Cold mesmerized wake up

He looked from the little boy on the left to the grown man on the right, examining the boy's small bald willy and then the man's full-grown cock – frighteningly large in the ever-so-helpful erection pull out. It had been unbelievably embarrassing when his dad showed him the pull outs – not least because his erections were every bit as small and bald as the little boy's. Smaller, if anything.

I am a guy that grew up in a pretty normal, conservative family. I don't know why I feel like I have to say that; I just do. Perhaps it's like that thing where whenever you see someone interviewing a stripper, hooker, or porn actress, they never fail to mention that their childhoods were all fucked up. I don't know. What I do know is that we were a pretty typical, two-parent, white bread family when I was growing up. And back in my day, that was in fact typical. You didn't have all the dysfunctional and broken homes that seem to be the majority today. A lot of the kids who were raised in those types of situations seem pretty messed up today. I'm not sure though, exactly how many of them were fucking their mothers.

Anyway like I was saying, we were pretty normal. I had an older brother and sister, we owned a dog and some goldfish, dad worked and mom stayed at home to take care of us. We weren't rich, but we were certainly better off than many folks were. Enough so that all of us kids attended Christian school from kindergarten through 12th grade.

Back then, I would never have guessed that things would end up the way they did, though I certainly had normal teenage daydreams and fantasies. Wasn't it Freud who said we all wanted to fuck our mothers? Well, he was right about that, but I'm not sure if he ever knew how much I wanted to fuck my sister also. These feelings came and went... usually into a handy tissue or the toilet! But seriously, I would fantasize about my mother one day, and then be lusting after the latest SI swimsuit model the next. I figured it was normal. Besides, an intense session of "fist bullfighting" usually released those desires and allowed me to move on to the next object of my violations.

Apart from the normal childhood or perhaps because of it, I was a late bloomer. I had gone out on dates in high school but not many. And the dates that I did go out on never went much further than a little bit of making out. As a result, I often ended my nights rubbing one out while thinking of my date, or more and more frequently, my mother. My mother was no supermodel, but there was always a sexuality about her that stemmed from her strength and confidence. She was of German descent, and was a solidly built woman. Though average height and only slightly more than average weight, she had a pixie-like face that would've been considered somewhere between cute and pretty. She had very soft light brown hair, green eyes, and she always seemed to have a floral scent wafting in the air around her. Her breasts were ample enough, though average in every other way. Her butt however, was firm and sturdy. It had a sort of squarish look to it when she was walking around, but when she bent over to pick something up, it seemed to magically flare out into this large heart-shaped ass that was often the focus of my daydreams. I often dreamed of planting my cock deep inside that heart-shaped ass when I was relieving myself after another frustrating date.

And so I suppose it would have gone on, never escalating to the next level, had my father not gotten his promotion. He became regional supervisor of the heavy equipment distributing business that he'd been with since before having any of us kids. The position required that we move closer to his company's headquarters, and that was how we found ourselves living in Ohio. Though we had moved closer to the headquarters, the job required that he spent a lot of time traveling, with many trips taking two or three weeks away from home as he traveled throughout the Midwest and Northeast.

It was also about this time that I discovered that my mother was a heavy drinker. I'd honestly never noticed before, maybe because my father had been there to act as a buffer between her and the rest of the family. As the baby of the family, I often got the lion's share of attention from my parents. But after my father started going away on his business trips, the attention I was getting went from intense to downright inappropriate. Me being the horny teenager that I was, I didn't mind when my mom started walking around the house in a bathrobe that fell open all too easily. The sight of one of my mother's breasts jiggling its way out of the opening of her robe truly tested the limits of my peripheral vision. And whenever I hugged my mother from behind as she peeled potatoes or carrots at the kitchen sink, instead of just patting my hands as she normally did, she started pressing her ass ever so subtly back into my crotch. I noticed that the bourbon bottles that were usually kept tucked away when my dad was home were now often in plain view on the counter, and often empty or nearly so.

This went on until I eventually moved out of the house to go to college. I tried to get home as often as I could to see my mother, since she was often alone in the house with my father away. But that tended to be fairly infrequently, usually for holidays. I could hear her loneliness when I returned the phone messages she left for me, and assured her we would catch up over the summer.

When summer came, I expected a bit of a welcome when I arrived home. Instead, my mother was rather cold to me, probably giving me a taste of what it was like for her while I was busy at school. But that only lasted a couple of days, and after that we easily fell into the old routines. That included the previously mentioned inappropriate behavior. That was a very busy summer for my father, and I think I probably saw him for three weeks out of the three months I was home. He left on another trip just a few days after I got home, and the bourbon bottles started making their appearance on the counter shortly thereafter.

The second weekend after I arrived home I went out to catch up with some old high school friends. I ended up getting in pretty late, and I tried to keep the noise down so I wouldn't wake my mother. But when I glanced at the kitchen sink and saw two empty bourbon bottles, I realized that I could be driving a tank through the living room, and she'd never know. I kicked off my sneakers and trudged upstairs to my room. I noticed that my parents' bedroom door was open, and a dim light was emanating from inside the room.

I tried to keep quiet as I passed the room, but what I saw as I went by made me freeze to the spot. On the bed, gently lit by the small reading light on my mother's nightstand, my mother was lying face up, naked from the chest down.

"Mom?" I whispered huskily as I turned my head to avoid looking at her. Upon hearing no response, I cleared my throat and whispered a little louder, "Mom!" But there was still no response. I finally went for broke. "Mom!" I said in a slightly louder than normal voice. But she was passed out cold and feeling no pain.

Looking around me to see if the coast was clear – which I admit was pretty stupid in an empty house – I crept into the room and to my mother's side of the bed. Lying on her back with her head turned away from me, I realized that my mother's nightshirt had somehow raised well above her hips, exposing her from just above her belly down to her toes. Her pubic hair mesmerized me. It was relatively thin, which surprised me. I don't know why, but I always figured my mother had a big bushy nether region. It was just a shade darker than the hair on her head, and looked downy soft.

I could feel my cock stirring in my pants just looking at her. Taking this unique opportunity, I bent down as close to her pussy as I dared and took a good look at it. I inhaled deeply to catch its scent, and the whiff of pussy and floral perfume made my cock as hard as I'd ever felt it.

My throat catching as I swallowed, I crept out of her room and into my own. Once there, I tore off my clothes and started stroking my fat seven inches. My hand flew up and down the shaft as I beat myself into a frenzy. I pictured my mom's sweet vagina sitting right there in front of my nose. Then I realized that if I had the balls to do it, I didn't have to picture it in my head. Holding my erect member in my fist, I crept back down the hall and into my mother's bedroom once again. I stood next to her and started stroking myself again as I stared at the object of my fascination. My breath was coming in raspy gasps as I cupped my balls with one hand and pumped my fist with the other. Without warning, I suddenly coughed, and my body froze. I remained perfectly still, waiting to see if my mother would stir. But she remained where she was, and I started working my cock once more. Then I took a bold step further. Realizing how out of it she was, I reached out with my free hand and gently touched her pubic hair. It was as soft as I imagined it would be. My breath was again ragged as I masturbated, and I decided to take a quantum leap further. Leaning far over the bed and over my mother, I planted my free hand near the middle of the queen size bed. Holding my cock with my fist, I lowered my body toward hers and ran the head of my cock over her pubes. The feelings that traveled up and down my penis were exquisite. I moved my cock head through her pubes again, reveling in the forbidden nature of the act. Gradually I pressed down a bit harder and made contact with her skin. I moved my erection toward the cleft between her legs. God how I wished I could be fucking her. As if sensing my thoughts, my mother stirred, and I bolted from the room. Pausing just outside her door, I didn't hear any further noises and figured I was safe. I went into my room and finished assaulting my cock until I came with a force I'd never experienced before in my life. I drifted off with a satisfied smile.

The next morning, my mother and I shared breakfast at the kitchen table. I was struggling not to act guilty, and of course she acted perfectly normal. I asked her how long my father would be gone.

