S.M.O.M.S: Jessica free porn video

“My name is, Jessica Mayhew, and I will have been under my son’s control for one year, five days from now.” I despise every pouting cunt in the room. They try not to stare at my nearly naked, shaved body. More than one are probably bi. I’ve heard their stories. I’ve watched them listen around the circle of chairs in the dim light of one candle. They soak up each other’s guilt and grief and shame. They need reassuring, that their suffering can be eased by sharing with other victims of the same weakness.

I am neither weak nor ashamed. My son, Patrick, pays for his transgressions. My husband has caught us on occasion, and I may have hinted at potential infidelity to Ron beforehand. Remembering the first time we were caught still gets me off when I take alone time. Ron sent Trick to the hospital. The police were called. Trick told them his father had actually saved him from a mugger. We were a tight-knit family, getting along on a knife’s edge. Patrick has his mother’s genes for strength and arrogance. Ron is simply a bastard.

I married Ron for the coke. He’s the middle man between an importer and a distributor. He’d been in and out of jail once a year, but nothing stuck harder than being caught with a few extra joints. Today, weed ain’t worth the bat of a cop’s eye. Ron is street smart, keeps his business separate from his family. We never snort it at home. Ron’s strong that way, just not in bed. He needed blow to get his dick up.

In the early years, we had sex in our Toyota mini-van, outside whatever place he used to stash his shit. We’d snort up outside and then pile into the van, to keep evidence at a minimum. I liked coke sex at first. It gave the best orgasms.

A year into our marriage, I got pregnant, and swore off the white shit for nine fucking months. After 36 hours in labor, under the best pain killers a hospital can supply, (no fucking cesarian scar for me!) I popped out a healthy male, 8 pounds. I slept for sixteen hours, to be woken by a overly helpful nurse who wanted me to breast feed the brat. Damn if that baby’s sucking instinct didn’t juice my vagina. I masturbated, ignoring the nurse’s shock. By the time the brat had sucked his fill, I was rocking and rolling under his oral and my digital grips. The suddenly indignant nuisance of a nurse took the baby back to it’s incubator or whatever. She swore under her breath, she’d never seen anything so vile.

The next day, I grabbed my brat and left the fucking hospital. I walked to the curb and thumbed a ride. The good samaritan who picked me up watched me nurse in the back seat. He took me home where he rewarded my good mothering with a hard dick. Two days after dropping another stupid human into the world, I was getting better sex than I had during my marriage. I didn’t get a chance to tell my husband.

The last thing Ron wanted was to bond with his brat. Not on purpose, he got arrested the day after I delivered. He’d spent the eve of his fatherhood, with a hooker and cocaine. The courts had been waiting for their chance. Ron caught three years of getting his ass greased with cum. He paid his defense attorney with the last of his stash.

Without a supply, I learned to prefer sex without coke. The drug fueled a powerful orgasm but killed my aftershocks. Multi-orgasmic is this woman’s prerogative. I love having six or more waves drawn out over several minutes. Between masturbating and picking up men and women, I curbed my cravings for coke with cock, cunt, and cigarettes. I’d been a three fag bitch most of my life. I managed on welfare and turning occasional tricks for friends of friends.

Patrick and I bonded well enough. In the middle of a fuck, I’d stuff an erect nipple into his screaming hole, to shut him up and to give me extra orgasms, unless I was doing a threesome or more. Paying customers sucked first. I often earned tips for nursing and fucking, unless the brat made a mess.

Patrick’s toilet training must have set a record. “You pissed by yourself, into the baby bowl? Good boy!” I’d tell him and offer my tit. It was the only breast time Patrick got, until he stopped shitting himself. Yeah, it was a grand old time, just him and me and a few dozen half-strangers. When we didn’t have a roof, we lived in the van. It died a year before Ron’s parole, but nobody bothered to steal it. Women shelters were to be avoided by any means. Cunt there tasted like sick.

Welfare doesn’t pay for cigarettes. When Ron got his parole, after three years, I was up to two packs a day. Thankfully my few friends had many, paying friends. Tobacco for a day cost the same Ron once spent for blow in a week!

At three years, I was still breastfeeding and masturbating. Patrick was the best sex toy I’ve ever owned. After picking up Ron in a borrowed car, I did have to cut down on my extra marital hook ups. Ron struggled to rebuild his business and ultimately gave up. He got lucky when one of his prison, ass buddies offered him work as a driver. It paid well enough for coffee, cigarettes, and baby clothes. I was lucky he still wanted cunt.

