Charity Sessions

I don’t even count them anymore. It’s just part of my life now, like brushing my teeth or folding laundry. Except instead of fluoride, I taste precum and cheap body odor. Instead of cotton sheets, I feel his clammy fingers gripping the back of my head, yanking my throat onto his dick like I’m a piece of furniture he’s allowed to use.

I still call it charity. That word keeps me sane. He’s a depressed creep—my son’s classmate, Kevin. Ugly, fat, short, permanently greasy hair, glasses so thick they magnify his bloodshot eyes. No girl would ever touch him. No one would even look at him twice, except to sneer. I’m doing the world a favor, really. I’m the one who gets down on her knees and lets him shove his cock so deep I gag, my mascara running, drool soaking his filthy cargo shorts. He doesn’t kiss. He doesn’t caress. He just holds my head in place and throat-fucks me like I’m a warm hole with a pulse.

Today was at the public library.

I know what you’re thinking—how reckless. But that’s the point. The risk makes it feel less like sex and more like a mission. I wore a trench coat, no panties, heels. I sat at a corner table, pretending to read a parenting book. Kevin waddled over ten minutes later, pretending he needed help with a research paper. I played along. “Of course, I can help you find sources, sweetie.” I smiled, big and maternal, while he sat next to me, his hand already crawling up my thigh under the table.

I kept my voice steady. “You’re looking for psychological studies on loneliness, right?” I said, loud enough for the librarian to hear. Meanwhile, I unzipped his pants under the tablecloth. His dick sprung out—short but thick, uncut, always smelling faintly of sour laundry. I didn’t even look down. I just leaned forward, positioned my head over his lap, and took him into my mouth.

The table hid everything. From the front, it looked like I was reading over a book. But from his side, my throat was full of his cock. He grabbed my hair and started moving my head. I let him. I’ve learned to relax my gag reflex completely. It’s a skill. I can breathe through my nose while his shaft scrapes my uvula. I can hum to vibrate his tip, which makes him grunt and thrust faster.

The librarian passed by. I locked eyes with her and smiled around his dick, nodding as if we were discussing a fine point. She smiled back. “Do you need any help finding that article?”

“No thank you,” I said, pulling my mouth off his cock just long enough to speak, then sinking back down. She walked away. Kevin came three minutes later—a hot, bitter load that I swallowed without flinching.

I wiped my lips, zipped him up, and returned to my book like nothing happened.

That was the third time I got caught this week. The first was at the park bench. A jogger saw my head bobbing in Kevin’s lap and did a double take. I explained, calm as can be, that I was teaching him a technique to relieve sinus pressure. “It’s a medical thing,” I said, and she nodded and jogged off. The second was in the school parking lot. Another mom saw me leaning into Kevin’s car window. I said I was helping him fix a loose seatbelt. She waved.

It’s always believed. Because why would a respectable mother, married, two kids, nice house, be on her knees for her son’s ugly classmate? The truth is so absurd, it’s invisible.

My life has changed. Not in the way you’d think. I don’t feel degraded or broken. I feel… efficient. I’ve stopped worrying about so many things. My husband and I barely touch anymore, but that’s fine—Kevin takes the edge off. My son thinks I’m wonderfully supportive of his nerdy friend. I bake him cookies. I offer to drive him home. I’m the perfect mom.

And when Kevin texts—usually a single emoji, like the eggplant or the tongue—I drop everything. I meet him in the back alley of the grocery store. In the laundry room during his band practice. In the handicapped stall at the movie theater. I kneel. I open. I take. It’s a routine now. My throat is always ready, slightly swollen, always a bit sore. I consider it a gentle reminder of my purpose.

He’s getting more aggressive. Last session, he choked me so hard I saw stars. He came so deep I nearly choked on the volume. I coughed for five minutes after. But I thanked him. Because that’s what you do when you give charity—you don’t complain about the recipient’s manners. You just accept that their need is greater than yours.

Sometimes I wonder if this will ever end. Probably not. He’ll graduate, get a job, maybe find a girlfriend. But for now, I’m his. His secret throat. His public charity case. And I’ll keep this diary for myself, a record of every session, every dizzying moment of being used.

Because someone has to remember that even a mother can be a hole, if it helps someone feel alive.