For the last couple of years I have been having sex with my daughter’s husband. It started at a small gathering at my home, just a close family meet-up because the weather was good and everyone happened to have no other plans. It was nothing fancy and people were dressed casually, mostly jeans and comfortable clothing but I have a preference for more formal wear and wore a yellow summer dress with what some might consider a low neckline but nothing immodest. Even though I have crossed fifty I still have a decently trim figure: shapely legs I admit I am proud of, a pronounced rear-end which fits quite nicely into modern tastes that favour more rather than less, and good-sized breasts that aren’t as pert as they once were but are still able to catch a man’s eye.
Not that I go out of my way to appear alluring but I do still enjoy a little harmless attention. After my divorce, I was left feeling bitter and angry and very, very betrayed. Men were not of interest to me and the time passed quickly while I stewed in my own recriminations. Now I feel I somewhat missed the boat since I was still young enough to try again with someone, but I really had no desire to do so at the time. I am at complete peace with a more or less solitary existence, with the people at work and my family more than meeting my needs for a social life, but I do still like it when I occasionally see a man’s head turn in my direction, as superficial as that may sound.
On that particular Sunday afternoon it was my son-in-law who I caught staring as I bent over to pour one of my grandchildren a drink and all it did was make me smile a little to myself. He is a quiet, polite man who works as a mechanic and loves cars and motorcycles. There is something very masculine about him, the broadness of his shoulders, the thick hair on his arms and chest, but he has a gentleness to him that marks him out from most of the boisterous men in my family and I have never heard him raise his voice to my daughter or to their two young children.
He is still a man and men will always glance at a pretty girl or a shapely figure so I can’t say I wasn’t flattered and I certainly didn’t think ill of him. No harm in looking, after all.
Later, I needed to get some more paper plates tucked away in a high cupboard in the spare bedroom and he offered to help. We were making pleasant small talk as we went up the stairs, about his oldest’s dislike for one of her teachers at school, and I walked into the bedroom without much regard for the sound of the door closing as he entered behind me. As I pointed to the cupboard out of my reach he moved forward but rather than reach up he reached down and slid his hand under the hem of my dress and up the inside of my bare thigh.
I was so startled I didn’t say anything and then his hand was stroking the cotton front of my underwear while he continued to discuss the problem with teachers these days as though nothing was amiss. I responded by doing the same. As we continued our conversation without any overt reaction to what he was doing, his fingers pulled my underwear to one side and he gently rubbed just above my vulva. The conversation turned to the school system and the lack of funding and I found myself a little short of breath so I was letting him do most of the talking. When his finger slid inside me I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth but couldn’t stop a small moan escaping my lips as I started to go from moist to unquestioningly wet.