This is a print version of story Strange Relationship – Prologue and Chapter by ChrisTracy from

Strange Relationship – Prologue and Chapter

(Author's note: this is an early version of a much longer erotic novel. It's been through a lot of edits, but I really like some of the early versions that got canned. I hope you don't mind me reproducing them here. Of all the stories I've written - which is a lot! - Caitlin is one of my favourite creations, and I'm always looking to giver her greater exposure, as are the men (and women) in her life! You can follow her continued adventures in the different versions of the story called "Strange Relationship")


I can still remember the time I first fell under Ben’s spell.

My daughter, Jodie, had been out celebrating her eighteenth birthday in Sheffield. The next day she’d gushed endlessly about a young man she’d met, and she refused to go out for two days because he’d promised to call. He did, despite the number of times her father and I said he wouldn’t. But he did, and she met him for a couple of dates before we got fed up of hearing about him and demanded that she bring him home for us to meet.

It was when he walked through the door and smiled, a boyish smile from beneath a blonde fringe. It was the intensity in his eyes that I remember most from those first few seconds. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Young,” he said in a quiet but purposeful voice. I had to stop myself from telling him to call me ‘mum’ even then. I think I managed to stammer out, ‘call me Caitlin, please’ or something to that effect. But there was a sparkle in his eyes that couldn’t be hidden by any amount of shyness, or his fringe, and it was that sparkle that took my breath away.

After the accident I watched their wedding video endless times. It was the only video I had with Jodie and her father on. Ben looked so handsome in his pale grey suit, his arms encircling my only c***d with such strength and such tenderness. I’m sure I must have thought about what it would be like to be in those arms even then, to have those scintillating eyes locked on mine.

The only time that I’ve seen those eyes without their trademark glitter was at the funeral, when I buried my husband of 20 years and he buried his wife of just one. The car accident that killed Jodie and her father brought Ben and I closer; we were all we had. My f****y is all in Ireland, where I am from originally, and Ben’s f****y are s**ttered around the country. We’re both only c***dren though, so without siblings or parents to draw comfort from we helped each other.

It’s been a year since the funeral, so although we both still miss our partners, the pain has eased and life returned to normal, as people promised it would through those difficult months. They told me to keep a diary, record my thoughts, so that I could acknowledge them and move on, and that helped too. I didn’t feel like working after my husband’s passing, and as the insurance more than provided for me I mostly help out in the community, at the church and fundraisers for the local hospitals, and so on. Ben stayed in his job, knowing he was helping others even though he was going through a rough time; he works with young offenders, in particular helping their rehabilitation.

My problem now is my sex life. My husband was never that adventurous, and once we had Jodie it dwindled to once a fortnight, lights off, missionary position. I can’t remember the last time I had an orgasm with him before his passing. I’m cursed with a high sex drive and an active imagination; it’s a good thing that I learnt how to masturbate when I was young. It’s not the masturbation that bothers me; I’m not one of those people who believe that masturbating (particularly at my age) is wrong or sinful somehow. It’s just that whenever I feel the need, no matter what I start off thinking about, I never orgasm until I start thinking about Ben.


It was one of those Saturday mornings in May, when the sun is trying to break through the curtains and the thought of another five minutes in bed seems so wicked. You know the ones I mean, when there’s last night’s washing up on the draining board and you promised yourself that you would vacuum the house from top to bottom and clean the bathroom at some point today. But you know you’re not going to do it, and somehow the early morning sun makes it all okay to just close your eyes again and pull the quilt right up to your ears. At that time, of course, I had no idea that my life was going to change lane abruptly for the second time in a year.

