Sick in the head...
It's crazy how this has happened. Completely fucking crazy. How did I even let it begin? More to the point, why am I still doing it? Why didn't I just stop it all a long time ago?
I've lost my mind. I've lost control. The things I'm doing are beyond belief. The things I'm doing with him. It's madness. Total madness.
God help me, I can't stop. I want this too much. I want him too much.
Yes, I'm sick...
One sick mother...
Literally.
***
Fuck me, it was cold. Freezing cold.
The wind was whipping along the wide, seemingly endless expanse of land, almost cutting through me like a knife. You know, I've been told on more than one occasion that Kansas is not the flattest state in the Union - apparently that honour is held by Florida - but I don't believe it. Not for a second. You wouldn't too, if you had been stood in my shoes that day, no matter what it says in any book, or even on Wikipedia.
You can see for miles round here, the horizon stretching off into the far, far distance. No hills or mountains, barely even a molehill, to block or hinder the view. And not just the view. There's no shelter or protection from the chilling weather of this time of year. The sky is clear and blue. Crystal clear and brilliant. And, like I told you, it's cold. Oh so cold. Bitter and remorseless.
I was stood by the side of the soccer pitch, near the town's main elementary school. Not just me. There was a small group of adults milling around, as a group of young children played in front of us. Due to their age - not one of the kids was older than eight - they were only using half the field. It was a five-a-side game and no physical contact was allowed. The team coach said it was aimed at improving their skill-set more than anything else.
What a peculiar sight they made, these little children who barely understood the rules of the sport they were playing. There was no real sense of shape or formation, just ten young kids, eight of them running round, chasing the ball like a pack of feral animals. Their little legs pumping away, their cheeks flushed, their knees dirty.
Every so often, the coach would bark out an order - concentrate! attack! - and that order would mostly then be ignored. One or two of the parents might offer encouragement or support, but mostly they looked on with a sense of bemusement or baffled indifference. This was America. We don't like soccer. We don't understand it. But the kids were loving it.
I was barely paying attention at all. I was there in flesh, but not in spirit. My thoughts were far away from here and this little match of little players in the cold early Spring air. I remained on the sidelines, my mind running away from me. My body playing its own tune, despite the frigid weather.
I'm wet, I thought to herself, my cunt is wet.
It was true. My panties, a tiny little black thong I would never have even dreamed of wearing a few months earlier, at least not on an occasion like this, were almost soaked through. Only the fact I was stood out in the fresh air, the crisp wind recycling the local atmosphere, stopped the odour of my most intimate parts from wafting under the noses of those near by. An embarrassing, potentially humiliating admission.
I'm wet because of him, and my nipples are hard too. It's all down to him.
The sexual nature of my thoughts were entirely hidden by the mundane, unremarkable sight I imagined I displayed to all and sundry. I'm not going to bullshit you, I know I'm an attractive woman, but I was hardly dressed up for a show. My strawberry-blonde hair was drawn tightly into a ponytail, the occasional escaped lock had to be brushed back behind my ears.
I was fresh-faced, without any makeup, my skin flushed by the cold weather, my nose dripping a little due to the low temperatures. I was wearing a t-shirt, sweatshirt and thick jacket; all of which hid my - pretty killer - body from view. Only my black leggings hinted at the marvels underneath. I have long, shapely legs and they were almost impossible to disguise.
So, I was stood there, bobbing from one foot to the other, my whole body twitching and shaking; partly to try and fend off the cold, partly due to a growing sense of excitement.
Finally, the referee blew his whistle and the soccer match drew to a close. I had no idea what the score was, or indeed if anyone had even been keeping score. Like a small swarm of locusts, the young players jogged over to the side of the pitch, each child seeking out his or her parent.
"Hey, Mom! Hey, Mom!" A little blond-haired boy shouted out as he approached me, "did you see? I scored a goal, Mom! I scored a goal!"
"That's great, champ, really great," I replied, a little absentmindedly.
The young boy was Calvin, my second child. Yes, named after the cartoon character, which wasn't my decision, if I was being honest. It was his father's idea. He was eight years old and adorable in the way only eight year olds can be. Earnest, loving, full of excitement and enthusiasm. I loved him so much.
But, God help me, he wasn't my favourite son. Oh no. Not anymore.
"Shall we go get your sister and go home?" I asked him. "You look like you need to have a shower."
"Okay, Mom," he said, "it was a great goal. I hit it from outside the box. It took a deflection, but I'm counting it as my goal..."
Off he went, trudging through the muddy field, heading towards the car park. I followed him, carrying the bag containing his clean clothes. The kids usually got changed at the school, in the locker room, but would then go home in their kit. We had to pick up Ava, who was being looked after by one of the teaching assistants.
My youngest child had zero interest in watching her older brother play soccer. She was in the playground near the school building, along with some other kids. A young woman - the teaching assistant - kept a mostly watchful eye over all of them, making sure no one got hurt. Although she was occasionally distracted by her cell phone. Ava was on one of the swings when she saw us come into view.
"Mommy! Calvin!" She hollered, scrambling down off the swing's seat and running towards them.
She practically jumped into my arms, as if she hadn't seen me in years. Ava was five, the youngest member of the family and my only daughter.
"Hey, princess, you okay?" I asked.
"Sure thing, Mommy. Did Calvin win?"
"It was a tie," he said, "I scored a goal. It was a really good goal. I hit it from..."
"Are we going home now?" Ava said, interrupting her brother; her interest in his game reaching its natural limit.
"Sure thing, pumpkin. Let's go home."
"Yaaay!" Ava bellowed, her loud voice belying her tiny frame, "there's a really good video on You Tube I want to watch. One of the girls in class told me about it. It shows kittens. Lots of kittens. I love them. They're so cute. Can I have a kitten, Mommy? Please!"
"Yeah, Mom, can we have a kitten?" Calvin echoed.
I ushered the kids to the car, their pleas for a new pet following in our wake. Ten minutes later we all arrived home, pulling into the driveway. We got out of the SUV and I opened the front door. The youngsters went running in, dropping bags and jackets and shoes in their wake. Ava was skipping along, singing a song to herself. Calvin sprinted straight for the main room, to turn on the TV.
"Don't forget you're having a shower, Calvin?" I cried out after him.
"Okay, Mom."
I sighed to herself and walked into the kitchen, heading to the refrigerator. I opened it up, pulled out a carton of orange juice and poured myself a glass. I heard a loud thudding sound from upstairs. I looked up, my eyes following the progress of that noise as it moved across the ceiling. Then I heard the thud, thud, thud of footfall on the stairs. I closed my eyes for a moment and felt my body shiver.
"Hey, Chris! I scored a goal! I scored a goal!" Calvin called out in the room next door.
"Only the one?" Was the response he received.
Suddenly Ava burst into the kitchen, dating frantically across the floor towards me.
"Can I have some juice, Mommy?" She asked, breathlessly.
"Sure thing, sweetie."
I took a glass off the drainer and poured her some juice. Then, a tall, muscular young man walked into the room, wearing shorts and a football jersey. I looked up briefly, my eyes meeting his.
"Hey, Mom," the young man said quickly.
"Hey, honey," I replied.
"Calvin had a good game, by the sounds of it."
"Sure did."
"Did you and the other soccer moms enjoy it?"
"I'm not a soccer mom."
"Sure, Mom, sure. Uh, Dad phoned. He said he would be late home this evening. Some meeting has overrun, or something."
"Okay, thanks Chris."
He nodded and turned round, walking out of the kitchen. Christian - Chris - my eldest child. My other son. I watched him walk away, then sighed gently.
My husband would be late home.
"Chriiiiisssss! Will you give me a piggy-back ride?" Ava shouted after him.
"Sure thing, Pumpkin," he replied.
I busied myself with washing and other domestic tasks, as Chris entertained his little sister. Calvin was in the front room, watching cartoons on the TV. Then I walked upstairs to the master bed-room. I'd taken some clean laundry up with me, and I was placing folded t-shirts and pants in various drawers. Then I moved towards the bed, suddenly determined to change the sheets.
At least that's what I told myself I was doing. Subconsciously, I knew the truth. I knew where I needed to be. I was waiting.
It was while I was tugging at those bedsheets that he quietly entered the room. I hadn't been conscious of him at first; his journey up the stairs had been a lot more stealthy than his journey down. But then, suddenly, I was aware of a presence behind me. I could hear his breathing, feel his warmth, see his shadow looming over me. I shivered, my skin suddenly tingling with goose bumps. Tingling with excitement.
