Ethan’s next A was in Maths, and the delight that Melissa took in seeing her son finally achieving top grades in school was balanced by a sense of horror, because she knew that Ethan would insist she owed him some new degradation to reward his success.
He had left the test for her on the kitchen bench after returning from school, and she discovered it while he was changing out of his school uniform. She was still looking at it when he came up from behind her and wrapped his hands around her, squeezing her large, soft tits. She felt a hardness against her ass, and realised with a shock that her son was completely naked – and his cock was erect.
“Tell me, cunt,” he whispered in her ear, “are you in heat?”
She coloured. “Please, Ethan,” she protested. “I’m your mother.”
He squeezed her breast hard enough to hurt, and she yelped.
“Don’t talk back to me, cunt,” he said. “I expect you to tell me when your bitch cunt is in heat, without having to be asked. Now – are you in heat right now?”
Her pussy was dry. “No,” she confessed.
“Let me check,” said Ethan, and Melissa stood there in humiliation as she felt her naked son lift her skirt, and then pull down her panties. She spread her legs slightly, knowing that he would force them apart – and possibly punish her – if she tried to hold them together.
She felt her son’s hand move between her legs and explore her pussy, running over her pussy lips, and then parting them, searching for moisture within.
He found none.
“Unacceptable,” he whispered. “A cunt like you only has a purpose if she’s fuckable. I don’t need a worthless dry cunt for a mother.”
She choked back a sob. ‘Please, Ethan…” she begged.
“Can you count to ten, bitch?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, confused.
“Then that’s my wish,” he said. “I’m going to punish you whenever you’re bad at being a fuckable cunt, and you’re going to count out your punishments.”
He pulled her tits free of her dress, and then pushed her forward, so she was bent forward at the waist with her breasts resting on the countertop. She tried to struggle, but he held her still.
“Don’t move, cunt,” he told her. “It’s time for your punishment. After every blow, I want you to count it, and I want you to tell me a reason why you deserved it. Don’t miss the number, and don’t repeat yourself, or it won’t count.”
And before she could think, he raised his hand, and brought it down hard across her tits, in a half-slap, half-punch.
She wailed. Ethan looked at her. She stared back at him, dumbly, not really believing that this was happening, that her own son was punching her in the tits for not being sexually aroused.
He hit her again.
“Well?” he asked her.
“One,” she gasped.
“And a reason?” he prompted.
She couldn’t think.
“That one doesn’t count,” he told her – and hit her again.
“Ah! Fuck!” she squeaked. “One! Ah… I deserved it because I wasn’t wet.”
“Good cunt,” he said, and hit her again.
She whimpered. “Two. I deserved it because…” She couldn’t think of a reason. Her mind flashed back to all the things that Ethan’s father had said about her, and she spoke on autopilot. “I deserved it because I’m a woman.”
“Three. I deserved it because I’m stupid.”
“Four. I deserved it because I’m a slut.”
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
“Five. Six. Seven. I deserved it because I have giant whore tits. Because nobody raped me today. Because it’s entertaining for men to hurt me.”
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
“I deserved it because I only learn from pain. I deserved it because I’m prettier when I’m crying. I deserved it because I’m a dumb bitch.”
And then it was done. She was crying, and her tits were bruised – and, strangely, her cunt *was* wet, now, urgently and needily wet.
But Ethan was pulling her away from the counter and pushing her down to her knees, her tits still out, and he was pointing his cock at her and masturbating.
It didn’t take him long to cum, and soon ropes of warm, sticky sperm were splattering across the upper slopes of her tits.
Ethan looked down at her, his cock still dripping onto her udders. “Lick them clean,” he told her in a throaty, raspy voice.
She didn’t dare disobey. She lifted her tits and did her best to lick them. Her son’s cum tasted salty and oddly delicious. She licked up as much as she could reach.
Ethan was still watching her. And now he motioned to his cock. “Lick *it* clean,” he said.
She stared at her son’s cock. She couldn’t. She couldn’t put her mouth on her own son’s penis. It was wrong. It was disgusting.
But she knew what would happen if she didn’t. Ethan would hit her again – just as his father had hit her whenever she had dared to disobey, or think for herself, or be anything but a good, obedient cum toilet.
And she remembered Ethan’s father’s command every time he had shown her his cock. “Worship it,” he had demanded, forcing her to stare at it, her cunt wet, her mouth open, her body needy, slutty, pathetic…
She was transfixed by his cock now – hard, warm, wet with his sperm. Everything in her told her to serve it – to serve it because it was all she was good for, to serve it because men deserved to be served, to serve it or else she would be punished….
