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Message-ID: <34723asstr$1011060605@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: One Gallus <onegallus@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Ernest Ernestine 3 (Fm, inc)
Date: Mon, 14 Jan 2002 21:10:05 -0500
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<1st attachment, "Ernest 3.txt" begin>

Disclaimer: Persons under eighteen years of age are not permitted
to read this work.  Any resemblance to actual persons living or
dead is purely co-incidental.  You are not permitted to change
this work in any way.   You are not permitted to use this work on
any site without obtaining permission from the author.  This work
may not be sold without the author's permission.


Ernest Ernestine

Part 3

("Mom!" he said suddenly, "I could have scratched there! Next
thing you know, you'll be scratching in my butt crack!"  He
suddenly turned on his side again revealing his genitals.  My
hand dragged back across his waist and hip.  He smiled. "But, I
guess that would feel good too!  Wouldn't it?") 


His voice seem to reach me from a distance and when I looked up,
I realized he'd been watching me stare at his penis.  "Mom!" he
insisted, "Don't you think that would feel good? Mom?"

He then squared around to a sitting position and put his knees
almost together, his scrotum and penis falling down between his
thighs.  He pushed himself up suddenly, got to his feet and stood
in front of me scratching his patch of black pubic hair, his
penis hanging limp.  "Well," he said offhandedly, "I think I'll
read awhile." He turned and left the room.

The next Monday morning, I opened his door and found him in his
briefs, sitting but slumped almost in a flat position on the bed.
His upper back and head rested against the wall. He was reading a
Spider Man comic book.  Another twin bed, meant for guests, sat
along side of his and I walked in between them and sat down on
the opposite one with a loud sigh.  "Ernie, this business has got
to stop!"

"What business?" he asked, not taking his eyes from the comic
book.

I snatched the comic book from him, almost ripping it in two. 
"Put that damn book down and answer me!"

He sat up then, dangling his feet off the side of the bed. He
shook is head in angry exasperation.  "Why don't you just hit me
again, Ernestine?" he shouted, his face aflame, "because I don't
know what the hell you're talking about!  Why don't you just slap
me in the face?  That'll make you feel better!"

"Ernie . . ." I choked out, feeling my mouth ridiculously open. 
I burst into tears.  He pulled his feet up into the bed, looked
at me with disgust and lay down and turned his back. 

He didn't talk to me the rest of that day and I went to sleep
that night agonizing over this cruel hostility even when I loved
him so very much.  Didn't he realize how much I loved him?  After
two hours of tossing and turning, Tom began to snore and that
kept me awake for almost the whole night.  I got up early when he
did, fixed breakfast and then lay back down and slept a bit after
he left for work.  When I finally did get up day and go to the
kitchen for breakfast, Ernie was there but he wouldn't speak to
me.  He left the room almost immediately and avoided me all that
day. 

The next day, though I slept through the night, I couldn't get up
in time to fix breakfast for Tom.  I felt weighed down, pressed
into a kind of listlessness. It was my market day and I had to
force myself up to shower.  I dried with great effort, and then
suddenly slumped down naked on the chair in front of the vanity.
I stared into my mirror.  Without my makeup I was a sight to
behold.  I didn't want to put on makeup but I did.  With great
effort, I pulled my panties up my legs from a sitting position,
lifting myself momentarily off the chair to pull them over my
hips.  After this bit of activity I was utterly fatigued. 

I looked into the mirror to see Ernie standing behind me at the
entrance of the bathroom.  A listless kind of inertia came to
rest over me, like a heavy spread blanket and I surrendered to
it.  I made no effort to grab a towel, which was well within my
reach.  I could not do it.  I simply sat there, shoulders
slumped, my breasts dangling just above a small flange of fat
that encircled my belly.  I felt nothing, not fear, not shock,
not love, not hate.  Ernie's nakedness hardly registered in my
brain.   I took a deep breath and sighed slowly, fixing my gaze
on a hairbrush.

Ernie walked up beside me and knelt.  He reached across my lap
and put his hand on my opposite hip.  He lightly caressed me from
my hip to my knee.   I felt the touch of his chest against my
other thigh.  My nipple sensed the brush of his smooth cheek. 
Then he was pressing his head against my breast, his right arm
drawing me into him from my back.  I felt that arm slide down low
on my butt, as far as the chair would allow. I felt the warm
pleasure of a gentle hug.

"Mom, I'm sorry.  I love you." The words rushed down inside of
me, down to my mid- section like a warm comforting drink.