"Probably three weeks or more" she answered.

"Do you get lonely without him here?" I asked.

"I'm kind of getting used to it, actually."

The liquor probably helps with that, I thought to myself. I felt kind of guilty for having that thought, and for what I had done the night before.

"I'm gonna take off for a while." I told my mother. "Don't wait up for me tonight, okay?"

"Okay" she replied.

I scurried to the door and hurried out.

That night, I again got in late. I practically prayed to see empty bottles in the sink, and wasn't disappointed as I walked through the kitchen. My breath catching in my throat, I again headed up the stairs to my room. Catching sight of the dim light once again, my cock stirred in anticipation. This time though, my parents' bedroom door was only slightly ajar and I couldn't see inside.

"Mom?" I whispered at the crack of the door. "I'm home."

As had happened the previous night, there was no reply.

"Mom?" I asked in a normal voice. I figured that with the door mostly closed I was safe with being a little louder. But again there was no reply.

I pushed the door open and poked my head inside. I nearly groaned out loud at what I saw. My mother was lying on her side, facing away from the door. And she was completely naked. Her generous ass was practically hanging off the side of the bed. Ducking back out of her room, I hurried to my own bedroom and stripped my clothes off. My cock was already on the rise as I crept back to her room and inside. Moving to the side of her bed, I started stroking my cock as I had done the night before. Her butt cheeks were incredible, gloriously stacked atop one another right in front of me. I could see a few wispy pubic hairs from the gap between her legs. My mother was making me hot, hard, and hornier than hell. I stroked myself as I stared at her, taking less care to be quiet than I had the night before. I honestly don't think I cared if I got caught anymore. Plus, she was again passed out cold. I reached out with my free hand and cupped her butt cheek as I fucked my fist. Then bending down, I caught a whiff of her privates that were no longer quite so private. A mix of pussy, flowers, and the musky scent of ass filled my nostrils. I was intoxicated by the smell. I couldn't take it anymore. Squatting down a bit and holding my breath, I pushed my cock toward the crevice between her ass cheeks. My cock head felt the wispy strands of pubic hair as my shaft brushed her cool butt cheeks. I pushed into the gap, feeling the heat from her pussy and rosebud. I wasn't fucking my mother, but I was as close to it as I could get. I slowly moved my cock back and forth in the gap between my mother's legs. My breathing was becoming more labored, and I realized that if I didn't pull out of there I would be shooting my cum all over my mother's butt and thighs. I tore myself away and once again finished the job in my room, jerking myself practically raw as I shot my cum in a huge arc across the room. I collapsed into bed.

The next morning, my guilty conscience won out and I again told my mother I would be out all day, and not to wait up that night. But as guilty as I felt, the truth was that I couldn't think about anything but what I would do that night if I again found my mother naked in bed. I walked around with an aching hard-on straining against my pants all day long.

When I returned home that night, I actually prayed to God that I would find two more empty bottles sitting in the kitchen sink. I don't think it was God answering my prayers, but I indeed saw the bottles as I passed through the kitchen. I couldn't control myself, and I actually stripped my clothes off on my way up the stairs.

"Mom?" I called out as I ascended. "Mom, I'm home! Are you awake?" I didn't think I could be any more obvious, but as on the previous nights there was no response. I was naked and erect by the time I stood outside her door. The dim light was there as before, and the door was only slightly ajar once again. I pushed it open.

There on the center of the bed, again totally naked, my mother was lying face down with her head partly under her pillow. Her legs were spread open just a bit, and I could see her pussy just below that incredible ass that I loved so much. I moaned at the sight.

I stepped into the room and quickly closed the distance to my mother's bed. I stood hesitantly for a moment, not knowing what to do first. My hard-on bobbed in the air, throbbing for release. Since she was lying on the center of the bed I couldn't easily touch her. I realized I was going to have to get onto the bed to accomplish anything. That was really pushing it, I thought. She might not awaken from a little caress or even a hard cock sliding in between her legs, but a full-grown man climbing onto the bed was bound to wake up even the deepest sleeper.

I walked around the bed, pondering my next step. I walked to the foot of the bed and stared at her pussy and ass. My cock gave another twitch. To hell with it, I thought. Moving as slowly as possible, I lowered myself onto the foot of the bed between my mother's spread legs. I kept easing myself down until the sweet sight of her vagina was right in front of me. I again sniffed long and hard at the sweet scents coming from my mother's cleft. My cock jerked at the stimulation. I would have loved to taste my mother's sweet folds, but her legs weren't open quite far enough. I rubbed my hand on her thigh, stealing a look to see if there was any response from her. Naturally there wasn't. She was really out of it.

My desire to replicate the situation from the previous night overwhelmed me, and I gently raised myself to my hands and knees. I crept up over my mother's body until my hands were on either side of her back and my knees were between her legs as close to her as I could go without touching her. I lowered my hips until my rigid cock slid over the smooth pale skin of her ass. The cool soft skin was such a contrast to my hot hardness. My hard-on fell naturally into the crack of her ass, and I began sliding it up and down in the crevice, masturbating myself with my mother as if she was my own little sex doll. Gradually I began to let more and more of my weight fall onto her ass as I continued sliding my cock in her crack. I could again feel the heat from her little rosebud as my cock wormed its way deeper into the crevice. A thin line of drool fell from my open mouth onto my mother's back.

As I stared down at the tiny bit of spittle, I realized that I had already made the decision to go all the way. I didn't care if my mother woke up or not; I was going to fuck her. And God help us both if she woke up, because I doubted if I would stop.

I pulled back and let some saliva slide from my mouth down onto my cock. Then I eased my way forward again, placing my hands near my mother's armpits. I moved my feet and legs back until I was holding myself in a sort of push-up position over my mother's body.

After taking a deep breath, I allowed my cock to drop into the crevice just below her ass cheeks. Then I slowly poked my thick cock into the gap. It was just a bit moist and seemingly waiting to be fucked. I pushed my cock into her cleft, probing and seeking the entrance to her vagina. After a few fumbling attempts to penetrate, I threw caution to the wind and simply pushed forward. My thick cock slid into the gap and then found its way into her pussy. I don't know how a hard cock sliding between my mother's pussy lips didn't wake her, but I didn't care. I lodged a couple of inches into her before the angle of penetration stopped me. But I wasn't stalling a moment longer. I shifted my hips lower, nudging her legs farther apart, and then bulled my way forward, sinking balls deep into her pussy. The force of my thrust pushed an exhalation from my mother's lungs as she lay there halfway under the pillow, but she remained motionless. I pulled out of her until just the head was in, and then plowed forward once again. Her depths were caressing the entire length of my cock, and I was straining from the combined efforts of holding myself up, pumping my mother's pussy, and trying to remain somewhat quiet. I rocked my hips forward again, sliding home into my mother's vagina. A moan escaped my lips and at that point I didn't even care. I began to whisper to her as I pulled my cock out of her pussy and slammed it back again.

"Oh God, Mom, I'm fucking your pussy. I'm fucking my mommy's pussy. Oh, you feel so good on my cock, Mommy!"

My thrusts had forced her legs apart quite widely and her ass was now rippling with each forward poke into her sweetly caressing vagina. The woman was obviously passed out stone cold. I let myself get carried a bit further away. Ramming into her pussy with reckless abandon now, I lowered my body to feel her over every part of me as I fucked her. Her rippling ass cheeks tickled my abdomen as I thrust. My legs draped over hers, and the hair of my chest caressed her back. I put my nose into her hair at the base of her neck and inhaled deeply. I began to talk hoarsely as I continued to plow her pussy.

"Oh your pussy feels so good. Do you like my thick cock, Mommy? Am I splitting your pussy open with my thick cock? Does it feel good in your sweet cunt, Mommy? Are you going to cum, Mommy? Do you want me to fuck you and fuck you and fuck you hard until you come all over my hot cock, Mommy?"

The bed was now shimmying forward and back with the force of my thrusts. I quickened the pace and began double-timing it into her vagina.