And then he pounced.
I felt his hands take hold of my shoulders, as he spun my round like a top. Then he pulled me up off my feet, his hold tightening around my body. His mouth came to mine, his lips clamped onto mine, his tongue pushing forward. I resisted for half-a-second, squeaking in feigned surprise, but then I gave in and reciprocated. My mouth fell open, my tongue met his; the two of them duelling and thrusting sensuously against the other.
He hugged me close as we made out, his body pressed tightly against my own. My breasts were squeezed up against his chest. His hard dick was pushing against my belly and groin. I closed my eyes and moaned softly, our open mouths pressed together, our tongues frantically rolling around in a growing torrent of saliva and spittle.
I pushed back slightly, my hand on his chest; our lips parting, tiny lines of wet saliva stretching between us.
"Chriiiiissss!" I hissed at him, "what are you doing? Your brother and sister are downstairs!"
"Oh Jesus, Mom! I couldn't help it," he replied, his tone a strange mix of insolence and sheepishness, "I saw you in the kitchen, and you looked so fucking hot. I knew I needed to have you."
"No, it's too dangerous. Calvin and Ava could hear us."
He didn't say a word. Instead he took his hand and slid it down the front of my jogging bottoms. He rummaged around, quickly finding the elasticated band of my panties. His fingers burrowed inside, moving across the silky-smooth skin of my hairless pubis. Then, without asking permission, he rammed a couple of them inside my cunt. I gasped, half in pain, half in arousal.
He finger-banged me for a few moments, his thumb pressing against my clit. I practically hyperventilated as he went about his work. I could feel myself gushing all over his digits, as his hand moved back and forth, his fingers sliding in and out of my red-hot gash. His touch was always magical to me, as soon as he would go to work, I was bordering on an orgasm. I panted and swayed as he abused my tight little cunt.
Then he pulled his hand out and brought his fingers to my mouth. He pushed them between my lips and I could taste myself. My tongue lapped at his skin, licking the sticky surface, savouring the tart flavour of my bodily fluids. He looked down at me, smiling smugly, as I slurped and gnawed away at his hand, almost choking on his digits.
"I want to be inside you. Right now."
I sighed deeply and then staggered over to the door of my room.
"Calvin!?" I called out.
"Yes?" He replied, shouting up from downstairs.
"Mommy's going to have a lie down. You stay there with your sister, okay?"
"Can't Christian do it?"
"No, he's studying," I said, Christian giggling at my response, "you watch a Pixar movie with Ava. Okay?"
"Don't you want me to have a shower?"
"You can have one later. Just stay downstairs and look after Ava."
"Okay."
"Good boy."
I quickly closed the door and started pulling off my t-shirt. Turning round, I could see Christian stood by the bed. He'd already taken off his jersey and was shimmying out of his shorts. His large, beefy cock was hard, swinging around in front of him. I moaned at the sight of it.
"You got any lube?" He asked, a big goofy grin on his face.
Five minutes later I was naked on the bed, on my hands and knees, and my eldest son was buried balls-deep inside my asshole. His hands were gripping my hips tightly, as he pounded away at my butt. I could feel the slapping of his body against mine, as his dick slid in and out of my anus.
No, I didn't have any lube to hand, and he didn't want to risk walking back to his room naked, so we had to make do with a sloppy blowjob. I gave him a couple of minutes of head, soaking his prick in my saliva. Then he pulled me up and threw me on to the bed, before sliding his dick inside. It was a little painful to begin with, but I soon got used to it. Chris liked to have his own way, and I could never say no to him.
I warned him to take it slowly, to avoid any rhythmic banging noises emanating downstairs, but he didn't hold back, fucking me with the usual intensity and ferocity he always did.
"They won't hear anything," he rationalised, "and if they did, they won't understand. We'll just tell them we were moving furniture or something. They're kids, they'll believe any bullshit we feed them."
I remained unconvinced but I wanted his cock inside me, so I just shrugged and let him do whatever he wanted. As always.
He carried on slamming away, and I carried on panting and groaning on the bed. I could feel a veneer of sweat cover my body as we fucked. His dick ploughed in and out of my back door, I could feel the muscles of my body parting, his cock pushing relentlessly inside my guts. There was an intensity, a deepness to being penetrated this way, that couldn't compare with anything else.
When we had first started having sex - and yes, I'll get to that soon enough - Christian quickly began pestering me for anal. Like every kid of his generation, he had grown up with easy access to porn, and it seemed to me that pretty much every video online involved the girl getting fucked in the ass. I had been an enthusiastic adherent of anal sex when I was a teenager, but I was always something of an outlier. Not many of my contemporaries were as relaxed as I am about the matter.
These days, from what I could understand, that reticence had disappeared. Every girl worth her salt was willing to indulge in some butt stuff, or at least felt pressured to do so, and boys had come to expect it, as if it were their constitutional right. Second Amendment equalled guns. Third Amendment must equal fucking a chick in the ass. My eldest son was very much in that club.
He leaned forward, pushing deeper inside me. His hands reached under my body and he cupped my breasts. He squeezed them firmly and I gasped a little. Then he kissed my back and shoulders, tender little pecks against my hot, sweaty skin.
"You feel so good, Mom," he whispered, softly, "and my dick feels so good inside your butt."
"Oh God!" I exclaimed, "you're so big, baby. I love having your cock pounding away at my dirty, dirty shithole."
I felt his dick twitch and pulse at the sound of my nasty talk. Christian loved it when I spouted out plenty of filth. Fucking his mother was one thing, making her scream out disgusting, dirty talk was another. He didn't articulate much the psychology behind what we were doing, so I was never entirely sure of his motivations, but one thing was certain; he clearly liked the idea of polluting his innocent old Mom.
Not that I was remotely innocent, of course.
I was lying flat on the bed now and he was pressing down on top of me. I reached back with my hand, my fingers running through his hair, as he bit and licked at my neck. I could feel his hot, panting breath on my skin. I could feel his hands fondling my breasts. I could feel his cock buried deep inside my ass.
Then a voice rang out from outside the door of the bedroom.
"Mom? You still asleep?" It was Calvin.
"What is it honey?" I asked, my voice panicky and alarmed, punctuated by the remorseless thrusts of his brother's dick.
"Can I come in?"
"No!" I shouted, "no, stay there!"
I could see the handle on the door move downwards slowly, as Calvin pulled at it on the other side. I started frantically wriggling around on the bed, trying to get off the mattress and run to the door, but Chris was still insistently fucking me from above. He didn't lose his rhythm for a second, his cock moving back and forth in my anal passage. His body pressed down on mine. I was going nowhere.
"Calvin, stop!" I screamed, my pussy choosing that exact moment to erupt in orgasm. I howled out, partly in pleasure, partly in sheer terror. In a matter of moments I would be discovered. Naked, flushed, glistening in sweat, my eldest son spread out on top of me, his cock buried deep inside. His younger brother would be stood there, his eyes as big as saucers, his mouth dropped open in shock.
How could I possibly explain what we were doing?
But then, miraculously, the moment of revelation was avoided. There was a pause, then the door handle moved back upwards and I could hear Calvin move away.
"Are you okay, Mom?"
"Yes, I'm...uh...I'm fine," I panted, "what is it you want, sweetie?"
"Ava wants a soda. Is that okay?"
"Yes...oh yes...hmmm...that's fine," I gasped, my body betraying me, with its response to the fucking I was receiving, "aah...the low-sugar kind, though."
"Okay."
He trudged off and then I heard him amble downstairs. If I had been capable of sighing in relief, I would have done so, but Chris just kept on screwing me senseless. If he had been concerned about his younger brother catching us in the act, he hadn't shown it for a moment.
"I'm going to cum in your ass, okay?" He whispered.
I didn't respond. I just lay there, passively, as his cock erupted inside me. Ribbons of semen shot out of him like a fire-hose, splashing against the walls of my anus. His body jerked and heaved as he came, moving me round the bed like a rag-doll. He groaned and then he collapsed on top of me, pressing me down into the mattress. I could feel his sticky flesh pressed against mine. I could feel his hot breath on my back. I could feel his slimy goo trickling out of my body.
Eventually, he rolled off me and lay on his back, his skin shining with perspiration, his chest expanding and contracting, his breathing heavy and pronounced. I propped myself up on my elbows and glared at him.
"I told you it was too dangerous! What the fuck would we have done if your brother had walked in on us?"