I was never going to get back to sl**p, so I ran through the things that I would actually get round to that day. I needed to go shopping, for definite. There was nothing in the freezer at all, and I would start smelling like a wild woman if I didn’t go to Boots too and pick some stuff up. I was thinking of asking Ben to take me after we’d been shopping. We’d planned to go and look for a car together after he’d been to football. He promised to help me pick up something small and safe. I’d had trouble with cars since the accident, in fact I had to be sedated just to get in the car to go to the funeral, but after several weeks Ben had coaxed me into his, and for a while all I could do was sit in the passenger seat as he drove up and down the road, never losing sight of home. Silly, really; the crash was the other driver’s fault, and my husband was driving the car we were in. No reason at all to doubt my own ability.

So Ben was going to come round after his match had finished. I remember him saying it was the last match of the season or something. I’d promised to fix him a little lunch while he got showered and changed, and then we would go out. I know I was excited, and nervous, about going to look for a car. I spouted the usual lines about getting my independence back, and in fairness it did mean I would be able to get to around a lot easier. I wonder now if I’d almost succeeded in convincing myself that that was why I was part excited, part nervous. Some sort of osmosis. Of course, that wasn’t the real reason.

It was him. Just knowing that we were going to spend the afternoon together was enough to make me sing in the shower, nothing to do with looking for a car at all. I can see that now, but maybe then I was happy to delude myself. We had seen, or at least spoken to, each other practically every day anyway since the funeral and when I wasn’t with him, I was looking forward to seeing him. We’d almost become best friends, which wasn’t really serving my purpose – yes, okay, my ulterior motive, if you prefer! – but just being around him would do.

It was difficult when he started to confide in me. A girl where he worked asked him out on a date, pestered him for a little while until he gave in. They went to see a movie together and he hated in, both the Tom Hanks movie they watched and being out with another girl. Once he’d given her a lift home, he came straight round to my house to tell me about it. That’s when it’s hard, you know? To have a secret crush. You want contact with that someone so much, so pathetically badly, that you’ll listen to anything as long as you’re together. Any excuse is a perfectly reasonable excuse once you rationalise it, even when they’ve come round to tell you they’ve been out on a date with another person. Nod, make sympathetic noises, but keep it all inside. Never say a word.

As far as I can remember, my crush on him started the moment Jodie brought him home. He’d not got his beard then, he was a clean-shaven 21-year old with short blonde hair. I like his hair like it is now; longer, shaggy, with the slightly too long stubble that he calls a beard. I think it makes him look like a Celtic warrior; must be something in my genes. It’s not the hair though, it’s the eyes. Women go on about eyes all the time. They’re either dark and brooding, or intense, or piercing, but you couldn’t describe his like that. I find even now that I still think about his face when he smiles all the time, but it’s his eyes that draw me in. Even back then, he would say something, I would turn to look at him, then have a vague idea that he’d stopped talking some time later and was expecting some response from me.

He would be back between twelve and one some time, which was perfect. I had time to shower first, and then tidy up later. No point doing the bathroom until he’d washed the mud and grass of him; another chore escaped! That led me on to thinking about his legs when he wore football shorts. His legs are stocky and muscular and there’s something very manly about mud and grass and sometimes bl**d on them. A couple of times I’d dared to play with myself in the bedroom while he was in the shower next door. I thought at first there was a danger of getting caught, but I needn’t have been so worried; once I started thinking about getting in the shower with him, or surprising him with a blowjob when he stepped out, I could bring myself off in no time at all. Still can!

Now I think about it, that must have been what started me off. The thought of him in the shower, soaping himself down, coming into the bedroom with wisps of steam following him. That clean smell you get when you’ve just had a shower, the surprising softness of skin that’s just been washed, the way chest hairs glisten in the half-light of the bedroom when the curtains are closed. I have always had a thing for the way a man feels and smells, whatever they’ve been doing!

That morning was no exception either. I remember the friction of the sheets on my hardening nipples as I rolled onto my back and the involuntary sigh that followed it. It always amazes me how quickly I get wet too, and when I cupped my pussy with my hand, even through the thin material of my nightdress, I could feel the heat already. Once I’m like that the threshold has been crossed and I have to bring myself off.

