Semper Fi

Note : This story is completely fictional!

My mother once wore combat boots. She joined the Marines, bested more than half of the other enlisteds during boot camp, and actually killed some unlucky Iraqi in the Gulf War. She said it was a clean shot through his heart. Officially, the military didn't allow women on the battlefield, but open warfare promotes real priorities. My mother, in a uniform, was as unisex as it gets, and her C.O. didn't give a fuck about sex the day tanks rolled across the Kuwait border.

Her war experience affected her, but not in the classic way. She wasn't troubled by nightmares or flashbacks. It was hardly a real war, having lasted long enough to drive across that postage stamp of a country. It made her throw up. She told me once, she couldn't stomach America's new military role. Peacekeepers, World Cops, however the boys in (what used to be called) the War Department wanted to spin it.

In her own home town, mother had seen enough poverty, sickness, legal atrocities, oppressive culture, and the suppression of women to piss on the whole charade. Mom would have happily racheted a machine gun the moment orders came down to take out America's fundamentalist jack-boots. She got pregnant with me, on purpose, to end her active duty. She returned to the city of her childhood to run a free medical clinic.

I grew up basking in her strength and joy of the moment, but time wore the sugar coating to the bitter pill. My mother was dying. I thought her painful bouts at the toilet had something to do with her period. The doctor at the clinic couldn't find a cause, but she begged her to join the class-action suit against the military. Having read about 'syndrome' cases, the doctor incontrovertibly decided mom was another victim of the war.

Mom didn't think that way. She understood, when she joined the military, that results were more important than troops. She believed in the goal, protect America from foreign enemies. That she might have ended up poisoned was the chance she took, but it had been her choice. If others wanted to sue the government, well, she wouldn't call them wrong. A lot of folk think the military's every button is as shining and noble as their TV commercials.

For my own thoughts, I was barely sixteen and wished the president would give us a million bucks. My mom had already made her million bucks. She named him Sam. That's me. I didn't know she was dying until near the end. She didn't really suffer more than the homeless people she helped, but she hated pity. My mother didn't lie to me about it. She just never out and said, 'the calcium in my bones is evaporating.'

My mother is a lesbian. She and the doctor used to make out on the sofa bed in our rent controlled in-law, but that was before she began losing her breath at odd moments. I suspect their political differences about the military proved their undoing. They had their spat, never had sex again, and continued to work together professionally. Mother decided to not spend time looking for a new partner. It really is that hard to find decent lesbian spouses among the hets, faux lesbos, and drama dykes. The effort wasn't worth it, since the clinic was her professional life and I was her private life.

One muggy day we decided to build a cooling fan for our bathroom window. She scrounged an electric motor from a discarded, fancy scooter, and I trimmed fan blades out of slats from a wooden crate.

"This bastard's got two horse power. It's going to blow a wind tunnel through the house. Better tether your dolls."

"Action figures, mom."

"Sure, and those brightly colored, stuffed animals are collectables."

"I don't play with them anymore."

"Then you might as well bring girls home for the night."

This surprised me, but I knew she was kidding. "Sure, so you can seduce them away from me with your hard body and commanding 'tude."

"Hah! This body's gone soft, and even my own son don't pay me respect."

I replied in my girlfriend voice. "Shut up."

"Yeah, right. Make me."

Well, I had to try. Tools scattered across the floor as I tackled her. She pinned me with a reversal by reflex.

"Did you time me?" She gloated. Her tall body felt unusually pliant laying on top of me, and her torso quivered slightly. Her breathing felt odd, lungs against my lungs, as if it were a struggle.

"Maybe half a second. You still got it."

"You're getting heavier. I thought it took longer."

"You're the boss."

"Sam, I wish you wouldn't say that."

"What?"

"I'm your mother. I'm responsible for you, but I'm tired of being the boss. You're nearly grown, and I've done a fine job of raising you. Be proud Sam. You're my best gift to this world, and it's my gift to you. From now on, you're your own boss." Five inches from my face, I watched her face relax into a reassuring smile.

I don't know how they could have, but her words choked me up. I had tears in my eyes. Perhaps her voice simply resonated with my heart - I swear it stopped beating for one count. I exhaled sharply and just snuffled for air and gulped saliva. My mother, the power in my life, had freed me. I hugged her just long enough to hide my face in her shoulder.

She stood up and reached a hand down. I lay there. She was my goddess. I didn't know much about spirituality, but my mom's spirit blazed like holy light. I knew the moment I took her hand she would suddenly become my best friend. I was afraid.

"Suit yourself." She turned and bent to collect the tools. "I'll fasten the blades to the motor, tomorrow, while you're at school. These look fine." She slid one sanded length along her palm like she was testing a knife for sharpness.

