Cum_Inside
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Sep 8, 2017
- Posts
- 3,384
Rachel flopped back into the worn leather recliner with a smile, eyes shuddering in relaxation. Her blonde hair was curled up into a messy bun today, more ease than any true styling decision, and she thought back to the busy day she’d had. Starting bright and early, Rachel had woken with the sun and puttered around in the kitchen while her son, Grant, readied himself to leave the house for the day. When he had, she’d gone shopping and bought some necessities for around the house and had cleaned the living room, bathroom, den and her bedroom. The kitchen was already immaculate, and honestly not much needed to be done with the other rooms either — Grant liked his home spotless. Because she was living with him and taking up his private space, it was the least she could do.
They were both mature adults, her son a man of 27 now, and her an aging woman of 43. She’d tried to keep herself young at heart, but the years had not been kind to her. Only seven years into her marriage, when Grant was 15, her husband had decided that he couldn’t be bothered with either of them. He’d been a womanizing son of a gun before she’d tied him down and none of that had really changed, though she was already well aware how stupid she’d been to think otherwise.
He was particular, too. Things needed to be just so for Hunter Kane, and Rachel had never really fit that bill. Towards the end when he was never home, too busy burying his cock in anything wet, Rachel worked hard to ensure her son never felt the distance.
She failed at that, too, and as her marriage fell apart she stared down the barrel into the judge’s eyes who declared her son legally emancipated.
Rachel lost everything within the span of about five months — she recalled vividly the day Grant stood across the island and calmly told her that he wouldn’t deal with this bullshit anymore - that she was too weak, and that “the prick” walked all over her because she allowed him to, and that he wasn’t going to let that happen to him, too, so good fucking riddance.
There had been other words exchanged (in anger - horrified retaliation borne from emotional overload), but that was the last real conversation she’d had with her son in years.
Sure, he had called over holidays, for a while, but that changed, too, until they tapered to a stop completely. It was like they were strangers. The men that had once ruled every corner of her life felt as though she was dead to them, so for all intents and purposes, she was.
Alone, betrayed, broken, Rachel had done the only thing she could think of doing to bury her sorrows. She’d turned to alcohol, and it had never left her side when she needed it most. She’d been in an out of rehab over the last few years, racking up debt and spending more and more of her money in alcohol sales. She was at the bottom of wit's end, unable to keep a job, savings fizzling out when she first saw it on the newsstand outside the building where she’d just been let go from; Grant featured on the cover of a magazine, headline declaring just how well his latest book was doing (a best-seller, she knew, from subtly rolling the burn of the whiskey she’d poured generously into her morning coffee around in her mouth as she read the article).
He’s doing well for himself, then she’d thought bitterly, placing the magazine back on the shelf. Glad someone is.
She’d put it out of her mind again, forcing herself to return to the default mindset where she told herself that her son and ex-husband were dead, and not leaving her behind to eat their dirt like she was nobody. She’d tried to provide for Grant the best she could, but Hunter was a tightass on a good day and didn’t believe in giving her more than she’d earned. He’d also taken almost everything from her in the divorce settlement, and left her strapped to pay off the mortgage for the house he had no interest in. She figured that’s because he’d refinanced it only months prior to the divorce, taking out a second mortgage to pay off some gambling debts that he’d accrued. Even through their marriage, Rachel had practically been a single parent and Grant had suffered for it.
With that mounting plus the fact that the insurance company was riding her ass to settle an accident claim after she’d lost control of her vehicle and wrapped it around a stranger’s tree a while back (the incident that told her it was time for AA and another bite at the rehab apple), Rachel was hurting for funds.
A few months after she’d seen his picture in the magazine, she’d reached out to her son for the first time in years. He was stand-offish, but accepted that his mother was in a bind. The mortgage company had agreed that she could take only a moderate hit if she allowed the house to go into foreclosure and declared bankruptcy), and she needed a place to go while that all happened. It’s how she’d gotten here, actually.
Things were strained between them, and although Rachel had been desperate for a place to go, hindsight was 20/20.
The media recognized her son as the golden boy of literature at the moment, an eligible bachelor and most certainly climbing into the ranks of fame and fortune, slowly but surely. He was sweet and kind and could do no wrong.
Rachel wanted to scoff.
They didn’t know shit about Grant.
He’d grown into just as much of a dick as his father had been, angry if things didn’t go exactly the way he wanted. They’d been fighting, and even though she’d only been here a few weeks, and Rachel wasn’t sure why she thought it might be any different. Neither of them had grown out of the animosity that had existed in the home the day he’d left her there, and she didn’t see that changing any time soon.
At least she could prove herself to anyone who questioned why she had such a difficult time with him; the cameras she’d placed around the home, no bigger than the end of a pencil eraser, would see everything. It would show the world that he wasn’t who he made himself out to be. Rachel would finally have evidence that she was a victim to tyrants, and maybe it would end the cycle of abuse. Although her son had never laid his hands on her, the comments he made towards her blistered something hot and ugly in her chest and made her feel sick. She wouldn’t put up with it anymore.
Grant was the problem; never Rachel. She knew she had bad taste in men, that much was clear, but to have given birth to someone with such a bad attitude? His childhood hadn’t been as shitty as he made it out to be. Nothing was her fault. She wasn’t a bad mom.
