Uninvited Guests Ch. 01

Hello and welcome to my twenty-fifth Literotica story. In truth, it should be my twenty-fourth though. Let me explain.
Only one of my efforts has completely failed to connect with readers. That's the first chapter of Man on a Mission. I conceived it as a silly and diverting little story, a piece of fluff. I forgot of course that this is first and foremost an erotica website.
That little story was heavy on farce but light on sex. And it was judged more on the latter than the former. In hindsight, it was unfair to release it by itself. I should have delayed and published both chapters as one. Now the story is too lopsided, no sex in part one, nothing but sex in part two.
I learned a lesson with that one, but that was not the only thing I needed to learn. As my writing has evolved, my stories have tended to become longer and more involved. There's plenty of sex in them, but there's a lot more other stuff as well.
When Middleson gave me his initial feedback on The Old Country, one comment struck a chord with me. He said that it didn't feel like the "real" Nobston. He felt that I was holding back on the sexual content, denying readers what they wanted. I disagreed, given the context of that story and the way that it is structured.
So, to Middleson and those who agree with him, here is a work from the "real" Nobston. It's a no holds barred, sex romp. I hope there is enough narrative to keep it interesting too. By the way, my erstwhile muse is responsible for several major plot elements in this tale. So, thank you Middleson for your continuing efforts, they are much appreciated.
Reader lovedefacto spotted a rather embarrassing vocabulary fail on my part, so I wanted to pass on my thanks. I also got some invaluable feedback from Fuzzy_Kbear. He set me straight on a couple of glaring issues. I've fixed them as best I can, so thanks, man. But the ultimate credit must go to Demosthenes384bc who managed to show me the error of my ways. You won't appreciate the scope of his contribution but believe me, it was crucial.
My loyal editor No1Ukno did his usual sterling work on the nuts and bolts. His role is probably the most important part of making my stuff readable. Thank you, old friend.
So, may I present Margaret and Russell, who are both over eighteen of course. Beware though before venturing forth, there is a non-consensual element to this story.
I've tried to handle it as deftly and delicately as I can, but I understand that it's not for everyone. If the idea offends you, feel free to move on. All I ask is that you come back if and when there are a few comments. If the story gets the reception that I hope for, perhaps they will change your mind. If they don't then I will have failed in my job as a writer and don't deserve your patronage anyway.
Otherwise, strap in. You're in for a wild ride...

"Margaret, where the fuck's my goddamn wallet?" Mark Armstrong screamed up the stairs.
Wherever the fuck you left it, you ignorant pig.
Margaret Armstrong puffed out a world-weary sigh. Shaking her head, she wondered once again how on Earth things had got to this point. Her husband was leaving for a four-day, boys' weekend and she couldn't wait for him to go.
Once upon a time, she would have felt sad at such a thought, but not anymore. Over the two-plus decades of their marriage, her husband had changed. What had started out as petulance and irritability on his part had grown out of control. He had become controlling and vindictive, especially as their children had grown.
He became jealous, despite never having a reason to be. Although to be fair he was a good provider, but he was a philanderer and a mean drunk with it.
For a long time, she had forgiven his many faults because their life together was comfortable. Well, comfortable in financial terms if not emotional ones. But as she grew older and a little wiser, Margaret realized that that wasn't enough. She found that there were far more important things in life than material wealth. Love and respect for starters, never mind companionship and fun. But none of those things existed between them now, only anger and resentment remained.
Ha, welcome to the American Dream, Marg!
"Come on, I'm going to be late," he continued, pawing frantically through the pockets of his hunting jacket.
It's an annual trip, asshole. It's on the same weekend every year, to the same fucking place. How the hell can you never be fucking ready?
"I don't know, Mark," she called from their bedroom. "Did you leave it in your work pants?"
"No, for fuck's sake woman, I left it out last night on purpose. There's over a thousand dollars in it. No doubt you tidied it away as usual," Mark wailed. His voice quavered in frustration as he switched his search to his rucksack.
Margaret shook her head.
No, I learned klasbahis yeni giriş that lesson long ago, dickwad.
"I never saw it then, is it out in your truck? Did you go for gas last night like you said?" the long-suffering wife enquired.