I think it was the kitchen fantasy that morning that proved to be my undoing. We’ve done it for real since, and it’s even better than the fantasy, but of course back then it was still just a fantasy. I knew I could spare a few minutes for my favourite fantasy…

I’m at the sink, doing the washing-up, when I hear the front door open. He yells a cheery greeting and I reply, telling him I’m in the kitchen. He clomps through in his usual clumsy way, kicking his trainers into the corner and knocking the hall table with his sports bag. He’s grinning, and if a grin can really be infectious then there’s about to be an epidemic.

“No need to ask who won then?” I laugh, responding to his cheery demeanour. He holds four fingers up as he swigs orange juice straight from the carton. A little of it dribbles down his chin and he wipes it with the sleeve of his tracksuit top.

“Four-nil!” He laughs as he kisses me on the cheek. I pick up the sharp tang of sweat and see bl**d matted into the hair of his right eyebrow. He sees my frowning concern and puts a hand to his head gingerly, feeling the wound, and rolls his eyes upwards as though he’s trying to look at the wound. Why do men do that? I smile at him, mocking him gently, but he doesn’t realise I’m doing it. “That’s the only thing their centre-forward got out of me all day!” he blusters. He’s always in such a good mood when they win, and takes it so personally when they lose. Maybe he actually was a Celtic warrior in a previous life.

He plonks the empty juice carton on the worktop at the side of her, despite the fact that the bin is by his feet. I pick up the scent of sweat again, and perhaps breathe it in a little too deeply, because he looks at me quizzically for a second. Whatever his concern, it passes almost instantly. There’s a difference between the smell of sweat on someone that’s been working out, and someone that hasn’t showered on a hot day. I love the first smell; there’s a pronounced masculinity to it.

Folding his arms, he leans against the worktop, and we chat whilst I continue with the washing-up. I go slowly, because we’re in close proximity and I want it to last. From his position, he could see inside my blouse if he wanted to, and I wonder for a moment if he’s looked, checked me out, as Jodie would have said. I dismiss the idea as girlish fantasy, but the thought that he might have looked, and seen the delicate, white-laced bra that’s struggling to restrain my stiffening nipples, makes me blush. I lower my eyes to the sink.

Grabbing a hand towel lying nearby, Ben offers to help. His hands are dirty, and with feigned exasperation I grab the hand towel and replace it with the tea towel I would have used (why don’t men understand the difference between a hand towel and a tea towel? There’s something very worrying about my Ben-fantasies, a large portion of them involves me mothering him!). We settle into a routine, me washing, him making a half-hearted attempt at drying before putting them back in the wrong cupboard, still half-wet. Reaching across me whilst I turn to pick up some pans, he picks a plate out of the sink. The dishwater sluices from it, splashing across the front of my blouse. I’m not quite soaked to the skin, but the pastel blouse I am wearing turns translucent in seconds.

He blushes enough for both of us as he tries not to stare. Taking up the hand towel, he starts as if to wipe me down, but quickly thinks better of it and stops, handing me the towel instead. Tentatively I dab at the wet patch, but the fact is that my nipples are standing taut against the material that’s failing so miserably to hide them, and I turn away from he. Stammering an apology, he looks away but cannot resist looking back again. The water is now starting to get my skirt wet, so I’m left with little alternative.

Unbuttoning my blouse quickly, I ask him to look in the airing cupboard and pass me a towel. Given a task to do he regains his wits and holds out a white cotton towel. I let my blouse backwards to the floor and almost snatch the towel from him, wrapping it around me. It’s white cotton, fluffy and fresh smelling, and warm from being near the boiler.

He asks if I’m okay, blurting out another apology. I do that exasperated mum face again and smile, but when I put my hand to my tummy I realise my skirt is wetter than I thought and it’s starting to get a little clammy on my skin as it gets cold. With the towel wrapped safely around me, I undo the clip and lower the zip, and with a wriggle of my hips the skirt is coiled at my feet.

