A Mishap of Circumstance

This story is the property of the writer Kalimaxos.

Any unauthorized reproduction or reprint without the express authorization of the author is strictly prohibited.

My characters are often flawed, and like real life, my stories are a shitshow, like life.

I want to thank my newly found editor Legio_Patria_Nostra for taking the time to review my work.

One more thing, you are on an erotica site reading smut. The last thing we need to hear is about your morals. What are you doing here reading porn and smut then trashing the writers for it?

I moderate comments. Be warned: Make any derogatory or violent comments, lie about the story content to influence readers, or give me a lecture on morality, and your comment is gone.

Partial lyrics of three songs were included in this story, and the original artists should be credited.

“Games People Play” 1980 by The Alan Parsons Project, and

“Monster Mash” 1962 by Bobby Pickett should be credited.

“Mrs. Robinson.” 1968 by Simon & Garfunkel

I hope you find them and listen to them on any music platform or buy them. They will set the mood.

I also love movies – which leads me to use lines from or references to them from time to time. Indulge me.

***

Bugger!

I am a bloody idiot. That’s what I am. And at my age at that! Forty!

Alright, alright, I guess I should explain. Maybe you will understand as no one else is likely to believe me. None of this was planned. It just happened.

It all started when my daughter and son, Bonnie and Clyde, decided to have a Halloween party. Yes, those are their names, chosen from a movie my husband and I liked. When we used to enjoy the same things, that is. More of that later.

So yes, a Holloween costume party for their friends and some of our neighbors. I was against it as I didn’t want to be a maid, cook, waitress, and chaperone to everyone.

“Mom,” my nineteen-year-old daughter opined. “Everyone attending will be over eighteen, now that Clyde is of age.”

“That’s what’s worrying me. A bunch of late teens who think they can do anything they want. Cats and Dogs, living together. For the record, beer only. I see any hard liquor or drugs, and I toss whoever brought it out.”

“Mom, most of our friends are band-geeks and honor society grade-chasers. I don’t think there is anyone who has an arrest or out-of-wedlock child between us. Mom, you did a great job raising us. Now get an outfit and enjoy yourself.”

“It’s your kind that I worry about. Goody-goodies that hold it in until you let it out.”

“Come on Mom! You’re overreacting to this. Relax and go with the flow. Plus, we have invited older neighbors for you and dad not to feel out of place. The Goldsteins, the Andersons, and the Donatos are going to come. If anything, I hope you parents behave. Mrs. Anderson is a party-animal.”

“She’s a slut. I have to keep her off your dad. She is working through all the dads in your class.”

“Mom, you’re silly. Wilma is just friendly.”

“Too friendly,” I scoffed. “I’m keeping my eye on her.”

“Good luck with all the masks and costumes everyone will be in.”

“I’m going to be at the door and will know what the bitch is wearing.”

“Whatever mom.”

And just like that, I was dismissed. It was just twenty years before, I was her age when I married Bonnie’s father during college. We had to. He knocked me up. Then a year later, her brother came along – another accident. But neither of them knew. Placing my college education on hold, I stayed home to raise two kids and be Randy’s happy little homemaker.

When I turned twenty-eight, Randy got promoted, and we had enough money for me to return to college. At thirty, I graduated with a degree in business just as my kids were finishing grade school. Then I went to work like everyone else in my circle. Only I was beginning my career at thirty instead of twenty-two as they had.

Like all marriages, Randy and I had ebbed and flowed. Good one year, bored with each other the next, but we somehow managed to get ourselves out of ruts with vacations or sheer willpower.

To be honest, I was at fault for him considering stepping out on me in the first place. Randy is handsome, witty, and a shameless flirt. Women gravitated to him like bugs to a lightbulb — zzzzap! (Burned bug smell follows.) Sorry about that, but I don’t take well to husband poaching sluts. And they were everywhere around him.

From Marcia, the junior VP of marketing at his job. Bamby, his secretary… excuse me, personal assistant. I have to be 21st century, as my son Clyde reminds me. But you get the picture. The neighborhood, soccer practice where he coached, church… the F-en church! Can’t these sluts keep their legs closed in the house of God of all places?

The answer is no, and it drove me crazy. Not that I am or have been a slouch in the looks department. Far from it. I watch how much I eat, exercise at the gym, and run in the mornings to stay fit.

Yoga. I hate that crap, but the class is held by a good-looking Japanese American stud ten years younger than me. Not that I have a shot at him with all the sluts in the class spreading their legs for him.

Do I sound angry? Too many references to leg spreading? Well, damn it! It was all around – or so it seemed to me that summer when I turned forty. Oh God… not that. Not the dreaded four-Oh!

I mean, I still looked good. My boobs didn’t droop — much. And my ass and legs were still tight. And, thanks to family genetics, I was still pretty. Botox, facelifts, or anything else would not be needed for a few years. Still shapely and cute, I always got my share of stares and even a few propositions at work and around town. But…

Cute. At forty, I was cute. Never beautiful or hot. Not like the bitches that threw themselves at Randy. Not like the one I know he is banging. Marcia Brady-Cyran, the executive at his job. Miss perfect face, perfect tits, legs, ass, and everything else. Who would blame him? I bet she does everything for him.

Marcia, Marcia, Marcia! I so wanted to choke the bitch. And the way Randy talked about her to his guy friends when he thought I wasn’t listening. It’s all about Marcia. Gag!

I had to be honest. I should have given Randy oral. All the other wives I know do for their husbands — or at least for their boyfriends. I used to. But I just can’t, ever since I learned of Marcia. I just can’t suck the cock he has put in her. It’s like sloppy seconds in my mouth. Like making a husband eat some other guy’s creampie. Right?

You probably hate my husband from what I have said. And at times, I have. But lately, I realize that maybe I should have given him more. I should take him in the shower, wash his dick and get on my knees to suck it. Perhaps even invest in a tube of lube and give him my ass. Why don’t I?

Pride and ego.

I just can’t stand the thought of being second best. What if Marcia does it better and Randy rejects me? I bet the bitch deep throats. I know I can do it. I swallowed my dildo a few times to see if I could, so it’s not that I would gag. It’s that I would submit to him. I would be admitting that I let some other woman give him what I held back on.

Then there was the time I cut him off. OK, go ahead, hate me. But I was trying to make it through college while raising two kids practically alone, and… Look, I’m not proud of it. It’s why I say I pushed him into her arms. And why I feel guilty about this. He didn’t just cheat. I cheated my husband out of his sex life for more than a year.

Oh, he tried to get my attention. We talked, and I promised to be there for him, but always tomorrow — always busy. I took him for granted and thought nothing of it when he stopped asking. Then I thought all was well when he and I went on vacation to Hawaii – when things were romantic, and we reconnected.

Yeah, we reconnected, but Randy and Marcia never “disconnected.” Six months ago, my husband moved out. He told me off, saying that I used my pussy to control him and gave him lousy sex whenever I felt like it. When I was alone, I cried and realized that he had been right. But again, pride and ego.

Neither of us filed for divorce. I wish I could tell you why. Maybe we both hoped what? That we would sort things out? That in some magical way, the other would admit they were wrong? Grown adults, living in fantasy land. Go ahead, laugh.

Then one day she called. Fucken Marcia! The bitch. The other woman. And she used his phone, so I thought it was Randy when I picked up.

“Gabriella? Gabby?” she asked as if we were best friends.

I had met her at his company parties where she flaunted her platinum blond hair, fake boobs… OK, they are not fake, but they are bigger than mine and don’t droop. And that ass and long legs. Did I say the near-perfect face with blue eyes? I want to scream now as much as I did the day she called.

“Who is this?” I replied, knowing quite well it was her, the work wife/slut.

“It’s Marcia. Am I calling at a bad time?”

“What do you want?”

She hesitated for a few seconds. Marcia knew that I knew and that I knew she knew. Fingers out with nails at the ready. It was a female “Mexican standoff.” Where did that come from anyway? My dad used to say that all the time. Not the nail thing, the standoff part. I miss you dad. I could use your wisdom right now.

“Gabby, I’m calling about Randy?”

“What about him?”

“You need to take him back.”

“I never tossed him out. He left on his own,” I replied. “Why? Are you bored of him already?”

“I guess I deserved that,” she replied.

“You think?”

“Gabby, I like your husband, but I don’t want him as a husband. I have one of those.” Yes, the bitch was married.

“And?”

“Look, Randy and I… I mean.”