"NOOOO, you stupi..." her husband screamed at the top of his voice, before cutting off mid-sentence. "Never mind," he muttered.
"What was that, hon?" Margaret enquired, knowing full well that doing so would wind him up even further.
"I said never mind," Mark grumbled, clambering to his feet. "I sent Russ for gas earlier, he must have taken it."
You fucking dumbass, that's so typical of you. It's always someone else's fault, isn't it? Until you realize it's not, but there's never a hint of remorse or an apology is there? No, not from the great Mark Armstrong, no. Christ how I loathe you.
"That's great, darling," she trilled, her responses coming on automatic pilot now. "I'm sure he'll be back in no time."
Margaret finished tying the laces on her running shoes and stood up with a groan. She had been trying to get more exercise in recent weeks, joining her friends Cindy and Pam on their daily walks. Forced confinement had been part of the strict COVID-19 protocols in their state. She had been working from home throughout lockdown, pretty much alone. Despite her best efforts, she had found the lure of the refrigerator irresistible.
She checked her reflection in the full-length mirror.
Yep, you still look like shit, Marg.
Shame washed over her as she looked at her huge butt and fat, wobbling tits. Her Lycra leggings were doing their best to contain her pasty thighs. But there was no hiding the truth -- she was a fat cow. But even two weeks of daily walks had improved the situation a little. There was a shape to her ass now at least. Well, sort of anyway. Instead of a beachball in her pants, it looked to her like she now had two water balloons. "Junk in the trunk," Pam called it. Margaret had laughed when her uptight friend using such lewd language in public.
Come on Marg, you've made some progress, girl. Stop being so hard on yourself. It's taken twenty years of neglect for you to fall this far, so the journey back will take time. Take the win when you can.
She heard the front door slam as their son returned from the gas station. There was muffled conversation followed by the sound of the door slamming again. From behind the net curtains in her bedroom, Margaret watched her men load Mark's gun cases into the bed of his old truck. Clapping their son on the shoulder, her husband jumped into the F-150 and roared off.
Not a word of goodbye, eh Mark? Well, at least it means I get to avoid your usual fat jokes.
She left their room and trotted down the stairs. Her sports bra was straining at its design limits to contain her bouncing boobs.
"Whoa, Mom," her son cried as they met in the hall. "You'll give yourself a black eye with those things," he said laughing and wrapping her up in a tight embrace. Margaret pecked him on the cheek before pushing him away.
"Shut up you perv," she exclaimed. "You shouldn't be looking at your old mom like that." She gave him a coy smile to make sure he knew she wasn't mad.
"Looking? I wasn't looking at... them. They were blotting out the sun, Mom," Russell quipped. Margaret loved the new, outgoing, and flirty version of her son. To see the self-confidence, he had gained from his new job warmed her heart.
And my butt. Ow!
He had swatted his mother on the backside as she passed him on her way out. "Want some company?" he asked as she tried to hold in a giggle.
"Thanks, hon but I'm meeting Pam and Cindy in the park," she replied, secretly delighted at his offer. "Anyway, you couldn't walk slow enough to keep down with me, baby," she said, looking away.
Her son had recently started a part-time job as a fitness trainer at the small gym in town. She and Mark had bought him a membership for his eighteenth birthday. He had been reluctant to attend at first but now, eight months later, he was working there.
Margaret knew that the older gals loved him because he made their workouts fun. He motivated them with his trademark kindness and humor. He cheered them on and was very free with his congratulatory hugs. In the early days, he had gotten in trouble for them. But a letter from the mayor's wife had soon sorted that out. She was one of his most loyal charges now.
He was trying to do the same for Marg, and his enthusiasm had been critical in getting her up off the couch. Now came the hard part she knew, keeping her on the straight and narrow and out of the fridge.
Russell looked straight at her, an odd look on his face. Then he smiled warmly and said, "Okay, I'll whip up a protein shake for when you get back. Are you properly hydrated?"
"Fit to burst, baby," Margaret said, squeezing her ample thighs together at the thought. "Did your father find his wallet?"
"Find it? He gave it to me to go gas up his truck," Russ said, admiring klasbahis giriş his mother's commitment as she stretched out her quads. "Why is he always in such a panic over these trips, Mom? He goes every year, but he's like a kid at Christmas every time."