Apologising repeatedly, Ben asks if I’m okay. I tell him not to be silly, it’s only a little water, it’s not like it’s going to stain or anything. He says I should get dressed, but, laughing, I warn him that if he’s going to keep making me wet then I ought to stay undressed! I realise my faux pas too late and blush furiously. After the initial shock of hearing me say something so blatant, he laughs out loud, the deep belly laugh that sets off fireworks in the depths of my stomach. Pretending not to be amused at being mocked, I spin haughtily and re-commence doing the dishes.

Chuckling, he picks up the plate he inadvertently drenched me with. I don’t return his smile, so he makes as if to splash me, and I flinch. Finding my reaction amusing, he does it again, and then a third time, upon which I am wise to his supposed gag and don’t move. The fourth time, he actually does splash just a little water on me. A few drops land on my face, some on my bare shoulders, and I squeal. I splash some back at him, more than he used, and before we know where we are we’re having a full-blown water-fight. He manoeuvres himself between the sink and me, cornering the supply of ammunition, goading me to get past him. I dart right, feint left, then right again. He tries to grab my arm to stop me, but he’s a fraction too slow and accidentally snatches the towel instead. It drops away from me without snagging, and suddenly I’m stood before him in see-through, wet underwear.

Demanding the return of my towel to protect what little remains of my modesty, Ben continues to make a joke of the situation. I beg, I plead, I cajole, I threaten, but eventually I just lunge. I miss completely, and fall into him, off balance. He catches me, laughing still, and I’m in his arms. Embarrassed slightly at being in such intimate proximity, I reach behind in one desperate grab for my towel. He lets it drop to the floor and catches my arm with his, so now my arm is caught behind him and I cannot pull away from what is now an embrace.

It’s his scent that drives the fight from me, and I let my head rest against his chest. I feel his heartbeat reverberating through his chest, and I actually pull him closer to me, snuggling into the dirty folds of his tracksuit top. I think he’s taken by surprise, because he hasn’t responded, or given a sign of any type. Looking up at him, I smile. There’s a conflict taking place within him, because he’s all too aware of the intentions implicit in my actions. His heartbeat and breathing actually speed up. Things have now gone so far as to be irreversible, so I decide to speed things up.

Placing my hand on the back of his neck, I twirl blonde hair into little ringlets and pull him close. We kiss, and at first there’s hesitancy, unsure as he is as to where this will lead. I persist until he becomes more enthusiastic, and at last I can feel him take command of the kiss. Timidity is replaced by purpose, and purpose augmented with heat.

Breaking from the kiss, he nuzzles my neck, kissing and nibbling. It sends thrills coursing down my back and I shudder with pleasure, pressing close to his groin. His arms draw me closer. I feel one of his hands grab my bum, squeezing my cheek. Without warning, the squeezing stops and becomes a gentle slap. A surprised ‘oh!’ and a giggle are let loose, and he knows that I liked the slap. He does it again, stopping to rub my ass before doing it again. I reach up for his mouth and we kiss again for several seconds. It’s nice, but I want him to go faster, want the situation to move on before he realises what we’re doing is wrong.

Breaking from the kiss I turn my back on him, pressing my bum backwards towards into his crotch and grinding backwards into him. He starts to kiss my neck again, and it’s nice, but it’s not enough! I take his left hand and place it on my left breast, helping him out by rubbing it round, mauling myself roughly with his hand until my nipples are hard under his palm. Letting go of his hand he carries on, but is still reticent about grasping the initiative. I take his right hand and put it between my legs, and I feel him pause and stiffen for a moment – not that way! – before he carries on kissing my neck and teasing my nipple.

Through the delicate material of my knickers I start to rub myself slowly, using the middle three digits of his hand. My knickers are already wet from the dishwater, belying my high state of arousal, and as I slide his dirty fingers roughly along the full length of my pussy I sigh contentedly, and with a wicked smile. Somewhere outside my fantasy I’m mimicking these movements with my hand, forcing the flimsy material into the moist cleft between the lips of my labia.