With a whimper, she leaned forward and took her son’s cock into her mouth. She ran her tongue all over it, licking away the delicious semen, feeling the tip of her son’s cock poke the back of her throat. Then she sucked on it, gently, to remove the last of the sperm.
When it was over, she pulled back, and looked up at her son for approval.
He was smiling. “Good cunt,” he said. Then he put his hand in the middle of her forehead and pushed, knocking her backwards onto the floor as if she were a discarded object, before leaving her there and walking away.
“Make dinner,” he called back as he left. “I’m hungry, bitch.”
Over the following days, Ethan took every opportunity to check with his mother was “in heat”. When he caught her with a dry pussy, he repeated his punishment of her – tits on the kitchen counter, ten blows to her titflesh, as hard and painful as he could make it. And she would count them out and tell him why she deserved it.
But when he found her pussy wet with slutty arousal, it was a different counting game. Instead he would begin to pump his fingers in and out of her snatch, making her moan with humiliation and pleasure, and he would count slowly to 10 as he did it. At the count of ten he would stop abruptly – never quite giving her enough to allow her to cum – and then pinch her clitoris painfully, before calling her a slut, wiping his fingers clean on her face, and walking away.
All things considered, being fingerfucked was far more pleasant than having her tits beaten, and so Melissa began making an effort to be in heat when her son checked. She would masturbate until she was wet before getting up in the morning, and again just before her son got home from school. She would finger herself until she was wet before leaving the toilet, or before leaving the shower, or if she realised that she was dry while her son was awake and in the house she would run to her bedroom and rub herself until she was lubricated again.
It probably wasn’t good for her, she thought, to be always horny around her son, or to associate masturbation with the idea of pleasing him, but every time he caught her dry he made more and more effort to hurt her, leaving purple bruises on her tits, and she had come to associate the realisation that she wasn’t aroused with an instant panic and fear, so in the end she just couldn’t help herself. She would do what it took to placate Ethan, even if that meant having her brain constantly clouded with arousal and her pussy constantly soaking a wet patch into her panties.
Being horny at least helped her to settle into her new role as her son’s masturbation aid. At all hours of the clock, Ethan would yell out “Bitch!” or “Cunt!”, and Melissa would be expected to drop whatever she was doing and find him. Often he would already have his cock out and in his hand. Then he would tell her what part of her he wished to masturbate over. If he said “fuckbags”, she would expose her breasts and offer them up to him, and he would stare at them and masturbate until he had bathed the slopes of her tits in his salty cum. If he said “face-cunt”, she would open her mouth, and he would aim his cock at it. The inevitable ejaculation would go partly into her mouth – which she would be expected to swallow – but mostly all over her face. And if he said “rapehole”, she would lie on her back, expose her cunt, and use her fingers to spread her pussy lips for him, and he would bathe her pussy in his cum. She always winced as she felt his sperm oozing into her fuckhole, because she wasn’t on birth control and was terrified of being impregnated by her own son, but she said nothing, and she suspected he enjoyed her terror.
Besides, she didn’t dare raise the possibility of pregnancy with him, because she still remembered what had happened when she had told Ethan’s father she was pregnant with Ethan. He had held a “pregnancy party” for her – which had turned out to be nothing but being gang-raped by Ethan’s father’s close friends. And at the end as she had laid then covered in sperm and sobbing, he had whispered in her ear.
“Pregnancy is *your* problem, cunt.”
And then he had left, never to return.
Most times after Ethan ejaculated on her, he would expect her to lick his cock clean, which Melissa did obediently. But sometimes he would just wipe his cock clean on her face, or tits, or hair, as if she were nothing but a cum rag. She would in all cases be expected to leave the cum on her skin for several hours, until it had dried, to help her remember what she was good for.
And although Ethan had initially said that she was going to be his masturbation aid as an alternative to him consuming pornography, that lasted for only a few days. Soon Melissa began to experience the humiliation of Ethan choosing to watch porn on his phone or computer as he masturbated over her, and of knowing that she was inferior in every way to the big-titted women that her son stared at as he masturbated.
He would always show her what he had watched while he masturbated, and tell her why the woman in the pictures was prettier and more entertaining than she was.
And so the next time he caught her dry-cunted and beat her tits, she would know exactly what to apologise for.
“I’m sorry my tits aren’t bigger.”
“I’m sorry I don’t lez off with other women for your entertainment.”
“I’m sorry I’m not a giggly sex-toy.”
And when it was done, and she was crying, and her breasts were bruised, he would lean down and whisper in her ear – in exactly the same style and tone as his father had once done.
And he would say just two words.