. It hurt like hell. It was gruesome.

"How is it?" he asked me. "How does it feel?"

"Oh, it feels so wonderful," I lied. "I love it. I love it. I love to feel your cock in me. Fuck me with your big cock." I worked my ass around his dick as if I were enjoying it like crazy, but I was really just trying to stimulate him and pull him off as quickly as possible. "Aaaacccchhh," I cried as if I were in ecstasy. But I was really in pain.

As he was happily fucking me, he began a confessional. 'I gotta admit something to you," he said.

"What?" I asked. Not that I really cared. I just wanted him to shoot his load and get the hell out of my room.

"I never fucked a guy's ass before. Only a woman's."

"Really?"

"Cross my heart. I never even thought about it before tonight. But when I saw your ass... when I touched your ass. Something went crazy in me. I wanted it so bad. So bad."

"Well, now you've got it," I told him.

"Yeah," he agreed happily and gave me another lengthy instroke. I felt him so high up inside me, I couldn't believe it. But it hurt. God damn it. It fucking hurt. And I hate pain.

"AAAGGGGHHH. I'm gonna come. I'm gonna come. I'm gonna shoot my hot load inside your tight little ass. Oh, god. Oh, god. It's creeping up my tube. It itches. It tickles. I'm coming. AAAAAGGGHHH. I'm coming. I'm coming."

He was indeed coming. I felt it squirting into me, in eight or nine scorching jets. And then it was over. Thank god. But, unfortunately for me, this would be just the first of many nights. This could not be a one-fuck affair. I had to alienate his affections. I had to make him thirst for me, and become my lover.

He kissed the back of my neck. "Did you enjoy it?" he asked me.

"Did I enjoy it? Did I enjoy it? Can you even ask? When can we do it again?"

He laughed, and playfully bit the back of my neck one more time. "That's what they all say, when I get finished banging them. The women, that is."

"Well, me too," I assured him. "Definitely, me too."

After that, he couldn't wait for my mother to go out to her canasta game. It was happening. He wanted me. He wanted me. My ass had become like a drug to him. I wondered if my mother noticed that she wasn't getting as much as before.

But I still hated it. I was doing this only for revenge. When I had my triumph, this would all be over. A closed chapter in my life. I would probably just return to fucking Joanne. I couldn't wait for that day.

And then one day a strange thing happened. It was a Tuesday, which was one of Glen's days off from the club. I was upstairs, lying on my bed, reading Manchester Park, when the front doorbell rang. My mother had gone downtown shopping with Margo and Barbara. Glen was downstairs.

"I'll get it," he called.

"Okay," I yelled.

A few minutes later, I heard Glen trudging up the stairs to my room. He had an enormous carton in his hand.

"What's that?" I asked.

"It's for you," he said sheepishly. "A little present. I ordered it. That was Special Delivery at the door." He put the carton next to my bed.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Open it and see," he said. "I hope you like it."

I went to the dresser drawer and got out a pair of scissors, and with the hard steel point, I punctured the tape along the carton, and finally was able to open the flaps. There before me was a collection of matching leather-bound books stamped in gold.

I took one of them out of the carton, then another one. I knew what it was.

It was a multi-volume edition of the entire works of William Makepiece Thackeray.

"Do you like it?" he asked me timidly.

"The complete works of Thackeray. Yes. Yes. I love it. I really love it. How come you got me this?" I asked him.

"Well I wanted to give you some kind of a present," he explained. "And I couldn't give you candy, perfume or jewelry, now could I?"

"I guess not," I laughed.

"And I knew you were always reading those big thick books. So I went into the bookstore and asked them what they would suggest. And they suggested this."

I felt something happen in my body. I felt something happen in my soul. A strange warmth. A melting. This dear sweet man had bought this wonderful gift for me, and here was I hating him, hating his cock. What kind of a person was I? I felt a couple of tears slide down my face, from both eyes. Why, I didn't hate him at all, I realized. I loved him. I hated my mother, but I loved him. After all, he hadn't hurt my father. My father was already dead when he appeared on the scene. It was my mother who had driven my father to his grave, and if I weren't careful, she would do the same to my beautiful Glen.

I stared at his beautiful face with a new awareness, though I was seeing it through my tears. Those deep soulful brown eyes. The thick, black, wavy hair. The perfect pink compexion, with a slight dusting of dark whiskers. The irresistible dimples in his cheeks. The adorable cleft in his chin. He was sitting on the edge of the bed. I sat down in his lap, and threw my arms around his neck. I brought my lips to his. And I kissed him. Kissed him deeply. We had never kissed before. But I was kissing him now. And he was kissing me in return. And his strong arms went around my back and pressed me close to his chest. And I felt his the hard golf club in his pants stirring into action.

He wanted it. He wanted me. And now I knew that I wanted it. And I wanted him. I arose from his lap, and we both started to undress, our eyes never leaving each other. I went over to the bottom dresser drawer and took out the new bottle of lubricant I had bought for these occasions. That baby oil was really shitty. No wonder it had hurt so much.

I lay down on my stomach.

"No, sweetheart," he told me. "Turn over. I want to face you this time."

"Oh, yes," I agreed. I wanted to face him also. I flipped over and raised my legs in the air. I lubed up my asshole and I lubed up his cock. He crawled between my legs, and his dick started slipping into me.

I couldn't believe the strange new sensations that were coursing through my body. I was overcome with unbelievable passion. How could I have hated this before? Had it really been painful? That was so hard to believe, because now I felt the most exquisite pleasure that anyone through all time has ever felt. I wondered if these new feelings were physical or emotional. Did it feel so wonderful now because my body had adjusted, or because my heart was suddenly filled with Glen.

