I was 18 years old when I first became aware of my father's gambling problem. Throughout my c***dhood I had grown used to his absence in the evenings, but the reasons had never been explained to me. Then one day as I was fixing my bike on the front lawn, an extremely large, intimidating black man came up the driveway. He wore a mauve suit, and had huge gold rings in his fingers. He asked for my father, so I ran inside to fetch him. My father told me and my mother to wait inside while he went out to speak to the man.
After a few minutes we heard shouting, then my mother held me in a hug to prevent me from going to look out of the window. I can still remember the fragrant smell of her perfume and the soft silk of her blouse as she held me tightly to her breast that day. I was shivering with fear as the row grew louder and we heard crashing sounds. Then eventually a car screeched away and my father came back into the house. His mouth was swollen and he had a gash above his eye -- the man had beaten him up. My mother ran to attend to him as I cried and pleaded for an explanation.
That evening we ate dinner in silence as my father's face swelled up further and his eyes turned blue and black. After dinner my father went out, pushing my mother away as she tried to prevent him from leaving. With a sigh my mother sat me down and explained everything to me. She told me that my father was a gambler and that he was unable to stop. The man who had come that day was a notorious local gangster and pimp to whom my father owed a great deal of money.
My mother Maureen was a strong and handsome woman, Irish stock turned Southern Belle, with red hair and beautiful blue eyes, which filled with tears as she recounted our hopeless situation. When I asked how we were going to repay the man she just shook her head and said, "your father has gone out gambling again. He thinks he can win the money back".
Needless to say, he didn't win the money back. Just a few days later the black man was back, and this time he came into the house, without knocking. We all fell into stunned silence as he stalked around the floor, looking over the furniture as if he owned the place. I was stuck to my dining chair, terrified. He walked up to my mother, looked her up and down, then grinned and nodded to himself. He let out a small whistle while leering at her fine breasts, modestly dressed in a cream-colored blouse. Then he turned to my father, who was shaking visibly.
"Frank", the man said, addressing my father and shaking his head. "Frank, Frank, Frank. You know what day it is, Frank?"
"P-Please, Bones, I can explain ... ," my father stammered.
"WHAT DAY IS IT TODAY, FRANK?" the man screamed, stepping forward.
"T-Tuesday, Bones, its T-T-Tuesday ..."
"That's right. Its Tuesday. And its Mr Jackson to punks like you who don't pay their debts."
"Yes Mr Jackson, s-sorry Mr Jackson," my father offered pathetically.
Then Mr Jackson looked at me.
"Go to your room, k**," he said, and I obeyed in an instant, scurrying up the stairs.
"I didn't want the k** to see this," I heard him say to my father from the top of the stairs. "But I'm afraid this fine-lookin' wife of yours is going to have to stay, so I can show her what a pathetic loser she's married to. Now ... get on your knees Frank."
"Please Mr Jackson, please ...not in front of my wife, I'm begging you," I heard my father whimper, followed by a loud slap.
"ON YOUR KNEES! I won't tell you again, chump."
Then it fell silent. Although I couldn't see from the top of the stairs, a lump rose to my throat at the thought of my father being f***ed to kneel before another man, and in front of my sweet mother to boot.
"Good", said Mr Jackson. "Now get on all fours so I can kick your ass."
There was a horrible silence as my poor father complied. The kick was so hard I heard it from my perch on the landing.
"Say 'thank you Mr Jackson'."
I heard my father mumble the words.
"Say it louder. Say 'thank you Mr Jackson for showing my wife what a pathetic loser I am'. Go on Frank, say it! Say it loud."
"Thank you ... Mr Jackson ... for ... showing my ... wife ... what a pathetic loser I am."
This time my father's voice was loud and clear. I'll never forget the sound. Then I heard Mr Jackson address my mother.
"What's your name, sugar?"
"Maureen," she said.
"So what do you think of this guy on all fours here, Maureen? Pretty pathetic, huh? I guess you must wish you married a real man, instead of this punk who owes me $40,000."
My mother said nothing.
"You know what I just love, Maureen?"
"Whats that?" she said.
"I just love cute-assed, married white women in their 40s who know how to stay in shape. That's what I love."
"Is that right?" my mother said, with a hint of defiance.
