Moms vs. Sons
After my humiliation by David's mom, I thought things couldn't get
much worse. I was wrong.
For a few days I didn't go out of my house much. My mom asked me if
anything was wrong, but of course I didn't talk about the situation
with her. In fact, I worried that perhaps Mrs. Jones might tell my
mom about what happened; the two of them were fairly good friends.
David was fairly cool, at least...he didn't tease me about being
overpowered by his mom. He tried to make me feel better, pointing
out that I'd let her have an advantage to begin with and that she
never would have gotten the edge if we'd started out even to begin
with.
About a week later, my worst fears were realized. David and I had
been out at the lake. When we came back to my house and went into my
back yard, I was mortified when I saw Mrs. Jones, in a lime green
bikini, laying in a chaise lounge next to my mother, who was wearing
a pink bikini. They were sunbathing together! Actually, at the
moment they were painting their nails; obviously they had been
sunbathing--and talking to each other. When they saw me and David,
they both began giggling. "I hear you're ready for the wrestling
team, Matt," my mom called out to me, and both women cackled.
I turned to head inside, but David's mom said loudly, "Don't worry
Christie. I bet most of his opponents on the wrestling team won't be
105 pound women in their 40s, so he might not get hurt too badly."
Again they laughed, but my teenage ego couldn't take it.
"Look," I said, "You know I was just playing around last week. I
didn't want to hurt you, Mrs. Jones. And Mom, I don't know why
you're laughing. You know you wouldn't stand a chance against me."
David chimed in and said both of them together couldn't hope to hang
with just one of us, if we were prepared.
At this comment the women looked at each other, then back at us, then
giggled some more. It was a funny sight: two women in their 40s,
holding their hands gingerly waiting for their fingernails to dry,
looking up at two athletic boys in their swimsuits, and being totally
unintimidated. The fact that our moms were so completely unafraid of
us made me mad, and I think it even bothered David, so he repeated
his challenge. The next thing I knew, we were about to begin a tag-
team wrestling match in my own back yard, with the handicap rule that
David and I had to tag in and out, but our moms would both wrestle at
the same time against us.
David went first, perhaps because he was more annoyed at the
challenge to his manhood. Truth be told, he was bigger and stronger
and more athletic than I was, and I was still a little uneasy after
having been humiliated by Mrs. Jones, so I was secretly happy that he
started off. Our moms advanced toward him, then tried to flank him
cautiously, then suddenly lunged forward. In a flash David threw his
mother to the grass and straddled her. My mom, who was quite a bit
fleshier and curvier than David's mother, attempted to attack him
from behind, but he managed to grab both her wrists and force her to
the ground next to him. In less than a minute, David held both women
squirming on the grass. "That was easy," he said, reaching back to
tag me.
I eagerly jumped into the fray, taking my place astride David's mom
and seizing my own mother's wrists. My mom struggled and twisted but
couldn't escape my grasp, and I bounced up and down a little (not too
hard) on Mrs. Jones, causing her to grunt. I thought this was fair
payback for last week. It was a wonderful feeling to be so
completely in control. Suddenly, it ended.
Mom rolled away from me and, what with the sweat and suntan oil all
over her, I lost my grip. In trying to keep her subdued, I leaned
over too far, allowing Mrs. Jones to roll me to the side, though she
was still in between my legs. But now she had both her arms wrapped
around my legs, and she was on her knees. As I turned my attention
to her, Mom grabbed my right wrist with both her hands and pulled it
as far as she could. I tried to jerk it back but she had a
surprisingly strong grip. Mrs. Jones, still holding one of my legs,
began to tickle my exposed ribs with her other hand. I tried to
fight her off with my free hand, until Mom grabbed it, too. Now my
mom was sitting on the grass above my head, her feet pressed into my
shoulders, and was stretching my arms above my head. It hurt! Mrs.
Jones stood up, holding my legs under her arms. I was helpless!
David yelled encouragement, and I realized that all I needed to do
was free one of my hands and I could tag him. So I squirmed and
bucked in my mom's grasp. The women realized what I was doing,
though, and Mrs. Jones suddenly began dragging me across the grass,
away from the "corner" of our makeshift ring. I got a wicked
grassburn in the process. When I was ten feet away she stopped.
