The Good Little Fucker
Written by Paul Phenomenon
I'm certain it wasn't the first time she had slipped my little pecker into her mouth, but previous memories elude me. Nor was it her last. I'm pleased my first memory was a happy one. I've asked others about their earliest memory, and most presented sad times, or violent ones.
I was three or four at the time. Mother and I were gloriously naked, bathing together, as per habit, in a large cast-iron tub with animal-like feet that raised the font off the floor. I don't remember what made my pecker hard that day; I only remember the exquisite sensations her mouth evoked - that, and the feet on the damned tub.
If my arithmetic is correct (to calculate, I assumed the younger age of three at the time of the incident), Susan Adams, my mother, was eighteen years old on my first memory day. Pregnant at fourteen, Mother gave birth to me shortly after she turned fifteen. She named me Paul because she didn't know anyone by that name - a sensible naming method, she told me when I asked the source of my first name, because she would never need to associate me with anyone. Upon being informed of her condition, my mother's father, a lay preacher and an abusive, intolerant, generally despicable human - like many self-appointed men of God - had promptly beaten her, labeled her an immoral, abominable creature, and expelled her from his home. I never met the man and hoped we would never cross paths because I had no doubt I would beat the man into a bloody pulp. He didn't deserve to be on the same planet with my mother. My grandmother, like my mother, had been subjugated and beaten by her husband her entire married life. A week after my grandfather cast Mother to the streets, my grandmother finally found peace (Mother's words) when she slit her wrists and let her life drip away.
After a short homeless period, Mother found succor in an unwed mother's shelter. She refused to give me up for adoption or have an abortion and found work as a waitress. I suspect, but have no proof, that she did a little hooking early on until she landed the waitress job.
She told me she didn't know who my father was. After the first painful experience when she lost her virginity, Mother discovered the pleasures of fucking and sought relief from her fearful and hard life by fucking as often as possible. My mother was a wild child, a confirmed slut (her word) before she became a teenager. After my birth, the wild times became only memories as she devoted herself to motherhood.
After that first memory, the events I remember piled up quickly. Mother and I shared a run-down, small two-bedroom apartment with another single mother, Jennifer Finch, and her daughter, Sara. Mother and Jennifer both worked as waitresses at a nearby truck stop. Mrs. Finch (although I never heard the woman mention a husband, Mom instructed me to refer to her with the Mrs. honorific) was older than Mom by about five years, and Sara was a year older than me. The two women worked different shifts, so one or the other was always around to watch us children. Both women were good mothers. Mrs. Finch hooked from time to time, but I never held that against her. She wasn't a hooker at heart, not nearly ruthless enough. Both women brought men to the apartment from time to time for fun, Mrs. Finch more than Mother.
We were poor but proud. The two families shared a used car; that is, they moved from one rattletrap to another over the years that broke down a lot and the cost of repairs seemed to consume any extra money. The tips the women earned paid expenses. The apartment was old, located in a run-down neighborhood, and the landlord deferred maintenance and was slow to make needed repairs. But the women kept it sparkling clean - Sara and I helped. The bedrooms were small. I slept with Mother in a double bed. Sara with her mother in one a little larger - queen-sized, Mother called it. Either Mrs. Finch or Mother would transfer Sara or me, usually while we were asleep, from one bed to the other when one of the women wanted privacy with an infrequent male guest. The two women were careful not to entertain men at the same time. The dingy apartment was too small for a party and two children.
Mother had fewer boyfriends than Mrs. Finch, probably because of me. In the early years, from the time I was three until I was about five, Mother masturbated a lot. My second or third memory took place (timeframes are vague with early memories), like the first one, in the tub with paws for feet. In this memory, while she licked and sucked on my little pecker, she also rubbed her cunt. I remember her hand moving quickly between her legs making waves in the water. I didn't know the cunt word then, of course. Over the course of a few years, Mother taught me the words used to describe sex and sex organs. She called them love words and told me I could only say the words with her when we were alone. Fortunately, I grasped the concept of a secret at an early age, and after being tested a few times, Mother fittingly trusted me. I loved her too much to ever betray her. At night, she made waves with the sheets while she fondled my pecker......(cont)
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