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This is an incest story so a warning to those of you who don’t like them. As always your comments are more than welcome.
Part II will be up in a day or so.
My name is Virginia. I’m an associate broker in a local real estate firm.
My son is getting married today to a beautiful young woman. They graduated from our local law school this year where they met and helped each other get through. They have also just passed their bar exams. So, after three tough years of very hard study, promising legal careers lie ahead for both of them. Right now I’m at home, dressed in my best suit, waiting for his call. He is going to drive me to the church. I’m going to be his best “man.”
His name is Robbie. He has so much to be proud of. His present confident self is light years ahead of his troubled early years when he had to witness the horrible marriage of his parents, Ron and me, and cope with the uncertainty and insecurity that produced in him. The affects didn’t show up in any remarkable way that I noticed until his first year in high school when it became apparent that he was emotionally far behind other boys his age. It showed itself in his extreme shyness, as if he didn’t know what to do with the steady storm of chaotic feelings he was struggling with–concern over his disintegrating family and his sexual maturation–so he just kept everything under wraps, the effort to keep it all contained making him way too uptight. That was our fault, his parents’ fault, though his father was oblivious to all this, and I charge myself for failure to notice it. Then, I was too preoccupied with the drama of a failing marriage and didn’t pay enough attention to the damage it was doing to Robbie.
Before I married I was a model. That’s how I met Ron. I had to leave when the fashion in models went to women thinner than myself. I was too “busty” they said, although I am just a C cup, full and nicely shaped, but hardly outsized in that department, I thought. Still, the agencies I worked for liked the anorexic look–pencil-thin girls who would look at home on satin paintings, with huge hungry-looking eyes. They were all skin and bone, they seemed to me, and looked haunted, like meth addicts but without sores.
We met at a party after a fashion show in which I had been one of the models. Ron treated me to his hard-core seduction campaign and I was swept away. I thought I had won out over the others, his “women,” he called them, when he was bragging to me about his past He thought his various girlfriends were just damned lucky he had favored them for a while. I thought I was damned lucky he had chosen me over them. But even in those early days, a cautious voice, quiet but persistent in the back of my mind whispered, “Watch it. You have known guys like this. Guard yourself. Don’t give your soul to this man. He is made to trample it and won’t have the slightest idea that that is what he is doing.”
Ron was, and probably still is, a very vulgar man with a foul mouth. I was put off at first by it but then learned to accept it as just a part of who he was. I got used to it, so much so that I even talk that way myself, sometimes. Repetition made the bluntness and vulgarity of the words fade and I grew to appreciate their directness when complaining about daily frustrations, and, when talking about sex, their stripping away of sentimentality when describing our fundamental urge to get very, very basic with each other.
I thought maybe his “primal man” approach was his way of compensating for the forced politeness he was expected to display in his business environment, though the business he was in, bottom line, was anything but polite. Additionally, I told myself, he was just masking the more tender part of his nature. He wanted to be the he-man. I was willing to grant him this interpretation because of the constant fire-storm of love making he treated me to. I craved it, even melding it with the more traditional feelings I thought I was supposed to be having. Before I met Ron I didn’t think “fucking” had anything to do with “love.”
So there was that aspect of it: role playing. He was the big tough guy and I was the sweet innocent being ravished by her man. ’50’s stereotypes from what I’ve read but that also introduced more than just a note of falseness to our marriage. We were both in large part just pretending.
As I’ve said, he was an exceptionally sexual man, which I didn’t mind. I was adventurous, quite willing and very cooperative. Still I didn’t know what to expect from marriage or what ordinary married sexual behavior would be like. I remember our first days and nights as man and wife when he would do me everywhere. He liked to pick me up and set me down on the floor and fuck me on the spot. He would get down and very dirty in the kitchen, the bathroom–anywhere– the back yard, not even bothering to get out of his clothes. I was willing to go bare, anticipating his impulsive desires, but he insisted I wear underwear so he would have something to tear off. Or just güvenilir canlı bahis siteleri remove roughly. He would get on top, pull whatever clothes he wanted off, off, and, then, literally, shove it in. Hard.
