Junkie Mom Chapter 1

Claire, a married mother of two, from manchester, has to trade her cunt for drugs.

It was a bitter cold winter night in Manchester and despite the thick wool coat Claire was freezing. She’d been stood outside Mark’s flat on the Harpurhey estate for nearly twenty minutes, boots sinking into the slush on the cracked concrete landing. Her breath came out in quick white puffs that disappeared fast. The wind cut through the coat like broken bottles, making her hug it tighter round her slim frame, same navy duffle she’d worn to every parents’ evening and Christmas market for the last five years. Underneath she had dark jeans hugging her hips and thighs, a plain grey jumper that still smelled faintly of the kids’ washing powder, and the black ankle boots she wore for school runs. At forty-three she was still trim from years of chasing after toddlers who were now schoolkids, her dark hair dragged back into a messy ponytail that had started neat but was now falling apart from the wind and her fidgeting fingers. She looked exactly like what she was trying to convince herself she still was: just another ordinary mum on her way home from a late errand.

But the real cold was deeper, right in her chest, where the craving sat like a fist squeezing her lungs.

She should leave. She knew it with every bit of sense she had left. Gary’d be pacing the living room right now, mobile in his hand, ringing round her mates, her sister, maybe even thinking about the police. The kids would be asleep upstairs, Emma with her stuffed rabbit tucked under her chin, Liam sprawled across his bed with that rocket nightlight glowing soft. She could still turn round, walk the six blocks home through the quiet Moston streets, slip into bed beside her husband, pretend she’d just needed to clear her head after a long day. She could quit. Tomorrow. She always told herself tomorrow.

But tomorrow never came.

Her hand shook as she lifted it to the bell. Froze. Dropped. Tears stung her eyes, hot against the cold.

“I’m not this person,” she whispered to the peeling paint on the doorframe. “I’m not. I bake fairy cakes for school fairs. I fold tiny socks. I kiss boo-boos and read bedtime stories about brave little trains. I’m a wife. A mum. I’ve never even looked at another man. Not once. I’m not this.”

The craving was pure chemical hell: jittery emptiness, thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind without that sharp hit to pin them down, bone-deep ache that made her want to claw her own skin off. Six months ago she’d never touched meth. Six months ago she was still ironing school uniforms and packing lunchboxes. Now she was here, on a bleak Harpurhey landing at 11:40 p.m., hoping, praying, she could get just enough to make it through the night without collapsing in front of her family.

She rang the bell.

Footsteps. Bolts sliding. One after another. The door opened.

“Claire,” Mark said slowly, eyes raking over her like she was meat on a hook. “Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon. Get in here, it’s bloody freezing out there.”

He stepped aside. She crossed the threshold. The door closed behind her. Bolts again. Click. Click. Click.

“Coat off and sit,” he said. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

The sitting room hit her with a wall of stale heat. She peeled the coat off, hung it on the hook. The place was a tip: empty energy drink cans everywhere, clothes piled on the sofa, faint smell of weed and unwashed skin. It didn’t feel like a home. It felt like a cage she kept walking into.

She sat on the edge of the sofa, knees pressed tight, hands clasped so he wouldn’t see them shake. All she could think about was the shaking getting worse, the sweat starting under her arms, the way her stomach was twisting into knots. She needed the hit. Nothing else mattered.

Mark came back shirtless, tracksuit bottoms slung low, cock already half-hard under the fabric. He sat across from her, legs spread wide.

“So,” he said. “What d’you need tonight, Claire?”

She swallowed. “I need a fix. Just a little. I feel like I’m dying without it.”

“How much?”

“Whatever you can spare.” Her voice cracked. “I haven’t got any money. Gary blocked the cards. But I’ll pay you back. I swear.”

Mark shook his head, tutted. “Same old story every junkie tells. No tick. You know the rules.”

“Please, Mark.” Tears welled. “I’ve already asked everyone else. They all said no. I’m begging you.”

He leaned back, arms crossed, watching her with flat eyes. Silence stretched. The radiator ticked behind her. She could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.
“Tell you what,” he said at last, voice low. “Go home. Kiss your kids goodnight. Tell your husband you love him. Get some help. This ends one of two ways: you quit now, or you end up like every other slag who comes through that door: broke, used, and still fiending. Your choice.”

