It is obvious that Greg has got to go, and go in such a way that it doesn't hurt your mom. She deserves to be treated better than that; and besides, those magnificent tits are being sadly neglected. It doesn't take much work to find out where he lives, and by Wednesday night you have your plans in place.
At supper you find it hard to take your mind off the incredible sights you've seen today. Your mom has taken off the blazer of her business suit, and the heavy bra she is wearing can only do so much to restrain the wonders which it conceals from your direct view. The memory of the vistas you've jerked yourself off over keeps coming back into your monkey brain. Your thought process alternates between lust-filled reveries and plans for the evening's... action.
"Is there anything wrong, dear?" she asks, genuine concern in her voice. You find yourself filled with a sudden rush of affection for her. Your lustfilled plans for enjoying her body have distracted you from the fact that you love her as a son as well; and tonight's action will be the farthest you've ever had to go for her sake. Beaver Cleaver never had these problems! (Of course, June never had tits like your mom's either; sorry, Ms. Billingsley.)
"I'm gonna go out with Will and the guys tonight, mom; I'll be back before midnight." Will has agreed to cover for you, with a vague account of wandering the local mall and the nearby fast food row (this is not a happening town for a high school senior).
You are dressed in black, a look not unprecedented for you; your mother doesn't need to know about the black mask in your pocket, a leftover from your ninja-arts phase. When you get to Greg's, he is not home yet (from what you hear, he's probably trolling the local TG Friday's for desperate women). You don't have any trouble with the shitty lock on his back door; why does everybody always put the good lock on the front door? You settle in the darkness behind his front door, and wait.
The ugly details don't matter; he's unwary, middle-aged (hadn't spotted the toupee), and out of shape. By the time you're through, he's gonna have sore balls for a couple of lifetimes, and he'll need some minor plastic surgery on that smirking face of his. You're not trying for anything fatal, or even crippling (except maybe to his 'love' life); but he'll get the message to lay off other men's women. Just to confuse things, you leave behind the informatively misleading message you printed up on the PC at the local Kinko's: LEAVE MY GIRLS ALONE, PINK BOY! You have no idea what it means to him; you have hopes that it will confuse the cops just as much, if he even dares call the cops. The way he operates, you hope he won't, for fear of having too much come out about his sexual habits.
In one pocket, you have a couple of bankbooks for numbered accounts in the Grand Caymans; you don't know whether to mail them to the IRS or the cops. What an idiot, keeping stuff like that in a 'locked' desk drawer. The Kruegerrands are heavy, but someday they may come in handy. Leaving the ostentatiously broken-into drawers behind may put the cops off the trail even more.
Now, mom is free of THAT pressure. It looks to you like time to show her some really fascinating home movies. |