"It would certainly be quite a sight," he mumbled.
"You pig!" I slapped his shoulder.
He smiled at me. That charming, cheerful smile he had been giving me since he was a little boy. The smile I could never resist. He pulled me up on top of him and kissed me once more. His tongue forcing itself into my mouth. I submitted to him and kissed him back.
"I'm sorry, Mom. I just couldn't resist you. Am I still your best little boy?"
"Yes, of course, baby," I replied, stroking his sticky dick with my hand, "always."
I slipped off the bed and staggered towards the en-suite bathroom. Somehow, I could feel his eyes following me, gazing at my jiggling, naked flesh, as I disappeared from view. I closed the door and stood by the hand-basin, staring at myself in the mirror. I started crying, tears rolling down my cheeks as my son's semen rolled down the back of my legs.
"What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?" I asked myself.
2
So, this takes some explaining.
To begin that arduous process, we should probably jump back in time a little. I was born on the East Coast, the youngest daughter of an accountant and a house wife. My parents named me Esther, after one of my grandmothers, who died during the Holocaust. When I was about five years old we moved to Kansas, and I've mostly lived there ever since.
My childhood was, for quite a while, blissfully happy. I was my parents eldest child. The first born. Sometimes they get overlooked or ignored. Not me. I was spoiled rotten. Particularly by my father. God, I was such a Daddy's Girl. I absolutely worshipped him. I followed him round as much as possible, from the moment he got home, to the moment he would put me to bed. I remember many long hours, lying on the floor, in his home office, drawing and colouring, while he worked at his desk.
He would read me bedtime stories. I would cuddle up to him, staring up at him as he spoke softly. I couldn't imagine loving anyone more than I loved him. When I was very young, I used to ask him if I could marry him when I got older. He would just smile and kiss my nose, and tell me that he loved me.
And then one day he was gone.
Later on, I would discover that he had been having an affair with his much younger secretary, and she got pregnant. He abandoned his wife and children and ran off with her. But all I knew then was that he had vanished. My mother told me he had left, and that was all she was going to say on the matter.
The disappearance of my father was devastating. He had been the centre of my world for the entirety of my life. It was shocking. It was awful. I wept and wept, devastated by this absence in my life.
And that was when Uncle Bob entered the scene.
Well, he wasn't actually my uncle. He was a guy who worked at the same accountancy firm as my father. He had probably only just turned forty, but he seemed impossibly old to me at the time. He started making an appearance every so often in the family home, after my Dad had done his moonlight flit. He was a jolly, amiable guy, who provided moral support for my mother. He liked to call me Sweetie Pie, and he always tried to make me laugh, sometimes with a little success.
Then, after a few months, I would occasionally find him sitting at the kitchen table, first thing in the morning, wearing only pyjama bottoms and a wife-beater shirt. Obviously the moral support he was giving my mother now extended to the bedroom.
It seemed to me a bit grubby and a bit sudden. My father had only recently left us, and now my mom was fucking some guy he had worked with. I wasn't all that happy with her, feeling she was betraying her husband (even though he had betrayed her first). I felt offended on Dad's behalf. Which is pretty stupid, if you think about it.
As for Bob, I just assumed he was a sleazy guy making a move on a vulnerable woman. Typical shitty male behaviour. But, as it turned out, my mother was not really his main target. Soon enough, he was going to make a move on me.
Looking back on things, it now seems obvious that he was essentially grooming me. If you can say anything to his credit, he didn't do anything physical until I was eighteen. But he was there. All the time he was there. Not just first thing in the morning, eating bacon and scrambled eggs, sitting in the chair my father used to sit in. He would pick me up after school. He would take me to the mall. He would come and watch me play softball.
And then on the night of my eighteenth birthday, he got me drunk and raped me.
Well, to be fair, he didn't exactly rape me. Not that first night. But he did other stuff. There was no party. I didn't have a huge number of friends. Instead we went out for a meal, Mom, my younger sister and brother, and Uncle Bob. The restaurant was about as fancy and upscale as you could get in the small town I grew up in. It had leather-upholstered booths and crisp white linen tablecloths. The waiters all wore dinner jackets. The cutlery was finely-polished and shone like sunlight on a dappled pool.
I was dressed up for the occasion, trying to be as classy and grown-up as possible. I was wearing a short-ish dress and high heels. I'd spent a couple of hours of that afternoon at a beauty salon, and my coiffured hair was down and I was wearing a little make-up. I was even wearing black stockings and lacy underwear. I felt sexy, or at least as sexy as a pretty naive virgin could feel.
And I couldn't help but notice the way Bob noticed me.
Everyone so often I would glance in his direction and I could see him look at me. Stare at me. Even someone as relatively innocent and sheltered as myself could recognise the hunger in his eyes. I was a virgin but I wasn't an idiot. I had discovered masturbation, so I knew what sexual desire was. And it was obvious, at least to me, that I was desired.
The thought of it was a little unsettling, a little creepy, but unbelievably exciting too. I was now a young woman and I craved attention. I wanted to be wanted. Bob had flirted with me in the past and I suppose I had flirted with him too. It was fun. It made me feel like an adult. He was older than me, old enough to be my father, but he wasn't unattractive. He was balding but he was still in pretty good shape. It seemed like a safe way to explore my sexuality. He was Bob. He wasn't dangerous. Or at least I didn't think he was.
You can probably guess that Kansas has some of the strictest alcohol laws in the country, so I'd expected to be drinking soda at the restaurant. But Bob surprised me by ordering me a glass of wine. I suppose I looked pretty grown up that evening, and the waiter didn't say anything. I wasn't complaining, happy to be a little daring. And after I'd finished my first glass, Bob asked me if I wanted another. Why the hell not, I thought to myself.
Pretty soon, I was fairly buzzed. I hadn't had the opportunity to drink much before, so it was certainly having an impact. And I wasn't the only one pushing the boat out. My mother was also in the process of getting royally drunk. Bob kept filling and refilling her glass, ordering drink after drink. She got louder and louder, a combination of raucous laughter and maudlin tears. By the time I got to my dessert, she could barely keep her eyes open.
So Bob took us all home and put my mother to bed, while I did the same with my younger siblings. Then I quietly made my way downstairs, a little unsteady on my feet, walking into the front room, to find Bob sat on the couch. He had taken off his jacket and mostly unbuttoned his shirt. He was drinking a glass of brown liquid, which I guessed was whisky.
"How's Mom?" I asked.
"Oh she's fine," he replied, "although she'll probably have a terrible headache in the morning."
"Yeah, I've never seen her like that before."
"She doesn't get out much these days, not since your Dad left. She was just getting things out of her system."
"Oh."
"Did you enjoy your night out?" He asked.
"Oh yeah, it was neat."
"Neat?"
"Yeah, it was really great. Thanks."
"You look really beautiful, Esther."
"Thank you," I replied, blushing deeply.
"Come, sit with me," he said, patting the cushion next to him.
"Oh, I should probably go to bed."
"Sit with me. Just for a little while."
Like a good little girl, I did what I was told. I moved across the room, a little tentatively, and sat next to him on the couch. He smiled at me and took a swig of his drink. He placed his hand on my leg and squeezed it gently.
"You want a taste?" He said, motioning towards his glass.
"No...no, no, I think I've had enough for one night."
"You're an adult now, Esther, it's okay to have a drink or two."
"I've had more than two tonight. And I am only eighteen."
"Bullshit. I started stealing beer from my parents' fridge when I was fourteen. You liked the wine I got you at the restaurant?"
"Yes."
"This is nicer."
"What is it?"
"Scotch."
"I don't think I'd like it."
"How do you know if you don't try it? You're not a kid anymore, Sweetie Pie."
No, I wasn't a kid anymore. He was right. Why shouldn't I try it? I was an adult. Adults drink. I had been drinking that evening. Why not have one more? I reached out and took the glass from his hand. He nodded at me, as I brought it to my lips.
"Just a sip," he whispered.
I felt the glass against my skin and tipped my head back. The warm liquid entered my mouth and I started coughing violently. Most of the scotch burst out in a cloud of moisture.
"Uurggh, it's horrible!"
"No, it's an acquired taste. Trust me, you'll learn to like it soon enough."
"No way," I giggled, "it's gross."
"Try again."
"No, never."
"Go on."
"No, no, no."
"We'll try one more time, in a different way. Close your eyes and open your lips up a little."
"What?"
"Do as your told."
