Chapter 1: How It Began

This story includes incestuous acts between mother and son, mother and daughter and father and daughter. If this is not for you, please, read no further.

As I typically do, I will plead for you, the reader, to constructively write your comments, negative or positive, and vote for this story as you see fit.

Hey, all. My name is Kate Muggleton, an Australian girl of mixed origin living in Brisbane, Queensland, Australia. My story, or the story I’m allowed to tell you, begins on my eighteenth birthday. On that day, my parents Mark and Elizabeth, as they typically do, forgot my birthday. Pissed off and horny, I allowed my boyfriend, John Muggleton, to take my virginity. As luck would have it, John made me pregnant even though I was on the pill.

Mine was the typical ‘shotgun wedding’. My daddy confronted John’s daddy and demanded that since his son had ‘degraded’ his daughter and impregnated her, he (his son) must marry me immediately, or he (my dad) would point his shotgun at his (John’s) balls and blow them off.

My family, well, shall we say, is a loving one. Daddy took my eldest sister’s virginity on the night of her eighteenth birthday and repeated that effort with my middle sister on hers. Therefore, I was the first of his daughters that didn’t lose her virginity to his rampantly erect less than 6-inch cock. Not that either of them complained.

Dad has conditioned the three of us, and Mom, to immediately submit to his every whim. If my Dad said ‘Jump’, we four would immediately leap into the air. So, when he commanded me to marry John, I did so without equivocation or complaint.

I’m getting ahead of myself here, so let me describe myself and my family. As I write, I am thirty-eight years old. My handsome, tall, muscular son, Tommy, is nineteen and already under contract with The Brisbane Lions. My daughter, Krissy, turned eighteen less than a week before this story began and is a mini-me. Tall, voluptuous, and beautiful, with a refreshing innocence, she, unawarely, has many young men panting after her. However, if I become unvigilant, I suspect she will seduce her daddy.

My husband, John, was captain of his school’s First Thirteen Rugby League team, school captain and dux (valedictorian). Combining intellect with muscle and good looks, John cut a swathe through the female students, inducing many, including me, to surrender their hymen to his vigorously thrusting cock. After marrying my sexy ass, John completed his studies. A Master’s in Business graduate, John joined Pepperstone Australia as a trainee stockbroker. Swiftly proving his acumen, John was quickly promoted to team lead. When John received his promotion, my gorgeous ass never had to work another day in its life.

You want to know, don’t you? Okay. But, remember, this is my story to tell as I see fit, so I may exaggerate a little. I’m taller than my daughter, 183 cm (6-foot) to her 178 cm (5-foot, ten.) Heavier, 75 kg, compared to her 72 (159 lbs) with bigger breasts, 16 Double-D against 14 C. I measure 36-25-36 to my daughter’s 34-22-35. With my wavy, jet-black hair over brown eyes and tanned complexion, I’m often confused with Mariska Hargitay. I live a life of luxuriousness, decadence and boredom. My sole purpose in life is to look good on my husband’s arm as he attends corporate and social events around the globe.

I was often complimented for my looks and figure during my teenage years. Thinking I could make a career as a model or actress, I made an appointment to see an agent from Vivien’s Modelling Agency. Kara, the agent, watched me walk into her office with her head shaking. “Girl, you are too much woman to make it as an actress or model,” she told me. “Too beautiful, too tall, too voluptuous, and your gorgeous boobs are too big. Men will lust for you but fear to approach you, and other women will detest you on sight because you’re too much for them to compete against.

“I’m sorry, girl,” she continued. “But the only acting or modelling you could successfully do is in porn. They’d love your exaggerated assets there, and you’d be the most watched star only weeks after your first appearance. But, my dear, if that’s the career you wish to choose, then I am unable to help. And, given what I said before, I don’t think modelling or acting is for you. Girl, you use your luscious assets to trap yourself a rich man, then you keep your figure and face looking as good as it is now and hold on to that man as tightly as you can.”

Lovely, right? Of course, I left without saying a word, but I thought her advice was sound.

I know that my husband takes many women in casual affairs. A man in his position is expected to, and it doesn’t bother me in the least as my father had numerous illicit affairs, and, as my sisters are, I’m conditioned to accept them as the price I pay to be the wife of a rich, successful man.

