Content Note:
Incest
For me, the end of lockdown is like waking from a dream. Indeed, I can hardly remember the past year, apart from some very occasional shopping and lots of gardening, and my lazy, disappointing son being forever there, wandering about the house in a semi-dressed state that is frankly embarrassing. It's a relief that he will be back at university and not bothering me - not least because I had a disturbingly erotic dream about transforming into a huge-breasted blonde bimbo and letting my son use me like a whore...
It's strange how vivid my memory of that dream is. When I awoke this morning, I rushed to the mirror to reassure myself that it had been just a dream, and the relief at seeing I wasn't a huge-breasted blonde bimbo was profound. Damn, I looked hot though. My chestnut hair was darker and straighter than usual, my body toned and slender, and the accumulated lines of age much diminished. I looked twenty years younger than before lockdown. The result of healthy eating and exercise, no doubt.
I shied away from questioning this second youth too deeply. The only really troubling thing about it is how perky my tits look. (My breasts, that is. For some reason I keep thinking of them as tits.) And I definitely don't remember my nipples being so prominent before - or quite so sensitive.
My pubes were a dark, tangled bush, and if I didn't know better, I would have said there was cum sticking to it - but that was impossible. I've been stuck home alone for a year with only my son for company, and no way in hell would I ever let him fuck me. Although, why had I dreamed about him fucking me? Why did thinking about his cock make me tingle inside? - as if he could possibly arouse me.
In the shower, as I washed myself, and as my fingers strayed between my thighs, the hair there bothered me. I sat and carefully cut and shaved it away, and my armpits too of course, and afterwards felt a hundred times sexier. Lockdown was over, and the world felt full of possibility. My son had even found me a job...
That is an odd thing. My lazy son, who has spent the past year either in front of Zoom or in front of the TV, has somehow found me a job. A secretarial position - which I don't mind; I've done a dozen different types of office work. Harry has even gone online and bought me some new shoes and suits to wear.
Well, the thought was nice, but the skirts are shorter than I like, and the shoes have high heels and thick platforms, like something a stripper would wear. Unfortunately, the only other clothes I have all scream middle-aged stay-at-home mum. Just the thought of wearing my old clothes is depressing.
With a sigh of resignation, I opt for Harry's overly sexy purchases, and have to admit the charcoal skirt and jacket fit well, that the hold-ups and high heels make my legs look fantastic, and that actually I really like the sexy secretary look.
"I'm off to work," I shout to Harry as I let myself out the front door, and it isn't until I'm walking into my new office building and get hit by a gust of cool, conditioned air that it occurs to me that I completely forgot to wear underwear. I have never in my life forgotten to put on underwear. It's not the sort of thing you can forget. I remember looking at my various bra and panty sets, but somehow I got distracted from actually putting any on.
But I don't have time to do anything about it. It's my first day of a hopefully exciting new job, and there's simply no time to return home or to dash out to the shops. Blushing at the thought of my freshly shaved pussy being open to accidental view, and at the unmistakable points my nipples make in my white shirt (thankfully concealed by my jacket), I take a trembling breath and continue on, praying that I can make it through to lunchtime without my error being discovered.
*
Harry peered through the slit in the curtains, watching his mother drive away to work. He had enjoyed having her be his bimbo-whore, but with lockdown over and their bank balances falling into the red, Harry decided it would be better to have a source of income, or two.
The App that had made it all possible was a closely guarded secret, but there was a growing dark web community of users that shared possibilities. A couple of businessmen had described how they had turned their secretaries into wanton sluts, and others had wished they'd thought of that too instead of changing their wives into bedroom whores.
One of these lived in the same city as Harry, which had given him the idea. "I can make my mother be the secretary you want," he offered, and the offer had been jumped at. It had always turned Harry on to call her his whore, and to actually sell her for someone else to use during the workday was a sweet bonus. She would be home in the evening to cook him dinner, and to do whatever he asked of her. He looked forward to seeing her pussy full of someone else's cum.
There was a chime from his tablet, and then another. Curious, he checked his notifications and saw they were both from the App. The first read, "Happy Birthday, Harry! As a loyal user, you have been selected for some bonus self adjustments." Harry followed the brief instructions and discovered he was able to adjust his own body in various ways, although only by ten percent.
