This is my first story and is about, inspired by and written with the encouragement of the amazing Catmoore, whose brilliant works are to be found on this site. I've categorised it as 'Erotic Couplings' but it has some features of the Incest/Taboo category. There is no Incest in it but both participants indulge in the Incest fantasy. If that is a turn off for you, be warned. It also has a strong 'Loving Wives' theme to it, so if you don't like affairs, be warned also! Anyway, enough of the health warnings, I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading. Any constructive feedback is very welcome.
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It was a delayed train that led to this. I had been due to catch a train back home from a work trip to Brighton on the London Victoria service but it was late -- a typical Friday night occurrence on our rail network you might think. I noticed that there was a train to Bedford, however, leaving in a few minutes and I hoped on board as I knew it went through London. As I stepped into the carriage I saw that the electronic board stated that the train was going to St Albans. I knew that was where you lived, in that big Victorian house that you wrote about and hated, the beautiful, airy conservatory the only room you loved there. I knew that because we'd made love there in that conservatory. Not actual love, of course, but virtual love or fucking, I wasn't quite sure which but I kind of wanted to know. I sat on the train trying to work but each time I looked up the train information board kept telling me This train will be calling at St Albans - St Albans -- St Albans -- St Fucking Albans. If I wanted I could just stay on until St Albans and see you or at least be in the town where you were. I didn't know your address, of course, and even if I did your husband would be there and how would I explain it to my wife -- "Sorry dear, I fell asleep on the train and happened to end up in St Albans so I decided to spend the night there?" Not very plausible nor very sensible.
As stupid as it was, though, I couldn't get it out of my mind, you had become too firmly lodged in there over the last month or so. I'd never cheated 'in real life' on my wife of ten years, had never wanted to, but I had on the internet. I had for years used the anonymity of the internet to play out the fantasies that I wasn't brave enough or was too ashamed to share with my wife. Almost invariably they focused around incest, a fantasy my wife knew about and abhorred. That particular fetish had been in my psyche since the age of eighteen, though a counsellor once told me that it was due to being sent away to boarding school aged nine. Despite all my efforts and prayers it still haunted me and excited me beyond measure. Whenever I went online to satisfy my cravings, whether through stories, video or chat, it was for incest that I looked. At least I know that I'm not alone. You'd never know through the mainstream media as it is almost never spoken about, but incest is huge online and I've always found plenty of partners willing to swap and share fantasies.
The great thing about being online, of course, is that you can be anyone and if you can, so can everyone else. I played as men and women, as sons, fathers, brothers, daughter, mothers, sisters and aunts. I suspect most of the 'women' I played with were men like me, looking for satisfaction online but there, on the internet, that doesn't matter. They say that the mind is the most powerful sex organ and I truly believe that. Online is doesn't matter what you do, fantasy is just fantasy, at least that's what we tell ourselves, and for me that was always true. I still thought of myself as a good person, a good husband, a good father, a pillar of respectable society whatever fantasies I played out through my computer screen. Until I met you that is.
You were different. Unlike most of those who populated the chat rooms at Literotica, my chat and story site of choice, you were someone who had actually written stories on the site -- lots of them, really good ones and, most importantly, ones about incest. More than that you were British (no need for 'Mom', to make allowances for Americans' chronic disregard for the letter 'u', and the chance to use the word 'knickers' which for some reason only known to Brits who've been to Public Schools, is so much naughtier than 'panties') and had the most splendid arse (another great British word) as your profile picture. I had to try to get your attention and by some miracle you replied. We chatted, connected and chatted some more as I read your first incest-related story, the Vesuvius series, which pressed all my buttons. We exchanged emails and you offered to write a story with me. From there our relationship grew. I felt I got to know you more and more through your stories and through the story we were writing together and through the odd, non-story related email we sent to each other.
I was more comfortable, more open with you than I had ever been with anyone. As I've said the internet gives you the chance to be whoever you want to be and I've always been cautious about revealing too much about myself online, surely that's only sensible? With you, though, sense was rapidly going out of the window, especially after you sent me your photos. You were sharp, witty, smart and, your photos revealed, gorgeous. I loved your beautiful eyes (I could never quite decide if they were green, grey or blue due to my colour-blindness) with the tiny fleck in your right eye being utterly enchanting. I loved the shape of your nose and the laugh lines around your lovely mouth. I was entranced by your amazingly sexy thighs in the pictures you sent me with you in stockings and by the flatness of your tummy which I gathered was due to the gym and tennis. Shallow as I am, though, it was the pictures you gave me of your breasts that made me lose my sanity. They were perfect, simply perfect. Large, natural, smooth and peaked by the most delicious areole and nipples that I have ever seen. I just longed to kiss them and suck them. I began wanking over you every morning, staring into your eyes and at your tummy or your tits after breakfast and before my bath while my wife and daughter were downstairs.
