Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
*This story is completely fictional and much of the implausibility relies on the central fantasy/sci-fi element. Expect a lot of teasing (groping, grinding, tit-fucking, etc) and buildup. That said, penetration is not completely ruled out. Stay tuned.*
I’m having a dream. I know I am. This has to be a dream. Why can’t I move? I look down. Oh, that’s why—I’m tied to a chair. I look around; I’m in some kind of dark warehouse, with only one large light fixture on, high above me; it’s illuminating a broad space in front of me: maybe ten or fifteen feet, diameter. Everything else is very dim. I sense movement and realize I can’t speak, either—no gag or he like, but my mouth is sealed. I don’t even think I have lips. My memory flashes to The Matrix. But I’m not Neo; I’m not special. Am I? Mom always says I am, even my sisters say I am, but I don’t see it or feel it. I’m just average, unlike them. I’m homely and kinda chubby. I’m just an average loser. A friendless introvert. The only friends I have are my family; I love them so much and I know they love me, too. We have game nights and movie nights. To everyone else, I’m just a Momma’s Boy surrounded by hot sisters. I’m so glad Mom pulled me out of high school sophomore year. Now, I would’ve been graduating. Instead I’m tied to a chair with no lips. No voice.
A man in a ski-mask enters the light fifteen feet away. He sets a chair down. The same kind I’m on—thin black steel with a small black cushion. And then another masked man arrives. He’s wielding two chairs, and he sets them down. When he turns around, I see a gun stuffed into the tail of his jeans. When they come back, one of them has Mom at gunpoint and the other guides her into the chair, then binds her wrists and ankles to it, like me. They vanish again.
I squirm fruitlessly and my brow furrows as I look at Mom with fear. Mom isn’t gagged. I’m grateful for this; subconsciously, guiltily, I’m also grateful for her attire. It’s a small white tanktop with no bra beneath, and a pair of white booty-shorts, I think they call them. Her impossibly all-natural figure is stressing the thin fabric. Her enormous breasts fill the top beautifully, and her nipples are unabashedly erect, almost threatening to pierce the tanktop. Almost all of her tattoos are visible—the winged crown below her navel, the archangel on her left bicep, the amalgamation of skulls on her right, and her children’s first names halfway down her right thigh.
Pablo, Jailyne, Angie.
“Don’t be afraid, Pablo, honey,” she says endearingly, courage in her voice.
I nonetheless squirm, terrified, and now all of a sudden, aroused.
“Mommy will get us out of this mess,” she assures me. Her voice is saccharine but strong. Everything about her is strong; nothing remotely frail. Her buxom, hourglass figure and petite waist aren’t to be underestimated. She’s a vigilante for a reason. In addition to superior hand-to-hand combat and marksmanship, she has the ability to put someone to sleep by touching her fingers to their temples.
However, she was somehow subdued. And now her hands are practically useless.
The men return, this time with my sisters. Jailyne is a year older than me, Angie is two. They are both plopped down into their chairs, one on either side of Mom and about four feet apart, then bound like she and I. They, however, are gagged.
They squirm and moan in panic.
“Relax, girls, remember, you’re strong.”
They slowly relax, but their beautiful faces are still horrorstruck.
Angie and Jailyne have very disparate body types. While both of them have phenomenal butts, Jailyne’s is almost inhumanly big, especially compared to her tiny waist. However, she has very small breasts. Angie’s are much bigger, while still being dwarfed by Mom’s rack. They’re both wearing very revealing clothes, too; Jailyne has a low-cut black halter-top and a pair of short denim shorts, while Angie is wearing a V-neck shirt, clearly a push-up bra, and a pair of tiny yoga shorts. I try not to stare; there are more pressing matters at hand.
But their skin…
Neither of them have many tattoos except one or two, here and there. Mom once admitted that most of hers were gotten when she was younger, in the limbo between dropping out of school and modeling. After a stint of futile acting gigs, she became a model. But after having Angie and Jailyne, she started taking self-defense classes and attending the gun range. Shortly after giving birth to me, still a single Mom—we never did learn about who our father was—she became a self-defense instructor, and eventually put her techniques to use. She claims that she learned about her ‘super power’ at age 19, after giving birth to me. Because of this, she has always treated me like a gift or treasure; believing the power to be developed in her not by age but childbirth, the notion of my sisters getting any of their own once they hit 19 was out of the question. Especially since Angie is 20 and Jailyne 19, now, still with no powers, except for the extensive antalya escort training received by their mentor, Mom. As for me, I naturally cannot give birth, so does that leave me out of the possibility of developing a power? Mom thinks I’m different, that since I technically—in her belief—gave her a power in the wake of my birth, that I may be a carrier of something especially unique.
