First we rented a lovely apartment, so we could get our jobs going, and look for a house. We found the perfect house about three weeks ago, and closed on it yesterday. It sits at the end of a cul-de-sac. A large privacy fence surrounds the backyard and in-ground swimming pool. The lot is large, and there lots of trees and flowering shrubs. The house has four bedrooms, three and a half baths, and a gorgeous f****y room.
We’ll move in on Monday. We celebrated by making our favorite dinner at home; big thick steaks marinated in a wine and spice mixture of my own creation, fat hot baked potatoes, a crisp Italian salad with a sharp but sweet vinaigrette, and a good red wine. And after dinner, of course, we had sex on the sofa before the fireplace. Afterwards, he carried me to the bedroom, where we made love again. Slowly this time, deliberately, and ultimately satisfying. I heard him murmur, “I love you so,” as we both drifted into a satiated sl**p.
* * *
Four years earlier, I was a struggling single mom. My husband had died just two years before of a sudden unexpected heart attack. One of those things, I guess, as he had been a health nut before he married me, and had jogged and pushed-up and sat-up and was as robust a man as you could imagine. At his death, his weight was the same as the year he had graduated college. His body was firm and strong, and oh how I did enjoy his body. He was a wonderful lover. His hands were strong and confident. His lips were sweet and playful. In bed, he was inventive, considerate, and enthusiastic.
I shared his enthusiasm. He had liberated my libido after our marriage. I had been raised in a rather repressive household. My mother had told me sex was the woman’s duty, and the way she phrased it, not a pleasant one. It made babies, and kept the man happy. A woman needed to submit and endure. If Mother had ever enjoyed sex, she never let on.
But I found out soon that pleasing my husband pleased me in ways I had never dreamed existed. And the more I enjoyed it, the more he enjoyed it. He had to convince me that he loved kissing and licking me “down there”, as I would put it blushing. And the more I loved him doing so, my back arching in orgasmic convulsions, the more he would spur me on to climax after climax. And then he would mount me, and his manhood would fill me. He would be atop me, his weight pleasantly pressing down on me, as he entered me, took me, and raised me to heights of passion I’d never experienced. He’d encourage me, whispering words of passion, of love, of heated lust that made me desire him more and more. And then his face would twist, and I would feel him release inside me, filling me with his strong liquid heat again and again and again.
Or I would please him with my mouth. How I loved the feel of his hardness between my lips. I loved how the thick vein running the length of his manhood would throb against my tongue. I found his scent of arousal irresistible and the taste of his essences intoxicating. Sometimes, he would spend his passion in my mouth, and I would swallow him happily, loving the thick viscous feel, the strong musky taste. His pleasurable groans were music to me, making me even more passionate towards him. He’d gently hold my head, moving his hips slowly (or quickly, as the mood struck us), and his voice, husky with desire and breathless with his need, would encourage me and say slightly naughty things that fired my imagination and stimulated me even more.
The way we loved was by turns fierce, passionate and desperate or slow, soft and deliberate. Just over a year after our marriage, I discovered I was pregnant. He was thrilled, and spoiled me terribly during the pregnancy. For hours he would massage my swollen feet. He’d carefully rub warm oil over my swelling breasts and turgid rounding belly. Smiling gently, as his hands soothed and caressed my flesh, he would tell me how lovely I was even though I ballooned to the size of a cow. When I began to lactate, he’d carefully suckle my tender nipples, teasing me about how he was testing for flavor and butterfat content.
Our son was born on during a blustery night in December, two weeks before Christmas. The air was bitingly cold, laced with sharp darts of sleet. He was calm as he negotiated the icy roads to the hospital, and stayed with me during delivery. His voice always calm, encouraging, loving, and soothing. Some hours later, I was holding a tiny thing that bawled indignantly, and he was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I put him to my breast, and the loud howls ceased as he took his first nourishment from my living body.
My husband’s face glowed as he looked down on us.
Those were the good years. Christmases, with us both laughing in exhaustion as we tried to assemble tricycles, air-hockey games, or electric trains. Saturday mornings, when I’d come downstairs and find them both asl**p on the sofa, the baby on my husband’s belly safely enfolded in his father’s strong arms. When he wasn’t working, and he’d see me nursing the baby, he’d kneel by my rocker and watch intently as the baby fed at my breast. He’d tell me how much he loved me, and we’d often make love as soon as I’d put the baby down.
Little League, Father and Son fishing trips, training-wheels, Cub Scouts, PTA meetings, all came and went. My son grew up under his father’s firm but loving hand into a handsome young man. I adored them both, and was loved unreservedly in return. Soon came high school, girls, and cars though not necessarily in that order.