“I know what you and my husband did – have been doing more likely. How long Marcia, years?”

“Does it matter? You just need to take him back. He is miserable, and honestly, instead of fucking me as he used to, he is crying on my shoulder.”

“Oh. Sorry if my husband cramped your style, Marcia. But you didn’t mind him when he was between your legs, did you?”

“Go on Gabby. Get it out of your system.” she said with a sigh.

“Fuck you, Marcia!” I snapped. “Fuck you. My husband, and your husband. Although that would be a good way for me to get even with you.”

“You are welcome to him if that’s what will make you feel better,” she replied with a slight laugh. “I did your husband because mine is dreadful in bed. If you can fix him, have at it.”

.

“Why don’t you fix him?” I blurted out.

“You think I didn’t try? The same way Randy tried to get you to be a wife and lover for him?”

Oh, that was below the belt — but true. The bitch knew. He had told her. Of course, he would have.

“Anyway, that’s not why I called,” she continued. “Would you consider taking him back?”

“Why should I do that?” I snapped back.

“Because that’s where he belongs, Gabby!” she yelled through the line then calmed herself. “And I can’t figure out why, but he loves you.”

“Tell him to grow a pair and call me himself!” I had replied angrily and hung up on her.

Since that day, Randy and I have talked about getting back together and even gone to counseling. It was a “good-this-week-and-bad-the-next” situation. In short, a mess.

But on the day of the party, he had promised he would be there. That had been my son’s request. Clyde swore up and down that his father had not put him up to it but that it would be good if the family did an event together. That we would socialize with other people, then talk at the end of the evening. Reluctantly, I agreed.

The way I saw it, before Randy and I went our separate ways, we had to make sure we exhausted all avenues of reconciliation. We had put twenty-some years in our relationship and marriage. Tossing it aside when there was still hope would leave lingering notions of what could have been. I wanted to be sure either way.

***

Party day

I prepared for the party for three days after work. It’s a woman thing. People are coming over, and we have to clean. As I had a project for work to finish, there was no way I could get everything done on my own. Maybe back in my happy homemaker days, but not with a job. And forget about the kids helping. They have… wait for it… “their own lives.” But they sure wanted me to throw a party for their life, didn’t they?

Sorry… venting. I have a lot of pent-up frustrations. One being I have not been laid in a… quite a while. So much so that when Clyde came by with his buddy Chris, I had to stop myself from staring. Chris is so… not cute. Attractive. Handsome. Manly.

He is twenty but carries himself as if he is older. Something about him being from Europe? The men from there are so hot. Just a slight trace of an accent, or is it those green-brown eyes?

I mean, he caught me staring, and instead of blushing or glaring back, he gave me this knowing smile in an almost polite, ‘it’s OK what you did, I understand’ way. I looked away in shame, because I was getting wet under his soulful eyes.

Did I say I need to get laid? But Chris is too young, right? I mean twenty years younger and my son’s friend? I know, I know. I was separated and neglected, and all those other ‘ands’ that gave me the rationalization it was OK for me to let the kid have at me. But once again, I thought of my son or daughter catching us and walked away from the hot European stud.

Did I say he is a runner, swimmer, and rows crew in college? Those legs and shoulders! Look, I may have walked away from a troublesome situation, but I didn’t say I stopped thinking of Chris and what I wanted him to do to me. Or what I wanted to do with him — to him.

Anyway, before I need another cold shower telling this story, I hired a maid service to clean the house and catered some food. But I had to pick an outfit for the party – something I had to do myself. So the next day, I picked up a safe, Princess Leia costume. OK, say it, boring and… non-sexual.

I mean, it fit the curves better than that scrawny kid they had in the movie, but then I’m forty, and she was maybe eighteen. Safe was fine. Let Wilma Anderson show her tits or whatever else she wanted to show. How does her husband put up with that? I mean, Fred is almost proud of his wife flaunting her flesh for others to see.

And their names! Wilma and Fred? Seriously? No wonder the kids in the neighborhood yell Yaba-daba-doo when they see them. That’s almost as bad as naming your kids Bonnie and Clyde. But, it’s not like we are the Manson family. Right?

So, by this point, you have determined that I get distracted easily. And that leads to the next part of the story – the how-everything-got-started part.

I got home that Friday early to get ready for the party. The maid service had done its work the evening before, and all I had to deal with was the catering service setting up the beer keg and the food. It was too cold to have the party outside in late October, so the event was held in our living room, playroom, kitchen, and dining room. The spare bedroom upstairs, next to the hallway bathroom, became the coat depository for our guests.

I have to say my daughter Bonnie was gracious enough to show up early to help with the finishing touches. One of which was watching the caterer as I ran upstairs to become Princess Leia of Starwars fame. Something that didn’t take long as I had a whig complete the look of the long white dress.

As I stood in my underwear, I wondered if I should have picked the outfit Carrie Fisher, the actress, wore on Episode Six. You know, the one showing all that flesh? It would have been fun and served my husband right seeing me in it, for leaving me to go bang that slut!

But… since we were supposed to reconcile, I toned it down and went with demure Princess Leia. Checking myself one last time in the mirror, I walked downstairs twenty minutes before the first guests were to arrive.

“Nice touch, mom,” my daughter, dressed in some cosplay outfit, said.

“Who are you supposed to be?” I said, staring at how much skin Bonnie was showing.

“Fay from Cowboy Beebop. That anime sci-fi series? Remember we watched it together?”

“Aren’t they making a live-action series of that?” I asked, remembering something I had seen on YouTube.

“Yes,” my daughter replied.

“Something about the new Fay dressing more demurely?” I said, raising an eyebrow at her skimpy outfit.

In the original animated series, the Fay character had dressed in a revealing outfit that my daughter was wearing. The live-action remake producers had chosen to tone down Fay’s dress style. Fans were still going back and forth on it.

“Yeah, about that,” Bonnie scoffed. “I’m a purist and supporter of the original show. So this is what you get.”

‘No point arguing with my nineteen-year-old daughter over this,’ I thought. She is too headstrong. Arguments during her teens had drained me of any need to repeat those years. And she was right to remind me that she and most of her crowd were well-behaved kids.

So she was showing more than usual. I wondered what she wore when she went out around the University. But once again, she was now an adult, and I had to cut the cord. Bonnie was my stable child. Her brother was the inquisitive and adventurous one to worry about.

And then it happened.

***

Double double, toil and trouble

I was in the dining room where the caterer had set up the buffet for the party when it did. I had skipped lunch to get home early and was a bit hungry — especially with all that yummy food smell wafting about. Taking a chip, I dipped a dollop of spicy sauce on it and raised it to my mouth. The chip chose that instant to break in my hands, and the sauce tumbled onto my white Princess Leia outfit down the front.

I stared down at the stain, aghast, as the door chime announced the first guest’s arrival. You men are laughing, but to us girls, that is an unmitigated disaster. Some of you women are laughing too. Shut up bitches. We’ve all been there.

“NOoooooooo!” I screamed in terror as my daughter tried and failed not to laugh.

Without thinking, I dabbed a towel in water from the sink to start dabbing the stain off.

“No mom!” Bonnie tried in vain to stop me. “Water will set the stain. Use liquid soap… Oh shit, too late now.”

And it was. The clingy white dress was stained beyond doubt. I growled in anger and frustration, seeing how my party plans were going to hell early.

“Mom, relax,” Bonnie said. “I’ll get the door. You go to my room. I still have last year’s Holloween costume in my closet. Go try it on.”

“What is it?”

“A sexy witch!” my daughter laughed as she walked away. “Go… before anyone sees you in that stained rag.”

Well, she was right, and I had no choice but to run upstairs to my daughter’s rarely used room. In her closet, I rummaged through old outfits until I found the said slutty witch getup. I took it to my room, still on the hanger along with the stupid pointy hat.

Tossing my outfit off, I kicked it across the floor in anger. My daughter’s old costume had a short black dress that seemed torn at the sides, a belt, and a bag with black pantyhose clipped to it. And there lay the problem. My daughter is five foot one — relatively short. In contrast, I am five foot six. The prerequisite black pantyhose would not fit me. ‘What to do?’ I thought.

Then I remembered the lingerie that I had bought some years ago. Part of the ensemble was a black garter belt and black fishnet stockings. Fishing them out of the dresser bottom drawer, I quickly tried them on. I would need black heels to go with them. All I had were these five-inch black pumps. They would have to do. But not the white panties and bra I had worn under the white Princess Leia outfit.