The words landed like punches. She could picture it: Gary’s worried face when she walked in, the kids’ sleepy smiles, the warmth of the duvet. She could still have that life. She could walk out right now.
But her hands were shaking so badly she had to press them between her knees.

“I can’t go home like this,” she whispered. “Not shaking. Not sweating. Not feeling like my skin’s crawling off. Just one more. Please. I’ll do anything.”

Mark tilted his head. “Anything?”

She nodded, throat tight.

He let the silence drag another ten seconds.
“Clean my flat then. Top to bottom. Scrub the kitchen, hoover, wipe down the walls. All of it. Tonight.”

Relief flooded her. “Yes. Yes, I’ll do it. I’ll start right now. Where’s the hoover? I’ll—”

He held up a hand. “Nah. Not tonight. You look like you’d collapse halfway through. Come back tomorrow. Sober. Clean. And do it properly. Or don’t come back at all.”

Her stomach dropped. Tomorrow? She couldn’t survive until tomorrow. The thought of another full day of withdrawal made bile rise in her throat.

“Please,” she said, voice breaking. “I can’t wait. I need it tonight. I’ll clean now. I’ll stay all night if I have to. I’ll do extra. I’ll—”

“Extra?” He leaned forward now, elbows on knees, face closer. His breath smelled faintly of energy drink and smoke. “What kind of extra, Claire?”

She froze. The air between them thickened.
“I don’t know. Whatever you want. Just please. I’ll run errands. I’ll go to the shop for you. I’ll sort your post, make phone calls, anything that isn’t… I mean, I’m not like that. There has to be something else. Please.”

He studied her. Then, slowly, he smiled, not kind, not amused, just cold.

“How about a blowjob?”

The word hung there like a blade.

Claire’s breath caught. She stared at him, waiting for the punchline, for him to laugh and say he was joking. He didn’t.

“What?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“You heard me. One quick suck and you walk out with a shard. Easy. Or you leave empty-handed and spend the next twenty-four hours praying your heart doesn’t explode in your chest.”

She shook her head, automatic. “No. I can’t. I’m married. I’ve got kids. I’ve never done anything like that. Not with anyone but Gary. Please, there has to be something else.”

Mark shrugged. “There is. Door’s right there.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t raise his voice. Just sat, legs wide, watching her unravel.
Tears spilled down her cheeks. She wiped them with shaking fingers.

“I could wash your clothes. Iron them. Cook you something. I’m good at cooking. I make a decent shepherd’s pie. Or—”

He cut her off with a low laugh. “Shepherd’s pie. That’s cute. You think I want your mummy cooking? I want my dick sucked, Claire. Simple transaction. You get high. I get off. Everyone wins.”

She pressed her lips together, tasting salt. Her mind raced, excuses, bargains, ways out, but every path circled back to the same place.

“I can’t,” she said again, quieter.

Mark leaned in closer, voice dropping to a murmur that raised the hairs on her neck.

“You can. You just don’t want to admit it yet. But you’re still sitting here. You haven’t run. That tells me everything I need to know.”

He reached out, slow, deliberate, and brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb. The touch made her flinch.

“So,” he said, almost gently. “What’s it gonna be? Suck my cock, or leave empty-handed and explain to your husband why you came home shaking like a leaf?”

The room felt smaller. The radiator ticked louder. Her pulse hammered in her throat.
She looked at the door. Then at him. Then down at her hands, trembling, useless.

Tears kept falling.

She didn’t stand up.

Mark’s smile widened, just a fraction.
“That’s what I thought.”

He stood up, grabbed her chin, forced her eyes up.

“You’re gonna suck my cock because you need that meth more than you need to be a good wife and mum. Isn’t that right?”

She nodded once, broken.

“Good girl.”

“But please,” she begged, “let me hit first. If I’m high it won’t feel so bad.”

He considered it. High bitches were wilder, kinkier. But the crueller part of him wanted her sober, wanted her to feel every degrading second.

“No,” he said. “Cum first. Then you get it.”