Behind her, I finally lifted my ass off the floor and shook off the dust. I thought everything was back to normal, until she straightened and turned around.

I'm sure you had to be there, but for the first time in my life I noticed the clothes she was wearing. I guess in my mind she was always the drill sergeant, or the handyman, or a dozen other male roles I had hung around her neck. She was wearing a dress. It wasn't very blousey, but it said more about her hips than her shoulders. Her breasts never did stand out, but there she was, visibly female.

I wasn't about to admit to myself why it made a difference. All of a sudden, I wanted to run out of the house and find my mother. Sanity interrupted my fancy. Mom had worn this dress and others for the last ten years. Maybe it was the contrast. One minute, we were building something together, something masculine, a loud wind machine, the next she was laying on top of me, soft and pretty.

She noticed me staring at her in a very conspicuous manner. She looked at me like I was nuts. "Get the vacuum cleaner and un-dust the rug." She lifted the tool box and headed toward the kitchen.

"I thought I was the boss now."

"Then tell yourself to do it."

"What if I told you to do it?"

"Make me."

It was definitely a time of change around the house. Her, me, we, and everything that made us family were all spinning around like that feeling you get in your gut when you're about to try something new. Out of the blue, my gut wanted to make her, make her do something of my will. I couldn't take my mom in a fair fight, and she could take anybody in a dirty one. I wanted to be her boss, real bad. This time I decided to brave anything she put in my way. It was as if a stone had settled into a comfortable spot in my stomach.

"I'm telling you. Get the vacuum, and clean this rug." I steeled my gaze and prayed I didn't blink first.

"Nice try." Mom offered her usual 'amused at her kid' grin, but for one microsecond I thought I saw something else.

I took a step towards her, not threatening, just confident. "If you didn't hear me the first time, I will repeat myself." This was my mother's own signal she used when her patience was wearing thin. I'd rather not mention how often I'd heard it. My heart pounded. Inside, I wanted this more than anything. I wanted her to acquiesce.

"Sam, are you sure you want to start this?" She returned a different version of her attitude about crossing her. If her voice hadn't hinted at a slight lack of breath I would have backed down in an instant.

"Yes, and to finish it. Get the vacuum, mom." I never raised my voice.

My mother, her eyes dropped for a fraction of a second. The world turned upside down. My stomach flip-flopped. I swallowed but never blinked.

"I'll get the vacuum." She said simply and set down the tool box.

It couldn't have been that easy. I was struck dumb. Now what?, my mind raced. I had burned all my jet fuel trying to keep my cool. If I didn't get away soon I was going to lose it, but I didn't want to act totally lame. She wasn't going to let me get away with absolute victory. I may have had the high hand this round, but she was still my mom for the next two years. I picked up wood bits and pieces of wire, anything that might choke a vacuum. I was just heading outside when I heard the motor switch on.

That day, I felt like I had stepped across the grand canyon. Will against will, my successful contest to best my mother filled my head euphoric. I trembled at the thought of it, but I wanted to do it again.

It took longer than a week for my courage to return. Our lives remained mostly the same. She managed the clinic ten hours a day, keeping it organized for the doctor and her assistants. I farted around with my friends, wasting time, learning how to survive teen society. They thought I was cool for having an openly gay mother but didn't ask what her actual love life was like.

Her's was dull. She might have been celibate, excluding normal, personal options. She entertained a few friends and went out for a show or dinner, but the last hint of romance was buried in her loud, but unintelligible, argument with Joyce, the doctor. They would call each other occasionally, but mother never discussed her relationships, at least not with me.

My sex life was outright abusive, self abusive. Some girls thought I was gay, (like mother, like son), others preferred the chest beating of my male peers over my cultivated respect for a woman's power. Oh heck, I dated a bit, but they were tepid interludes. I usually found girls my age less reasonable than soap opera characters.

I shouldn't insult them. I didn't act my age either. I was far too mature for my own good. I was in love with my mom which, ironically, is ridiculously immature. I was the man. She was the woman. At least that's what my body said, every five hours. To this day I can't believe how often I jacked off. I've never regretted it. Mom discussed sex with me in her usual direct way.

"When you get an erection, jack it off and enjoy it. Once you learn how you like your sexual pleasure, you'll have a lot more fun sharing it with your future lovers."

Of course society has its taboos, some worthy, others random, most could use a little rethinking. I had listened around enough to know where to and when to palm my cock. But my fantasies were mine explore however which way I wanted. Mom certainly had no sexual thoughts about me. This, I discovered during an incredible circumstance, was not as limiting as it might suggest.

Remember, I was sixteen, raised to examples of confidence, discipline, and respect, and I had the hormones of a satyr. I excelled at public school, snubbed vapid girls, and masturbated to the sound of my mother repairing the oil fired heating unit in the basement. It may not have been mother nature's way, but for me sexual pleasure hit its peak when I included my mother in my fantasies. These fantasies increasingly revolved around making her obey me.