I thought it was thrilling that I, his temptress, could bring out this crazed expression of his lust, and no matter how fast he was I was always wet and ready for his big red cock he was so proud of. It was long and it was thick. He liked to waggle it up and down, back and forth, as he, in his persona as red-eyed sex fiend, advanced on me while I cringed and feigned fear and hoped he would not notice how wet I was, how ready I was receive that look-what-I’ve-got-for-you-baby ramrod of his.
That lasted for a couple of years. But then, gradually, as more time went by, and after Robbie’s birth, he became more and more remote and preoccupied with his business. His arrogance grew as he became more successful. He is a bond trader. It’s a great career for a pushy, aggressive man. As he used to say, bond traders have business by the balls. Our sex life suffered and I am a woman who loves it and needs the attentions of a man. I mean, for god’s sake and to my partial embarrassment, I learned how much I love it, this ex-Catholic girl, in large part from him.
It dawned on me, finally, as his coolness and distance got worse, that he had grown tired of the same old same old and was having affairs. It was terribly hurtful at first. I know I’m good looking and “hot” (some men say that to my face), so what was the problem? But he was traveling a lot. Meetings in lots of cities. Lots of opportunities with other women and he was taking advantage of them. Well, I thought, two can play that game so I began to have affairs myself. Lots of them. I needed the attention of men who were eager to give it to me. I loved giving in to temptation. I loved the excitement, the feel of a man’s body and all that energy focused on me, feeling their hands all over me, the kisses, the delicious push of hard cocks entering me and then the thrusting, oh yes, the thrusting and orgasm building inside, then spilling over in fantastic climaxes. Whoowee! Adulteryhood! So exciting! The sweetness of cheating!
Some of these men wanted more, wanted me to divorce Ron, or just run away with them. I could have broken up several marriages. I had seven affairs during our sixteen years together, increasing in frequency toward the end. All of them were exciting and fulfilling in their own way but I was aware that I undertook them in direct proportion to Ron’s fading interest in me. So, I guess, in a much more important way, they were a measure of my loneliness and need.
Why didn’t I leave? Well, one word. Money. OK. Three altogether. Lots Of Money. I’m not proud nor am I ashamed. I earned it, not like a whore but as a loving and, to the casual observer, proper wife. Well, a married woman, anyway, so that takes care of legalities but, like a lot of married women, I stuck around for the money and security, so maybe that did make me a kind of whore, a society-approved whore with one, very good customer.
I know I sound embittered and in a way I am. Love dies–I mean, that’s a commonplace, right?– and I get that. Disappointment makes us angry at first and then we get hardened but have to settle for revenge. That, however, does not make up for betrayal, does not quite even the score. The remainder for me was a resigned cynicism, and I was infected with it big time. But cynicism, I learned, is just as naive as gullibility. It’s an over simplification, and acting on it as justification for reckless behavior could cause a lot of trouble for a lot of people. If I didn’t snap out of it I could bring disaster to someone, maybe several people and I had to figure out a way to get hold of myself.
Well, the solution turned out to be right at home. The solution was my son. I owe my gradual recovery to him, Robbie. He was my refuge, the unspoiled light of my life, so sympathetic during those last difficult years. In our frequent talks he would shower me with compliments, encouragement, and was just helpful in so many other ways. And he was only fifteen! Selfish as I was I let myself lean on him instead of caring for him and looking after him as I should have. I was too preoccupied with my own problems to realize how much he needed someone in this important period of his life whom he could talk to, who would listen to him.
So Ron was a bastard to me. OK. In response I could retaliate. But he was also cruel to his son, who couldn’t. He mistook Robbie’s brains that made him aware of complexity he didn’t yet have the experience to put into perspective for being indecisive; and misjudged his sensitivity, calling it unmanly and weak. He put him down constantly and randomly so he didn’t know when it was coming, just that it was, a barrage of criticism, almost always gratuitous, delivered in abrasive, contemptuous tones. I grew to hate him for undermining his own flesh and blood. Why would he do that to his beautiful güvenilir illegal bahis siteleri boy? I had not realized what an angry man he was.