Ron had learned to appreciate ass fucking - he hadn’t only been a receiver - but his dick still needed a day or two, after sex, to get hard again. To show, no hard feelings for him neglecting his son, I sucked Ron when he couldn’t meet my needs. When Ron said I was making our son gay with too much tit, I told him he’d stuff dick into ass for the next two weeks. He didn’t complain after that. I don’t mind putting out the backdoor, but it’s not as fun as vibrators and breastfeeding. If anything, I think Ron got in one or two more erections than normal, on a cornhole diet.

At five years of age, Patrick stopped wanting tit. I didn’t press him. Instead I started an affair with a new mother in our apartment building. I made videos of us locked in a 69 with her baby on one of our fat milkers. They earned me several bitcoins, which I locked away from Ron’s new addiction. “Honey, I know it’s our beans and potatoes money, but if I don’t buy the elite battlecruiser, I’ll be stuck in the B ranks for three fucking months.”

I told him, if he wanted to play his fucking phone games, he could rent his ass out on CraigsList, like he had when he wanted that legendary, Digi-Mon card. “Damn you, woman! Those drooling, gay and gray engineers don’t pay shit for ass my age.”

“I’m not going to let you ruin my best years.” I screamed back at him. He was eight years older.

It made me think. What did I want to do with my life? I was an ex-coke addict, with a six year old and a husband who didn’t like to grind for in-game currency!

I’d failed high school so many times, equivalency exams had my name pre-printed on them. I loved sex, but prostitution was best handled by the experts, women with college degrees. I still had a smoking bod, if you were into stick figures. I found out too late, preferences had changed for meatier meat. My chances of finding a better ‘ride’ were not great, or so my friends with four plus years of online dating experience informed me. So I discovered religion.

“Sit up straight, Patrick.” I elbowed my nine-year old who couldn’t stop fidgeting on the bare wooden pew. He behaved better when everyone was standing, singing hymns. “Now, I’m as racist as the next stupid white bitch, but the local church welcomed me into their largely black congregation. I wasn’t even their token white person, but the other six crackers ignored me. I wanted redemption and community support. I volunteered for every charity function. I refused to proselytize. My thoughts were more about gaining rank in the organization than worshipping the hoodoos these misguided but kind folk believed in.

The problem was, black women made certain that black women controlled everything, including the men, excluding the preacher. I made a play for him, but he curled up his lip at my slight frame and swore he’d sing the devil out of me. I did like singing hymns. Patrick and I had that in common.

“Mom. I don’t like Sunday school. The boys gang up on me.” He told one evening at dinner.

“That’s because we’re white trash, Patrick.” I plopped an extra scoop of whipped potatoes. Ron had been lucky to catch a fish from the polluted inlet. It had made enough gravy for everyone’s dinner.

My husband chimed in, “I’ll teach you to fight, boy.” It was the closest thing he’d ever done to being a father to his boy.

“No! Daddy.” Patrick screamed. “I’m going to fuck them!”

Huh? I paused serving.

Ron laughed at his son. They dug into their food and no more was said.

I put Ron to bed later that night and sought out Patrick on the couch in the main room. That was his bed. “How do you mean, you’re going to fuck the boys in Sunday school?”

“That’s what the girls do. Afterwards the boys do what the girls want.” Patrick answered confidently.

“I hate to break it to you, Tricks, but most boys won’t want to fuck you.”

“No. I’m going to fuck THEM!” He emphasized quietly.

I shrugged. Who was I to stop him from trying? He’d simply get pounded harder, and that would teach him, I figured.

Hmmm. Thinking about it kept me up late that night. I didn’t even masturbate. Officially, my church of the avenging, loving god, did not have a teen mother problem. All babies were sainted upon conception and excommunicated upon birth. For example, one of the faithful I’d befriended was my age but already a great grandmother.

It took a couple weeks to find the right opportunity, but black or white, when shit hits the fan, everything goes dark. During the pot luck after our preacher’s sermons, I spotted an eight year old having intercourse with a six year old. I fetched Miss Abigail Connelly, the head of youth programs, and chatted her ear up with high praise for the sunday school teacher. We walked to the children’s activity room. I opened the door, and her face tried to lose its color.

