Message-ID: <20814eli$9903280432@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: "sklookingood" Subject: REPOST: Part 1, "Mom's Humiliating Catfight" Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <7djo93$5ni$1@winter.news.rcn.net> This story is being reposted, as apparently not all of it came through on some servers. WARNING! This article contains adult fiction and includes explicit descriptions of sexual acts. If you are under the age of 18 or under the age of majority and consent as defined by your community and government, you don ’t belong here and you must go away. Similarly, if you are offended by the exploration of adult themes in literature or on the Internet, please do not read further. Copyright 1999 by the author, nicknamed Sklookingood. Do not be misled by the seeming anonymity; all Internet authors and creators have rights, and any person or corporation infringing copyright will be liable to civil and/or criminal prosecution. Specific permission is granted for publication in the newsgroups Alt.Sex.Stories & Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated, and for archiving by the Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated archive and DejaNews. All other rights are reserved. Do not repost or distribute by any other means without express permission from the author. Author may be contacted at: sklookingood@iname.com Once again, particularly if you are under the age of eighteen, this story is not for you. Just leave. Others may scroll down. MOM’S HUMILIATING CATFIGHT - Part 1 This was absolutely the last straw. The last couple of times Billy got beaten up at his junior high school, there was really not much I could do. Children can be awfully cruel, and aside from advising him to stay out of the troublemakers’ way (and failing that, try to reason with his harassers), I had to accept that this is part of a boy’s growing up experience. The last time, I suggested that we report the incident to the school authorities, but Billy objected, not wanting to come across as some wimp. In a way, he was right — I didn’t want to seem too protective, as let’s face it...down deep, it’s important for a male to retain and develop his macho side. If only Billy had a father...I certainly don’t feel comfortable in dealing with this sort of rough stuff, and I’m not the best person when it comes to confrontations either. However, when Billy came home this afternoon, crying, and with a bloody nose, I knew I had to take some sort of action. I discovered it was the same kid who kept picking on Billy — some fat kid named Martin. Short of reporting this matter to the school, I told Billy that at least we can go to Martin’s parents to sort things out. Billy didn’ t want to hear about it...he thought, maybe he can take some martial arts class. Well! There’s a difference between preventing one’s child from appearing weak, and actively promoting his engaging in barbaric violence. My son had to learn the lesson that his brain needed to come into play when he encountered difficulties in life. I put my foot down, and Billy had no choice but to accept my decision, although he was whimpering about it. I wish he didn’t whimper so much. Fortunately, Billy knew Martin’s address, and it was within walking distance from our house. It was a beautiful, unseasonably warm spring day, really too hot to wear a jacket. I left mine home, but I made Billy wear his, and he even complained about that. He started fidgeting as I rang the bell of Martin’s house. The door swung open, and my heart sank a little when I noticed the woman wasn’t wearing the friendliest expression. (Did she think we were soliciting something? I had a little boy with me, for goodness’ sake.) She had curly hair and was sort of overweight, roughly the same age as me, in her mid-thirties. She was a couple of inches shorter than I, so that boosted my confidence a little. At least I could look down on her a bit, and perhaps intimidate her on a subconscious level. Naturally, I would have to do something about what people tell me is my perpetually innocent and friendly appearance — I’m often told I look like Meg Ryan (except I have long hair). Well, I’m not going to put on an act here, I’m just going to be myself. Maybe my friendliness will soften this woman up; assuming, that is, if she poses any problem at all. There was an uncomfortable silence, as she maintained her “What the heck do you want?” facial grimace, so I went first. “Hello, my name is Alisha Wintergreen, and I’m the mother of Billy, here. Are you Martin’s mother?” “Yeah,” she answered, rather monosyllablically. I guess it was my turn, again. “Well, you see, Martin seems to have gotten into the habit of, uhmm, bothering Billy, and I wondered if I could speak to you about that.” “You mean they get into fights? That’s what boys do, right? What’s the problem?” “They don’t exactly get into fights...Billy doesn’t want to fight your son.” At this point, Martin’s mother diverted her