A Little Treat

Okay, I'm being bad with this one. This story crosses several genres, plus the occasional moral 'line in the sand'. It takes place in a fantasy world where, among other delusions, Sexually Transmitted Diseases are unheard of. My

caveat

to you is the obvious one: Kids, don't try this at home – or anywhere else.

***

"... and you can reach me on my cell if you need me. Brenda and I are trying out a new club downtown. I probably won't be back until late, so don't wait up, okay? Just make sure everything is locked up before you go to bed. I have my key. Sleep tight, and I'll see you in the morning."

Those luminous emerald eyes, cat's eyes, beheld me once again. They captivated me so effortlessly, set beneath immaculately-groomed, pencil-thin, high-arched brows, framed by long, thick, curled eyelashes. I had watched her, sat by her side, as she made up those eyes. Three coats of

Blackest Black

mascara. Slashes of

Jet Black

liquid liner, above and below, extending beyond the corners of her eyes.

Moss Green

shadowed lids, fading to pearlescent white just below the brows.

Those provocative, smoldering eyes perched atop the highest, most prominent cheekbones one could possibly imagine. A darker, contouring blush below the bone, with pearlescent white above, enhanced their definition. The cheeks curved inward, then flared to a firm, sculpted jawline. Plush, bee-stung lips glistened in gloss-enhanced

Raven Red.

That most perfect face was framed by a full, fluffy mane of thick copper curls which draped over her shoulders and softly caressed her mid-back. The long, graceful neck segued into the kind of 38-24-37 fantasy body porn stars pay thousands to achieve. That body was poured into a stretchy green satin tank dress which hugged her curves like wet tissue. The deeply-scooped sweetheart neckline with its built-in underwired cups revealed the chasm of cleavage created by her firm, round D-cup breasts. The little sheath's scandalous hemline paid lip service to covering the welts of her sheer black stockings and the garter tabs that held them in place. The stockings caressed her long, shapely dancer's legs from sheer toe to high on her firm, generous thigh.

That five-foot-six walking wet dream was now an even six feet, set high atop green patent ankle-strap sandals with Lucite platform soles and towering Lucite stiletto heels. The wet-look

Raven Red

finger- and toenails were a perfect compliment to those full lips. Oversized gold hoops dangled from her earlobes. Gold rings adorned several fingers on each hand, plus two toes on each foot. Conspicuously absent from the third finger of her left hand were the wedding band and matching solitaire, replaced by a simpler, less symbolic costume ring. The seductive scent of

Obsession

wafted about her, completing the picture.

"Of course," she purred, delicately tracing one elegant fingernail down my chest, "I would be happy to wake you and give you a little treat when I get in. Would you like that?"

As if there could be any doubt. I swallowed hard and nodded dumbly. She smiled sweetly at my response, delicately placing one hand to my right cheek and softly kissing the left.

"Okay, Baby," she trilled. "I'll see you later then. Take care."

She pivoted gracefully on her toes and strutted out the door, undulating her hips provocatively. Although her tush always swayed attractively as she walked, I knew she was putting a little extra wiggle in her walk for my benefit. I appreciated that, as the hardness in my jeans attested. She waved and smiled as she slipped into Brenda's car. Then, they were gone.

A little treat.

I knew what that meant. Sometime in the wee hours between midnight and dawn, she would slip into my room, a little drunk and disheveled. She would climb into my bed, kissing me softly and stroking my face and hair to awaken me. Then she would kneel astride my face and lower her naked pussy to me. I would suck on her nether lips, swallowing the aromatic blend of pussy juice and thick, ropy wads of spunk she expelled into my mouth. Then, I would delicately lap inside her with my tongue, cleansing her slavishly. Once finished with this task – and having enflamed her libido once again – I would turn my attention to her hyper-sensitive clit. At the same time, I would use a finger to stimulate her G-spot and perhaps her anus. If she achieved anything less than six orgasms before she collapsed, sated, I considered it a personal failing.

