S.M.O.M.S. (submissive moms organized for mutual support)

S.M.O.M.S. (Submissive Mothers Organized for Mutual Support)
by DiscipleN


“H-hello. My name is Claire McBice, and I have been under my son’s control for nearly two weeks.” It’s hard to take a breath after introducing myself. The small circle of women listening may be my last hope to escape dire circumstances. My marriage is on the verge of collapse. My eldest daughter has fled our home, and my youngest boy will undoubtedly, soon discover his older brother’s crimes against me and his father. I am filled with fear, but right now I am more afraid of these middle-aged women huddling in the light of one candle, who may be able to keep me from going insane.

This group is supposedly one of many around the world comprising an organization in only the loosest sense. Most are in America where it started some time after the civil war. No one knows who started it or where it began, but it wasn’t well organized until the fifties. Before then a few lucky thousands of women were helped. Now it’s guessed that hundreds of thousands of son ravished mothers have been helped. It still isn’t officially an organization. There aren’t leaders. Most circles hardly know one other. Unlike AA, if you’re lucky enough to be invited into a group, that’s the only group you’ll likely every have.

Instead of history, there is only legend. In the aftermath of the civil war, particularly in the south, so many husbands and older sons died in the war, a majority of wives and mothers took control of their farms and small businesses. A smaller number of women, conditioned to oblige male supremacy were subjected to the whims of their younger sons. These barely adolescent boys, struggling with the loss of a father and brothers and urged by the onset of adult hormones, often took sexual control of mothers with submissive personalities.

Somewhere, one of these women found enough strength, not to fight back, but to find help from other women in similar circumstances. That must have been an ordeal worthy of legend. If only we knew her name, we would whisper it proudly among ourselves. Just imagine how hard it would be to admit that your young teen boy might father your next child. Or even harder, to ask another woman if that was her fate.

Fortunately, Submissive Mothers Organized for Mutual Support, have developed a better, if imperfect way to recruit sister victims. Long term members become adept at recognizing the signs of incestuous submission. We tend to exhibit a particular kind of depression laced with anxiety. This is just one sign, meaningless alone, but if we are also seen in public with the boy in charge of us, several other characteristics, which I will not reveal here, make it plain to the experienced observer.

In my case, I had went grocery shopping with David. In the checkout line, the woman ahead noticed we were buying: hard plastic clothes pins, a can of whipped cream, eight pairs of nylons, four rib-eye steaks, a large zucchini, a bag of the thickest carrots, a bag of marshmallows, an extra elongated eggplant, and a tall, german chocolate cake topped with white frosting that spelled, “Whatever My Son Wants.”

The woman said nothing to me in the checkout line. David led me outside and told me to get the car and pick him up. I carried the bags to the car. I started the engine and drove carefully through the lot. A pretty, well dressed, middle-aged woman stepped in front of the car and waved me to stop. I rolled the window down an inch.

“Please forgive me, but I was in line ahead of you and your son. He is your son, is that right?” The poor woman looked as nervous as I felt. Her slight mid-western accent rose and fell with her words.

“Y-yes, he’s my son. Did I forget something at the checkout counter?”

“No, not that. Ohhh, I’m messing this up. Here,” She fumbled in her purse and withdrew a pink business card. “It’s not Mary Kay.” She tried a laugh, but it issued more like a grunt. “Please consider this, if we could be of any help.” She slid it through the cracked window.

I took the card without looking at it. My concern about this strange but sincere woman fled a worse fear. I worried that I should have picked up David already. “Um, thanks?” I dropped it into the grocery bag behind the passenger seat and dove away.

I didn’t read the card until the next day. David was so angry, having had to wait nearly three minutes to be picked up, I spent the night tied to his bed.

My second piece of incredible luck was, David mustn’t have seen the pink card. It fell onto the floor when I was folding bags the next day. He was at school.

The card read, “S.M.O.M.S. Sharing strength to survive our boys.” That bit was printed. On the back, in handwritten blue ink, it said, “Ask for Ingrid when languishing books are first available.”

Then I laughed. But I had to wait another shame filled day until I could reach the library by opening time. I saw the woman again, through the glass door. She was unlocking it. When it opened, I nearly hugged her. “Ingrid?”

“Yes, Ingrid Muldurhoek, please come in.” She locked the door behind me and flipped the sign to tell the world, “CLOSED”.