"Oh God, Mommy. You're taking it as hard as I can give it!"

And I was giving it to her as hard as I could. My hips were bouncing off her ass with every thrust, and I was jamming it forward again so hard that it sounded like someone was clapping loudly in the room. The smell of our sex permeated the air. My balls were boiling for release as they crept up toward my body. My cock plowed in and out of my mother so hard and fast that her juices were splattering out of her and onto the bed.

One day many years ago, my friend Ann told me she had scheduled an appointment with a surgeon to discuss whether to undergo a hip replacement. She and her doctor would be evaluating the results…

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Prison Journal
An Irreverent Look at Life on the Inside
By JOSEPH TIMILTY with Jack Thomas
Northeastern University Press Read the Review Monday,
October 4, 1993 Outside, it is cold and dark and ungodly quiet. In the house where I live in suburban Boston, in the second-floor bedroom, I am lying awake, unable to sleep. The only light in the room is the glimmer of green from the face of the alarm clock, the only sound the rhythmic breathing of Elaine. Suddenly, from downstairs, I hear the grandfather clock as it strikes the familiar Westminster chimes, sixteen melancholy notes that remind me my time has come. From its station in the foyer, the grandfather clock has tolled the hours of my life, celebrating the joys and mourning the lamentations. It has rung in jubilation through the years as my seven children grew into adulthood. Now, in solemn tones, like an old friend, the grandfather clock tolls the hour I have been dreading. One ... Two ... Three ... Four ... Silence ... It is four o'clock in the morning, the loneliest of hours, the final moments before dawn on the worst day of my life. I climb out of bed. Elaine would wake up the minute I moved out of bed. I shower and shave. The house is dark and quiet and eerie in comparison to the activity here last night, for, in spite of my plight, the Timilty family enjoyed the night, as we always do when we're together--good food, festive music and affectionate banter, lots of laughter and love. In the kitchen, I flick the switch and suddenly the room is flooded with harsh light. The only sound is the purring of Shadow, the cat. I fill the kettle with water and heat it. I feed Shadow. I spoon Taster's Choice into a cup, then add steaming water and, once again, I have made what may be the worst coffee in creation. Tonight, when I fall asleep, I will not be in my home. Tonight, I'll sleep in another home, in another place, and who knows what the coffee will taste like? Maybe I'll discover that my coffee is the second worst. I have to watch the clock. It's 4:30, and I check my gear one last time. I've been quietly packing for days. I can't take much with me, but there are things I cannot get by without: two pairs of eyeglasses, two pairs of running shoes, two sweatsuits, long johns, and of course, the rosary beads that were purchased for me a few weeks ago by Elaine. She's something. Who else could have found, for my trip, a set of Irish penal rosary beads? That's a set of rosary beads condensed in size so Irish revolutionaries on their way to prison could smuggle them past the guards. I ponder for a moment how blessed I am to be spending my life with Elaine. As I slice a banana for breakfast, the radio is on, so low as not to disturb anyone, and when I hear reports of the revolution in the Soviet Union, and it occurs to me that I am not the only person in the world whose life is being turned upside down today. Shortly after the clock tolls five in the morning, I climb the stairs to see Elaine one more time, and to kiss her and tell her that I'll get word to her as soon as I can. As I make my way out of the house, the rest of the family is still asleep. In the Timilty household, we believe that if you don't say goodbye, there is no good-bye. I don't like this image, though. I don't like the fact that, instead of leaving the house dressed in a suit and carrying a briefcase, as I customarily do, here I am, leaving in a sweatsuit and carrying a duffle bag bulging with gear I'll need in prison. I cannot count the mornings that I have driven up the driveway, away from home, and invariably, like most people, I am so consumed by the day to day details of life that I take my blessings for granted and do not give a thought to what I am leaving--my wife, my sons, my daughters, my home and everything I love most. On this particular morning, however, in the darkness, as I accelerate away from my family, my mind is busy and my heart aches to contemplate what I am departing, and so, I cling to every image of my family, absorb every nuance, and try to memorize every word that has been said in recent days. It will be a long time before I see them again, a long time before I come home. The average person who rarely thinks about freedom may wonder what it feels like to leave home for prison. What I feel this morning, in the darkness, as I drive away from my home and my wife and my children and head to prison, what I feel above everything else is deep sorrow. In the car, I tune the radio to WBZ-AM for the 5:00 news, and I hear a newscast that is maniacally busy with murder and mayhem and with irrelevant traffic reports and irritating details about the weather. Maybe it's just today Maybe it's just my predicament. Maybe it's just me. Driving toward Boston, and listening to the news, it occurs to me that I have spent my entire life in politics hoping to be mentioned on the news. But in the past two years--has it really been two years.?--I've been working hard to stay off the news. That's what a federal indictment will do to you. Here's a bit of irony. As I get close to Boston, a report comes over the radio about America's prisons, and how the number of people incarcerated has increased in recent years. It's hard to believe that in the United States, we imprison a larger proportion of people per capita than any other nation in the world. Since my conflict with the judicial system began, I have been surprised to note that so many movies and television programs focus on life in prison. Why did I not notice that before? And what is the fascination within all of us to know what goes on in prisons? All I know is this. In the federal prison system, there are approximately 100,000 inmates spread around the country at over sixty institutions. Last night, more than a million Americans slept in prisons of all types. Tonight, there'll be one more, me. It's a little before 5:30 in the morning when I arrive at the YMCA. None of my friends here expected to see me today. As the Boston news media have reported on television, over the radio, and in newspapers, today is the day that Joe Timilty goes to prison. Among the familiar faces is that of my friend Sonny. I saw him walking yesterday in the Back Bay. Knowing that I was obliged to report to prison on October 4, he seemed concerned. Now, he seems downright worried. "Joe, what are you doing? Why are you here?" "To work out." "You got a talented lawyer, Joe. I mean, the way she's managed to keep you here in Boston and out of prison and all, but be careful, Joe. You gotta watch out for your reputation." Then it dawns on me. Sonny thinks that I'm rebelling somehow and refusing to go to prison. I assure him otherwise. "This is my last day here." At the YMCA, the gym is busy with the usual cast of characters, Don, Frank, Bob, etc., all expressing concern that I'm going to be all right. I love the bond I've developed with these people at the Y, men, women, gay, straight, white, black. My kind of crowd. For me, however, on this morning, there will be no ninety-minute workout. Given my schedule, I had to choose between the Stairmaster and mass at Our Lady of Victories Church. Mass wins out and with good reason: in the next four months, I'm going to need all the help I can get. As I kneel for the start of mass, I am mesmerized once again by the glory of Our Lady of Victories, a magnificent church of French architecture in a Boston neighborhood called Bay Village, which is a cosmopolitan community that features old brick houses, gaslit streets, and a reputation for welcoming a variety of people. During my ill-fated career in real estate, I had an office nearby and came to appreciate the church for its beauty and also the neighborhood for its diversity and resiliency. At mass, people look at me strangely. Maybe it's my clothes, the running suit. Maybe they wonder why I'm here at mass in Boston when the newspapers say this is the day I'm supposed to be in federal prison in Pennsylvania. After mass, I drop off the car at a nearby gasoline station. Elaine will retrieve the car. By agreement, over the visor, I stash my driver's license and the keys to my YMCA locker. It is not yet eight o'clock. So far, so good. Everything is running smoothly. I am very well organized. I hail a cab to Logan Airport, and at eight o'clock, although the arteries into Boston are clogged, I have an easy ride out of the city to the airport. Despite the bleakness of my situation, it is a beautiful autumn morning, the air clean, the sun bright, the wind soft. The cab arrives at Logan Airport before 8:30, well in advance of my flight. It would not be a good idea to miss today's flight. I'm advised that when it comes to being a day late, the Bureau of Prisons has no sense of humor. At the curb, the baggage handler recognizes me. "Hey Joe ... how you doin'?" "So far, so good." "Everything's goin' to be okay, Joe ... good luck today." At the USAir counter, the attendant is helpful, but warns that the plane has not yet arrived in Boston, and that when it does, the turnaround time for unloading, refueling, reloading, boarding, and take-off is ten minutes. "Ten minutes?" I say, astonished. "How big is this plane?" "Oh, it's good sized. It's got a restroom." Great! I should have checked this out beforehand. I'm not a white-knuckle passenger, but I had experience in small planes when we'd fly over the Blue Ridge Mountains during Jimmy Carter's campaign back in 1976. While waiting for the plane, I find a seat in the terminal near a window and gaze out across Boston Harbor for one last look at the city I love. Then the plane arrives and my first reaction is, oh-oh. It's smaller than I imagined, a thirty-eight seater, and even worse, the ground personnel are having trouble because the wind has picked up. At 11:15, we are circling over Harrisburg, and the view is spectacular, blue mountains silhouetted along the horizon as if to cradle the farms that are ripe with the fullness of autumn. Most people seeing this terrain might think that Harrisburg is a sleepy farm community, but in my days managing the Carter campaign, I learned that the serenity of farm life disguises a people who play politics hard and fast. Up with the tray table, advises the stewardess, and away with the notebook, I decide. Landing in mountainous terrain in a small plane on a windy day is every bit as nauseating as it sounds. As always, it is disorienting to walk through a strange airport, but at last, I spot Nolan Atkinson, a prominent African American lawyer and a dear friend who offered to meet me here at Harrisburg Airport and drive me to Minersville, to Schuylkill. I'm still uncomfortable using the word "prison," but I'll get over it, I'm sure. Nolan has been meeting me at Pennsylvania airports since the 1976 campaign, which sometimes got nasty and, on one occasion, devolved into a fistfight alongside Philadelphia's Lotus Club. For Carter, Pennsylvania's twenty-seven electoral votes were crucial, and we would not have won them if it had not been for Nolan's strength, his courage, and his integrity. What made the difference in winning those electoral votes was our success in squeezing out a majority for Carter in Philadelphia, where a rebellious Democratic machine had pledged its allegiance to the conservative mayor, Frank Rizzo, who had all the clout, all the patronage, all the "walking around money." What won the day for Carter in Philadelphia were the liberals and also the minority community. On election day, African