Before I could break away, Mom grabbed one of my wrists and Mrs.
Jones, leaving my legs alone, grabbed the other. Both women now sat
on the grass to either side of my head, their feet braced against my
head and ribs, and they pulled my arms straight out from my body. I
yelled my surrender but they ignored me. THey were laughing so loud
they may not have heard me.
Finally they let me go but I couldn't move. I lay there, spread
eagled in the grass. Mom knelt at my right arm, looking down in my
face, and Mrs. Jones looked down at me from my left. "I think he
needs some more," said Mom, and Mrs. Jones agreed. I tried to roll
away but in a few seconds the women had their knees on my arms and
used one hand each to secure my wrists. With their free hands they
tickled me mercilessly. I made the mistake of kicking my legs up,
trying to dislodge them. This backfired; the women grabbed my ankles
and bent my body in half, my knees staring me in the face.
My mom, normally mousy and subdued, and Mrs. Jones, the
quintessential Sunday School teacher, had gone wild. Holding me
upside down and vulnerable, they used their free hands to spank,
tickle, and pinch my bottom. I begged them to stop, but they kept on
abusing me. All I could see was the bare flesh of these two 40-
something women, their sweaty breasts bouncing in their bikinis, as
they mercilessly tormented my rear end with their newly-painted
fingernails.
Realizing that I was completely helpless, David now charged across
the lawn to my aid, despite the rules of our so-called tag team
match. He threw his mother off me and was struggling to dislodge my
mom when his own mother grabbed him around the neck from behind.
Mrs. Jones then fell backward, dragging her son with him, squeezing
her legs around his midsection for good measure.
While they grappled with each other, I was now one-on-one against my
own mother. Although I had suffered a lot, having had my arms
stretched and my body bent in half, I was in a rage at this
humiliation. My mom was laughing, clearly thinking this was great
fun. We squared off against each other on our knees. Mom locked her
hands with mine in a classic game of "mercy." I pushed her wrists
back slowly, even as her polished nails dug into the skin on the back
of my hands. But suddenly she shifted her grip so that her hands
were underneath mine and she gained an advantage. I yelped in pain.
Then she reversed again and suddenly my wrists were bent completely
backward. She pushed me back and I couldn't fight against the pain
and her leverage. Even though I was a strong, athletic male, my mom
was forcing me to my back and forcing my arms to the grass. I
struggled with every ounce of strength but Mom ended up on my chest,
her knees on my biceps, holding my hands solidly on the ground. I
would marshall my energy and force one arm up, slowly, but she would
then counter and pin it back to the ground. After a few minutes, I
couldn't struggle any more. Mom pulled my arms together, my biceps
against my ears, and held them tightly with her thighs. She looked
down at me, and I still remember the the view: her face framed my her
heaving, sweaty breasts, hammocked by the pink bikini, her rounded
stomach dripping in sweat inches above my face. All her weight was
on my upper chest and neck, seeming to anchor me permanently to the
grass.
While my mother was pinning me, David's mom had acheived something
his sister had never been able to do--she had him in an inescapable
wrestling hold. The combination of arm choke and body scissor proved
to be devastating. Mom eventually let me go, though she bent one of
my arms into a hammerlock so I couldn't flee into the house, and
together we watched David's last, futile struggles. He looked very
sleepy, and I realized that Mrs. Jones must have cut off either his
air or his blood supply with her choke hold; at any rate, his eyes
were slits and he was barely moving. When she let her so go he
rolled to his side and groggily tried to climb to all fours. As
easily as changing the diapers on a baby, Mrs. Jones forced him to
his stomach and pulled both his arms behind his back, crossing them
between his shoulder blades, and then sat on his wrists. This is
what she had done to me last week! And as she had done to me, she
pulled his head back by the hair and forced her feet in front of his
face. "Come on David, kiss my pretty toes!" He had no choice but to
obey.
In an instant, my mother was doing the same thing to me. I was
kissing her red toenails, my arms captive under her bottom, my hair
in danger of being yanked out by the roots.
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