Afterward, she would cuddle up beside me and tell me all about the man – or men – who had taken her that night, how big they were, what they had done to her, and how she had felt. All the while, she would be stroking my shaft, urging me on, until I exploded all over her hand and my abdomen. She would scoop up as much of my cum as she could and feed it back to me, then have me lick her hand clean. Finally, she would tuck me in, kiss me good night, then slink down the hall to her own bedroom. She had never slept with me, nor had sex with me in the traditional sense. She told me that would have been wrong.

Cuckold

. The word echoed down the long, dark passages of my mind as I gazed at the empty spot down the street where I had last viewed Brenda's tail lights. I knew what the word meant; I had looked it up on the Merriam-Webster web site. I had certainly read about it in high school English and American literature.

Cuckold.

That didn't apply to me, did it? I mean, sure, she was cuckolding

my father

, gone on another of his seemingly-endless business trips. But a mother can't cuckold her own son – can she?

We were

not

one of those laughably dysfunctional families you see on television. My father was the CEO - and best salesman – of a medium-sized manufacturing company. He was a good, if not overly affectionate provider. He and his wife had a nice home in an affluent suburb, a stable relationship, and one child – me. My family belonged to a posh country club and had a lifetime health club membership. Mom and I used the latter regularly to keep fit and toned. My father did not use it at all, and it showed.

My parents had met in college. Well,

he

was in college.

She

was dancing at a local gentlemen's club to put herself through Cosmetology School. He and a group of his fraternity brothers had visited one Saturday night. He saw her. She danced for him, first at their table, then privately in the Champagne Room. He bragged about the family firm and that his future was pre-ordained. Sparks flew, and

yadda-yadda-yadda

....

She got knocked up. Even

he

didn't know how old she actually was until then. Mom called it 'plausible deniability'; no one would have to know she was jailbait as long as he slipped that ring on her finger. The couple had danced around the subject of her background when he presented her to his parents. Dad graduated and went to work for my grandfather in the 'family firm'. They all lived happily ever after – sort of.

After my birth, Mom took enthusiastically to her dual roles of mother and trophy wife. Apart from her fitness regimen, she sweet-talked her husband into paying for a few surgical 'tweaks' over the years to keep her looking as good – or better – than she had when they first met. The new boobs and buns came early on. Even her staunchest critics agreed they looked really good. She was never adverse to flaunting them, either. You always hear men talk of their wives appearing ten years younger than their actual age. By the time she reached her thirties, with the right makeup and clothes, Mom could still pass for a sensual, exotic twenty-year-old. Even her name – Marilynn – evoked images of wanton lust and desire.

She wouldn't have minded that image a bit. She was always uninhibited, on the exhibitionistic side – at least, when my father wasn't around. I grew up believing it was perfectly natural for a boy to view his mother naked, fresh from the shower, as she painted her fingernails and toenails, did her makeup and hair and dressed for her day. That was what she

wanted

me to believe. She and I had always been that close – much closer than I had ever been to my stiff, aloof, overly-formal father.

What is it about corporate life that seems to lobotomize otherwise healthy, well-adjusted males? Once he became entrenched in the fast track, my father suddenly decided he had a certain image to cultivate and maintain. By extension, his wife did too; she had to become the perfect little corporate spouse. Mom loved my father, but that oh-so-proper image chafed at her spirit. She and I used to talk about it. She told me how much she wished she could just cut loose and be a shameless hussy once in a while, but my father would never understand, much less approve. In fact, he bought the clothes he wanted to see her in on the occasions when they went out together. It was always tasteful and elegant – in an understated way. Apparently, their sex life took on a similar tenor.

Of course, he was on the road a lot. At first, it was two- or three-day trips to places like Grand Rapids, Milwaukee, Corning, and Hutchinson. As the business grew, the destinations became glitzier – and farther away; Los Angeles, New York, London, Bonn, Vienna. He took his wife on some of them (Mom loved Europe), but mostly he went alone – and for a week or more at a time.

