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--------------------------------------------------------
Copyright 2008-2010 by Senor Smut: This story may not be 
reproduced or distributed without written consent of the 
author.
--------------------------------------------------------

Angela's Diary - 9
by Senor Smut (senorsmut@gmail.com)

***

The continuing journey into debauchery of a suburban 
housewife at the hands of her young son. (F/M-teen, 
reluc, inc, exh, beast, preg?)

***

Author Note: I welcome and strongly encourage any 
constructive commentary and criticism, be it positive, 
negative, or a bit of both. I can be contacted at 
senorsmut@gmail.com.

The following story is a work of fiction. No real people 
were harmed in the writing of this story. Many of the 
things depicted in this story are immoral, some are 
illegal, and perhaps most aren't particularly advisable. 
Please use common sense when approaching this story and 
realize that a description of fantasy is, and must be, 
different from reality.

***

Chapter 11

It was bizarre to go back to my daily routine after the 
weekend I had had, and the ways that the weekend had 
utterly and irrevocably altered my life. I wasn't the 
same person on Monday morning that I had been on 
Thursday night; the past, as they so rightly say, is a 
foreign country, and now I could hardly look at who I 
was then without seeing grainy, sepia-tinted photographs 
in my mind. 

Yes it was me, still the same Angela, but a different 
Angela too, just like the America you read about in 
"Gone with the Wind" is the same America as now, but 
different too. And did I really just say I dated back to 
the Civil War? Good Lord, what a way to make myself feel 
good.

The point is that the events of three days had changed 
me so utterly that there was no going back to what I had 
been, but my outward circumstances – where I lived, who 
my friends were, what I did, what I had to do to 
maintain myself and my family – those things hadn't 
changed at all. 

I still had to go to the store that morning and buy 
groceries, I still had to take the car in for an oil 
change and to have the spongy brakes checked, I still 
had to take Charlie for a run and mow the lawn and get 
to my meeting that afternoon for the board of a local 
food shelf I help run. Tuesday I still had a lunch date 
with the girls. Life was stubbornly determined to go on.

And yet...

I was sitting in the waiting room of my car dealer when 
it happened. They had my car in back somewhere, 
presumably up on a hoist while greasy men in blue 
uniforms did whatever greasy men in blue uniforms did to 
cars to keep them from exploding when I step on the gas. 
The TV was showing Oprah and I was half watching that, 
half reading a three-week-old People magazine, and half 
drinking a cup of coffee that was exactly the sort of 
coffee you'd expect from a car dealership (yes I know 
it's three halves – I'm a multitasker). 

I don't even think I was thinking about anything in 
particular when, out of the blue, the most overwhelming 
sense of cognitive dissonance slammed down on me 
like...oh, gee, like a car falling off a hoist onto a 
greasy man in a blue uniform, how about that. Suddenly 
the sheer abnormality of my situation – of my family's 
situation – hurtled to the front of my mind even as I 
sat there doing my daily routine. It was the daily 
routine that did it, of course, as daily routines always 
do after you've had a major life-altering event. 

I had spent the weekend getting the blue blazes fucked 
out of me by my son and dog while my husband spent the 
weekend screwing our daughter cross-eyed, and yet here I 
was, sitting in a car dealership like a normal human 
being, drinking bad coffee and listening to Oprah talk 
about...well, at that point she might have been talking 
in Hindi for all I could understand. 

All at once it didn't make sense – and it didn't matter 
what it was, because nothing made the slightest bit of 
sense at all. Was I drinking coffee or used motor oil? 
Was I in a car dealership waiting for my SUV to get 
fixed, or was I asleep and having some sort of deeply 
weird dream? Was I a woman who had made certain choices 
or was I an impostor in my own life, living out 
someone's bizarre play about the decline and fall of the 
American family? Was I even in control of what I did, or 
had I walked a path that had been laid out for me from 
the instant I was ejected from my mother's womb? 

And then I was so dizzy I could barely sit straight. I 
felt like the whole room, the whole world, was spinning 
around me in about a dozen different directions at once, 
up, down, side to side, front and back. My vision got 
blurry and all of a sudden I was pretty sure after all 
that I had gone mad. I lurched to my feet, spilling my 
coffee in the process, and staggered out on noodly legs. 
I wobbled into the hall, past a startled car salesman, 
and into the ladies' room, where I tried for the next 
ten minutes to vomit and had no success. 

The car salesman must have gotten worried, because a few 
minutes into it, the gal who writes the work orders 
knocked on the door and asked me if I was all right. I 
told her the first thing that came to mind – bafflingly, 
that I was newly pregnant and suffering a sudden bout of 
nausea. She made an understanding sound and went away, 
even as the thought of being pregnant right now twirled 
around my brain. 

At this point, a baby would belong either to Charlie or 
David, and I figured it more likely that my son would 
knock me up than the dog, to say the least. I wasn't 
pregnant – I knew it, because we'd been careful, and 
anyway it was too soon for morning sickness – but now 
that I'd pulled that lie out of my hat, I couldn't stop 
thinking about it. Pregnant with my son's child. David's 
seed finding a place inside me, a warm, ready egg to 
fertilize and send to a waiting womb, growing larger, me 
feeling the heartbeat and the kicks, watching my belly 
get big and seeing the possessive look on David's face 
when I told him what had happened, seeing the dismayed 
look on Tim's face and the disappointed one on 
Laurel's...

And then I really did vomit. 

Again, I knew I wasn't pregnant. I had no doubt that 
David's sperm were powerful little guys, but they didn't 
have teeth to gnaw through a condom. And even if one of 
the rubbers had broken – which it hadn't – the odds were 
long against an old gal like me getting on the nest from 
one time anyway, no matter how fertile I was. 

And besides, when I got morning sickness with David and 
Laurel, it didn't start until after the first month, not 
the first weekend. But the sheer panic at the thought 
wasn't listening to reason, and when it landed on top of 
the head spinning dissonance I was already feeling so 
strongly, it was the straw that broke the incestuous 
dog-fucker slut-mom's back, as it were. 

It was a bad panic attack. I stayed in the stall, 
quivering and dizzy, heart knocking drum solos against 
my ribs, for another 20 minutes before I came out to the 
news that my car was ready. The same gal asked me if I 
was OK to drive and I lied that I was. Ten minutes later 
I was in a drug store buying Plan B, kicking myself for 
my foolishness as I did but still feeling a whole lot 
better about having a morning after pill in my hot 
little hands. 

I didn't eat lunch – I couldn't, because my stomach was 
still doing these cute little pirouettes that came right 
up to the edge of dry – but I did get home and take 
Charlie for a run. It was raining by that time, and a 
bit chilly, but I couldn't have cared less. I needed the 
exercise, and the mindless zone I can reach when I run, 
to keep me from starting to scream incoherently. And it 
even worked, because during the actual time I was 
running I actually managed to think about nothing 
whatsoever. 

