It was a beautiful, sunny morning. Despite the pull of the sun’s hazy rays filtering through the blinds, I couldn’t bring myself to get up. Not yet anyway. Saturday was my day to sleep in, even the first one of the month when my husband Ken celebrated his brief moment of manhood.

He had forgotten last month. No matter, I had been given to pleasuring myself regularly on Saturday mornings, and even on Sundays —such a delicious sin— and now preferred it. Even when Ken graced my sanctuary with his presence, I always continued after his triumph, sometimes starting before he had even left the room though I was careful not to be too obvious: I was old enough to know that the so-called stronger sex had certain sensitivities which were easily bruised.

On this particular morning, I was lying in bed waiting for my husband, resigned to tolerate his fumbling and so refraining from actually touching myself. Still, a pleasant glow was spreading between my hips in anticipation of my own slow, teasing manipulation. Why didn’t he come in and get on with it?

I had heard him leave his room and go downstairs. Wistfully, I remembered the days when he wanted to fuck first and then eat. Now, fifteen minutes later, I was beginning to get more than a little impatient, I was becoming quite irritated.

Just come up and put your silly thing in for five minutes and get it over with, I thought, so I can pleasure myself before having a nice long bath.

The front door closed. I couldn’t believe it. I twisted around on my elbow to look at my closed bedroom door, listened intently until I heard the sound of Ken’s truck starting, then flopped down in exasperation. In his haste to get to his precious boat, he had forgotten me again, for the second time in a row. Two months!

I was so angry I bit my lip but gradually relaxed. Who needs him? I don’t. Women can get along just fine without men. I scrunched up in the bed until, lying on my side like I was, I was almost in a fetal position. Pulling my legs up like that forced the hand dangling over my right hip between my legs. I straightened my legs a bit so I could retract my arm but the pressure of my hand reminded me of what I’d been thinking about before Ken’s departure.

So who needs him? Now, where was I?

My hand nestled between my legs as I let my mind settle on that well-built young man who had given me the once over last week in the dress store while he was waiting for his pregnant wife to come out of the fitting room. We had exchanged smiles and I noticed him checking me out while I was appraising myself in the mirror. I don’t know what had surprised me more, the fact that he was looking at a woman in her mid-forties, or the sudden tightening in my chest when I saw his eyes roving over my ass and legs.

I should have been offended but I wasn’t. In fact, I liked it. I primped and preened in front of the mirror until his wife came out. When his wife began searching for another dress in the maternity section, I misbehaved. I picked out a daring little number and took it to the fitting room. I changed quickly but didn’t exit until I heard his wife enter the cubicle next to me. Oh, what a bad girl.

I made quite a production in front of the mirror. I couldn’t believe how obvious I was being, flaunting myself so outrageously, but he didn’t seem to twig to what was going on. Just as well. Otherwise he probably would have approached me and made a proposition, just in time for his wife to come out, see it, and make an unpleasant scene.

His young eyes were glued on my body and I was simultaneously proud and relieved that I looked after myself. When the girl came over, smelling a sale, I stretched and twisted in front of her, discussing the dress, all for his benefit. It was really enjoyable, an absolutely delicious feeling. I hadn’t had so much fun by myself for a long time. The young man’s eyes kept straying back to me even after his wife appeared so I decided to leave before she discovered his indiscretion. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings in her sensitive condition. I knew how she felt.

I bought both dresses. After all, if I looked good enough in it to attract the attention of a good-looking man fifteen years my junior, it must look good on me, right?

My mind flicked easily from memory to fantasy. The young man was magically in our living room. Somehow, I had let him in and he was admiring my body which for some reason was clad only in a nightie though it was the middle of the afternoon. My finger had been circling my pubes as my imagination ran wild, encouraged by my thumb brushing over my clit. Oh, that warm feeling was spreading already.

Too quick, Patricia. Take your time. You’ve got all morning.

Despite my reverie, I heard the faint noise of the door knob twisting. I slowed the pace of my finger but didn’t stop it completely. I was sure Ken had left, why was he coming back? Had I mistaken Bill’s truck next door for his? He hadn’t been downstairs all along, had he?