His tone was playful, but a little stern too. Like we had already ascertained, I was basically an obedient girl, so I followed orders. Especially when they came from paternal figures like Uncle Bob. I pouted at him, giggled some more, then closed my eyes and let my mouth fall open. I waited for a few seconds, expecting the rim of glass to touch my mouth.
But then I felt the softness of his lips against mine.
My eyes opened widely as he kissed me, in shock and disbelief. Then his lips parted and a small trickle of warm liquid dribbled into my mouth. A fresh mouthful of scotch. I didn't cough and splutter this time, but the taste had hardly improved. A burning, scorching flavour. Following the alcohol, Bob's tongue slipped into my mouth, gently probing and exploring. I didn't stop him or resist him, but my whole body stiffened.
"We shouldn't do this..." I muttered.
"Shhh, Sweetie Pie. Just enjoy yourself."
He kissed me some more, his hand cupping my breast, squeezing it firmly. I winced a little, but didn't push him back. I didn't want this to be happening, but I didn't know how to stop him. The idea I could just say no seemed to be entirely unfathomable to me. He then caressed my cheek, softly stroking my skin.
This isn't too bad, I thought to myself. A bit weird. A bit unnerving. But not terrible. I had kissed a couple of guys - and a girl - before and Bob was not the worst kisser I had experienced. His breath smelled of tobacco, and I could taste the alcohol on his tongue, but that was kind of sexy, after a fashion. This wasn't the way my eighteenth birthday party was supposed to go, but I could live with it.
But then I felt his hand slip under my skirt and within a few moments, he was rubbing against the crotch of my panties. Then he tugged them to one side and slid a couple of fingers inside me. I gasped, partly in shock and partly in pain. I pushed his chest back away from me.
"No, don't do that. You shouldn't do that," I whimpered.
"It's okay, trust me, you'll enjoy it. You're so beautiful, Sweetie Pie, I just can't resist you."
"But it's wrong. Please stop. Please."
"Come on, baby. You're going to be a good girl for me, aren't you? I've done a lot of things for you and your mom, since your dad left. Don't I deserve something in return? You're going to be nice to me, aren't you, baby girl?"
There seemed a kind of twisted logic to what he was saying. He had been good to us. He had been kind to me. He'd given me lifts. He'd picked me up from school. He'd helped out in so many ways. Was it really so hard for me to let him have some fun? Give him something back in return? This wasn't too awful, was it? That's what I was telling myself as he molested and violated my teenage body.
He kissed me once more, much more forcefully, pressing me back into the cushions of the couch. His fingers sawed in and out of my snatch, his thumb rubbing against my clit. Despite my uncertainty, despite my half-assed protestations, my body was betraying me. I was wet and my nipples were hard. My mind was screaming no, but the rest of me was responding in a very different way.
Initially, I had been frozen stiff, terrified and confused, but as he continued finger-banging me, I started to squirm and wriggle around. My body was responding mechanically, not emotionally. I was definitely getting aroused, even if I would much rather be up in my room, as far away from all this as possible. I could feel a heat building up inside me. It felt like all the hairs on my body were standing up on end, as the sensations of unwanted, unfamiliar pleasure coursed through me like an unchecked electrical current.
All the while, this big, heavy form was pushing against me. Overpowering me. Pressing me into the couch. His tongue in my mouth. His chest pushing against mine. His hand between my legs. I could feel his heat. I could smell his sweat, his cologne. I could feel tears rolling down my cheeks. I whimpered and squeaked, trying to say 'no', but unable to express myself, his mouth crushed flat against mine.
His hand was remorseless. Relentless. It just ploughed back and forth, squelching and sliding inside me. I was so wet, it felt like I had peed my pants. I would have been embarrassed if I wasn't so numb with shock and disbelief. His thumb kept rubbing against my clit, which was throbbing and pulsing. It felt so wrong, but fuck, it felt good. I just couldn't help myself.
It didn't take that long for me to cum. Like I said, I had started masturbating by now, so I knew what an orgasm was, but this one was unlike any I had previously experienced. I came hard on his hand, his tongue still in my mouth, smothering any moans or screams I might have emitted. I was shaking and twitching, my whole body wracked with novel sensation. I came again and again, my skin on fire, my nipples like daggers, my cunt practically humming.
"Aaaaahhhhh! Oh fuuuucccckkkk!" I screamed, cumming and sobbing simultaneously.
"That's my precious girl. That's my Sweetie Pie. Didn't I say you'd enjoy it?" Bob whispered.
"Can I go to bed now?"
"In a minute. But there's something you can do for me first."
He unzipped his fly and rummaged around inside for a few moments, before pulling out his dick. I gasped at the sight of it. In the coming days, weeks and months I would become very familiar with that cock. I would become very familiar with a lot of cocks. But at that moment, this was the first adult penis I'd ever seen. It wasn't all that long, but it was thick. It was a weird brown colour, a totally different hue from the rest of him. It had a big purple head that both fascinated and frightened me.
He took hold of my hand and brought it to his groin. Then he took my fingers and wrapped them round his erect pole, which was hard, hot and damp. He clasped his hand round mine and started jerking it up and down. I was entirely passive, letting him do all the work. I could feel his skin against my fingers.
"Good girl, good girl, my good little girl," he panted, squeezing my hand tighter and tighter against his dick.
I didn't say a word. I just sat there silently, jerking him off against my will. After about thirty seconds, I could feel his dick to expand, and Bob started breathing more heavily. Then a little gob of cum squirted out of his cock. It twitched a couple more times, but no more semen appeared. He sighed to himself and let his hand drop to his side. For half a second I was holding it on my own, but then I pulled my fingers back and wiped them on my dress.
"Oh Sweetie Pie, you're so beautiful."
"Th...thank you..."
"Maybe you should go to bed now, okay?"
"Uh...okay."
I pulled myself up, lost in a daze. I staggered off, making my towards the stairwell. But then Bob called out after me.
"Esther?"
"Yes?"
"Not a word to your mom, now. You understand?"
"Okay."
"She wouldn't approve of what you did. You don't want to get in trouble, do you?"
"Uh...no."
"Good. This will be our little secret, okay? Yours and mine?"
"Okay."
"Night, Sweetie Pie."
"Night, Uncle Bob."
And that was how it began. With that little interaction between an abuser and the abused. It would be our little secret. Mom wouldn't like what I had done. That was the seed he planted in my mind. The sinister, evil fuck. He had molested me. Assaulted me. A week or so later he would, for the first time, rape me. But he had begun the process of convincing me I was in on the plan.
I felt guilty, even though I hadn't done anything wrong.
I was a young woman, in many ways still basically a child. Naive. Innocent. My father had abandoned me and I craved attention. And then this older man entered my life and showered me with as much attention as I could ever want. I look back at this period in my life now, with the understanding of a mature adult. I can see what Bob was doing. He was a monster.
But then, I was kind of flattered. It was enticing, hypnotic; having this grown-up take an interest in me. I went to bed that night and sobbed. But I was weirdly excited by what had happened too. It was a secret but it was my secret. It all seemed terribly sophisticated and adult.
I was having an affair.
That's what I told myself. I was having an affair with an older man.
But I was really being abused by an older man.
The next morning, I waited in my room for Bob to leave, and then I crept downstairs. My mother was sat at the table, nursing a black coffee and smoking a cigarette. She barely acknowledged my presence, too deep was she in the depths of her hangover. I should have been similarly afflicted but I hadn't drunk as much as she had. And I was young. I could shake things off in a way she couldn't. I quickly said goodbye and slipped out of the house.
All day, I sat in my classes, a growing sense of dread and unease building in my stomach. I watched the hands of the clock with a fascinated intensity, fearing what was waiting for me at home. Eventually, the final bell of the day rung out and I was quickly to discover that was waiting for me at home had come to meet me at the school gates.
Uncle Bob was parked across the street, looking intently at the kids streaming out of the building. He saw me just as I saw him, and he waved at me cheerfully. I slowly made my way to his car and climbed in next to him.
"Hey, Sweetie Pie."
"Hey, Uncle Bob."
"I think you can call me 'Bob' now, don't you think? At least when we're alone together."
"Okay," I muttered, entirely unconvinced.
"Why don't we go for a drive?"
