Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Warning: This story graphically depicts an incident of incest between a 48 year-old mom and her 31 -year-old son. The sex content will not be everyone’s cup of tea. Especially considering not all of this is fiction. Some names have been changed. If you’re only reading for masturbation value, scroll down to the part that starts with the Steinbeck poster. The sex runs from there to the end. Obviously I hope you’ll read this in its entirety. Ratings and comments welcome. Respectfully, Leonard
IN THE DISTRICT COURT OF APPEAL OF THE STATE OF NEW YORK
ALLISON HENDRY AND CALLUM HENDRY,
v. Case No. 0704-1776
BELLS TARGO BANK, N.A., ET AL.,
Staring into the mid distance, Rick recovered from his loss of concentration, tilted his head back, and looked sideways across at Myers’s clients in open court. The nervous looking woman in the moth eaten pink sweater, ending his Alice moment. That must have been the mother, Allison.
She looked every bit as exhausted and broken as Rick had read in Myers disclosures. Her face wore the pain of grinding poverty. Of a mother, who worked every hour God sent for Wolmart, but who still skipped meals so her 10 year old, and elderly sick dad, would have enough food till Friday when they got the stamps.
Don’t think they wouldn’t put an American family out on the streets.
3 below zero outside and an arctic blizzard hit so mercilessly, people huddled in doorways on Manhattan’s streets; non-paying customers, taking refuge in the heated sanctuary of crowded coffee shops, just to get out of the biting cold wind.
February’s one of the worst months to be facing homelessness in New York. Especially with a sick parent you care for at home, who needs warmth, and a continuous electricity supply.
In his small loss of concentration, Rick realized the woman on which he peered, the bank’s adversary, was pretty. A mature woman who didn’t look that unlike mom.
Rick looked at Myers, the Hendry family’s third-rate attorney, sitting next to her. They were counting on him to save their house.
Jesus. They’d need a miracle.
Frankly it was a marvel this family had even made it in front of an appellate judge. The comfort of the heated court room with its warm, oak paneled surroundings was certainly ironic, considering why they were all there.
As Rick scrutinized Allison, she turned and looked over at him.
Her sorrowful, confronting blue eyes found Rick, across the court room, and penetrated. He quickly looked away, and felt her stare linger and burning his portrait. His unsettling guilt.
Turning quickly to face the judge, Rick could not look Allison in the eye.
Rick had been an attorney for Bells these past 5 years, and stupidly, he still had a conscience.
Though the pay was nearly as good as a commercial firm, and Rick was free of his law school debt earlier than most other out-of-state folks his age; it was the cruelty of these moments, in absolute privilege, that made the job tough. An occupational hazard. The cruelty of the rinsings he inflicted on poor people for the bank; the things they’d asked him to do.
It cut him somewhere deep, and he felt the guilt weigh.
Seeing poor Allison there in court. Watching her frightened, chafing deep breaths. Her tears, silently streaming down her face. Judging him.
It made Rick uncomfortable.
Seeing the damage they’d done.
Having to come face to face, in open court, with the people, the families, they’d lied about. Whose contracts they’d fraudulently backdated, and whose signatures they’d wilfully forged. In Allison’s case, to turn a $400,000 mortgage due in 30 years, to a $150,000 loan due in 18 months. So the bank could criminally raise repayments and turn foreclosure into unlawful theft. With the blessing of an American court.
Since last April, Rick’s department at Bells had fabricated so many bogus, fraudulent documents, by the time the Manhattan district attorney’s office got round to Allison’s family—the bank, that barely made it out of the recession—was already up to its neck in shit.
Even with all the bailout money, and late night shredding sessions, there was still so much evidence, Bells gratefully took the government plea bargain and settled $1.2 billion out of court.
No individuals were persecuted.
Except Allison, and her elderly dad, and son, ruthlessly tossed out of their homes onto New York’s streets that February.
“Mr Delgardo?” the judge asked, pausing mid-sentence to adjust the sleeve of her black gown. “Does Bells have anything further to add, sir?” she directed at Rick, in her prim New England tone.
Anything further to add? That was a joke. This was the family the bank had harassed and aggravated and threatened and exhausted, until they finally gave in. There wasn’t anything further to add. The bank had done its homework and in Allison’s hands rested on her lap, an economy packet of tear soaked tissues, heavy and sodden.