Well, yes dear, he could very well have been. You think you would have heard with your finger twiddling yourself and your eyes devouring a young man’s healthy body?

The door clicked open and was discretely pushed closed with the knob being carefully released to minimize any disturbance. Ken was sneaking in, trying not to wake me. Maybe he needed something in my room that he had forgotten and was trying not to wake me. But why would he shut the door if he was just fetching something?

Oh Ken. Please, just go.

I didn’t want his impatient hands fumbling around with me, not now when my dream was just getting good. As my mind began to lose the image of the young man my senses refocused and became more acute, so much so that I could tell Ken was barefoot. The gentle lift of the covers behind me and the weight easing onto the bed confirmed my husband’s intention. The last wisp of the young man disappeared from my thoughts.

Ok, Ken, but please get it over with quickly, I sighed to myself.

I pulled my hand away from between my legs and rested it on the outside of my hip. My nightdress had been dragged up to my hips but it was too late to do anything about that now. Anyway, if he found me bare and ready, maybe he’d get it over with even quicker than usual and leave me to my own devices all the sooner.

Yeah, right, I thought.

The morning was ruined and I knew it. I would probably just get up after Ken left to polish his boat, or whatever it was he did all weekend at the marina.

What the hell was he up to? He had shifted near me under the covers but not close enough to touch. Was it possible he was going to be super considerate and warm up before pressing his cold limbs against mine? No, don’t be silly. That’s not my Ken.

Now that I thought about it, I could tell he was holding the covers up and looking at me. What could he possibly be finding new to look at? The young man had looked at me but this wasn’t anything like that. I didn’t feel a tightening in my chest or any thrill zinging down my spine to warm my pelvis and tickle my womanhood. Nope, this just felt weird.

Come on, Ken. Shove your little thing in there like you usually do, huff and puff for five minutes, and be done with it, for Christ’s sake!

But Ken remained still, just looking at me. I was about to ‘wake up’ and spoil whatever game he was playing when I finally felt the tentative caress of his fingers in the crook of my waist. They waited there, as if seeking permission to stay, or to move. I didn’t know what to do, so I stayed still as if I was really sleeping. This was so different. Ken was usually quite matter-of-fact and just got on with satisfying himself. I was intrigued. What had brought this on? Had one of his boating buddies said something about how you have to treat a boat like a woman, gently, to convince her to do your bidding and bring you safely home, or some such nonsense? What the hell was this?

Ken’s hand suddenly moved, briefly upward until his fingers met the swell of my breast, then down, along my waist and up onto my hip where it stopped as soon as it slid off my nightdress onto the bare skin of my upper thigh. There was a long pause, as if it was seeking permission to move again, then did, caressing the outside of my leg all the way down to my knee, leaving a strange, excited tingle all along my outer thigh. This was so unpredictable. His familiar but strange touch was very exciting. Frozen and inert on the outside, inside I was a seething cauldron of intrigue. What would he do next?

The hand dipped down behind my knee, swirled a finger around the soft, pulpy tissue there, then trailed up the underside of my thigh to the bulge of my buttock. There, it was joined by its brethren and, together with a palm, formed a cup which closed lovingly around my right cheek. He held it for a moment, as if sampling its weight and taking its measure, before slipping up to grasp it more firmly, culminating in a gentle squeeze. The jolt of that sensation was still bursting through to my tummy when the hand journeyed outward with a rubbery, clasping drag that pulled my cheek behind it, forcing my buttocks apart. He held me spread like that for several long seconds before casually allowing the upper half of my ass to slump back to meet its sister. His hand rested again, inert on my hip.

The slow, deliberate fondling of my ass raised the temperature in my whole pelvic region and set it aglow. Ever since we had first tried the spooning position years ago, Ken liked to enter me from behind while I was lying on my side, but he never played with my ass. I think the only reason he liked doing it that way was so he could avoid eye contact because he became excited so easily and finished so quickly. But this morning, he had definitely found a new game to play.

Ken’s other hand squeezed under my waist. It startled me but I managed not to react, in keeping with my pretend sleeping state. The hand pushed further until its fingers were able to curl up to encompass my left breast, clutching it in a gentle grip. The hand on my hip moved down but surprised me when it reversed direction and returned, underneath my raised nightdress. The surprise and the fact that I wasn’t wearing panties sent a jolt into my juncture which, already sensitized by my own ministrations, twitched uncontrollably and when the fingers on the hand holding my breast closed around my nipple which immediately stiffened in response.

