The following is a work of fiction.  It does not reflect the author’s beliefs.  Any similarities to any person, living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

Motherly Love

By Razor7826

“Yes, I’ll be there sometime around eleven tomorrow morning.”

“Are you sure you can’t come sooner?”  Silence on the other line.

“No, Mom, the pre-trial hearing is this afternoon and I want to be there.  I swear, I’ll stay home longer for Christmas.”

“Do you give me your word?”  I pressed, knowing that the answer would be yes, even if she didn’t mean it and had no intention of following through.

“Yes, I promise.  I gotta run.  Love you.  See you on Thanksgiving.”

“Love you too, hon--.”  She had already hung up.

I sighed and hung the phone on the hook.  She was always like this, and her whistleblower case was just the excuse of the year.  Last year it was job applications, and the year before that it was too much schoolwork.  I couldn’t blame her this year, however, it being our first Thanksgiving alone.  Without her father around, I had no idea how I was supposed to retain a relationship with my only daughter.  She was always closer to Henry than me, and to be honest, I kind of resented it.  Growing up, I had nothing but admiration for the nurturing and loving relationships exemplified in every mother-daughter pair that I knew, but for some reason, Claire and I never really bonded.  Henry was her confidant; I was just a third wheel.

Life without him was going to be rough, but I thought I could handle it and mend our broken relationship at the same time.  However, life never turns out as you expect it to.

A sense of loneliness pervaded life without Henry.  While I had gotten used to Claire’s absence during her college years, nothing had prepared me for the accident, and the lonely winter and holidays were sure to be rough.  I walked through the house, reflecting on the true silence before making my way upstairs and into the bathroom.

I stared in the mirror and convinced myself that I looked great for my age. I had Claire when I was only 20 years old, so even as a widowing single mother, I had not yet reached forty-five.  It’s true what they say, you know, that women always end up looking like their mother.  True for me and my mother, and true for Claire and me.  Or, should I say, probably true.  She was still too young at the time to tell for sure.  Same brown hair, narrow face, unblemished skin, and light blue eyes that seemed to infest my side of the family tree.  The only difference between me and her was how we treated our hair.  I’ve never dyed it, and I kept it in a short bob, but she’s been highlighting and dying it for years, leaving it completely uncut since her High School graduation five years ago.

I did my business and washed my hands.  The doorbell rang.  I ran downstairs and looked through the peephole.  There was nobody there.  I assumed ding-dong ditchers until I heard the sound of the backdoor sliding open.  My heart stopped.

“Who’s there?” I asked.  Silence.  I asked again.  Silence.  I walked towards the kitchen slowly in my socks, trying to make as little noise as possible. The floor creaked beneath my shifting weight.  When I turned the corner, I saw their shadows cast against the kitchen wall.

Had I been carrying my cellphone, I would have called 911, then and there, but I left it charging near the kitchen sink. I turned around and tip-toed to the front door and began to silently unlock both dead locks, hoping to make my escape before they noticed.

“Grab her!” yelled a voice from behind me. I hastily unlocked the second deadbolt and began to open the door before one of the invaders grabbed me.  He covered my mouth with his right hand and firmly held me up off the floor, his left arm pressing across my brown cardigan and dress.

“MMfffff!” I tried to scream for help, but it was no use.  The man swung me away from the door, into the view of his two cohorts.  They both wore rubber masks made to look like President Nixon.

“Bring her upstairs,” commanded the man on the right, and the ruffian complied.  I kicked my feet and flailed my arms, trying to claw at my holder, but my hands slid off of his rubbery mask while my legs lacked the mass or shoes needed to do damage.  He carried me upstairs, seemingly without effort.  His friends followed him and me into the master bedroom.

“Got a gag ready?” asked my holder.

One of the others responded.  “Yeah, throw her on the bed.”

My holder complied, throwing me onto the bed.  I yelled, “Hel-“ before the man slammed a piece of duct tape over my mouth.  He and his friend flipped me over, grabbed my wrists, and bound them together with multiple layers of tape.  I knew there was no way that I would be able to free my hands, but I continued to resist, kicking my legs wildly, aiming for their crotches.  I landed a glancing blow and the thug reeled back in pain, but only for a moment.

       “Doesn’t look like she’ll give up easily.  Get the bar,” said the man, grabbing his crotch.  Without responding, his friend dug around in his bag and pulled out two short bars.  They screwed together to form a single long rod.  He carried it over to me, grabbed each of my ankles in turn, and used copious layers of packing tape to fasten my legs in place.  When he finished, they let me rest for a moment on the bed, on my back, my legs apart, resting painfully on my arms and bound hands.

       I wondered what they were doing this to me for and what they had planned, but one of those questions was quickly answered as I saw them unzip and remove their pants.  They merely looked at each other and nodded, and the largest of the trio climbed between my legs, his cock bulging in his red boxers.