Not eryaman escort enough to dab the mom’s overwhelming grief, or Rick’s guilt.
“Uh. Not at this time, your honor. No further submissions,” Rick stood professionally to address the court, raising his voice. Clearing his throat.
He slumped back down in his chair afterwards, and felt the cold, sweat dampness of his thin cotton shirt press against his back. He could hear Allison’s sobs 20 feet away from him, and he couldn’t bear to turn his head to see her blue eyes again.
A mom, much like his own; frightened and crushed by corrupt mortgage lenders and facing the bleak and terrifying prospect of losing everything they had.
Inside the America that LA producers are told by the studios, themselves derivative shareholders in the banks, *do not* make movies about ‘that’. The farthest Hollywood ventures into this territory, according to liberals, would be the trailer scenes with the sick kid in Susan Sarandon’s flick, The Client. The police officer climbing into their dimly lit, impoverished trailer to call an ambulance for a family with no health insurance.
But even all this sugar coats the brutality of the poverty Bells inflicted on homeowners, like Allison’s family, left to fend for themselves in the constitutional shattering of “un-American” cold.
This kinda thing –callously destroying a mom in court—putting a family on the street, doesn’t gel well with the stage coach image of frontiersmen riding into the sunset.
Together, we’ll go far.
Rick watched as the female judge, from the same Ivy League college he got rejected, snuck a lofty glance at Allison, from her lofty bench.
Despite the impartial barrier of the court, it didn’t stop the injustice of the moment seeping into her, the Judge. Herself a mom with a 10 year old at school.
But to fully appreciate the irony of the moment, you need to know what they put on the wall over the Judge’s chair:
IN GOD WE TRUST
What was that? Does that second word say, G-d?
They were trusting in?
Didn’t spare Allison, nor the thousands of American families like her; put out on grieving streets after Wall Street’s 2008 banquet.
Rick would be stuck with that judge’s hesitating-sneak-glance at Allison, for some time. It summarized the surreal nature of her courtroom, when you know it’s all a foregone conclusion. When you know they’re just going through the motions, and the deal’s already been done in a smoke filled room.
Apparently, verdicts are supposed to come at the end of a trial, not half way through.
Rick’s eyes glazed.
An ironic smile, slowly, crept across his freckled brow, as he stroked his dark brown, neatly coiffured, goatee. There was no chance the courts wouldn’t come down on the side of his client.
Bells truly owned the system.
The rubber-stamping judge, a cog. In a Catherine wheel owned by the rich. In a too-empty courtroom, where money trumps all.
Rick looked back in the Hendry family’s direction, relieved she was no longer looking his way. Though in his cursory scan, he saw the courtroom’s bright spotlight catch the wet stream of tears running down that mother, Allison’s face. And it jarred his curiosity.
Now that the bank had no further submissions, all that was left was for the Judge to wrap up this farce, starting with a brief adjournment to the proceedings.
The pretense. Their insistence that all the esoteric, high and mighty legal theory is really needed, to check over scant paperwork.
Now’s not a good time, for a verdict. She’ll write that up later.
Her ruling, denying the homeowner’s appeal, a de facto signing of Allison’s elderly dad, Callum’s death warrant, wouldn’t mesh well if she had to actually annihilate them in a U.S. courtroom. The family.
No one wants to witness that downer.
Another family, at sea in an ocean of legal jargon, a system deliberately stacked against them. Allison, just like any other mom, lost in the cogs of a closed process that has 1 rigged outcome.
Allison and her family would lose their home.
Just like all the others, who have nowhere to go. No one to complain to, and no one, especially in Manhattan, who will listen.
When you see the extent of how badly they hurt people, it’s not hard to understand why some folks use the second amendment, on themselves, or the excrement that throws families, with elderly veterans, onto New York’s guilt laden, filthy streets.
At minus 3.
8 with the wind-chill, and no health insurance.
“Fuck, I hate this. I really fucking hate this,” Rick burst out to Sonia, his office clerk, who stood sombrely listening to his account, with her head lent against the doorway to his office… an hour later.
She’d also come to know Allison’s case, and it didn’t feel good.
