Chapter 20

Here’s another letter from Marilyn about her adventures with son Nathan. There’s a surprise after this one.

“You have a huge treat coming sometime today.”

That’s what I’d said to Nathan Saturday morning after he’d fulfilled his promise, selflessly licking me to a thunderous orgasm, letting me squeeze my juice all over his beautiful young face. He seemed to truly enjoy it, keeping his eyes closed while he patiently worked his tongue inside me, then swirling it all around my lips and up to my sensitive little button. He worshipped every part of my pussy I pushed against his mouth, content to let me control the what was most deserving of receiving a religious experience from his moist little snake. And when I was coming, when I was bucking my hips and jerking my cunt all over his jutting chin, sucking his tongue inside ... he opened his eyes and sent me over the top, lost, flailing about in uncontrolled ecstasy.

But I didn’t follow up with my own promise. I couldn’t. Mark was with us all day and he was keen to go out for dinner again. Nathan declined but Mark didn’t appear too upset. So hubby and I were out late, and we were both a little inebriated when we finally got home. I meant to make it up to Nathan after Mark fell asleep but I drifted off while waiting for my chance to sneak out of bed and didn’t wake up until early the next morning. Mark was still snoring, so I quietly made my escape and went downstairs.

It was too early to wake Nathan, so I made a pot of coffee and sat down with a cup, thinking about how I’d take care of my son the same way he’d looked after me yesterday morning, and afterwards crawl back into bed with my cheating husband. The wickedness of it all started a tingle in that little triangle down below. Maybe I’d do more than service him with my mouth. I smiled at the thought. Mark and I had taken a taxi home, so maybe I’d get Nathan to drive me over to pick up his father’s car and get him to fuck me in the back seat. My reverie was interrupted when Nathan stumbled sleepily into the kitchen.

“Hey Mom,” he mumbled sleepily.

“Hey yourself. You’re up early.”

“Yeah,” he answered, looking from me to my cup and then to the coffee pot, dozily shuffling over to pour himself a mug.

He turned around to lean back against the counter, sipping his coffee black.

“You and Dad were out late. Have a good time?”

“Actually, yes,” I replied. “Your father was very attentive for a change. I don’t know what got into him.”

I smiled knowingly at Nathan, then added, suddenly not wanting him to be jealous, “We were both a little tipsy when we got home but we were so tired we just crashed right away.”

I turned in my chair to face him but Nathan didn’t give any indication if he was upset or not.

“He’s still sleeping,” I added.

Nathan just nodded and sipped his coffee.

“You may have to drive me down to get his car. We cabbed it home.”

Nathan’s nod was similarly noncommittal.

I felt like I’d lost control of the situation. It wasn’t going the way I’d played it out in my mind and I wished he’d just stayed in bed so I could have sneaked in and surprised him awake with my mouth. My eyes dropped to the bottom of his t-shirt and beneath, to his bulging shorts. Was that a piss hard, or had he already relieved himself?

“You don’t have to wear that.”

“What?” I asked, caught off guard, not sure I’d heard him correctly.

“You don’t have to wear a robe, at least when Dad’s not around.”

My hands automatically clutched my robe, pulling it tighter about my neck.

“You are wearing a nightie aren’t you?” Nathan’s gaze seemed suddenly reproachful.

“Yes, I am.” Why was I nervous?

Nathan abruptly pushed himself from the counter and stepped deliberately toward me, taking care not to spill his coffee. He stopped in front of me but didn’t say anything or make any gestures. He simply stood there, looking down at me.

I twisted to face him more squarely. Slowly, uncertainly, I relaxed my hold on my robe, allowing it to open just enough to reveal my neck. Nathan smiled.

I smiled back, faintly, still curiously unsure of myself. Nathan sipped his coffee. I opened my robe wider, then again when he didn’t smile, continuing to display more of my cleavage until he smiled again. Nathan calmly sipped his coffee, watching me. My hands fidgeted in my lap, then timidly began to loosen my belt. Nathan smiled.