The instant I got home, however, the worries cranked up 
again, this time focusing on Laurel and Tim and what had 
gone on there. She was my baby, my baby girl, and I 
didn't want anyone hurting her. I knew from the movies 
David had shown me that she wanted what was happening at 
least as much as Tim did, and I knew from the look of 
absolute eagerness on her face as she'd bounded out the 
door on Friday that there was no arm-twisting required 
to make her want her dad. But that still didn't mean 
that everything was all right there, and it still didn't 
mean I didn't need to worry.

I know, I know – pretty big of me to actually spare some 
time to worry about my husband molesting our daughter, 
right? But it's not like that. I had known what was 
going to happen when they went to Duluth and I had done 
nothing to stop it precisely because my own activities 
with David gave me no ground to stand on. 

I was fucking my underage son, and we were both loving 
every second of it, so how could I say that it was wrong 
for my husband to fuck his underage daughter? Laurel was 
only a year younger than David – and in my sober moments 
I would admit that she was considerably more mature in 
many ways than he was – so sauce for the goose pretty 
much had to be sauce for (or in this case, sauce emitted 
from) the gander. 

If she had been ten years old and first dealing with her 
sexuality, I would have had to put a stop to it 
regardless of what I was doing myself, and regardless of 
the cost to me – I was Laurel's mom a long time before I 
was David's lover, after all, and just about the only 
thing that goes deeper into the bone than finding your 
soul mate is being a mother, so if Laurel had been 
vulnerable and Tim abusing her, I'd have seen him in 
jail even if it meant me landing in the next cell over. 
But it wasn't like that. Laurel was an intelligent and 
self-possessed young lady who had known precisely what 
she wanted for the last couple of years now, and she 
made up for any deficits of experience by her natural 
good sense and her insight. 

If she hadn't wanted things with Tim to progress the way 
they did and to the point they reached, then she would 
have stopped them in no uncertain terms. And Tim, I 
knew, would never have touched her if she had even 
hinted at no. So that meant that what was happening now 
between my husband and daughter was fully as consensual 
as what was happening between me and my son, and 
furthermore it had started and progressed without 
blackmail, coercion, or threats. Laurel had known 
herself for a long time in a way I still didn't, so if 
what she wanted was to have sex with her dad, and what 
her dad wanted was to have sex with her, I had no 
grounds for complaint.

BUT. There's always one or two of those, isn't there? 
BUT she was my little girl. It didn't matter that she 
wasn't little anymore. To a mother, a daughter is always 
four years old and playing with her dollies and stuffed 
animals, even as she recognizes that her daughter isn't 
really, truly that anymore. I still felt the mama tiger 
protectiveness of my cub that I had when Laurel was 
first placed in my arms in the delivery room. I didn't 
want anything bad to happen to her, ever, and I didn't 
want her to get her heart broken. 

I didn't know what she wanted from her relationship with 
Tim, that was part of the problem. It would have been 
natural for her, in her position, to want me out of the 
picture so she could have her dad all to herself. She'd 
adored him long before even the first hint of anything 
inappropriate had passed between them, and the emotions 
of even a sensible young person aren't moderate things. 
You need experience to learn to temper your wants and 
your passions and your lusts with the knowledge and the 
layer of self-protectiveness that can only come from 
getting your heart snapped in two a couple of times. 

Laurel didn't have that, so she was no doubt feverish in 
her longing. Plus, of course, I was sure she'd been a 
virgin before her first time with Tim, and most girls 
get pretty hung up on their first lay – hell, I still 
feel a twinge when I think of the first guy I went all 
the way with, and he was a shallow jackass. First love, 
first fuck, and dad all in one person? I was positive 
her emotions were gale-force. But she wasn't acting like 
she wanted me out of the way. She wasn't acting 
resentful or argumentative, she wasn't pushing limits or 
trying to assert dominance over me...

Well, except she did, didn't she? At the Mall, when 
she'd told me to show myself off, and I had docilely 
obeyed? What was that if not pushing boundaries, for God 
sake? What was that if not asserting dominance? And 
furthermore, what was that if not me simply accepting 
it? 

Then I did throw up again. Or at least I tried. Dry 
heaves are terrible because they just keep going. At 
least when you puke and something comes up, you 
generally feel better. Dry heaves don't know when to 
stop. 

Curled up on the bathroom floor, trembling with nerves 
and vertigo and trying desperately not to scream, I 
fought to get myself back under control. Yes, I had done 
what I did with Laurel. Or rather, I had done what she 
told me. It had been wrong, but no matter how fervently 
I wanted to take it back, I knew I couldn't. The past, 
foreign country, etc., see above. I could see – finally 
– how precipitous I had been in letting her control me 
in that way, and how dangerous it would be to let any 
such thing – or anything even remotely resemble it – 
occur ever again. But understanding didn't bring 
acceptance. 

No, it brought a fresh panic attack and some rather 
hysterical crying. How had things gotten so out of 
control, not just between me and her but with her and 
Tim, with David and me, with, Charlie and me, etc.? How 
had things gone so far, and so...well, so much in the 
direction that they had? Was I losing everything I had? 
And more than that, was I willingly
 throwing away everything I was?

And before you complain about me being all wishy-washy 
and swinging like a pendulum from loving what I had 
become and wishing the past gone for good on the one 
hand, and being paralyzed with fear that I was going 
nuts and making the worst mistakes any mom had ever made 
since Lot's wife decided that one little peek couldn't 
hurt, I will remind you that A) I was undergoing some 
pretty severe emotional strain, B) I did warn you that 
this sort of thing was going to be happening a lot and 
if you have a problem with it, it's your own fault 
you're still reading, and C) shut up. 

I was sitting on the floor of the bathroom, knees pulled 
up and held to my chest, sniffling, when David got home. 
He called to me from downstairs but I didn't trust my 
voice enough to answer. I knew I would sound quavery and 
weak if I did, and I didn't want to sound quavery and 
weak, not to him – not to my child. Being vulnerable 
that way for a lover was one thing, but it was something 
very different for my own son. The fact that David was 
both was just a complicating factor, that's all. 

"Mom?" came his voice again, this time from the stairs. 
I heard him look in the office, and then I heard his 
footsteps – and Charlie's too, because he was following 
along wanting to be petted – as he came down the hall. I 
think he checked his bedroom (no doubt hoping I was 
waiting for him on his bed wearing nothing but a smile) 
and then he opened the door to my bedroom. The light was 
on in my bathroom and the door was open, so it was 
pretty obvious where I was. After a second he appeared 
in the doorway, and there was genuine concern in his 
voice as he asked, "Mom? What's the matter? Are you OK?"