Americans in Philadelphia turned out in record numbers, and we had one person to thank for that--Nolan. Politics is a pyramid. Jimmy Carter knew he could not be elected President without winning Pennsylvania. He knew that he could not win Pennsylvania without winning Philadelphia. He knew he could not win Philadelphia without winning African Americans. And I knew he could not win the African Americans without Nolan Atkinson. That is why Jimmy Carter invited both Nolan and me to the White House on occasion, and why he appointed us to serve on key commissions within his administration. Politics in Boston and Massachusetts is tough, as it is in Chicago, San Francisco, Washington, New York, and from time to time in almost every city or state in a democratic nation. But in Pennsylvania, the story has yet to be told of that 1976 campaign, of the threats, coercions, fistfights, and car bombings. As the years passed, Nolan and I became family I am the godfather of his youngest daughter, Aldyn. On this day, however, for Nolan as well as me, there is no joy. We drive through Minersville, Pennsylvania, a symbol of Middle America, a small, tight, residential community of well-maintained homes and manicured yards. It's made up of people who have a strong sense of pride in themselves, in their values, and in America itself. We stop for a cold drink, Poland Springs, wild cherry. This is a switch. I'm headed for a stretch in federal prison, and my last drink is mineral water. I've come a long way. Nolan and I share a disturbing moment when we pass a section of subsidized housing of perhaps seventy townhouses that are so rundown as to be depressing. How did housing under the care of the federal government deteriorate so shamefully? The entrance to Schuylkill is 300 yards off the highway; we then follow a winding road through a beautiful forest a half mile long before we approach a massive and imposing prison, just the sort of place you can imagine Jimmy Cagney strutting into. Both Nolan and I are struck by the glitter of the Pennsylvania sunshine reflecting off the walls of the prison, which are embroidered with row after row of rolled razor wire. The building looks new, the grounds are well kept. We follow signs to the minimum security facility Schuylkill Farm, a group of new buildings made of cement blocks, some one story, some two. The structure in front is obviously the administration building. It's surrounded by a lawn of Irish green that is dotted by two picnic tables with umbrellas. For the next four months, this will be my home, this complex cut out of a forest in the Blue Ridge Mountains for the sole purpose of keeping people like me away from everybody else. The beauty of the place, the flowers, the lush grass, the outdoor furniture--all of it is an embarrassing contrast to the run-down federal housing we saw a few minutes ago. It's a little after one o'clock, and for Nolan and me, it's time to part. On our ninety-minute ride, we have talked about everything but this. "Let's do it," I say to myself. "Let's get it over with." I'm not good at good-byes. We climb out of Nolan's black Infiniti. I tug my duffle bag from the back seat and as I turn, I become aware that from every window, there are eyes staring at us, and something tells me they're not looking at Nolan. We shake hands. He says he'll call Elaine. He promises to visit. To give me hope, I guess, he offers to pick me up when my sentence is up in February. As he talks, I cannot help remembering the better days we have shared, especially those at the White House. Then, suddenly, Nolan is gone. I am alone. I turn to face Sehuylkill and my future. I hoist the duffle bag over my shoulder and head to the door. You know how a song rings in your head in a way you can't control? The lyric in my head at this moment is this: "I was a big man yesterday, but, boy, you ought to see me now." From the White House to the Big House. Welcome to the rest of Joe Timilty's life! First impressions are important. The grounds are immaculate, the entrance unblemished, and although the floor is dazzling, nevertheless, it is being buffed by an inmate. He winks, a sign of welcome. I find out later that his name is Robin and that he's from--well, nobody knows where he's from. To the right are offices. Inside, I see a receptionist. I walk in. She looks up and shouts. "Wait outside!" Robin approaches and whispers. "Don't do anything until you're told to." He looks around to make sure nobody is observing, then whispers again. "Someone in uniform will be out soon to bust your hump." He's right. Alas, Robin is seen talking to me by a man in shirt and tie. It turns out to be Mr. Hurt, the deputy administrator, and in a stern voice, he reminds Robin of the rules, that he is not allowed to communicate with me. I am surprised that Robin took the chance, but I like him for it. Chastised, Robin goes back to buffing the floor that needs no buffing. A man of slight build in his fifties is staring at me. He approaches. "Are you Joe Timilty?" "Yeah." "I'm Jim Harris, from Peabody." "How did you know I was coming?" "I saw your picture in the paper. I've cut stories out of the newspaper about you, because it seemed to me you were getting railroaded. I know what you're going through, and I'll be as helpful as I can." "Can you point me in the right direction to a priest or whoever would know about Catholic masses?" "Let me give you some advice. I'm not the best guy to ask about Catholic masses. I'm Jewish. But I'm told that the priest who conducts services is an employee of the Bureau of Prisons, so his allegiance is not to your g-o-d, but to the B-O-P [Bureau of Prisons]. "So, if you go to confession or whatever, anything you say can and will be used against you. I don't know whether that's gospel, but that's what they say. If you want to know about the Catholics, see that guy named Robin. He cleans up after mass." Now that my eyes have adjusted from the bright sunshine to the dim interior lights, I can see thirty feet down a corridor with doorways leading off. A crowd is gathered. What I see is people who have a job, but who are not working. My guess is that there are not a lot of self-starters here. Some of these guys are staring back up the corridor at me, and suddenly, it occurs to me. The population here has been expecting my arrival. Great! Just what I need. A short, heavy-set African American man approaches. He's dressed in clerical clothes, a white collar. He asks about my religious persuasion. I tell him that I'm a practicing Catholic. He says that he is the Protestant chaplain. He introduces me to the Catholic chaplain, who happens by, Father Dene. Fr. Dene is in his early sixties, five feet ten with thinning black hair and a dour expression. "I'll see you at mass on Saturday," says Fr. Dene, "and we can talk then." As an afterthought, he mentions that I am welcome to attend tonight's rosary and benediction service. Even as a practicing Catholic, I haven't been to a rosary and benediction service in forty years, and I'll bet I'm not an exception. "After the service," says Fr. Dene, "there'll be a movie." From the administration office comes a woman guard in her early thirties, a chilly looking woman with frosty eyes and one of those marble, oh-no-you-don't chins. Miss Personality speaks first. "Empty your pockets!" I'm anticipating a strip search. I dearly hope it's not by her. She proceeds to frisk me, and our relationship goes downhill from there. On Robin's advice, I ask to be assigned to Unit one. Robin whispered to me that it is closer to chow hall and easier to get to in bad weather. "Any chance of being assigned to Unit one?" She glares at me. "Why?" "I have a friend there." She assigns me to Unit two. I empty the contents of my bag. She takes away my watch, an inexpensive jogger's watch, and I take one last look. It says 2:15. "You can buy one here," she says. She tells me that the Rick Snyder nylon running suit I wore from Boston has to be sent home, along with the watch, and that I can buy a similar outfit here. Next to go is a pair of running shoes. I had brought two pairs, one on my feet, one in the bag. "You need only one pair," she says. "If you need another, you can buy it here." Also to be sent home are the three notebooks and four pencils I brought along to keep a daily log. "If you need these things, you can buy them at the commissary," she says. "And you have to send back these, too," pointing to the rosary beads. "Why can't I keep my rosary beads?" "You can keep them if you wear them around your neck at all times," she says, knowing that to be absurd. Then she says, "Well, you can keep this," referring to the crucifix. The rest will be sent back. I refuse. I tell her the rosary will remain intact. It it sent home. At many prisons, the staff believes that crucifixes and rosary beads and other religious symbols may be used to signify membership or rank in gangs. Inmates who want such objects are required to purchase them from the prison to lessen the likelihood that they are designed as gang emblems. Having been strip-searched by a male guard, I am once again in the icy presence of Miss Personality. More prisoners arrive, four in all, three from other institutions, and a fourth, Marty Donne, who, like me, is a self-report, which in bureaucratic lexicon is a prisoner allowed to show up on his own. Marty is my age, and by his accent, from New York or New Jersey For some reason, Miss Personality is going to great pains to keep the two new prisoners, Marty and me, away from the three transfers, which is not an easy task in this small room. She turns and sees that I am talking with Marty. "Do you two know each other?" she asks suspiciously. "No," says Marty. "I never associate with criminals." It's 3:00, and for the guards, time for a change of shift, which is why they are complaining about the lack of help in processing us. They are not paid overtime. We are in a room with a window in the door, and as inmates walk along the corridor outside, they stop to peek in at us, the new prisoners. I'm beginning to understand what it feels like to be an animal in a zoo. I meet the doctor, or more accurately, the PA, as he's called, the physician's assistant, and we start off on the wrong foot. Having recently undergone surgery on my knees, I brought a letter from my doctor in Boston that describes the importance of my being assigned a lower bunk. This irritates the PA, who warns me in condescending tones that he wants me to return on October 13 so he can X-ray the knee to determine the real extent of my injury and whether I really need a lower bunk. It's 3:45 in the afternoon, and all I've seen of this place is the administration building. The hacks, as guards are called, are itchy to get rid of me, to drop me some place so they can go home. I'm in no hurry. I'm here for four months. They pick up a laundry bag, pillow, pillowcase, sheets, blanket, and bath towel and escort me to one of two nearby buildings that look like military barracks. It's only 100 yards to the front door of Unit two, but under the circumstances, it's a long walk, and before we are halfway there, I see a gathering of about eighty guys. "It looks like you're in for a welcome," says one of the guards escorting me. I tense up, expecting the worst. "They're not going to get a virgin," I reply. I was in for a surprise I'll never forget. Braced for trouble, for verbal and maybe physical abuse, I was astonished, because once the guards disappeared, it was as if I had brought news that all these inmates were getting early release. Guys I never had seen before shook hands and shouted greetings. "Hiya, Joe." "Hey, welcome, Joe!" I was given an extra sheet and an extra blanket. By far the most helpful were inmates from the so-called Jewish group, and particularly the guy who had introduced himself in the lobby of the administration building, Jim Harris, a lawyer from Massachusetts who was fifty-three, funny, full of energy, and a decent human being. From the moment I met Jim, he helped make life bearable. Thanks to Jim, his group treated me as if I were Jewish. He told me about the day he received word that it would be Schuylkill where he'd serve