Looking in my panty drawer, I found what I was looking for: a black set of panties with a matching bra. What choice did I have, right? Sexy, slutty witch it would be. I had some dark lipstick and eye-shadow to go with the ensemble, so I got to work.

In minutes, I had the witch face ready. There was no green skin makeup to apply, so it was just purple eye-shadow topped with near dark lipstick. My dark brown hair would do under the hat, and it was time to put on the dress. What little there was of it!

In my daughter’s defense, she is smaller than I. So that dress on her would come to mid-thigh. On me, it was just under the tops of my fishnet stockings. I would have to be careful not to bend over. And the top was so low that anyone could see most of my boobs. At least it was a pushup bra, and the girls would look great. Take that, Wilma!

I don’t know what possessed me just then, but I had a naughty thought. ‘Panties over stockings,’ I reminded myself. As if someone would unwrap me later in the evening. I almost sobbed at the notion that Randy might spend the night and sample my charms. Wishful thinking maybe. But I still had feelings for the philandering lug.

Twenty years will do that to people. We had gotten under each other’s skin. But I was still angry at him for stepping out with Marcia, the office slut. So I wiped the tear off my face, pulled up the black panties over my stockings and garter belt before letting the small witch dress cover as much as it could.

Staring in the mirror, I saw a different person looking back at me. Gone was the former soccer mom, college student, office business type. Replacing her was an alluring babe who still had it. And why not? Why not flaunt it a bit. Even for a night with neighbors and our grown kids?

“Fuck you, Wilma. Fuck you, Bamby. And fuck you, Marcia,” I said, putting on the hat. “Who names their kid Bamby, anyway?”

And with that, I managed to get myself down to the party. Without falling off the heels on the stairs.

***

The Monster mash

I was working in the lab, late one night

When my eyes beheld an eerie sight

For my monster from his slab, began to rise

And suddenly, to my surprise

Yes, that stupid song was playing as I made the rounds. All the neighbors invited were there. Even Wilma and Fred. Both in matching devil outfits. He looked stupid in his, while she looked like a street whore with horns and a tail. She made a face at my outfit while Fred stared like he had not seen tits on display before.

He did the monster mash

(The monster mash) It was a graveyard smash

(He did the mash) It caught on in a flash

(He did the mash) He did the monster mash

 

I don’t know when it started, but while the kids drank beer, we adults hit the hard stuff. None of us had to drive, so we celebrated that all our kids were of age and out of high school. Then that we were all near of just past forty – and after that, just because.

From my laboratory in the castle east

To the master bedroom where the vampires feast

The ghouls all came from their humble abodes

To get a jolt from my electrodes

 

Then I saw him. Jack Benson. The nasty kid who smoked pot at the last party we had out in the back yard. I was not going to let him do that again. And in that moment of early drunkenness, I had this irrational thought. The shithead probably had his stash in his coat upstairs since he didn’t seem to have it on his skinny jeans or t-shirt. Does anyone still wear skinny jeans? Or just him?

They did the monster mash

(The monster mash) It was a graveyard smash

(They did the mash) It caught on in a flash

(They did the mash) They did the monster mash

Downing my vodka and juice in one gulp, I set the glass down and walked upstairs. If anything, that song was in the distance as I entered the spare bedroom and closed the door. The pothead had a red jacket when I saw him arrive, which was easy to spot. Leaning over the edge of the bed, I started to go through the pockets.

And that was when I heard the door open slowly, letting a beam of light into the room, illuminating me briefly.

“Hmm…” I heard a man clearly behind me.

I wasn’t sure who it was. I thought it was Randy, who had yet to arrive earlier. Or I hoped it was and that he had come looking for me. Slightly drunk, I maybe wished it was my husband. His presence in the dark aroused me. And it only continued as I felt a manly hand touch my upturned behind as I froze in place.

The hand continued to fondle my right then left buttcheek. And it felt so good! To be touched again after so long. I had the urge to turn and kiss Randy on the spot. Yet I liked the position I was in as his hands lowered to feel my fishnet-covered thighs and that gap of naked flesh above the top.

“Awh!” I gasped as his fingers trailed over my thigh gap touching my inner wet place.

“Hmmm,” he sounded again.

In my mind, I had thoughts of the Frankenstein Monster behind me, groaning as he felt his first pussy ever. Yes, too much of Mell Brooks’s “Young Frankenstein” in my young years. But those fingers, why they probed and reached under my black lace panties to tease my now wet labia. And one of them dared to enter me as if I was a bowling ball while his thumb rested on my puckering back hole.

“Augh!” I gasped again.

Then his hand reached around me to feel my left breast. He hefted its weight as I stayed kneeling in front of him, and his fingers probed my wet gash. It just… felt… so… good! To be manhandled once again. To have a man’s fingers on me — in me!

I was putty in his hands. I wanted… NO. I needed him in me. Reaching behind me, with my right hand, I yanked my panties down. He stopped fingering me and pulled his hand out of the way. But his hand went from grasping my breast to near mauling it. Strangely, I wanted him to. And in my arousal, I arched my back when I felt my panties reach my knees, showing him what I had in the faint light.

The room was dark, but our eyes had time to adjust to it. I could make out faint outlines of the furniture and pictures hanging from the wall – my mom and dad’s portrait of all things. Look the other way dad. Your girl is about to take a dick.

And then I heard a zipper being undone as his left hand continued to probe my wetness. He had two fingers in me by then, and I was dripping in anticipation. I could sense his breathing in the silence of the room as he could probably hear my heart beating fast. And still, we said nothing to each other – until I felt him rub his tip up and down my wet slit.

“Augh!” I gasped yet again as I felt his thick tip enter me.

Thick! What?

It went in me deeper, spreading me open in ways I had never been penetrated and stretched before. It felt so good, dulling my mental capacity to reason as my walls gave way to this girthy man-meat. The cock was… was… different. Was I that drunk? Why did it feel so good inside me?

“Augh!”

And he fed me more of it. Further and deeper than I could remember, any previous cock inside me! Not that there have been that many before Randy in college. When he withdrew, I felt my pussy walls trying to hold on to him. ‘No! Don’t leave!’ my pussy begged the cock. ‘I need more inside me. It feels so good. Come back in.’

“Augh!”

And it did. In slow even strokes, his thick dick invaded and penetrated my willing pussy over and over. Again and again. It reached deep within me to bottom out past my cervix. The jolt of his jarring thrusts reverberated around my pelvis, past my womb, and into my abdomen. I could not remember experiencing such pleasure from being fucked before.

“Augh! Augh! Augh!”

His hands grasped my hips and tugged hard. The thrust forced all of his manhood in me. And as his thighs bounced off my ass, his balls slapped my clit with each thrust. It felt good, but it was the sense of fullness that overwhelmed my senses. After a minute of this pounding, I felt it for the first time in ages. A different orgasm that I had experienced only a few times. It did not emanate from my clit as most did. No. This wave of pleasure was inducing sensations on countless nerve endings in my entrance and inner walls. I gasped as the wave-like sensation passed through me and persisted as he continued fucking me.

“Auuuuuugh!”

And still, he kept going as he held my hips — ramming himself in me — rocking my core. I felt my body tremble as the orgasm continued from my groin to across my body. My nipples burned, and my mind blurred as I fought to catch my breath. And still, he pounded in me. And I no longer cared about anything else. Living for the next thrust in me and the pleasure it brought.

“Auuugh!”

I was finally coming back down to our universe, but my lover in the dark continued fucking me. His cock inside me felt unbelievably… perfect! I wanted more. I needed more and arched again to receive as much as he could give.

“More,” I heard myself whisper.

Later I wondered if he had heard me as he continued at a steady mechanical pace of thrusts and withdrawals. By then, my love tunnel was running wet, and I would listen to the sloppy sounds of my froth around his dick, mixed with his body slapping mine. In that small room, the sounds and now smells of sex permeated everything.

“Augh!”

And just then, the door opened again with the accompanying beam of light on the bed. Our collective shadow of my stooped and his hunching forms showed briefly on the opposite wall. My mind, overwhelmed by another orgasm, barely noticed the intrusion.

“Close the door, man.”

Oh shit! Shit! That wasn’t Randy. Not my husband! That was… my son’s friend: Chris!

“Sorry, brah,” I heard another familiar voice. “You and Celia at it again?”