"Yes!" he shouted, immediately increasing his libido and stamina by ten percent, increasing the volume and creaminess of his cum by ten percent, increasing the length and girth of his cock by ten percent - it was disappointing how little ten percent extra seemed, but it was definitely something. He could feel the difference in the weight of his engorged cock as he stroked it happily.
The second read, "As a reward for sharing Subject 1, Subject 2 has now been unlocked. Enjoy!"
"Awesome!" Harry cried, seeing the blank profile appear.
*
My boss is not what I would call handsome, but there's something exciting about the possessive way he looks at me. I spent the morning with HR and learning the system, and managed successfully to not reveal my lack of underwear, one way or another, but my plan to rush out to the shops at lunchtime goes awry.
Mr Richards asks me into his office for a private chat. "How do you like it here?" he says.
"I like it so far, sir," I reply. The 'sir' startles me. It feels right and natural to say it to him, but I'm suddenly very aware of being alone with him. My mind is suddenly racing with all those stories I've read of bosses having affairs with their secretaries. There's a photo of Mrs Richards on his desk, together with two young boys. My boss is a happily married man, it seems. And I am still not wearing any underwear.
"I like the way you call me 'sir'," he says, and I feel the heat in my cheeks. "Take off your jacket."
It's spoken as if it's just a suggestion, but I say, "Yes, sir," and it's a relief to remove the jacket - until I remember just why I have been keeping it buttoned all morning.
Mr Richards is staring at the obvious outline of my tits - my breasts - and my jutting nipples. "If you're going to distract me all day by dressing like a slut," he says in a very reasonable tone of voice, "it's only fair that you help release the tension this makes."
"Yes, sir," I agree automatically, while flushing with shame at being called a slut. I'm not a slut. I can't remember the last time I had sex, and my lack of underwear was an accident.
Mr Richards moves round his desk until he stands in front of me. I try not to look at the very obvious bulge at his crotch - but it's impossible not to stare at his hard cock as he tugs it awkwardly from his fly. "See what you've done to me," he says.
"Yes, sir," I whisper. I can't not see the erect cock throbbing in front of my face. This is not at all how I expected my first day at work to go. First forgetting my underwear, and now with my boss thrusting his cock into my face. The smell of it makes me dizzy with lust. I'm not a slut, I insist to myself, but it is my fault that my boss's cock is hard, and it is only fair that I help him with it.
I wrap my lips about the large, soft head and suck gently. For a brief, disturbing moment, I remember sucking on my son's cock as if it was the most amazing thing in the world - but that was just a dream. This is real. I'm not a slut, though. I'm a single mother and a secretary. This is just a task I need to do so we can both get back to our jobs. I focus on doing it as quickly and methodically as possible, making a tight ring with my lips and bobbing my head down and up with a steady rhythm, no moans of pleasure or looking up lustfully into his eyes. It's a fairly long cock, so I take it into my throat - which is surprisingly easy; I never used to be able to do that, but in that dream about my son, I used my throat and maybe that's why I feel so confident and relaxed now.
Mr Richards steps away. "It's not enough," he says. "I need to use your pussy. Bend over my desk."
"Yes, sir," I say quickly, and obey. "Wait! No!" By agreeing to blow him, I hadn't intended to offer myself completely.
But before I can stand up and get away from him, he lifts my skirt and sees clearly my exposed pussy, shaved bare and almost certainly wet. His hand on my back prevents me from standing, and I am held in position, helpless and embarrassed beyond measure. "No," Mr Richards says. "I've never seen a pussy more desperate to be used. If you don't want to be used like a slut, don't come to work dressed like one."
With one eager thrust, he pushes deep into me. "Fuck me, sir," I cry, the words out of my mouth before I can stop them. "Use me like the slut I am!" I can't believe I'm saying these words. But his cock feels so fucking good in me, and as long he keeps fucking me I honestly don't care if he thinks I'm a slut. "Harder, sir! Faster!"
He pauses, and reaches for his phone, which he switches to speaker. "Hello, dear," a woman's voice says. It's his wife. Mrs Richards, who is looking at me from the photo on his desk.
"I have a new secretary," my boss says, and thrusts his cock into me so hard, so deep, I moan with mingled pain and pleasure. "Can you hear?"
He holds nothing back, slamming into me hard and deep and fast, the impacts sending waves of pleasure through me. "Sounds like she's having fun," Mrs Richards says. "I'm envious."