I managed the world's least convincing nod. 

He crouched next to me and gently brushed back a lock of 
hair that had tumbled across my face. "Well you don't 
look OK to me. Want to talk?"

Tears started again. I didn't want them to but they 
weren't going to be denied. I snuffled and then gave a 
semi-strangled sob, and suddenly he was kneeling next to 
me, his arms around me, holding me close. And what a hug 
it was. All I could think was that it was the sort of 
hug my dad gave me when I was five years old and Cougar, 
our cat, had to be put down because of feline leukemia. 

It was strong, silent, utterly embracing and completely 
protective. It was the sort of hug that said – without 
needing to say – that he understood what was going on, 
and no, he didn't necessarily have the answers but he 
was going to hold onto me until I felt better anyway. 
Just like dad used to give me. Just like when I was a 
little girl. 

I cried hard but mostly silently for about 10 minutes, 
and David never made a sound during that time. He held 
his cheek to the top of my head and he kept his arms 
around me so that I was warm and held up and adored, and 
he let me cry the tears I needed to cry. 

How can I even describe how loved that made me feel? 

When the tears stopped, David whispered, "Do you want to 
talk about it?"

It took me a while to answer, but finally I managed, 
"No. I don't even know if there's anything to talk 
about." And that was true. The panic had passed in 
David's arms, and now I just felt numb and tired. 

I felt him nod. "Just feeling overwhelmed."

"I guess so."

"I do too, sometimes."

That surprised me, though in retrospect it shouldn't 
have. Yes, he was very firmly in control – of the 
situation and of me – but the changes for him were as 
dramatic as they were for me, weren't they? He had 
wanted to be back inside me since he got out, and now he 
was there. How could he not be stunned by that 
sometimes? And he was so young. Yes he was experienced 
for such a young man (hell, he was experienced for an 
old man), but he was still young, still growing, still 
becoming the man he would eventually be. Of course it 
was overwhelming for him when he let it catch up to him.

"What's the matter?" he asked gently when I didn't say 
anything for a bit, and his hands began to move, 
caressing my back like a good dad soothing a troubled 
child. 

"Nothing, really. I'm OK."

"Having second thoughts?"

"Sometimes.," I admitted, then hastily added, "but I 
wouldn't go back to the way I was before. Not for the 
world. This is who I am, and you were the one who showed 
that to me. I'm never going back."

"You couldn't even if you tried."

"No. I couldn't. That me isn't here anymore."

A long, wordless, perfectly comfortable space, and then, 
"What do you have to do right now?"

I sighed. "I have to go to the food shelf meeting. Well, 
first I have to take a shower, because I stink from 
running."

"Pee-yoo, ya sure do."

I slapped him on his big, broad, solid chest and managed 
a small but genuine laugh. "When a lady says she stinks, 
you always deny it!"

He just chuckled and squeezed my ass through my running 
shorts. "OK, into the shower with you then." He let go 
of me with one arm, opened my shower, and turned on the 
water. He knew by now how I liked it. 

He stepped away from me and said, "Arms up." I lifted my 
arms and he pulled my top up and over my head, dropping 
it to the floor. A moment later he undid my bra, then 
squatted in front of me to take off my shorts. I let him 
undress me like a child, and I showed no more 
consciousness or embarrassment of my nudity than he had 
when he was three and I was getting him ready for a 
bath. I stepped into the shower, feeling utterly 
protected and cared for, and the hot water took away the 
last of my doubts and fears...for the moment, anyway. 

David bent and picked up my clothes, dropping them into 
the hamper, and paused on the way out of the bathroom. 
He turned back, opened the shower door, and said, "Mom, 
you never have to worry with me. I'll always do what's 
right for you."

"I know, baby." And I did.

When I got out of the shower I took my first dose of the 
morning after pill and then went to get dressed. I put 
on a pair of jeans and a top for my meeting. It was all 
very normal except that both of them were tighter and 
more flattering than any clothes I'd ever worn to the 
meeting before, and I was wearing a slutty little thong 
with "I [heart] to FUCK" written on the front, a push-up 
bra that made my tits look perkier and even bigger than 
they actually were, and a pair of four-inch stilettos. 

The thing is, I wasn't even aware of how sexy I was 
going to look in all of this. Before when I went, I had 
always dressed like a prosperous soccer mom; now I was 
dressing to turn heads, and it was already such second 
nature to me that I didn't even notice it. 

The meeting was boring, as usual. Look, I love my 
charities and I work hard for them, but the actual 
running of them isn't all that interesting. It would be 
better if the food shelf board actually had some people 
on it whom I enjoy talking to, but it doesn't. The 
chairman of the charity is a kindly, earnest, extremely 
dull 30-something man named Walter Kovacs; he wouldn't 
know a joke if it poked him in the eye and he's always 
deadly serious about the job of getting food to hungry 
people – which is incredibly important and I support 
completely, but jeez, it's Ok to laugh once in a while. 

Then there's Louise Chambers, a 50ish granola lesbian 
who wears an excessive number of scarves and has a 
vaguely unsettling hair style that can't decide if it 
wants to be Earth Mother or Hipster and so finds a 
middle ground that just manages to look indecisive. Rev. 
Weller ("Call me Charlie, we're all brothers and sisters 
in Jesus!") is a glad-handing born-again Christian of 
the fire-eating variety, which always made me 
uncomfortable even before I started gleefully doing 
things that would give him a stroke if he knew about 
them. 

Rounding things out is Susan McDougal, who was homeless 
and drug-addicted for years and who pulled herself up by 
her bootstraps to be a business owner and activist; I 
respect her, but she still has a chip on her shoulder – 
it drives her to do things for those who have to do 
without, but it makes it hard just to have a 
conversation with her if you happen to be an affluent 
yuppie housewife, which, you know, guilty as charged. At 
least it gave me something to focus on besides my own 
and my family's problems, which was a gift from on high 
in my current condition. 

It wasn't until the meeting was almost over and I 
remembered that David had promised to fuck me with Tim 
and Laurel in the house that my pussy spasmed with 
sudden need and flooded those naughty little panties I 
was wearing, and my nipples stood hard at attention in a 
way that drew a frown from Reverend Charlie and a vague 
look of vaguely surprised vague pleasure from Louise 
(she's a vague person). I managed to finish out the 
meeting without embarrassing myself, but I did have an 
eager little grin on my face and a discernable perfume 
of female sexual excitement about me.

