Training My Mom Pt. 02
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Hi all – thanks for reading. I was really pleased and overwhelmed by the response to part 1 of this (my first ever story on ). I apologize for the delay in getting this up – but I don’t pay my bills this way and have had some personal issues come up. I am planning to continue this but it’ll be some months before I get to it. For those disappointed, I’m happy to give you a full refund. 😉
Content: this gets into C/NC territory. Also, for those not interested in slow burn exposition type stuff, you can jump to the last third-ish of the story.
The sun was bright behind the shades. I rolled over and checked my phone: yep. It was late.
I was naked, my head hurt, and my eyes were sore.
Why? Oh, yeah…that.
I was pretty sure it hadn’t been a dream, but it was still hard to make sense of. My memory was that we had gotten drunk, my mom had picked an erotic thriller to watch in the living room, we had made out, and then…
I looked down. My clothes from last night were on the floor, drizzled liberally with dried spooge. It was true…my mom had come into my bedroom and given me a handjob. I flashed on her putting her hand to her mouth as she left. Had she actually tasted my jizz?
But that seemed unlikely – at least that last part. She’d slammed the brakes, said we should go to bed, when we were messing around on the couch. She was conflicted, that much was obvious. Restraining herself. And, like…did she want to taste my cum?
Okay, weird confession time: I’ve tasted my own cum. I was curious. And honestly, I didn’t think much of it. Like, it didn’t taste bad, but I certainly wouldn’t have said it tasted good. It mostly tasted, I dunno – thick? Gooey. Whatever. Maybe it’s different if you’re a girl. Like, if you have estrogen it makes it taste… good or something?
My brain wasn’t the only part of me reminiscing about last night. Blood surged into my cock. I figured jacking off before I went out would be a good idea – or safer, at least. Anybody’s guess how my mom was going to react to everything but I had a hunch coming out with a raging hard-on wasn’t the best course.
I walked over to the closed door and opened it a crack, then went back to my bed. I glanced at the doorway from time to time, but I mostly thought about last night as I stroked my member. Who was stroking it last time, how she had done it, the way she had looked, and sounded, and – most of all – the way she had felt. The smooth, soft skin sliding up and down my cock. Seeing her slick up her hand with her own pussy juices. Hearing her say how wet she was.
I shot my load on my clothes from the night before – I figured, they already have cum on them, might as well be efficient or whatever. It was a lot of jizz. Not as much as last night, which was basically the best orgasm of my life…but a decent amount.
I wiped off and threw my clothes into the laundry hamper. No sign of my mom at the door. Oh well. It happens all the time in the x-rated video games I play – like, seriously, all the time – but this is real life. And actually, it did already happen once with my mom…which maybe meant it was even less likely it would happen again.
My mom jerked when I came in the room, then tried to play it off. “Good morning, Mike,” she said quietly. She was wearing a light blue blouse and dark jeans. Not intending to work out, I guess.
“Good morning,” I said. I sounded like a frog that had been gargling gravel. I drank some water.
The clock ticked on the wall. The silence stretched on long enough I think I actually saw some tumbleweed drift by. It was…awkward. Next-level awkward. Like, farting-loudly-as-you-accept-the-nobel-prize-for-dignity awkward.
She poured herself a bowl of NutriFlakes – basically Raisin Bran cosplaying as healthy cereal – then passed the box to me. I made a face.
“So,” I said, getting up and grabbing some of the keto granola I’d bought from the cupboard, “you’re off the diet?”
She ate a spoonful, chewed, then swallowed. “I’m taking a cheat day,” she said, not looking up.
“I thought yesterday was the cheat day.”
Her eyes locked onto my face. “Let’s not talk about yesterday,” she said, then turned the cosplay Raisin Bran so the nutritional information was facing me. “Besides, this isn’t that bad. No fat or added sugars.”
Oh, Jesus – this again. I rolled my eyes. “Added sugars is a bullshit marketing tactic to give fat-asses plausible deniability when they gorge themselves,” I said.
Her jaw dropped. I’ll be honest, I’m not sure if I meant to call her a fat-ass. But I was pissed. We had talked about this…a lot. “And carbs are worse than fat in terms of weight gain.”
“I think I’m going to finish this in my room,” my mom said, getting up and taking her bowl.