So, readers, that is my origins. Now you ask —how did I become a ‘slut mommie’? Let me tell you. In my teens, I had one vice. As is typical with girls as pretty as I am but who detest exercise, I took up smoking. Hungry? Smoke a fag. Desiring soft drink or sweet snack? Puff on a cigarette. Horny but unable to masturbate? Fag away. John hated that I smoked, and as I closed in on forty, I feared he’d use my ‘ashtray breath’ as an excuse to leave me. Therefore, I investigated ways to quit that enabled me to maintain my weight.

You see, my mother is an attractive woman. But at over 90 kg (200 lbs), she is a proverbial whale. Without cigarettes to help my food cravings, I knew I’d be as big as she. If I grew to that size, my marriage would be doomed. John already had many women younger and better looking than me flirting with him, so why would he remain married to someone who had ‘let themselves go’?

After investigating alternatives, I chose hypnotherapy as my best chance of breaking my tobacco addiction without replacing it with a food one. I selected Edgar Fontaine in East Brisbane as the therapist to help me. His web page was slick and professional, and his profile photo showed a devilishly handsome man with a tailored goatee.

A Google review showed a higher than 4.5 rating and many glowing recommendations. Calling the listed number, I told the cultured sounding woman what I needed the appointment for and took the next available slot. My appointment was for 2.30 pm the following day. Nervous, I worked through my yoga and Pilates regimes before going to bed. John was away with work again, so I slept the night alone.

“Mom!” My handsome son called early the next morning as he knocked and opened my door.

Shaken from a deep sleep, I unhurriedly sat up, and the sheet and quilt fell from my full and proud breasts. “What?” I mumbled, my voice slurred with sleep.

My son’s eyes jumped to saucers as his mouth fell open and his tongue touched suddenly dry lips. “Your fitness trainer’s here for your session, Mom,” he spluttered, not averting his eyes from my firm breasts.

“What? Oh,” I replied, my brain slowly grinding into gear as I stretched and yawned, lifting my D-cups higher. My addled mind forgetting I’d be naked before my son, I swung my feet out of bed and stood up. “Tell him I’ll be there shortly,” I mumbled as I bent over, showing my sexy ass to my son, and opened a drawer searching for my exercise gear. Tommy didn’t move. Turning to face him, I realised he’d taken his cock in his hand as his gaze wandered lustfully over my luscious figure. Somehow, his lustful gaze didn’t put me off. Instead, I felt that familiar tingle between my thighs when I saw a man I desired. Typically, Tommy’s dad.

“Tommy?” He didn’t move other than to begin stroking his cock. “Tommy?” I asked again. I saw a dark wet spot on his sweatpants, and the tingle between my legs intensified. “Tommy!” I almost shouted, knowing I had to get him out of my room before I fell to my knees and nuzzled his hard cock.

“What?” Tommy replied, dragging his eyes from my breasts and hairy pussy and looking at my eyes.

With a slight smile, as I tried to prevent a sensual shiver, I repeated, “Tell him I’ll be there shortly.” I couldn’t stop myself from stretching luxuriantly, my breasts lifting as my smooth tummy tightened for my son’s viewing pleasure.

“Gaaawwwd,” Tommy moaned before stuttering, “W-w-w-will d-do,” and closing my door.

Swiftly dressing, I glared at my image in the mirror and admonished myself, ‘Kate Ashley Muggleton, what the fuck are you doing teasing your son? You’ll be lucky if he ever talks to you again after that!” However, as I rebuked my image, I remembered my son’s tightly gripped cock salaciously poking its precum leaking head at my nakedness, and my left hand pinched my nipple as my right fingers found my clit.

Lightly tripping down the stairs, I greeted Patrick, my trainer, and brightly said, “Hi, Patrick. What torture do you have planned for me today?”

A panting, sweaty hour later, Patrick patted my bum familiarly and said, “Good work, Kate. Now if you just ease up on the amount of wine you drink, we’ll get you down to 70 kg in no time.”

Laughing gaily, I pecked his lips and replied, “That’s not happening, but I appreciate the sentiment, and I’ll see you in two days.”

“Kate?” Patrick said as I walked up the stairs. When I stopped and turned back, he added, “If you insist on wearing white exercise gear, please don’t get angry if I’m erect because your pussy and nipples show.”

Looking down, I blushed as I saw that Patrick was right. My nipples and slit were delineated clearly through my sweaty outfit. “Sorry, Patrick,” I muttered. “I didn’t realise that happened.”

“Only when you wear white, Kate,” the young man said. “And, Kate?” I looked at him again in time to see him blush enough to match mine and add, “I’m not complaining. So, if you want to wear white again, please do.” Then he turned and swiftly left.

