Chapter 8

Despite the marvelous time I'd had at the S.E.X. banquet, my memory of it was tinged by sadness. Because, in celebrating the work we'd done, the book had also been closed on my job. After having tasted the independence of self-support, I abruptly found myself without a job and two children to support.

Without Jason and the rest of the S.E.X. staff to buck me up, I quickly became depressed. Before I knew it I was feeling sorry for myself... reverting back to my old ways as a meek, scared suburban housewife.

Determined not to bring myself down in shame by applying for welfare, and ineligible for unemployment because S.E.X. was a nonprofit employer, I began reviewing my bleak alternatives.

Like it or not, I kept coming back to the same thing. Fred.

Even though at times I was sure I hated his guts, I realized that he was my only legal access to immediate support. And, if I didn't get some money soon, what was left of my family might fall apart.

Swallowing my pride, I decided to go see him. Maybe, I told myself, we could work something out.

He was still at his mother's, which didn't make things easier. Mrs. Robinson had never gotten over the fact I'd taken her son away from her, and was undoubtedly pleased Fred and I had broken up. Any compromise I tried to effect she would probably fight. I wouldn't get anything without a good deal of humiliation if she was involved.

Oh, well, I decided, my pride wasn't as important as my kids eating. So one evening I psyched myself up and went to see my husband and his mommy.

I hadn't called ahead because I was afraid Mrs.

Robinson would answer the phone and tell me to get lost. My resolve not being strong enough to withstand that kind of discouragement, I decided the best strategy was just to drop in unannounced and play it by ear.

The lights were on at her place, so I assumed mother and son were at home, apparently spending a quiet evening together. However, when I knocked on the door, there was no answer.

I started to walk away, but then I noticed that the television set was blaring inside. It seemed unlikely that nobody was home.

Maybe they saw me through the window, I thought, and aren't answering the door on purpose.

It would be just like Fred's mother to pull a stunt like that. And, suddenly, the thought of it made me angry.

"I won't be treated like trash," I hissed vehemently to myself. "After all, I'm still legally married to Fred-he's my husband-and I should be able to see him if I want to." Emboldened by my rage, I decided I'd just go in anyway. To my way of thinking, I had a perfect right to be there.

The door was unlocked when I tried it, and I walked inside. The first thing that caught my eye was a rerun of "Police State" on the tube, but nobody was watching it. The living room was empty.

I tiptoed into the kitchen. Nobody was in there either.

It was a big house, the same home where Mrs. Robinson and her late husband had raised their family. There were plenty of rooms to inspect if I planned to smoke Fred and his mother out into the open.

With the adrenaline of anger still energizing me, I decided to conduct a search. Going from one room to the other on the ground floor, I found nothing but empty space. Finally, I decided to go upstairs.

The master bedroom was just as empty as the others. The king-size bed Fred's mother slept in seemed to mock me with its throne-like quality. It seemed to say, This is my place, and you're nothing here.

The bathroom was empty, also. So was the guest room.

There was only one place left to look. Fred's old bedroom-the one he'd occupied as a boy.

I'd seen that bedroom before. His mother had kept it maintained like a shrine, carefully preserving its adolescent ambience as though she fully expected Fred to someday return to his senses and decide to be fifteen again.

The room's reminder of my husband's neurotic tic to his mother was something I didn't relish encountering, but after coming up empty-handed in the rest of the house I felt I had no choice.

The door was closed. I thought of tapping, but then decided that was a courtesy I owed neither Fred nor his mother. After all, by now they pretty much had to be aware that I was in the house looking for them, and they'd apparently done their best to ignore me.

Or at least that was the way I figured it as I turned the knob. Three inches of open door, however, showed me that I'd figured it out all wrong.

I quickly pulled the door closed as what I'd just seen fully registered with me. The reason Fred and his mother hadn't responded to my rattling around their house had become shockingly clear.

No wonder they hadn't heard me. They were so absorbed in what they were doing a nuclear attack wouldn't have rousted them from the bed on which they lay.

I'd known they were close-even for a mother and son-but not this close.

Why beat around the bush about it any longer? Even though it still pains me to admit it, yes, they were fucking.

And, as I hated myself for forcing the door back open an inch or so to get another look, I had a perfect view of the spread legs of Mrs. Robinson while her son's stiff prick plowed into her hairy cunt. The light glistened from her quivering thighs because they were coated with her dripping pussy juice.

Disgusting was what it was.

But, so... God, how I hate to admit this... fascinating. I couldn't have looked away under threat of death. It was positively hypnotic.

The sight of Fred's prick pumping between his mother's spread legs was like a drug. I knew I should be repulsed, but instead I was giddy.

"Oh, fuck me, Sonny," she was moaning. "Fuck me harder... , harder!" "I'm fucking you as hard as I can, Mom," he whined in a screechy bleat that must have gone back to his puberty days when his voice was changing. Obviously his mother's cunt was a kind of time machine that made Fred into a boy again.

"I'll buy you some ice cream," she crooned seductively, "if you'll fuck me harder." When he protested that he was doing the best he could, her mood abruptly changed.

"I'll ground you," she threatened. "I'll put you on restriction for a month, Sonny, if you don't start showing your mother a better time." It hadn't just been my fanciful impression. The two of them actually had gone back in time. Fred was not a grown man any more with a wife and children, but a callow youth being strangled by his mother's apron strings.

And in this case the apron strings took the form of a pair of naked thighs and clutching pussy lips that held his rigid cock like a hangman's noose. In this family a dutiful son didn't take out the trash, or keep his room clean to please his mother-instead he was expected to fuck her to the hilt.

"Come on, Sonny," Mrs. Robinson snapped, "I've got ironing to do if you can't do any better than this."

"Will you really get me some ice cream?" he asked as he writhed on top of her.

"If I get some boy-cream!" she fired back.

The lure of some butter-brickle, which I knew to be his favorite, was apparently like an aphrodisiac to Fred. His hard-on became a piston between his mother's thighs.