I could kind of understand, but I had talked to her multiple times about the importance of watching Didim Escort your macros and one of the first rules I had established was to cut out sugar. Not “added” sugar, just sugar. Full stop.
Anyway – that was breakfast.
She had calmed down by the afternoon, calling me into the utility room to get a can of paint down from the top shelf. I could reach it, but had to go up on tiptoe. I heard a quiet, “Holy fuck,” behind me.
I turned to look, and my mom gave an embarrassed smile. “Mom,” I said, “language.”
“Sorry, I just…God, Mike, your calves. It’s like somebody stuffed a grapefruit in each of your legs.”
I smiled. “Shh, that’s supposed to be a secret. I’m not actually strong. This is just a bodysuit with fruit stuffed in it.” I pushed back the sleeve of my t-shirt and flexed, pointing. “Oranges.”
My mom laughed. I handed her the can, and her hand brushed mine. We looked at each other. Her hand slid up to my bicep and gave it a squeeze. “Feels too hard to be oranges,” she said quietly.
I took a breath. “Mom, we need to talk. About last night.”
Her arm and face both fell. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “We’re not going to talk about that.” She held up the paint can. “Thanks, Mike.”
I frowned as she walked away. When had I said that our agreement no longer counted? Why was she just acting like she could ignore me? And ignore what happened?
I spent most of my free time the next day at the gym. It was a nice escape, and a way to vent my frustration.
At one point I was doing squats when I heard a guy asking if anyone could spot him. He was on the bench and had 4 plates on each side of his bar. I was about to say something when a young woman spoke up. “I can do it!” she said brightly, her black ponytail bouncing as she stepped over to him.
He looked her over. She had brown skin and was tall and curyy but fit. Like, she should probably try doing a cut, but there was definitely muscle there. There was a coppery streak in her hair. “You think you can deadlift 400 pounds?” he sneered.
I rolled my eyes. This guy was such a bro. The young woman made a face and said, “I can spot you.” Her tone was much less eager.
“No thanks, I’m not looking to die,” the bro said, and then turned to swap out a plate on his bar. The young woman pursed her lips into a very emphatic “F” but restrained herself. Probably for the best, although dude would’ve deserved it. Unless you’re a complete jock asshole – which was definitely a possibility for this guy – my grandmother can spot you. you only need to be able to lift 5 pounds or so to spot someone working in a healthy range. Like, sure, if your arms fell off mid-rep, you’d need someone to lift the entire weight, but even then, you could use leverage to lift one side, and then –
She caught me staring at her. Her eyes were dark brown. Shit. Now she’s gonna complain and they’ll cancel my gym membership or something. I was temped to say, “No, I’m not a sketchy creeper pervert,” but I guess whatever face I was making covered for me because she smiled, jerked her head at the bro, and mouthed “Right?” to me.
I smirked, then flexed and made a silent roid-rage yell. She laughed, and took a step closer. “Client’s not here today, huh?” she said, looking around.
I frowned. “Sorry?”
“Your client. Looks like she’s not here today? You’re usually doing your sessions with her when I’m here.” She shrugged.
My…client. Oh. She thinks I’m a personal trainer…and that mom is my client. Which – she’s not wrong, I guess. It’s basically what we’ve been doing. Or had been doing. “No,” I said. “She’s doing a rest day.”
She nodded. “Gotta watch out for those, though – if you fall out of the routine, it can be hard to get momentum going again.”
I nodded back. “Fortunately, I have no life, so it’s not much of a risk for me.”
She laughed again. “I’m Alicia, by the way.”
“Mike,” I said. “And don’t worry, I’ll still be your friend.”
“What do you mean, ‘still’?”
“Even though your lady hands are too dainty to help Dickhead McBroface over there.” I didn’t bother lowering my voice – McMeathead was bellowing with each rep to let people know just how awesome and manly he was.
“Generous of you,” she said. “Hey, would you mind mansplaining proper form to me?”
I laughed, then held up my bar. “See, these are called weights. Weeeeights.” I drew out the syllable for emphasis.
She went wide-eyed and nodded slowly. “Warrrrts,” she said.
“That’s…yeah, that’s close. You’re getting there.”
She smiled. “Welp, nice meeting you, Mike. You have a card?” I blinked. “In case I want more of your insightful guidance about warts?”