James, my son, was a good student. Well behaved, smart, polite, and athletic like his father, James was popular with his classmates, his teachers and his coaches. He was a star fullback, ran track, and played catcher for his high school teams, lettering in all of them. Girls were drawn to him like moths to a flame. He dated more than a few, but none seemed to catch and hold his interest for very long. He graduated third in his class, and had a variety of both academic and athletic scholarships to choose from.
After Graduation, James and his dad would spend hours pouring over catalogues and recruiting letters. We took weekend trips to several schools where James was courted like a visiting prince, and my husband and I were assured of how well James would be treated. We all three discussed the pros and cons of various colleges and universities, but we let James know it was ultimately his decision.
Then, on that terrible day in June, six months to the day after James’ nineteenth birthday, our world collapsed.
My husband had gone jogging that morning. I didn’t accompany him that morning as I usually did. I don’t remember why now. Something silly I suppose, like a shopping trip with a friend, or some other silly errand. In any case, I was emptying the dishwasher when he returned from his run. He seemed unusually winded, but happy. I teased him that he wasn’t in his twenties any more, and that fifty was closer to him that forty now (he was 49 and I was five years younger).
He laughed, and hugged me tightly with a deep kiss that I returned. I loved him hot and sweaty. He said he was going to take a quick shower, and asked mischievously if I wanted to join him. I pushed him away laughing, and said I’d be up in a minute. James was out of the house, working at the summer job he’d acquired in order to earn pocket money for school in the fall.
He tickled me, and headed up the stairs, winking at me over his shoulder. “I’ll keep the water hot, sweet-cheeks,” he said ginning over his shoulder. “Just don’t keep me waiting too long.”
I stuck my tongue out at him, and laughed. I finished putting the dishes away, and hurried up the stairs. I giggled as I pulled my tee over my head, and unhooked my bra. Showering together was wet, sloppy fun. I peeled my shorts and panties off, and went to the door of our bathroom. I pulled the shower curtain aside, grinning.
He was leaning against the shower wall, his face ashen. His left hand had balled into a tight fist, and his right hand was clutching his chest. He looked at me, his eyes bright with agony. “Call,” he croaked. “Call—“
His eyes rolled upwards, and he slid down the wall, the water spraying his magnificent body, to an ugly sitting position.
I screamed and tried to get him up. He was unresponsive. I ran to the bedside phone and dialed 911. They responded within minutes, although it seemed an eternity. I was holding him, still nude when the paramedics arrived. Gently, they pried me away, and someone considerately d****d a robe around me.
They did everything they could, and did their best to reassure me. Even so, he was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital. I was hysterical. I couldn’t comprehend that the vital man I adored and loved was gone. Eventually they gave me a sedative, and I was u*********s when James arrived at the hospital.
James handled almost everything. The funeral, the crushingly empty days that followed, I moved through like a wan phantom, neither seeing nor comprehending the loss that had befallen me. My s****r and her husband came to say with me for awhile, and I was grateful. My b*****r-in-law and James filed the will for probate, and handled the settling of the estate. My husband had a good job, and had provided well for James and me. The mortgage on the house was paid off, a trust fund for James had been set up, and I would have a steady income from our investments for quite some time to come. I’d have to continue working, but if James and I were not rich, we weren’t destitute either.
That summer passed me by. Dazed and grieving, I didn’t know what to do with myself. James was frantic. It wasn’t fair. I suppose if I’d had other c***dren, I might have snapped out of it sooner. However, a cyst on my ovaries became malignant. I had lost the capacity to bear more c***dren not long after James had been born. So it was he and I, now.
Just James and me.
That summer finally began to draw to a close. James wished to withdraw his application to the large university he had elected on, and apply to the local state college instead. I think that’s what snapped me out of my grief. We quarreled about it, but I finally convinced him to go on with his plans. James’s trust fund, his scholarship, and the money he’d earned would safely see him through college. There was no need to change his plans now.
I had gotten a job, a good one. I would be busy. I saw him off at the airport, and wept. The house loomed emptily when I returned. James would be home for Thanksgiving. We’d said I might go up and visit him at school over some weekend. But for now, I had an empty house, a broken heart, and time. Oh, I had so much empty time before me.
* * *
But time passed, as time does. Slowly it seemed sometimes, and sometimes so fast I lost track of the weeks. I worked. I worked hard. I had nothing else. I still exercised, and jogged, and kept myself attractive. I still don’t know why. I’d run until I thought my lungs would burst. I’d exercise until I was so exhausted I would fall into a dreamless sl**p. Upon awakening, I’d turn to his side of the bed, feel the cool undisturbed sheets, and cry.