Oh, God Ken. Don’t start too soon. Keep doing this for awhile, I prayed.

Ken’s right hand slipped past my secret area, teasingly skirting the outside of my mound onto my belly, then up until his fingers pressed between my cleavage and closed around my other breast. He held my tits without any further massage but my nipples still became rock hard pinnacles in his fingers.

Pinch them, I begged in my mind. Roll them around and stretch them out. You never do that and I’ve always wanted you to.

I almost cried out when his fingers pinched my nipples and I bit my lip when they were rolled and tweaked. Was he reading my mind? I couldn’t help but release a long, soft sigh when he pulled my nipples out, stretching my tits away from my chest, and held them there, the tension sending bolts of ecstasy through my breasts to careen off my ribs and dart up to my throat where they congealed in a lump that transformed into a low growl. Oh God, how I loved my new Ken’s hands.

Ken backed away then. I wanted him to stay but his right hand slipped off my tit and slid around to my back, barely brushing the skin that formed a shallow dish in the small of my back just above my bottom.

Yes, play with my ass again. Slip your hand down through my crack and scratch the bottom of my cheeks, then push through my legs and cup my pussy.

I pictured the young man from the mall sliding his hand over my ass but forced it out of my mind with a vengeance. Such thoughts now seemed a vile betrayal.

I didn’t mean it, Ken, my mind screamed. Do it, push your fingers in me from behind.

Ken’s hand remained still until my yearning eased and curiosity once again ruled. When it moved, it went up rather than down, following my spine up to my neck, and then back. Up and down, like a tickling caterpillar, his plucking fingers delving into the top of my crack but only far enough to tease before retreating up my spine. I don’t know how long Ken did that but my urgent yearning softened and I began to relish the feel of his platonic caress coupled with the more erotic pulping squeezing of my left breast and tweaking of its nipple. This was fine; I knew more would come and I loved the suspense.

Ken’s hand had likely been pressing me forward for some time before I yielded to its urging. As I leaned forward, his other hand, which had slipped unnoticed from my breast to grip my hip, pulled me back toward him. Ken must have slid back in the bed too because my rump never felt him, never encountered the little stiffy that I expected to be waiting to eagerly shove inside me.

Come get your reward, I thought. You’ve earned it this time.

Lying almost doubled over on my side, my back parallel to the headboard, I tensed my cheeks, trying to twist my ass up and back, offering my pussy to my newly endeared hubby. I was wet and I wanted to be good for him. Later, after he left, I would treat myself to a good, long one, but it was his well-deserved turn now. I arched my back and purred, actually purred!

His hand was on my upper cheek again, spreading my ass apart, stretching my pussy lips wide. The action was so blunt it was almost vulgar, and so different from everything else he’d done today; but it felt great. Ken always simply pushed his cock against my ass, bumping around until he slipped in or more often, I reached back to guide him in. But this time, I knew there wouldn’t be a problem. I was so wide open, he couldn’t miss, and the confidence in his approach warned me be ready for an immediate entry, a first-time bull’s-eye.

Oh yeah, he was there, right in my slit. Pushing, pushing. Oh God, oh Jesus. He was so big, so thick! What the...? Was he wearing something? I started to turn my head but his hand had slid up onto my neck and was holding my head so all I could do was look straight ahead.

He was pushing in, stretching me like he never had before. It felt so good, so good. The head of his cock popped in, slightly relieving the stretching strain but filling me with wonderful sensations. Had he shoved a dildo in me? I reached back to feel but his hips were close to mine, not apart like they would be if he was pushing something into me. Was he wearing something? I slipped my hand between us and my fingers curled around the base of his cock. I couldn’t feel anything but real cock. There was no telltale edge of anything slipped over it. This was a real cock. A big cock, and it wasn’t my husband’s!

He lunged forward, pushing my head over the edge of the bed and closing the gap between us, trapping my hand. God, he was so far inside me it felt like he was up to my belly button. Lunging again.