attention to Billy. “Are you saying that Martin starts these fights? What’s the matter, you can’t protect yourself? You have to run home to mommy?” “Please, Ms., Ms., uhmm... I’m sorry, what’s your name?” “Mrs. Roche. Look, there isn’t much that I can do. Boys will be boys, right?” “No, Mrs. Roche, there is such a thing as parental supervision. I’m not going to allow your son to keep beating up Billy. Now, I need your help on this, otherwise I’m going to have to go to the school.” I noticed Mrs. Roche ’s eyes lighting up. Of course, her little troublemaking pig of a son was probably one step away from suspension. She seemed to shoot swords at me with her eyes as she responded. “All right. Why don’t you come in. I’ll get Martin.” As the door closed behind us, I couldn’t believe the clutter in the living room. Hadn’t this woman ever heard of a vacuum cleaner? Especially since she seems to be a housewife. I mean, I not only work full time at the Department of Social Services, but I find time to clean, and cook for Billy and myself....oh! The floor seems to be shaking. It’s Martin, running down the stairs, landing on each step like some woolly mammoth. So there he is. I wouldn’t call him totally obese, but he’s definitely got some meat on him. A shameful double chin for a child his age. He definitely looks like he can get the better of Billy, the little monster. “What the fuck are you doing in my home, faggot?” Oh! I can’t believe this language! I couldn’t help making an audible gasp, and I look toward Mrs. Roche, but all she has is a hint of an amused smile. I see it is up to me. “Martin, that’s not a very nice thing to say. I’m Billy’s mother, and...” “Hee-e-y! Nice tits on mommy, Billy Jean!” “Mrs. Roche!” This time she had better straighten her disgusting brat out!! “Watch your mouth, Marty,” Mrs. Roche finally volunteers. Couldn’t she at least lose that trace of a smile? I look at her, maybe a little too pleadingly, to admonish Martin, but not another word is coming out of her. Is setting Martin on the correct path supposed to be my job? “Now, listen to me, Martin. It’s not right...it’s not very courageous to pick fights with kids who are smaller than you.” “Aww, I’m not doin’ nothin’! He’s always comin’ up to me, tryin’ to show how tough he is. I’m just protecting myself, that’s all.” “Mom!” Billy exclaims, as he starts to speak. “That’s not true!” “Oh, I see,” Mrs. Roche declares, with an irritating anger to her voice. “It ’s your son who’s the real bully.” I turn to Mrs. Roche to attempt to explain the preposterousness of the allegation, but I’m interrupted by Martin, who has pugnaciously stepped up to my son. “You callin’ me a liar, faggot?” I can’t believe how amazingly fast this peanut M&M shaped excuse for a human being could move, but before I knew it, he knocked my little Billy down on the floor, and wrapped his beefy arm around his throat. Billy was choking! I implored to Mrs. Roche to do something, and she only mildly looked concerned. She mumbled something to the effect that perhaps it was time for Billy to get his comeuppance, after causing so much trouble for his sweet little boy. Unbelievable! I had to step in to separate this...this creature who makes “Pugsley” from The Addams Family look like an angel, before he could do any serious damage. I grabbed the pig by his soft upper arms, telling him to stop. Suddenly, I felt Mrs. Roche do the same with me, coming up from behind, and yelling at me to leave his boy alone. How dare she! I instinctively reached back to push her away, but my hand caught on her shirt, and I heard a very irksome tearing sound. I turned around, relaxing my grip on Martin, only to see Mrs. Roche aghast — one side of her shirt was ripped halfway down, not helped by the top buttons that were also pried loose. (My goodness, was the fabric that shoddy? It seemed as though I barely touched her.) And the worst part of it was — although it was hard to tell, as she was doing an excellent job of covering up — she wasn’t wearing a bra! I think I turned redder than she was! “Oh! Oh, Mrs. Roche, I am so sorry...it was an accident, please forgive...” Mrs. Roche didn’t waste any time in tucking the ripped part inside her shirt. It was a halfway measure, at best; seemed to me like the slightest movement might bring the torn flap down, exposing what was underneath. But her mind seemed to be on other things. She was upon me, grabbing me by the hair, pulling my head back and straightening me from my crouched position. “You BITCH!” she said, with a venom that frightened me. Before I knew it, she spun me around, and punched me in the face. She punched me in the face! I had never been punched in the face...I had never been punched anywhere with such force! My knees buckled on me immediately, and I felt myself landing on my buttocks, then on my back. “Mom!” Billy called to me. Out of the corner of my eye...and barely through the spinning stars that were dancing in the middle, I