I tried to go out. Friends and my s****r all lined up prospective dates. Many of the men were charming, and I even slept with a few. But once I had magic, and the magic was gone. Some were good lovers, and I’d see them a few times. But then, they or I would realize that the sex was good, but that’s all it was.
James came home for holidays and summer vacations. Looking at him would bring a lump to my throat. He looked so like his father. Tall and muscular, quick to smile and laugh, an untidy shock of sandy blonde hair, eyes blue as a clear summer sky just washed clean by a cool rain. In summers, he’d work around the yard and I could almost imagine it was his father walking stolidly behind the lawn mower or perched precariously on the ladder cleaning out the gutters. In his cut-off jeans shorts, shirtless, his body moved with u*********s grace of a panther. His ass would stretch his shorts to the breaking point, rounded and strong looking.
And I might as well admit it. The bulge beneath his zipper was enough to set any female over sixteen and under one hundred sixteen to happy imaginings as well. When home from college, he would date. He was still hugely popular, although his female high school classmates were marrying at a steady rate, James never seemed to want for company for a dinner date and a movie.
Of course, he was almost grown now. He had no curfews, but he was always considerate enough to let me know if he was going out, and he was always home at a reasonable, if not an early hour. If I was going out, he had the house to himself. It was his home too, I had explained to him again and again. If he wanted company or privacy, all I needed was the request with enough lead-time to make or alter my own plans.
As it happened, I had a dinner date of my own for one hot Friday in late summer between James’s sophomore and junior year. I’d been seeing this man off and on for a few weeks. That Friday, however, he’d called my office just about lunchtime, and canceled. He sounded terrible on the phone, and probably felt worse. Well, if the poor man was sick, there was nothing for it. After assuring me I couldn’t do a thing for him, he rang off, and I went back to my work. It just didn’t occur to me to call James and tell him I’d be home after work after all.
I pulled into the driveway, and let myself in the front door. I kicked my shoes off inside the front door out of old habit. My husband used to laugh at me for running around barefoot in all weathers. I padded down the hall, put my briefcase down on the kitchen table, and got a glass and some ice for a drink. I noticed movement through the kitchen window, and leaned over the sink to look out back to the pool and back yard area.
James was by the pool, nude. And he wasn’t alone. I didn’t recognize the girl. She was a lovely redhead of about twenty-one or twenty-two, I guessed. She was also nude, her lithe young body dappled with sunlight and glistening. She was sitting in one of the lawn chairs we had s**ttered around the pool deck. Leaning back, with her legs spread, she was gently holding the back of James’s head to her crotch. James was kneeling on a folded towel, his hands resting on the girl’s slender waist. Her head was lolling backwards, her eyes closed, her lips parted as her breasts, nipples stiff and erect, heaved in obviously great gasping breaths. She lifted her feet and placed them on James’s shoulders, her knees splayed widely apart. Her toes cured down over his tanned flesh. Her head snapped up and she looked down at him, her hips moving on the cushions.
She pushed him away from her, bending over to kiss him, her auburn tresses glowing like fire in the late afternoon sun. James stood, pulling her to her feet gently by the hand. They embraced. I stood entranced at their young, lusty beauty. The girl stepped away, smiling breathlessly, her eyes shining with unbridled desire. She bent over one side of the chair, and James stepped behind her. My jaw dropped. My son was fully erect, and he was huge. His stiff swollen cock stretched in a gentle curve upward from the base of his loins up past his navel. His shaft was thick, and the fat mushroom head peeped from the folds of his foreskin a reddish purple knob moist and glistening.
James grasped his stiff manhood, and stepped closer. He positioned himself behind her. I saw the girl’s eyes close as he slowly pushed his hips forward, that magnificent cock disappearing into her yielding flesh. Inch by slow, sensuous inch he entered her. Her mouth opened then closed, her perfect white teeth biting on her lower lip as his largeness filled her. His hands grasped her slim waist to steady her or himself. He moved his hips in a slow circular motion, his own head falling back in pleasure of being surrounded by her warm wet tightness.
James began to thrust, long and slow strokes, his large shaft appearing then slowly sliding back into her welcoming depths. His pink shaft glistened from her dew, and his massive balls slapped against her upturned bottom. The girl reached and took one of James’s hands and put in her breast. He bent over her, his fingers tightening over the firm globe. His thrusts quickened slightly. He pulled her torso upwards a bit, one hand still covering her breast, the other reaching for the bright red “V” of her mound. I could see him sliding in and out of her wet hole even as he fingered her clit gently.