Off we went, pulling away from the school. I was wearing a short skirt, and he had his hand resting on my bare leg. He caressed my skin and once again my body was betraying me. I could feel myself getting wet, even though my heart was racing and my eyes were watering. We ended up at a parking garage on the other side of town. We were on the top floor and there wasn't a single other vehicle in sight.
parked up and turned off the engine. Then he turned to me. It was an older vehicle, with a single bench seat up front. I was backed up against the door on the passenger side. He looked at me for a moment, smiling a creepy smile that made me want to be sick.
"Are we not going home?" I asked.
"Yeah, we will. I just thought it would be nice to spend a few quiet moments together, away from everyone else."
"I think we should leave."
"I can't stop thinking about what we did last night."
"Oh..."
"You're so pretty, you know that, don't you?"
"No."
"Oh you are, Sweetie Pie. Sooooo pretty."
"Th...thank you," I muttered.
"I liked kissing you," he said with a leer, "did you like kissing me?"
"Uh...I guess..."
"Do you want to do it some more?"
"I don't know. Maybe we shouldn't."
"Come here."
He beckoned me towards him. At first I didn't move, but then I slowly shifted across the bench. He took my hand and pulled me in his direction. He kissed me again, his tongue pushing forcefully into my mouth. I sort of reciprocated, kissing him back a little, or at least as much as I thought he might accept. Once again, it didn't seem that bad. I liked kissing, even if it was with a creep like Bob.
But then suddenly his hand moved between my legs and he was fingering me again.
"No, no, no, don't! You shouldn't do that!"
"Shhhh," he said, smothering my mouth with his.
He carried on rummaging around inside my panties and within a couple of minutes he had made me cum. I was crying, panting and cumming. He undid his pants and fished his dick out again. It was every bit as scary and fascinating as it had been the night before. He didn't say a word and I, unprompted, start jerking him off. A few minutes later he came, another piss-weak spurt of spunk dribbling out of his cock.
He softly caressed my cheek, told me I was a good girl, and then he started up the car and we drove off.
That night, after everyone else had gone to bed, I made my way downstairs and met him in the living room. I had even put on a little make up, to make myself pretty for him. I was wearing a t-shirt and a nightgown and he made me take them off. I stood there naked, desperately trying to cover myself up with my hands, weeping in front of him. He kissed me and hugged me. And then he lay me down on the couch and went down on me for the first time.
It was becoming readily apparent to both of us that one of the curses of my life, that would also prove to be a blessing, was the fact I was incredibly orgasmic. I could cum on a hair trigger, as I was proving with every sordid assignation I endured with Uncle Bob. He was sexually abusing me, and yet, on a primal physical level, I kind of enjoyed what was happening.
Within a few days, he made me suck his dick for the first time. We drove off on one of our little rides together and, after parking somewhere suitably discreet, he pulled out his thing and pushed my head down on top of it. I resisted, a little, but he overwhelmed me physically. I gave him the most desultory, inexperienced head possible. And yet my cunt pulsed and clenched in pleasure and excitement. It didn't take long for him to cum and I almost threw up when he squirted his seed inside my mouth.
Pretending to be my father, he was able to persuade a local a doctor to give me a prescription to the contraceptive pill. Not long after that he fucked me. Raped me. I was bent over the hood of his car, my panties round my ankles, my skirt hitched up round my waist. It was agony. It was amazing. I came so hard, and yet I cried like a baby.
This was how my life worked now. This sordid, tawdry, abusive relationship. But over time, I stopped resisting, stopped crying, stopped saying no. I began, in a weird and twisted way, to enjoy it. It excited me. It turned me on. I looked forward to seeing him. I would rush out of my final class and look for his car. I would wave at him, gleefully, a big stupid grin on my face, as I sprinted towards him.
I would kiss him and hug him, my hands moving across his body, squeezing the front of his pants, telling him how much I had missed him. He would make a silly joke and I would laugh as if he was the reincarnation of Oscar Wilde, Lenny Bruce and Robin Williams, all wrapped into one. Then we'd disappear somewhere and have sex.
Usually, if we didn't do it in his car, we'd check into a cheap motel and he would fuck me on ragged, threadbare sheets. Or I would kneel on a dirty, tatty carpet; my head bobbing up and down as I sucked his prick. It made a perfect kind of sense for us to go to those kind of places. They were sleazy and trashy, just like the relationship we were participating in.
Why didn't we go to his place, you might ask. Well, it turns out he lived with his mother. One of the reasons he had come sniffing around my Mom, was he was looking for a way to get out of his own less-than-ideal domestic situation. Having an eighteen year old girl as your personal sexual plaything was just an unexpected bonus.
I even told myself I was in love with him. It was nuts. It was crazy. It was a lie. But that's the story I had come to believe. I had fallen in love with my own rapist. I know the truth now, looking back from my perch as a mature woman, but I was deluding myself back then.
If nothing else, Uncle Bob had introduced me to sex, and, as it turns out, me and sex got on pretty well with one another. Like a house on fire, you might say. I discovered that I loved fucking. I loved being fucked. I wanted to suck dick. I wanted my pussy eaten. I wanted to be fingered, caressed, kissed, devoured. I wanted to be desired. I revelled in the power I now had over him. I revelled in the hunger I saw in his eyes, when I spread my legs for him and started rubbing my clit with my fingers.
And pretty soon, fucking and sucking with ol' Uncle Bob just wasn't enough to satisfy those urges. I needed more.
One Saturday lunchtime, I was sitting in the park, by myself, reading a book. It was a sunny day and I was wearing a short, summery dress and knee-high socks. I felt horny. I always felt horny these days, and I was struggling to make any coherent sense of the novel I had in my hands. I would make it through a couple of sentences, but then I'd have to go back and start all over again, my concentration lapsing every time.
Then I noticed a few guys hanging around nearby. They were boys from my school and I vaguely recognised them from class. They were sniggering and whispering amongst themselves. Then one of them summoned up the courage to speak to me.
"Hey, Esther!" He said.
I looked up and stared at them.
"It is Esther, right? From school?" He asked.
"Yes, that's me," I replied.
"I'm Rocky, and this is Doug and Crowbar. I've seen you around."
"Oh," I responded, noncommittally, perhaps wondering why anyone could be called Crowbar.
"Yeah, we haven't talked that much. You've always kept yourself to yourself. You never seemed very friendly."
"Oh, I don't know about that," I said, smiling sardonically and putting my book down on my lap, "I think I can be very friendly, when I'm in the right mood."
Five minutes later, we were hidden in amongst some trees, and I was on my knees sucking dick. I blew all three of them and then they took turns fucking me. I came half-a-dozen times or more. Then, once they were all satisfied, I thanked them, gave Rocky my soiled panties as a souvenir, and walked off home.
It was close to the end of the academic year, so I never quite managed to solidify a reputation as the school slut, but holy Christ, did I try. I was making up for lost time. The floodgates had opened and I had become an almost insatiable nymphomaniac. I pretty much fucked anyone and everyone. You just had to ask. Boys used to line up outside the school toilets; I was in one of the stalls, sucking dick after dick after dick, until my jaw was numb and my belly was bloated with spunk.
One time I was caught by a teacher, screwing some jock in a store room. Twenty minutes later, I was bent over that teacher's desk and he was fucking me in the ass. He couldn't even look me in the eye as I slipped out of his room, his cum dribbling down my legs. Although he would fuck me on that desk a few more times before I walked out of that school for the last time.
Bob had, unwittingly, unleashed a monster; let a genie out of a bottle; squeezed some fairly sordid toothpaste out of its tube...choose whatever cliche you like. I was basically a sex addict, getting off from being used. I was insatiable. I didn't want a relationship, I didn't want a boyfriend. I just wanted to fuck. More accurately, I wanted to be fucked. I wanted my body to be violated and abused.
I was outrageous. I was depraved. Let me give you an example...
There was a lovely elderly couple who lived next door to us called Hetty and Victor Lyons. They had been our neighbours all the time we lived there. Mrs Lyons had babysat for me as a child. Mr Lyons used to talk to me as he tended to his garden and I played in my back yard. They were sweet and friendly and I loved them both dearly.
One afternoon, not long after I had discovered my new calling in life, I was sunbathing out back. I was wearing a new bikini that Bob had bought me. Skimpy and revealing. I was almost dozing when I heard Mr Lyons power up his lawnmower and started cutting the grass on his side of the short picket fence that separated our yard from theirs.
"Hello, Mr Lyons!" I shouted out to him, summoning up as much charm as I could muster.
"Hello, Esther," he replied, his eyes moving up and down my body.