A business card. God, I’m a moron sometimes. “I don’t have a card on me, so…” I hesitated.
She nodded once, then walked away. Oh. Well, nice meeting you, too, and sorry I’m such a fuck-up. She crouched down, Didim Escort Bayan picking her phone up from the floor, then returned and presented it to me. “No problem,” she said. “You can just put your number in.”
This…was this happening? Had I somehow just picked someone up at the gym? No, I realized. She thinks I have a legitimate business and… I put in my number and handed the phone back to her.
“Personal trainer Mike, save.” She tapped her phone a few times, then her brown eyes looked back up at me. I heard a chime. “That’s me. See ya, Mike.”
“See ya, Alicia.”
She walked away. The booty shorts Alicia was wearing let me see how toned her calves were. She had a tattoo of a pair of leafy vines on the small of her back, drawing my eyes to her backside.
Fuck. That’s one hell of an ass.
My cock twitched in agreement. The text from Alicia was just a 🙂. I saved her number in my contacts and headed out.
I came home. The workout made me feel more centered and meeting Alicia and getting her number – I wouldn’t say it had put a spring in my step, but it at least made my shoes felt a little bouncier than usual.
I went to throw my gym clothes in the washing machine.
My mom started when I walked into the utility room. She had a cabinet open and I saw her stash something in it and quickly close the door.
White powder was sprinkled around her mouth and a little bit below the neckline of her blouse. I’ve never seen an actual cookie jar, but I imagine her face looked exactly like a kid’s did when they were caught stealing from one.
My shoulders tightened. This is probably how she felt when I wouldn’t do something because I was playing video games.
I narrowed my eyes and strode over to her. I swiped a finger across her lips and tasted it. Sugar. Powdered fucking sugar.
“Mike -” she began, but I grabbed her arms and pulled her – not roughly, but not gently – away from the cabinet. Inside was a nearly-empty sleeve of those mini donuts they sell in convenience stores.
I turned toward her. I must have looked pretty mad because she took a step back. “I’m sorry,” she said, licking her lips. “I just…after all my hard work, don’t you think I’ve earned it? Shouldn’t I get to celebrate a little?” Her voice was quivering – like even she didn’t believe the bullshit she was saying.
“You did, and you did. Last night. That was the celebration. That’s how it works – you celebrate it once, you enjoy it, and then you go back to work, or else you just slide all the way back into hiding in here so you can pig out on fucking donuts.”
For a second I thought she was gonna cry, but then she drew herself up, her jaw set. “I thought I told you,” she began, in her best you-still-haven’t-taken-out-the-trash tone of voice, “I didn’t want to talk about last night.”
Wow. That’s really how she wants to play this, huh?
I closed the distance between us and grabbed her firmly by the chin. “You agreed to do what I say. You committed. And now you’re breaking that commitment.” Her eyes were wide. I brought my face right next to hers, and she whimpered. “There will be consequences.”
Both of us were breathing more heavily than usual. Her body was trembling. Slowly, she closed her eyes and then brought her lips toward mine.
I pulled my head back and looked at her with naked disgust. “Go to your fucking room,” I said, anger making my voice lower than usual.
Her eyes studied me. Outside, a car drove down the street. The pause grew, expanding outward like a balloon. “Mike,” she said, her voice strained. Then her face crumpled up like a piece of paper and she rushed past me.
The sound of her footsteps faded as she went down the hall. A door closed. I stayed in the utility room until the auto-timer shut the light off. I gave the motion detector a little wave and it popped back on. I grabbed the last few donuts from the cabinet and headed to my room.
I sat at my desk, bathed in the monitor’s glow. My computer’s heat fan was whirring. I started up one of my games, stared at the intro screen, and then quit.
My mom clearly had a problem. She was two days out from a major success and now was doing whatever she could to hop back into the hole she had just dug herself out of.
I took my clothes off, then stomped over to the door and shut it all the way. I tried to get hard but I kept thinking of the conversation in the utility room. Shouldn’t I get to celebrate a little? Like, I understand wanting to cheat, I understand it feeling good, or whatever – the thing that got me was how fucking weak her rationalization was. It was just a couple levels below my friend James saying, “I can quit smoking whenever I want, I just choose not to.” Jesus.