What was I doing? What was becoming of me? I hadn't told you my real name and I'd only told you my old job and where I'd used to live but I did send you my real photo, the first time I'd ever done that and I'd been truthful about other things. I knew that at thirty-five with glasses, thin bordering on skinny and a disappearing hairline I wasn't in your league but then I wasn't in my wife's league either and you hadn't run away screaming after getting it so I can't have been too hideous.
For several weeks we continued our incestuous story until that fateful train journey. Despite my busy job and busy and happy home life, the highlight of each day had become the contact with you, the update to our story. We'd become 'Mum' and 'your boy' and it was such an exciting privilege to write with you and to share our fantasies together.
St Albans, St Albans, St Albans -- Cat, Mum, Cat. I had to see you, to meet you. I suggested it the next day but you were reluctant, uncertain, especially given that I hadn't been entirely truthful with you when you had exposed so much of yourself to me. I knew, or hoped I knew, that you felt it too, though. Felt that this was something special, different to what we had both experienced previously online. I knew from your stories and what you had told me that you were lonely, that you liked younger men, that you had at least fantasised about your own son, that you had had flings and affairs before and that your husband was away a lot.
As for me, I loved my wife very much but perhaps I had been playing with fire for too long online and now I had finally got burned, finally found someone with whom I clicked sexually and personally and who lived close by. Does that sound too heartless, cynical? I don't know but I do know that I felt about you in a way that made me want to meet you, to be with you in person not just through a computer screen.
You were cautious, I understood that, and I wasn't going to push. We carried on writing to each other, continued our story which drew our characters ever closer and into more and more intense sexual encounters while the idea of a real-life meet still lay out there as a possibility. Nearly two weeks later though, you sent me an email.
"Book somewhere nice in London, a hotel with restaurant for next Saturday. No promises as to what happens but I'll be there. Cat xx"
I stared at the screen, disbelieving. Fuck this was getting real now. I had asked for it but could I really go through with it? I was terrified, my heart pounding in my chest as if I'd already been caught. I went for a walk with our dog, a cocker spaniel, to clear my head and, as I threw his balls for him, batted the idea back and forth. Could I? Would I? By the time I'd got home an hour later, I realised that I'd spent more time thinking about how I could make it work than whether I wanted to do it. That being the case, I decided that this was a sign that I wanted it more than I feared it.
It was unusual for me to have to work at a weekend but not unknown and I told my wife I'd be away on Saturday and might have to stay over. She wasn't best pleased but in the end had to accept it. Was that the hardest part, lying to her? Maybe, at any rate I felt like a heel but comforted myself with the excitement of what was going to happen. I went online and booked a nice hotel on Gracechurch Street in the City, bound to be quiet at the weekend, and made a reservation at the restaurant for one o'clock. I emailed you back with the details and waited. And waited. God, it was agony. The next morning, though, you replied with an update to our story and the simple message.
"1pm it is. Xx"
The next week was agony, waiting. Several times I nearly backed out and I wondered if you were thinking the same. I tried to keep on doing normal things, fortunately it was a busy time at work trying to get everything done before the Christmas break and that kept me sane. The day before, I went to get my hair cut before work and emailed you to check we were still on. " ;) " was your reply.
The next morning, the morning, I was so nervous. I hadn't slept well, the pangs of conscience perhaps, and I found my hand shaking slightly as I shaved in the bathroom mirror. I love a close shave, the smoothness of the skin and the sharp freshness of applying aftershave. That morning, however, despite my best efforts I nicked myself slightly and the aftershave (Bvlgari Pour Homme Extreme) stung like buggery when I applied it, just my luck! Given my build, I realised a few years back that slim-fit clothes were the way forward and I slipped on a light blue plain shirt and a pair of stone coloured chinos. A navy blue Crew Clothing V-neck jumper followed and a light brown jacket. My brown Grenson demi-brogues completed my outfit and, while I didn't think I'd compare to you, I was pleased with the effect- none too shabby if I say so myself.