I pulled the belt apart and opened my robe, exposing the sexy nightie I had put on last night. It was cut low. I must have been expecting something from Mark last night or I wouldn’t have put it on, but he was passed out by the time I came out of the bathroom, and I must have fallen asleep shortly after because I don’t remember sitting up awake.

Nathan’s eyebrows raised when he saw how low cut the nightie was, my breasts almost spilling out in front. I suddenly felt inexplicably guilty for wearing a sexy nightie for my husband. Nathan kept staring vacantly, so I pulled the robe completely open, then opened my knees a few inches so he could see my legs. He smiled at that so I opened them more and pulled my nightie higher. Nathan nodded, taking another sip, so I pulled the nightie slowly up, and up, until my pussy hair was showing.

He nodded, as if confirming something he had suspected. I had gone to bed in my sexiest nightie without any panties on. Whether or not I got any, I had wanted to get fucked.

I felt annoyed by his knowing smile, yet guilty and apologetic at the same time. The emotions that washed over me were confusing, but the rising excitement wasn’t. I was exposing myself to my son and acknowledging that I’d wanted to get fucked the night before, but didn’t. I pulled the nightie up that last little bit so he could see my lightly haired pussy, open and hungry. My tits were shaking with heightened breathing, and I slid my hands up my waist to tug on the nightie until it spread wide enough to let my one of my nipples spring out.

Nathan stepped forward until one of his knees leaned against the chair between my legs. I stared at the growing tent in his shorts, right in front of my face. I looked up.

Nathan smiled and nodded. Tentatively, I pulled the waistband of his shorts out and down, freeing his own hungry beast. It almost touched me as it sprang out and rested on the stretched out elastic band of his shorts, his balls still hanging inside. I tried to take him in my hand but he batted me away. Confused, I looked up seeking direction but he just stared back, his eyes listless.

I tugged his shorts further down until his balls were free, slipped my hand underneath and tickled his hairy scrotum, lightly scratching his nuts. He seemed to like this but when I moved my hand up to grip his shaft he pushed my hand away again.

When I looked up, he leaned forward until his cock bumped against my chin. Our eyes locked. I cast mine down and tilted my head forward, allowing his cock to slide forward, the helmet rubbing over my lower lip. When I opened my mouth, he slid inside.

I sucked him. For the first time in my life, I sucked my son’s cock. For the first time in my life, I sucked a man’s cock in my kitchen, for the first time anywhere in my house outside of my bedroom. My son was the first man to fuck me in my living room and here he was with his cock in my mouth. I licked and swirled my tongue around, bobbing my head, slicking his shaft and teasing the tender underside of his tip.

I tried to take his cock in my hand again, to jack him in my mouth, but again he pushed me away. Fine. I slid one arm behind his ass to pull him closer and dropped the other to my lap, slipping it between my legs onto my pussy, rubbing the damp mat of hair I found there.

I was surprised when his cock suddenly lurched forward an inch, filling my mouth and pushing my head back. I renewed my sucking effort, swirling, licking, bobbing my head, losing myself in it. Mark could have walked in and I wouldn’t have noticed.

Again, he caught me off guard with a sudden thrust into my mouth. Deeper this time, gagging me. I coughed on his cock and he withdrew, holding back as if waiting to see if I was alright, only then slipping his now very slick cock back into my mouth.

I worked harder at sucking him now, as if I needed to make up for the interruption I’d caused by coughing. I was still surprised the next few times when he suddenly lurched forward in my mouth. I couldn’t predict it. Each time, he pulled back, waited, then pushed inside me again, each time more quickly, and each time his cock grew slicker as my saliva became more copious.

The next time he lunged forward his hand cupped the back of my head, holding me while he kept his cock in place for me to cough on, finally pulling out to wait for me to recover, a string of gooey saliva connecting his throbbing muscle to my open mouth. He seemed more eager to get back inside that time.

The next time came quicker yet. Again, he held my head, pushing himself into me while I gurgled around his cock, only pulling back when the squelching sound showed how desperately I needed to breath. I felt used, gasping for breath, his slick pole waggling around in front of my nose, waiting to shove back in.

