Chapter 1

The name is Ouettecunte: Jane Ouettecunte. A highly distinguished old Saxon name, I am told by my husband. Mine was Bloggs; so you could say I have married into pedigree – and it suits me. Ouettecunte is, of course, the Norman bastardisation: the Wettkunts were a noble Wessex family who curried favour with the invaders and were granted a bishopric in perpetuity in what was then called Wiltshire. So they are terribly respectable – and that suits me too...

That was a long time ago, of course. The Olden Days are long gone – and isn’t that good? It means that I no longer need to be embarrassed by either being called a Ouettecunte or having one – for now the highest ideals of the society we live in are served by having a wet cunt. A very wet cunt. A cunt so wet – in perpetuity, no less, just like the bishopric – that it can’t resist fucking any cock which comes its way. For it is 2049, and we live in the days of the New Enlightenment, freed from the shackles of love, or monogamy, or sexual continence, or any of those antediluvian moral chimaeras which once held us back. Now we live in a free-fucking world, where having a wet cunt, just like being a Ouettecunte, is the height of respectability – and that, you will have guessed by now, also suits me.

As any woman who has married into good breeding knows, the job of the housewife is to keep the home fires burning. And so here I am in the drawing room, warming my brass dildo by the fire, before spreading my legs, baring my cunt (which is always wet, did I mention?) and sliding the dildo in...

... to the homemade trifle I have spent the morning making – for I am, as I said, an Enlightened English sub-aristocratic housewife, and I have a cunt which loves food as much as fucking. Said trifle is, of course, not warm – but do I give a flying fuck? Cold concoction on warm brass cock in hot cunt – would you dare tell a Ouettecunte she’s wrong? Now though, warm dildo duly removed from cold trifle, coated with custard, double cream and sherry, it slides scrumptiously into my hot slit. The warm and the cool squelch indulgently in my gash – madeira cake, raspberries, maraschino cherries and, oh yes, flaked almonds if you like your cunt crunchy.

Do you like your cunt crunchy or squelchy? Do you like your pussy sweet or tart? Do like your fuckhole warm or cool? I pause to grab the remote control from the coffee table and click the television screen onto my favourite channel. There is a young woman being gangbanged by five cocks – count them: one in her cunt, two up her arse (yes, simultaneously – and I’m impressed), and two alternating in and out of her mouth. Gamely she does her best to utter sweet nothings like, “Oh yeah, pound those cocks in and out of me filthy fuckin’ shithole yoummmff–” before being momentarily gagged by another oral ingress of stiff man-flesh, then effortlessly resuming her monologue as said cock withdraws: “ ... utherfucker, make me fuckin’ come, fill me up with yer fuckin’ cummmff–” etc. In the Olden Days this would have been called “porn”, which was once a disparaging term. Then, people claimed to disapprove of porn even if they spent all day jerking off to it. Even people who made porn, or wrote porn, pretended it was actually “erotica” – which is the same as porn but with your pinky sticking out. All right, I know I’m a Ouettecunte – but give me porn any day.

By now the dildo is flying in and out of my gaping gash, cream and cake and jam splattering up and down my thighs. “Mmmfuck,” I mutter. I don’t go in for the dirty talk, really; I can’t compete with the girl on the screen, who is now screeching, “Yeah, jerk those fuckin’ dicks all over me arse: paint me fuckin’ arsehole with yer cum, ya filfy fuckstuds!” A bit vulgar, don’t you think? As I always tell my children, the word is “fucking”, not “fuckin’”: pronounce it right, and the world will treat you and yours with respect; speak like a chav, and all the fine breeding in the world will go to naught.

I will admit, though, that I can’t compete with the slut on screen for sheer verbal exuberance: for me, “mmmfuck” is sufficient, but I say it louder as my minge gets even wetter, I slap more dessert onto my pussy, and grind it in. “MMMFUCK!” I screech, as my cunt spasms, chewing up madeira cake and squirting Amontillado-flavoured slime over my dildo and armchair cushion. “MMMFUUUUUCK!!!” I scream again, revelling in excessively repeated capital letters – proving it’s porn, of course – as I pant my way down from my orgasm, feeling whipped cream gradually melt and dribble out of my fucked-out gash.

In the Olden Days, when I was younger, society was mired in sexual hypocrisy. People extolled the virtues of marital “fidelity”, even as they fucked around behind their spouses’ backs. The young were warned to “choose your sexual partners carefully” by parents who nevertheless fucked any piece of hot arse who crossed their path. Those who were too cowardly to actually go out and find real life pussy to fuck could instead jerk off with anonymous others on the web, all the while pretending they weren’t really “cheating”. Thank God we live in Enlightened times, for now we can fuck who we want, when we want, without shame, without jealousy, even without what people used to call “love”.

“Oh yeah, spurt that cum in me fuckin’ arsehole!” screeches the slut on screen. “Fill me shitter up with yer fuckin’ jizz, watch me fart it out and fuckin’ eat it!” You see what I mean? Despite her determination to use the classiest vocabulary she can muster, the accent ruins everything. At any rate, I watch her do precisely as she says, as I lazily wipe up the dregs of my own dessert from my vag.