Oh no! My son! Clyde was in the room! What was he doing there? What was I doing with his best friend? And my son could see his friend fucking me!

Yet my body did not stop feeling the incredible sensations, nor did it want to. Chris was continuing the assault on my inner sanctum with that beautiful thick prick of his. I was confused between trying to make sense of my predicament and the pleasure I was receiving. I had enough sense to stay quiet as our fucking continued in the secluded semi-darkness. Not so secluded anymore.

“You’re a perve man,” Chris said to my son. “Why do you like watching me fuck?”

“I like watching anyone fuck,” my son retorted.

My son. Was my son a voyeur? Holy hell.

“If you want,” Chris said, continuing his thrusts without distraction. “I’ll have Celia take you on.”

Celia. The name was familiar somehow. Did they think I was her? They had to. They must. Oh shit! Had Chris just offered me to my son? I had to stop this.

“No, man,” Clyde replied. “I can fuck Debbie after watching this. Celia is your ride. Not mine.”

His ride! His ride! I was but a ride! Well, not me. This Celia person. But I was Celia just then, wasn’t I?

Oh, God… I… it felt so good again. No way to stop him or another orgasm cumming. Would Clyde recognize the sounds I made? Burying my face in the pile of coats, I groaned in sweet agony as I came again.

“Mmmmmugh!”

“Oh, she fucken loves it. Don’t you Celia?”

I was too busy trembling from this last orgasm to respond with away. Then without thinking, I mumbled.

“U-hum,” in mumbled agreement, hoping that would placate them.

“Oh yeah,” Chris said, now slightly out of breath. “I’m close baby.”

Close! What did he mean? Oh, how his dick felt inside me! For the next few moments, I stopped caring who I was with and who was watching. My body was approaching another orgasm, and I had to have it. I needed it. Wanted it!

“Yes…” I whispered. “Do it…”

They did not recognize me because they never said anything to make me think so. So I bit my lip to stop myself from making any further sounds as my body spasmed once more.

“I’m gonna cum…” I heard him grunt as he pounded inside me for all he was worth.

The sensation made me gasp yet again, only silently this time as I felt him stiffen as he held me in place, impaled on his magnificent hardness. Oh no! he was cumming in me!

I was still on the pill. But another man was cumming in me. Where no one had done so in two decades other than my husband. Oh shit! What would Randy think of me now? So much for reconciliation if he saw this – me like this. Suppose he saw another man unloading his thick man juice in my depths. What would he do? And my own son the witness of it!

“Dude,” I heard my son say from next to me. “That was awesome. Celia, you are something else!”

‘Shut the fuck up Clyde,’ I wanted to scream.

“Hey Cel,” Chris finally said, pulling away. “I’ll see you downstairs. OK?”

“U-hum,” I managed to say again, waving them away and keeping my face in the coats.

“Unbelievable,” I heard my son say. “The bathroom is across the hall, Celia.”

As if I didn’t know where it was.

And then I heard the door shut, and everything was dark again.

***

What was that!

What had just happened!

As soon as the door closed, I stood and locked it behind them. The room smelled of pussy and cum. Anyone who walked in to get their coats would be treated to an unmistakable smell of recent sex. Rushing quickly, I opened the two windows to air the bedroom out. The cold air, as well as the realization of what had happened, began to sober me.

Then I felt myself leaking down my legs. A mix of my pussy secretions and Chris’s not-so-thick semen – that was dripping out of me.

“Shit, shit, shit!”

Chris’s cum in me? Oh, God!

How would I explain what I did to my husband? But wait. Why did I have to? Why did he have to know? We were separated, and he had been screwing his coworker. He probably still was. So, why was I feeling guilty?

And then it hit me. Why indeed? Why at all?

Randy and I were separated. We were one step away from divorce. He had left me – dumped me for his blond slut Marcia. I owed him no explanations. Yes, he and I were in couples therapy and talking about possible reconciliation. But nothing was definite. Meanwhile, my possibly-ex-husband was still fucking his Marcia. She wanted him to come back to me so they could continue their cheating sex ritual – and probably get off on that.

And what had just happened? I had to sort that out. Because… because this had been the best sex of my life. Ever!

Leaving the window open, I rushed down the hall to my master bathroom. Cum was dripping down both my legs, even with my panties pulled up over my flooded and violated opening. I felt raw yet remarkably content and satisfied as I had not been in ages.

Yes, the sex had been mindless and loveless. Unlike when Randy and I had shared some fantastic lovemaking sessions during our marriage. Something that this evening could not compare to. That close and love connection was apples and oranges compared to what I had just experienced. One was emotional and caring. This… this had been raw, animalistic fucking. Something I had never experienced before. Close maybe, but not to this intensity.

***

I had been gone too long. My family or the guests would wonder where I had been — or worse, what I had been doing. In the bathroom, I strained to push as much of Chris’s cum out of me as I could, wiped myself twice, and flushed it away. A shower would have to wait.

As I checked myself in the mirror, I questioned what had just happened in the spare room. I was still numb, and it was all too fresh for me to process. Any further introspection would have to wait.

After opening the door, my ears were assailed by loud music, conversation, and laughter.

More people were attending than I had expected. Primarily friends of my kids but a few older neighbors as well. It had gone on for some time, and my daughter seemed to be the life of the party. Playing hostess in my absence, I presumed. I wondered if my husband had made an appearance, but that too would have to wait. I was more concerned with the events earlier to notice until later.

What caught my attention was my son dressed as a zombie and Chris as a vampire talking animatedly to a young woman. She was dressed in a witch outfit remarkably similar to mine. The young men began to stare at me as they spoke to the young witch. This didn’t look good.

Not wanting a confrontation, I mingled with the guests, chatting and listening here and there as a good hostess was supposed to do as I resumed my duties. Yet my mind was preoccupied with what I had allowed my son’s friend to do to me.

It was not planned for sure, but I could have stopped it when I felt his hand on my behind as I bent over. I had changed underwear and washed down there but still felt his semen leaking out of me — wetting my fresh panties.

I caught Chris’s gaze a couple of times. He had been watching me with a quizzical look as if something puzzled him. His piercing eyes made my body feel warm and alive. Had he figured it out? That young woman dressed as a witch. Had that been the Celia they talked about? Of course, it was. Who else would it be?

So that was it. I had been fucked by mistake. A mistaken identity fuck. Good luck selling that to my husband. The one fucking the Marcia bimbo. The hell with explaining to him.

I had just been screwed to oblivion by a young stud, and he was staring at me. Looking around, I saw no other women in witch outfits. Not even something remotely close. He had to know. And he was staring again!

Oh, to be desired and wanted again after all these years! Did he want me again? Did I?

Chris was standing alone as he gazed at me. Gone was the young witch and my son. My son!

In my thinking of the young man I had let fuck me, I had forgotten of my son. How could I forget that Clyde had been witness to my act of debauchery?

“You having fun, mom?” my daughter’s voice broke my reverie.

“Oh, yes… how about you?” I managed to reply, looking away from a smiling Chris.

“Not as much as you, apparently,” my daughter smirked.

“What!”

I froze, staring wide-eyed at my amused daughter.

“Clyde told me,” she replied. “Chris and our Clyde thought you were Celia Lunders.”

Christ! Now I remembered who Celia was. Her mother was the soccer association president. She was a big blabbermouth. If her daughter told her, my indiscretion would be all over our neighborhood.

I was stunned to silence. My kids knew! They both knew!

“Mom, are you OK?” Bonnie asked, maintaining her grin. “I tell you. And you were worried about us ‘youngsters’ acting up.”

Had my daughter just mocked me by doing air quotes at youngsters? Yes, she had. As if I was some old maid or something.

“What did he tell you?” I replied apprehensively.

“Oh, that Chris thought you were Celia in the spare bedroom and had his way with you. Mom, dogie style? Nice.”

“Shut up, Bonnie,” I replied nervously. “I’m trying to think. Is your father here?”

“No, mom, you lucked out there. Dad tried to get a hold of you and called me to say he was not coming over.”

“He is probably with his bimbo Marcia,” I blurted out without thinking that Bonnie didn’t know about her father’s indiscretions.

But from her reaction, I thought otherwise.

“So you know?” she asked.

“Yes,” I nodded. “How did you… how did you know?”

“I’m not a child mom and dad was not very careful. I heard him talking to her on his cell in the garden. Right under my window!”

“Ouch,” I replied, shaking my head.

“How long have you known mom?”