“You know you did your job, Rick, and the bank will thank you,” Sonia replied, matter-of-factly. A nice girl, delving into a depth of emotional escort eryaman pain she had no experience to even hope to fathom or compare.
Rick’s well-to-do secretary turned on her designer heels, and left his office door, without closing his door.
From his leather office chair, Rick looked through his glass and steel window, inside the bank’s Manhattan skyscraper, and the falling snow outside. The weather deteriorating.
He looked back at the case file on his monitor screen, staring at the name of the mother who, with his complicit efforts, will now be reduced to rummaging for food in squalid bins.
“Yep,” Rick sighed aloud.
Moving the half-eaten subway melt off his keyboard and hitting the escape key. Closing her file for the last time.
The bank had won.
A guiltier man, Rick’s mind began to steam over and over what had happened last night, with his own mother, who was in town to stay with him for a few days in the city.
Looking down from his office onto the commuting masses trudging through snow blasted streets below, Rick swallowed, at the unnerving significance of what he had done to his mom last night. He needed a way to square it in his head. Some small reprieve, to redeem his actions.
Mom hadn’t called.
She hadn’t texted.
And he daren’t phone.
He had no idea what to say to her.
He’d left for court, while she was still asleep and had eschewed any chance he may have had to engage his mother about what they’d done.
The jailable offense they’d committed, for which he knew he could lose his bar license, and the good fortune he’d accrued working for Bells Targo, if ever something like this became known to the police.
It was then, at that very moment, as he looked down the vertical snow line of Manhattan’s grid, from his plush office window, that Rick heard the muffled ping go on the phone inside his suit trouser pocket.
Returning to sit back down in his office chair, he slipped out the slim-lined black mobile, eager to read its backlit screen.
It was a Kik notification from that dating site, Todd and Clare, where his mom had found him. Had chatted to him, pretending to be a younger woman.
What had started as a mom-son in-joke, her contacting him as a “birthday surprise” having found out about his online dating shenanigans from his younger sister, Jessica, had ended in bed last night, with mom… in the throes of blind ecstasy.
Bodies illicitly entwined, in a type of dark passion most men will never know.
Rick wiped the finger-marked glass screen, before tapping the open button. Message from ‘Susan’.
That was her.
The alias his mom, whose real name was Chloe, had pretended to be for the joke. Her repeated subterfuge, somehow, converting the guilt of both parties. Chloe’s pseudonym, crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s, in a green light of burning lust and taboo, that Rick had endured since puberty.
And this notification set up a potential explosive repeat, in Rick’s apartment.
By contacting her son through this casual sex dating site, through that middle class unassuming alias, ‘Susan’; his mom had made that imaginary bridge real. Had given Rick the textual confidence he needed.
The dating site’s anonymity having been an implicit linchpin, the keystone dropping in the fulcrum of an already romantic liaison with his mother, that had been being nested since when he first identified his mom as a woman.
Like how every masturbatory fantasy he had, swelled with her image, and the extended breast feeding she had implemented until he was 8.
To have sex with that woman, his mom, and be silent.
To be casual, yet viscerally real, in a way no shady classifieds could ever be. The dating site had set up the immensity of this moment of illicit, unbridled criminality that would purge the guilt Rick felt for that other mother today; Allison, and her world, that he had laid bare in ruins.
The three in his head, interconnected not by court documents, or phones, or dating site exchanges, but by the savaging of the last remnant of his moral decency as an attorney, and as a man.
His eyes held on his phone’s screen. Anticipating his mom’s instructions—Chloe’s words—to load in the app’s text window:
Am @ apt building foyer opposite Javits.
Meet me. Mom x
“Meet me, Mom.”
Rick was relieved.
He needed to be with his mom, not to talk, just to be with her again.
His legal training as a competent trial lawyer was reserved and dispassionate; enough to block out the flood of his personal feelings that he’d held back all day.
On his way home, he stood and re-read her text, standing in the wintry street. All he could feel was cold and numb, bursting to break free.
He remembered about last night.
Lying awake, naked, pressed skin in his mom’s arms after the act.
Of staring vacantly at the Steinbeck poster of Lennie above his bed, a present from her, eryaman escort bayan as he nuzzled into his mom’s hair and felt the rhythmic pulsation of her sleeping breaths. The hardness of his cock soothed and purged, as he pressed his legs, entwined in his mom’s lust, into her warm sleeping belly.