noticed Martin viciously grabbing Billy by the back of the head, and slamming his face onto the floor. Then, perhaps causing even more damage, the creepy walrus-child sat on Billy’s back. Billy did not — could not — raise his head. This was getting serious. Somehow, I had to get myself and my son out of this horrible house. I felt Mrs. Roche grabbing me by the front of my shirt, and lifting me up. I forced myself to begin to come to, so I was actually helping her to get me back on my feet. As soon as she became aware of my struggling, she grabbed at the base of my shirt, tugged at it fiercely, and raised my shirt over my head. Oh, my god. Oh, my god. What a ridiculous spectacle I must have looked like, with my arms standing straight out, my shirt flipped inside out, covering my head and trapping my arms within. What was worse, my upper body was exposed. My god, two little boys — one of them my own, my own! — were able to see me in my brassiere! “Mrs. Roche! Mrs. Roche, please stop this, stop it this instan...OHHHH!!” I was down on the ground again, landing on my buttocks, sitting up with the wind knocked out of me. The pain in my face was quickly supplanted by the pain in my belly. Mrs. Roche had punched me in the stomach. With one swift motion, Mrs. Roche removed the shirt that had pinned my arms. For a moment, I was grateful, as the immobility added to my helplessness, and it was good to have the use of my arms back again. However, their use was quickly taken up by the need to cover my chest, as I couldn’t let the children see me in my half-naked state. For a moment, I made quick eye contact with Billy — his head was up, thank goodness, so he wasn’t seriously hurt — but he was staring at me in sheer horror. A quick glance above him revealed that pig of a boy with an ugly leer on his face. I turned my attention to the pig’s mother, looking up at her, standing triumphantly above me. “Mrs. Roche, have you lost your mind? What do you think you’re doing?” “You come into my home with your ugly, troublemaking son, you come with your snotty attitude, and then you attack Martin, and then me? I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget!” The...the nerve! Does she really believe all of that, or...or... I mean, is there any reasoning with her? And what is this about a “lesson”? “Mrs. Roche, I’m sorry that I tore your shirt,” I explained. I couldn’t help looking at her torn shirt, which I guess she bought someplace like K-Mart, and it was amazing that the flap was still up. Of course, maybe it came down, and she put it back up again. “It was an accident, and I’ll be glad to pay for it. Just hand me my shirt, and...and I just want to leave with my son. And my son is not ugly!” “Let’s just call it even with the shirts. You already paid for my shirt with your own.” “Mrs. Roche, my shirt won’t even fit you...I mean! Now, stop this nonsense, or I’m going to call the police!” “Maybe I should call the police and have you arrested, you bitch!” Suddenly, I heard a slamming sound. I turned to see Martin’s gleeful face, as he solidly remained sitting on poor Billy’s back, having slammed Billy’s face onto the floor again. Martin lifted Billy’s dazed head, and I noticed blood dripping down his nose. I’m a very kind and patient person, and I’m very slow to anger, but I could feel myself growing more furious. The only way out of this situation was to stand up, grab Billy, and get out. The only obstacle before me was Mrs. Roche, of course. Her, and Martin, but I’m sure I could handle him easily enough...after all, he’s just a kid. (A kid whose buttocks I’d love to kick, I’m a little ashamed to admit.) No, all I had to really worry about was Mrs. Roche. I may not be that athletic, but I have a good two or three inches on her, so if I can just knock her down, that’s all that may be necessary. Of course, that will mean having to remove my hands from my chest, exposing the uppermost part of my breasts to the children...they’re probably going to see some jiggling, damn it!..but I don’t see any other way. I felt like a jungle cat, springing onto Mrs. Roche’s legs in front of me. I quickly wrapped my arms around those legs which were, unfortunately, spread a little wide apart. I didn’t think that would be a problem: all I needed to do was apply some force, squeeze those legs together, have her lose her footing, and cause her to tumble back. The plan, however, wasn’t working; I was using all my might — and, embarrassingly, I was grunting like a little girl — and those feet remained heavily on the ground. I could hear Martin giggling...or was he snorting?...to the side. Mrs. Roche grabbed my hair, and easily pulled me up on my feet. My god, was I that weak? For a moment, we looked at each other. She looked very smug and confident, and there was a scary no-nonsense air to her. She turned me around like a rag doll, and pulled an arm up from behind my back, forcing me to bend at the waist. I sensed this position revealed the