The Perversions of a Young Mother

The text messages eventually escalated into an exchange of dirty pictures.  She sent one from her apartment bathroom.  Pimple stained mirror, one arm disguising the natural sag of her tits by wedging them high on her chest, dark, twisted hair still wet from the shower – she was about a 7.  That’s a Los Angeles seven, probably a solid six on the international scale.  In the picture, she was trying on a seductive look.  The edge of her lips pealed upward to show interest, but the eyebrows remained down.

I know the way dirty pictures work.  They don’t happen with one click.  Especially with women, they’ll take a few hundred, sort through them obsessively, take a hundred more, and finally decide on the perfect angle.  I hate to break it to you ladies, they’re never perfect.  There’s always some oversight, some inevitable flaw, either on the subject or hidden in the background.  This is what gets me going about girls who send dirty pictures.

They all send them, by the way.  If that sweet little Latina who bartends to put herself through college tells you otherwise – she’s a liar.  She sends them.  To her ex-husband, ex-boyfriend, her father’s friends, someone has seen a digital rendition of her tits.  Trust me on this one.  More likely than not, she’s snapped more provocative photos than you can imagine.  Maybe with a finger or two inside of herself, maybe inappropriately using the warm stream of a showerhead, who knows, but they’re out there.  If you haven’t seen them, that’s only because she doesn’t want you to.

With my Los Angeles seven, there wasn’t much on the line in the sense of a relationship.  She was single and riled up, probably drinking to sooth some of life’s hardships.  I wasn’t drinking, but I was certainly riled up.  The blood was flowing from the moment her message vibrated into my hands.

We’d already established a layer of filth.  After only meeting once on a benign gathering, we’d already shared some of our most desperate perversions.  She was into being tied up, slapped around a bit, and who doesn’t enjoy a little asphyxiation.  I was along for the ride.  My perversions are a wide-open tundra, rather than a narrow valley.  I’m into of all of it, at least initially.  Those links you’re afraid to click on, I’ll give them a go.  I’m in no position to judge what gets another person’s genitals tingling.

I studied the first picture she sent.  Turned it upside down, closed one eye, zoomed in, zoomed out, saved it to a hard drive.  She’d done a good job.  Pink panties, jostled a bit as if the picture was rushed, she kept parts of herself covered to let my imagination wander.  I like that.  Rather than just coming out of the gate with a full nude, she dangled the carrot.  Now I’m craving carrots.

One thing she didn’t mention was the child’s toothbrush and toothpaste at the edge of the sink.  It was blurred, way at the edge of the photo, but I found it.  I had a feeling she had a kid.  There’s a certain level of dirty talk that only comes from someone who has pushed something heavy out of their vaginal canal.  There were times in my life when a woman with kids was a deal breaker.  This wasn’t one of them.

Seeing that toothpaste, that Dora the Explorer minty fresh toothpaste, it really lit a fire in me.  Don’t take me as some sort of pedophilic maniac, I didn’t want any part of the snot-nose brat.  I wanted the mom.  The seductive, mostly nude, slightly repressed, horny, sexy, bondage inclined mother.  I couldn’t care less about daycare schedules or naptime.  I wanted to see mommy at her worst.  Or best, depending on who you’re asking.

Women often request a return photo.  For men, this is a dreadful task.  No one likes a cock pic.  They aren’t pretty, you can’t hide part of it and give her something to imagine.  It’s either all or nothing.  And even when it’s all – sometimes that isn’t enough.

My way around this problem was an old bigfoot trick.  Work some blood into the thing.  Who am I kidding, work it all the way to attention, leave the boxers on, and show her the outline with my hand around it.  The blur is the key.  If it’s too clear, looks too professional, I’m setting myself up for disaster.  I want her to be interested, not amazed.  She was going to see the truth eventually, and nothing sets a mood like disappointment.

I snapped the photos.  Too many to count, we do it too ladies.  Decided on the fuzziest one and sent it over.  The text messages continued, mostly in the literary form.  Stories about what she wants done or what I wanted to do.  Nasty fantasy, bad words, spitting in mouths, the normal disenchanted, lonely adult talk.

Eventually, I ended up at her apartment.  Not that night, but a night very similar to it.  With the level of expectation we’d set, sobriety wasn’t in the cards.  Vodka drinks for her, beer for me.  The whole time I’m looking around for proof of the kid.  She did a good job at hiding most of it, but some things weren’t disguisable.  Photos, a few rogue shoes, and a single eyed teddy bear were stashed about the apartment. 

It didn’t bother me.  Quite the contrary to be honest.  Some devoid part of me enjoyed the idea of an attractive, young mother, oiled up and welted in the shape of my hands.  The kid wasn’t there, but I’m not sure it would have stopped me at that point.

I was impatient.  Small talk was eating away at my arousal level.  We both knew what we were there to do.  In the middle of a sentence, I pushed her against the wall and kissed her unforgivingly.  There was no resistance.  I tasted all of those naughty scenes she painted in text form.  I also tasted vodka-cranberry and children’s toothpaste.  I felt her hips pressing against me like a pervert on a subway.  She handed me the reins and I no qualms about it.

We made it on the couch in the living room, first.  Then with her lying on her back on the coffee table.  Eventually, we landed in her room.  She wanted me to use these silk scarves to tie her arms, but I wasn’t exactly jumping at the opportunity.  Two reasons.  If I’m going to tie a filthy mother and all of her beautiful perversions to her own bed, I don’t want to do it with frilly scarves.  I want her to know what being tied up feels like.  Rope burn, bite marks.  If I was a smoker, I probably wouldn’t be opposed to putting a cigarette out on her. 

The second concern was on my end.  I was full of beer.  To be crude, I was working with a decent erection; I didn’t want to lose it tying to play Boy Scout with her silk scarves.

We made it happen anyway.  I don’t regret not using heavier duty straps to tie her down.  My guess is she would have bucked right out of whatever I tied her up with anyway.  One surprise, (well, one that I’ll tell you about), was that in all of the fantasies she described, she was the one who liked people to spit in her mouth.  I on the other hand, had no intentions of becoming the spitee.

Turns out, the eager mother, with silk scarf handcuffs, red cheeks, and an unrivalled sexual imagination, ended up teaching me a thing or two.  I don’t know if I’d make a habit out of it, but I didn’t mind her spitting.

We ended up making it once more in the morning.  We were much more civilized with daybreak exposing our inhibitions.  She never mentioned the kid.