The breakup came with satisfying suddenness. First the fights with increasing frequency and ferocity– accusations, recriminations, charge and counter charge–all that–and then Ron’s departure, a couple of quick sessions in court, and a settlement. We got the house and some more money (YAY!) and Ron was gone. Ron gone. And me with a lot of his silver. Good. And the start of a long healing process for Robbie and me.
Once our very unstable mom/dad/Robbie nucleus was split a new kind of arrangement began between Robbie and me but with much less of the mom/son role we were used to. We had morphed into partners, a new element, each helping the other in managing our healing lives. It took the better part of three years. But we were so relieved the old tension was gone. Robbie was a senior in high school, doing much better, about to graduate. I was selling real estate and making some money. Things were improving steadily and the two of us were growing much closer as we got used to our new, much more stable arrangement. We talked a lot. I listened to him. He shared more of his inner life, and I was more ashamed than ever that I had not paid closer attention before. The change in him was rapid and apparent. The great burden of witnessing the horrible marriage of his parents and the abuse he had received from his father had been lifted from him. Slowly he began to unfold. I could not have been more pleased.
Then things changed profoundly for me a few months after Robbie had begun college. I can remember the day. I was bringing his clean laundry to his room. I knocked quickly, twice, a habit, and opened his door, thinking he was out, but he was standing there, naked. He was reaching for his shorts, just beginning to get dressed. I had not seen him like this since his puberty and what a surprise. He was beautiful. His body was thin but muscular, with some chest hair, and his cock hung thick and limp over his balls, the whole package nestled in a wreath of thick brown hair. “Jeez,mom,” he said, straightening up and turning around to hide himself, but instead presenting me with the sight of his beautiful back and bottom, his well-shaped legs.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” I said. “I thought you were out.” I put the laundry down on the bed. “You can put it away,” I said, wanting to leave immediately when he turned to face me again, and there was that lovely cock of his– his young, virile masculinity on display for me, so beautiful to look at, like a painting. Several questions jammed my mind. They were: Why am I sorry? Did I do something wrong? What is the assumption behind that apology? Put it away? What had I meant by that, and where did I want him to put it? What exactly did I mean by “it?” Then wondering almost immediately why I was so quick to put a double-meaning on my ordinary remark. What the hell was going on in my mind?
“Do I look OK, mom?”
“You look wonderful,” I said. The words just tumbled out of me.
“You think so?”
“Yes, Robbie, you do…I do.” I was stammering. “Actually you look very handsome. Lovely.”
“It’s not too small?”
I looked down at his cock, a safe presumption that that is what he meant. “No.” I laughed, a short, nervous laugh. “Actually you are lucky. I mean, I know it gets bigger.” I was trying to sound casual but I felt anything but.
“It gets a lot bigger.”
I laughed the same laugh again. “I believe you. I mean it looks just fine the way it is. Soft like that.” This was so awkward! “Oh my god honey, what am I saying? Maybe I should take my clothes off too, just to be fair.” The words, again, came tumbling out of me. We both laughed, the same nervous laugh for both of us, and he brushed it with his hand and moved his hips, making it wiggle, and I thought I could see it begin to swell. I needed to say something more. “Nothing prettier than a naked young man. I promise if you do see me I will let you look. I know you are curious.”
No longer laughing he said, “I just want to make sure I am OK,” He had moved his hand out of the way and he stood up even straighter, facing me directly, looking right at me, his eyes level, calm and unashamed.
“Oh, Robbie, you look just fine.”
I left the room, shaking inside. And I was wet! Something about that gesture of his with his hand and hips. And then at the end. Presenting himself to me. That was so bold! And he was so handsome and so endearing in wanting me to tell him he was OK. But the words that had come out of me…nothing prettier than a naked young man? Just what the hell did I mean by that? I promised him if he saw me I would let him look. Hello? Virginia?…anybody home? And then again I wondered why I was making this into such a big deal. His nakedness had me completely rattled.
I went downstairs and made myself a sandwich for lunch. Egg salad. I chopped some celery in it for crunch. I wanted güvenilir bahis şirketleri to think, to chew on something.