Stunned, that old familiar tingle found its way between my legs again as I watched the door close. However, when I lay on the bed after my shower, intending to masturbate the tingle away, visions of Tommy unknowingly playing with his cock as he ogled my luscious form kept intruding into my fantasies.

Worse, as I tried to fantasise about Patrick being overwhelmed by my nearly naked body and taking me on the exercise mat, his face morphed, and I saw Tommy clenched in rictus and grunting as he came inside my tight pussy, and I orgasmed harder than I had for months.

Feeling shaky and disgusted with myself, I rolled off the bed and entered my en suite to clean my sticky pussy. Leaning on my braced hands, I looked at my reflection and lied to myself. ‘It’s only a fantasy, Kate. It’s not real, and you’re okay because you’re his mom, and you would never do that.’ But, even standing as I was, my mind saw my son pulling his sweatpants down and taking his package in his hand again, holding it exposed for my eyes instead of hidden in his pants. And I saw myself kneel and guide it into my mouth.

Even though I didn’t touch myself, I shuddered and orgasmed as I imagined sucking my son’s cock, his handsome face smiling down at my submissively upturned one. ‘Lawd, Kate?’ I wondered. ‘When was the last time you came without being touched? When you were a teenager, maybe? What has gotten into you?’

Shaking myself, I changed for my appointment with the therapist. Feeling horny and a little slutty I took out my dark red skater dress and put it on sans bra and panties. I’d need to be careful as I sat for the therapist as the deep vee of the dress tended to gape open as I sat, exposing my full, beautifully rounded breasts. It also rode up when sitting, showing my curvy buttocks. But, because Dad insisted, I tended to sit with my back straight and knees firmly pressed together wherever I was, so I was confident I wouldn’t slump and show him my assets.

Putting my gold 4-inch heeled pumps on, I lit what I hoped was my last cigarette and walked downstairs. Drawing the delicious smoke into my lungs, I sexily blew it out as I thought of Patrick’s comment, only to find Tommy sitting at the breakfast bar watching me.

Not thinking, he blurted, “Fuck, that’s sexy, Mom!” Then his face fell, and he blushed and looked at the ground. “Fuck! You idiot!” He mumbled. “Why did you say that aloud?”

Pleased by my son’s praise, I touched his cheek and huskily replied, “Thanks for the compliment, Tommy. I’m glad you liked it.” Then, I bounced so my tits would jiggle.

Face flaming, Tommy took my hand and made me turn slowly before him, “Phhuuwwweeeeet-Phheeew,” he wolf-whistled. “Man, Mom, you look gorgeous! Got a hot date for lunch?” He teased.

“Your daddy’s the only man for me,” I replied primly, then blushed as I realised I was flirting with my son. “I’ve got an appointment with a hypnotherapist to help me quit smoking if you must know!” I add huffily, trying to cover my flirtatious behaviour.

Walking to my sunset red Audi A3, my hips swinging and dress hem bouncing, I added an extra sway to my hips, hoping my son watched. Getting in the car, I smiled as I saw his flushed face staring at me from the door. But on the way to East Brisbane, the guilt set in. Looking at myself in the rearview mirror, I asked, ‘Kate Ashley Muggleton, you dirty slut, what has gotten into you? First, you flash your tits at your son, then purposefully bend over so he can see your ass and pussy, and then you flirt with him as if you were a giggly teenager.’

I’m lonely, I admitted to myself. John is away so much, and even when he’s home, he’s hardly ever around. It’s all work, work, work for him. The only time he’s with me is when he needs arm candy for a function or event. If he’s not at work, he’s in his office downstairs, banging away on his computer. He’s short with me, short with the kids, and when was the last time we made love? I couldn’t remember. But I knew part of what happened with Tommy was because a man, any man, had looked at me as an attractive woman, and I’d responded gratefully. Not only lonely but horny, I admitted.

Pulling into The Fontaine Clinic’s premises, I parked and bounced jauntily into the reception. “Kate Muggleton to see Mister Fontaine,” I gushed at the receptionist, already dying to light another fag.

The receptionist, Liz Donnelly, by her name tag, was a mid-thirties, auburn-haired, severe-looking woman with the most enormous knockers I’d ever seen. Seriously, I’m a Double-D, and mine looked like A-cups against her watermelon-sized tits. Dressed in a white button-up blouse that her massive melons strained against and a navy blue pencil skirt, she glared at me disapprovingly and said, “Take a seat, Ms Muggleton. The therapist will be with you shortly.”