I wanted nothing more than to race home and impale 
myself on my son's fat cock, but I couldn't – the troops 
were expecting dinner. And furthermore, they were 
expecting a very specific kind of dinner: it had long 
since become established tradition that, on food shelf 
board meeting nights, I would swing by Papá Gordo and 
pick of some food. 

Papá Gordo is one of those hole-in-the-wall places you 
drive past a thousand times without ever stopping at, 
but once you go there for the first time, you can't 
imagine not going back again and again. The food is 
fantastic, the extended family that owns and runs it 
treats even first-time customers like one of them, and 
it doesn't break even a modest bank account. I would 
fail to bring back dinner from there at peril of life 
and limb.

When I walked into the place, the smells and the 
atmosphere grabbed me like they always did, and suddenly 
I was hungry. I grabbed a menu, perused it for a few 
moments, and then ordered an array of burritos, 
quesadillas, fresh-made tortillas, rice, enchiladas, and 
tamales such as would feed a small army. I have two 
growing children who can demolish food in ways that 
beggar the imagination. 

The girl who took my order was, as I remembered, a niece 
of the owner of the place. She had worked here a few 
years before, when she was a teenager, and I remembered 
her as having an ever-changing, ever-rebellious look – 
tatty clothes, wild hair-dos and colors, showing too 
much skin one day and dressing like a Goth Emily 
Dickinson the next, that sort of thing. 

She'd disappeared to college, but now she was back... 
and I had to say, she cleaned up nice. She was a Latina 
beauty with nut-brown skin, long hair with the sheen of 
a raven's wing, and enormous, dark eyes. She was wearing 
a simple outfit of a top and jeans, not all that 
different from mine... and, in fact, just about as tight 
as mine. 

Now that my mind was very firmly fixed on sex, sex, and 
more sex, it was impossible for me not to notice the way 
her small, pert, perky little tits made succulent mounds 
in the purple fabric of her shirt. I suddenly found 
myself thinking of her naked, with her small, dark-brown 
nipples standing out hard against that honey skin. She 
was adorable! 

She was quite a bit shorter than me, broad but not fat, 
with a solid build leading across a tight tummy and 
flaring up to a big, gorgeous ass that was accented 
rather than concealed by her jeans. I stared. I couldn't 
help staring, just like I couldn't help imagining being 
flat on my back with her straddling my face, looking up 
between those cute tits at her passion-twisted face as 
she held me tight by a fistful of my hair and ground her 
wet little twat into my mouth...

I looked up at her face. She was grinning knowingly at 
me, and I had the feeling that maybe, just maybe, she 
had been checking me out the same way I had done with 
her. I blushed hard enough to make me dizzy and handed 
over my credit card. Her fingers brushed against mine 
when she took it – deliberately, I thought – and I doubt 
I was imagining them lingering just a bit longer than 
was necessary. I know I wasn't imagining the spark that 
passed between us, because it shook me in my ass-
wiggling stilettos. 

She turned and ran my card through the reader. I stared 
at that luscious booty and felt my mouth water. I was 
seriously lusting after this girl! And to think, just a 
couple of weeks before, I wouldn't even have noticed her 
in this way, much less wanted to worship her pussy. How 
much I had changed!

A rhythmic metallic tapping caught my attention, and I 
immediately saw what it was: she was wearing a thumb-
ring, and unconsciously rapping it on the edge of the 
counter. It was a pretty silver thing, but I couldn't 
help but grin because I suddenly knew for sure that the 
heat I felt between us wasn't my imagination after all. 
After all, a thumb ring on a girl pretty much meant just 
one thing, didn't it?

I was grinning a canary-eating cat grin when she turned 
back, and this time I just locked eyes with her and let 
the electricity flow. We were flirting, that was all, 
and it felt good to flirt with a cute young girl. As she 
handed me the slip to sign, I said, casually, "I like 
your ring."

She cocked a pretty eyebrow and asked, "You know what it 
means, right?"

"Uh huh," I chirped as I signed the slip and handed it 
back. 

Her grin re-dampened my panties as she said, "I like 
your ring too."

It was right then that some people came up to pay their 
bill, and I stepped back and wondered what she meant by 
that. The only ring I had on was my wedding ring, and 
there was nothing special about that. It was a plain, 
tasteful gold band with a tiny diamond – exactly the 
kind of ring that a couple of poor young kids would buy, 
which is what Tim and I were when we married. 

Just about every wedding ring you saw was fancier, which 
was and had always been fine by me; believe me, you 
youngsters out there just getting married for the first 
time, the strength of a marriage has nothing to do with 
the size of the ring, and if there's anything dumber 
than starting your married life under a pile of debt 
from a stupid ring, I've yet to hear it. But still, I 
knew it was nothing that would turn heads.

As the girl – I still didn't know her name – took care 
of the other people's bill, I happened to glance around 
the restaurant. It was an interesting place for people-
watching because it was great food for not a lot of 
money, so all sorts of people drove miles to get there. 
I saw young families with kids, a sweet-looking couple 
that must have been in their 90s, and everything in 
between. But what caught my eye was a table nearby where 
three teenage boys were grinning...and looking straight 
at me. 

Once more, I felt a thrill. You have to understand, for 
my adult life, I'd been the dowdy suburban housewife, 
always content to dress in the least eye-catching and 
attractive way imaginable. As often as not I wore baggy, 
shapeless clothes because I never thought of myself as 
anything to look at, and even if I had thought of myself 
as hot, I was convinced that I'd have been the only one 
who believed it. I dressed to cover up. 

Now, though, I was dressed to turn heads, and I had 
turned some – and not only that, but heads that were 
used to looking at teenage girls. What could be a bigger 
ego-boost for a 30-something mother of two than to make 
drool in a trio of healthy teenage lads? My nipples were 
already pretty perky, but that made them stand right up, 
and it made my smile even bigger.

And so that was why, when the other customers walked out 
and I turned back to the girl, I stood just far enough 
away from the counter that, when I leaned over and put 
my elbows on it, it stuck my ass out just so. I put my 
weight more on my left leg than my right to give the 
three boys a good angle to look at my butt, and I felt 
like the Princess of Minnesota knowing that six eyes – 
at least – were fully and completely on me. It's the 
little things that really make a gal's day. 

"So what's so special about my ring?" I asked her, 
obviously and unashamedly dropping my eyes to look at 
her tits for a few seconds before raising them to her 
face.

She leaned in with a conspiratorial smile and whispered, 
"Married women eat the best pussy."

I stifled a startled giggle behind my hand and whispered 
back, "We do?"

"Oh yeah," she nodded. "Especially when their husbands 
don't know about it. They sleep every night in the same 
bed with a cock, pretending to be all Martha Stewart, 
and when they put their face in a nice concha, they just 
go wild."