I heard her soft cry of joy, muffled through the glass of the window. She turned her head, and James met her with a long tonguing kiss. The she bent again, her head resting on her arms on the cushion of the chair. James grasped her firm round buttocks. He was thrusting hard and fast now, and the girl was rocking on her feet back to meet his every stroke.
I suddenly realized my own thighs were wet. My nipples were tight and chafing painfully beneath my bra. I knew I shouldn’t be watching them. I knew I should turn and leave as quietly as I had come in. I also knew that I wasn’t moving from the spot until they had finished.
It didn’t take long after that. James arched his back, and thrust hard, paused, withdrew, and thrust again. He bent over her, hands covering her ripe full breasts, his hips bucking into her as he spent his seed deep into her. I could see their juices flowing from her, over James’ ballsac and dripping onto the pool deck.
They remained motionless for a moment. I watched James slowly withdraw his wet, dripping cock, still rock-hard from the quivering girl. He helped her straighten up, then sat down on the chair, folding the girl into his lap, his strong arms going protectively around her.
I stepped away from the window. Quietly I put the unused glass away, picked up my briefcase, and left the house. I went to a movie, and sat through it twice. I never saw the images streaming across the screen. I kept seeing my son and his beautiful young lover. I went to the ladies room about midway through the film, and quietly masturbated myself through three wrenching orgasms, and was amazed to find my face covered in tears.
I came home late, and quietly let myself in. The house was quiet and dark. I went upstairs and undressed in my room. I slid on a nightgown, and padded barefoot into the hall. Even though he was grown now, I still checked in on James.
The distinct sharp aroma of sex was heavy in the air of his bedroom. I smiled to myself a little. He was asl**p. In spite of the coolness of the air-conditioning, he had kicked the covers off his bed. His nude body was sprawled across the mattress. One arm covered his eyes. His long flaccid cock hung heavily over one thigh. An image of his young lady friend’s lips encircling that fat shaft flitted through my mind and my nipples twinged maddeningly under my silk gown.
I returned to my room. My breathing was a little unsteady. I lay down in the large, empty king-sized bed. I lay restlessly. The sights I had seen earlier of James and the girl by the pool kept parading through my mind, and my imagination added other images and sounds. My hand crept to my mound. I let my fingers rest on my labia beneath the smooth silkiness of my gown. I could feel myself becoming damp. I stood up and pulled the gown over my head, and dropped it on the floor. From the drawer of the bedside table, I pulled out a large dildo.
I lay back down, nude. I rubbed the hard rubber over my slit, over my aching breasts. I closed my eyes. I let the head of the facsimile cock play with my swelling labial lips, shuddering each time it grazed over my clit. My son’s face swam before my closed eyes as I slid the hard artificial cock into my clutching opening. It entered easily. I was wet, very wet. I heard myself give a small groan as the thick pole parted and entered me. My other hand began to pull and twist my nipples.
I raised my knees, spreading myself wide open as I plunged the dildo in and out, in and out, in and out of my hot clenching cunt. I tried to recall my husband mounting me, taking me, and me taking him, needing him. I tried to recall his weight atop me, his strong thighs spreading my softer ones wide. I tried to recall his face over mine, his hands on my breasts, his cock filling my pussy.
Oh god, how I needed to orgasm. How I needed a man with me, on me, in me; his cock fucking me hard and fast and thoroughly. How I yearned for a pair of heavy balls slapping at my perineum. Still thrusting the hard rubber dildo in and out, my other hand found my clit, and rubbed it furiously. I felt the heat building in my belly, radiating down to my flowing pussy and upwards to my heaving breasts.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” I whispered feverishly.
My feet curled. My back arched. I gave a low guttural cry as I orgasmed. I felt that wonderful warm blush on my cheeks and breasts. I twisted the dildo inside me, pressing it against the roof of my vagina, squeezing on it. Another orgasm ripped through me, and I bet my lips to keep from crying out. I pulled the drenched fake penis from me and brought it to my lips. I inhaled the scent of my own cum, and licked it, tasting my juices from the hard rubber, remembering how I’d done the same to my husbands cum-covered flesh relishing in our combined flavors from his so masculine flesh.
Suddenly, it was James’ cock, dripping with his cum and mine, and I was sucking it eagerly, hungrily. I recoiled from the thought. In an agony of guilt and shame, I put the dildo back into the drawer, and lay back. I felt my cum dribbling down my thighs. There was a large wet spot on the sheet under me. I lay awake, I don’t know how long, finally falling into an uneasy sl**p.