       I couldn’t do anything but stare back at the menacing Nixon mask, my assailant making neither eye contact nor conversation as he rolled up my knee length brown skirt, revealing the plain white panties that I had taken to wearing since Henry’s death.  The man between my legs tore them off with a single tug, leaving my pussy exposed.  He grabbed the collar of my brown sweater and tore it down the middle, and did the same to my bra, freeing my 38C breasts. 

       He pulled down his boxers, letting loose his eight inch penis, which he spared no time in using.  He pushed my thighs apart with his hands and speared me with his cock.  I winced in pain.

       Never before had I regretted letting Henry persuade me to put a mirror in the ceiling.  I could do nothing but stare straight up, my eyes frozen wide in shock, as he impaled me over and over, my tits swaying back and forth in rhythm.  I felt the man dump his warm load into my vault.  He pulled out and jerked off the rest across my tits and face, the translucent gunk barely visible on my pale skin.

       The man grunted and stood up, only to be replaced by one of his friends.  The cycle of abuse would continue well into the late evening, the trio of terrors parsing their loads between inside my cunt and across my body.  I was but a defenseless pleasure toy to them, not a single action of theirs showing the slightest hint they thought of me as a human being.  The continued their deeds without words, clearly an unspoken rule between them that I was to be used by whoever could.

       By the time they stopped, I thought I would die.  My pussy felt like it was on fire and every joint in my abused body burned.  I lacked the strength to offer even a token resistance, but the men didn’t care.  The last of the Nixon men got up, but instead of being replaced by a friend, he rammed a vibrator into my aching hole and taped it into place.

       Before leaving me there, alone in the darkness, the same large man that held me so tightly attached a red leather dog collar around my neck, then fastened it to the bed post with a leash.  He unplugged the phone from the wall, took an envelope from his coat pocket, and placed it on my cum-encrusted chest. The envelope simply read ‘Claire’ in big red letters. The trio left the room, walked down the stairs, and exited my house, leaving me alone and helpless.

       The vibrator sprang to life.  It was my only companion throughout the long, sleepless night, buzzing painfully inside my damaged pussy.  I stared at the clock, over and over, waiting for the moment my daughter would arrive and free me from this nightmare.

       “Eleven o’clock came and went with no sign of my daughter.  Her inability to be punctual cost me another three hours of that living hell, the vibrator never ceasing the job its owner had set it to.  I cursed my daughter’s inability to be punctual; for the first time in my life, I felt hatred for her.

       Finally, at nearly 2PM, a full twenty-six hours after my ordeal started, I heard the front door open.

       “Hi, Mom?  I’m home.”

       “Mrrrffff!” I moaned.

       “Hello?  Is anyone home?”

       “Mrrfff!”

       I could hear her coming up the stairs.  “Hello?”

       “Mrrrfff!”

       When she entered my bedroom and saw me there, bound and abused, she dropped the tin of cookies she had brought for Thanksgiving and ran to me, a look of terror in her eyes.

       “Mom! Mom! Oh my god oh my god what happened?”  She tore the tape off of my mouth.

       I tried to explain what those monsters put me through, but all I could do was cry.  My daughter peeled off the tape that held the dildo inside me and my arms and legs bound. Then, with shaking hands, she picked up the envelope with her name on it, took out the letter and read it out loud.

“We told you we would go after your family if went public.  If you tell anyone what we did tonight, we’ll kill you both.” 

She dropped the letter and broke down in tears.  “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.  “This… is your fault?  They did this to me because you ignored their warnings?

       “I… I…”  She stood back up and tried to hug me.

       I shrugged her off.  “Just… go away.  Please.”

       “Mom, I…”

       “No!” I yelled. “Just get away from me.”  I looked away, unable to look at her.

       She burst into tears and ran out of the house.

       I took a moment’s rest, then stood up and headed for my bathroom.  I looked at myself in the mirror up close.  Cum covered most of my face, patches dried to varying degrees.  My hair was sticky with the gunk.  I looked down at the collar that the men left fastened tightly around my neck.  There was a silver name plate centered on the front.  I leaned closer to the mirror so I could get a better angle of the tag, and when I realized what it said, I collapsed to the ground in tears.

       It simple read ‘MOTHER’.

       I never saw my daughter again.  She recanted her statement against the unionists the following Monday, the last day anyone acknowledged seeing her.  I don’t know if she’s dead, or alive, being subjected to the same hell they put me through.  Sometimes, I regret shrugging her off when she tried to help me, but too often my anger overtakes me, and I resent the living nightmare that her judgment put me through.

       Nine months later, I gave birth to a baby girl.  She looks just like me.  I will raise her well, hoping and praying that she never betrays me in the same, unforgettable way that my former daughter did.

       

       

Copyright 2007 Razor7826