I lay there, in the mid-summer heat, suddenly feeling incredibly horny. Before I knew what I was doing, I untied the straps of my bikini top and let it fall to the grass beside me. I then, somewhat ostentatiously, rubbed suntan oil into my breasts, tugging at my nipples with my fingers. I heard the lawnmower stop and looked up to see Mr Lyons gawping at me. My whole body shivered in excitement.
He continued tending to his garden, desperately trying not to look at me. Or at least desperately trying not to get caught looking at me. I was wearing sunglasses, so I could spy on him with abandon. Not only was I feeling horny, I was feeling naughty. Without giving it much rational thought, my hand creeped down my front and disappeared inside my bikini bottoms. I began to masturbate, rubbing my clit with a feverish intensity.
I moaned and Mr Lyons looked up. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open, as he watched the teenage girl he had known since she was a toddler, abuse herself in the most obscene way possible. I gasped and panted, groaned and giggled, bringing myself off; slipping my fingers inside my cunt. My hot, tight, sopping wet cunt. It took me no time at all to cum, and I glanced over in Mr Lyons direction. He had disappeared back inside his house.
The next day I waited for Mrs Lyons to leave; then I clambered over the fence between the two properties and knocked on their back door. I smiled innocently when Mr Lyons saw me. I had chosen my outfit carefully; another short, summery dress and not a stitch of underwear.
"Hey, Mr Lyons," I chirruped gleefully.
"Hey, Esther," he replied.
His eyes were almost misting over with lust and longing. A look I had come to recognise in almost every man who now met me. Not a word more was said; he simply stepped back and let me walk into the house. He quickly glanced around, seeing if anyone had witnessed my arrival, and then closed the door behind us.
I have lost count of the amount of men I have slept with down the years - I know it's a pretty big number - but there are few fucks I remember with more affection and fondness than the time I spent with Mr Lyons. He was well into his seventies by then, but he was still pretty vigorous and active. And he was hung like a horse. I rode his cock like a bucking bronco and then he held me in his arms and gently kissed and caressed me with a tenderness and affection I would rarely ever experience.
"We shouldn't have done this you know, little girl," he whispered softly.
"It was nice, Mr Lyons," I offered in return.
"I think you can call me Victor now, honey."
"Okay."
"You mustn't tell anyone about this. Not my wife and certainly not your mother."
"I know. I'm not stupid."
"No, I know you're not. But I must be."
"Don't say that, Mr Lyons. It was lovely. You were lovely."
"Not as lovely as you, sweetheart."
"Can you just hold me, please?"
"Okay."
He did and a little later we made love one more time that afternoon. Then I sneaked back home. Mr Lyons and I - I would never get used to calling him Victor - would meet up once or twice a week from then on. I know I said I liked being fucked, but with him it was different. There was always a sweetness and tenderness to our lovemaking. Sometimes we wouldn't have sex. He would just cuddle me in his arms and I might blow him or jerk him off.
Not long after I left for college, Mr Lyons was doing some weeding in his garden, when he suddenly keeled over with a massive heart attack. Mrs Lyons was later told he was probably dead before he hit the ground. When my mother informed me, somewhat in passing, that he had died, I wept with an almost hysterical fervour. I immediately went out and seduced one of my professors, hoping to replicate the same kind of tender sex I had enjoyed with Mr Lyons.
The period of my life between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one were something of a blur. An unending cavalcade of debauchery, self-indulgence and excess. I got drunk. I took drugs. And I fucked. I fucked and fucked and fucked. But throughout that time, I never enjoyed a sweeter or more earnest connection than I did with Mr Lyons. He was the closest thing I got to a new father figure. Or a grandfather. A grandfather whose dick I used to suck, but a grandfather nonetheless. I still think of him with great fondness.
I only hope I made his final years a little more enjoyable.
So, college life was pretty crazy, to say the least. I did next to no studying and I partied like it was about to be made illegal. I slept with other students. I slept with professors. I picked up guys in bars. I got picked up in clubs. I ate pussy for the first time, which I really, really enjoyed, but it was cock I really yearned for.
My roommate was a preppy blonde called Whitney. She was pretty, smart and funny. She was the best friend I had made in years and I loved spending time with her. So I felt really bad when I seduced her father. He was a peppery-haired hunk, that was clear when I met him for the first time, when he dropped her off on at the beginning of term. I would have let him have me that afternoon, but that was probably a little impractical.
Instead, I waited until the week before Thanksgiving, when Whitney invited me to spend the weekend with her family at their home in Missouri. I set my sights on him right from the start, and he put up little or no resistance. I blew him that night, after everyone else had gone to bed. Then he fucked me on the couch. When he came, he groaned Whitney's name, which slightly scandalised even me. But soon enough, I was calling him Daddy whenever we had sex.
Eventually, Whitney caught me and her father in bed together. He had paid a secret visit to the house we lived in at college and was doing me doggy-style, when she walked in on us. She went nuts, attacking both me and her father. She moved out later that afternoon. I was sorry to have upset her, but I wasn't sorry to have fucked her dad.
In so many ways, I look back on that period of life with almost a ridiculous sense of nostalgia. It was crazy, thrilling, exciting...and the sex was incredible. But there were plenty of times when I would cry myself to sleep. It's as if I wanted to feel empty, but I hated that yearning within me. I had zero self-respect, zero sense of self-worth. I was just a set of holes that needed to be filled. A body that needed to be used.
Rock bottom probably came towards the end of my sophomore year. I was quite the party girl and it wasn't unusual for me to end up involved in some sort of group-sex scenario. Guys liked to watch me make out with other girls, and I was always willing to oblige.
And then there were the gang-bangs.
I think I took part in my first one, after the college basketball team won a game against a local rival. There was a debauched party and I ended up fucking half the team at the same time. There were a few of us girls who sucked and fucked pretty much on demand, but I was always determined to be the best. I was ultra competitive about my sluttishness. I would bang more guys than anyone else. Every. Single. Time.
It became my thing, something I was notorious for. My party piece. No event worth its salt would end without me writhing around amidst a huddle of jocks or ballers, sticking their dicks in every hole I possessed. Invariably I would pass out, my body being handed over from one guy to another, like a rag-doll. I would end up exhausted, lying on the floor, covered in cuts, bruises, semen, spit, sweat, piss and blood.
I must have endured this experience a dozen or more times, and every time I would say it was extraordinary. Every time except the last time. I don't know why, but for some reason, the last time was one time too many. I don't think the men involved were unusually brutal or inconsiderate. I mean, they were really brutal and inconsiderate, but no more so than on any previous occasion.
Something broke in me that night. Something fundamental. More than two years of unrestrained, unrelenting hedonism, just caught up with me. Being treated like a little fuck-toy, no more than a plaything or a commodity. Abandoning any iota of self-respect. It all culminated in me lying on the floor of some crappy frat house, curled up in a ball, sobbing to myself hysterically.
Add on top of that the sexual abuse I had received from Bob. That continued when I came home from school. He still expected me to service his needs whenever he was horny. And I did as I was told. All that madness crystallised and coalesced into a very public breakdown and a subsequent, botched suicide attempt. One night, I took a handful of pills and swigged them down with neat vodka. Fortunately, I threw up in my bed and woke up to find the pills beside me, swimming in a pool of vomit.
It was around this moment in time, that Artie entered my life. He proved to be my salvation.
He was the first man I had met who hadn't simply taken advantage of me. The first man who said no when I threw myself at him. He was the man who I would end up marrying; the man whose children I would carry; the man I would betray more than anyone else when I started sleeping with our son.
I had seen him around campus. He was cute and kind of shy. We went to some of the same parties, but he was never present when I invariably got naked and started doing my slutty whore thing. I saw him in a coffee shop one afternoon and we struck up a conversation. He asked me out on a date and I accepted. We went to see a movie and when he dropped me off at my sorority house, he kissed me gently on the forehead and wished me goodnight. I had been perfectly prepared to let him spend the night, but he played the consummate gentleman and made his way home.
We started seeing each other, and I slowly rebuilt my life. It was quite a gear change to go from full-on, crazy sex chick, to sober, demure, faithful girlfriend; but I tried my best. There were a few lapses early on in our relationship, that Artie never found out about, but eventually I was able to pursue a monogamous lifestyle.
I fell deeply in love for the first time. Well, apart from the love I had felt for my father. Artie filled a hole in my life, figuratively and physically. The sex was a little mundane, compared with the crazy shit I had been getting up to before then, but the change of pace was somewhat welcome. I wanted to be normal. I wanted to be sane. I didn't want to just be some plaything for any guy who felt like getting his rocks off. Not anymore. I wanted to be loved, and Artie gave me that in spades.