“A year,” I replied, looking away as I filled a glass with wine from the fridge.

“Can I have some of that?” a young man asked as he passed.

“No,” I replied. “That’s for stressed-out moms. Go get a beer.”

Bonnie and I stared at each other after the young guy left. Before he did, my daughter had given him the once over… twice.

“Mom, it’s OK.”

“What part?” I replied.

Yes. We had so many topics to choose from. The young man’s tight ass? Her father cheating, or my letting my son’s friend rut me in a dark room?

“Are you going to tell your father?”

“No mom. He is the last to talk about cheating.”

Cheating. There! My daughter had said the C-word. I was still married to her father. Separated but still married, having sex with someone else.

“I… I didn’t expect it,” I managed to utter.

“You didn’t say anything? Try to stop it?”

“You may not believe me, but at first, I thought it was your father.”

“At first?” she scoffed. “When did you figure out it was not?”

“I knew for sure when the door opened, and your brother came in.”

“Not before, Mom?”

“Look, it has been a long time since I had sex, and I just let him do what he wanted. It felt good. I just didn’t want it to end.”

“Wow! Is Chris that good?”

I nodded with a slight smirk of my own. Bonnie covered her mouth as she laughed.

“And to think I turned him down.”

“What? What do you mean turned him down?”

“This summer. I saw him at the beach, and he asked me out. I told him that dating my brother’s friend was not a good idea.” Bonnie laughed and opened both palms pointing at me. ” And yet…”

The implication was clear. Bonnie had been the rational one while I had given myself to Chris. I didn’t know what to say. Had roles been reversed and someone said that it was an accident, I would have trouble believing it too.

“Are you sure you didn’t know it was someone else, mom?”

I finished my drink and poured another.

“After a while, I thought he felt different,” I did not go into details. “But I was a bit buzzed.”

‘His dick was thicker than your dad’s? His fucking had a different rhythm? He was making me cum so easily? I thought. Oh yeah, that would have gone over well.

Bonnie took my glass away.

“Maybe you need to stop drinking, mom,” she said, pouring my wine in the sink.

“Bonnie, I don’t care what you tell your dad. I don’t care what he is doing with Marcia. Not any more or what he will think of me. But I… I…”

I struggled with the words to explain to my young daughter what I felt in that instant. But I had this urge to do so. She was my daughter, and I wanted her to understand.

“You may find this embarrassing to hear from your mom, but you are not a child anymore, Bonnie. Not with a body like that. I bet boys and men have been hitting on you and will continue.”

My daughter nodded and listened as she had never before. I didn’t realize it just then, but it would be a turning point in our relationship. We were transitioning our association from young daughter and mom to one of woman to woman. Or so I thought.

“Men’s attention is an aphrodisiac to us women. I’ve had men hit on me for years, Bonnie,” I continued, “Especially when I went back to college over ten years ago. It felt good to know men still found me attractive.”

I looked around. There were fewer people at the party. A few were still dancing in the playroom, while others were hanging out in the living room. The party was winding down.

“But in all that time, and until tonight, I never stepped out on your dad.”

“Mom, I don’t know what to say.”

“Just listen,” I said, leaning closer to her. “I didn’t plan this. Do you believe me?”

“I see how it happened,” she replied.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Yes, Mom, I believe you.”

“Good. Because all I want is your love and respect – not your approval.”

“What does that mean, mom?”

“All this reconciliation talk with your father,” I said, watching her look back at me, “It’s not going to happen. Not right away.”

“What! Why?”

“Listen to me, Bonnie. I learned something from tonight. One. Your father not coming here tonight is clear that he is not ready to reconcile. And two is that I had shortchanged both your dad and myself in this marriage.”

“How?”

“I never gave him enough sex and used sex to control him. Just as your father said, we wives are good at doing that. No. Not as it is a good thing. It’s destructive to a marriage. But yes, we have used sex to control our husbands, and it is not fair to him. So, I’m going to let him have his bimbo on the side, and I will tell him to have more while we are separated.”

“Because I intend to do the same and make up for lost time.”

“Mom, are you ready to give up on dad?”

“No. If I were, I would have filed for divorce, and so would he. But I need time to…”

“To what?”

“To live.”

“What does that mean?”

“What do you think it means? I want to have sex. I found tonight that I missed it and want more. And no, not with your dad.”

“Why not him?”

“Bonnie, my sweetheart. Some day you will get married. At first, the relationship will seem perfect, and the sex great. But the years will pass. Responsibilities, children, bills, and work will get in the way, and your sex life will suffer no matter how much you try.”

“But you can try to fix it. Make it better, right?” Bonnie implored, hoping to reach me. “I mean, my brother and I are not around anymore. You two can make things work. Can’t you?”

“I wish it was that simple. But marriage is not like that. You see, when your dad and I get together, we bring all our baggage with us. The years together, the problems, the arguments, the times I withheld sex….”

“I’m sure you didn’t mean it,” she cut me off. “You were probably sick or had us in the way. Right?”

“No, hun,” I replied, gazing into her pleading eyes. “I could have had sex with your dad, but I didn’t. He is right. I stopped liking sex. But the reason was that I stopped liking sex with him. I stopped liking your dad as a person. I still love him, but I am not in love with him.”

Bonnie stared back at me in confusion. Then I saw a determined look on her face.

“When I get married, I am not doing what you did, mom.”

I scoffed.

“Good luck with that. I said that to my mom and dad. Look how things worked out,” I said, standing up. “I wish you the best.”

I left my daughter in the kitchen, shaking her head at me.

Chris was still watching me with interest. Taking a deep breath for courage, I walked up to him. But I didn’t need it. I had made up my mind.

“Where is my son,” I asked him when I was inches from him.

“He left with his girlfriend for a while. But they will be back. Why?”

“It’s OK. I’ll talk to him later.”

We looked at each other some more. What started as gazing turned into intense staring with knowing smiles.

“I know it was you, he finally said. Celia was not here yet when you and I were in the room upstairs. I thought you were her when you walked up.”

“And what did you think after?”

“I think,” he grinned. “I think I want more. And I think you do too.”

“You think correctly,” I replied, never breaking our eye connection. “Stick around.”

***

Games people play

Where do we go from here, now that all other children are growin’ up?

And how do we spend our lives, if there’s no one to lend us a hand?

I don’t wanna live here no more, I don’t wanna stay

Ain’t gonna spend the rest of my life quietly fading away

Games people play, you take it or you leave it

Things that they say are not right

If I promise you the moon and the stars, would you believe it?

Games people play in the middle of the night

The song Games People Play by Alan Parsons was one of my childhood favorites as my mom and dad used to play it. I had the words of the first stanza memorized. But it wasn’t until that evening that the lyrics hit home to me.

“Hi Randy,” I said as he picked up.

“Hi Gabby,” my husband replied with a sigh.

“Did I interrupt you and Marcia?”

There was a moment of silence.

“What do you want Gabby?”

“I thought you would come to the party.”

“I got tied up.”

“You and Marcia are getting kinky.”

“At least I’m not fucking kids in our house.”

So one of my kids had blabbed. That was quick.

“I thought it was you.”

“I’m not buying it Gabby,” he snapped back.

“Have it your way Randy. I’ll still make it to couple’s therapy. Will you?”

“You still want to?”

“Are you surprised I still do?”

“After tonight, nothing surprises me.”

“Look Randy. I don’t want a divorce. But I want some time. Some time apart. You obviously still do, or you would have come to the party as we had talked about.”

“I guess so,” my husband replied. “I think going to counslling may help.”

“Randy.”

“Yes….”

“I still love you.”

“I love you too, Gabby. That has never been in question.”

“I know,” I replied, wiping a tear. “But whatever you and I end up doing, we have to sort out our personal situation. Figure out what we want and not just where we go from here.”

“I dodn’t love Marcia, Gabby. It was never about love. She is a friend at best.”

“A friend with benefits?”

“You could say that. More benefits than a friend at times. She hates it when I talk about you.”

“Teach you to talk to your mistress about your wife.”

“She just wants the sex and nothing else. And to be honest, I don’t mind.”

“Randy. I was a terrible lover for you.”

“Gabby….”

In that instant, I had the urge to set my ego aside with my husband and be honest. I should have done it long ago. Better late than never, right?

“No. Let me Randy. I was terrible in and out of bed. Just as you said, I manipulated you by using sex to control you. You could not leave because divorce would have ruined us both, and the kids would have suffered.”

I took a deep breath and continued.