I giggled again. "My husband has no idea."

"Mmmm. Then I bet you can drive a girl crazy."

"I don't know about that. I've only had a couple of 
experiences...and only one with... you know, that. But 
I'm having another tomorrow night and I can't wait."

"Is she married too?"

"Nope, she's... well, I think she's about your age. I've 
been dreaming about it for a couple of weeks now."

"Lucky girl," she grinned.

"She's a salesgirl in a lingerie store where I shop. We 
hit it off. In the dressing room."

"Hot!" she breathed, her eyes lighting up. "There have 
been plenty of salesgirls I've wanted to fuck too, but 
I've never done it."

"I feel bad about asking because I should remember it, 
but what's your name?"

She laughed, louder this time. "I'm Esmeralda." 

I loved the way she pronounced it, with a trilled R that 
sounded incredibly exotic, but something bothered me. 
"Isn't there another Esmeralda that works here? Like, an 
older one?"

Her laugh was louder this time. "No. There are five 
Esmeraldas who work here, including me. And between my 
aunts and cousins there are like six more of them. My 
parents were so imaginative." 

"I guess it's a family name."

"I guess it's a pain in the ass. Everybody calls me 
Jill."

"Is that your middle name?"

She laughed again. "No, when I was little, me and my 
brothers used to play 'Home Improvement.' I was always 
the mom, Jill."

"Well, pleased to meet you, Jill. I'm Angela."

We talked some as I waited for my food, with my ass out 
for inspection and my cleavage showing for Jill, but she 
was pretty busy with taking take-out orders on the phone 
and ringing up checks, so all I really got out of her 
was that she had just graduated from Cornell with a 
degree in aeronautical engineering and was working in 
the restaurant for the summer before heading out to do 
graduate work at Berkeley in the fall. 

It felt fantastic to share flirtation and some erotic 
charge with her, and when my food came out (enough that 
I momentarily wished for a wheelbarrow), I gave her a 
smile and a wave and she did the same with the phone 
tucked into her shoulder. 

I turned around, thinking I'd give those three boys a 
saucy wink, but when I did I saw they'd been joined at 
their table by a slightly pissed off-looking teenage 
girl. Two of the boys were still laughing and looking my 
way, but the third (an all-American blond kid with a 
crewcut and a bit of acne) was looking contritely at his 
plate. Aww, no nookie for blondy tonight! Poor kid, 
busted for ogling me! I had a smile a yard wide as I 
headed out to my car. 

Dinner was what it always was when I brought food from 
Papá Gordo: I staggered in under the burden of the 
enormous bags, Charlie almost knocked me down and stole 
the whole lot, and the four of us descended on the feast 
like locusts. All throughout the meal, though, my pussy 
was wet and my nipples were hard and I had a fist-size 
knot of excitement in my stomach. 

I kept looking over at David, who shot me a few 
significant looks of his own. I was so horny for him 
that it took an act of will not to strip down and beg 
him to fuck me right then and there, in spite of Tim and 
Laurel – and it only got worse when he took the 
opportunity of a "dropped" fork to cop a feel underneath 
the table, reaching between my legs to give my pussy a 
possessive squeeze that sent shivers up my spine. 

This was the first chance I'd really had to observe my 
husband and daughter since they'd returned from their 
weekend together, and what I saw there might have 
disquieted me if I hadn't been beside myself with my own 
need; I know it would have sent me on a crying jag that 
morning, with the place my thoughts were in then. 

What I saw, of course, was the same sort of furtive, 
lustful looks I was exchanging with David, and the same 
eagerness to devour the food and race off to fuck. They 
would that night, I knew, in the "daddy-daughter" time 
they always spent in Laurel's bedroom after dinner. They 
would go upstairs and Tim would lay our daughter in her 
own bed, with me downstairs and her biting her lip to 
keep from crying out when he made her come. I knew it.

But what they didn't know was that I'd be doing just the 
same thing with David, at the same time. And that was 
the foremost thing – the only thing – in my mind at the 
moment. Tim and Laurel were making their own decisions, 
ones that I was powerless to influence; and besides, 
right then I was willing to let them fuck like bunnies 
if it meant David could pin my ankles to my ears every 
evening. 

After dinner, everyone did their bit to clean up – the 
dishes went in the dishwasher, true, but there were 
enough leftovers for at least one more big meal, and 
within a few minutes the kitchen was clean. Laurel went 
upstairs to "do homework" and in a few minutes Tim 
casually said he'd better go upstairs and "see if Laurel 
needs any help from the old man."

You do that, dear.

Tim wasn't even up the stairs before David had me up 
against the fridge, kissing me fiercely with one hand on 
my ass and the other up my blouse while I stroked him 
through his pants. He was as hot as I was, and if he 
wanted me there in the kitchen then I would make no 
protest – but after a dizzying moment of sheer, shared 
lust, he pulled his mouth away from mine to say, 
"Downstairs, rec room. I'm going to fuck you on the 
couch, cunt."

My knees went weak when he used vulgar language on me, 
and he damned well knew it. I grabbed him by the hand 
and, with one tit hanging out of my top, dashed for the 
basement stairs. Charlie no doubt smelled my arousal 
over the lingering scent of Mexican food and followed 
along, hopeful to get a crack at my pussy. 

I didn't know if David wanted that too, but if he did, 
well, we'd have to cross that bridge when we came to it. 
The last thing I wanted was for Tim to come tromping 
down the basement and find me helplessly knotted with 
the family pooch. David pulled the door closed behind us 
– hearing it open would give us a bit more time to 
become inconspicuous if the unexpected happened and 
either my husband or daughter took a break from their 
own escapades and came down to, oh, I dunno, ask to 
borrow a rubber or something.

Christ, I hoped he was using a rubber. 

The rec room was a space meant for cheapo comfort, with 
an old TV, a closet full of board games and a ping-pong 
table, a bookshelf, some old chairs and, most 
importantly at the moment, a tatty old sofa that had 
seen better days and wouldn't notice another stain or 
two...

My shirt hit the floor at the same time as David's, and 
we did a wonderful limb-tangling, groping, deep-kissing 
wobble, stumbling across the floor and sucking each 
other's tongues as we shed clothes. My bra was gone, and 
I pulled him out of his shorts and underwear just before 
the backs of my legs hit the edge of the couch. 

I went over backwards, undoing the buttons on my jeans 
and pushing them over my hips as I fell. I held my legs 
up and David yanked my jeans off – it was made just a 
little more difficult by the fact that he left my 
stilettos on, but I know he loved seeing me naked in 
high heels, and if that made his juicy cock hard for me, 
I'd wear them 24/7. He stopped, though, when he reached 
for the waistband of my barely-there panties and saw "I 
[heart] to FUCK." 