The second time I contested her will, I thought I'd be kicked out of the house. I had imagined I was playing a game of dice with my mom, using dice with invisible pips. More to the truth, it was like cracking the code on a safe wrapped in dynamite.

We were sanding the ancient wooden floor in the main room, preparing it for a new coat of lacquer. Mother was glowing. Sunlight from the window glistened through the sweat cooling her skin. What was normally a loose tank top was now fully plastered around her midsection. I watched her with brief, intense glances. I didn't give her tits a single shot, but her hips, damn they moved like they were attached to a wheel. I swear, even on her knees, her power of action was driven from her legs. Her arms were merely conduits of thigh energy.

We had been scraping the old varnish for three hours without a break. Yeah, I was in shape, but I wasn't particularly well built. I was nearly as thin as my mom. I was certainly more tired. At one point I asked myself a simple question. Why? What the hell was I doing this for? Shit, I could be out with my friends, but I had told them this weekend I was supposed to help mom with the house.

We saved rent by doing our own repairs. We also fixed stuff for the renters of the main house occasionally, just to be neighborly, she told me. They were an older couple, gay men who didn't approve of lesbian mothers. Go figure. I'm glad I never had to talk to them.

Right in the middle of the work, I stood up and looked down at my mom. "Call me when you're finished. I'll help you with the reapplication." I felt my eyes testing hers once more. Who's would be strong enough?

She looked up, initially surprised. Her eyelids extended, and I already knew the sentence leaping to her mind. "Get your butt back down before I make it a permanent fixture to the floor."

"Sam, I'm not in the mood for levity..."

I told her, "I'm not being funny, nor is this fair, but it is what I've decided."

I thought she was going to shake her head, disapprove. She stood up and slapped my face. It was all wrong. My mother never hit me in anger.

Later, I discovered it wasn't anger that motivated her. She needed my help. She was growing ill. Her vast energy reserves were seeping into the aether, and they would never return. She knew she was still quite strong, but she also knew her fate. Mother had locked her secret behind a steel wall of cryptic emotions. It was my fate to decipher them.

My head twisted around, straining a neck muscle. "Ow!" I grabbed my neck, but I had to stand my ground. I was so stupid. "Fine, you can paint the damn thing too, by yourself!"

I told you mother never cried, but I haven't said she never mourned. We were only human, a parent and child beginning to separate in the cause of independent foolishness. Only my mother was doomed to accrue dependence like frost on a window. You witnessed it's growth but couldn't see it growing. One day she would rely on me absolutely for remainder of her short life. Mother would bear witness as I found my own voice and opinions, but it was still too early for a child challenging himself to see anything more than his own interests.

Mother didn't apologize for hitting me. She turned to one side, ignored me, then looked at the floor. Many seconds later, she crouched down and picked up the sandpaper.

Once more, my chutzpah failed, and I backed out of the room as my ego drained. I made dinner that night and washed the dishes, but nothing could have made up for my transgression. Mother didn't speak to me for a night and a day. I was pretty worried, but that night, when I jacked off, my thoughts replayed the day's event. At the point when I remembered her sigh, my orgasm hit me harder than her open palm. Cum flew all over my naked body.

Maturity and I were locked in a wrestling match. I really thought I acted more like an adult than my peers, but I certainly had a childish way of showing it. My silly game with mother played out over many months. However, I never lost myself to it. I only defied my mother when I was fully possessed of my faculties. If I had ever controlled her with less than a full head, she would have walked right over me. In a way she was controlling me, teaching me something penultimately adult.

"Mother, ask the neighbors for a nice apple. These are too spotted."

"Mother, get the TV from the main room and set it up on the table while I eat dinner."

"Mother, stand right there. I need to change my clothes. You can add these in the washing machine." Acting on a powerful impulse, I removed every shred of modesty right in front of her. My cock could not have remained soft under those circumstances.

I kept getting hard-ons. Controlling her was incredibly erotic, for me. Mother was about as interested in penises as a taxi driver is in public transit. But after the first time I showed her my erect dick, it became an integral part of the act. She didn't care enough to roll her eyes. To me, it was a virile display of my new manhood. To her, I suppose she decided not to suppress what might prove an innate male trait, believing in the myth of visual seduction.

Although I masturbated constantly, my ability to command mother occurred on infrequent days of the month. We would spend weeks of regular, sort of, mom/kid activities. I'd keep my shit from piling up around the house. I invited friends over on days comfortable to her. She'd ground me for driving a friend's car before I earned my license.

I got drunk one night and told her to suck my cock. She told me, in English plain enough for a sotted brain to understand, I would not talk to her that way. The next day she enrolled me as a volunteer at a alcohol recovery clinic. I never let my friends booze me up again.

