Cotton Pickings

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I suppose my little story begins in New York. My father, Malcolm, had gone to a good Southeast Conference school and ended up representing a New York firm in Birmingham, Alabama. Every year he had to attend the directors’ meeting in the New York area. There he met my very New York area mother. It was a mismatch but Sue was still single and was introduced by a friend on the board. Under pressure from her own parents and friends about being ‘married’, she had a quick romance and marriage. That was 18 years ago, which coincidentally marks my age.

At first everything was great; mom accepted moving to the south and giving up shopping, museums, designer clothes, and her network of friends. It was a fair tradeoff to have a proper married life.

There was a sudden bit of good luck, followed by dark changes. Not much sooner had they gotten hitched and settled into their Birmingham digs when the company was bought out. My father got a silver (not quite gold) parachute, which still tallied a cool million. Surrounded by affordable farms, we could and should have been set for life. That’s where the trouble began.

Some people are at peace with the world, and some are a cauldron of upheaval. Unfortunately, we all learned that Malcolm was the latter. With domestic tranquility at hand, he instead wanted to REALLY enjoy his good luck. So, he bought a mini cotton plantation, just 200 acres, but with a colonial style home right out of “Gone with the Wind”. It was fantastic, at first. He was attentive to everything and everything seemed to work somehow. The heat of a southern summer, however, can break any man. We had a drought one year and the cotton turned brown and then black, exactly as if it was burnt. This comes with the territory, I read, and certainly shouldn’t have caused my father to fall apart. I mean, it was not like we actually depended upon the cotton revenue for any day to day needs.

In the event, it did weigh upon his mind. He turned to the ‘holy water’ of the south: Jack Daniels. That stuff is smooth, but by the third glass he was as drunk as a skunk. And though he was a quiet and reserved southern gentleman when sober, he was a nasty brute when soused. Unknown to me, one time mom had accused him of fooling around. Her nose was ‘loosened a little’ by accident, as he told the nurse at the clinic.

Mom was so embarrassed to return north confessing this humiliation, and so fearful of leaving me alone in his clutches, that she never filed a formal complaint.

One day, he was in the city, watching ‘Bama play the dreaded Florida Gators. Mom came into my room, which was (I’m not kidding) the former slave quarters just outside the back door of the kitchen. We had modernized it to be sure. Anyway, she came into my room, sagged resignedly in a bean bag chair, and asked me to turn off the Alabama/Florida game.

I refused, but muted the sound.

I asked mom, who never ever visited my quarters: “Mom, what’s the deal? It seems like there’s been an unspoken war or something declared; dinners are a stone silent affair. What gives?”

Mom sighed: “Your father has been getting drunk more and more. At first I thought it was the g-ddamn cotton drought or weevils or whatever the hell was going on. Then, I noticed that our ‘touching’ had declined from three times a week, to once a week, to nothing per week. I asked him about that, and he was evasive. I hired a firm in Birmingham to tail him when he went to the city (i.e. Birmingham); I was ashamed to do that and did not tell you. I got their report today. I knew it was bad, because the detective agency courier was a partner, and she didn’t have the heart to look me in the eyes or hang around. As her 4 by 4 zoomed away in a plume of dust, I opened a dossier. It showed your wonderful father with some floozy bar fly in the city. I hated to admit to myself, but what really got me angry was that she was far from gorgeous, pretty, or even plain. She was just an available tramp, and in his charcoal mellow mood, she would do. The pictures followed them to a motel where, I hope, he disappointed her like he’s done for me for the last 17 years. Now, I have to decide what to do. Help me, Jim, please.”

As her very well spoken Manhattan-tinged speech ended, she broke down in tears. I rushed over, picking her up from the low beanbag chair, taking her into my powerful (from cotton baling) arms, and hugged her. It was the first time I had hugged her since I was a pre-teen. I held her away from me, “Mom, dry those tears, everything will be all right. You have in your hands all you need to get either a great divorce or a submissive guilty man in marriage, your call. But first, you have to stop crying.” It was at that moment that I realized that she wasn’t on the floor. I was holding her up at the waist. I lowered her down, and as a woman, and mother, beyoğlu escort her hands sought out my arms exposed in the old fashioned sleeveless t-shirt. I was very tanned from working the fields along with the undocumented aliens. Lifting the bales of cotton was immensely difficult, given that father never bought the more modern automated machines. As a result, my arms had become huge (22 inches) but moreover, they were incredibly strong. Farm work did that and I paid a price every night with sore muscles that ached till morning…

I wiped mom’s last tears as she absent-mindedly caressed my swollen arms. She squeezed them to feel the power but also the security, they represented. She got up on her tiptoes, stretching her perfect hourglass figured five foot two inch frame, and put her ruby lips against mine.