jiggling, uppermost part of my breasts to Martin, and...and Billy, and I quickly used my free arm to cover up. Mrs. Roche wasn’t keeping her free arm idle, either. Her other hand came from behind my waist, and she began to undo the buttons of my jeans. My jeans? What is this crazy woman doing?? “Mrs. Roche, what do you think you’re doing? Let me go, please, let me...OHHHH!” Before I realized what was happening, once again, I was thrown to the floor, flat on my back. Mrs. Roche had succeeded in undoing the buttons of my jeans and fly. I suppose she figured the jeans were too tight to simply slide down from a standing position, so she grabbed my legs and feet, and started removing my tennis shoes. I couldn’t believe this! When I started to struggle, she stepped on my upper arms to pin me in place. Then she pulled away my socks, exposing my...my bare feet to the boys! My naked toes, for goodness’ sake! Why would she do that, it didn’t make any sense, and I felt like I wanted to cry. I couldn’t cry, of course, I had to provide Billy with a sign of strength, but strength is one thing I just didn’t have with this woman...at least bodily strength. Mrs. Roche then started to pull my jeans up. They were tight, and it was slow going, and she alternately tugged the right side, then the left. She was stripping me. My heart felt like it was going to stop. Oh, how could she do this, in front of two young boys, one of them my son...my son! The jeans were so tight, they were taking my panties along, and the realization of that snapped me back to reality. I managed to free one of my pinned arms...perhaps I stumbled onto a flow of adrenaline to give me the much needed strength...and grabbed my panties. As the waistband of my jeans travelled up to my knees, in my humiliating and nearly upside-down position, I knew it would be just a matter of moments before the pants would fully come off. I hoped this would give me enough time to reposition my panties back in place, as they slid halfway down as well. I hoped the boys didn’t see any of my secrets, but it all happened so fast, and...ohh! I don’t even want to think about it. Mrs. Roche released my legs, and there I was, helplessly lying on the floor in my bra and panties. I was embarrassed beyond belief. At least, I rationalized to myself, it was like wearing a bikini at the beach, so it wasn’t that bad....but I was only fooling myself, as it was that bad. I was exposed to everyone in my intimate underwear, for god’s sake. I dared to sneak a peek at the boys, and my brain felt like coming to a halt. Martin had removed Billy’s shirt, and Billy was crying. Did Martin actually think he was going to do to my son what his mother was doing to me? I...I had to do something, but what? I looked up at the victorious Mrs. Roche, and was in for another shock. The action had caused her torn flap to come down, and there it was...visible to all, her sagging, fat breast. I was appalled! Was she wearing her nakedness as a sick badge of honor? But, no, when she caught me staring, she quickly redid the flap. I think she was even upset that I caught her in a nude state. “M-Mrs. Roche, please listen to me. Don’t...don’t you think this has gone far enough? Please, before you get in any more trouble, I beg you...” “Before I get in any trouble? You stupid bitch, you really don’t get it, do you?” At that, Mrs. Roche stood me up again....oh, how strong she was....sat down, and laid me across her lap, face-down. She started to spank me! She was spanking me, fast and hard!! “Oh, Mrs. Roche, no, you can’t...OWWW....no, please....OHHHHH...p-please...NOOOO....” I lifted my head to check the boys...maybe...maybe they weren’t aware of what was happening. Am I serious? How could they not know what was happening? Billy was naked to his underpants, and he seemed paralyzed, cowering in fear and shock. I had only momentary eye contact with him, as I didn’t want him to study my face; I was very close to crying, and I didn’t want him to see me cry. At least Mrs. Roche had the decency not to strip me any further...after this horrible humiliation, she probably would let us go. After all, this situation couldn’t possibly get any more humiliating. It couldn’t! Here I am, an authority figure to my boy, getting spanked in front of him. Getting spanked with my buttocks and breasts swinging this way and that in a most feminine manner, covered by thin fabric that leaves little to the imagination. Then I noticed a most troubling sight, after becoming aware that Martin was no longer by my boy’s side. He was carrying Billy’s clothing, and was picking up my socks, pants and the rest of it. What was he going to do with them? Mrs. Roche wasn’t letting up, and my buttocks felt like it was on fire. My god, how could her hand stand the pain? My eyes were filled with wetness, and it felt like I was only seconds away from bawling like a three-year-old. But I cannot! I must not... Then Mrs. Roche spoke. “Here, Marty, take this, too.” I