his time. "After I was sentenced, my daughter went shopping with me on what was a sad venture--to buy the things we thought I'd need in prison. I assumed I'd be going to Allenwood, and I was scheduled to report Monday morning. Late Friday afternoon, I got a call from my lawyer who told me I'd be going to Schuylkill. "I actually sat down and cried. And then my wife and I got out a map and spread it on the kitchen table to figure out where Schuylkill was located." At long last I am assigned. My new home is Unit two, which is made up of four wings "A," "B," "C," and "D." "B" is the worst. It's called the ghetto, because blacks and Latinos rule. It's made up mostly of young drug offenders whose idea of a good time is to stay up all night playing the latest raucous music. It is customary for a new inmate to be assigned to "B." Then, after he is observed by various factions among the inmates, a decision is made that he will either stay in "B" or move to one of the other "ranges," as the wings are called. "C" and "D" wings are populated mostly by older guys who tend to be quiet, reserved. I learn by word of mouth that thanks to the intercession of Jim, I escape the need to spend a probationary period on "B" and instead I am assigned to "A." It's a tough range, but I am promised that I will have an opportunity soon to move to "C" or "D." The reason that I escaped the ghetto is that Jim approached a fellow Jew. "Joe Timilty's coming in," he said. "The guy ran for mayor of Boston and lost by a few votes. We don't want him living with the drug dealers." Also, I learn that Jim telephoned his wife that night and arranged for her to telephone Elaine to let her know that I was okay. From a personal locker maintained by the Jewish group, Jim makes sure that I have the basics--toothbrush, deodorant, shower shoes. The agreement is that I replace everything when I am settled. By late afternoon, the challenge is to find me a bunk in a cube, which is a cell that houses two people. It contains two bunks and two lockers. It's small. You have to step outside if you want to change your mind. Fortunately, I end up in a cell with a guy from Massachusetts. Unfortunately, he is the single most disliked guy at the prison. We are opposites. This is a match made in hell. The last thing I need, at this point, is a "mother" figure, ordering me around. "Pick up your running shoes." "Put that light on." "Put that light out." A year ago, if someone had told me I'd be sleeping in a three-by-seven room with this creep, I'd have laughed. Having established a medical need for a lower bunk, naturally I draw the upper bunk. Living on "A" range are approximately sixty inmates, all blended ethnically, racially geographically, mentally, and by age. No one makes a more powerful impression than Polecat. Here's how I met him. Word had passed among inmates from Boston that I was arriving, and I was chatting with a number of them. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a tough-looking guy, Polecat, as it turned out, and I noted that he was watching me carefully in my animated discussion. After a few minutes, Polecat walked toward me and leaned in to whisper advice. "Ninety percent of the people in this place are rats. I'll talk to you later." Great! It's very reassuring to hear about the rats, seeing as that's how I got here. Polecat didn't have to introduce himself. I recognized him right away. He not only grew up in South Boston, he was one of the toughest guys ever to come out of the neighborhood. His name is Paul Moore. I know his family. Being alert in all such matters, he undoubtedly had followed my case and knew that I might be sent to Schuylkill. Oddly enough, though, he did not want people at Schuylkill to know how well he knew me. It was Polecat's way. He rarely spoke unless he wanted you to know something, and for good reason. Polecat awoke every morning assuming that somebody was out to get him, and maybe it would be an inmate, maybe a cop. In Polecat's case, this is not paranoia. As I learn, Polecat works in the kitchen as a pot cleaner. He used to box and someone said he once sparred with Marvin Hagler. In any case, here at Schuylkill, he works out every day for two hours, lifting weights outdoors, even on days when it's ice cold or snowing. On occasion, he teaches young black guys how to box, how to hold their hands, how to lead with their left, how to hit the heavy bag, how to kick box. He has all the physical strength anybody would ever need, but he rarely uses it. At night, I overhear two guys speculating about how difficult it would be to kill Polecat. "If you were ever going to take him out," says one, "you'd have to do it quickly, and with a shank." That refers to a knife. It also refers to how tough Polecat is. It's 4:30 and I'm starved. I haven't eaten since I left the house at 5:10. The last thing I need is to miss another meal. I look like hell! I weighed myself this morning at the YMCA and tipped in at a whopping 160 pounds. Not a good weight for me. At six feet two, I should be at least 185. People had said I looked gaunt. They wonder whether I'm on my way to O'Brien's in Southie or O'Connor's in Dorchester, two of Boston's more popular Irish funeral homes. Left alone for a moment with my thoughts, it occurs to me that there are three things I need to get through this, the three F's. First is family. I can't imagine going through this without the support that I receive from Elaine and the kids. Couldn't do it. Second, friends. There are not many stand-up people in life. And friends that remain friends at times like these are never forgotten. Third is faith. Most important, when you are really alone, it is faith that comes into play because it's true--there are no atheists in a foxhole. It's 5:30, and dinner call: chicken over noodles, soup, juice, cake, fresh fruit. Great food, all you can eat. After chow, I walk through the administration building and look into the visitor room and see approximately thirty inmates--and then it dawns on me: this is the Catholic service the priest was talking about. It seems incongruous, but in that room, on their knees praying to God, are some of the toughest guys in the prison. In many cases, their sleeves are rolled up over bulging biceps that are etched with tattoos. Some of these guys are serving ten years. And yet, here they are, heads bowed, reciting the rosary, and in their gnarled and powerful hands, they finger the plastic beads in order to keep count of their prayers to God for peace of mind. It's seven o'clock. Unlike mass, rosary and benediction is not a service Roman Catholics are required to attend, and as I have confessed, I have not attended in forty years. It's ironic. After all that time, I find a rosary and benediction service that happens to be crowded, and where is it? In prison. When I compare myself and my plight to these guys and their troubles, if they're attending rosary and benediction, I have no excuse not to, so I walk in. The service lasts thirty minutes. Fr. Dene--referred to by inmates as the hack in black--introduces tonight's feature film. It's "Robin Hood," with Kevin Costner, but it doesn't appeal to most of the guys, who head off to watch "Monday Night Football." Poor Fr. Dene. He's been working in institutions so long he's institutionalized. He seems bored with his work. He's authoritative. He talks down to inmates. His attitude is less one of pastoral concern and more one of, well, you guys are here because you belong here. He never says anything funny. He rarely smiles. He never laughs. He'd never make it in politics. I'm more interested in my new surroundings. The TV rooms are always packed. Laundry rooms are busy twenty hours a day. The library is a joke, consisting of little more than two bookshelves and a copy machine that doesn't work. Back to Unit two. Neighbors advise me never to get sick and never to ask another inmate how long he's in for. I must watch my sense of humor. I encountered an inmate, and he asked me a question. "What are you in for?" "I'm a serial killer," I said. I waited for his response. He never cracked a smile. It's quarter to ten at night, and I'm tired. My first day in prison. This is going to be challenging physically, but what will be more severe is the mental test. I must find a way to occupy every minute. My new friends whisper to me that those who do the hardest time are those who let the system get to them, or those who feel sorry for themselves. Easy to do. And devastating on the mind. At 10:15, I'm in my bunk, finally. How odd to be sleeping so close to the ceiling. Not since the Marine Corps has this happened. I'm in suspended animation. I feel as if I may fall out at any second. And the noise! I am the father of seven children, ages 13 to 30, five boys and two girls, and I am certain that I would find it easier to fall asleep at home on the kitchen table at dinner with the entire family chattering away. It's 10:30, and I'm exhausted when, at long last, the lights are turned off. But the music isn't. Forget it, Joe! You're here for 120 days, 2,880 hours, 172,800 minutes, and if I remember the arithmetic taught by the nuns at St. Gregory's, 10,368,000 seconds. The faster you get to sleep, the faster the days go by. It's 11:00 P. M. and I'm still awake, still contemplating my first day in prison. I doze off, but then--no one warned me the hacks would be by two or three times a night with heavy boots, keys jangling, and worst of all, a flashlight shining in my eyes. Who are these hacks? What kind of person would volunteer to invest several decades of his life as a guard in a prison? First, someone who needs to be in control. Second, someone who is incapable of doing anything more constructive or more creative. Midnight, and still I can't fall asleep. Too much noise. How long will it take me to get used to this? I lie here wondering what is happening at home with Elaine and the kids. There's so much pain attached to incarceration, not all of it borne by the person incarcerated. A lot of it gets spread around. Many families go through a hell of a time. And it's odd, because so many people in America think there's a need for a political move to the right, that we need more prisons and harsher penalties. These people do not understand the prison system or the price that is paid by taxpayers and by the inmates and their families. Seventeen weeks before I can go home to Massachusetts. It's going to be a long haul.... Tuesday,
October 5, 1993 At 5:00 ., I wake up automatically. Breakfast is served six to seven. Work call begins at 7:30. I shower and shave before chow. I must keep a routine to keep from going mad. Having been at Parris Island, I know how to move in this environment. I know that if you want to fight the system, the system will win. You know by instinct that things are not going to get easier, and that is a fact of life. That's why I get up so early, my Marine Corps training--it gives me a chance to get squared away. You have to have been a marine to understand that. One way to survive here, in terms of the administration, is to accept the sense of powerlessness. Now, having come from politics, the journey from power to powerlessness might have been longer for me, but there is no more powerless experience than arriving as a Marine Corps recruit. I am able to reach back and remember that. With that in my background, I looked around Schuylkill. One thing that is clear is that Schuylkill is not going to adjust to me. I have to adjust to Schuylkill. That has been my mind-set from the moment I arrived. I enlisted in the Marine Corps at age eighteen; I was from Dorchester. At Parris Island, they made me a marine. It's quarter to six when I leave Unit two for chow hall, which is located in the administration building. The day is beautiful, the sun coming up over the medium security buildings down in the valley. What a great piece of property. What a shame to waste it on 300 prisoners. At breakfast, again, I am surprised: fresh fruit, plenty of eggs (fried), toast and butter, milk, a choice of cereals. Is there something wrong with this picture? (C) 1997 Joe Timilty and Jack Thomas All rights reserved. ISBN: 1-55553-312-4