About a week passed. One evening I was going out to dinner with Brad, another salesman for a rival real estate office whom I had been “seeing” for a couple of months. I was taking my first tentative steps to get out into the world again since the divorce. He was married but his wife traveled a lot in her business and he said they had an “understanding,” a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy they were both more or less happy with. When we could, we would have a nice dinner at a good restaurant, usually somewhere out of the way, and then go back to the apartment his firm uses for out-of-town commercial real estate buyers. There were a lot of them and they appreciated not being in a hotel. It got used a few times a month. He would check first, of course. The only times I’d seen him really furious were when his wife was away, I was free, but someone was using it. He would have to rent a motel room. He would take me there and fuck me once or twice before bringing me home.
At first, Brad was a nice guy. Also, I discovered, after we had started sleeping together, he could make me cum. He said he loved me. Of course I didn’t believe him but that was OK and it was nice to know what was going to happen when we went out. There was no uncertainty about sex. We both knew the evening would include it so we were quite relaxed and just let the tension build gradually and quietly.
As a person he was not remarkable–a conventional, predictable man and I would have been bored to death married to him. He just thought about business and making money. But he also had a nice body for a mature man and knew how to use his cock. It was thick too, like Ron’s. He would lose control and really give it to me hard, the way I like it when I’m carried away. He said I drove him crazy and I believed him. And he was thrilled that I was happy to do things for him that his wife wouldn’t, like blowing him, something I had always liked to do since high school.
Back then, I felt sorry for the guys I liked well enough to date but didn’t want to fuck. It seemed like a good compromise to just suck them off which saved fending them off all night. Also, I discovered I loved doing it. One guy said, when time for yearbook voting came around, he would vote for me as “most likely to suck seed.” He said that one night after I had just swallowed a mouthful of his cum in the front seat of his car. He was proud of his pun, smiling at me with affection, pausing, splitting the word in two to make sure I got it. I smiled back at him, conscious that my lips were probably still streaked with his jizz. Nice and decadent. I felt so slutty and loved the feeling! Also, I learned something that night. How casual he was about it. Sex as natural and normal. Something you could joke about in an affectionate way. He was nice to me, too. Never talked to his friends. Treated me with respect. I liked him but there wasn’t that snap, that chemistry that at that time I felt had to be there. I never did let him fuck me. A cute kid. He’s a Hollywood TV script writer now.
That night, Brad and I had a nice meal, though I noticed that he was drinking a little more than usual, and might even have started earlier, but he seemed OK and we went back to the apartment. Once inside he wasted no time, turning me around to face him, then up against the door, kissing me hard, pressing himself against me, rubbing his hard cock back and forth.
“Mmm, Brad, such a hurry,” I said.
“You drive me nuts, Virginia,” he said, and moved his hands up to my breasts, kneading them through my sweater.
“You’ll ruin it,” I said, reaching down to rub his hard cock that was straining to get out of his pants.
“My sweater, silly….why don’t you take it off?” He was kissing me, hands all over me. They went down and under my sweater, then up and over my head, taking the sweater with them. It flopped to the floor. He was kissing me again, his hands fumbling with my bra clasp, unclipping it, tossing it aside, my full breasts free and warm in his big hands.
“There are no words…” he said.
I reached down to unbuckle his belt. I was hot and wanted his cock. I needed to get fucked just as much as he did. He helped me get the belt undone and his pants unzipped. I reached in and fished it out and began stroking it.
“To the bedroom,” I said, pulling him along by his dick. “Wait,” he said. I let go and he went into the kitchen, bringing back a bottle of wine that he had opened earlier when he was checking to make sure the apartment was available, and two glasses. We stumbled into the bedroom.
While he put the wine and glasses down I got out of my shoes and skirt and stood there in just my panties. I hadn’t bothered with hose, knowing what was coming later. He stood by the bed, using one foot to pry his pull-on shoe off, then the other foot for the other shoe. His pants were next. They pooled at his ankles and I pushed him back onto the bed. He took care of his shirt and tie while I peeled his socks off, then his pants. In the future, I thought vaguely, some genius is going to design clothes that are easier to get out of fast. He lifted to help me pull off his underwear. And there he was, thick hard cock pointing up.
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