I still haven’t noticed anything.
“What’s a fat-titted bimbo like you doing with a loaded gun?” one of the masked men asks Mom, lifting one of her breasts with the barrel of his big stainless-steel pistol.
“Watch your mouth in front of my kids!” Mom snapped at him.
“Speaking of mouths,” he said, and stooped to pinch her cheeks together. His masked face hovered in front of hers. He spoke just loud enough for me and my sisters to hear. “I can’t wait to put yours to good use, whore.”
I writhe in my seat and groan behind my lipless mouth.
The man stands and looks over at me, then at Mom, whose cheeks are reddened from his hold. She glares up at him with spite in her light brown eyes.
“I don’t get it. How do you even live?” he asks me. “With a fat-ass bimbo MILF and two made-for-cock teens?” He scoffs and smirks behind his mask, shrugging with the pistol in his hand. The other man is pacing back and forth behind the three occupied chairs, a shotgun in both hands. “Right,” the man standing between Mom and me says. “You must beat it constantly. Hell, I bet you spy on them when you can, too. And sniff their clothes. Shit, I know I would. I’d probably nut in their coffee if I could, too.” He spins back around to look down at Mom. He grabs his crotch emphatically and sticks his tongue out. “Extra cream, Mommy?”
“Fuck you, pig!” Mom spits at him.
“Aw, that’s no way to speak to your captor,” he says casually. “Especially in front of your slut daughters and loser kid.”
“I’ll kill you,” she growls.
The man whistles at the guy with the shotgun. “Which one you wanna do first? Give this bitch a show.”
“Tits over here,” he says, standing behind Angie. “She kinda looks innocent.”
“Nah, she’ll look like her Mom after a few good dickings.”
“Don’t you dare touch her, scumbag!” Mom yells at them, frantically flipping her gaze between the two men. Her chair wobbles and scrapes the concrete floor as she writhes.
“Oh, I’m gonna do more than touch, bitch,” the man says, and backhands Mom.
I don’t know how or wht but all of a sudden I scream—my lips part, skin tearing, my mouth manifesting. It hurts but I scream nonetheless. No word, just a grating vocalization. Also, I stand up—the binds around my ankles snap, and then the ones around my wrists do, too, as soon as my knees lock. The chair clatters against the concrete.
“What the fuck?” the man that just slapped Mom says, turning to face me, dumbfounded.
“To hell with this shit,” the other one says, swinging his shotgun to aim at me.
“Pablo!” Mom yells, gasping.
The shotgun goes off but I dive forward, avoiding it. I slide across the concrete floor on my clothed stomach, and try to strike the pistol-wielding man’s ankle. To knock him down. But, I don’t have the strength that Mom or even Angie has. The man curses under his breath and looks down at me, as I look up, peering into the pistol barrel pointing down at me. I frantically grab her ankle with both hands and try to unbalance him.
In that moment, with my hands wrapped around the skin above his ankle under her pantleg, I feel my body shudder. My fingers and palms tingle. The man suddenly wavers like rubber, and I see her eyelids flutter. The pistol falls beside me, not going off. The next thing I know, he staggers a few feet away, albeit now falling. I spring to my feet with the agility and strength of a trained martial artist. It startles me right away, but I don’t let it distract me too much. I hear the distinct sound of a pump-action shotgun and then I lunge out, behind Mom’s chair, and manage to strike the barrel of the weapon before it goes off. The blast is loud but the buckshot sprays emptiness. The man stumbles and curses.
Instead of hitting him, I grab his bare wrist with one of my hands. Again, the tingling sensation followed by a full-body shiver. When I let go, he staggers back as his eyes roll up. I immediately dart to Angie’s ankles and wrists, untying her in record time. Before she knows it, Mom, too, is free. I go to help Jailyne but the other man has reoriented and is now scrambling back for the dropped pistol. Mom pushes me aside and scoops it up deftly. She raises it in time to shoot the man in the chest, dropping him. I look up from the floor, behind Jailyne’s chair. Angie has attempted to wrestle the shotgun out of the other man’s hands. He is clearly weakened by my touch. As if I drained his strength for myself.
“Get out of the way, Angie!” Mom yells.
Angie ducks and scampers away.
The man swings the shotgun toward Mom but she shoots him in the shoulder. He spins like serik escort a top, dropping the shotgun. I immediately tend to Jailyne. What if this isn’t a dream? I never go out with Mom and the others during one of their vigilante runs, but maybe this time I stowed away in her SUV, and was caught. We all were!
