Miss Understanding(Fem Dom, Milf, Bully)
Here’s a fic request for when you can get to it. A woman’s son is being bullied. She decides that the best way to rectify this is to make the bully’s mom her obedient little slut
Everyone says it’s hard. Being a single mom. Especially to a son. Care too much or too little? You raise Ted Bundy. Jeffrey Dhamer. Ed Gein. So you strive for that happy middle. You cocoon yourself in it, and try hard not to rock it. You stop going out with the girls, because their either bitterly single or happily pregnant again. You date, but only soft, docile people that bore you to death. Either way, no one ever comes back to the house. You give your son what you tell yourself he needs.
So, everything.
And this kid, he becomes your world. Your friend, your confidant and confessor. He learns how to cook before he can handle the stove. He knows how to clean, even if his room is a mess. He gives you a hand on your shoulder when the bills come. He does all this by watching you, and you tell yourself it’s a sign. That you’re doing alright. That he’s not going to gut women and wear their faces. Then he laughs, almost like he heard your thoughts. You laugh too.
Then one day he’s silent. Far too much, even for as small and introspective of a boy as he. You ask him what’s wrong, and he says “nothing”. You tell yourself it’s just hormones. Maybe sigh, and pray he’s not like his father. But a week passes, just as quiet as this. You notice he goes right to his room after school. His eyes don’t even meet yours as he tromps down the hall. The door doesn’t slam, but it isn’t cracked. The stereo turns on, and the muffled angry vocals of a lead singer permeate beyond the wall. So you make dinner yourself. You call, and he comes without a word. He nibbles, and then your boy is off again. With the hall dark and the stereo on, not so much as the lamp on his desk leaking.
By the second week, you’ve come to realize “nothing” means “everything”. But you make the mistake of asking. He yells, yells in a way you haven’t heard from a man since his father. He stomps back to his room, and slams the door. You’re sitting there picking up your jaw. Not just because of the yelling-but the bruise. The one at his eye, and face. That’s what you’d asked about.
Everyone says it’s hard being a single mom. But it’s not, not really.
There’s just no amount of sheltering to keep the world from them.
@@@
I should start from the top, shouldn’t I?
Hi.
My name is Ellen. I’m the single mom telling her son to get an ice pack. I’m the single mom that got yelled at. I could tell you the rest. How I got here, why my husband left. None of that really matters though. Not as much as Zeke’s bruise. The past, it’s all ghosts in my head. They come back on occasion, but they pass right through me. Zeke though, he’s the one part of it that stayed.
I thank whatever passes for a god he did.
I want to state, up front, I love my son. People say all the time they would do anything for their children. They would kill someone, if they had to. Then they laugh and smile, and other parents do the same. It’s this ritual everyone has, but it doesn’t mean anything. Seconds later it’s forgotten. Another apparition that shows it’s head, exorcised in an instant. Everyone does that-but me, I mean it every time.
I would literally kill someone for hurting my son. I would grip their throat, feeling their windpipe shrivel and watch as their eyes rolled. I’d grip the knife tighter as their blood grew tacky on the handle. I’d pull the trigger. I can’t save him from everything-but I would do it. I know I would.
When I saw the bruise on Zeke’s face, that was my first thought. Someone had hurt him. I’d tried to ask him who did it, why. I might as well have pulled a pin out of a grenade. He’s in his room now, the lock firm as Ozzy screams about bats and hell. I don’t know when he’s coming out, or if.
So. Getting a straight answer out of him isn’t going to happen.
Which is why I’m here now. On his computer, glancing at his socials. He’d opted to save it all to the browser-a trick he taught me. “To reduce stress”, he’d said.
That’s what I’m doing now. Since I can’t do it with him.
I’m reducing stress. An invasion of privacy is worth that, I think.
There’s video games, there’s porn. But it’s what I find in his direct messages that worries me. Saying that, you probably expect me to say “oh, my son has a drug habit!”. Or that he’s defied all those little expectations. He’s grown to be Mommy’s Little Monster after all. No, I wish it were that. Those are simple tragedies, the kind you can unwind and unpack. The kind you tell yourself you can treat right away. Serial killers and pills, they’re no less monstrous. But you can put a label on them as a person, as a parent. They’re solvable things.
No, what I found was a boy. I say “boy” because he was a foot shorter than Zeke. Built like a barrel, and just as empty. He’d send my son a message calling him every word he could manage. Multiple times a day, every single day. He had kept it up for months, then years as I went scrolling. Sometimes the messages were exactly the same-copy pasted hundreds of times. I clicked on his name, and went right to his page.
I’m not one to judge a person’s potential. Really, I’m not. But I hadn’t survived this long without being able to read people.
All those dates I’d opted out of, all those friends I’d lost touch with? Things went exactly as I’d expect. Sometimes to the letter. I’d seen the kinds of people they’d become, and I made a call. Always for the best, even if my emotions withered for it.
Zeke grew to who he was by watching me.
This other boy-this Tommy-wasn’t so different. Sitting there, his smug grin peering at me from his profile. Both birdies extended, his teenage chest bearing a “Miller Lite” logo. All of it was things he’d learned, things he’d mimicked.
Because at some point, someone told him it was okay. That he was okay, that all was well with who he was becoming.