“Unnnggghhhh,” I cried, unable to keep my joy inside.

Again.

“Unnnngghhhhh.”

I wanted it. I needed it. I pulled my hand away and he lunged into me again, forcing another groan from my throat.

Fuck me, whoever you are, and I’ll scream after.

Heave, heave, heave. My head was lolling over the edge of the bed and the hand, not Ken’s hand I now knew, was gripping my shoulder to keep me on the bed, to keep my pussy mashing against the root of his wonderful, big cock. He was moving faster but not frantically, increasing his pace, but steadily, like a steam engine gaining speed as it slowly chugged away from the station. I fit into his growing attack, uncomplaining, even relishing each new thrust. This wasn’t a rape by any means. My acceptance denied that interpretation. I met every lunge as best I could, angling myself to take as much of him as I could.

I had never been fucked so well. His snowballing pace was sufficiently measured to bring me along, or more accurately, push me ahead. I gasped and moaned and relished the sound of his own efforts as they were expelled behind me and knew that they were enhanced by my own reactions.

I felt like screaming but all I could do was moan and groan. He seemed to know exactly what I wanted and how to give it to me. Oh, and how he was giving it to me. For how long now? It seemed like forever. He was moving so fast and hard even though he had increased his pace so gradually. It seemed wild and ferocious but at the same time, controlled. His hips were slapping against my ass now, loudly, and thrusting my ass back to meet him couldn’t muffle the noise. Christ, I hoped Jamie wasn’t home. I hoped he’d gone with his father to help polish the boat or tinker with ... whatever. Nobody could mistake this sound. A woman was getting roundly fucked in this house, and she was loving it!

He was coming! His cock was blasting his seed inside me and the pressure triggered my own overdue orgasm. I clenched around his ample rod, moaning even louder than before. The grip of his hands on my shoulders was intense and I knew they would leave marks. Gasping, my climax subsiding, I felt him soften inside me and made a note not to wear anything that would show the marks.

I waited for him to slip out of me, like Ken did, but though his cock was limp it didn’t fall out. He had to pull back before it oozed out of my soaked pussy, its sliding retreat making me want to keep it inside. I desperately wanted to turn around but I didn’t. I don’t know why.

He was off the bed and walking quickly away. I turned just as the door swung shut. Quickly, I leapt out of bed and rushed to the door. I wanted to see him again and I wanted to make sure that it was him, that young man at the mall. How had me found me? How could he so brazenly come in and do what he’d done? What if I had screamed?

I yanked the door open and stepped through the door, turning right toward the stairs, running to the edge to catch sight of his dark, curly hair before he got through the door. Then I would know, and I would go to the mall, to signal my need for more, as if he didn’t already know I wanted him desperately, despite his poor pregnant wife. Afraid I would miss him before he left the house, I spoke for the first time.

“Young man,” I called. Young man. Really? I almost laughed at myself but it was stifled in my throat as I realized he was already gone. I was too late.

That’s when I heard the door click softly behind me.

I turned and stared in shock at the bedroom door at the far end of the hall, on the right, opposite the bathroom.

Jamie’s room.

My son’s room.

I don’t know how I got back to my bedroom. I can’t remember if I walked or crawled. My mind was blank.

Feelings and thoughts — so tangled and intense — pure, raw ... anguish.

I first became aware of my surroundings on my bed where I must have thrown myself. I wondered why I wasn’t crying. Then I rationalized that it wasn’t true, that I’d simply had a disgusting dream, but the heavy spunk oozing out of my pussy put that fairy tale to rest. I ran to the shower and scrubbed myself in steaming hot water but instead of feeling cleansed, I became excited again and that unleashed another torrent of recriminations and feelings of unworthiness.

What had I done to make my son do this?

Nothing. I couldn’t think of anything I had done to encourage Jamie to do such a thing. Was my need so great, so apparent? Is that why that young man had surveyed me so daringly, not because I was attractive but because I looked like I really needed to get fucked? Did I look that desperate?

I ran the water so long it started to get cold. The shock made me realize I couldn’t wash this away so I got out of the shower and toweled myself dry. I moved around the bedroom in a trance, dressing, fixing my hair, and applying the little bit of makeup that I typically used. Everything I did was normal but in random order.