I needed more information. I researched some options online, then logged into my HomeStore account and made a few purchases. I hesitated when Escort Didim it asked me about delivery, but went with a locker at a local convenience store – my mom shouldn’t be opening packages sent to me, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t.
It was dark by the time I finished my research. I got dressed and headed to the kitchen. Light leaked out from the crack under my mom’s bedroom door. I re-heated a couple of chicken breasts and washed it down with some almond milk.
I didn’t see my mom the rest of the night.
A few days passed and I didn’t see much of her. It was getting hard to concentrate. I’d stopped masturbating, just in case, you know, we got a chance at another dinner together, or whatever. But it wasn’t happening. I wanted to see her, talk to her, and feel her, but she was hiding.
So I read up on addiction on my phone. The big take home was that you changed behavior with rewards and punishments, like that Russian guy who rang bells when he fed dogs to make them think the bell had something to do with the food. Tricking the brain into making connections between things that aren’t connected – like working out and pleasure. Or eating junk food and pain.
The morning I got the notification that my HomeStore package had arrived, I called in sick to work. I didn’t say anything about it to my mom, though, and left at the usual time. I headed to the convenience store, grabbed the package and headed home. Mom’s car wasn’t in the driveway, but I walked through the house to make sure. Then I opened the box and set to work.
It’s a little weird how easy nanny cams make it to spy on people. Like, you don’t meet with someone in a lab coat who tells you how the penny secretly has a high-powered telescope inside and can turn into a grenade if you squeeze it three times in a row. Instead, you connect these little black discs to your computer via USB, input a location sync them to your wifi, and then find a place to mount them. And when they’re smaller than dimes, like these, you have a lot of latitude as to where.
Did I feel stalker-y? A little. On the other hand, if my mom wasn’t hiding food around the house like a literal child, I wouldn’t have to do this. She’d forced my hand.
I made sure both the motion-activated and the live-view modes worked and then texted my mom to say I was going to go to the gym so I wouldn’t be home until late…which was the truth, basically, even if she probably thought I was going to the gym after work.
I was doing kettlebell swings when I got an alert on my phone: NetCam (utility room) has detected motion and is now recording.
My heart, which had already been beating pretty hard, went into double time. I realized I was going to get a lot of false alarms with this one. Oh well – I’d get used to ignoring them.
Sure enough, my mom was walking in with groceries. I deleted it and then wrapped up my workout.
On the way to my car, I got another alert: NetCam (utility room) has detected motion and is now recording.
I pulled up the clip as I got in my car. Jackpot. My mom had what looked to be a package of Oreos. She went to the cabinet where she’d been hiding the donuts, opened it, hesitated, then shut it and moved to the one right next to it. Not exactly James Bond, here.
She stood in front of the open cabinet long enough that I checked to see whether the connection was lost or if the camera had shut off but no, it was still going. I heard her sigh, and then the crinkling of plastic. She took about half a dozen cookies out. I kind of thought she’d eat them slowly, maybe toss her head back and moan with pleasure like a commercial, but she basically just plowed through them. So much for savoring them.
She brushed herself off, closed the cabinet, and started walking away. I tossed the phone on the passenger’s seat and was about to start the car when I heard a groan and then more crinkling.
She was back in front of the cabinet. She shoved another cookie in her mouth, then moved quickly back into the house.
I knew it was bad, but I didn’t know it was this bad. I was going to have to act.
When I got home, she was in her room with the door closed. I decided to shower first, then talk to her. That would give me some time to think about how I was going to handle this. Despite the confrontation in the utility room the other day – or maybe because of it – I felt nervous.
Ultimately, I decided I’d try good cop, at least at first. I threw on a pair of exercise shorts but decided to skip the shirt – people use sex appeal to convince people of all sorts of things, right?
I walked slowly down the hallway and listened at her door. I took a breath, then another. Why did this feel so scary? It’s just one of those routine confront-your-mom-about-her-eating-addiction things, made just slightly more complicated by the fact that we haven’t spoken since…
I frowned. Since I had rejected her and ordered her to go to her room. I must have been really pissed, Jesus.
I ran my fingers through my hair and then, swallowing, knocked on her door twice. Then a third time. Mom, I think we need to have a talk. That’s how I would start.
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