Two weeks passed. That third Sunday, Miss Connelly handed the youth bible to me and I took charge of the class.

“Hello, boys and girls.” I spoke quickly, wanting to get to the heart of the matter. “I know you loved your previous teacher very much, and St. Paul values love over everything else.” My expression and tone darkened, “But love has to be earned, and this is my promise. I will try my best to earn your love. My name is-”

“Stupid, White Cunt!” A ten year old boy taunted, making everyone laugh.

I nodded. “That’s right, child. What’s your name?”

The boy had been expecting a rebuke. He didn’t falter, much. “M-malcome.”

I smiled. “That’s your street name, but since you gave me my Sunday school name, I’ll give you yours.” I scanned the room with a smile. “How about we call him, Loud Shit-face, hmmm?” The class went wild.

The rest of the hour went about as well.

“Before we leave, remember, if you tell anyone your Sunday school names, you’ll never be taught by this Stupid, White Cunt again.”

I gave myself a twenty percent chance of surviving until next week. By surviving, I meant not getting knifed in my sleep. Somehow, I considered the possibility of a miracle, I continued to lecture the Sunday school kids for over a year. Sample themes:

How Jesus Brought Whores to God.

Blessed are the Persecuted for They will Fuck you in the End

Pokemon May Not Have Souls, but They Do Have Cunts and Assholes.

How God Cuckolded Joseph and Raped His Son into Mary.

Steven Universe is God’s Way of Humbling False Goddesses, with Boy Cock.

James Brown is actually the Trinity of Soul.

My favorite will always be, “Mary’s Breast, Brown and Sucked Eternal.” It went something like this.

When Jesus was dying on the cross, Mary, Mother of God, kneeled before her son and prayed that he would bring salvation to the world. Satan tempted him then, “Look at your still young mother. She is brown and beautiful and her breasts are ripe as figs. Command me, Master, and I will bring her to you, in your last moments and let you repay the love and life she gave to you.”

But Jesus is immune to evil, like Luke Cage is immune to bullets. “Fie on thee, Horror and Liar.” He scoffed at Satan. “My mother, Mary, is a stone’s throw closer than you will ever come to me. Her cunt was consecrated by my Father’s seed. As Father and I are one, I am bound to her eternal. Her breast feeds love to me now and will forever, after I die and rise again. I am locked to her maternal embrace as she is locked to my penile embrace. I suck and cum. Her orgasms turn seed into milk. We will live in ecstasy, until the end of days.

It was the closest, Satan ever came to repenting. So he could share in the joy he envied.

That afternoon, a sweet girl, Fiona Guppers asked if I would be her momma. “I want to suck on you, eternal. My momma says I’m worse than a sinner for wanting that. Sunday school teachers be like Jesus, ain’t they?”

“I pray your Momma finds a better Jesus, and soon. But you keep strong with His help. You’ll make it through fire and fists, and be reborn as a sister warrior, like Grace Jones.” I kissed her forehead. I knew that Fiona rebuffed every boy’s advances. At one point I changed her sunday name, to Double Cunt. I made it an hour long celebration.”

Now, just because I was the Sunday school teacher and Patrick was almost twelve, that didn’t stop bigger boys from pounding my son for being white. He came home after church with fresh bruises, always swearing he was going to fuck them, eventually.

Ron wasn’t around, again. He’d been picked up for prostitution with intent to harm a minor. He barely escaped a serious sex-offender wrap. The boy turned out to be nineteen. Still the judge gave him a year in jail, to keep him from getting cocky. The judge didn’t know that you can get cock in jail, just as easily as you can get it in prison. I had to deal with our son’s abuse by myself, as usual.

I eventually managed to catch a few boys in the act of beating Patrick. They stopped, knowing their mothers would be told, and they would get a worse whooping. Fuck that. I looked around at their worried expressions. “I’ll give you a choice. What would you prefer, fucking a Stupid, White Cunt, or beating up a Worthless, White N------?”

They all chose to fuck me. To be clear, I had never engaged in, or offered sex to, my Sunday students. I let them find their own outlets for the excitement my lectures aroused. To be clear, I did not fuck those boys then. I only asked what they would prefer.

I did lay down and pull up my skirt. “Worthless, you show them how it’s done.” We couldn’t afford undergarments.