In the end, I sat on the bed, unmoving, but eventually realized I couldn’t hide there forever. I had to go out and face my son.

Then a thought struck me. Maybe it hadn’t been Jamie at all. Maybe the young man had simply made his escape through Jamie’s room. Of course, he wouldn’t just walk brazenly out the front door. Jamie’s window opened above the bay window at the side of the house. He must have jumped down onto it and made his getaway. That would explain why Jamie hadn’t come with all the noise I was making. He wasn’t even home.

I burst out of my room and stared at Jamie’s closed door. Uncertainty settled over me. What if I was wrong?

With great hesitation, I walked down the hall to my son’s door, took a deep breath, and knocked.

“Jamie?” I called quietly. No answer.

“Jamie?” I knocked again.

Silence. I opened the door a couple of inches.

“Jamie?”

Nothing. I pushed the door open. Jamie’s room was empty. I went downstairs but he wasn’t there. I was alone.

I was deluged with relief. My pseudo-rape was still a private affair, my own little secret. I decided I wasn’t going to go back to the mall to see the young man. I was done with it. If I saw him again, I would tell him if he ever came here again I’d call the police. The stress draining out of me made my legs weak and I had to use the handrail as I descended the stairs. To think, for a minute there, I thought had made love with my own son!

It turned out that Jamie hadn’t gone to the boat with his father. He came home just before noon. I couldn’t breathe when he came in the house and yelled ‘Hi Mom’ as he took off his shoes. I was standing in the kitchen, face ashen, when he burst in and made a beeline directly for the fridge.

“I’m starved,” he said. “Are you making something for lunch?” he asked, grabbing a container of juice and a large block of cheddar. He looked at me when I didn’t answer.

“Ah, y ... yes. Sure ... What do you want?” I stammered. Why did I feel so guilty? Jamie didn’t know what had happened that morning. Did some part of me think he did, or was it that fleeting thought when I first heard the click of his door closing, that it was Jamie that had been in my bed, and despite the horror that welled up inside me, there was a tiny part of me that didn’t mind. That thought had nagged me ever since and it terrified me.

“Anything. I don’t care,” he answered, getting a sharp knife out of a drawer while opening the cupboard to grab a glass at the same time. “A sandwich, maybe. Not soup.”

I got some tomatoes and mayonnaise from the fridge and watched my son slice up some cheese. He was a good-looking boy. More of a man really, now that he was almost twenty, and just as strapping as the young man I had met at the mall, and this morning in my bedroom. I blushed furiously.

“What’s the matter, Mom? Mental pause?” Jamie laughed.

Thankfully, his teasing put me at ease. This was so typical of him. I knew then for sure that it couldn’t have been him this morning. There was no way he could act like this if it was. I would know. There would be some sign. And that guilty feeling, well, it was just that. I had never felt it, not really. I was just trying to make myself feel even worse than I already did for what I had allowed to happen. I put on a cheery face.

“Away with you. Go on. Get out of my kitchen while I make your sandwich, brat.”

I shooed him out. Darling boy. He laughed and did as he was told.

Doubt infiltrated my mind several times that afternoon but I banished it as soon as I felt its debilitating presence. Dinner conversation consisted of listening to Ken reliving what he had done with his boat that day. He had been monkeying around with his bow thruster. The word thruster made me blush but Ken didn’t notice. He blathered on about how he should have spent the money to get the one with twin 135’s instead of the single diesel, and blah, blah, blah. Somehow, it seemed like my fault that his back was sore from fixing his boat. Jamie noticed my condition but attributed it to my age, a heat flash.

“Mental pause,” he whispered.

“Eh?” Ken asked.

“Nothing,” Jamie replied. “I was talking to Mom.”

“Oh.” Ken continued on, despite the obvious evidence that he didn’t really have an audience.

Jamie smiled, amused by both his father and me. I scowled at him, smiled, and barked, “Eat your dinner before it gets cold.”

