Addicts mom

Dealers come looking for a Junky eho owes them. When they cant find him, they take payment from his mom - against her will.

The rain hammered down on Manchester's grim streets like God's own judgment, turning the pavements into slippery traps that threatened to send Liam sprawling with every desperate step. He was 28, but the heroin had aged him beyond his years, sallow skin stretched tight over sharp bones, eyes sunken into dark hollows, and a perpetual tremor in his hands that spoke of withdrawals just around the corner. His life had been a slow spiral: schoolyard weed joints leading to party pills, then the needle's seductive bite. Now, it had led him here, fleeing through the night from the dealers who'd fronted him gear on credit.

Big Tommy and his crew weren't the forgiving type. Tommy was a mountain of a man, shaved head scarred from bar brawls, his Salford accent thick as treacle. Raz was the sly one, a wiry Pakistani lad with a gold tooth that flashed when he smiled his cruel smiles. Mick rounded out the trio, a stocky Irish brute with knuckles like knotted rope from too many beatings handed out. Liam owed them £2,000—a fortune in his world, scraped together from pawned belongings and begged loans from friends long since burned. He'd promised to pay last week, but the money went up his arm instead. Now, they were coming to collect in blood.

"You can't run forever, you junkie prick!" Tommy's voice echoed from behind, closer than Liam liked. He darted into an alley off Oxford Road, trash bins clattering as he brushed past. His heart pounded, lungs burning from the cold, wet air. Flashes of his childhood flickered in his mind, running home from school to his mum's flat, the smell of her cooking wafting through the door. Eileen had always been his anchor, a tough Irish-descended woman who'd clawed her way through life after his dad bolted when Liam was five. She worked endless shifts at the chippy, her hands calloused from hot oil, her laugh lines deepening into worry furrows over the years. At 48, she was still attractive in a worn, resilient way, curvy figure, auburn hair tied back, green eyes that could pierce or comfort.

The tower block loomed ahead, a concrete monolith of council housing where hope faded like the peeling paint on the walls. Liam burst through the estate gate, ignoring the group of lads smoking under a shelter who eyed him suspiciously. He took the stairs two at a time, the lift was broken again, and hammered on door 12B. "Mum! It's me! Open up, quick!"

The door cracked open, Eileen's face appearing in the gap, lit by the flickering hallway bulb. She was in her pink dressing gown, hair mussed from an early night in front of the telly. "Liam? What the hell—"
He pushed inside, slamming and locking the door. The flat was a time capsule of their life: faded floral wallpaper, a sofa sagging from years of use, stacks of bills on the coffee table, and photos on the mantel, Liam as a boy, grinning with a football; Eileen young and vibrant at a pub quiz night. The air smelled of stale smoke and takeaway curry.

"Dealers," he gasped, leaning against the wall. "I owe 'em big. They're right behind me."

Eileen's face hardened, a mix of maternal love and exhaustion. "How much this time, lad? And don't lie to me."

"Two grand. But I can fix it, Mum. Just need to lay low."

Heavy footsteps thudded up the stairs outside. "He's in there!" Raz's voice snarled. "The mum's place, let's kick the door in if we have to."

Eileen's eyes widened in panic, her hands fluttering like trapped birds. She'd bailed him out before, loans from her meager savings, rides to detox clinics, but this felt different. These weren't small-time pushers; Tommy's crew had a reputation for leaving bodies in the canal. "Hide! The wardrobe in my room—go, now! Don't make a sound, or we're both dead."

Liam nodded, guilt twisting his gut like a bad dose. He slipped into her bedroom, the door creaking softly. The room was small, intimate: a double bed with rumpled sheets, a dresser cluttered with makeup pots and a framed photo of them at Blackpool pier, and the old oak wardrobe in the corner, its wood warped from damp. He opened it, squeezing in among hanging dresses, coats, and the faint scent of mothballs and her perfume. He pulled the door shut, leaving a narrow slit to peer through, enough to see the bed, the doorway, and a slice of the living room beyond. His heart raced, sweat beading despite the chill.

Eileen smoothed her gown, trying to steady her breathing. She opened the front door just as Tommy's fist raised. "What do you want?" she demanded, voice steadier than she felt.

Tommy barged in, Raz and Mick on his heels. The flat seemed smaller with their bulk. "Your boy, Eileen. He owes us, and we're here to collect."

"He's not here. Haven't seen him in days." Her lie came out firm, but her knees trembled.

Tommy's scar twisted as he leered. "Don't fuck with us, love. We know he comes crying to mummy. Hand him over, or we start breaking things including you."

She backed up, hitting the sofa. "Leave now, or I'll call the coppers."

Raz laughed, kicking over the coffee table. Mugs shattered. "Coppers? In this estate? They'd laugh."

Mick grabbed her wrist, twisting. Pain shot up her arm. "Talk, bitch."

