First time she plays with her son

I’ve thought about this a lot over the last few weeks.

Do you know how, in stories of this ilk, there’s typically some bolt-of-lightning effect, a ‘lightbulb moment,’ where everything ‘makes sense’ and some ‘inner beast is awoken?’ The truth is that things don’t work like that. It’s not that –

All right, that’s not fair. I can’t say that. I was about to say that these things never work like that but I can’t speak for anyone else. All I can say is that’s not how it worked for me – and I don’t know anyone who’s been through the same things I have, though looking around on the Internet makes it clear plenty of people have.

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Just nobody I know.

Okay, getting away from the point. It’s just that this is hard to write out.

Here’s the thing: I fucked my son.

Here’s the other thing: I can’t work out why.

Oh, he’s cute as hell, don’t get me wrong. And that cock? It’s just delicious. Turns out he’s just as sick as me, too, but that’s all icing on the cake. Or cum on the face. Both those things.

But why him? That’s the bit I can’t work out. There are tons of reasons why I shouldn’t want to but they just… don’t seem to apply.

I’ll start from… I don’t really know where the ‘start’ is. So I’ll just pick a point and go from there.

**********

I have a really satisfying marriage.

My husband Albert, perhaps in spite of his name (which he’s always found boring and mundane; as much as I’d like to, I can’t really disagree, so I call him Al), is a very, um, broad-minded fellow. We met at an orgy in university when we were both barely eighteen and painfully naive. I’d like to say that as soon as I saw him sparks flew, but that would be bullshit. Maybe because I had three other cocks in me at the time and he was just someone waiting his turn. The point is, we met, we fucked, it was good but not actually any better than anyone else I had that night.

Then we didn’t meet for another, oh… four years, I guess.

That was at a strip club in Melbourne where I was working. He was in for a buck’s party – his own buck’s party – and the Best Man picked me to strip for the groom-to-be. We broke a lot of rules in the private room and getting DP’d by those two wasn’t the least of it. Sadly, it got me fired – I really liked that job.

Luckily, it got the Best Man in a really happy mood, which meant that when they found me crying on the footpath outside the club, he was the one who suggested I come with them.

We all went back to some dodgy hotel room and fucked like mad – me, seven guys and another girl I used to work with (different job, a call centre, but we’d stayed close). I got pregnant, the Best Man got wildly drunk, Al got informed (by the Best Man) that his fiancee was cheating on him (with his Best Man).

I always thought it was a bit hypocritical of Al to drunk dial his fiancee and tell her that he was balls-deep in another woman and that she was a cheating whore who could go fuck herself, when he’d been balls deep in me for several hours before that. But that’s what he did.

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They broke up. I had a miscarriage. We got together. It took us another year to work out that we’d actually met – and fucked – before.

The world’s a weird place, isn’t it?

Anyway, we’ve always been swingers. He’s the balding accountant (no, really) and I’m the hotwife who sleeps with all of his friends – whether he’s watching or not. The secrets to a happy marriage are to find someone who’s not afraid of rolling up their sleeves and getting shit done when they need to, and who’s exactly as filthy-minded as you are.

The point is, my sex life is not boring. My sex life is probably light years ahead of yours – or maybe it’s not. I don’t know your life. But I do know mine.

I got pregnant for a second time with my first child, Teagan, who was named by his Dad because there was no way the family tradition of handing down the name ‘Albert’ was going to stick. I don’t think Al’s Dad ever forgave him for that.

Anyway, apart from all of the sex, giving birth to my second child (a girl I named Tara, just because I liked how it looked next to Teagan) and several failed attempts at picking up part-time work (stripper, prostitute, child care worker, chemical analyst and so on), the next couple of decades aren’t…

Well, no, they were interesting. But they weren’t all that relevant to this story.

**********

I suppose the really interesting stuff started a few days after Teagan’s twenty-second birthday.

Usually, on Wednesdays, Al and I have a date night. It gives the term ‘Hump Day’ a different dimension and it makes the mid-week something for all of us to look forward to – Al and I because we go out for the night, Teagan and Tara because… Well, because we go out for the night. We’re not the kind of parents who only have sex once in a blue moon, and even though I’ve learned to hold it in (for the most part) I’m naturally a screamer. Nobody’s kidding ourselves that the kids can’t hear us fucking some nights.

Al’s supposed to put soundproofing on the bedroom walls but he never seems to get around to it. I think I’m just going to ask Teagan to do it, especially since I’ve started fucking him anyway.

Anyway, this is all prior to that. It was Wednesday and I got a text.

:: Georgia – won’t make it tonight, sorry ::

My name is Georgia, by the way. It suddenly occurred to me I hadn’t mentioned that. Al never abbreviates it or uses a pet name for me, either – something about the phonetics gets him hot and I’m fine with that. It feels good to be relished.

Anyway, I was… Let’s say ‘disappointed.’ So I put down my vibrator, dried off my hands and grabbed my phone.

:: Whats up Al? ::

He hates that I don’t use proper punctuation in texts. He’s angry-fucked me over it more than once before – which is why I don’t do it. Shh. Don’t tell him. I don’t think he’s worked it out yet.

:: Got to work late, honey. Mind if I fuck Cora? ::

:: Cora gets cock and I dont? Okay have fun. C U tonight. ::

I didn’t get a response back for a few minutes. I guess Cora – his secretary – was sucking his cock. Which is a fucking hot sight, by the way. Almost as hot as when I’m licking her pussy. So yes, you know, Cora was a known factor. Al already had permission to fuck her, anyway. He didn’t have to ask. But it was a courtesy and my husband is a sweety, even if he was fucking his secretary on our date night.