I sat, unmoving but something within me stirred. I wanted the hug
to continue.  I wanted Ernie to turn his mouth to my nipple.  I
just wanted to sit, or perhaps lie and "nurse" him as I had when
he was a baby.  I wondered if he sucked my breast now, whether I
would feel my uterus pull as it had so long ago. Moisture filled
my vulva. I hated myself that I should feel this way.  I wanted
to sleep.  I wanted to go to sleep with Ernie sucking on my
breast.  Yet, at the same time, I wanted him to leave me alone
but when he did leave, after several more minutes, I felt
abandoned. I must have sat for another fifteen minutes, ashamed
that I wanted him so badly. I felt unbelievably low, even further
depressed than before. Finally, I pulled myself to my feet, using
my vanity sink as a brace.  I walked slowly to my bed holding on
to the walls and nightstand.  I was dressed only in my panties,
but with full facial make-up.  I crawled in, pulled up the covers
and slept.  I spent the next seven or eight days in bed, rising
only to go to the bathroom.  The make up felt like an iron mask
on my face, but I didn't have the energy to wash it off.  Tom
asked what was wrong when he came home from work, but I wouldn't
answer nor did I speak to him for several days.  He left me
alone. Ernie sensed this was some kind of sickness and let me be
as well.

Sometime early into the next week, I began to have some hope that
the depression was lightening.  I felt strong enough to shower
even if I had to lie back down.  Tom wanted to call the doctor,
but I told him I was getting better.  When Tuesday came, I
gathered enough energy to get myself up, make breakfast for Tom
and see him off to work. He'd been very understanding.  I sat
down ate a piece of toast and sipped my coffee.  I walked back to
my room.  On the way, I looked in on Ernie.  He lay in a huddle
with a sheet pulled up over him.  I continued to my bedroom.

The feeling of dread that I had carried for some weeks was
lifting layer by paper- thin layer. I was feeling better now.  I
looked for something positive and remembered with some comfort
that Ernie had apologized.  True, but at the time, I argued to
myself, he had been naked and had pressed his cheek against my
naked breast.  Still, he had apologized.  Maybe it would be
different now.

I turned the boom box by my bed on low.  I removed my robe and
climbed onto the mattress.  I was wearing my maroon nightgown,
the most comfortable one I had. Its shiny fabric slipped me
easily into my sleeping position.  Soft New Age music drifted out
of the radio and lulled me toward sleep. Today would be
different, I said to myself.  Then I slept. I was what I called a
"hard sleep." I felt as if I had sunk down into the bed a foot
and wanted to stay.  I came awake groggily, the feeling of
sluggishness so heavy upon me that I could not move for several
minutes.  I slid to the edge of the bed and put my right leg over
the side.  My foot came in contact with something smooth and I
brushed at it lightly.  It was skin. Ernie was lying beside my
bed.  What naked part of him I had touched? I didn't know. All I
knew was that it was bare skin. 

I sat up, and found my foot resting lightly and tentatively on
his chest.  I held it tense for a moment, then relaxed and let it
rest.  I was so tired, so tired of trying to put Ernie in his
place. I was utterly frustrated with trying to make him treat me
as a parent ought to be treated.  He had no respect for me as his
mother anymore. That apology evidently had been a sham. He wanted
to put his face against my breast.  Now he wanted me to feel him
with my feet.  This boy did only what he wanted to do.  Suddenly,
I slid my right foot down his chest, hoping a show of anger would
startle him away from me.  The foot came to rest on his upper
stomach.  My left foot was suspended above his genitals. His
right forearm rested across his eyes and he was unmoving, except
for his lips which he rubbed, one against the other.  I knew he
wasn't asleep, and he knew I knew, but there he lay. 

I gazed at his flaccid penis pillowed on his scrotum, curving
away from its root, its covered glans pointing in my direction.
No doubt he'd posed it like that for my benefit. I moved my left
foot.  It hovered above his penis.  I stretched my leg out. There
was no way I could simply step over him. I gazed at him again. 
Damn him, he was so beautiful, so flawless.  Here was Tom's and
my young son, legitimate, and yet a bastard.  He was so perfect,
so lithesome, so handsome. Deep in my belly and up in my breasts,
I was feeling a pull. I was wet inside my center.

But this was evil, an evil game that an evil child was playing
against me.  I could win this game quickly by digging my heel
into his groin and bruising his testicles.  He had it coming.  I
looked to the footboard of the bed.  There was an exit there if I
wanted to take it.  Yet I hesitated.  Why didn't I take it?