Patrick’s eyes popped out. My son was no stranger to any part of his mother’s body at home. I was either bathing from the sink or masturbating somewhere in the house. He made me proud that day. After two seconds of disbelief, he zipped down and launched himself on top of me. His ten year old peen slapped against me like a medium gherkin. He even managed to hump it once along my vulva. I sat up, scooted away, and told the older boys. “That’s what you could be having, but you chose the wrong white person activity.”

Patrick’s tormentors never troubled him again. They spread word across the neighborhood. Fuck with Stupid, White Cunt’s kid, and you’ll never fuck Stupid, White Cunt.

By the time I was removed from my post of spiritual guidance to young people, my students of more than one color were the most polite ladies and gentlemen you could find on this side of the city. Patrick, on the other hand had grown to be a snotty teenager.

“You need to stop smoking, Mom.” He waved my lazy fumes from his nose. I rarely smoked in the home. I preferred to walk and smoke, or set on the steps in front of the apartments. That day, I was celebrating. I’d been promoted to Youth Director at our church. After two and a half years of being a white volunteer, I finally gained discretion over a small percentage of the church’s budget. We ate at Denny’s the night I was told. The next day I was still celebrating. I even let Ron fuck me that morning. He’d gotten out of jail early on good behavior and a court mandate to ease crowding. At first I couldn’t tell which he wanted more, ass or cunt. Cunt must have been a welcome change. He spent his usual teaspoon of sperm next to my IUD defended womb.

Days after celebrating, I planned how to use the church money while sipping coffee and smoking. Patrick was studying, math or some science BS. His grades were better than mine by miles, but he’d be lucky to become a tradesman for which modern times required math and science. I stuck to the classics, Marlborough’s and Starbucks, when I could afford them. When I couldn’t, it was cigs over sips. I was up to three packs a day. Had to figure out how to pay for that extra pack with crumbs from the church’s youth program.

“Geez, you Stupid, White Cunt, I can’t breath, and I can’t study.”

I barked back, “I told you, never call me that again. I’m Jessica Mayhew, Youth Director, from now on. Say that or, Momma, or shut the fuck up.”

He stormed out, “I’m going to fuck you, someday.”

I lied. “You already did. Move on, Bitch.” Suddenly my cigarette tasted like shit. I tamped it out but saved the rest for later.

About a month into my new job, I realized how much I hated it. The church council of volunteers kept a wary eye on me. They had experience with slum poor bitches hoping to sneak a slice of the service offerings.

At least I had covered the tracks of my previous position well. I promoted the oldest girl in my class to lead Sunday school. I told her, I didn’t want to know anything that happened, during their sessions. She had free reign to mold my left-overs however she liked. Fiona Guppers gave me a knowing wink. “You bet, Sister Warrior.”

Among church adults, I never earned that kind of respect, in my new position, however I sank myself into the effort. I planned and led frugal but proper dances, moral readings for young people, trips to city parks, and coordinated events with local schools.

Three months later, I was ready to quit. I’d rather be poor and hungry and able to fuck whenever and wherever, than beg church staff members for help or a slight increase in my budget. I tell myself that, now - now that I’m a rich bitch farting fancy nouveau cuisine, when Patrick allows it.

I was still slogging away, going nowhere as my church’s youth director, when Ron stumbles home having won the organized crime lottery.

My redemption from religion started with an arrest. Ron was on every cop’s radar. They nabbed him when he happened to be carrying half a million dollars in large bills. The initial charge was counterfeiting. The bills proved genuine. They changed it to money laundering. He stuck with a simple story, one simple enough that he could remember. He found the money and was driving it to the police station. Lawyers lined up to defend him, once word got out that neither cops nor feds could pin the cash on any criminal activity or verified claimant. It took a year to get the money in a bank account with our names on it, but loan sharks swam out of the gutters to support us until it cleared.

I put my foot down. “We won’t borrow a cent from those scumbags, nor will we hire a single shyster. We’ll get everything we need from the church until our claim is settled.” Overnight I became the leading lady on the church org chart. I didn’t have to hint at making a donation. The were sure, that by elevating my administration status, I’d be an eternal fountain of charity, when the money landed.

I wasn’t the only slum poor bitch at church. It had been built on the bones of impoverished women. It spent what it could, to alleviate starvation and abortions. The preacher propositioned me. I took him up on it, a few times, mostly out of curiosity. He proved his incredible spirit could move in heavenly ways. He nearly moved me to bail on Ron and let him keep his windfall, I mean half of it. Patrick saved me by threatening blackmail.