Just a drunk one, he’d discover when he made it home around supper.
For all of her early productivity, she’d decided to watch television with her good friend Jack and she’d fallen asleep in the recliner shortly after six, fingers still clenched tightly around the neck of the bottle where she’d been drinking it straight.
They were both mature adults, her son a man of 27 now, and her an aging woman of 43. She’d tried to keep herself young at heart, but the years had not been kind to her. Only seven years into her marriage, when Grant was 15, her husband had decided that he couldn’t be bothered with either of them. He’d been a womanizing son of a gun before she’d tied him down and none of that had really changed, though she was already well aware how stupid she’d been to think otherwise.
He was particular, too. Things needed to be just so for Hunter Kane, and Rachel had never really fit that bill. Towards the end when he was never home, too busy burying his cock in anything wet, Rachel worked hard to ensure her son never felt the distance.
She failed at that, too, and as her marriage fell apart she stared down the barrel into the judge’s eyes who declared her son legally emancipated.
Rachel lost everything within the span of about five months — she recalled vividly the day Grant stood across the island and calmly told her that he wouldn’t deal with this bullshit anymore - that she was too weak, and that “the prick” walked all over her because she allowed him to, and that he wasn’t going to let that happen to him, too, so good fucking riddance.
There had been other words exchanged (in anger - horrified retaliation borne from emotional overload), but that was the last real conversation she’d had with her son in years.
Sure, he had called over holidays, for a while, but that changed, too, until they tapered to a stop completely. It was like they were strangers. The men that had once ruled every corner of her life felt as though she was dead to them, so for all intents and purposes, she was.
Alone, betrayed, broken, Rachel had done the only thing she could think of doing to bury her sorrows. She’d turned to alcohol, and it had never left her side when she needed it most. She’d been in an out of rehab over the last few years, racking up debt and spending more and more of her money in alcohol sales. She was at the bottom of wit's end, unable to keep a job, savings fizzling out when she first saw it on the newsstand outside the building where she’d just been let go from; Grant featured on the cover of a magazine, headline declaring just how well his latest book was doing (a best-seller, she knew, from subtly rolling the burn of the whiskey she’d poured generously into her morning coffee around in her mouth as she read the article).
He’s doing well for himself, then she’d thought bitterly, placing the magazine back on the shelf. Glad someone is.
She’d put it out of her mind again, forcing herself to return to the default mindset where she told herself that her son and ex-husband were dead, and not leaving her behind to eat their dirt like she was nobody. She’d tried to provide for Grant the best she could, but Hunter was a tightass on a good day and didn’t believe in giving her more than she’d earned. He’d also taken almost everything from her in the divorce settlement, and left her strapped to pay off the mortgage for the house he had no interest in. She figured that’s because he’d refinanced it only months prior to the divorce, taking out a second mortgage to pay off some gambling debts that he’d accrued. Even through their marriage, Rachel had practically been a single parent and Grant had suffered for it.
With that mounting plus the fact that the insurance company was riding her ass to settle an accident claim after she’d lost control of her vehicle and wrapped it around a stranger’s tree a while back (the incident that told her it was time for AA and another bite at the rehab apple), Rachel was hurting for funds.
A few months after she’d seen his picture in the magazine, she’d reached out to her son for the first time in years. He was stand-offish, but accepted that his mother was in a bind. The mortgage company had agreed that she could take only a moderate hit if she allowed the house to go into foreclosure and declared bankruptcy), and she needed a place to go while that all happened. It’s how she’d gotten here, actually.
Things were strained between them, and although Rachel had been desperate for a place to go, hindsight was 20/20.
The media recognized her son as the golden boy of literature at the moment, an eligible bachelor and most certainly climbing into the ranks of fame and fortune, slowly but surely. He was sweet and kind and could do no wrong.
Rachel wanted to scoff.
They didn’t know shit about Grant.
He’d grown into just as much of a dick as his father had been, angry if things didn’t go exactly the way he wanted. They’d been fighting, and even though she’d only been here a few weeks, and Rachel wasn’t sure why she thought it might be any different. Neither of them had grown out of the animosity that had existed in the home the day he’d left her there, and she didn’t see that changing any time soon.
At least she could prove herself to anyone who questioned why she had such a difficult time with him; the cameras she’d placed around the home, no bigger than the end of a pencil eraser, would see everything. It would show the world that he wasn’t who he made himself out to be. Rachel would finally have evidence that she was a victim to tyrants, and maybe it would end the cycle of abuse. Although her son had never laid his hands on her, the comments he made towards her blistered something hot and ugly in her chest and made her feel sick. She wouldn’t put up with it anymore.
Grant was the problem; never Rachel. She knew she had bad taste in men, that much was clear, but to have given birth to someone with such a bad attitude? His childhood hadn’t been as shitty as he made it out to be. Nothing was her fault. She wasn’t a bad mom.
Just a drunk one, he’d discover when he made it home around supper.
For all of her early productivity, she’d decided to watch television with her good friend Jack and she’d fallen asleep in the recliner shortly after six, fingers still clenched tightly around the neck of the bottle where she’d been drinking it straight.