"Ha, I don't know, honey," Margaret said, "I guess he's just excited." Her heart lurched at an unwanted thought.
Yeah, excited to get his little dickie wet, I'll bet.
Russ saw his mother's forehead crease as she frowned, the corners of her mouth sagging for an instant. But a moment later she was smiling once again as she bounced out the door with a wave. A smile crossed her lips as her subconscious spat out a much more pleasant notion.
Let those Idaho whores suck it for you, Mark. At least that means I won't have to!

Russ had always been such a quiet boy, Margaret thought as she started her fitness tracker. He was studious and kind, the polar opposite of his bitch of a big sister. June had left home two years before and had never come back. Marg and she had always had a somewhat strained relationship. The girl had always been closer to her father anyway. She had loved to go camping with him, even if just in the woods behind the house.
That had been the start of their estrangement Margaret thought. Mark had shut Russell out at that point too. He had focused whatever love and attention he still had on his daughter. At the same time, the girl had pulled away from her mother. They had communicated in Neanderthal grunts and single-digit gestures from then on.
June was living somewhere in Europe now, traveling with a band of all things. She blamed COVID for being unable to come home to them. But Margaret knew that was nothing but a convenient cover story. The girl hated her and had done ever since puberty. Sadly she had never articulated why, so Margaret always felt it was her fault.
Sometimes she wondered about the reasons for their schism. It could of course be simple mother/daughter angst, but they never spoke, and therefore she couldn't ask. It was her greatest regret in life, other than marrying the wrong man. But if she hadn't married Mark, she never would have had Russell and that would have been a colossal tragedy.
Russell had always been a bit of a "momma's boy," fascinated by cooking and baking. He had never shown the slightest interest in his father's hobbies of hunting and fishing. Russ and Margaret had bonded during the pandemic as they had been locked down together. As a former teacher, she had been able to help with his studies. He in turn had assisted her with the technology required to sell real estate from home.
He had a wicked sense of humor and had become rather daring with his jokes and innuendoes. Margaret loved it because most of her churchgoing friends and colleagues were such prudes. It was so refreshing to "flirt" with someone who was on her wavelength and be a little risqué. Mark had been like that in their youth, his free spirit and sharp wit had drawn her to him. But he had hit middle age at twenty-five and the fun had been leaching from their lives ever since.
09:32 AM, 138 BPM, 0.8 miles, 18:31 mins/mile, 1121 KCal
Margaret checked her progress as she turned into Demeter Park. Pam and Cindy waved from their spot by the pond and hurried over to meet her. All three were a similar shape from the neck down but couldn't have been more different otherwise. Pam was younger, thirty-eight with jet black skin. She spent a fortune keeping her hair straight and wore a little too much makeup Margaret thought. But she had a ready smile and a warm laugh, and they had been best friends since college.
Cindy was a strawberry blonde, her curly ringlets tumbling to the middle of her back. The techs at Clairol were responsible for the color of that mane. But Margaret still thought it looked fantastic.
Marg felt that her own hair was a disaster at the moment. She had always been so proud of her silky, chestnut brown tresses. But before the last lockdown had been lifted it had grown very long and unruly. As soon as she had had the chance, she had got it styled short in a cute pixie cut with streaks and highlights. But then they had been locked down again and it had grown out haphazardly. Her roots were showing now, and the uneven cut made her bangs fall over her right eye. To add insult to injury it had started to curl as well. Today it was tied up in a bun but some of the shorter strands had come loose already.
The previous evening, she had asked Russell if he would watch some YouTube videos to find out how to cut and style it. He had laughed until he realized that she was serious. He had told her that it looked very pretty -- "Euro-chic" was the phrase he had used. Margaret had been too afraid to ask what that meant.
"Did Mark get away without the usual drama this morning?" Pam asked.
"No, of course not," Margaret laughed. "He upended the house looking for his wallet. Turned out he had given it to Russ when he sent him to gas up the truck," klasbahis güvenilirmi Margaret said, joining her friends in laughter. "Sometimes I'm surprised that he can even put his pants on in the morning."
"How is he getting out of state, Margaret?" Cindy asked. "I thought that wasn't allowed under lockdown."