“Everyone knows, Mom, but I’ll tell them anyway.”

It’s true. A secret that everyone knows remains a secret until it’s told. “Oh, Patrick, the preacher doesn’t want me. I’m just a taste on his sampler rack.” By saying that out loud, I realized how true it was. Instead of simply bailing on the righteous man, I introduced him to a new treat. She was seventeen, and “the brightest star in Sunday school,” according to Fiona. I told him she was nearly twenty, but she didn’t look a day over fourteen. Fortunately, that scandal didn’t emerge until after we’d managed to survive a year with gold hanging over our heads and snakes and sharks leaping from below.

“Ron!” I yelled. “Ron, listen to me.” We walked out of the bank with our new passbook. “If you even look like you’re going to dive into post-lotto poverty, I’ll confess to who really owns that money.” I didn’t know who, precisely, but I’m sure I could have said enough to reopen the case. He promised to limit future acquisitions to mythic, foil cards and rare, one-off action figures.

The reality was, we were expected to return every cent, fortunately without interest to Ron’s alt family. However, if we returned it all at once, feds would fly through the air like locusts. So, over the next few years, we lived on the interest and funneled payments to the rightful owners. It was a step up, but to no luxury destinations. We did escape the projects and rented a single bedroom near a commuter line, in a forgettable suburb an hour from downtown. Ron proved solid, not only to me but to our temporary benefactors. He was given a job managing runners.

I gave my husband the job of keeping my pussy from lacking hot cum. He was doing better at that too, but he wanted ass just as often. I took what I could get. The suburbs are a sexual wasteland, unless you’ve lived in the same neighborhood for years. Connected neighbors swapped wives and pets as often as they refueled their SUVs.

Patrick turned a spare room, not big enough to be called a bedroom, into a barely comfortable space to study and sleep. A desk and mattress was all that fit. It didn’t even have a closet. He hung his clothes from a slightly bent, coat and hat rack we found on the sidewalk.

“Mom, how stupid are you?” Patrick tapped the end of his pencil on the kitchen table. He was tired of studying in his ‘foot locker’ he called it.

I hoisted my cigarette out of my mouth and answered, “Pretty fucking stupid, Bitch. Your Momma is proud you made it to high school. How bad is that place?”

“It’s not bad, not compared to the ghetto middle school. But I’m talking about cigarettes. Just stop the fuck already.”

“Tricks, I could bullshit you about ‘do what I say - not what I do,’ but I’m a fucking addict. It was this or cocaine, or worse.”

“My social studies teacher says nicotine is worse than cocaine.”

“See, I’m more stupid than I know.”

I saw a curious look form in his eyes. My son set down his pencil and stood up. “Crush that and come with me.”

I shrugged and tapped my cig out. I could always relight it. In about twenty minutes, I was desperate to.

He led me to his parent’s bedroom and grabbed me by the throat. Patrick demonstrated how much of a man, a fourteen year-old could be with his 87 pound mother. “I’m going to fuck you now.” He wasn’t choking me as much as he was proving he could physically control me. He drove me to the bed by my neck, until my knees caught the mattress. My ass dropped to it. He let go of my neck. I drove both of my fists into his balls.

Patrick snorted and shook his head. He’d been bullied so thoroughly, his body didn’t give a shit. He simply let me beat on him until he tied my limbs to the bed’s legs.

“You fucking, shitbag! I’ll kill you, Bitch!” I screamed. He plugged my mouth with his undershorts. We could afford those now. Naked from the waist down, he unbuttoned my clothes. I watched his dick harden, while he worked off my pants He had to untie one leg briefly to get better access to my cunt, after extracting the last pant leg.

Five minutes later, after of all that build up, he didn’t fuck me. He just rattled off how stupid a junkie I was, while he jerked on his dick. If he hadn’t gagged me, I would have begged him to suck on my pussy, to shut him the fuck up. He spent his cum across my belly.

It was a lousy day. I spent it tied to my bed, until Ron when came home. In the minutes before my husband returned from work, I ran all over the small house looking for a fix. Our son had cleared out my entire stash of cigs! I nearly took an knife and murdered my son. He too, proved missing.