“M’ cock, Mum, I’m home!” calls a voice, followed by the sound of the back door slamming. I turn off the screen.

“Jack, darling! Did you have a good day?” Jack is studying porn production at the local poly – a decent, respectable course of study for a not-very-clever young man. Actually, the place is called a university, but nobody is fooled. As I say, Jack is not massively clever – though he is massively hung. Actually, none of us Ouettecuntes are very clever (we make up for it in breeding), but Jack takes the biscuit for well-meaning priapic simple-mindedness. But that’s all right: he’s a sweet boy, and he likes fucking me when it is asked of him.

Oh yes: that’s another thing in the Olden Days that they always used to pretend they disapproved of. But I left that attitude behind many years ago, the day that eighteen-year-old me walked in on my own father jerking off to Filthy Anal Gangbang Sluts XIII. “Don’t worry, Daddy,” I said, as I knelt on the carpet in front of him. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” His cock was pungent, his pre-cum salty, and as he spurted his thick jizz all over my delicate pretty young face, I knew my life would never be the same again...

“I’m starving,” calls Jack from the kitchen. “Is there anything to eat?”

“Come into the living room, darling: see what I’ve prepared for you...”

Soon Jack is eating trifle. And cunt. Mine. It’s very wet, did I tell you? Always very wet. And it gets wetter as Jack slobbers and licks and fucks me with his tongue. I slap another spoonful of trifle onto my mound. A maraschino cherry lodges itself between my fuck-lips. “Take my cherry, baby, take my fucking cherry,” I squeal with exquisite diction.

He does. “Oh, Mum, you taste so good!” he enthuses, as he chews cherry and clit, his face now coated with custard and raspberries and cunt-slime.

“Of course I do, darling. It’s the Valdespino Contrabandista Amontillado which makes the difference. Try some,” I suggest, reaching for the bottle and tipping a slug of amber liquor onto his crotch.

“Mum, you’ve made my clothes all wet!” he complains.

Ah, dear reader, you must know the script. (Don’t you dare pretend you don’t!) Of course I say: “Well, why don’t you take them off?” (Alternatively, I could have dispensed with wetting his clothes and just said, “It’s getting a bit warm in here, why don’t we...?” etc. – but the sherry banter just lifts the dialogue to a new level of sophistication, don’t you think? Porn script – bah! We may not be the wettest cunts in the whorehouse, us Ouettecuntes, but we do a good line in quick wit, I think.)

At any rate, Jack’s sodden kecks hit the floor fast, and his cock, huge and stiff and sherry-scented, bulges proudly, an impressive forty-five-degree angle up from horizontal. “How do I try the sherry now that you poured it all over me, Mother?” he asks, not unreasonably.

“You’ll just have to let me taste it, darling,” I reply (Don’t you luuurve the script?), pulling him towards me and swallowing his cock deep. Ooh, it does taste good: Amontillado and cock – can’t beat it, I think to myself, but I say nothing as I have a dick down my gullet. Well, maybe I mumble “mmmf’ck” a bit – but nothing more than that.

I should explain: we Ouettecuntes are very good at oral. Anal’s never been our thing and, to be honest, we don’t actually go in for cunt-fucking any more than most people: it’s all a bit Surbiton, isn’t it? But we love cock-sucking, and cunt-eating, and ... Actually, you know I said ‘no anal’? Well, I lie. We adore eating arsehole – but that hardly counts, does it?

I digress – which is not a good idea when sucking cock. Soon I am giving my son a slow deep mouthfuck, licking the underside of his shaft as my mouth slowly closes over it, then nibbling all the way back up again, my lips giving him a myriad sensual kisses on the way. I leave a thick coating of drool on his cock, which makes it shine it the firelight. Jack appreciates the aesthetic. “Mmmfuck,” he mutters, predictably.

I know what he means. But before I can respond, the back door slams and – “M’ cunt!” – in walks Claire. She is tall, willowy, with sparkling green eyes and long blond hair. In other words, just like me, but one generation younger. “Oh, fucking!” she exclaims – not at the fucking, actually, but at the trifle. Well, actually, at the fucking and the trifle, for the other way in which she takes after her mother is her love of fucking food.

“Oh, Mum, please let Claire finish me off,” pleads Jack, as his sister tears off her blouse and dumps her rucksack on the floor, but leaves her tie and short plaid skirt on. “She’s so much better than you.”

“Excuse me, Jack!” I feign indignation – but he is right, as Claire proceeds to demonstrate, her soft pink plaid-clad arse seamlessly replacing mine on the armchair, and her soft red lips replacing mine around her brother’s shaft. She picks up the pace effortlessly, so that my slow sensual maternal blowjob is replaced by a frantic sisterly throatfuck. She quacks, she gurgles, she dry-heaves, and soon great ropes of spit dangle from my son’s shaft, splattering onto Claire’s pert tits.