He started to laugh at the unexpected logo, but the 
laughter turned into a pleased moan when I sat up and 
stuffed his cock into my mouth. Hands on his ass, I took 
him all the way down my throat in a single smooth 
motion, reveling in the feel of his velvety hardness 
against my tongue and adoring the way his pubic hair 
felt against my lips when I snugged my face to his 
belly. "Dirty little slut," he whispered, taking my hair 
into his fist and started to rock his hips back and 
forth, fucking my mouth. "I've been thinking about this 
all day. I was hard as a rock from the time I left for 
school, because of you."

That was incredible praise indeed, and I devoured it – 
and him – eagerly. After a few seconds with my eyes 
closed to savor the sensation of him in my mouth, I did 
what he liked and opened my eyes, looking up at his face 
as he pumped my lips. He looked like a god, all hard 
muscles and tanned skin, and I wondered once more why I 
had ever resisted his advances. 

I know he loved it when I sucked his cock – he told me 
many, many times afterward how much he likes my blowjobs 
– but neither of us were in the basement for that. I 
needed him inside me, and he needed to be there, and so 
it wasn't long at all before he pulled himself away, his 
wet cock sliding from between my lips with a wonderfully 
nasty-wet sound, and said, "On your back, bitch." 

His words were vulgar and his tone was commanding; I 
couldn't have resisted the order if I had tried, and 
believe me, I did not try. I went over onto my back and 
spread my legs wide, ready and eager for my son to get 
between them and be back inside me where he belonged.

He reached for his pants, and when he pulled a rubber 
out of the pocket I suddenly knew that this time was 
going to be special indeed. "No baby, no condom," I told 
him. "I want you inside me. I want your cum inside me."

He looked surprised at that. "But aren't you..."

"I got a morning after pill, love. It will take care of 
it. Put your cum inside me. I need it there. It isn't 
fair not to have it in me!"

Like any man has ever needed to be told twice to go 
bareback. He tossed the rubber aside and moved atop me, 
one hand holding him up as he kissed me and the other 
around his shaft, guiding himself forward. There were no 
preliminaries, no teasing, no stroking my lips with the 
head; we both needed it too much for that. 

He sank into me in a smooth stroke, and once I adjusted 
my position and lifted my hips a bit he pushed in even 
deeper, all the way, buried to the balls in his mother's 
needy cunt. My moan was loud and passionate, but I only 
got half of it out before his mouth clamped on mine and 
kissed me as he began to move. He didn't fuck me gently 
– neither of us wanted gentle. From the first he rocked 
me hard and I crossed my ankles behind his back, using 
my legs to pull up into him with each thrust. 

It was astonishing how much I had needed this, 
considering that I had only had it the day before, and 
had gotten it plenty over the weekend. But like I said, 
it's hard to be moderate about mind-blowing sex when 
you've only just realized it exists, and the fact that I 
had it more or less continuously over the past couple of 
days made it all the more difficult to get off of. 

It's kind of like when people become born-again 
Christians and suddenly all they seem capable of doing 
is talking about Jesus every second of every day, and 
how every conversation gets dragged around to the topic 
of Jesus within a couple of minutes, and you can't go 
five minutes without being informed that you're going to 
Hell if you don't think and act exactly like they do? 
Well, same thing. This was a whole new world to me and I 
was hell-bent on getting as much of it as I could, as 
fast as I could. Nobody's moderate about a new 
obsession.

This was pure, simple ecstasy, and it fed the craving 
that the warm, wet thing between my thighs had caused in 
me. I needed him then. I needed him like a boozer needs 
his bottle or a junkie needs his needle. I was a sex 
addict, pure and simple – well, honestly, there's no 
need to put that in the past tense, I'm still hooked, 
and I have no intention of ever changing. But I think 
it's this moment, when David drove in hard in that first 
full thrust and made me scream with rapture into his 
mouth, that really marks the instant I truly tipped over 
the edge and lost myself to that need. 

Yes it was David specifically this time, him that I 
craved and couldn't imagine not having. But at other 
times it had been Charlie or Petra, and tomorrow it 
would be Brandy. I was madly in love with my son, but I 
was also in love with sex itself. Sex itself had taken 
charge, the idea of it and the promise of it and the 
fact of it. There was no way to deny that I was not in 
control.

And the thing is? I loved it. I loved it at that moment, 
and I love it to this day. Good and bad, mistakes and 
all – and my God, have there been some enormous mistakes 
– I wouldn't change what I've become, not for the world. 
It was this act, this fuck, this thrust that filled my 
aching need, that really marks the turning point.

Of course, at the time I had no idea of any of that. In 
fact, at that moment I was incapable of any coherent 
thought that didn't involve David inserting Tab A into 
my Slot B. I slammed up to meet his downward stroke and 
we rocked together breathlessly. I could feel his thick 
shaft stretching me wide, and I could feel the thick 
mushroom head moving in me like a piston. 

I could feel the way my pussy sucked at him as he pulled 
back, almost like his cock was leaving a void behind; I 
could feel the way he forced me back open on the 
downward thrust. My body was so alive that I swear I 
could feel the blood pulsing in every vein of his shaft. 
I swear I could feel every goosebump that raised itself 
at his first touch. The moment, and my son, was my 
everything and I wanted nothing else.

I think I screamed. I know I did. I'm not quiet when I 
come, and I came almost immediately and kept coming as 
he slammed himself into me over and over. I was so hot 
that I needed almost nothing to bring me over and keep 
me there. But his mouth was on mine so hard that it 
bruised my lips and my screams were swallowed – and he 
might have screamed once or twice himself, given that I 
drove my nails into his back hard enough to break skin – 
and the loudest sound in the basement was the squelching 
of his hardness in my wet pussy. 

I've told you before how erotic I find that sound – the 
squishy, sloppy suction of man in woman – but with how 
aware, how totally in the instant I was, it was so 
damned powerful! There's nothing else that says sex to 
me as much as that one sound... and I especially love it 
when it's my cunt that's making the noise.

David was braced like a wrestler, one foot on the floor, 
the other knee on the couch, pushing with both thighs as 
he fucked me. I could tell by the tension in his 
shoulders and the way he was already grunting and 
panting that he wasn't going to last long. And listen, 
that was fine by me! At the speed he was battering me, 
if he'd have kept it up for his usual duration, I'd have 
spent the next two days icing my poor kitty. 

Besides, there is nothing that flatters quite like 
knowing your lover needs you so badly that he can't 
contain himself – oh sure, a steady diet of it wouldn't 
be any fun (nobody likes a three-thrusts-and-you're-out 
man!) but knowing that you've driven a young, powerful 
man with exquisite self-control to lose that self-
control and take you like a jackhammer is a magnificent 
compliment. 