He wasn’t concerned about my comfort. The thought flooded through me like a revelation. He was using me as a warm, wet orifice, and he was enjoying the roughness of it. Had I done the same, mashing my cunt against his face? My own juices suddenly surged and I pushed my fingers inside myself, opening my mouth wide at the same time, beckoning him.

He plunged in quickly and didn’t wait for me to start sucking him. Instead, he stared fucking, sliding his cock in and out, holding the back of my head, fuckng my face. Strangely, I was aware of him setting his coffee mug down on the kitchen table beside me, grasping my head in both hands, increasing his thrusts until I was gagging again, pulling back, waiting for me to recover, thrusting inside as soon as I did.

I don’t know how long this went on. I lost track of how many times he paused, waiting, before starting the onslaught again. Each bout of squishy, squelching thrusting lasting longer and longer as I learned to take him, to let him sloppily fuck my mouth, taking him deeper, matching his oral attack with my own assault down below, my fingers jamming in farther and faster with each passing second.

Finally it came, bursting, gushing, filling my mouth, then back and blasting into my face. Splat, spat, splat. His hard cock was rubbing back and forth on my cheek, along my nose, to the other side of my face, back into my mouth. He was moaning. Had he been moaning all along? Were we loud?

His body was shaking, his legs straining with the effort to squeeze the last drops of his jizz inside me, his cock sliding about between his mother’s lips until, finally, he pulled out.

Once so strong, he now seemed barely able to stand. I pulled my robe tightly around me and, despite the white deposits flung across my cheeks, nose, and forehead, mustered a motherly tone.

“You’d better go back to bed.”

Nathan nodded and turned away.

I got up and walked half shocked to the sink, bending over to wash my face, my knees buckling as the second wave of my orgasm thundered through me as the warm water splashed over my face.

Later that morning, while my husband lay hungover in bed, we drove down to get his car which was sitting by itself at the end of the parking lot. And yes, I did entice my son into the back seat of the car, opening my legs wide and laughing at his fumbling eagerness to get his pants down as soon as he saw me lay back in the seat, pulling my skirt up to reveal my bare pussy. His thrusts were frantic, goaded on by my whispers in his ear and my flicking, swirling tongue, urging him to fuck me hard, that I’d need him again that night.

And now, here’s the surprise. A letter from Nathan, unaware that his mother has already written us.

You’re such an interesting group of people. Hello. My name is Nathan. I’ve enjoyed learning about your experiences and I’m looking forward to sharing mine with my mother Marilyn. My mother is one of those just past forty women that look younger than they are, mostly because they have worked hard to preserve their figures, but whose sexiness isn’t recognized by the men that pass by without noticing them. And this is largely because these women have long stopped committing the effort required to look sexy since they’re focused on their family and have more important things to do. But given the right set of circumstances that could change and once their sexuality is rekindled, though intrinsically different from that in their younger days, is likely to be far stronger.

My father’s attitude triggered such a change in my mother and I have been the beneficiary of a revived woman that now exudes sexuality from every pore in her body. For several months now, since before I finished high school and joined my father to learn his business, I have been fucking my mother on a daily basis. Missionary, doggy, standing in front and from behind, kneeling, licking her and letting her grind her pussy all over my face, riding me face on and from behind, and her sucking and letting me spunk all over her face. Sometimes, we’re at each other as soon as my father leaves but then we can spend hours together — talking, reading, watching a movie or working in the garden — before something triggers one of us into action.

I’ll tell you how all this started, but first I’d like to tell you how I convinced my mother to cede the one joy she had not provided me, or anyone else for that matter. Strangely, it all came about because of my father, although it certainly wasn’t intended.

My father is one of those successful, outgoing types with a huge ego and a way with women, at least, certain types of women. My mother knew about his escapades and this was, in fact, what first opened the door for me with her because, though he promised her it would end, he started up again after a few months.

Dad didn’t pursue women that worked for him. He was smarter than that, but everyone else was fair game. Typically, he chased women working for companies that did business with his, sometimes customers but more often suppliers that had a vested interested in falling to his amorous advances. I guess everyone uses an edge if it’s available.