"What a great fuck you are," breathed Glen into my parted lips, and his tongue followed his words. His cock was almost a foot into me, down below. And now his thick wet tongue was exploring every corner of my mouth. Oh, god. Oh, god. I never wanted his cock to leave my body ever again. I wanted my darling inside of me forever. His cock was no longer just a cock. It was a lovespear to pierce me throughout all eternity.

"Wrap your legs around my ass, baby," he told me. Yes. That seemed so right. So natural. How was it that I had to be told to do that? I threw my arms around his back, and pulled him into me from head to crotch. Yes. Yes. So wonderful.

He lifted his lips off mine for only a moment to say, "I love you so much, baby. So much. I've never loved anyone like this before."

"I love you. I love you. I love you," I cried incessantly, as more tears spilled down my cheeks. How could I love someone this much? I had never had such feelings before. My heart had thawed, and was now raw and open. I took my lover into my heart forevermore.

"Didn't I tell you we were gonna be good friends?" he reminded me.

"Yes. Yes, you did," I remembered.

"I'm getting ready to spill my sperm into your sweet little boypussy. Do you want my seed inside you? Swimming there? Growing there?"

"Yes. Yes," I cried. "I want your mancum inside me. I want it a lot. And I want a lot of it. Come! Come!" I urged him, as I slammed my hips up into his. And then his lovespear sent jets of nectar flowing throughout my being. All through me. Everywhere. I was flooded. I was happy.

That was the first night of our everlasting unquenchable mutual passion. Maybe he had loved me before, but now I loved him back. So much, that love was the only emotion in my heart. I had quite abandoned the notion of revenge upon my mother. I was not going to use Glen just to hurt that woman. I was beyond that now. I was a different person.

Now, every time my mother left the house, Glen came right into my room, and we experienced the most incredible joy. Glen had even taught me how to mouth-worship his fantastic love spear. As I nursed on it, I would raise my eyes to his face, to see his dark eyes twinkling, to see his dimples deepen as he smiled. My handsome, manly Glen.

We fucked every chance we got. If only my mother hadn't been there, so we could have really been a couple. But what could I do? I had decided to be merciful. Until that day..

The day that Barbara didn't feel well, and the Canasta game broke up early. My mother came home at an inopportune and unexpected hour. I guess, even from downstairs, she must have heard the sound of the bedsprings, and also the sound of my head, rhythmically pushing the headboard against the wall. She came up the stairs silently to see what was going on.

She was standing in the door, her mouth agape, watching her husband pound his meat into her son's ass. She dropped her purse on the floor, and just stood there.

"Lucinda," said Glen, turning his head and seeing her now. He did not stop plowing me.

"What are you doing?" She screamed.

"We're fucking," said Glen, quite simply, as he continued fucking me. "I've got my hard cock ten inches up into your son's hot ass, and it's fabulous."

"My god," wailed my mother.

"Remember when you refused me anal intercourse?

She nodded silently.

"I love anal intercourse. I love fucking a tight asshole. Your son has the best asshole in the world. I love it beyond anything you can imagine. I love your son's asshole, and I love your son." He turned his face toward me again, and we proceeded to suck/kiss as we fucked.

"Your ass is so tight, baby. Squeeze my dick. Yeah. Squeeze my thick dick," cried Glen. He didn't even care that my mother was standing in the door.

Neither did I. "Fuck me. Fuck your big cock into me," I screamed

Then Glen started to roar, and I knew he was coming, and I was so incredibly turned on, that I whipped my hand over to my own cock, and pulled myself off while his cock was still moving back and forth against my prostate. I came all over his pubic hairs. My ass contractions really sent him over the edge, and he went "CCCHHHAAA" as his cum spurted deep into my gut. My mother watched his sculpted ass gradually come to rest after the stupendous hammering it had been doing. Soon the two of us were just lying there, cuddling and kissing. We were so into each other, we stopped noticing my mother.

Out of the corner of my eye, I sort of saw her walk down the hall to the master bedroom.

Glen and I finally separated our damp spent bodies. Naked, we walked down the hall to the master bedroom. My mother was sitting on the edge of the bed, in a stunned state. Her back was erect, but it was trembling a little. She was staring straight ahead, and seemed to be only half-conscious. As if she were in a semi-coma. Finally she spoke.

"I don't know how to deal with this. What are we going to do?" she asked. Her face was a perfect blank. She had just gone through the kind of trauma that most people do not experience in their whole lives. She had lost her handsome new husband to her own son.

I knew what we were going to do. It was the only thing to do. And since the house was mine, I could make it happen.

"We're going to go on living almost as we were before. The outside world will never know what happens in this house. But there will be one change." I decided.

"Yes?" She looked at me expectantly. Waiting for me to explain.

"I am moving into the master bedroom here, with Glen. From now on we will sleep together always, as a loving couple should."

"And I?" asked my mother. "Are you throwing me out of your house?"

"Not at all, mother," I laughed at her. "I told you. To the outside world it will seem as if nothing has happened. As if nothing has changed. You will merely gather your things and move down the hall into the spare room. That is where you will sleep from now on."

"I see," she nodded. She got up and went to her closet, and began taking out dresses, to move them down the hall. She didn't look at either Glen or myself. I almost felt sorry for the woman. Poor, displaced, rejected creature.

And now my mission was complete. More than complete. Even though I had ceased to desire it, vengeance was finally mine. But better than that, I had found my lifetime love, the handsome, manly, Glen, with his muscles, and his dimples, and his cleft, and his warm heart, and his ten-inch dick. Glen, the golf pro. My mother's husband. And mine.