Releasing his hand, I reach around to find his cock. Through the fabric of his shorts I can feel how hot and hard it already is, and I swear I’m licking my lips as I caress the full length of his shaft with my palm. Finding temptation far too difficult an opponent, my fingers snake inside the elasticated band at his waist and coil around his cock. He grunts his appreciation, and, finally becoming an active member in this tryst, follows my lead and puts his hand inside my knickers where his index finger quickly seeks out my clitoris. When he touches it, the feeling it produces almost makes me black out. I have to screw my eyes up tight and focus on my breathing just to stop from screaming out loud. When the initial rush subsides I’m desperate for him, desperate to feel him inside me.

I try to pull the down his shorts but with only one hand free, I’m frustrated by the lack of purchase. He quickly grasps the situation and in one movement hoists them down as far as his knees. His cock springs free, slapping against the cheeks of my bum. I reach around again to try and masturbate him, but now that his manhood is freed the a****l in him comes to the fore. With one hand he draws aside gusset of my knickers, whilst with the other he’s readying himself to enter me. To accommodate him, I lean forward over the sink and stand with my legs slightly apart. After a moment, when there’s nothing happening, I look behind me and see him looking down appreciatively at my backside. I feel a little self-conscious, but at the same time hugely proud that this gorgeous young man can be so turned on at the thought of fucking me. I bend over a little further, presenting myself to him. My hair hangs down over my face, and where the ends dangle in the water the colour changes from my normal chestnut brown to a glistening black.

Then I feel the head of his cock nudging at the entrance to my pussy. There’s a couple of, test prods I guess you’d call them, as he’s trying to get inside me. I’m ready for him, but obviously he feels that there’s more work to be done, as seconds later I feel the roughness of his beard on my thighs and bum cheeks. His tongue seeks out the hot, wet slit of my vagina, and without finesse he starts to lap away. The angle is obviously frustrating him a little, as he tries but fails to lick as far as my clit. The rough, almost haphazard way he’s stimulating me is actually a turn-on in itself – it’s like he’s deliberately teasing me by failing to do it properly.

Then comes a surprise as he switches his attentions from my vag to my bum hole, taking my breath away. Being licked all around the area my husband never touched in his whole life seems so wrong, so forbidden, I never thought that it might actually be so pleasurable; my husband made it perfectly clear he thought it was dirty. Yet this beautiful young man seems uninhibited by such notions. As he slurps at my anus, I realise that he’s not so much trying to stimulate it as lubricate it! Working a finger into my bum hole, he licks all around his finger as he works it in and out. It’s the first time anyone or anything has been in that space, and despite my conditioning it feels great. A little rougher than I’d like, perhaps…

Once my anus is stretched open, he slowly, teasingly, withdraws his finger, replacing it with his tongue. He can get the tip inside me easily, and with a gentle rocking motion he’s working more and more of it inside me. Not wishing his hand to stay idle, I feel the ball of his thumb massaging my clitoris assuredly, causing my back to arch and stiffen. He has to move quickly to keep his tongue inside me. After a moment or two of this, he quickly slips his thumb inside me, searching out the g-spot my husband considered mythical, whilst working my clit with his index finger.

By now I’m ready for his cock; in fact, I’m desperate for it. I push myself backwards onto him, so that he’ll penetrate me more deeply. That’s not to say that I’m not enjoying what he’s doing, far from it. The combination of being, ummm, ‘intimate’ with my son-in-law whilst having these previously forbidden things done to me… well, for a little Catholic girl like me I was surely booking my place in hell, and I could not have been happier!

With an orgasm rising inside me, I knew I had to make him fuck me soon, else I would come and be left a quaking pile of nerves in the middle of the kitchen floor. I can hear myself repeating, ‘fuck me, please fuck me’ without being sure whether I’m saying it out loud or not. Which ever it is, Ben soon gets the message. Rising from his knees, he takes his delicious-looking cock in one hand, and with the other pulls down my knickers. They come down so far, and with a shimmy of my backside they fall to the floor and I step out of them.