But there was more to it, of course. This wasn't just 
any fuck with my son (and there hadn't been nearly 
enough of them yet for any of them to be "just another," 
but the point stands). This was special. This was one I 
would always remember, and for a couple of reasons. One, 
it was the first of many, many times that David took me 
when Tim, Laurel, or both, were in the house, and the 
chance that we might get caught (even though I knew that 
my husband and daughter were doing the exact same thing 
two floors up at that moment and didn't have the time to 
come poking around in the basement) added a succulent 
spice to what we were doing. 

Danger is an aphrodisiac, and a powerful one. You know 
the saying, "You're never more alive than when you're at 
the edge of death?" Well let me tell you, you're never 
hornier than when your horniness is at the edge of 
getting you into enormous trouble – and being caught 
fucking my son was almost the very definition of 
trouble. 

And the other reason... oh, the other reason. The 
wonderful, magnificent other reason. David's cock was 
inside me. Inside ME. Not inside a condom, but inside 
me, flesh on flesh, flesh IN flesh, no barrier, no 
latex, nothing to keep his seed from flowing into me 
when he came. I'm not sure most of the people reading 
this really get this part, because I think most of the 
people reading this are men and I don't know if men 
really understand it. And hell, I know some women who 
don't agree either, for that matter. But for a lot of 
women, and I know for me, a lover's cum isn't just the 
inevitable byproduct of a fuck. It's... how to say 
this... a reward? 

No, that's not precisely right. It's not a reward or a 
trophy or a gift, and yet it's all of these and 
something else too. When a man takes a woman, it's a 
forceful act, a dominant act, no matter what emotional 
or relationship dynamics might be going on. A man 
penetrates a woman. A man goes inside a woman. When a 
man fucks, he's invading, he's taking, he's staking a 
claim, and no matter what else is going on between the 
two people involved – even if he's the wimpiest guy on 
Earth and she's a 6'4" Nordic ice princess – there's a 
fundamental, qualitative difference between being inside 
someone and having someone inside you. For a woman – for 
me – when I take a man inside me (and especially when 
that man was David) I open myself to him. 

I know, I know: no shit, Sherlock. But it's not so 
obvious, really. It's one thing to spread your legs and 
another to spread your soul, and the best sex comes when 
you do both. For a woman – again, for me – the beauty of 
sex with a man is that I give myself over to him 
completely, without reservation. My soul opens up like a 
flower right alongside my thighs and I lie there empty, 
body and spirit. And then a man puts himself inside of 
me and he fills me. He fills my body with his body and 
my soul with his soul and we move together and make 
something beautiful that lasts precisely as long as we 
keep making it. 

And at the end of it, he gives me his seed, and I carry 
his seed inside my body, his juices and mine mixed 
together. It stays in me as a reminder of the moments we 
created. It stays in me to whisper of the way I opened 
myself, and the way I was filled. It stays in me to tell 
me that I am a woman, and that I loved a man, and that 
my body and the way I used it were pleasing to him. And 
later, when he isn't in me any more and I've closed 
myself again, it's still there. When I put on a pair of 
panties afterward and I feel it wetting the crotch as it 
drizzles out, it's my body's way of telling me that I 
was fulfilled, and that I fulfilled my man, even if he 
was only mine for the time he was inside me. 

And if all that comes across as so much sophomoric 
metaphysical bullshit, then let it just be this: when 
David pulled his mouth away from mine just enough to 
whisper, "I'm gonna cum, mom," my orgasm became 
something else, something transcendent. When he groaned 
into my mouth and tensed, I tensed around him, and when 
I felt his cock jerk and put his cum into my body, my 
climax became something so fierce and needful that I'm a 
little surprised I didn't sprain anything. 

And then it was done and we lay there, him atop me and 
still hard where he was inside me, breathing hard and 
both a bit taken aback by the feral savageness of our 
coupling. And I kept my eyes closed and imagined his 
sperm inside of my body. I imagined I could feel it. I 
imagined his seed working deeper, searching for an egg 
that was likely no longer in a mood to receive them but 
still, possibly, finding that egg and fertilizing it 
and, for just a few moments until it bounced off uterus 
walls made unreceptive by the miracle of modern 
pharmaceuticals (better living through chemistry, and 
you better believe it), that I was the mother of his 
child, the mother of our child. And this time there was 
no panic in the prospect, not in the endorphin sea of 
coital glow – it picked me up and gave me another small 
orgasm, a ripple that made my body shudder beneath my 
son.

I was a woman in love.

Neither of us spoke. I opened my eyes after a few 
moments and he opened his, and we looked into each 
other's souls as we kissed softly, stroking each other's 
hair and sweaty skin and smiling at what we had shared 
and made together. He didn't get soft, and after a few 
minutes he was moving once more, much slower this time, 
and we fucked again. This time it took much longer – 
almost 30 minutes, and we switched positions every few. 

I straddled him, facing him so he could suckle my tits; 
I stood and he took me from behind, controlling me with 
a fistful of hair like a rider would control a horse; I 
laid on my back on the sofa again and he put my legs up 
on his shoulders, our eyes locking and barely blinking 
as we watched the passion and lust course over each 
other's face.

I straddled him again, this time facing away from him 
with my eyes closed as he fingered my ass; and then, at 
last, when his trusts became more urgent and another 
beautiful load of cum was to be deposited in my body, me 
on my knees on the floor, face in the carpet as I 
fingered my clit and he fucked me from behind, spanking 
my ass until it glowed red and stung beautifully. I 
don't know how many times I came over the course of it 
all but I do know I screamed during the last one, my 
mouth stuffed full of my "I [heart] to FUCK" panties so 
I wouldn't make a noise. 

There was no cuddling afterward. I wanted to – I really 
wanted to – but I heard footsteps moving around above, 
which meant either Tim or Laurel or both had come down 
from her bedroom, and that meant that lying naked in my 
lover's arms was pretty much out of the question. And so 
we dressed each other playfully but quickly as Charlie 
sniffed around, disappointed he hadn't gotten a crack at 
my crack. We gave each other a long, deep kiss though, 
since this was something we could end easily if the 
basement door opened. 

As it turned out, the basement door didn't open, but 
another one did. As we ended the kiss, David stroked my 
cheek gently and said, "Charlie didn't get anything out 
of this."

"I know," I chuckled. "Poor boy."

"We can't have that," he told me, gently but firmly. 
"Tomorrow you're going to make it up to him while I'm at 
school."

I smiled and licked my lips in anticipation. "Do you 
want me to fuck him, baby?"