Olivia Southern was a busybody. She was the type of woman who woke up every single morning with a dozen things on her to-do list, all prioritized and organized in her head. What she hated most was when her carefully laid out plans were tossed into the washer and jumbled up together.

That's what was happening now. The forty-three year old mom had seen her hubby off to work at seven. Now it was nearing eight and her teenage son was still rumbling out snores from his bedroom. Olivia was dressed, and she was ready, and she had her car keys in her hand. In three seconds she could be out the door, taking care of all the things she had it in her mind to take care of. The problem was that her lazy son wasn't up and ready to go with her.

Olivia was staring at the front door as if it were her enemy, because it was still shut and she was on the wrong side of it. The door and her son were conspiring together, she decided, before she turned and trudged down the hall to her son's bedroom. When she passed the mirror hanging there, she only took a brief glance at her reflection.

The mature woman did not like the way her cheeks were softening up as she got older. Back when she was a little girl, her cheeks were cute enough that everybody in the world wanted to touch them and squeeze them. Now, they looked like ugly pouches of old meat. At least she still had her pretty green eyes, she thought, and her fluffy brown hair. Except for her cheeks, she was aging gracefully, unlike some of her girlfriends who were so eager to retain their youth that they were paying top dollar for cosmetic surgeries and whatever other fads were trendy.