Looking behind I see that he’s playing with himself again while he stares at my bum. I don’t feel so self-conscious now, in fact all I can feel is a fervent desire to have his cock inside me, to be fucked hard and fast. Again his cock is at the entrance to my pussy, but this time there’s no resistance. I’m very ready for him.

And then he’s inside me. His cock is hot, and I’m so sensitive that when he pauses between strokes, I can feel every vein, every ridge and ripple of muscle. His strokes are slow and focussed, with a distinct pause at the at the end when he’s almost fully withdrawn, and then again when he’s plunged deep inside me and I can feel him, right up to the hilt. He keeps this up for a while, and although it feels incredible, it is definitely not going to get me off. Working in opposition to his thrusts, he quickly appreciates my needs. His thrusts quicken, as does his breathing. Faster now, harder too, he places one hand one my shoulder to better pull me backwards onto him. This, this is fucking!

We keep this up for several minutes, and my squeals betray the onset of my orgasm. Realising this, Ben reaches around to make contact with my clit, and that takes me firmly over the line. In a sea of obscenities originating from who knows where, I come explosively. My back arches as the muscles in my vagina contract and spasm, and Ben groans appreciatively. He tries to get to work on my clit again, but it’s far too tender to touch, so I decide to treat him.

Pushing him backwards, away from me, I spin round and drop to my knees in front of him. I push up the muddy material of his sports top, which he takes from me, before yanking the whole thing over his head. Intermingling are the scents of my pussy, his sweat, and the white pre-come glistening at the tip of his glans. It’s only the second prick I’ve seen in my life, after my husband’s, and it’s beautiful. Only just a little longer than his, but slightly bigger in girth and with a noticeably bigger head. I wrap the fingers of my right hand around it two or three times. Looking up, I see that Ben seems dumb-struck, speechless, so I just smile, lifting his prick up and holding it flat to his belly whilst I trace thin lines with the very tip of my tongue from his sacs to the head of his prick, then back again. I do this again, and again, stopping every so often to plant kisses here and there.

Then it’s time to take it seriously and return the favour to him. I take the head of his cock in my mouth, and suck slowly and sensuously, using just my lips and tongue. From somewhere above there’s a groan, and I know I’m getting it right. I tilt my head from side to side which produces a corkscrewing action in my mouth. Running my tongue over the slit, I can taste his early emissions, and with the slight thrusts he’s making with his groin, I know Ben can’t be too far away either. I take a little more of him in my mouth with each suck, until I can feel pubic hair on my lips and know I can’t take it any further. I love having a cock in my mouth, but my husband always got too excited too quickly and wanted to fuck me after a minute or so. Here, I savoured the mingling tastes, described the contours of his cock with my tongue, relishing every detail of the encounter.

Taking hold of my hair with his hands, Ben started to thrust a little harder. I could see he was conscious of not making me gag, but now his needs were starting to become more urgent. I liked that I had him there, and that I could make him explode at any moment, dependant upon when I was ready. I slowed down the speed of the licks and sucks, teasing him, wanting to enjoy the mastery I held over him.

Obviously though Ben had other ideas, withdrawing from my mouth and taking his cock in his hand. He started to wank himself off furiously, his cock occasionally bumping against my lips as I tried to land furtive kisses on the head and shaft. He was too close to wait for me to tire of my game, and was determined to relive himself quickly. I decided to let him, having had my fun. Parting my thighs, I stole a hand in between them and started to play with my clit. Looking down, Ben saw me touching myself, and I think that took him over the edge. With a long, drawn out ‘yes’, Ben stopped masturbating as strings of sperm flew across the gap between them, landing on my face, in my hair and dripping down onto my breasts. It felt hot and sticky, and curiosity overtook me. I took some up between my fingers and thumb, playing with it, feeling its texture, before finally, nervously almost, tasting it with my tongue.

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