“I… I ain’t gonna… say a word…” read the poster’s writing on his bedroom wall.
Those were the words he read over and over last night, his insomnia bleak; tracing the edges of the blue-tacked torn poster corner. A quote from Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. Then, depicted in the foreground of the art-deco print, one of the famous novel’s earliest cover editions. Lennie’s contorted face. Holding that dead mouse. His anguish staring at Rick, and his naked, sleeping mom in their dirty sheets, capturing the soulful spirituality of their first-blood incest.
The nourished, anguished heart that Rick felt inside.
Rick remembered his lips pressed into his mom’s sweat beaded brow, and smelling the scent in her hair. The Elizabeth Arden fragrance that he had come to know since childhood, accentuated whenever she’d come in from out of the rain. His mother’s transient smell that formed his need for maternal love from women, and her, before all others.
Last night, his arms wrapped around her, as he spooned his mom with his muscular thighs. Steinbeck’s depiction looming from the wall. In the poster’s background, the frontier landscapes of stagnant Yankee pastures stretching behind Lennie into the blue yonder.
Times Square was so cold, as Rick walked home towards his fate. The grey, dirty stained white snow beneath his feet, dangerously melting into slush ice that would need to be salted before the morn. As he walked back in the twilight to his apartment building, he knew his mom would be waiting for him in the building’s glass foyer.
Just walking, being, looking across New York’s dusk lit streets, the theater signs and bustling traffic, felt different.
Having done that with your mom.
He finally, colder inside than the ice raining down, approached the glass foyer doors of his apartment building, and walked inside.
It felt numb seeing her sitting there, waiting for him like a lover, to come home.
An elegant brunette she stood up from the foyer couch, and walked over to her son. She deliberately hadn’t let herself into his apartment on the 16th floor, and the spare key he’d given her lay unused in her purse.
Seeing her in the flesh materialized why men are visual, and why living the experience of real, heart rendering sex will always beat anything conjured up from a male’s mind. And then, as the walking distance between him and his mom closed until she was inside his personal space; he embraced the union he had longed for all day and all last night. The only telling signs of her age, were her hands, and the bluish veins through her soft creased white skin.
“Thank you for coming,” Chloe said softly, and she paused long enough for a smile to connect them. “We need to talk.”
He looked deeply into her eyes, and smiled back at his mom.
Rick didn’t say anything. The first time in 31 years, and his entire legal career, he literally had nothing to say.
Mom took his hand, like she did so many years ago, and turned to walk him to the elevator, to Rick’s apartment floor.
The opening and closing of the elevator’s thick metal doors, the only sound effects as he held his mommy’s hand.
Rick stood there, quietened by the prodigious enormity of this unexpected life’s turn, and he could not think of anything to do, but follow.
It just felt so tender and wholesome to be holding his mom’s hand, like that. To be a breathing part of this enveloping moment, of which he would knew he might never fully understand.
The full reasons why Chloe had initiated this.
Why she had been on that dating site.
The ground moving upwards beneath his feet, in the elevator, Rick certainly didn’t need any form of explanation at that moment.
Being with her again, being led by her nurturing hands, he began to notice things about his mother that a son really should not.
Like how the light from the elevator ceiling captured his mommy’s pink and red dress. How it hugged her voluptuous curves. Her straight brown fringe, curling over the sprinkling of freckles across her face.
Chloe had always been beautiful. More beautiful than all the other women he’d ever known, both professionally and personally. Even though she was his mom.
Especially because Chloe was his mommy.
The flushed pink hue of Chloe’s delicate cheeks melted into the fragility of her blouse and the softness with which the cloth draped over her maternal bosom. Her saliva wet nipple, where his mouth had cupped last night against his warm tongue.
Her white pantyhose. The smell of her intimate perfume scented from the cotton gusset, and her hot ivory skin, details no man could miss. Especially a man who had been as close to her, as her son.
Even at her age, Chloe knew that her push up bra was a distraction. Capitalized on the fact she’d always been the kind of Atlanta girl who made guys, effortlessly, relax. Her kindred spirit of youth coming from within, mesmerizing. Mom’s black strappy sandals looking perfect, fitting the beautiful sculptured archway of her ankle bones.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32