Which makes what is happening now all the more stark and unforgivable.
3
I took a quick shower and cleaned myself up, thoroughly washing my son's bodily fluids down the plug hole. By the time I had finished, Chris had returned to his room. I quickly stripped the bed and opened the window to air out the stink of incestuous sex. Then I made my way downstairs and put the sheets in the machine to wash. Calvin and Ava were both absorbed by cartoons on the TV. I could hear the loud thud, thud, thud of music emanating from their older brother's bedroom upstairs.
I was busy in the kitchen, preparing dinner, when Artie returned home. I heard the front door open and there were some muffled screams of 'Daddy' from Ava and Calvin. Then my husband made his way into the kitchen.
"Hey, honey," he said, kissing me on my forehead.
"Hey," I replied, "I thought you were going to be late? Chris said you had some meeting?"
"Yeah, it didn't last as long as I thought it would. I was able to get back earlier than expected."
I was suddenly conscious of the fact that he might have come back to find me spreadeagled on our bed, with Chris vigorously fucking me in the ass. That was quite a bullet dodged.
"Hey, Dad, I scored a goal in my game!" A voice cried out, Calvin marching in to the room.
"Did you, champ? That's great."
A normal family scene played out, father and son bonding over sports, mother making the family meal. What could be more mundane and unremarkable? Except this family wasn't remotely normal or mundane. But that reality was not apparent at this point in time. It would be, a few hours later.
The evening progresses. Calvin finally takes his shower. Food is consumed. Life is lived. Ava is first to bed. She has to be told a story and then I had to lie with her for half an hour or so, before she slips into a deep, peaceful sleep. Then, somewhat more reluctantly, Calvin followed her to the land of Nod. Artie tended to be an early bird, so he was always nodding off on the couch after eating his evening meal.
"I'm going up," he told me, yawning loudly, "you coming with me?"
"Not yet," I replied, motioning towards the TV, "I want to see if they catch the bad guy."
"I'm kind of betting they will."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, wiseass."
Artie got up, came over to me and kissed me goodnight. Then he trudged upstairs. I heard him move around for a few minutes, then things settled down, as he got into bed. Maybe five minutes later, I heard a door open and then footsteps on the stairs. I looked up to see Chris enter the room.
"Hey, Mom," he said softly.
"Hey, honey," I replied.
He was only wearing a pair of basketball shorts and I glanced up at his muscular frame. God, he was such a handsome young man. He sat on the couch and started flicking through images on his phone. I returned my attention to the television screen, but after a few moments I was conscious of movement in the corner of my eye. I looked over and I saw my son was now masturbating. He had whipped his big meaty dick out and was tugging away on it quite merrily with one hand, as he looked at some video playing on his phone in the other.
"Jesus, Chris!" I hissed, "can't you control yourself?"
"Apparently not," he replied insouciantly, "why don't you come join me?"
"Haven't you already pushed your luck today? We nearly got caught earlier."
"Come here."
"Chris..."
"Come. Here."
His tone brooked no argument, so I found myself getting to my feet. I was wearing a robe and short nightdress, which I quickly disposed of. He'd seen me naked so many times by now, I wasn't remotely self-conscious around him. It wasn't a very long journey from my chair to the couch, but I tried to make the trip as entertaining and sultry as possible. I swayed my hips and arched my feet, stretching out one leg and then the other. He just smiled at me, as he continued to lazily stroke his cock.
He was sat with his legs wide apart and I stood in front of him, staring down at him.
"Are you going to be a good little girl and suck my dick?"
"Yes."
"Then get to it, slut."
I winced a little at his harsh tone, but I admit it turned me on as well. I sank down to the floor, resting my hands on his thighs, to brace my weight as I descended. Once I was settled on the carpet, I continued to stroke and caress his hairy skin. I could smell the slightly musky odour of his penis, and that scent thrilled me in the way it always did.
"Here, let Mommy take care of that," I said, as I grasped hold of his cock.
"Thank you, Mommy."
I took a firm grasp of his thick meat, both my hands wrapped round him. I squeezed and tugged on the hot, sweaty flesh, panting lightly as I did so. I leant over and licked the underside of his head, before tickling and teasing the tiny piss-hole at the tip of his cock, tasting just a trace of urine. He gasped a little at the sensation. Then I wrapped my lips round his dick and started to suck intently.
"Oh you dirty fucking whore," he whispered, as his head fell back on the cushions behind him.
My mouth widened, as more and more of his dick disappeared inside me. His hand moved to the back of my head and he pushed me downwards. I gagged a little and tried to relax my throat, swallowing almost all of his prick. He continued pushing, until my lips were touching the base of his cock. He held me there, and I choked on him. My saliva flowed freely, even as my breathing became more laboured.
He reached out with his other hand and pinched my nose shut. He smiled smugly after he did it. My eyes were streaming, my face was bright purple, my throat was burning. All the while I could feel his cock pulsing in my mouth, my muscles squeezing and massaging his thick member. I struggled for breath but didn't panic. I knew the games he liked to play. I enjoyed being in this position, servicing him, as I became increasingly lightheaded.
Then, just as I felt myself slipping into unconsciousness, he released his grasp and I pulled myself back off him. I gasped loudly for air, strands of saliva dripping from my lips. I sucked in lungfuls of oxygen, panting and groaning, as he once again stroked his dick. He smiled at me serenely.
"I don't think anyone sucks my cock as good as you do, Mom," he said.
"Well, no one loves you like I do, baby."
I leaned forward and started licking and sucking on his balls, taking one in my mouth and then the other. My tongue rubbed against the almost shiny skin of his sack. My hand joined his in jerking him off. Then he lifted his body up and started tugging his boxer shorts down his legs. I helped him, stripping him bare. Then he leaned back, lifting up his legs and pulling them towards his body. His hands grasped behind his knees and his ass reared up in front of me. His little puckered hole twitched and spasmed.
"Why don't you show me how much you love me," he said, softly.
I smiled at him, winked, and then buried my face between his butt cheeks. He gasped as my tongue slid inside his anus, and his dick twitched in arousal. My little boy loved having his ass eaten. Apparently, one of his first girlfriends had a rimming fetish and she had introduced him to butt-play. Ever since, he had been a total fiend for it, and I was more than happy to cater to his depraved desires.
I nom, nom, nommed away at his bum, my tongue pushing deeper inside his humid bowls. Chris was a pretty clean kind of guy, showering at least once a day, but his ass tasted of, well, ass. It was coppery and sweaty and musky and totally fucking delicious. Just a hint of dirty sweetness too. I trailed my fingernails against the soft skin of the back of his thighs, as I licked and probed and explored.
He squirmed and wriggled on the couch as I ate away at his butt, groaning and grunting. With every lap of my tongue, his prick thickened and lengthened. He was pretty close to cumming, his body was giving off all the tell-tale signs. He liked to cum on my face or tits, hosing me down with a creamy glaze, but there was one place he liked to cum more then any other.
Without warning, he firstly pushed me back and then promptly pulled me upwards. I practically crawled up his body until I was on my feet. Then I swung my leg over his lap and straddled him. I grabbed hold of his dick, lined it up with the entrance of my cunt, and sank down on top of him. Both of us sighed in happy unison as he entered my body once again. He buried his face in my tits, and began thrusting his cock up and down. I could feel his lips and tongue against my nipples. He chewed on them forcefully, sucking and tugging with his teeth.
I wrapped my arms round his head, pulling him tighter against me, feeling him suckle and feast on my boobs, recalling the way I had breast-fed him as a child. Then he lifted his head up and kissed me. Our mouths came together in a deep, soul-searching quest for intimacy. I could feel his dick heave up and down as we made out frantically. Our tongues rolled and rippled together, our lips locked tight, my hands lost in his long brown, tousled locks.
He and I have done everything a man and a woman can do together, sexually. He has fucked every hole I have. He has choked me, slapped me, spat at me, pissed on me. And I have done the same to him. But nothing - absolutely nothing - made me feel closer to him than when we kissed.
There was something so intimate, so personal, so forbidden about what we were doing. This was my son. This was my child. Twenty years earlier I had given birth to him. I had changed his diapers. I had wiped his ass. I had sung happy birthday to him as he lay in my arms. I had tucked him into bed at night and kissed him softly on his forehead.
