Fold, Spindle, and Mommy Rape


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Mar 2, 2021

Chapter 1

Am I totally off the mark here, or should a mother not be exceedingly cross at her child when he rapes her? I've tried to find the answer from books, support groups, or anyone having a reasonable pedigree, but the topic quickly chills psychologists and social workers alike when I ask them. Nobody seems to be talking about this! It's almost as if other mothers all over America don't have to deal with their son raping them on a regular basis. Right, and panda cubs are less cute than koalas. Well, this mother has had it up to her ovaries with incestuous sperm and is determined to put an end to the silence about this national tragedy!
I was so looking forward to having children and loving them and raising them to live successful, happy lives. My dreams, beginning before high school, were very precise on the matter. I would marry a handsome building contractor, spend a few years just for ourselves, but not too many, creating the perfect home and being the perfect husband and wife. Then after much careful planning and yes, education, we'd have two children, first a son for him, and then a daughter for me. Our boy would become a great sousaphonist, and my little girl would grow up to fight for noble causes like abandoned pets and corruption at the horse track.
Some readers might think my dreams were perhaps a bit too specific, but a woman should always know what she wants, in advance. I am strong. I am woman. I can do anything a man can do, as long as I'm married to him.
Henry was not a building contractor, exactly, but he was hired regularly, on cash contracts to caulk the windows of leaky old houses and newly constructed townhomes. I figured he just needed to apply himself a little more, and soon he'd be hiring illegal aliens and managing projects for the city. He was rather handsome, until misfortune intervened in my life plan. We'd been married nearly a year, a year of true marital bliss, when a construction site crane toppled down and smashed Henry's left arm and left leg, leaving him scared all along that side from forehead to pinky toe.
The very good fortune from that terrible accident was, Henry was still able to impregnate me. With my tongue firmly stuck out at Miss-fortune, we did have a son. We named him Race, after a character from Henry's favorite, classic cartoon show, or some new reincarnation of it. Henry watched a lot of television after his accident. I tried not to mind, and I didn't complain at all about the name he chose for our nine week old fetus. I would be the one who named my daughter, Patricia Annabel Chloe Cutter. I looked so forward to calling my darling daughter to my side, 'oh PattyAnnie, come to Mommy!'
I was sure I could nurse my devoted husband back to health and inspire him to take the county contractor's exam. I bought him audio tapes about how to empower himself and succeed at government test taking. I wanted everything back that had been lost since his accident and more by the time little Race arrived home, but Henry never seemed to understand how important this was to me. I asked him if he really preferred watching television to supporting his family. He told me to shut my fucking trap, or he would shut it for me. I had to learn this the hard way, many times in our house, but there are already too many stories out there about that social issue. Little Miss-fortune had remembered not too kindly my moment of defiance. My story must press on, for the sake of mothers like me who need to decide what to do about having a mommy rapist for a son.
Compared to many other boys in our foothills town, Race at least HAD a father around to learn him a man's way, while his mother worked two jobs to support them. Henry never had disability insurance, having worked under the table all his life. Our church's compassion support ended right after Race was too old to be legally aborted. Not that I've ever considered abortion as anything but the vile murder of a human soul. Even godless terrorists know that; may God wipe them from the face of the Earth. With the decline in our family income, and Race's birthing and other medical bills, suddenly, the idea of having a daughter right away wasn't as endearing as it had been in high school. I began to neglect my duty as a woman cleaving unto her man.
Henry didn't seem to mind, much. Oh, he hollered and hit me regular for a while, but after he started buying porno books, video tapes, and going out and liquoring up wrinkled, old floozies, a fact I was only too happy to ignore, he settled down and took his parental chores firmly in hand. With Race he did not spare the rod nor spoil the child. My fair haired boy grew up tough and fierce. Our neighbors often complained that he was bullying their children. I consoled them with a few wise words about the high spirits of children, their susceptibility to the lies of Satan, and whatever cash I had saved in the cookie jar.
Sometime around late puberty, Race finally convinced me he needed more serious help than the Lord Almighty and his born again flock. He killed his father with our 'coon-n-'possum gun.