“I am thankful that you waited until the kids were out of the house and grown before you left. And I’m grateful that you still love me and want to keep going to therapy. Thankful that you didn’t file for divorce. That shows we have some hope.”

“I feel a ‘but’ coming on.” he cut in.

“But. Before we even think about getting back together, we need to get ourselves sorted out. And just like you, I need some space.”

“You have it.”

“Space to be with others, Randy. I am not going to sculk about and not have you know. I don’t want that on my conscience.”

“I’ve had that coming,” he replied. “And to be honest, I have been expecting it.”

Again, there was a segment of silence as we both waited for each other to speak. In the end, I went first, as I felt I had said all I wanted to.

“I’ll see you Tuesday at the therapist?”

“Yes you will. Try and be careful in your choices, Gabby. Please.”

“I’ll do my best Randy.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

I heard the click and wiped the tears from my eyes. Twenty years of marriage is not easy to toss away, even after all that had taken place between us. And no, I did not want to throw my husband away. This open separation with everything on the table may either bring us back or end us. Either way, I had to know.

I know some would question my choice, but life is not a fairy tale where everyone lives happily ever after. Randy could have stayed home and fought for us. Instead, he chose to leave. Sure, I had my hand in our demise. But his choice told me that he was willing to chance us divorcing. And if that were to happen, I had to learn to live without him.

No, I was not done with my husband. I still loved him. But I had some “living” to do. What I never did because we got married too young — and because we had to. If we got back together, it would be because we wanted to.

***

Sampling life’s goods

At this point, it didn’t matter which of my two kids had spilled the beans to their father. Surprisingly, Randy had not given me any grief about the evening’s carnal incident. That fact suggested that either it had been my daughter who had ratted me out, or that my son had given him a condensed version.

Either way, it no longer mattered between Randy and I. But I would find out which of them was not on my side and be careful in the future.

***

I let everyone know that by midnight the party would be over at eleven. By eleven twenty-five, everyone but my son, his girlfriend Debbie, and Chris were gone. Those three were helping me pick up and a bit. My daughter had disappeared. Either because she was angry with me, guilty, or both.

“Let’s just get the trash out and leave the rest for tomorrow,” I said.

“Sure, Mom,” Clyde replied. “I’ll come by again tomorrow and help.”

Debbie was following him around like a pubby as they gathered trash in bags and took them out. During one of their trips out to the garbage cans, Chris came close.

He had the common sense not to put his paws on me. After all, little Debbie didn’t know about what Chris and I had done upstairs. Or I hoped that my son had kept his mouth shut.

“You want me to stay, right?” Chris asked.

“What gave you that idea?” I scoffed, then smiled at him playfully.

“I meant for the night,” he smirked back as he held a garbage bag open for me to toss paper plates in.

“Oh, you bastard!” I said, smacking him on the arm.

“I know who my parents are,” he replied with a sense of confident humor that once again surprised me.

“We’ll see about the whole night,” I replied. “Depends on how things go.”

“Oh, they will go well,” he said, raising an eyebrow as he grinned slightly.

“You are awful confident for a twenty-year-old Chris. Where does that come from?”

“I’ll tell you,” he replied. “Eventually. The story is interesting.”

“Oh, I get a story and a good fuck?”

“You already had one of those,” Chris replied. “It’s why you asked me to stay.”

“You have a point there,” I replied, “Now, hold the bag so I can tie it.”

“I’ll have to take your son and his girl back to the campus,” Chris said. “Then I’ll come back.”

“Good, I get a chance to freshen up.”

“I have to say, the stockings and garter belt are an interesting touch. Girls my age are clueless about stuff like that. Unlike seasoned women.”

“How diplomatic. Seasoned instead of older.”

“My first was such a woman of experience,” he replied. “I have a soft spot for the type.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

***

My son and Debbie came back in. She smiled at me politely then averted my gaze. Before they left, I took my son aside.

“Did you call your dad about what you saw?”

“No, Mom,” he replied incredulously. “From what I understand, it was a… mishap of circumstance.”

“I like that Clyde. It was exactly that. Did you tell Debbie?”

“I did, and I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t.”

There was no point in arguing with my son or even my daughter. Their father knew, and that was that. My secret had been very short-lived.

“No problem,” I reassured my son. “For the record. Your father knows.”

I saw concern in my son’s expression.

“Not about you perving watching me. Just the me-with-Chris part. So it was probably your sister who told him, as I thought.”

“She is daddy’s girl, you know,” my son reminded me.

“OK. Off you go. I love you,” I said, hugging my boy.

“By the way,” he said with a whisper.

“Yeah….”

“Nice ass, mom. Love you.”

“Fucken asshole,” I mumbled but smiled at the compliment. Even if it was from my son.

So there was my life. Marriage on the rocks, husband off with his bimbo, my son is a voyeur, and my daughter, who I thought I could trust, had ratted me out to her dad. But things were looking up. My young lover, Chris, was coming over.

Things were improving.

***

I had enough time to take a quick shower, dry myself, and put the garter belt back on with the fishnets. I was combing my hair and putting on lipstick when the door chime went off.

I walked downstairs just as he had asked me to. I was in the same black heels, fishnet stockings, garter belt, and in my short red silk robe – nothing else. Nothing else was needed. And the robe would soon be discarded.

Opening the door, I saw him standing in a pair of blue jeans and a white shirt. It accented his black hair, sculpted face, and green-brown eyes as he gazed at me appreciatively.

“Mrs. Robinson,” he said, coming closer. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

I should have expected him to use the line out of The Graduate. I was no Ann Bancroft. But Chris was better looking than a young Dustin Hoffman. So much better.

Grabbing him by the belt, I tugged him inside and shut the door.

Forty is not so bad, I thought.

***

Coming back for more is the dangerous line

Starved for a man as I was, and with no pretenses of attachments and fidelity to think of, I wasted no time. Leaning close, I looked up into his dreamy eyes and opened my mouth for him.

Chris responded as I wanted him to, by taking me in his strong arms and kissing me. Now it had been some years since I had kissed a twenty-year-old, but memory did not fail to discern between a good kiss and one of an inexperienced young man. Chris may have been young, but he sure knew how to kiss a woman.

His soft lips met mine, and as they parted, our tongues fought the duel of lovers since time immemorial. Kissing has always been an integral part of lovemaking for me. I had to have it to get my engine started, which is why I was surprised that I had succumbed to Chris so quickly earlier. Had I needed a man that badly? The answer was a resounding yes!

“Oh my!” I said when he pulled back.

During our kiss, Chris had merely held me in his arms. Never once lowering them to my behind or copping a feel.

“You feel and smell wonderful,” he replied, once more in a way beyond his years.

My curiosity was piqued. Leading Chris to the living room, I sat him down on the couch and turned to face him.

“I can’t wait for later,” I said with a slight smile.

“This is later Mrs. Robinson,” he replied with another confident smirk.

The bastard was twenty, yet he acted so maturely for his age. It both excited and unnerved me. Who was this kid?

“I want your story,” I spat out. “You say you are twenty, and yet you act like you are thirty or more. Why is that?”

He nodded with a knowing gaze as his eyes fixed mine.

“Fair question, Mrs. Robinson.”

“Gabriela,” I corrected him. “After what we did earlier, you can dispense with formalities.”

I wanted to get past the Mrs. Robinson tag and the movie reference that made our situation a caricature. But I was not ready to have him call me Gabby. That was what Randy called me, and it would stay that way.

“OK. Gabriela, it is,” he nodded again. “That’s a pretty name.”

I was about to thank him when he continued speaking.

“It suits you. You are a very sexy woman.”

Inwardly, I gushed and wanted to fall on my knees for him. But I just had to know. Why was he this way?

“Thank you, and you are very handsome yourself, Chris. But my question stands.”

“There is no delaying it is it?” he said with a slight smile and sigh.

“No. Now spill. Who are you, and what planet did you come from?”

He chuckled at my comment before he replied.

“Well, this one. The same as you. But there, the similarity ends.”

“How so?”

“I was born overseas. My parents both passed in a car accident, and the closest relative that could take me in was my Uncle Nick and Aunt Irene.”

“Oh, I am so sorry,” I managed to say.

“All is fine,” he replied. “I was young and barely remember them. Irene and her husband Nick were the only parents I remember. They have two daughters, older than me, but they treated me as their own.”

“So you grew up here, so where did the slight accent come from?”