But my father wasn’t above seducing the wives of his business colleagues if they were attractive and he sensed an opening, either because they were ignored by their husbands, as his own wife was, or their husband’s bread was buttered through doing business with him, and they were unlikely to complain. After all, it was just a few fucks.

In the typical scenario, Dad would arrive in town for a supposed business meeting when the husband was out of town, something he had assured himself of earlier. He would act as if he was supposed to meet for a dinner meeting with the woman’s husband, being miffed at first but soon turning into an accommodating gentleman. He would insist that the husband not be called, lest it embarrass him, and that she share this secret with him to spare her husband. How kind, right?

Of course, he would mention that he was now in a strange town with nothing to do. If there were no children there, he would allow himself to be talked into staying for a bite to eat and a drink or two. Dad would casually remind his target of how important his company was to her husband’s business, usually grossly exaggerated, while directing compliments to him but later exclusively toward her. Eventually, he would have her comfortable and laughing and would manage to get her to put on some music, suggesting something they could dance to.

A slow number would soon play and while he wouldn’t make a move on the first one, he would get closer and closer with each subsequent song, making her aware that she was in a the company of a handsome, personable man. Between her loneliness and the drinks, she would become aroused. My father would sense the right time to make an explicit move, direct or subtle, depending on the woman. It might lead to immediate, fervent sex right there on the floor, or the need to laugh off that initial suggestive move and keep her going, slowly working her around to the idea. If he had to, he would refresh her memory about how important he was to her husband’s success.

Evidently, he enjoyed this latter type of conquest the most. He was almost addicted to the thrill of slowly winning a reluctant woman who, though very aroused, was loath to capitulate her honor. In the end, he knew she would succumb, they always did. The joy of loosing her breasts, of dragging her panties off and spreading her legs, of shoving his cock deep inside her as she turned her face away, forcing an involuntary groan from her tightly clamped jaws. The thrill as first her arms and then her legs wrapped around him, pulling him closer, moaning as she realized how much better he was than her husband. He’d laugh as she abandoned herself while he thought ahead of all the ways he would fuck her until he finally tired of her months later. Often by then she would be hooked on the excitement he brought into her life and would still be available for a periodic fling if he felt like it.

The end wouldn’t change if children were present, just the route. He would implore her to join him for dinner, at a nice restaurant in a romantic setting, consuming lots of wine over a dinner far more expensive than she was used to with her husband. Of course, they would have to stop by his room, in the hotel or close by, to pick up some papers he wanted to leave for her husband. Once in his room, the same game would play out. It would always end with his cock inside her, mouth or pussy, typically both. Strange as it seems, he usually found the women to be wilder in their own homes.

Eventually, one of these plays went dreadfully wrong. I’m sure that others had misfired before but he was probably able to keep those situations quiet because it would be mutually embarrassing but also because the offended wife would leave things alone if her husband’s business wouldn’t suffer. But this time, Dad moved on the wife of a major client, and it was his business that was in danger of a major blow. He just couldn’t help himself, she was so attractive, and he misread the signs that showed her complete lack of interest in him.

I was called in to manage the disaster. I was dispatched right away with the authority to do whatever it took to placate my father’s most recent target to ensure that her husband never found out. Dad told me this woman had misunderstood his social nature as an advance. He just couldn’t understand it and was unable to persuade her that she was mistaken in the short time before he was given the bum’s rush out the door.

Given my father’s unconvincing story, I was pretty sure about what had happened. This was an embarrassing task but one I had to do if our family was to retain a viable business, for the word would certainly spread. I also knew that if I was successful, and let Dad know that the truth had come out, I would forever have an advantage over him. So I went and, though reluctant at first, my enthusiasm for the task grew as I drove.

She was a very attractive woman. In her mid to late thirties, just a few years younger than my mom, second wife and married several years but still no children — I had done some homework — her husband’s attention had turned back to the business and then to other distractions, like my father.

I approached Greta with honesty. I turned up at her door because I was certain she wouldn’t meet me otherwise. There, I told her about what my father had said, and my instructions, and how utterly convinced I was that it was total bullshit. I added that my father had done this before and that he was an extreme embarrassment to my mother and myself.