"He'll be relying on his white privilege I expect, Cin," Margaret replied, only half-joking. "At least I insisted he got double vaxxed, so what's the worst they can do to him? A fine and a slap on the wrists? Anyway, a few nights in county jail would do him no harm at all."
The three friends laughed again and marched off. The "Wobbling Warriors" Margaret called them, loud and proud.

10:31 AM, 178 BPM, 5.1 mi, 14:15 mins/mile, 1728 KCal
Russell was studying in his room when he heard the front door open and then slam shut. But when his mom didn't call out to say she was back he got worried.
That's odd, I hope she's OK.
She tended to overdo it on her walks, and often forgot to manage her breathing. Too busy gossiping with his friends' moms he thought. But if her heart rate had spiked, it could affect her blood pressure or even trigger a panic attack.
He ran down the stairs to find his mother slumped on the couch in the den. She was soaked with sweat and panting for breath, sucking air in huge, ragged gasps. He knelt by her side and took her hand, looking at her blotchy, purple face.
"Breathe, Mom," he intoned. "In through the nose, hold... and out through the mouth. Really force it out, come on." He demonstrated what he wanted her to do. "Come on, Mom. Like this," he continued. Russell checked her fitness tracker, her heart rate was 175.
After a few more gasps she began to copy him. Within a minute her breathing had slowed, and her pulse was dropping below 150... 140...
"That's it," he said as Margaret's eyes fluttered open. "You had me worried there for a minute. Come on, let's go warm down."
"No, Russell," she wailed, "I'm exhausted. Let me lie here, I can barely move. I hate that last climb up the dirt road to the house. I wish your father would get it paved like he promised. My feet were sliding around as if I was at the beach. Why do we have to live out here so far from civilization? Why can't we live in town like normal fucking people?"
Russell was no longer fazed by his mother's occasional use of bad language. It had been absolutely taboo in their home when he was growing up but now, he took it as a sign of her trust. Like so many people nowadays his father was rabid about church and his religion. In his head he was pious and god-fearing, whilst in reality, he was anything but.
Racist, misogynistic, and homophobic were words that Russell used to describe his father. Mark Armstrong wore his intolerance like a badge of honor. If he ever heard his wife cuss like that, Mark might well have slapped her, or worse. So, Russell ignored her little indiscretions and kept her secrets. He was on Team Mom. He always had been and always would be.
"You know you love the peace and quiet out here, Mom. You couldn't do naked yoga on the deck if we had neighbors, could you? Now, as I understand it, you're going out dancing tonight, yeah? You'll look like an even worse dancer than me if we don't at least stretch off your muscles. Come on," her son demanded. "I've made a smoothie for you," he said. "Passion fruit and mango -- your favorite." He stood, still holding her hand, and pulled her to her feet. She swayed woozily as he led her towards the back door.
Outside, she noted that he had laid out her yoga mat on the deck. Gently he lowered her onto her back, before standing over her, arms crossed. "Come on, Mom," he said, insisting she stretch out her stiff legs, ignoring her protestations.
She lay still, her impressive chest heaving. "I'm going to have to do this for you, aren't I?" Russell asked. Without waiting for a response, he lifted her foot and began pushing her toes upwards. This stretched out her hamstrings and glutes. It was a feeling midway between pleasure and pain for Margaret.
She expelled a loud, almost sexual moan, before clapping a hand over her mouth. Their eyes met and Russ wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. Margaret laughed and relaxed, allowing him to soothe her aches away. As he spread her legs and pushed on her thighs and butt, he was never inappropriate. He never stared for a moment too long, and his hands never lingered on her flesh for an instant more than necessary.
The same could not be said of her though. She allowed her gaze to travel up from his strong, magical hands towards his broad shoulders. He was wearing a tiny 'wife-beater' shirt which showed off his bulging forearms and biceps. His muscles rippled as he worked, the smooth flesh glistening as a sheen of sweat rose on his skin.
He was completely hairless, from what she could see. She remembered Mark teasing him mercilessly when he hit puberty. Russell had begun growing hair on his groin and under his arms. Those his father had called his 'birds nests' and Mark forced him to display them to all and sundry. Like most confused, pubescent teens Russell's emerging psyche was a fragile thing. He had been utterly unprepared to cope with this attention, especially from a parent.