Impatiently, Olivia walked into her son's room. "Lee, it is time to get up! You do this every single day now! Come on, get up! What are you waiting for?"

Her son could sleep like a dormant volcano. He rumbled louder than even Olivia's husband when he snored, and he was tougher to budge than a mountain. Olivia had taken to shaking him awake, but even when Lee was sleeping his body could be rebellious. His body knew she was coming to wake him up, so it rolled to the farthest edge of the bed, right up against the wall, where it would be harder to reach.

"Goddamn it, Lee, get the hell up!" She shrieked. "You're doing this on purpose to me! Every single morning!"

The noise Olivia and her husband made in the morning didn't wake Lee up. The ringing from the alarm clock didn't wake him, but it sure annoyed the shit out of her. She even called him on his phone, hoping the ring tone would rouse him. Olivia had tried everything she could think of, short of dumping a bucket of cold water on his face!

"Oh, Lee, you lazy son of a bitch." She started crawling onto his bed. "I should have had a girl instead of you. You're just like your father!"

Even when she started shaking her son, he wouldn't budge. She did manage to get him from his side to his back. Maybe she could drag him off by a leg and dump him on the floor. Irritated, Olivia began pulling at his leg, when she happened to look past his thighs and at Lee's boxers.

His dick had slipped out of them, she discovered there. His dick had come out to wave at her while she was trying to wake her son up! Olivia's eyes popped open. It was big and long and round. It looked like a NASA rocket on the launching pad, except it was colored peach and had hairy fuzz at the base instead of ignition flames.

"Well, will you look at that?" Olivia asked.

Unwittingly, she compared her son's package to her husband's. Her husband had a dick that curved over to the right like it was trying to make a u-turn. Who the hell had a dick like that? Dicks had to stand up straight so they could see where they were going, didn't they? They didn't turn to the side as if cringing at what was coming to them!

But Lee's dick; that was something special. It was unique in Olivia's experience. Not that she'd slutted around with half the men in town, mind you, but she'd had a handful of lovers back in the day, back before she got married. To her eyes, Lee's dick was something women should be drooling over. It was perfect!

When Lee started smacking his lips, Olivia nearly jumped off the bed. She had been staring at that little totem pole so long she thought she'd gone into suspended animation. Very quickly, Olivia tossed the covers over to cover that thing, so Lee wouldn't catch how mesmerized she'd become by it.

Scooting a few inches toward the top of the bed, she grabbed a handful of Lee's brown hair and gave it a good yank.

"Ow! Ow! Mom, what the fuck?"

"You get off this bed right this second, you hear me?" Olivia snarled. "Right this second!"

He battered her hands away. "All right, shit! Why'd you have to do that? I don't even have to go to school anymore!"

"I'm going to the Neighborhood House, and you're coming with me!" Olivia replied. "I don't know why you're even asking, because you already know that! I am not going have you sitting in this house all day playing video games and smoking weed!"

"Mom, I don't even smoke weed!"

"Everybody knows that playing too many videos games leads to smoking weed! I'm not having that in my house, Lee! If you don't get up right now, I'm going to kick your ass like I did to your father when I got him up this morning! Get up, Lee! I'm serious!"

Olivia's claws went for her son's hair again. Lee fought her off by wrestling for her wrists, but he knew what his mother meant when she said she was serious.

"All right, I'm getting up!" Lee caved in, like she knew he would.

He must have realized that his ding-a-ling, well, no, that wasn't right, Olivia considered. It was more like a dong-a-long. Lee must have realized it was out taking a walk around the block from his boxers, because the next thing he did was to make sure his bottom half was covered.

"Can you please get out of my room so I can dressed?" He implored.

"Not if you're going to go back to sleep again." Olivia countered. "Don't you think that I forgot that time you tried to block your door with the dresser!"

"That was way back in junior high! Mom, if you want me to go with you, get out of my room right now!"

Olivia liked when she got Lee mad. He looked like a fierce little rooster with the red crest on top its little head standing up. Her husband had been like that once, fierce, but she'd beaten him into a pile of lumpy oatmeal over the years. All her wimpy husband did nowadays was to hold up a white flag of surrender whenever he saw her coming.

"You have five minutes to get into the living room." She menaced. "If you're not there, I'm waking you up with the hair cutter tomorrow."

Automatically, Lee's hands went to his head. His father had gone to sleep drunk one night, right after the man had pissed his wife off by leaving the front screen open and letting all the mosquitoes in. When he'd woken up the next morning, he had the sloppiest eighties mullet ever seen in human history.

Olivia saw the raw determination in her son's face. If she did that to him, he was already trying to think of a way to get back at her. That was so sexy, she thought. Her son was plotting revenge against her. She'd gotten him angry, and how he was trying to pass that anger back on her like a hot potato stuffed with bits of garnish, sour cream and hot, melted cheese. Olivia had always liked engaging in that kind of mental competition with her girlfriends, and she always left them in the dust.

"Five minutes." She said, evenly.

"I'll be out in ten." He growled back. "When I'm ready!"

Oh, she liked that attitude. She liked it very much. Olivia made a face and huffed and snorted like a bull that was ready to charge, figuratively of course. She swung around on her heels stomped out as if she were angry, but at the same time she was giving off all the right signs that an intelligent man would catch. She was pretending to be put off, but past that, she wanted to be chased and dominated by a stud.

And her son had something she wanted.

Olivia pretty much shoved her husband out the door early the next day. She got her things ready for the community center, where she'd cook for the elderly and talk to them and tried to prevent them from remembering how old they were. When she got that old, she hoped there would be somebody around to hold her hand in the same way, because from what she was seeing, getting old was a monumental bitch to deal with.

Lee was doing okay there. He carried boxes of food and gallons of water in from the trucks. He moved tables and chairs around whenever some kind of meeting or talk was taking place. Her son was a slow starter, but once he warmed up to the older men, he'd sit there fascinated as they told him their old war stories and all the weird shit they'd seen throughout their long lives. Most recently, Lee had been asking about the before and after of big disasters those poor people had suffered through.

Olivia had gone through things like that; that's what made her so tough. She was like a strap of hard leather now.

The strong woman strolled into her son's bedroom at the usual time. Lee was sleeping way over by the wall, too far for Olivia to see if he had a Mr. Woody or not. She leaned over, pulling his covers off, peering over his lean thighs but not finding what she hoped to. Still, it was time to wake him up.

Earlier, she thought of bringing the hair cutter into the room and just letting it buzz for a while, to see how long it would take for Lee to start squirming. Maybe she'd do that on some later day when he really pissed her off.

Right after Lee rolled over on his stomach, Olivia climbed on the bed with him. She went to straddled his butt, because that's where his King Dick was, but on the other side of his body. She just sat there, sitting on her sleeping son and wondering what she'd do if he was lying on his back instead of his belly.

Olivia leaned forward, putting her hands on Lee's upper back. She felt like rubbing her body against his, but she was already wearing her senior center clothing. No way she would mess up her clothes and have to change into something else.

Lee was wearing a white shirt and boxers, as he usually did when he went to bed. The shirt was already pulled up by a few inches, showing her eyes his peachy color. She pulled the shirt up a little more, before setting her hands on his bare skin. After decades of washing dishes by hand, and sweeping and doing all kinds of manual chores, her hands were full of calluses and hard skin. Lee, on the other hand, hadn't grown up in such a tough era. He was soft and gentle for the most part. His life was pampered compared to what Olivia had gone through. She wondered if she should give him a mullet, just for the hell of it. Just to get a rise out of her son so he'd come after her in a hidden way.

Olivia pulled down his boxers, seeing the kind swell of his butt, but not by much because her body was in the way. The elastic band was easy to ply, she found. It would be just as easy to drag aside if Lee was on his back; if she wanted to get another look at his dong-a-long.

She caressed her son's lower back and part of his butt. When she caught his breaths changing, as if he was waking up, she went into her battle mode and started pushing and bouncing on him.

"What are you waiting for?" Olivia yelled out. "You know what time it is! Get the hell up before I light a match in your ass!"