Mentioning my mother was a godsend; Greta invited me in. I following her, admiring the fall of her long black hair cascading over her pale yellow sweater, falling just short of the black stretch pants clinging to her long legs. The movement of her finely shaped behind rhymed with the sway of her hips. She was naturally seductive and I could see why my father thought she was worth the risk. It was an effort to tear my eyes away from the perfectly timed pair of animated half-pears and but I forced myself to concentrate on what needed to be done.

Greta led me through the house and outside down a stone path that led over a small bridge between a pair of ponds to a garden-surrounded gazebo. She motioned for me to sit on one of the cushioned lounges and poured us each a glass of orangy-pinkish looking juice from a large pitcher that was almost full. The ice cubes clinked as they tumbled into the short stubby glasses. I was surprised by the taste of alcohol.

Over the next hour or so, I explained my suspicions about my father’s transgression and made my pitch to assure her that it would never happen again and that in future I would handle her husband’s account. There would be no uncomfortable chance meetings with my father. I talked about how messy the situation could become and acknowledged the emotional damage Dad may have caused. In compensation, I described how, soon after I took over the account, I would negotiate a more amenable business arrangement for her husband which he would assume was achieved because of my youth and naivete.

She smiled when I finished. “I don’t think you’re a very naive young man,” she said.

“Nevertheless,” I replied, “he will assume so, if he’s anything like my father.”

Her smile widened, “I believe they are cut from the same cloth.”

I was disconcerted by this remark and wondered if she knew just how much like my father her husband really was. What a shame to waste a woman like this, and my mother, on men like them. I tried to continue outlining plan but Greta turned the conversation around to focus on me and my mother. She needed to know what we were like, she said, before she could make up her mind about whether to go along with my plan.

So we spent another hour chatting, very pleasantly, about myself and Mom, with a few anecdotes about Greta thrown in that were relevant to the discussion at the time. When Greta refilled our glasses, I was surprised to see that the pitcher was empty. I was feeling quite pleasant. Eventually, there was a pregnant pause in the conversation.

“Well, I’d better be going,” I said, pushing myself to my feet. “I shouldn’t have stayed so long. I hope I didn’t overstay my welcome.”

“Not at all, Nathan.” Greta stood with me. “I’m very glad to have met you and I’m glad you came. This was the best afternoon I’ve had for some time. You’re welcome anytime.”

“So you’ll think about my proposal, then?”

“Perhaps over dinner,” she smiled.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I have stayed too long. Is your husband coming?” I had thought he was away for a couple more nights and was a bit flustered that he might arrive at any minute.

“No,” she laughed. “Don’t panic. He’ll be gone for a few days yet.”

I couldn’t help looking relieved.

“I was just about to make some supper, that’s all.”

“Oh.” I felt awkward. “I’m sorry, I should have invited you to dinner. It’s the least I could do.”

“No, but thank you.” She stepped through the glass doors into the house, carrying the pitcher and two glasses. I hadn’t even thought to bring my glass inside. “Isn’t that one of your father’s tricks?”

“Yes, I guess it wouldn’t look good for you to be out with someone when your husband’s out of town.” I realized as soon as I said it how silly it sounded. After all, I was just a kid barely out of high school. I actually shuffled my feet. Good grief. She was teasing me.

Greta smiled, but it was a smile that didn’t make fun of me.

“Actually,” she said, “I wouldn’t say no to some pizza, but we’ve both had too much punch to drive, don’t you think?”

I nodded.

“Right,” she said. “You order some pizza — there’s a number on the fridge — and I’ll make some more punch.”

I didn’t think I should have any more punch, in case I lost my head. It would be easy to think she wasn’t just being nice.

She handed me a full glass when I got off the phone and turned to walk into the living room. I followed, unable to keep my attention from her seductive assets. When the pizza arrived half an hour later, Greta let me pay for it without any argument. She was in the kitchen refilling our glasses while I was at the door and waited there until I brought the pizza in.

“Let’s eat it right out of the box,” she said, enthusiastically. “I haven’t done that for years. Come on, bring it along” she said in a sparkly voice, leading me back to the living room.

As soon as I sat down, Greta handed me another glass of punch.

