Message-ID: <34723asstr$1011060605@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Message-ID: <20020114175920.86245.qmail@web10306.mail.yahoo.com> From: One Gallus X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Mon, 14 Jan 2002 09:59:20 -0800 (PST) Subject: {ASSM} Ernest Ernestine 3 (Fm, inc) Date: Mon, 14 Jan 2002 21:10:05 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, newsman __________________________________________________ Do You Yahoo!? Send FREE video emails in Yahoo! Mail! http://promo.yahoo.com/videomail/ <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 <1st attachment end> ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ Notice: This post has been modified from its original format. 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