"Sure is," he said. "And you know what else I love? Redheads. Love 'em. Yes Sir, I sure do love a redhead. So how about, since Frank here can't take care of his own affairs, you help him out a little? You see, til I get paid, I'm gonna be needing some interest payments. I'd say a little peek in mommy's panties and a taste of red pussy would do just fine. I should warn you though Maureen, once you've had black, there ain't no turning back, that's what they say. But then I can't imagine you're getting much from Frank here anyhow. So -- how about you show old Bones here to mommy and daddy's bedroom?"
"No!" my father cried. "Please, no ..."
"Frank," I heard my mother's voice say. "Its OK." She sounded so strong, so self-possessed. Then she turned to Mr Jackson.
"Just don't hurt him any more OK?"
"Whatever you say, baby."
There was a short silence, then my mother spoke.
"This way," she whispered.
I hurried into my room as I heard them approach the stairs. I listened at the door as my dear mother, aged 43 later that year, led this man, a black man, a gangster, a stranger, up the stairs to her bedroom. I shuddered as I heard the door close. The room was adjacent to mine, and I could hear the man boasting through the wall.
"I hope you like 'em big Maureen," he was saying, laughing. "But then I know you do. I can see it in those pretty blue eyes of yours."
I wanted to go and see if my father was alright, but I didn't dare leave the room, and couldn't face him after what I had heard. I hid in my bed under the covers for a few minutes, but my thoughts could not escape the scene in the next room, and something compelled me to go and listen. I went to the wall and held a glass to my ear.
"That's a great pair of titties, Maureen," he was saying. "You are one fine lady. That's it, down on your knees. Lick it. Ahh, that's good. Now take it into your mouth -- mm! -- fine, fine bitch. That's it, mamma. Suck my black dick."
The sound was so clear I could hear muffled groans and slurps. My heart was thumping like a hammer. Standing there with my ear to the wall I lost all track of time. I heard a loud groan, then Mr Jackson's gruff voice again.
"All right, bitch, get on the bed and open your legs. That's it. What a fine sight. Love that red pussy. Open them wider for Bones. Bones Jackson gonna fuck your red pussy good. Gonna make you scream for Frankie."
My mother spoke softly. I thought I could make out "Please don't hurt me."
"I ain't gonna hurt you baby. You can take this. Fine bitch like you. Tomorrow you'll be beggin' for more. Now lift that pussy. Show it to me. That's it. Easy does it."
I heard my mother cry out, then a series of sounds -- the bed creaking, my mother squeaking and groaning, and Mr Jackson sighing and exclaiming. Occasionally he shouted out.
"Get in that pussy! Get in there! Take it all, bitch!"
It went on for a long time, then I heard him issue commands to my mother.
"Turn around now, bitch. Get on all fours like your husband. Show me that ass! That's it. Good girl."
There followed more rhythmic sounds accompanied by slaps and occasional cries from my mother. Finally there was a loud cry from my mother, faster thrusting and then a loud groan from Mr Jackson. Then all fell silent. I was in a daze of disbelief. I suddenly became aware of my own surroundings and feelings. I noticed to my shame that my penis was erect. In fact, it was hard as stone. I felt it throb, and then felt the cum spout forth into my pants. Burning with confusion and embarrassment, I cleaned myself up as best I could, then collapsed onto the bed. I only vaguely recall hearing Mr Jackson leave. When I emerged hours later, my mother served us dinner in absolute silence. Not one word was said about Mr Jackson's visit. After dinnner my father went out as usual, and my mother made no attempt to stop him this time.
After that incredible day, Mr Jackson visited regularly, once every couple of weeks, sometimes more, and every time my father would stand aside meekly while he had his way with my mother. He would even be subservient and offer him drinks when he arrived. I was told that I should also be hospitable toward Mr Jackson. My perverted spying became more sophisticated, and I managed to catch glimpses of the action several times, using keyholes, ladders and other devices. I saw my own mother with her legs in the air, a black man pounding into her, her face flushed and her eyes closed. I saw her on her knees with Mr Jackson's enormous cock in her mouth. Once I came home from school to find Mr Jackson fucking my mom from behind over the kitchen table. I quietly crept closer and managed to see the whole act without detection. And every time I would masturbate furiously in my room. My father still gambled, and my mother still payed the permanent interest on his debts.