It was long, my journey of self-possession. Mother's power over me was a different kind of possession. Once I mastered her parental right to push and constrain me I was complete, my own man. I had a long way to go.

I was nearing my seventeenth birthday, and feeling realistically cocky. My path that night led me to my mother, who was sacked out on the sofa bed. She slept in the living room, and I had a walk-in closet. Coats and trousers and good tops hung above my cheap futon. It was very well insulated for the city's.

"Hi mom. I know it's late, but I want to look at you lying there." I stood in the archway between the living room and the kitchen. I was fully naked. I couldn't tell her state of dress as she lay under thick covers.

"Please, push your blankets and sheets down. I want to see you."

Mother always contested me. Her eyes met mine and informed me this was not something she was going to do. I received her message silently, kept my face blank, and slowly nodded my head.

"I could turn them down myself, but do you really want me to fix your bed for you?"

She blinked at that. I didn't know she mentally added, 'like you were an invalid', to the end of my question. She sighed and then looked at me in way I would never forget. It was the look of need. Slowly, out from under the covers, one arm after another snaked its way free. They haltingly pushed the warm spreads down to her thighs. I've seen her naked tits many times, but never when she was being made to reveal them solely for my own gratification. Her crotch was covered with a plain, white pair of panties. I took my cock into my hand.

"Don't move until I'm finished." I was so unnerved by her acceptance of my new audacity, I wasn't sure I could get off, but her unresisting body was more than sufficient to raise sperm to the pitcher's plate. I tried to keep a steady, languid pace, but in the heat of my climax, my hand found itself ripping along my swollen prick. She waited, unimpressed, until my cum shot out into the hand towel I held in front of my cock. Afterwards, she told me to get her a beer.

I had more than a few disappoints attempting to recreate that evening. Mother fought every inch of that battle. Eventually the beaches cleared. Her fortitude gradually fatigued against the height of my sexuality. I began masturbating regularly in front of my mother a couple weeks after my seventeenth birthday. At some point she must have decided it wasn't worth her fading energy.

Justice weighs Her judgment on golden scales. My plate was sinking fast. One day, I was thrown clear when something plummeted upon the other plate. Up until that time, I had thought only of my own convenience and pleasure.

After the first time I masturbated openly in front of her, I seriously worried that I had overstepped her boundaries. That and because I didn't want to get into a rut, I gave mom plenty of non-sexual commands. The last piece of our psychological jigsaw puzzle fell into place when I least expected it. We were watching television on our beat up sofa. I was sitting, eating an orange. She reclined with her legs propped up on my lap.

"Mute button." She said the instant a commercial interrupted.

I clicked on the upbeat. Then I moved her legs and dropped the remote in her lap. I needed to throw the orange rind into the kitchen garbage. It was sure to be a long break. After tossing the rind, I opened the fridge and peered within. Not really looking, I suddenly piped up.

"Mom, cycle through all the channels ten times and remember the ones that are showing old, black and white films. I'm going to fix me a sandwich."

It was the lamest thing I ever told her, I think. My dick still got hard, but displaying it never crossed my mind. The act itself was erotic, there was no non-erotic control of my mother for me, ever. I fixed my sandwich, efficiently and quietly. I know I surprised her when I returned to the couch.

She surprised me like a thunderbolt. Her right hand manipulated the TV remote. Her left hand was reaching up her short short, left pant leg, and she was rubbing her clit. I dropped my sandwich on the beautifully varnished, hardwood floor. She ignored me, and in a whisper, recited her count on the remote.

"four... ," she languidly switched across all fifteen of our aerial's channels. "five... ," repeat, "six..."

My breath left me. I was prepared to suffer a stroke right then and sink into my final demise. I didn't need to see her fingers pushing into erect flesh, exciting her beneath white denim. I may have actually witnessed my mother masturbating during my previous 18 years, but it would have been a private event for her.

Here she was totally focused on her mission, enjoying it for what it was, an act of conceding her will. An unimportant event, such as her son catching her in the act of masturbating to the tune of her own capitulation, was the last thing that would interrupt her.

I did what any self-possessed eightteen year old would do under the circumstances. I picked up the sandwich, wiped the floor clean with the sink sponge, and then I cleaned out the sponge. Only after I heard her say 'ten' did I return to the main room. I shouldn't have waited. I only embarrassed myself.

"There were three channels showing old films. One was just beginning. The one with Sidney Portier."

"Thank you, mom."

"My pleasure."

I took my pleasure later that night by masturbating once again in front of my mother. She lay on the sofa-bed, reading a book.

When I was nineteen, my mother was killed by an unnamed, immune system dysfunction. She died on her own bed, in her own home, with her son holding her and telling her she was the strongest force in the world.