That was the scandal. I went through a lot of trouble convincing the police to report it as an accident, I know very well that Henry did not keep the gun loaded. Race would have had to steal the key his father kept in his old caulking toolkit, unlock the fishing and tackle box where the shells were hidden, climb on a chair to reach the gun hanging over our fake fireplace, and sneak into the shower and wait for when his dad next limped to the toilet with a porno mag for the purpose of spilling his seed into the septic tank. The police found bits of ear on the hallway wall opposite the bathroom door. I think they just didn't want the notoriety of charging a minor with an adult crime, because we made a deal before any of the forensic evidence could be analyzed. They wouldn't book charges if I booked the boy with the county psychiatric ward.
Not only did I sign Race's future care over to the state, I threw out all the guns in our house and all of Henry's porn. Fortunately, the county mental center for juveniles was packed to the gills with abused, rural children, and they relegated him back to my custody, but they didn't shirk their compassionate duty. Ronald Thames, a dedicated social worker, spent the next three years visiting Race, working with him, and checking on the evolution (pardon my french) of our family situation. It all came to a sudden end when Race discovered Ronald's attempts to improve our family situation in my bed, weeks after Race had turned fourteen and was no longer under Ron's care.
I'm not sure why everyone got so upset. Race's feistiness had been mellowing for nearly three years before I decided Ronald was my best chance to bring dear little Patricia Annabel Chloe into our lives. Ronald was married. So I knew he wouldn't want to claim the child as his own. I had grown out of my widow's sorrow hours after Henry had been buried in the ground. Race was beginning to understand and accept the responsibilities and troubles adulthood had placed upon him. And lastly, we were almost rich!
I'd learned my lesson about flaunting my good fortune in front of Miss Fortune. After Henry had told me he had no disability insurance, I went straight out and placed a life insurance policy on him to the tune of five hundred thousand dollars! Every week, no matter how hard it was to withhold, I stuffed a ten dollar bill in the family bible we kept in the living room bookshelf. I was the only one who ever touched it. Each third month, for ten years, I paid the insurance bill, knowing that any day, Henry would rise, healed by the Lord, and take up once more his place as the provider for his family. When he did, his family would already be protected by this compassionate, economic shield.
I bought the mortgage on our house, hired a real contractor with real, migrant workers, to finish it in style, and enrolled myself in a class to earn a real-estate broker's license. Half a million dollars is a fabulous prize, but it wouldn't last a lifetime. I even bought my son a Sousaphone. Backed by the freedom of a high interest rate savings account and reassuring signs that Race had learned to redirect his violent urges, I set out to seduce the moderately attractive, but very hard working, Ronald. He fell under my spell within a week of my early teasing. Not bad for a thirty five year old woman. (Ronald was twenty five.)
While Race went to his Sousaphone lessons, I dragged my carefully selected victim into my room in order to fill the yearning in my loins. I wanted a daughter! Unfortunately, my son had occasional misgivings about playing the Sousaphone. Instead of attending his lesson, he goofed off with friends. Returning earlier than I expected, he caught me pretending to orgasm for our hard working social worker.
The first time, he kept the discovery to himself, but he promised to return from his next lesson earlier and get a good seat outside my window.
On my third attempt at getting pregnant, my 'act' was interrupted by motion at the window. Thick, milk colored fluid, splashing upon plate glass, drew my attention. There, beyond my son's healthy dose of sperm, Race grimaced in the throes of his orgasm.
I didn't handle that scene very well. My redirected attention caused Ronald to notice the window. He leaped off me and hauled his medium sized instrument into his jeans. Completely red faced he ran out of the room, begging forgiveness from the Lord.
A week later, I received a beautifully worded letter explaining that he was no longer the right man to help my son. On the same day, after reading the letter to him, Race decided privately, what he needed help with would not come from a man. After honestly considering my own sins and failure to be a mother worthy of his son's honor, I thought it wise to reintroduce my family to God's merciful forgiveness. I dragged him to church with me.
My first rape occurred after his first attendance at sunday school. It was late Sunday night, and I was sitting in the living room reading selected verses from my bible when Race wandered in and looked at me funny.
"Mom, that Sunday school teacher is a real ditz."
"Be careful about profaning against the servants of the Lord, Race."