I had never had the slightest impure thoughts about my beautiful mother until then. There were times I certainly SHOULD have gotten some impure thoughts. Mom at first had retained her Manhattan ways, trying to emulate Eva Gabor from Green Acres fame, out of place in accent, dress, and traditions. But all things change, and mom eventually would wrap herself in a tired green robe/housecoat, with pink fluffy boudoir slippers, or perhaps just her beautiful bare feet. So while I was coming in and out of the main house, where mom was stuck all day and night, I would catch glimpses only of her fantastic figure which, at 44, was as good as it was at 34. I had no inkling if mom was hot, or not…I mean, what WAS hot?

Living in rural Alabama, it was not an easy thing to get the New York Times, as mom did at first, or buy Playboy, as I did as I approached 18. One time, I saw in the back there was a cartoon called “Little Annie Fannie”. It was the sexiest thing I had ever seen, and for the first time, I felt a certain odd tingling ‘down there’. Puzzled, I searched all around and then saw the oddest thing, as my previously innocent little peckerwood (Alabama, remember) spontaneously lurched from 3 inches to 6, and from 6 to 9. That last (all important?) tenth inch would come later, in action as it were. Anyway, back to the cartoon; it showed a blond with an hourglass figure, the brains of a moth, and the bust of four ordinary women. Now, except for the dumb expression and numb mind, that was an exact cartoon copy…of my mom! Like a cold slap in the face, I realized I had a sexy mother, and my nine inch salute to the cartoon was a wish unfulfilled about mom…

At the time, I did not act on these feelings. Shoot, at the time, I didn’t even date; I was so overworked by father. It was a full time job just tending to the farm, the workers, fending off OSHA, the INS, and the farm bureau. One year they complained and threatened suit because we used toxic spray against the cotton boll weevil; I swear, the next year, they complained and threatened suit because we did not. So, when the dusters came round every year, we just said yes, and would hold back the receipt until the ‘gummint’ man came by to make trouble.

One faithful day, everything, and I mean everything, came to a tumultuous conclusion. Father said that he had a big announcement for us; it was about the 60 acres of land that he had supposedly lost in a poker game at an alumni fete. (He had lost it.) He ordered us to get into the truck, no need to dress for the brief trip. As a result, mom was wearing her green housecoat and slippers; I was wearing an old fashioned t-shirt, tired old field jeans, and leather work boots.

As we drove in the full sized F150 pickup, with him driving and I seated with mom in my lap, he took to really ragging on us. He said that we did not ever have a positive attitude about the farm or the work involved.

I felt like bringing up the fact I worked like a demon to manage everything, filling in with sheer human manpower when he was too cheap to buy needed equipment. And his ‘useless Manhattan socialite bitch’ also happened to housekeep, cook, and remain loyal when any other woman would’ve bolted.

As we drove, mom was on my lap. The old truck had almost no shocks, so road bumps smashed mom’s tingling woman parts (completely unencumbered by clothes except that wafer thin housecoat) on top of my expanding, straining to get out, nine or ten inch cock. Every road imperfection bonded mom to me, oddly enough, as the friction of my denim to her female ‘parts’ actually made mom wince. Thank goodness he wasn’t staring at us, or he would’ve seen mom all teary eyed, her face moist from passion. My powerful hands were holding her about her hourglass waist, with the larger road hazards pushing her heavy, soft breasts against my hands.

He pulled over, saying that he had to take a leak. As he did so, mom twisted in her seat and gave me the most frantic, passionate, kiss in history. Her tears were met with mine; not sadness but passion. As he was finishing up, I roughly pushed mom forward against the dashboard. Using desperate, sarıyer escort almost superhuman strength, I tore open the housecoat seam closest to my manhood, undid my fly, removed my nine, now finally ten, inch cock, and lowered my beautiful mother onto it.