Several times after supper, I found myself gazing at my son. He was ruggedly handsome, taller though less robust than his father but that would probably change over the next few years. I shook my head after the third such incident, suspicious of my own motives. Yes, Jamie was a good-looking young man, like my morning visitor, but my mind had no business going there. Now that I knew it hadn’t been him in my bed the thought didn’t terrify me anymore. The last thing I wanted to do was turn my son into a fantasy. God, I hoped my thoughts didn’t turn to him in the morning after Ken had left for his boat and my mind, and fingers, began to wander.

I stayed up late, reading in bed. Ken came in to say goodnight before going to his own bedroom. Sadness fell over me as I watched him go. Why had ‘a good night’s sleep’ become so important that we needed separate bedrooms, let alone beds? I knew I had to take the lion’s share of the blame for it. I was working then and had tired of his constant movement during the night and his evening ‘noises’. Ken, fourteen years my senior, didn’t put up much of a fight. Perhaps he had been relieved of the pressure to rise to the task when I went to bed early and waited for him with the lights on, reading a book I wasn’t really interested in. When I looked back, it hadn’t taken long for the weekly visits to become bi-weekly then monthly, and now sometimes less frequent.

“Did you bolt the front door?” I asked.

Ken turned and looked at me oddly. “Of course,” he assured me. “I always do.”

That was true, I thought. Ken was very consistent and thorough with everything he did. He had looked at boats for three years before buying the Gypsy Lass. I could have strangled him near the end. Silly me. I thought once he bought it I wouldn’t have to listen about boats any more. How naïve is that?

“Thanks. Goodnight, dear.”

“Night,” he replied, quietly closing my door.

Jamie knocked on my door half an hour later. He popped his head in and said goodnight after I answered. He didn’t pull the door completely closed. I started to call out for him to close it but thought better of it. I’ll just get it myself, I thought, and continued reading. Sometime later, I put my book down and turned off the light. I forgot to close the door.

My eyes popped open. It was dark, very dark, and I couldn’t see a thing, but I knew someone was in my room. I lay very still, listening intently, trying to locate the intruder. I didn’t want to run into him when I bolted for the door, or alert him to my awareness. It was him again. It must be. Why wouldn’t he come back after the welcome he received this morning? I hadn’t expected him until next Saturday, or at least until morning, but he was a man, a young man, and he had needs. If there was a reasonable-looking woman that was willing and able, why not partake of her? I think I understood the young male mind well enough.

I also understood the adventurous thrill of sneaking into my room. It wouldn’t be so scary now that he knew how accepting I was. In fact, it might be more thrilling. I bet he was brimming with anticipation at the imminent prospect of another illicit fuck.

There was a rustle next to the bed, on the door side. I couldn’t escape that way but all I had to do was speak. I wasn’t afraid. He hadn’t hurt me this morning and I was sure he had no intentions of doing so. All I had to do was tell him it wasn’t going to happen and that he should leave, right now, or I would call out.

But I didn’t say a word. I simply listened to the rustling and tried to figure out what it was. He was taking his undershorts off. I smiled. Had he already taken the rest of his clothes off before coming in or were they on a pile on the floor. I bet they weren’t. I bet he’d taken them off and in his eagerness to sample my wares again, he’d forgotten his shorts.

Would your wife be so exciting as to let a strange man sneak into her room and fuck the daylights out of her? No, I imagine she wouldn’t and you know it. You’re intrigued, just like I am.

The covers were lifting. It was now or never.

His weight sank into the mattress and he carefully turned toward me. As in the morning, he lay still. Several minutes passed without a touch but I could feel his silent breath disturbing the air. What was he doing? I could feel his excitement, even over the tingling of my pussy.

I wanted him. Could I still feign sleep if I turned over onto my side? He must know I wasn’t really asleep, or wouldn’t be for long. Would it ruin it if I moved too early to show my acceptance? Did he want to savor the feeling of being in a strange woman’s bed without her knowledge or permission? Was he waiting until he couldn’t stand it anymore, until he just had to touch me? Unsure of what to do, I did nothing.

Another minute passed before I felt a tentative touch on my hip. It was just a single finger pressed against my side, unmoving, for at least a minute. I found it hard not to react but managed to control my breathing with some difficulty. The finger became several before sliding up onto the front of my hip and then down, onto my thigh to my knee. Circling my kneecap, his hand retraced the same path back to my hip, following just inside the bone, paused, and repeated the journey.