“Come to me, sweetie!” Mom beckons Angie. She heads over.
A gunshot sounds, taking everyone by surprise. I stand up after releasing Jailyne. A red circle expands behind Mom’s hand, placed on her stomach. Blood dapples the concrete. She staggers, dropping the pistol. Angie and Jailyne, ungagged, scream in grief-stricken terror. Angie immediately tends to her, crying already. I see the masked man on the floor, without his shotgun, but wielding a small revolver he must’ve pulled from his sock or something.
“Get down!” I yell, and rush toward Angie. Jailyne is between us, and I can’t get there in time. Angie shrieks in unison with the revolver barking. She crumples immediately. Jailyne screams and I scream, throwing my arm around her and pulling her down, behind one of the chairs. The revolver, I hear it go off again, but it misses me. Jailyne slumps in my arms. I now look down, where she lies on the concrete, like a ragdoll. She’s been shot in the head. I start to weep, and then I scream as I stand and rush the man with the revolver. He empties the cylinder. And so emptiness comes over me.
I wake up making a weird sound, half gasp and half scream, but through a dehydrated croak. I immediately start panting and get out of bed, sweating profusely. I rush out of my room and enter my sisters’ room across the hall. It’s empty; both beds are made neatly. Daylight filters in through an unveiled bay window. My heart pounds. I careen out into the hallway again and then scramble down to the other end. I enter Mom’s room and am relieved to see her sitting cross-legged on her bed, with a tablet in her hands.
“Mommy,” I blurt, winded.
She looks up, and a troubled expression consumes her beautifully dark features.
“Oh my God, sweetheart, what’s wrong? You’re pouring sweat and you’re shaking.” She gets to her feet faster than I can reach the bed. Despite my delirium, my eyesight is acute—almost unusually, flawlessly so. I notice Mom’s large breasts bounce in their top as she stands up, the bed now behind her. She’s wearing a thin, white, long-sleeve turtleneck that leaves her midriff exposed, and a pair of high-rise blue shorts with white trim. They’re so small and high up on her waist that they must leave at least half of her cheeks exposed. I notice that, when she scooted off the bed, they must’ve ridden up a little, the blue fabric wedging into her pussy lips. Royal cameltoe. Which means she isn’t wearing any underwear, and clearly no bra; the shirt is fitted to the point that it contains her breasts perfectly, although it isn’t thick enough a fabric to be very supportive, while it suffices in being not transparent, although the indentations of her nipples aren’t invisible.
She hugs me immediately. I’m shirtless and in my boxers. I may be 18, but I don’t feel like a man yet. Puberty came late for me, sometime around 16; Mom thinks it’s because of my ‘uniqueness,’ as she calls it. She’s said I haven’t hit my growth spurt yet. I’m 5’6″ to het 5’10”. When she hugs me, my chin buries itself in what would be cleavage, if she wasn’t wearing a turtleneck. My arms dangle at their sides, and then I look up at her while she rubs my sweaty back. Her long black hair cascades around her shoulders, front and back.
“Aw, what’s wrong, Pablo? Did you have a bad dream?”
Despite my age, Mom has always babied and coddled me. She did the same for my sisters until they reached 16. Then she began teaching them self-defense and a ‘preamble’ to weapons handling. At 18, she started bringing them to the range. I’ve been 18 for a week, but unlike my sisters, she gave me a choice on all the lessons. I’m much shyer than them, especially Angie, so I’ve declined the opportunity to visit the range several times. Mom respects this, trusting that I will volunteer when it feels right for me. My sisters aren’t jealous of how she treats me; they, too, often baby me and I must say I can’t complain.
For various reasons…
“It wasn’t just a bad dream, Mom, it was a nightmare,” I say. I revert to ‘Mom’ almost automatically. I only say Mommy when I’m really distressed; or, in my head, alone and aroused.
“Aw, sweetheart. Tell me about it. Want to sit down?”
I’m filled with so many different emotions. I remember the dream very vividly, especially the power of touch that I exhibited. Albeit a ridiculous dream with a morose ending, it felt so real. And I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t wake with an unprecedented tingling in my palms and fingers. It has since faded.
“Can I hug you first, Mom? Like, really tight?”
“Of course, Pablo. You can hug Mommy whenever you want.”
I curl my arms around her small waist and cling side escort to her hard. Speaking of hard, I feel my dick start to tighten and expand below my boxers. It rises until it cannot rise anymore, essentially forced down, erect, against Mom’s pubis, our clothes the only barriers. I wonder if she can feel it, or care. Regardless, I lower my face a little and nuzzle the upper arcs of her bust. Her bare skin on my clammy forearms feels nice.