She gasped, “God, Jimmy, you are so damned BIG. What a man, what a MAN! If I knew that there was this much man just outside my window, I wouldn’t have wasted time trying to get a tired, drunken worm to expand to its entire boyish three inches on the drunken cheating carcass called your father. Quiet now, he’s coming back. I love you, sweetheart!” She turned quickly for one last kiss.

Just then, the rusted creaky hinges of the F150 allowed the door to open. He jumped back in and off we went. Now, with my powerful manhood inside the womanly comforting warm living room that was my mom, every bump sent a thrill through both of us. We got so hot that if he turned briefly to point something out on the left, mom would turn and kiss me. Desperate chances…

We got to this closed down rest area and pulled in past the plastic orange traffic cones stating ‘closed for renovation’. He told us we could get out now. After we got out, he reached into the glove box and got something shiny out. Unfortunately for us, it was a gorgeous Colt Python revolver.357 magnum in nickel finish.

He slurred his words badly, showing he was about half sloshed. He said the last straw was while we were driving and I had the gall to fuck my own mom right in front of him. He said with the farm ruined (ruined? It was ONE bad crop failing; the other changes were due to his drinking, gambling, and carousing) and a pair of ungrateful sleazes at home, there was no reason for him not to mete out some good southern justice right here and now. He lifted the powerful, and heavy, revolver, and tried to take aim at mom just 6 feet away from him. He fired. The report was a deafening blast at six feet. Thank God, the shot zinged past her ear, hit the ground, and skipped into a tree. I grabbed the gun, easily securing it from the drunk. I tossed it into the pond that was next to the rest-stop. I then hauled off and used my ‘cotton pickin” strong arms to deck him with one titanic blow. He went down like a sack of potatoes, out cold. Mom rushed to me, sobbing in fright, relieved that I had bested him. Her hands sought out the security symbolized by my outlandishly powerful arms, as she strained upward to join her ruby lips to mine.

Mom broke the kiss and surveyed him on the ground. Now bald, paunchy, a cheating, card losing, abusive drunk. She looked at me, her musclebound hero. She asked, no ordered, me to get the truck cargo mat behind the seats. I did; she ordered me to lay it out carefully right next to him. I did. She grabbed me by the flimsy t-shirt, spun me around, and pushed me flat on my back on the cargo mat.

Mom dropped that damn green housecoat; underneath (as I suspected) she wore nothing at all. My own ‘little Annie Fannie’, her figure was so spectacular for 44, or 34, that I wondered if there was a luckier man on earth than me right now. She walked over me, with a pink feathery boudoir slipper on either side of me, and lowered her itchy, sopping wet, pussy lips to my towering (and finally–a full ten inch) cock. She deftly used her skilled hands to guide me in, settling down on my bone. On all fours now, she looked skyward, moaning out the first of her six orgasms. She looked down, finally, searching my eyes as if she had never seen me before. Seeing the intense love I had for her, she swooned and our lips met. We did not kiss at first, only brushing our lips across in unbelievably repressed passion. When we finally let hell break loose and kiss, it was nuclear powered excitement.

Mom was in fantastic shape (cleaning a big house, plus secretly cleaning my separate house as I worked the fields). When she did cowgirl, it was with atomic power. Her cunt muscles held and released my cock so many times it was like she was trying to get the last bit of ketchup out of a stubborn bottle. She would moan in passion and orgasm every few minutes, each time swooning to my chest to passionately kiss me. I was in such intense, unexpected, heaven that I could only lie there, enjoying the ride. While we were doing this, he was coming around.

All of a sudden, he leaped up and grabbed mom by the hair, trying to get her off me. To everyone’s surprise, I stood up, my powerful left hand securing mom to me by holding her by her pert bum. With my right hand, I grabbed his hand off mom, twisting it till we all heard a pop. He grasped his broken wrist. I flexed my powerful 22 inch right bicep while mom put an adoring hand over it. I said, “Be a good boy, and sit over there on the old picnic benches. Watch a real man at work, satisfying your legally married wife.” He held his damaged paw and slinked over, dropping dejectedly onto the faded green pine bench.

To rub it in, I purposely held mom maslak escort at 90 degrees to him so he could watch everything. He looked down when we looked over at him, but he was staring. Weirdly, he was getting his tiny cocky excited by the spectacle and actually undid his fly and touched himself as we proceeded.