"No, really. She read this story about a guy who died before he could get a kid on his wife. So God tells the guy's brother to give the wife a kid, but the brother refuses and earns God's wrath." Race shook his head in disbelief. "As if that weren't screwy enough, because God says in the ten commandments, not to hanker after a guy's ass or his wife. But then everything got stupid when the teacher tells the class that the message from this story says that masturbation is a sin!" My boy was showing his repressed, but very real, clever side.
"I don't think it's wise to judge the word of God, Race." I told him, sincerely.
"But that's not in the bible!" Race angered. "It's just something the dumb teacher said."
"Don't you take that tone with me, young man." I suggested.
"Aw, you're no better than that guy's wife." My son dismissed my warning. "You just want another kid, a girl," he said with distaste, "and you're willing to break a whole commandment to have one." Race had moved right in front of my position on the couch to stare, mockingly at me.
"We are all sinners." I reminded him.
"Yea, but I just break what some dumb church teacher says is a sin. You broke one of God's big ten."
"All sins are equal compared to the light of God's forgiveness." I paraphrased.
"Yea, really? Are you sure about that?" Race had caught a glint of incandescent light in his eye.
"Honey, how can you doubt God's love? Do you doubt my love?" I smiled and reached out to muss his hair. He ducked under my arm and then sprang on top of me!
"Race, what in heaven's name?" I yelled.
"Screw heaven, mom. I'm tired of jacking off and being told I'm sinning. If that guy's brother is allowed to put his seed in the guy's wife, then I can put mine into you!"
"Get off me this instant! That's ridiculous! I'm your mother. Get your HANDS out of my blouse!"
"Oh mom, you've got the best tits!" His initial momentum had knocked me to one side, nearly down to the couch cushions. The weight of his fourteen year old body wasn't unbearable, but I found it hard to fight him at that angle.
"Stop it, I say! That's my brassier." I had never hit my son, nor had I ever wanted to. I didn't particularly like it when Henry use to beat him, in fact I preferred it when he'd beat me instead of our defenseless child. I would often intervene and take blows that were meant for Race. All of a sudden, I was confused. Race wasn't hitting me, but his hands were very forceful. His knees tried to corral my thighs, but they were too strong for his legs to control very well. I tried pushing him away, but he grabbed my tits real tight through my bra and hung on. I hurt myself trying to escape.
"This is a real mother. How do you take it off?"
"OW! You don't. You get off me!" I ordered. I tried twisting my body to shake him off, but his legs were easily strong enough to ride out my attempts.
"Stop fighting me mom. I'm going to give you that baby you want."
"It's not right. You're my son!" I tried rolling off the couch, but he dropped one foot to the floor and countered my movement.
"That must be a whole lot better than daddy's brother."
The kid had a point. Henry's brother James, made Henry look like a model father. Fortunately, James was still serving a twenty year sentence for nearly killing a woman police officer while raping her. There wasn't a parole board on either side of the Rockies that would pardon him.
"So you want to end up like your Uncle James?" I tried to reason with my son, as his hands suddenly broke the front clasp to my bra. His fingers zeroed in on my nipples, which had become quite hard.
"No way. You aren't going to tell no cops." He had already reasoned it out. "You know what I did to Father, and you know why, and you didn't tell anyone."
"But why are you doing this?" I tried to pull his grip off my naked tits and his hands out from under my blouse.
"Because you're such a fucking tease, Mommy! For the last month you've been waving your short short skirt covered ass and deep cleavage in front of Ron, and I had to watch you do it! I've decided that I might as well have some, now that he's gone."
"No, Son, that's evil. You have to stop!" My woman's arms proved stronger than his young one and I finally extracted his claws from my mauled breasts. Or maybe he simply decided to switch tactics. Although his hands stayed from my rumpled blouse, they flew right to his shorts and unbuttoned them. A second later he had unzipped them.
"Don't you dare do that!" I shouted anew. This time I was able to twist out from under his weight and jump off of the couch. The little guy was fast then. I can tell you that. He spun around behind me and dove for my ankles. I was already off balance and when his hands pulled my feet out from under me, I fell front down to the carpet. be continued...

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