“Ah,” he replied. “Yes, the accent. Irene and Nick started having problems about ten years ago. Nick and she eventually divorced, but during the three years their problems played out, I was sent to live with my other uncle and aunt in Greece. Therefore the accent.”

“So, when did you return?”

“I was fifteen then, five years ago,” he replied as if lost in thought. “My relatives in Greece were nice to me but were glad to get a rambunctious teenager off their hands.”

“You a bad boy?” I feigned shock, then smiled. “How could anyone possibly think so?”

He chuckled again as he looked back at me. We both thought of earlier when he had taken me in the dark bedroom without me resisting. Bad boy indeed!

“Let’s just say I was a handful, and only one person could guide me to a good path.”

“Let me guess. Irene?’

“You are correct,” he smiled. His eyes were on me but with a faraway gaze. “You can thank Irene for making me the man I am today.”

“Pardon me, Chris, but I was more referring to your style with women. You are young in years but act older. Is that because of what you went through losing your parents? Help me understand that. I’m curious. You intrigue me.”

“Irene,” he replied laconically.

“Irene? You mean your aunt’s influence?”

“Yes, she has been more than a parent in my younger years. When I left, I was a twelve-year-old boy. I returned past puberty and was almost as tall as I am now, having changed into a young man. Irene never treated me as a child from that moment on. She mentored me into being a man – a good man. I owe it all to her.”

“She sounds like quite a woman. I would love to meet her one day.”

“We’ll see about that,” he replied, coming closer.

“Why did you come back to her? Isn’t your uncle Nick your blood relative?”

“Well, I am her adopted son, and Uncle Nick has moved on to work overseas. The gulf states last I heard. Before that, oilfields in South America and places beyond. Irene was here, willing, and took me in.”

“I see. So,” I continued, still not satisfied with Chris’s answer, thinking there was more he had not included. “Did Irene teach you how to seduce women?”

“You could say that. Irene taught me a lot. But I don’t think there was much seduction between us, was there?”

“How so?”

“I mean, we had given each other the eye before. I could tell you found me attractive, and you had to know the feeling was mutual.”

“True.”

“But what happened earlier was… what is the phrase?”

“A mishap of circumstances?” I repeated the way my son had described my indiscretion earlier.

“Yes,” he nodded, still gazing into my eyes. “That! Exactly that.”

“So, just what exactly did Irene teach you about being sexy?” I said in jest.

“Everything,” he replied as he placed his warm hand on mine.

That simple act. The electric touch of his hand on mine spoke volumes. Not only was I drawn to him sexually, but he made me comfortable with his presence.

“Your aunt! You and her?”

The revelation stunned me.

“She is not a blood relative,” he replied semi-sternly. “And she waited until I was eighteen for that part of my training. But the important part, learning how to be a good man, came in the three years before.”

“Wow!” I replied.

“Are you shocked?”

“A bit,” I replied, taken aback by his revelation. “I mean, yes, she is no blood relative. But she is your adopted mother, and she raised you.”

“And?”

I was rendered speechless by his question and how my reaction seemed not to phase him at all.

“I… I don’t know. I guess I need to think about it,” I replied, confused.

He squeezed my hand and pursed his lips before smiling again with that disarming grin. Why did he have to be so handsome and erotically addicting? I barely knew him, yet I was drawn to this young man like a moth to flames.

“This is why I planned to tell you later,” Chris said. “I can tell the mood is shattered. My life story has disturbed you.”

“No… I. Well yes. It is certainly different, Chris. But…”

“But?”

I had ruined the mood with my judgementalism, and he was not in the mood for it. But I have to say. He had answered my questions honestly and directly, revealing things most would not. He took pride in the person he was and how Irene had influenced him. And I found his loyalty to her appealing. Who was I to judge?

“Please stay,” I said, covering his hand on mine. “I want you to. I’m sorry if I seemed judgemental.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I whispered as he leaned in and kissed me again. ‘Oh God!

After that, I resolved to stop talking. We had said enough. And as we kissed, this time, his hands roamed under my robe to find my right breast. His fingers encircled my flesh, cupping and fondling with relish. My nipple rested on his palm, but as he caressed me, it hardened, and it felt so sweetly exciting. It was the first hand of another man on my tits since before Randy and I got married.

But I hardly thought of my husband as this remarkable young man, and I kissed and petted on what was still my and Randy’s home. ‘Let Randy have his fun with his Marcia,’ I resolved just then. It was my time to spread my wings. OK, say it, spread my legs. Happy now? Oh, where was I? Yes, Chris and I were on the couch kissing, and his hand was feeling my tits.

With a flick of his hand, my robe was pushed past my shoulders, baring my naked breasts. Any insecurities I had about my tits, compared to those of young womens’, faded as Chris lowered his face to worship them as they had not in years. Not having nursed the kids, my boobs still had bounce and shape to them. Not like when they were twenty years younger but still respectable. The sensation of his tongue, lips, and hands on them took me to another world as I closed my eyes and enjoyed.

“Oh, God Chris! What are you doing to me?”

His answer was to lower a hand down to my tummy. I thought he would go further, but he stopped there, almost teasing me as I had expected him to go lower. Now his palm, fingers outstretched, caressed my belly and left thigh, increasing my arousal.

My naked and shaved pussy was there for him to grasp. And it was wet and willing alright. But Chris took his time, something I found refreshing. I wondered if Irene had taught him patience with a woman but didn’t ask. Of course, she had. No man his age would be this easy-going in lovemaking.

But I have to say, after a few minutes or more of this, I was ready to reciprocate. Chris had me on my side over his legs so that my ribcage was over his crotch. In that position, I could feel his substantial bulge develop. And my curiosity got the best of me.

“My turn,” I replied, sitting up and getting on my knees. “You have too many clothes on.”

He stood then and reached for his belt. But I beat him to it and began undressing him.

“Let me unwrap my gift,” I heard myself say, wondering why I had said that.

But I was no longer thinking straight. I still had a buzz from earlier. One I had maintained by having another glass of wine before my shower. And let’s face it, booze is female viagra. It lowers our inhibitions. And mine were as low as they could be. I wanted him and wanted him right away.

Pulling his shirt out of the confines of his jeans, I undid the buttons revealing his flat chest. He was not overly muscular like a lifter. Instead, he had the defined physique of swimmers, runners, and rowers. I could not help myself but hug his narrow waist and kiss his pecks.

But that too was just a preliminary as I fell on my knees and pulled his jeans down. Shocked that he wore no underwear, I was faced with that amazing tool he had used on me earlier. His thick cock was almost fully hard by then, in its confinement. But it stood proud once freed. His head was the same size as the shaft right behind it. But it thickened closer to the base. I had to have it — feel it in my hands.

As my fingertips made contact, it felt velvety to the touch. Smooth and inviting to grasp and handle. Chris was shaved clean of pubic hair. I had never seen that on a man, which made his manhood seem more pronounced, grander than life.

Chris was not circumcised either – a first for me as well. His foreskin strained to cover just the bottom part of his darkening phallus. So much so that as I stroked him, it pulled back behind the head. The novelty of it made me stare as my hands rose and fell, stroking his shaft. And the extra skin made the experience of a handjob different than with circumcised cocks I had handled.

He must have found time to shower because he was clean of any of our juices from earlier. I hoped to rectify that soon. But for the moment, I relished seeing and smelling the first drops of precum drip from his tip. And without much thought, I extended my tongue to lick it as my lips engulfed the front of his tip.

Chris allowed me to get acquainted with his dick from then on. I held his balls that retracted just behind his shaft yet still felt weighty in one hand as the other tried and failed to get my fingers around it. His sheer size and hardness sent jolts of arousal through my brain and the rest of my body. My nipples seemed on fire, and my pussy was dripping — all in anticipation.

Not in all my wildest fantasies had I expected to be rewarded with such a fine specimen of manhood to enjoy. The urge to lick and kiss up and down Chris’s shaft overwhelmed me as I worshiped the source of all my earlier pleasure. This was the cock that had made me cum over and over. And I so wanted to thank it with both my mouth and hands with all I had in me.

As I licked the underside of his head, holding his balls and shaft, I looked up at Chris, who stared back at me intently. No words were needed. Unlike in porn stories, he did not demand me to “suck it” or anything else. We both knew what would happen as I opened my mouth, guiding his hardness over my tongue.