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So yes, I was annoyed. But it was at the circumstance, not at them. Frankly, I was more irritated I didn’t get a fun date than that I was unlikely to get hard cock.

:: Okay, I love you. See you tonight. Cora says hi and that she’ll pretend to be you so you kind of get spiritual cock by proxy. I don’t think that’s how it works. ::

:: U had better fuckin well take photos or ur in the dog house buddy! ::

:: Shall do. <3 ::

It was Wednesday, I wasn’t in the mood to masturbate any more, I wasn’t going to get cock and I wasn’t going on a date. Things weren’t looking good. Given the circumstances, I turned to the reliable comforter of all jilted wives and lonesome lovers.

**********

Tara and Teagan were in the kitchen when I went to the freezer to get the ice cream which, of course, was what I meant by ‘comforter.’

We have a nice house with a big kitchen. Apparently the family who built it had four kids and they used half of the kitchen as their dining room, so it was far from crowded. Not with half as many children and no need for a table, thanks to the dining room that the second family built on ten years after the house was first constructed.

My children were both topless, but that was nothing new. The whole family went around topless a lot of the time – when the weather was good, anyway. Funnily enough Teagan had a period in high school where he wasn’t seen without a shirt – probably because he got pretty chunky there for a few years – but Tara didn’t care. Al and I refused to teach them that bodies were shameful and they grew up with us typically naked from the waist up.

I was topless, too, and somewhat less enticing a sight than my daughter’s firm tits when I wandered in.

“You’re a bit underdressed, aren’t you, Mum?” Tara asked, looking up from her X-Men comic and pushing her glasses up her nose.

“Not really,” I told her, trying and completely failing to keep the self-piteous disappointment out of my voice. “Your Dad pulled out of our date night.” That made Teagan look up, too, from his phone. “He has to work back late at the office.” Even to me the excuse sounded a bit stupid, even though I knew it was true. There’s no point lying to your wife to fuck women when she doesn’t really care if you do.

I saw Teagan’s frown, though, and I knew what that meant. Because we’re not entirely devoid of morals, Al and I kept our sex lives out of our kids’ business. They had no idea we were shameless hussies. Is a man-hussy called a hussy? He is now.

I could just see the cogs whirling behind their eyes as my kids started to wonder – and probably not for the first time – if their Dad was cheating on their Mum. What could I say? ‘Don’t worry, kids, I know he fucks other women, but you wouldn’t believe how many non-Dad dicks I’ve had in my mouth in this month alone’? Probably not. Even I have limits.

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Well… I thought I did.

Tara was the first one to speak and her eyes lit up in that way they do when she’s dead certain that what she’s about to utter is, clearly, the most brilliant thing anyone could say in the situation.

“So what? Teagan will take you on a date.”

“What? I will?” This was news to her brother, obviously. Tara gave him a ‘well, duh,’ look. He frowned and then, as if he had clearly just said ‘Fuck it,’ shrugged and nodded. “Yeah, sure. I think I’ve got something decent to wear.”

I sighed, particularly because I’d just opened the ice cream bucket (punnet? I don’t know) and found it very nearly empty.

“No, Teagan, you don’t have to,” I protested, but Tara cut me off. She does that sometimes.

“It’ll be fun, Mum! Teagan’s a great date. At least that’s what Julie says,” she added, throwing a Look at her brother. Julie was Tara’s best friend and she hadn’t been happy when the two of them had been dating. Ignoring his eye-roll, she poked him in the arm. Pretty hard, by the look of it. “Go on, go have a shower and put something decent on!”

“He doesn’t want to be seen out on the town with his Mum, Tara.”

“Bullshit. Most of his friends would kill to date you. Hell, some of my friends would happily volunteer.” Tara looked again at Teagan, this time for support, and he reluctantly nodded.

I protested again. Teagan tried to say if I didn’t want to then Tara should leave well enough alone. Tara didn’t, because she usually doesn’t. Somehow, as things often seem to in this household, events panned out the way Tara insisted they do and it was decided: I was to have a date with my son.

‘Oh, aha! That’s the light-bulb moment,’ I hear you say. No, it wasn’t. Right then I was honestly just humouring Tara because it was easier than making her shut up. Teagan was doing the same thing, that was obvious. I think even Tara knew it but she was getting her way so that made her happy.

She’s not actually as selfish as I’m making her out to be, by the way. I just don’t like being railroaded.

Anyway, an hour later we’d both showered and changed.

I’d opted for something more sedate than my usual date-night dresses but that isn’t really saying much; I was still showing a lot of leg and my neck-line wasn’t exactly, um, virginal. I have huge boobs, a smallish waist and a generous butt, and all of my going-out clothes kind of… accentuate them. And believe it or not, when I was building my wardrobe over the years I never considered that my ‘going on a date’ section should have a ‘with my son’ subsection. Eventually I was clad in a figure-hugging wine-red velvet dress, black push-up bra (as if I needed any help in that area) and matching panties.

About halfway through my makeup I stopped resenting Tara’s pushiness and started enjoying myself again, so I guess the shade of lipstick I opted for was a touch racy. It was the stay-fast type, though, not one of what I call my ‘Strumpet Lips collection,’ the colours and the textures that make for vivid, intentional smears. A deep red matching the dress, a semi-gloss that somehow seemed to be made of velvet as surely as the dress it matched.

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