“You’re shivering, sweetheart. Are you okay?”
“I feel safer when I’m with you, Mom,” I say, my voice muffled against her chest.
“Aw, honey. Mommy loves to hear that…but I hate it that you ever feel unsafe.”
“The world is a bad place, Mom,” I say, lifting my face from her chest. “You and Angie and Jailyne are the only good things about it.”
“Oh, Pablo. I bet they would love to hear that from you. But I’m sorry you feel that way about the world…yes, it can be very bad. But not all bad.”
“Don’t thrust me out into it, Mom. Please. I want to stay here with you for a little while longer.”
“Don’t be silly, sweetie, Mommy’s not gonna kick you out or anything. Why would you even say that?”
“Because…I’m…I’m eighteen now, and I’m not in school. I…I don’t have a job. I…I don’t even drive. And I have no powers, like you…I’m…I’m useless.”
“Hush, Pablo, don’t even think that.” She pets my brow with the back of her hand, like checking for a fever, and then cups my face with both hands. Her touch is cool without being frigid. I look up, deep into her beautiful brown eyes, beneath naturally thick lashes. She isn’t wearing any makeup. I want to kiss her plush lips so bad.
“I love you, Mom.”
“Oh, sweetheart, I love you, too.”
“I wish I could protect you.”
“What? What do you mean, Pablo?”
I sniffle and gulp. “In my dream. You and Angie and Jailyne were in my dream. They had us…they had us tied to chairs. They said mean things about you and then threatened to…I don’t know…kill Angie or something.”
“Oh, honey. That’s awful.”
“And they did…I mean…I got up and saved you, and you killed one of them, you shot the other, because you’re so strong and fast and amazing,” now I was talking like a machinegun, “but then one of them shot you, and then Angie, and I thought I saved Jailyne, but he shot her, too, because I was powerless afterall. And then he shot me.”
Her arms wrap around me again, hugging me tightly. My face is all but forced back to her chest. I voluntarily nuzzle her bosom some more before lifting my gaze and her arms loosen.
“That’s absolutely horrible, Pablo. I’m so sorry you had such a bad dream. But that’s all it was, sweetie, a dream. You mustn’t get so worked up over it.”
“But I couldn’t save you. I was almost powerless. Except…”
“Except what, honey?”
“I…when one of the masked guys hit you, it made me mad, and I stood up, and I dove toward him. I grabbed his ankle. And he started shaking, and then he stumbled away, dropping his gun.” I notice Mom’s expression change from concern to intrigue. “And then, I deflected the other guy’s gun, and touched his arm. The same thing happened to him. And I felt…I felt so strong and fast.”
“Really? Wow, that’s very…that’s very interesting, Pablo.”
“Maybe that’s my power, Mom?”
“Oh, honey. It was just a dream.”
“Don’t lie, Mom, I can tell you’re curious, too,” as I say this, I disengage the hug. I act a little antagonistic. “Just because I’m a loser that had a crazy dream doesn’t mean I’m crazy.”
“Pablo, you’re not a loser. You’re Mommy’s gift.”
“But I have no gift!”
“Fine, sweetie. If you want, you can try it.”
“Sure. Here.” She extends her arm.
I take a deep breath and gulp. I reach out and grasp her wrist. “You’re really strong, Mom. You’re like Wonder Woman. Give me your other arm.”
She giggles a little. “You’re so sweet. Okay.” She holds out her other arm.
With both of her wrists in my hands, I begin massaging them, where they are softest, with my thumbs. I close my eyes.
“How fast was it in your dream, honey?”
“Oh. Well, don’t take it too seriously, sweetie.” She starts to withdraw her arms.
“No, Mom! I won’t give up. Come here.” I pull on her arms and she teeters forward, yelping lightly. I embrace her again, but this time apply both hands to her bulbous butt. I slap my palms to her partially bare cheeks, and feel them jiggle. Then I sink my fingers into them. Her bubble-butt dwarfs my hands but I squeeze nonetheless.
“Oh my,” she says quietly.
“I must do it with passion, Mom! When I grabbed the guy’s ankle, and his arm, I was really worked up. Angry! I’m not angry with you, Mom. I just…I love you so much. I feel safe, but happy, like really happy, when I hug you. Like right now. My heart races for you, Mommy.”
“Aw, that’s so sweet of you, honey,” she says, and just like that is unfazed about me groping her butt.
“C-Can you feel it, Mom? Because I can!” I slap and squeeze her butt again. She says “oh” once more and then I feel her posture shift in my arms, against me. I feel my palms and fingertips tingle; not to the extent that they did in the dream, but very minutely.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32