Ron brought home groceries. He’d taken a liking to grilling chicken, and after plunking down a family pack of legs and thighs, he wandered out back to start the grill. He ignored my lack of dress, the bruises on my wrists and ankles, and the cum in my navel. My fault. I was so often naked in the house, his old lady’s pussy didn’t distract him from his immediate craving. I tore into the shopping bags, looking for cigarettes. Son of a bitch didn’t smoke! One of our neighbors did. I wondered if he would give me cigarettes for a fuck. Later I was glad he didn’t. He turned out to be gay and also a shithead.

Patrick returned. He held up a strange device. It looked like a tiny vibrator, half metal, half plastic.

“You’re going to rape your mom with that?”

“Nah, Momma, it’s a vape. You smoke it.”

I grabbed the fucking thing out of his hand and sucked as hard as I could on it.

“Wait, Stupid. Turn it on first.”

He showed me the switch. Seconds later, I was inhaling and exhaling nicotine steam like a locomotive. After an hour, I told myself I could get used to it. I didn’t cough as much the next morning. However, it felt funny on my lips, and the taste was almost boring, compared to poisonous, burning tobacco.”

After breaking my fast with half a charge of nicotine fluid, I got my purse and walked to the corner store. I returned home, much happier. “Hey, Tricks, did you make breakfast yet?” I was famished.

Patrick strode out of the kitchen and grabbed my purse. I fought him and instantly lost. “I can smell their stink on you.” He pulled out six boxes of smokes, one was open and half empty, “When Dad leaves for work, I’m going to fuck you.”

Until then, he fed me one pancake and apple slices. “God, I’m stuffed.” I complained, but he insisted I eat every slice.

“Mom, I’ve got big plans for you.” He cracked a smile. Patrick wasn’t a dour child, but he didn’t smile often. I felt a pang of regret. I never should have give up on the preacher man. That was a dependable cock without any games. True to my son’s word, after his father bicycled to the train station, he took my arm and hauled me back into bed. This time, after securing me with knotted t-shirts, I tried not to give him a reason to gag me.

“Tricks, just let Mommy smoke her cigarettes. How do you know I won’t stab you in your sleep?” Saying that turned out to be reason enough to gag me. His warm shorts tasted of pee and cum, a combo I’m not unfamiliar with, just not with his variants.

Once more, after stripping me, my son jacked off into my navel. At noon he jacked off again, spurting hot cum across my belly. “Remember, Mom, I could have fucked you.” He untied one of my hands and let me untie the others.

I caught up with him in the kitchen. The smell of mustard drew me. A turkey sandwich with lettuce and tomato waited for me. Next to it was my vape and my purse. I tried to suck steam and eat at the same time. I could only eat half. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“I’m keeping up. I have a paper you signed, claiming I’ll be homeschooled, this quarter. That ought to be long enough to take a bite out of your addiction.”

“I didn’t sign anything like that.”

“You just don’t remember. You would have signed our fortune away for that vaporizer, last night.”

“Hah, some fortune. We get pennies, while the boss’s family burns hundred dollar bills to light cigars.”

Quick as a whip, Patrick pulled my dearest companion out of my mouth. “Now stand up and shake it out, Mom. Get that blood flowing through your hands and feet.”

“Hell, Son, I’ve got housework. That nonsense is built in. Now gimme the vape!”

“I’m taking charge of your addiction, Mom. I’ll give it to you when you’ve earned it.”

“Jesus Christ, Patrick, I’m tired of your games. Now fuck me and give me that God DAMNED mouth needle!” That earned me another five hours of rest, with the same stink in my mouth except moldier. My son gave my tits a cum soaking around tea time.

Ron returned home to his wife sucking on a metal and plastic pacifier in a manner that made him want to suck me. After bringing my levels of blood nicotine back online, I accommodated his wish. “How much does it cost to cast out a child not quite fifteen?” I asked my husband afterward. He responded with satisfied snores. I tried every toy in my dresser that night, but none answered me. I needed dick.

Over the next week, I learned to accept my son’s weird attempt to put me on the wagon. I decided he was dual tasking, getting my system less dependent on nicotine and getting off on his mom’s skinny body. Once, I managed to free myself. I found him deep in thought over a pile of text books. Shit. That was a drug I wish I’d been addicted to. My freedom didn’t last. He heard me scrounging to find my vape.