“I shouldn’t,” I said.

“Nonsense. You have to keep me company. It’s part of the deal.”

That was a good sign. It sounded like she was going to go along with my plan. I took a sip.

“That’s better,” she said. “Dig in.”

The time passed quickly while we gorged ourselves on pizza. Greta talked more about herself, especially her college days. It made me rethink my own future, that maybe I should go to college instead of learning Dad’s business. College hadn’t appealed to me but as Greta recounted the joys of her past I began to reconsider my choice.

My glass was empty and, though I shouldn’t have had any more, I was in the mood for it. The pitcher more than half gone. Greta saw me glance at the pitcher, grabbed it, and refilled my glass.

“No, I shouldn’t,” I protested.

“Have you booked yourself into a hotel?”

“Uh, no. Not yet.”

“Then go out to your car and bring your bag in.”

“Bring my bag in?” I was stupefied.

“Yes. You’re staying here tonight.”

“I can’t do that. I can’t impose like that. You don’t even know me.”

“I know you better than you think. Enough to trust you more than some men I’ve known for years.”

I was pleased that I’d earned her trust but even more please that she’d referred to me as a man.

“Still, I can get a cab. It wouldn’t look right.”

“You can’t go riding about in a cab trying to find a room. Go out and get your bag while it’s still light outside. Go on, don’t argue.” Greta stood and stepped toward the front door.

“While it’s still light?” I asked, not comprehending.

“Of course. You’re my second cousin’s son,” she explained, cooking up a story for curious neighbors. “Why wouldn’t you stay?”

As I walked to the door, Greta said, “We’re having so much fun and you can’t drive now so you may as well stay here. You can leave in the morning, and I’ll give you my answer then.

I didn’t see anyone outside. Greta’s words sunk in as I pulled my case out of the trunk. She wasn’t going to tell me until tomorrow morning, not at dinner like she said. Then I remembered, she said she’d think about it at dinner. She hadn’t said she’d tell me. Just relax, I thought. Don’t push, and be yourself. There’s no need to treat her like a client. She’s really nice and fun to be around. Just relax and everything will be alright. I felt better walking back into the house.

Greta wasn’t there when I came in, but as soon as I shut the door, her voice rang out.

“Up here,” she called. “In the spare room.”

I carried my bag up the stairs and walked down the hallway toward the light coming out from an open doorway. Greta was inside, just finishing laying a set of men’s pajamas out on the double bed.

She walked past me as I entered. “Put those on and we’ll have a movie night,” she instructed, walking out of the room. “See you downstairs.” She sounded quite pleased.

It was a strange situation I found myself in, one I certainly wouldn’t have predicted starting out on the highway this morning. I tried to think while I got changed, but wasn’t able to come up with a plan, or even if I should have one. Just go with the flow, I thought. Have some fun.

I walked downstairs in her husband’s flannel pajamas, holding the bottoms up. He was a little broader in the hips, or paunchier, than I. I found Greta in the kitchen, just closing the oven door.

“That will make a nice snack later,” she said. “I love hot apple crumble with vanilla ice cream and tea. Don’t you?”

Greta was wearing a pair of flannel pajamas that matched my own. It was a bit of a disappointment really because the loose flannel hid the small breasts and supple bottom I’d been noticing since I’d arrived, though I had tried hard to be discreet and kept my glances to a minimum. Still, I had the feeling that Greta was aware of my disappointment and my attempt to find the curves hidden by the shape hiding clothes. Though she didn’t look it, somehow I thought she was amused.

Greta regarded me with a soft look. “Come on, let’s go watch a movie.”

She grabbed my hand and pulled me into the TV room where a large flat screen was fixed to one wall with three sofas arrayed in a semi-circle in front of it. She sat in the center one and gestured for me so to sit beside her.

“Tell me more about your mother,” she demanded.

I sat down before the reaction of her mentioning Mom in this setting stimulated embarrassing effects in me. Within a minute, I became flustered as my member stiffened in response to thoughts about my mother that didn’t match what I was telling Greta. Thankfully, I was saved by the previews ending and the screen awaiting the push of the play button, which Greta did. The chick flick started.