She nodded in defeat.

Mark pulled his tracksuit bottoms and boxers down, sat back, cock springing up, thick, veiny, eight inches, leaking.

Claire stared. Bigger than Gary. Shame burned her cheeks.

He grabbed her hair, yanked her head down.
“Suck that dick, you worthless junkie slag.”

She opened her mouth. He shoved in. Salty, musky, sour. She gagged immediately. He held her head with both hands and fucked her throat, short, brutal thrusts that made her retch. Drool poured down her chin, soaked her top. Tears streamed.

“Yeah, gag on it, you cock-sucking whore. Choke on my dick like the pathetic mum who’d rather suck dealer cock than read bedtime stories to her kids.”

She pushed at his thighs. He slapped her face, hard.

“Don’t fight. Suck.”

She stopped fighting. Sucked. Moved her head. Gripped the base. Jerked him while she worked. Hated the taste. Hated the stretch in her jaw.

Mark groped her tits through her top, pinched her nipples until she whimpered around his cock.

“Balls now, slag.”

She pulled off, licked down the shaft, around the base, down to his balls. Licked them. Sucked one into her mouth, then the other. Moaned a little, pretending, hoping it would end faster.

Mark laughed. “Look at you. Faithful wife, PTA mum, now licking my sweaty balls for a twenty-quid shard. What a fucking disgrace to your family.”

Tears fell faster.

She moved back up, took him deep, sucked harder, faster, desperate.

Mark groaned. “Fuck, that’s good. Keep going, junkie slag.”

Another minute. Then he yanked her off by the hair.

“Get up.”

She stood, shaking.

“Trousers down. I’m fucking you.”

“No,” she said. “That wasn’t the deal.”

“Deal changed. Cunt out or get out.”

She felt sick. Wanted to run. Needed the meth more.

She unbuttoned her trousers, pulled them and knickers to her knees, bent over the sofa. Arse and cunt exposed.

Mark laughed. “Shaved bald. What a nasty little slag.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a condom, tore the wrapper with his teeth, rolled it on slowly while staring at her.
Claire swallowed. “You’re wearing it, right? You have to wear it.”

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “I’m wearing it. Relax.”

He rubbed his cock along her slit. Barely wet. He spat on his hand, wiped it on the condom, pressed the head to her entrance, pushed in slowly but hard.

Claire groaned, pain, stretch. Bigger than Gary. Much bigger.

“Oh fuck, tight fanny,” he groaned, sinking balls-deep. “Your husband must love this cunt. Too bad he’s home wanking while you’re getting railed for drugs.”

She hated him saying Gary’s name. Wanted to forget she was cheating. Gary’s face flashed, smiling at her over tea, holding her hand at parents’ evenings.

Mark picked up pace, fucking hard. Balls slapping. “Take that cock, you filthy whore. Giving it up for a hit. What a worthless cunt.”

She moaned, pain, not pleasure. But her body started to respond against her will, slicking up. Humiliating.

He pulled out suddenly, ripped the condom off in one rough motion, threw it beside her face so she could see it land, then plunged back in bare.

“What the fuck!” she screamed, bucking, trying to rise. “No! Put it back on! Get off me!”

He pinned her down with his weight, one hand clamping her wrist behind her back, the other around her throat.

“Shut up and take it, bitch. I’m gonna fill this married cunt and send you home leaking my spunk for your husband to find.”

She struggled harder, twisting, kicking, voice cracking into sobs. “No! Stop! Please, Mark, don’t… you promised!”

He fucked through her pleas, harder now, balls slapping against her. “Promised nothing. You’re the one who bent over. Now shut up and let me finish.”

She begged, tears streaming. “Please… don’t cum inside… I can’t…”

He snarled, hand tightening on her throat. “I’m gonna cum. Here it comes.”

“No… please…”

He roared, buried deep, erupted, hot, thick spurts flooding her unprotected. Pulse after pulse.

Claire stopped fighting. Felt it fill her. Too late.

He stayed on top, breathing hard, then pulled out. His cock popped free. Thick trail of spunk mixed with a little blood ran down her thigh, puddled on the sofa.