He nodded. "I want you to fuck him."

I nodded back. He certainly didn't need to twist my arm 
to get me to get on all fours for my dog. "You hear 
that, Charlie?" I told him. "Tomorrow you're gonna get 
to fuck momma."

Charlie thumped his tail agreeably.

"And you're going to film it."

My jaw dropped. I mean literally, my jaw dropped. I must 
have looked like a goon. "You want me to..."

"To set up the camera, turn it on, and make sure it gets 
a good view of him breeding his bitch. I want to watch 
it when I get home so I'm good and excited for our date 
with Brandy tomorrow night."

I swallowed hard, a little dizzy and a lot trepidatious 
about the thought. It wasn't the idea of fucking Charlie 
that threw me – not anymore – but rather the fact that 
it would be captured for posterity in a form both 
indelible and undeniable. In fact, it sent a nervous 
shiver through me, and I'm pretty sure I would have 
argued had David's tone not been as commanding as it 
was. So I did the only thing I could: I nodded.

That's wasn't good enough, and I saw it in the slight 
tightening at the corners of his eyes. "Say it."

I swallowed hard and whispered, "I'm going to film 
Charlie fucking me tomorrow."

"Again. Louder."

I threw a nervous look over my shoulder at the stairs; 
if either my son or my daughter opened the door right 
now...but what could I do? I knew I had to give him what 
he wanted. "I'm going to film Charlie fucking me 
tomorrow," I said in a strong, conversational tone. "I'm 
going to set up the camera, put on my dog-fucking 
clothes and film him knotting me, just like you want."

"Good girl," he nodded, smiling beneficently. His warm 
words washed away the chill of misapprehension. If he 
wanted a movie of me and Charlie, where was the harm? It 
was nothing hadn't seen (and assisted with) before, 
after all. And now that summer was coming, it was going 
to be harder to find time for me to tend to my dog's 
needs, not to mention David's. Maybe this would be his 
last chance for a while to see it. It was understandable 
he wouldn't want to miss it.

And besides, my naughty, well-used pussy whispered to 
me, he'll almost certainly watch it and jack off, and 
that was a thought worth savoring.

And so it was that I was horny again (still) when I went 
back upstairs, walking only a little bit funny. Tim was 
in the living room working on some papers while the 
Twins played on TV, and he gave me a distracted smile as 
I sat down on the sofa with our son's cum in my cunt. 
"Heya. Where have you been?"

"Oh, watching TV with David in the basement. Where's 
Laurel?"

"She's upstairs studying for her AP calc test."

"Cramming?" I let the word fall off my lips with only 
the slightest trace of irony, which, to judge by Tim's 
manner, he completely missed. 

"No, not really, just brushing up. She has the material 
down backwards and forwards, she's just keeping it 
fresh.

Backwards and forwards. Well, I was sure she had 
something backwards and forwards. I felt a wave of 
irritation wash over me, illogical and foolish. Why 
should I be jealous of them? I had something better than 
Tim could give me. Why should I be angry with them? They 
weren't doing anything David and I weren't doing too. 
And yet I was jealous, and angry, and hurt, and so I 
shut up and watch the Twins play a few scoreless innings 
in Detroit and tried to get a handle on my emotions. 

It was hard though, especially given that in less than 
12 hours I was going to be setting up a camera over by 
the windows, getting down on my hands and knees like a 
proper bitch, and getting fucked and knotted by the dog 
that was lying at my feet, not two yards from where I 
was sitting right then. Christ I was a hypocrite. But I 
couldn't help it.

After a while my mood had soured enough that I had to 
get away from Tim. I told him I was going upstairs to 
read, and I he didn't even look up from his work papers 
as he grunted an ascent. I climbed the stairs, my 
attitude getting darker with each step. I paused as I 
passed by Laurel's room and, illogically, sniffed a bit, 
trying in vain to catch the scent of their recent 
lovemaking. 

There was nothing but the faint smell of the rain 
outside, and I frowned as I went down to my room. I 
pulled off my clothes – keeping the panties whose crotch 
was now soaked with David's drizzling cum – threw on an 
oversized sleeping tee shirt and a pair of footies, and 
lay in bed reading an old murder mystery and musing 
darkly on what my husband and daughter were doing 
beneath my roof. I was asleep by the time Tim came to 
bed.

I'm going to pause here to gather myself for what's to 
come, because something very, very bad began to happen 
the next day. I mean something so awful that...

This isn't going to be easy. I've promised myself that 
this is going to be as open and honest an accounting of 
what went down as I can muster, and that means I need to 
lay it out without flinching and without trying to dodge 
the guilt or the blame for the bad things that happened 
– no, dammit, the bad things didn't happen. I did the 
bad things. I don't get to dodge responsibility for them 
just because... well, you'll see. I'll explain as I go. 

I mentioned above that this was the night when I really 
truly became a sex addict, or at least when it became 
something I couldn't avoid. That doesn't excuse 
anything, of course, and I don't mean to suggest that it 
does. But maybe it explains what's to come without 
alleviating any of the guilt I bear. 

Anyway, the point is that right then, and for the 
next... well, too long, as it turned out, my whole world 
seemed to be revolving around my kitty and the 
sensations it gave me. When I was awake I was thinking 
about the sex I'd already had, either the positive of 
the negative aspects of it, and when I would get more of 
it, how, and with whom. 

When I was up, I could think about little but cock and 
pussy and how wonderful they both were in their own 
ways; when I was down, I fixated on the idea that I 
would be found out and ruined by the scandal, that I'd 
end up with some sort of indescribable clap, or that I'd 
wind up bearing a child of my son or some other man. And 
I went up and down a lot...and not just in the fun way, 
either. 

All this is taking the long way around. What I mean is 
that this feeling, this obsession, this bliss, led me to 
do a lot of things in the days and weeks to come, before 
it lost its new-car smell and started to be a part of my 
life instead of the whole thing. There were good things 
and bad things, just like there was good sex and bad 
sex, while the crazy ride lasted. Most of them were 
wonderful in one way or another. Some of them were life-
altering, for better or worse. More than a few of those 
things I regret. 

But there's only one of them that I lose sleep at night 
over, even now. There's only one of them that was a 
profoundly terrible mistake. There was only one that I 
know I will never come to terms with and will rue until 
my dying day. It seemed like a good idea at the time – 
hell, it seemed like a great idea at the time, but it 
went so sour, so fast that it took my breath away. I 
guess it still does. And it began the next day.

But that's all to come. For tonight, I was sleeping with 
my son's cum inside me, and I forgot Tim and Laurel 
enough to have good dreams. Maybe that's the best I can 
ask for.

To be continued?

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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.

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Kristen's collection - Directory 62