Once I felt his cockhead rest on my tongue, I closed my lips over it and began my task. In the shower earlier, I had wondered what sucking him would be like. It was better than anything I had expected. I was no stranger to sucking cock, I focused on bobbing my head over him and enjoying the head trip pleasuring a man always gave me.

Some see giving oral to a man as an act of submission. And it can be for some. But for me, it has always been an act I do willingly. When a man is in my mouth writhing in the delight of what I do to him, I feel in charge — in control. That I, myself, am the giver of enjoyment as I work my magic.

Sometime during my ministrations, Chris had placed his hands on the side of my head — fingers intertwined in my thick brown hair. And soon after, he began a gentle yet deliberate thrusting over my tongue into my mouth. We combined our efforts with a common goal of bringing him off. Something I wanted more than anything.

He never pushed his cock in my throat, nor did I do so myself. I planned on indulging in that later. But in that instant, I wanted this young man to experience the joy of cumming in my mouth as a reward for all the orgasms he had given me earlier. I needed his seed to taste and to feel it spurting inside my mouth, wondering what it would be like.

Oh, the anticipation of the first time! He may have fucked me serendipitously earlier, but this… this was our first cognisant encounter. One that I wanted to be special because I already knew that this was but the beginning for us. And I wanted more. Much more.

“Gabriela…” I heard him gasp. “I’m close…”

I could feel him tense, but I kept sucking him — harder than before. If he was warning me, this was my answer.

My hands held tight to his balls and shaft as my tongue, lips, and mouth worked him over his peak. Tensing, I felt him shudder before his shaft pulsed, and the first spurt of tasty spunk spilled over my tongue. But it was the second that jolted me as it shot with tremendous intensity to splatter on the roof of my mouth and tonsils. So much!

And there was more. Much more! I swallowed the first three spurts, but there was just too much of it. Some spilled out of the sides of my mouth, down my chin, and dripped onto my heaving breasts. It felt warm and arousing – not just the taste but the now-familiar scent of it. My new lover had been made to cum — by me! My pussy was so wet for him. So in need.

As he finished and let go of my head, he tried balancing himself on his feet and failed. Guiding him back to the couch, I wondered how long it would take him to recharge.

***

“That was out of this world!” he finally managed to speak.

“Better than your Celia?” I said with a smirk as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

“You have no idea,” he said, shaking his head.

“Does she blow you?”

“I hate to kiss and tell, but she is young. Girls her age think a guy should be honored to be in their presence. We are there to satisfy them. If they blow a guy, it’s just to get him hard so he can service them.”

‘Was I that bad back then?’ I asked myself.

And sadly, the answer was yes. I had been no different than most young women of my time. And in talking to my mother, her time as well. Mom was a child of the late ’70s who had enjoyed the sexual revolution to have fun teasing many boys. Until she had cock-teased a man in Canada, who had not let her off easy. After he fucked every orifice she had, roughly, the man had told her he hoped she learned her lesson. Mom had and made sure to warn her only daughter not to follow in her footsteps.

Only I had and was lucky not to have been raped in the process. Lucky enough to find Randy, who was a lovely young man. But in a fit of pot and alcohol during a night of partying, I had gotten carried away. Randy and his friend Jeff had taken turns on me together for an entire evening. By the time I missed my period, Jeff had dropped out of college, and I was left to tell Randy I was pregnant.

Randy and I had sex almost every night, so it was a statistical likelihood that the child would be his. He asked me to marry him, and I had agreed. We had acted as if all was well between us, but we both knew it was not. The uncertainty of whose child Bonnie was, hung over us like a dark cloud. But by then, Clyde had come along, and the happiness our second child brought us, made us set aside the Bonnie uncertainty and move on with our lives.

Still, when I went to college, I met a woman working at a DNA lab. Wanting to know for sure, I had both our kids tested and DNA matched to Randy and I. When I showed the results to my husband, he had nodded and sighed in relief. But I think the damage had been done between us. On the other hand, Bonnie was daddy’s girl from that moment on.

Why am I telling you this? Because it was the result of my teasing both young men over time, playing one against the other, even though they were roommates and best friends. The head-trip of having two young men at my beck and call to choose from was a great ego builder. And the night I had them both, one of ultimate bliss. But it had its consequences as it set the tone for my marriage with a bad start. One that very well had led to our break up as we both felt that we had been forced into a wedding we had not planned on.

So when Chris told me of his problems with young girls his age, I understood all too well why he was reticent to trust them or feel connected to them.

“You don’t have to worry about any head games from me, Chris,” I said, looking at him directly — hoping he could sense my honesty. I am what and who you see. I’m separated from my husband, and he has a girlfriend. And earlier tonight he found out about us.”

I saw Chris tense, and I reached in to kiss him for reassurance.

“Randy and I have had problems that have nothing to do with you. Trust me on that.”

“He is not going to come after me, is he?” Then his expression changed from concern to amusing curiosity. “Wait. Did you say he has a girlfriend?”

“Yes,” I chuckled. “A coworker of his. Some blond bimbo.”

Chris laughed.

“And you are OK with it? And he is OK with you and I?”

“Yes. Apparently, my daughter told him.”

“Do you two have an open marriage?” Chris asked.

“I didn’t think so until my husband started his affair with Marcia. Then tonight happened,” I stopped to gather my thoughts while Chris waited patiently. “And I decided not to sneak around as he had. I called him to let him know only to find that he knew already.”

“And to gloat a little?”

“Maybe,” I said with a slight smile.

“Was he upset?”

“I think like all men, his ego was bruised at the thought of his wife giving herself to another man. But he knows he has no room to talk, what with him and his mistress. She is married, by the way.”

Chris shook his head as he smiled in apparent disbelief.

“I think I like your honest approach better,” he said and pulled me close. “Why don’t you and I go to your bed and forget about the world and focus on just us. We can tell each other our stories after.”

“I like your thinking,” I replied, kissing him once more. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

“Casablanca!” Chris exclaimed. “Irene’s and my favorite movie!”

“I think I like Irene more and more,” I replied.

The notion that I felt affinity instead of jealousy at my young lover’s female mentor surprised me.

“I’m sure she will like you as well.”

“One thing,” I said as we walked up the stairs hand in hand.

“What’s that?” Chris replied.

“We never, and I mean never, go to the main bedroom. That is my and my husband’s room. The guest room is ours.”

“I understand,” he said with a smile.

“Randy and I may sort things out and get back together, so the bedroom is his and mine until we decide where we stand. I don’t plan to let him back in this house until he and I choose to patch things up. If not, I am selling this house.”

“And until you decide?”

“I plan on dating him to find out.”

“Dating him!”

“Yes. My hubs and I lost our way, Chris. We need to find it back slowly. When I have sex with him, if I do, it will be at his place.”

Chris tilted his head with a nod.

“I guess it makes sense,” he replied thoughtfully.

“Are you OK with this? I mean, you will not give up Irene or your other women, and I am not asking you to.”

“It is your life, Gabriela. You decide what is important to you.”

Once again, his maturity impressed me. And in that instant, I wondered if I had raised my son to be this perceptive and understanding — making a note to talk to my son more. Maybe there was still time.

“By the way, I only have sex with Irene and Celia,” Chris spoke, bringing back from thoughts of my son. “Is that OK with you?”

“Oh, yeas… I’m surprised you don’t have a larger harem,” I joked as we entered the spare room and closed the door.

“I’m surprised it is this big,” he replied in jest. “And one more thing.”

“Name it.”

“Never come to me with another man’s scent or juices on you. I promise to come to you clean as well. I managed a shower before I came back here.”

“I appreciate it,” I said as I stroked his magnificent manhood. It has stayed hard since we talked, and I played with it.

I drew him to the bed, now clear of coats, by holding his hardness. I sat back on the edge of the elevated queen-size and spread my legs for him.

“Fuck me, Chris,” I implored him. “No foreplay, we did that already. Just take me.”

Moving between my legs, he produced a condom.

“Sorry about earlier,” he said. “The condom I used broke.”

“I’m on the pill, but I never knew you used one. Oh well, too late now. Your boys have already taken a swim in me, and I am on the pill.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite, now come here. Looking at that big thing of yours is making me gush.”

Tossing the rubber back on the dresser, Chris moved between my legs and leaned closer. My eyes focused on his thick erection between my spread legs as he approached. When he rubbed his bulbous head on my slit, I gasped. But instead of entering me, he rubbed the bottom of his hardness over my engorged clit.

“Please… don’t tease me, Chris. I need you.”

“No more teasing,” he replied.