She was broken. Wanted to kill him. Wanted to kill herself more. She deserved it.

Then the shard landed beside her.

Her heart lurched. Excitement stabbed through the despair. She grabbed it, hands shaking, pulled the pipe from her bag, loaded, lit, inhaled deep.

Bang.

Skin buzzed. Heart jackhammered. Pupils blew wide. Jaw clenched. Every nerve lit up like fireworks. No better feeling in the world.
She laughed, hoarse, manic, and thought: maybe tonight wasn’t so bad. She got what she needed. He got what he wanted. Fair trade.

The horny rush rolled in, filthy, unstoppable, stronger than anything she’d felt before. She rubbed her thighs together, felt the sticky spunk squish inside her ruined knickers.

Mark watched from across the room, cock limp and glistening. Saw her scramble for the shard like a starving animal.

“Pathetic,” he said. “Spunk still dripping out of your sloppy hole and you’re already fiending again. You’re not even a person anymore. Just a walking cum-rag with a pipe.”

She laughed, cracked voice. “Maybe I am.”

He walked over, grabbed her hair, yanked her head back.

“You know what I did tonight? I raped you. Dry. No lube. No mercy. Took the rubber off and filled you up anyway. And you’re sitting here smoking meth and rubbing that raped cunt like it was the best thing that ever happened to you. You’re fucking disgusting.”

He spat on her face. The glob hit her cheek, ran down to mix with the drying spunk.

Claire shivered. Her fingers slipped inside her trousers, rubbed her clit through the soaked knickers.

“I know,” she whispered. “I’m disgusting.”

He laughed. “Keep rubbing, whore. Rub that raped fanny while you smoke. Maybe I’ll fuck you again later if you’re lucky.”

He walked away.

Claire loaded the rest of the shard into the pipe with trembling fingers, the glass already warm from the first hit. She flicked the lighter, held the flame to the bowl, and sucked deep, longer this time, greedy, pulling the smoke all the way into her lungs until her chest burned. She held it, eyes rolling back, then exhaled a thick, chemical cloud that hung in the stale air like guilt.

The rush slammed her harder, faster, hotter. Her skin felt electric, every nerve screaming. Her cunt throbbed, swollen and raw from the rape, still leaking his spunk in slow, sticky trails down her inner thighs. She shoved her hand deeper into her jeans, knickers sodden and clinging, fingers plunging into the mess of cum and her own slick. She rubbed her clit in frantic circles, the wet squelch loud in the quiet room.

“Filthy fucking junkie,” she muttered to herself, voice hoarse and cracked. “Raped cunt still dripping his load and you’re wanking like a desperate slag.”

She hated the words, hated how true they felt. Hated how her body didn’t care. Her hips bucked against her own hand, smearing the spunk across her palm, mixing it with her juices. The high made everything sharper, the ache in her stretched hole, the sting where he’d slapped her face, the taste of his cock still coating her tongue. She fucked two fingers inside herself, curling them, chasing the edge.

“Dirty… raped… whore,” she gasped, tears streaming down her cheeks even as her body clenched. The orgasm hit like a fist, violent, shuddering, ripping through her so hard her legs gave out. She collapsed forward onto the sofa, face pressed into the cushion that still smelled of Mark’s sweat and spunk, hips jerking, cunt spasming around her fingers while fresh tears soaked the fabric. Her thighs trembled, slick with cum and her own release, the smell of sex and meth smoke thick around her.

She hated every second of it. Hated the way her body betrayed her, hated the high that made shame feel like fire, hated herself most of all.

The peak crashed fast. The euphoria drained away, leaving her empty, cold, trembling. The comedown was already clawing at the edges, that sick, hollow ache that would only get worse.

She curled into a ball on the sofa, knees to chest, spunk drying sticky on her thighs and fingers.

She stared at the wall.

Tomorrow she’d need more.

She always needed more.

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Written by [email protected]
All feedback welcome

Note: if this story feels familiar, it is a rewrite of a previous story "Meth whore". I wrote that story quickly and wanted to expand it and write more chapters, but wasn't happy with how it was.

So this is it expanded, and moved to the UK. Quite a few chapters to follow....