And now I was spreadeagled on top of him, impaled on his cock. My sweaty, naked body bouncing around next to his, my big fat tits rolling up and down against the hard muscular frame of his chest. And we kissed like teenagers, my entire life and soul lost in the primal fury of our bodies meeting in incestuous bliss.
"I'm gonna cum," he spluttered, his cock expanding inside me.
"Do it, baby, do it. Cum inside me, my beautiful boy. Cum inside Mommy. My cunt belongs to you, my little man."
"I love you, Mom!"
"I love you too, sweetheart. I love you more than anyone else. You're my favourite, baby. I love you more than your brother and sister. So much more. You're my number one. I'm all yours. You own me,"
My frantic, almost hysterical babbling was enough to tip him over the edge and, with a final few thrusts, he exploded inside me. I could feel his dick erupting, gobs of cum shooting up my pussy. I groaned and moaned as he roared and bellowed. The two of us climaxing together, my body writhing and bucking on top of his, his hands sinking deep into the fleshy buttocks of my ass.
He came again and again and again, his dick pulsing and twitching. The two of us froze, as waves of pleasure washed over us. My toes curled up, my nipples throbbed, my clit almost vibrated. I collapsed forward, pressing him back onto the couch, my sticky body falling flat against his. There was silence, save for our panting and wheezing. I could feel his jizz trickling out of my twat.
We kissed some more. Languid and slow now, our tongues sliding and slithering, as his hands gently caressed my naked back. I brushed his hair out of his eyes and cupped his cheeks. I stared into his eyes and he stared back into mine. We just smiled and kissed and touched and breathed slowly. He was still inside me and everything felt lovely and perfect and wonderful.
"I love you so much, Mom."
"I love you too, baby. More than I can possibly say."
"Really?"
"Absolutely. I adore you, Christian. And I adore what we do together."
"Me too, Mom."
"I love the way you fuck me. I love the way you make me cum. No one has ever fucked me like you do. It's special, what we have together. Magical."
And I meant that. Every goddamn word. Don't get me wrong, embarking on an incestuous relationship is fraught with dangers and concerns. A whole ton of things can go wrong. There were times when I felt physically sick with guilt and worry. But when we were together like this, when I was naked and he was inside me, it all seemed worth it.
"Did you mean it?" He asked, "when you said I your favourite?"
"Of course. Always."
"This isn't going to end, is it? We're going to keep on fucking...I mean, making love?"
"Forever, baby. I'm yours forever."
I leant forward, resting my head on his shoulder. I could feel him getting hard again inside me and wondered if he would have me one more time before I went to bed.
4
I knew he wanted me long before we actually did it.
I recognised the look in his eyes. It was the same look I had seen so many time before. Hunger. Lust. Desire. I remembered seeing it when I was a kid. I had seen it in the eyes of Uncle Bob. I had seen it in the eyes of Mr Lyons. I had seen it in the eyes of the dozens of men and boys I had slept with during my wild years.
I hadn't expected to see it in the eyes of my teenage son.
Artie and I fell in love, and married almost as soon as we graduated from college. I was pregnant less than a year later. Chris was a lovely, cuddly, chubby, cheerful baby, and we both adored him. But try as we might - and we certainly tried - we couldn't seem to produce a brother or sister. Eventually, we decided to settle for what we had, and stopped thinking about expanding the family unit. It would be years later when, completely out of the blue, and in relatively quick succession, I got pregnant with Calvin and then Ava.
I look back on those years with a tremendous sense of fondness. We were living the American dream. We were married, with kids. We had a house with a yard, two cars, and we took a foreign holiday at least once a year. If anyone had asked me, I would have said I was blissfully happy. Yes, there were down moments, every married couple has them, but I thought I was happy.
But, in truth, I was living a lie. I realise that now. I had suppressed a part of me. Hidden it away. And that part of me was the sexual aspect of my nature. Sure, Artie and I slept together, but he was never particularly libidinous. He liked sex, but it didn't drive him. He never pushed me for it. And when we did it, it was always kind of mundane. Pedestrian.
I had enjoyed some crazy times, and had gotten used to a certain type of sex. Hard, nasty, sometimes violent fucking. With Artie, it was sweet and loving and tender. For the longest of times, I welcomed that. It had initially been a relief. But at some point I realised it had become dull and uninspiring.
Not that I did anything about it. I never for a second contemplated cheating on my husband. I knew from prior experience that it would be the easiest thing in the world to find a lover, but I wasn't going to betray Artie. Okay, I was sexually frustrated, but I would cope. I would survive.
And then I realised my oldest son wanted to fuck me, and everything changed.
The first hint came out of nowhere. I remember it vividly. It happened one Saturday morning, a day like any other. I was downstairs, doing laundry. I was wearing a bra and panties and a short robe. I was busy pairing up socks when I dropped one on the floor. I bent over to pick it up, and that was the moment Chris strolled into the room.
"Hey, Mom, is it okay if I..." was as far a she got.
"What's that, honey?" I looked back over my shoulder and saw him gazing at my semi-exposed ass.
"Uh, nothing," he mumbled and disappeared from view.
I stood up and smiled a curious smile. My little boy was becoming man, I thought to myself. The whole idea seemed amusing and I got on with the rest of my day. But something fundamental had changed in that moment. Chris had always been an affectionate, tactile boy. He loved hugs and kisses, and would spend hours on the couch, snuggling up to me.
Not anymore.
From then on, there was a distance between us. He now hated to be kissed or cuddled, and couldn't abide any display of affection from me. This seemed terribly sad and I said as much to his father. Artie just said it was a thing every mother had to accept, as her son continued his journey through adolescence.
"He'll grow out of it," my husband told me, with great authority, "it's a phase. He'll be all over you in a few years' time."
Turns out my other half was quite the soothsayer, just not in the way he imagined.
Calvin and Ava were still little munchkins and still sought out their mother's affections, but I was sad that their elder brother no longer shared their innocent desires. It hadn't just been post-coital bullshit when I told Chris he was my favourite. He had been my favourite, and I wanted that physical connection to return.
It was a case of be careful what you wish for, I suppose.
Over the following months and years, I noticed other things; the kind of clues a lot of mothers would pick up on with a teenage boy in the house. Chris spent an inordinate amount of time in his room, no doubt jerking himself off, I imagine. Every so often, a pair of my panties would go missing.
And then there was the way he would look at me. Most of the time, he was perfectly normal. Distant but normal. But sometimes, when he didn't think I was paying attention, I would see that look on his face. The look I remembered so vividly from my youth. That hungry look.
If I'd given it any serious thought, I would have dismissed it as the typical ordeal of raising a young man. Teenage boys were basically erect penises with a body attached to them. I found the tissues under his bed, even the occasional girlie magazine at the back of his closet. What was it, his father called it? A phase. It was a phase. Nothing unusual. Everything would go back to normal eventually. That's what I told myself.
Then I saw Chris playing basketball with his friends, and suddenly I was entering a whole new phase of my own. Or perhaps, more accurately, I was re-entering a phase from my past.
I was stood in the kitchen, rinsing out some glasses in the sink, minding my own business, when I glanced up and saw Chris and his buddies playing in the driveway. His father had put up a hoop years earlier and a gang of young men were now fooling around, somewhat raucously. A totally familiar, mundane, unassuming sight; the kind of thing you would see in any yard or driveway across America.
I looked at them almost absentmindedly, smiling affectionately to myself, when I suddenly noticed that my son wasn't wearing a shirt. It was possible that more than one of his friends may have also been running around topless, but it was Chris who drew my attention. He wasn't ripped or anything, but he was in good shape. Lean, hard-bodied, defined. No six-pack, but there was definitely some muscle on display.
I gasped to myself, suddenly seeing him in a whole new way. My little boy was a man. I mean, I knew this already - he'd been taller than me for several years - but I still thought of him as a child. For the first time ever, I acknowledged he was an adult. A handsome, sexually alluring adult. I stood there, wide-eyed and disbelieving, for a long time, just watching these men move and play.
Or, more accurately, I watched Chris move and play. Sweaty, glistening, twisting, writhing. Everything about him was so perfect, so attractive, so fucking hot.
It was as if a whole section of my brain was slowly coming back to life. I imagined it as a row of supercomputers in a dusty warehouse somewhere. They looked dead and lifeless, but then a couple of lights switched on, flickering and pulsing. Then, one by one, more lights became illuminated. There was whirring and rumbling and clicking, as these powerful calculating machines stirred and vibrated for the first time in years.