Summarily dismissed, I sat and waited to be called. Twenty minutes later, well after my appointment time, Mister Fontaine exited his clinic room and escorted a slightly dazed, scantily dressed young woman to the receptionist’s desk.

“Maggie.” He told her authoritatively. “We’ve almost got this prescription pill addiction of yours licked. I think one, maybe two more appointments, and you’ll be ready to return to work. Make an appointment for the same time next week, and we’ll continue working on it. In the meantime, when you feel the need for oxycodone, don’t fight it. Instead, relax, remember what we did together, and let the processes I put in place work.”

“Yes, Sir,” Maggie dully answered before turning and walking out.

Turning to me, Edgar grinned and rubbed his hands together and what I can only call predatory eyes swept over my fine figure before he hid them behind a feigned professional smile. “Ahh, Mrs Muggleton, I presume? Welcome to my clinic. You need help to quit smoking, I understand?”

Why I didn’t immediately walk out, I’m not sure. I feared this man, and my instincts screamed that he was untrustworthy. However, as my father and husband are, Edgar was a dominant, suave, confident man who commanded my obedience, so I submissively stood, with my eyes lowered, and followed him into his treatment room.

“Lie on my couch, Kate. I presume I can call you that, Mrs Muggleton? The less formality there is between us, the easier these sessions will go.” At my nod, Edgar continued. “Some questions first, Kate. How long have you been smoking?” Most of my adult life, I admitted. Twenty-plus years. “How many packs a day?” Not packs, cigarettes. Less than twenty unless I’m stressed or partying. “And then?” I chain smoke until I fall asleep or pass out drunk, I embarrassingly confess.

“Do you like to smoke?” Hell, yes. It stifles my hunger cravings and is a successful seduction tool. Blowing smoke sexily into the air or playing with an unlit cigarette as if it were a man’s tool as I coquettishly glance up at them is a sure-fire way of ensuring their total attention. Not that I’ve ever followed through and allowed my flirtations to be consummated.

“Not what I need to know, but I’m curious. You’ve remained faithful to your husband?” Yes. John has been the only man ever to share my bed. “And he to you?” My blush probably gave away my lie, but I answered, As far as I’m aware. “What did I hope to achieve from these sessions? A reduction in the number of cigarettes per day or complete cold turkey?” Complete cold turkey, of course. “Did I realise a nicotine addiction was harder to break than a heroin one?” No. Really? “Yes.” Shit! “Was I prepared to do as he asked to break my addiction?” What did that mean? I asked, my fears returning.

“Only that I will implant key phrases and behaviours into your psyche that will stop you from lighting a smoke, but they won’t work unless you willingly accept them as they’re given.” Okay. It appears that if I’m not willing to follow the process, I shouldn’t begin? “Correct.” I’m willing to do as you ask. “I will not work with you without your commitment. Will you commit to following my process?” Yes. “Swear that to me!” ‘WTF?’ I thought, but said, I swear I will follow your process, Edgar.

“Good girl, I’m ready to begin, are you?” What do I need to do? Smiling, Edgar took a pendant on a thick gold chain out of his jacket pocket. “Hold your head still but follow the swinging pendant with your eyes. Then I want you to relax and listen to my voice.” Edgar set the pendant to swinging and following his instruction, I kept still but allowed my eyes to flick back and forth, following the pendant’s path. “Breathing through your nose slowly and deeply, you feel your body getting heavier, sleepier. Your eyelids flutter, and you find it difficult to keep them open. You’re tired, more tired than you’ve ever felt before. Following my voice down...”

That was the last I remember until I heard, “ ... three!” My eyes fluttering open, I looked up at Mister Fontaine as he pushed the pendant back into his jacket pocket. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I seemed to fall asleep there. What do I need to do to begin?”

Smiling, Edgar replied, “Your first session is done, Kate. And a very successful one it was, too. I’m very pleased with the outcome, as you should be.”

Was his predatory smile back? Why did I feel, I don’t know, dirty? Dirty as if I’d done some dark misdeed that I now feared would be uncovered? However, I smiled submissively at the cultured, dominant man before me and said, “So, I’m cured of my nicotine addiction? No more cigarettes for me?”