don’t think my eyes could have opened wider in disbelief as she unclasped my brassiere, and let it fall down my arms. I had the presence of mind to keep it from falling all the way off, but the damage was done. I could hide them from view partially, but my breasts were bare. Martin, that little monster, grabbed my bra, and after a brief tug-of-war, succeeded in claiming his prize. Then he had the audacity — the audacity! — to reach in with his two pudgy, fat hands, and squeezed my nipples in between his fingers. “Yo, man, I told you, faggot...mommy’s got a great set of tits, man!” I heard Billy start to cry, and I could no longer restrain myself...I just began to lose it. Mrs. Roche began to chuckle, and Martin joined her beastly mother by snorting his amusement. Then he left the room with our clothing, effectively ending our chances to make a break for it, imprisoning us even further. I hated myself for breaking down this way. The physical pain on my butt was growing more unbearable, but it was the anguish I was feeling inside that was causing my crying fit. That meant one more victory for Mrs. Roche...a victory on a more profound level. Suddenly, I sensed a flash of light that caused my crying to immediately halt. I turned my head to see Martin with a camera...he was photographing me. He was photographing me! It couldn’t be possible, this was almost like a surreal state, but there he was, getting that Kodak moment. Fortunately, I was able to cover my breasts, and — thank god — still had my panties on, but he was taking pictures of me, getting spanked over his mother’s knee...as if I were his sister or something!...an image they could enjoy forever! It...it wasn’t fair! I started crying, even louder than ever, but I was able to get some words out to express my indignation! “M-Mrs. R-Roche...OHHHH....I-I-I de-demand....OWWWWW....that-that y-you st-st ... OOHHHH...stop this! Stop this!!” “Oh, shut up. You deserve everything that you’re getting. But, you know...my hand is starting to hurt.” Martin put down his camera. “Let me do it, Mom.” “NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! I AM NOT LETTING HIM N-NEAR ME! Do...DO YOU H-HEAR M....OOOOOOWWWWWWWW!!!” “Only I don’t want my hand to hurt, Mom. Can I grab the ping pong paddle from the basement?” “Sure, honey, go ahead. Ooof...I need to take a break. It’s hard work to hammer this fat ass.” As Martin left to grab the paddle, and I lay there on Mrs. Roche’s lap, quietly sobbing...it was good that the spanking stopped, because I don’t think I could have taken much more (even though I wished Mrs. Roche didn’t keep her hand on my butt, quietly petting and stroking it, although that was much better than the alternative)... I had a chance to reflect on this unbelievable situation. First, I really had no choice in the matter but to accept this punishment, as I was no match for Mrs. Roche. The anathema of letting that porky bastard child lay his hands on me was overwhelming, but what could I do? Secondly, during this brief respite, my heart sank with the discovery that I was actually wet. I was wet! I mean, really wet! It’s the kind of protective wetness that a woman gets, I’m sure, when she’s up against a rapist, and the wetness does not develop because she’s enjoying the experience. That, however, is not what these two are going to think, and I can only thank Mrs. Roche, crazily enough, for allowing me to keep my panties. Lastly, the other thing I couldn’t help reflecting on was Mrs. Roche’s cruel “fat ass” comment. I’ve been told repeatedly that I have a very nice rear end, and that was totally uncalled for. Martin returned, sat on the adjacent couch (after removing all the junk that was on it. If their basement is anything like their living room, it’s a wonder how he could have found that ping pong paddle), and Mrs. Roche slapped me hard on my buttocks as a sign to get off her lap. I was instructed to lie across Martin’s lap, or whatever passed for a lap. He actually sat up against the back of the couch, and I lay across his outstretched legs. As I took my position, the moment that I dreaded took place. Martin sunk his fingers around the edge of my panties...it took him a while to fit them in there, and he indelicately slid my panties off. He let his grimy hands linger on the burning cheeks of my buttocks. In a mind-altering way, I was almost grateful for the momentary contact, as the coldness of the little bastard’s hands felt good on my cheeks. What was I doing during this latest, and last unveiling? I lay upon his cushiony legs, quietly whimpering. Whimpering, oh my god, like Billy! I hate it when Billy whimpers, and here he’s witnessing his mother totally wimping out. I should at least object to my tormentors, why aren’t I objecting? After all, they undressed me completely, and I was totally naked. Totally naked! But what’s the use? There’s nothing I can do... End of Part 1 -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----