One day, Mr Jackson arrived in a huge new cadillac.
"Hey Frank," he said to my father as he sauntered into the house. "Like my new car? It needs a wash. Get to it."
I watched in disbelief as my father obeyed, and went out with his bucket to wash the car of the man who was fucking his wife inside. Worse was to come. The next time it happened, my father told me to help him wash Mr Jackson's car. I angrily refused, only for Mr Jackson to intervene and order me to do as he said. I always obeyed Mr Jackson -- he was a man you just did not want to contradict. So it became a routine -- my father and I washing Mr Jackson's cadillac while my mother entertained him in the house, and my spying came to a natural end. Eventually I even began to enjoy the work and take pride in the finish of the exterior and the shine of the leather seats. It was all that my father and I had to take pride in on those days. I became a very thorough and accomplished cleaner and polisher.
Almost a year after Mr Jackson's visits had begun, he arrived one day out of the blue, accompanied by two black men who were even bigger than him. My father told me they were his bodyguards as they came though the door.
"Get to work, Frank" said Mr Jackson, and my father went to fetch the cleaning things.
"What are they doing here?" I asked, somewhat testily, gesturing towards the two men.
"Shut your mouth and get outside, boy," Mr Jackson rebuked me.
I looked at my mother.
"Its OK," she assured me. "Go on outside and clean the car."
I did as they asked. My father said nothing. As we washed the car I asked him what was going on inside.
"I don't know, son," he said. "Its best not to interfere. Your mother will be fine."
I wasn't sure what he meant by that but I knew I didn't like it. They took longer than usual inside and my father and I had to wait outside once we had finished, as Mr Jackson had instructed us we should do. Eventually the three men came out, chuckling to each other.
"Hot damn!" said one of the men.
"Christmas bonus, boys," said Mr Jackson, and they drove away laughing.
The next time he visited Mr Jackson came alone, but a few months later he again arrived with a stranger. This time it was a sharply-dressed black man, smaller and slighter than Mr Jackson but a big man nonetheless. This time I took to my duties outside without a word, and my father did not mention the stranger the whole time we were washing the car. Again they were longer than usual inside the house, and the stranger smirked at my father as he emerged through the front door.
"I like your wife," he said. "You're a lucky man."
Then he laughed. As the two men walked towards the car, I saw the man hand two $50 bills to Mr Jackson. This episode was repeated a few times over the next few months, with a different man accompanying Mr Jackson every time.
I started to get strange looks around the town, with people pointing and giggling. One day at school some older black boys called me over. One of them asked me about the "car wash" service we were running at our house.
"My uncle's a buddy of Bones Jackson, and he told me your place has the best service in town," he said, and the two other boys collapsed in peals of laughter.
Worse was to come. A couple of weeks later, when Mr Jackson arrived at our house, the same three boys who had teased me at school were with him. My heart sank when I saw them. They were giggling with excitement as they got out of the car.
"Get to the car, washer-boy!" one of them shouted. "We're gonna pay a visit to your mom!"
It was dark by the time my father and I were allowed back into the house. The boys came out gloating and making obscene gestures, gestures which would become horribly familiar to me as they taunted me in the schoolyard in the months to come. Everyone has heard their mother called a whore at one time or another, but for me, I knew that the taunts were true, and I flushed with shame every time I heard it. Several times the boys would beat me, just for fun, and tell me I was a sissy wimp just like my father, and that I should learn to suck dick like my mother.
One day the black boys accosted me in the locker room while they were changing from football practice. The ringleader, Duane, made me kneel in front of him, then took his penis out in front of my face. He told me he was going to make me suck it. I can still see that thick black penis, hanging menacingly close to my nose. I could smell the sweat on it. When he told me to lick it, I extended my tongue, but he pulled it away, laughing and calling me a faggot. The other boys slapped my face and gave me some kicks.
That night, despite my humiliation, I found myself masturbating and thinking about what had happened, and what might have happened. I imagined Duane's thick black cock in my mouth, imagined sucking and worshipping it as I had seen my mother do. I had never felt so horny as I stroked my little cock and drifted away in fantasy.
School became hell for me after that, and I was very isolated. No boys wanted to be seen associating with me, and no girl would look at me, for they all saw the treatment I got, and had probably heard the rumors about my f****y too. But worse was to come.