Edgar tipped his head back and laughed, “Oh, heavens no! I’ve planted the roots of your recovery, but they sit in shallow soil now. It will take at least another three sessions for me to grow them sufficiently for their effects to become permanent. You are lucky, however, as your submissive nature means my suggestions take root sooner and more profoundly than most, so four sessions instead of the typical six or seven should do it.”

Disappointed, I moued, “You mean I’ll still smoke?”

“I’ve set your appointments a fortnight apart, Kate,” Edgar explained. “However, I think before you’ve returned for your second one, you will have begun smoking again. You may start again before your third, but your addiction should completely disappear after the fourth. Whether I’m successful at curing your addiction or not will depend on you removing yourself from any stressful situations you find yourself in and avoiding any parties until I’ve cured your addiction.”

’That shouldn’t be a problem, ’ I thought. ‘John is back for a week after next week, then gone for two more after that, so there won’t be any corporate dos that he’ll need me to be eye candy for, and with him gone, stress won’t be part of my life.’

Nodding, I asked if we were done for the day and, at his permission, followed him back to the reception area. “Slut!” Edgar muttered as I passed him. My hips bucked as my pussy instantly flooded with arousal. I’m sorry? I asked, ignoring my suddenly wanting pussy. What did you say? “Nothing, Mrs Muggleton,” the therapist denied. “I didn’t say a word.” Turning to his receptionist, Edgar said, “Mrs Muggleton needs three more appointments booked, each approximately two weeks apart and for the same duration as this one. Arrange those with her, please.”

He moved past me and muttered, “Slut.” as he turned into the hallway to his rooms. Biting my lip to prevent a moan as my hips shuddered, I asked Sorry? What did you say? Edgar looked toward me as if I were hearing things and politely said, “I’m sorry, Kate. Occasionally, when I plant a suggestion under deep hypnosis, the patient will think they hear my voice, even though I haven’t uttered a word. However, this effect will be short-lived, so don’t concern yourself. Slut” Did you just call me a slut? I protested behind an overwhelming desire to orgasm. “No, Kate. As if I would call anyone that!”

Edgar walked away as I stared, wondering if his words were true. Was I hearing things? Was the voice I heard only in my mind, or was the therapist using a post-hypnotic suggestion to cause me to react sexually to being called slut? I couldn’t seem to follow that thought because, as I tried, my mind wandered off to more mundane subjects.

“Ahem,” the receptionist interrupted my thoughts. “For today’s consultation and set up, the fee is $350, Ms Muggleton. Subsequent appointments are $280. Would you prefer to pay for all four upfront? If you do, we offer a 15% reduction on the total cost. Slut.”

Barely stifling a moan of desire, I agreed to pay the total amount, with the discount, for the four appointments and took out my credit card. Paying the asked amount, I put my card away, arranged my three further appointments, and walked from the clinic.

As I turned to leave, I heard, “Slut!” and barely held my composure as my arousal fluids flowed from my pussy and down my inner thighs. Somehow, I contained myself until I sat in my Audi. But once seated, I could stand no more, and I ripped my dress above my flaring hips and stuffed two fingers in my pussy. Finding my clitoris with my thumb, I twirled it around and exploded into an extreme orgasm, my hips bucking and thrusting as my fluids poured onto the car seat.

‘Wtf?’ I thought as I started my car and drove home. As I drove, a strange smell kept wafting into my nostrils. ‘Not semen,’ I decided. ‘Pussy juice? Not mine, however!’ I had no idea but decided that everything I felt, thought I’d heard, and smelt must have been part of what Mister Fontaine had done to cure my nicotine addiction, and I decided not to worry about it.

Only my daughter, Krissy, was home when I returned. John, of course, wouldn’t be home until late Friday week, and I guessed Tommy would have been at footy training. Wearing nothing but a tank top that barely covered her C-cups and a tiny thong, Krissy sat on a stool at the kitchen bench with her left leg bent and her foot tucked under her right buttock. Sitting like that stretched my daughter’s panties tight across her pudenda and pulled them to the side. The right side of Krissy’s pussy lips peered past her thong, and her slit and clit sat there, clearly defined by her clinging underwear.

I stared, I couldn’t help myself. Krissy, a smaller version of myself at the same age, had a sweet innocent air and wouldn’t have even contemplated how lewd her stance looked to a casual observer. Strangely, that tingly feeling reappeared as I gazed at her defined clit.

Looking up from reading her newsfeed on her phone, Krissy said, “Hey, Mom. How did your hypnotherapy appointment go?”