"I don't know where he is!" she cried, trying to pull free.

Tommy nodded, and the beating began. Mick shoved her hard; she stumbled, cracking her head on the wall. Stars exploded in her vision. "Please..."

Raz punched her stomach, doubling her over. Winded, she dropped to her knees. Tommy kicked her side, boot connecting with ribs. Crack.....something gave. Eileen screamed, curling fetal on the carpet.

In the wardrobe, Liam watched through the crack, his world narrowing to that horrific vignette. His mum, strong Eileen, who'd fought off bailiffs and ex-boyfriends, was crumbling. Bruises bloomed on her arms, her gown riding up to expose thighs marked by old varicose veins from standing all day.

Guilt crashed over him like a tidal wave. This was his fault. His addiction had invited these wolves. He should charge out, grab the poker from the unused fireplace, swing it like a madman. But fear paralyzed him. They were armed, Mick had a bulge in his pocket that looked like a knife. He'd be dead in seconds, and then what? They'd finish her too. Tears streamed down his face. "I'm sorry," he whispered into the darkness, body shaking with sobs he stifled.
The assault continued. Tommy hauled her up by the hair, strands ripping out. She yelped. He slapped her face—once, twice—splitting her lip. Blood dripped onto her gown. Raz stomped her leg, her cry piercing. Neighbors might hear, but in this block, no one interfered. Mick punched her chest, knocking her flat. Her gown tore at the seam, exposing one breast pale, full, nipple erect from fear or cold.

Liam's breath hitched. Broken. Utterly broken. He was a coward, a failure. But as the violence unfolded, a darker impulse stirred. The raw power, her vulnerability—it ignited something forbidden. Memories flashed: peeking through her door as a teen, seeing her change, the curve of her hip stirring confusion. Now, it twisted into arousal. His cock hardened, pressing against his jeans. Shame flooded him, but he couldn't stop it. The taboo horror was intoxicating.

Tommy paused, breathing heavy, eyes raking over her exposed skin. "You know, Eileen, you're not half bad. Maybe we take our payment this way."

Her eyes bulged in terror. "No... God, no... please..."

Mick pinned her arms, knees on her shoulders. She thrashed, but Raz grabbed her legs, spreading them. Tommy ripped the gown fully open, fabric tearing. Her body lay bare, her breasts heaving, stomach soft from age, pubic hair dark against pale skin. She begged, "Don't do this... I have money, take it!"

"Shut up," Tommy growled, unbuckling. His erection sprang free, thick and veined. He knelt, positioning, and thrust in roughly. Eileen screamed, body arching in agony. No lubrication, the pain tore through her like fire. Tommy grunted, pumping hard, hands mauling her breasts, pinching nipples until she whimpered.

Raz watched, palming himself. "Save some for us, boss."

In the wardrobe, Liam's hand moved on autopilot. He unzipped silently, freeing his throbbing length. "No... what am I?" he thought, horrified. But he stroked, eyes locked on the scene. His mum's face contorted in pain, tears flowing. Her body rocking with each violation, breasts bouncing. It was sick, incestuous in its intimacy, but the arousal peaked, guilt amplifying the pleasure.

Tommy thrust faster, slapping skin echoing. Eileen dissociated, staring at the ceiling, mind fleeing to memories of Liam as a baby. Tommy climaxed with a groan, pulling out to spill hot seed on her stomach. "That's for starters."

Raz flipped her over, onto her knees. "My turn." He entered from behind, hands on her hips, slamming deep. She sobbed, face pressed to the carpet, blood from her lip smearing. Her body betrayed subtle responses, instinctual twitches, to lessen the pain.

Liam jerked quicker, precum slicking. The confined space heightened everything, the musty smell, his ragged breaths. He bit his lip, tasting blood, to stay silent.

Mick took her last, rougher. He yanked her hair, forcing her back to arch. "Take it, slag." He pounded, slapping her ass red. Eileen went limp, broken whimpers escaping. Cum from Raz leaked down her thighs.

As Mick erupted inside her, Liam's orgasm hit, intense, shameful. Semen spurted, splattering the wardrobe floor. He slumped, spent, revulsion crashing in.

The dealers dressed, laughing. "Tell Liam we visited. He pays, or we come back for round two." They left, door slamming.

Silence fell, broken only by rain. Liam waited, then emerged. Eileen lay curled, body battered: bruises purpling, semen drying sticky, blood crusting.

"Mum..." he croaked, kneeling. She flinched at his touch.

"You... you were here?" she whispered, eyes accusing.

He nodded, sobbing. "I couldn't... they would've killed me."

She turned away. "Get out. You're no son of mine."

But he helped her to the bath, running water, washing her gently as she stared blankly. The night had shattered them—Liam's addiction now a chasm of guilt and dark desires. He vowed to pay the debt, get clean. But the memory lingered, a poison in his veins, worse than any drug.