As I scrolled through his limited friend’s list, I found just who.
People say they’ll do anything for their child.
But I’m the one that chose to act.
@@@
I hate lying.
I really do. It’s such a hassle, and it’s so exhausting. Just having to remember bills is bad enough. Verbal fictions just sounds daunting. But this one came easy, so damned easy.
I told her I’d made her a pie.
I suppose it helped that I knew Tommy’s mother. We’d gone to high school, Heidi and I. I’d almost forgotten about her, until I saw her face. Aside from the wrinkles at her eyes and new hair, she was the same. Same old Horrid Heidi, only now she screamed at the internet. In all caps, all day long. Her grammar slipped as her posts went on. I thought back to Tommy’s shirt, but pushed it aside as I opened the messenger.
I explained that I hadn’t made a profile yet. I was borrowing my boys, and noticed her profile. I reminded her of an old joke she’d said, and mentioned it. Within seconds Heidi responded. She would LOEV to hear from me, she wrote. Just like that. I gave her my number. She texted me her address.
And I told her I’d bring a pie. She’d dropped some weight since school, but still had that sweet tooth.
It had been the only time she shut up. With her face stuffed, at least she wasn’t yelling. That’s how we had all tamed her. We’d buy her doughnuts and cakes in her ragers.
I suppose, considering Tommy, she’d confused it for love at one point.
How convenient.
Her home was just like her. Rustic being the kindest phrase you could muster, and alone. It was separated from the road by at least two miles of gravel. I parked my car, and opened the door. The ajar alarm dinged as my ears pinned back and listened.
No baying dogs, no TV so loud you heard it from the porch. No other cars except one-an old sedan. It had probably been a pretty color at one point. I looked at it as my heart began to throb in my ears.
No dogs.
No husband.
A gun was a possibility, but one I’d deal with when the time came.
I didn’t know just what I’d do when she opened the door. I hadn’t brought a pie, hadn’t thought to even pick one up. It had been a ruse of convenience.
And here I sat, without a pie, with only thoughts of Zeke to drive me. My hands began to curl into fists. By the time my nails pierced my skin, it didn’t make a damn if I’d brought bait at all. I stepped out of my car. I slammed the door, and watched the house for a moment.
Nothing stirred. Not so much as a glance at the window. Gravel crunched as I made my way forward. The sound was distant and muffled. Like Ozzy wailing in Zeke’s room.
They say when adrenaline hits, everything slows down. You go on autopilot. Some people don’t even remember the things they do. The moment I began walking towards the porch, everything came in swaths. Little snatches of imagery pieced together by light and sound. The car door closing. Gravel crunching. The porch. The creak of steps. A ratty Welcome mat a decade worn. Boots caked in dried mud by the door. A glance over my shoulder, at the road.
Then I knocked at the door. The knob turned, and there she was. Horrid Heidi. She had a miller in her hand, cracked well before noon. A marlboro at her lip tried to choke me. She pulled it away and smiled.
“Ellen!” she cried, “It’s been forever girl! How are you? Bring that pie?”
I didn’t say anything for a moment. That second before I spoke, it stretched on and on. I watched as Heidi’s smile fell. Just a small droop of tired lips. Her brow knit, and she took a sip from her beer.
“Uh, El? You okay?”
“Oh, I’m more than okay. And I did bring that pie,” I said as I stepped forward. Heidi took a step back, her cigarette shaking as she watched me. I gripped the door, and pushed it closed.
She didn’t drop the smile. Not until I locked the door.
People say they don’t remember what happens when adrenaline hits. That being a single mom is hard.
But it’s not. It’s just a fine line between acting and not, guilt and denial.
I won’t deny for a moment I took Heidi’s beer and cigarette away. I won’t deny that I took a drag as I watched her face. The emotions there were many, but pure. Unadulterated. Confusion became fear, then puzzlement. As blush bloomed, her hands began to tremble.
I put the cigarette out in her beer, and put it on a nearby table. My hands found the small of her back, and she didn’t push me away.
I parted her lips, and breathed every gasp of cancer I had into her. Her spine went rigid, then limp. Her face warmed to mine, and I heard her give a giggle.
“Well, I didn’t know you meant that kind of pie,”
Horrid Heidi, always a glutton. For punishment, for vice, for sweets.
It was the only way to shut her up, really.
She still ate like a pig, even from between my thighs.
@@@
You’ve got to be careful.
With love, punishment.
Too much and you upset the happy medium you find yourself in. Too little, and you just make things worse. I had started to wonder if it had worked. What I’d been doing with Heidi. If bringing her home would be an issue, if Zeke would mind. But when the bruises and messages stopped, I figured I was on to something. Zeke’s socials were happy and full of light. Something they’d not seen in months.
Tommy however? Well. It’s hard to act like a badass when videos of mommy are on Porn Hub. With the camera angled just right, I captured every bit of her. Horrible Heidi, so gluttonous for sweets. She cried so loud when her ass was spanked. She mewled just right as I plugged her plump ass with a plug.
I didn’t have to film it all in Tommy’s room. But I did. Heidi didn’t care-not so long as she got to cum.
One video a week was more than enough to keep Tony quiet until graduation.
They say it’s hard, being a single parent.
But frankly, it’s much more fun.