“Well, I haven’t had a smoke since then,” I kidded.

Laughing, Krissy stood and crossed to me. Kissing my cheek, her firm, young, braless breasts pushing against mine, causing that tingly feeling to intensify and settle higher than ‘between my legs’, she said, “I hope it works, Mom. Smoking is like the worst thing you can do, and I know Dad hates it, so you must stop.”

“I know, baby,” I replied, hoping she couldn’t smell my arousal. “I’m giving it my best shot to quit this time, okay?”

Smiling happily, my daughter, innocently hugging me, cupped my ass over my dress and smiled before saying, “No panties? You slut!”

I moaned. Dammit, I couldn’t help it! When my gorgeous daughter held my ass cheeks and said, ‘slut’, my arousal peaked, and I came! Wtf is wrong with me?

Looking at me wonderingly, Krissy sniffed before disbelievingly asking, “Mom? Did you just have an orgasm when I said ‘slut’?”

Trembling as I tried to prevent myself from climaxing again, I tried to remain calm as I sternly replied, “What? Krissy! What kind of thing is that to ask your mom?”

“Never mind,” Krissy mumbled, forced into the daughter role by my stern response. “Sorry.”

I didn’t want my daughter upset with me because she’d correctly identified my response and I couldn’t deal with it, so I cupped her curvy ass, squeezed it, and said, “At least one of us has panties on.”

“Yeah, Mom,” Krissy teased back. “Only one slut allowed in the house at a time.”

Even though I bit my lip, my moan was unmistakable. Eyes widening, Krissy was about to say something, but I quickly shook my head and mumbled, “Leg cramp from too much exercise this morning. Now, my little tart, go put some pants and a top on before Tommy comes home. You don’t want him to see you dressed like this.”

Reluctantly letting her questions die, my daughter sashayed up the stairs, heading for her room. Following so I could change into something less revealing, I couldn’t help from watching Krissy’s ass as she swayed up the stairs, that ‘faint tingling between my thighs’, now a raging furnace, settled on my pussy.

Barely getting to my bedroom without cumming, I dropped my dress to the floor, leapt on the bed, and thrust two fingers into my gushing pussy as my thumb found my button. I badly wanted to orgasm to images of my husband, or at least Patrick, but the twin thoughts I kept having were of kneeling before my son and daughter. Tommy, with his sweatpants pulled below his balls and his thick, precum leaking cock held in his hand, pointed at me, and my daughter dressed in what she wore when I came home, holding a handful of my hair as she pulled her panty’s gusset aside and forced my mouth onto her soaking slit.

Stifling my orgasm screams, I came many times as I lay thrashing on my bed, images of my children’s genitals pressed into my mouth, playing salaciously through my fevered mind. Coming down from my final climax, I thought, ’That therapist did something to me. Best, Kate-girl, you stay away from that clinic and find another way to quit smoking.’ However, even as that thought passed through my mind, I felt it curl up and die. Replaced with Edgar’s cultured voice saying, “You need what I offer, Kate. I will set you free, and not only from your nicotine addiction. You will return, as you must return.”

In a trance, my eyes staring blankly as my fingers absently thrust in and out of my pussy, I answered, “Yes, Sir.”

There was a loud knock on my door, and Tommy banged through it, holding his brand-new Nikon D780 DLSR camera. His face flushed happily, Tommy gushed, “Hey, Mom. The new memory card for my...” His voice ground to a halt, and a whole new reason to blush first whitened, then flushed his face. Staring at my luscious, exposed form, my son ventured, “Mom? What are you ... Never mind. Sorry!”

Tommy’s hand found his groin again as he slowly backed out of my room, his eyes glued to where my fingers continued to pump into my dripping pussy. As soon as the door shut, my eyes rolled back and the loudest orgasm I ever remember having crashed over me, causing me to pull my pillow over my face to muffle the sound.

Staggering to the en suite, I wet a cloth and washed my messy pussy clean, studiously avoiding looking at my reflection. Eventually, pussy clean, I leaned on my hands and stared miserably into my image’s eyes. Kate, what trouble have you gotten yourself into now? Masturbating to images of your naked children? Fantasies of having oral sex with them? Continuing to pleasure yourself as your son watched? What the fuck is the matter with you?” Of course, my reflection didn’t answer. But I knew Mister Edgar Fontaine, Hypnotherapist, had planted a post-hypnotic suggestion in my subconscious, and my body responded to it despite my conscious mind’s revulsion.