All that jumping around not only got her son awake, but in a grumpy mood on top. "Why are you on my bed? Get the hell off, mom!"

They started fighting, not play fighting but a real wrestling match right there on his bed. When it looked like Lee was going to get the better of her, she separated from him and made as if to storm out of his room. When Olivia got to the door, Lee flung his pillow at her and smacked her on the back.

With an evil glare in her eyes, she turned back. Lee was sitting up on his bed, still good and ready to tangle with her. That was it. That was the temper she'd wanted to draw out of him. It was staring at her like a magical red aura.

"You're not allowed in my room anymore!" He menaced his mother.

He didn't look like a little boy, Olivia contrasted. He looked like a young warrior, the kind that went off to fight in medieval battles with a sword and shield.

"I can go wherever I want to." She said, turning her back and leaving his room like a queen.

One more day or two, she calculated, when she reached the living room. That's all it would take for her to push Lee where she wanted him. He would come after her, chasing her all over the house. When he caught up to her, they would fight for supremacy. They would grapple and roll around on the floor. They would get all hot and sweaty and press their bodies against each other. At some point, she would succumb to him. If he had half a brain, he would figure out what she wanted.

Olivia glanced down the hall when Lee slammed his door shut. Maybe she could do it now, provoke him the right way. He sure was mad enough. At the same time, she had her clothes on already. She didn't want to change for anything.

There would be other days, she knew.

The next morning, Olivia went to stand by her son's door as soon as her husband's car slipped out of the driveway. She felt her body go hot when she saw that Lee was on his back with the covers down around his feet. His boxers didn't look puffed up, but just knowing that only that one, thin stretch of fabric was keeping her from seeing his prize made her woozy.

Because she was bold enough, she strode into the room and took a seat on the bed's edge. It was way too early for Lee to wake up, and she wasn't even dressed yet. Olivia had some time to screw around. She leaned over, finding the little flap on Lee's boxers and drawing his dick out. It wasn't hard, not yet. By putting her hand around it and making it warm, she figured it would become hard. Olivia held it like that for about five minutes, sending psychic waves at it until she felt it thicken. Lee was snoring lightly, while his mother held his dick and compelled it into growing erect.

Olivia wasn't sure what to do next. She'd been trying to draw her son out of his room because she wanted to be pursued and taken. That's what a tough woman like her expected from the men she wanted. It would screw up her plans if she just jumped on him while he was asleep. Olivia didn't like when her plans were screwed up like that, because she had her specific way of doing things.

For a good fifteen minutes, she kept her fingers curled around it. It stayed rigid the entire time. After that, she left Lee's room, got dressed and abandoned the house. This time, her son did not go with her to the Neighborhood Center.

Olivia was standing in the doorway the next morning too, bright and early and with a lot of time to spare. She had a loose tee shirt on and loose shorts, but she'd left her underwear back in her room. Damn it, she thought. It would be easier if I just threw a bucket of cold water on him.

When she went to sit on her son's bed, she saw Mr. Woody hiding under his boxers. She drew him out with her fingers. Lee's dick was so hard it would probably stay that way all morning. The same as the previous morning, she started feeling dizzy just by feeling how big it was, and how excited her body felt.

Lee had been watching her the previous day, after she'd come home from the senior center. He thought his mother was up to something by not forcing him to come along, and he was right about that. What Lee hadn't figured out yet was that Olivia's wants had changed very recently. He could build moral character some other time, she smirked, but right now all she was concerned about was Mr. Woody.

Maybe if I hold it with one hand, and fiddle myself with the other, she thought, maybe that will be enough. Olivia began playing with her pussy. She made a big mistake when she poked herself with a finger. Her finger was so small, she compared, to what she was holding in her other hand. She tried two fingers, but that didn't work either.

"Well, damn it." Olivia grumbled, as she began moving onto the bed.

She didn't want to let go of Lee's dick, but she had to in order to get where she suddenly needed to be. Her legs went over him, and then she was pulling her loose shorts to one side and exposing her inner thigh and pussy. Her son was still placidly asleep.

"Boy, are you about to get one hell of a surprise." Olivia mumbled.

As she held the dick steady and began her descent, her body went into hot, sweaty bitch overdrive. It wasn't even in her yet, and she was giving off steam and swooning and feeling all wet down there. Olivia thought she might faint. I should have had myself a glass of ice water before I came in here, she thought.

Olivia was pushing out hot, little puffs of air as her pussy greeted the first of Lee. She was agitated all over, feeling like she was about to lose her balance, with a flash of fever burning up her head. Oh, that thing was really splitting her apart! It overwhelmed her, even, so much that she considered giving up and running out of her son's bedroom before he got that flash of awakening that would reveal to him what was going on. Oh, no, Olivia became determined; you didn't come this far only to chicken out. When I want things done, they get done!

Olivia brought her weight down, adjusted her legs, and brought her weight down some more. She couldn't believe how much bigger Lee was than her husband. Lee had a sausage dick, while her not so better half had a skinny, bent Frankfurter. Finally, oh, finally, finally, she got the whole thing in. Olivia let herself rest on it, wondering how the hell she'd managed to stuff so much dick in.

"Give me about five minutes, Lee." She whispered. "Then I'll be done and out and you can wake up."

She glanced down at her son's sleeping face, making sure he was still oblivious and quiet. Next, she shut her eyes and began bounding her body, really slow so she wouldn't jerk him around. The toughest part was keeping her mouth shut. Her husband's dick she was used to. It only rubbed one part of her pussy at a time, and even then it took a while for her to get as bothered as she was now. The biggest difference was that her son was so much thicker. His dick rubbed her entire pussy all at once. Even the slight vibrations she was making were selling her on a money-back guarantee that she was going to have the orgasm of her life.

Olivia was steaming out hot breaths, so much that she felt she was suffocating on heat. Her eyes opened up. She looked down at Lee. He was awake now. He was gaping at her with his mouth wide open.

"Close your eyes, honey." She said, breathless. "I just need another couple of minutes. Close your mouth, too. You don't want any flies going in there. Lord knows we have enough of them buzzing around in the kitchen."

She reached over to put her fingers on her son's face. That was enough to make him shut his eyelids so she could get back to work.

"That's right." She soothed him by caressing his face. "Pretend you're still asleep, honey."

Now, Olivia didn't call just anyone honey. She hardly said that word at all while her husband made love to her. Honey was something she said when her man went out of his way to please her, but in that household, her personal pleasing came by about as often as Christmas.

The good thing was that Lee was awake. That meant she didn't have to pussyfoot around with him anymore. Now she could pussy-fuck around with him. She smirked. She was going to pussy-fuck around with a dong-a-long. Now, wasn't that funny?

Olivia went from vibrating to bouncing, feeling her insides as hot as an Alabama summer. She opened up her mouth to let all that noise she'd been holding back out into the open. Oh, did that noise come out in bushels! Olivia was so loud she thought the walls were going to come alive and tell her to shush! In between gasps, she heard a similar racket coming from her son. When she looked at Lee, his eyes were still shut, but his mouth was groaning like he had a toothache.

In this Sept. 24, 2017, photo, National Guard Soldiers arrive at Barrio Obrero in Santurce to distribute water and food among those affected by the passage of Hurricane Maria, in San Juan, Puerto Rico. Federal aid is racing to stem a growing humanitarian crisis in towns left without fresh water, fuel, electricity or phone service by the hurricane. (AP Photo/Carlos Giusti) More SAN JUAN, Puerto Rico (AP) -- Every night since Hurricane Maria hit, Miguel Martinez and his family have slept on mattresses on the porch to escape the heat inside their dark, stifling home. But it's nearly impossible to sleep with temperatures in the mid-80s.

This year, the company will present this classic Christmas musical featuring Charlie Brown, who complains about the materialism of the season. The show runs on select days from Dec. 1 to Dec. 10 in Raleigh. Tickets are $12. A sensory friendly performance is scheduled for 11 ., Dec. 9.

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