I slid my left foot under his testicles and lifted them with my
toes.  I thought of them as "balls" or "nuts" now.  I called them
that in my mind.  I did not look at his face.  My eyes were on
his balls and his damned cock, now shifting with every elevation
and declension of my toes. The penis was hardening before my
eyes, I slid my right foot down from his stomach to his pubic
hair and felt the tickling of the springy black thatch under my
arch.  I slid my foot back toward me and dug gently into it with
my toes, testing its wiry texture.  My eyes were on my feet as I
slowly caressed his genitals; but I could see that his forearm
was still over his eyes.  The cock was firm by now, five
thirteen-year-old inches rising to back to its mother.

I moved my left foot from under his scrotum and locked his penis
on its inside "cutting edge." I brought my right foot up over the
stiff shaft and bent it downward over my left instep and massaged
it.

A low groan came from his mouth and he removed his arm from his
eyes. His face was fixed in a grimace of utter pleasure and,
strangely, he looked more like the little boy he'd been than ever
before in recent years.  He shifted his upper body up on an
angle, supporting himself with his elbows, looking at my feet
play at his penis. How did this boy of mine ever come to be such
a bastard?

The feel of a man's penis is unlike any other part of his body,
his throat, his mouth, his leg.  Certainly it's all living
tissue, but the penis seems to have its own mind, making
decisions without an input from the head, leading the head when
it should be the other way around.  You can feel the rebellion in
its shaft.  It squirms inside of itself, beats with its own
demanding pulse and will not be denied.  A woman can feel all of
that, but I was feeling it through the sensitive soles of my
feet, trying to hold it in a firm but moving clamp.

I thought of how this boy had used me, manipulated me.  It
angered me and a part of me wanted to sever the cock, to pinch it
off.  Yet a greater part of me wanted to savor it, was savoring
it.  I watched the foreskin flash a shiny red with each pass of
my foot down the shaft. 

Damn him, he was bucking now, taking the pleasure, not concerned
about me. Yet I was having pleasure too. I shouldn't have wanted
this pleasure, it was forbidden but I lusted for it, and for him.
 I wanted its blunt padded hardness pressing against the flesh
around my clitoris, bumping it.  I even wanted this short young
root buried inside of me. I became angry in my lust and I
purposely I tried to mash the penis between my feet, to flatten
it, to savage it, make him cry in pain.  My teeth were clenched.
A hiss issued from between them.

Instead of Ernie crying out in pain, he wailed "Mom, Mom, Mom! Oh
I love you, Mom!" He was lifting his upper body with his hands
now, his pelvis arching up to me.  His semen jetted out across
his thighs, then leaving heavy droplets on my feet.

Oh, how I had longed to hear those words, "I love you," but
spoken as loving son toward a loving mother. He had forced me
into jacking him into orgasm, so what did "I love you" really
mean?  You give a good foot-job, Mother dear?  How 'bout a nice
fuck later on? Is that all motherhood has gotten me in thirteen
years?  Ernie settled himself on his back again.  His face was a
study in euphoria.

"Yeah, like hell you love me," I said sullenly, "You just got
what you loved, you little bastard.  Are you happy now? You drove
me crazy to get it!" His semen had puddled on this thighs and I
could smell it.

Ernie's expression changed to shock and hurt.  His eyes were
round.

"You liked that, did you boy?  Well, good for you!"  I hooked my
foot under his hip and tried to dislodge him.  "Move, damn it!" I
shouted, "Move!" He rolled away, wide-eyed, and I went to the
shower. 

The steamy water tattooed on my back and I placed my forearms on
the opposite wall, holding myself up.  A sob escaped through my
arms, and then another.  I would have to talk to Tom.  Maybe I
could talk to a counselor.  I wondered if Tom's medical insurance
would cover such things.  If I shared this with a counselor,
would he have to report me to the authorities?  Had I abused a
child?  Men were arrested all the time for fondling young people
not even their children.  Would they take Ernie from me?  And why
wouldn't that be better?  Wasn't I the victim in this as much as
Ernie?  No, Ernestine, you are the adult, you are the authority
figure.  The whole picture was tangled, sordid and shameful, and
I was to blame.  An anvil hung in my belly, suspended there by
some fleshy rope from my heart.  Even my shoulders felt heavy. 
Yet, my weeping ceased.

I turned toward the hot water, putting my head under the spray. 
It was like a score of hot needles piercing my scalp, stinging
me, but loosening me. I bent lower. The water hit the back of my
neck and I let it pummel me there for minute.  Then I rose
straight, and moved my face into the hot stream.  Its tiny
fingers danced over my forehead and cheeks.  I opened my mouth
and let the water enter there.  It felt cooler on my tongue than
on my torso.

I swept back my short hair with my fingers, and let the water jet
against my breasts, denting them with its force. My scalp felt
loose and my body was relaxing.  A blessed kind of numbness began
to float into me.  Then the shower door opened.


Go to Part 4

OneGallus@Yahoo.com

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