Mom saw that and whispered something to me which made us both look at him, look at each other, laugh, and then kiss. As we got into a rhythm of sex, mating, and perhaps something else, mom brought up the ‘something else’:

Speaking in tones loud enough for him, and any owl within three miles of us, to hear, mom said, “You know Jim, just because we only had one child doesn’t mean that I didn’t want more children. In fact, if a certain someone had been more of a man and less a taste tester for charcoal smooth mellowed sour mash, we might have made a few more heirs to our ‘great family fortune’. It got so bad in the marital bed that performances were usually called off. When the performance came off, it was all over in two or three minutes, with one or two droplets, and I mean raindrops, of thin goo. There might have been a few dozen sperm in there, at best. It was no wonder I could sleep in a marital bed for 17 years, no pill, no birth control, and no babies. The only breeding and babies were in my dreams. I was embarrassed to tell anyone, for obvious reasons, but I saw my handsome son Jim change his shirts out by the baler once too often. His bronzed body, cut into detailed muscle, the powerful sinews of his manly form sending shivers through me. I used to lie in bed at night, turning in early so I wouldn’t risk appearing awake when ‘he’ got in bed. I would dream of my suntanned son, like Apollo, coming down from the sunlit skies to use his power, his godly gifts, to bestow love, sex, adoration, and his wondrous, fertilizing seed to me. Each time we joined in lover’s embrace, that god would bring about my belly expansion, and then a resulting birth of one, two, maybe five babies. Eventually, the Elysian fields of that dream were filled with squalling babies, a symbol of our passion and love. One day, that male god left, leaving me with the worst empty feeling of post partum depression. It was sort of like the emptiness I really felt in waking life.”

At this point, mom and I gazed upon each other’s eyes in quiet admiration. A last kiss and, finally, finally, I held mom as tightly as I could for the climax of our tale. With a manly grunt that startled him, driving home the point that I was now the alpha male, the man of the house, I came with a shout. Our lips were locked. He stared in goggle eyed amazement as all of my pent up passion, millions upon millions of vibrant, active, young sperm, were pumped from the huge, heavy reservoir of my softball sized testes the length of my ten inch cock and into mom’s very welcoming, very fertile, and totally unprotected vagina. The excess white goop almost instantly started drooling out exactly like the run over when we boiled over pasta. We kissed lightly at the end, both of us totally in tears.

With mom still attached to me, I held that hot MILF to me as we walked over to where he was cowering. In spite of the pain of his broken wrist, he had managed to watch us do it and got off. Mom tapped my shoulder, asking to be put on the ground.

Well, mom just tore into him, letting him know every failing, every misstep, everything he had ever done to disappoint or harm us.

He said, “What’s the big deal, I was betrayed at every step by a couple of pervs I had living in my house”

Both of us were still naked. Mom got irate from his comments. She grabbed him by the lapels. When he raised his still working hand to stop her, I put my hand on him.

I gave him the ‘don’t do that’ finger wave, pointing out my bulging 22 inch guns which were standing by to defend my beautiful mother, and future wife. He sank back in resignation and defeat.

Mom grabbed him again, backed up now by the power and security of a musclebound bodyguard. She said look at the ground; he did. There were three damp drops on the sod of the ground. She then dragged his head up to look at her. She shrieked: “Now you see it for yourself; your seed is no longer wanted, no longer precious, no longer even tolerated. You have to cast it on the ground. Meanwhile, my loving, caring, sensitive son gets to unleash his manly, potent sperm inside a warm, loving, welcoming place; my deepest, darkest, and most forbidden(to you!) places, my fertile womb. So while your vile seed from your pathetic little boy’s cock drips uselessly onto the empty ground, wasted and unmissed, my handsome son’s seed is planted in fertile ground, the life that results to be welcomed to a new home.” We turned to find our pitiful few clothes. He sat in the back of the pickup, holding his wrist, as we headed back home.

Mom and I moved him to a long stay apartment in the city (Birmingham), not really ever asking him what he wanted. At a certain point, he said that after what we did on that ride, he was going to get everything in divorce court. Unfortunately for him, we hadn’t videotaped our lovemaking, or his gunplay either.

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