That was when Mom got her ya-ya's out. She wanted,

needed

to be seen, admired, desired for the sensual woman she was in her heart. She had a wardrobe my father didn't know about; lingerie, corsets, shoes, boots, and clothing

she

had purchased and wore to express her inner self when my father wasn't around. She kept in contact with a coterie of special friends, especially Brenda, a similarly desperate housewife. They would go out in the evening and vent their pent-up frustrations on an evening of drinking, dancing – and more.

I grew from adolescence into my teen years, then through High School. Mom felt more comfortable sharing that side of herself with me, knowing I would never betray her confidence. What red-blooded boy

wouldn't

be enthralled by the presence of a drop-dead-gorgeous woman in such close proximity – one who delighted in flaunting her sensuality for such an appreciative audience? It was exactly the kind of attention she craved, even from so young an admirer.

She enlisted me as a co-conspirator in her little tease, asking my opinion of this or that outfit, shoes, even makeup and hair style. I was soon taking a more active role, fastening the band and adjusting the straps on whatever lacy, racy bra she chose to cradle her magnificent mammaries. Mom favored a garter belt and stockings to pantyhose, relating that it made her feel much more feminine. After rolling her stockings up her long, shapely legs, she would allow me to fasten the welts to her garter tabs. On those wicked occasions when she wore seamed hose, I had the pleasure of massaging the stockings around her gorgeous gams to make sure the seams were straight. She would do her makeup and hair – far more provocatively than anything she affected in my father's presence - while I watched, then slip into the dress or blouse and skirt she would wear that evening. I buttoned buttons, zipped zippers, and fastened belts where required.

As if that wasn't enough to get a boy going, the high heels she wore really did it for me. There was nothing subtle about the skyscraper five- and six-inch stiletto-heeled pumps and platform sandals she favored when she really wanted to express her 'inner slut'. That became a high point of our little game. Once she was dressed and made up

just so

, she would seat herself in her favorite chair in the living room and lit a cigarette, something she only did when she was 'being bad'. While she smoked and gazed bemusedly at me, it was my delight to slip the shoes or boots she had chosen on her feet, then buckle, tie, or zip them snug. As my reward, she would strut about the living room, doing a little 'show' for my appreciation. The sight of her was always as intoxicating as the heady scent of her perfume. My physical reaction kept pace with my emotional one – a fact that was not lost upon her.

All the while she taught me things, life lessons about women's wants, needs, and desires, what they find attractive in a man, how they like to be approached, and how to please a woman both emotionally and sexually. Our special intimacy evolved from that. I asked her one night if she had ever shared her 'special treat' with my father. She just smiled a bit ruefully.

"No, Sweetie," she replied, cuddling a little closer. "It takes a special kind of man to share that level of intimacy with a woman. I love your father to death, but he just isn't that kind of man. You, on the other hand..."

She kissed me softly on the lips.

"... are adventurous, sensitive, considerate, and giving, yet strong and emotionally secure in yourself and your relationships. That makes you everything a girl could ever want. Don't ever lose that."

Thanks to my mother's teachings, I was much better informed about women and sex than any of my friends. Through high school and into my first year of college, I had a series of girlfriends and was intimate with a few. I was developing profoundly in a physical sense, and my sex partners were wild about it. They were cute, and the intimacy was nice, but they were... girls. Compared to the vision of Womanhood I saw at home every day – well, there was no comparison.

Mom did not comment openly about my 'development', but there were little signals she was anything but oblivious to it. When I stood behind her, fastening her bra strap or zipping a zipper, she would back up just a bit. The ever-present bulge in my pants would invariably find its way into the cleft between her butt cheeks. She held it for a moment or two, then moved away. It was such a subtle move, it could have been coincidental, but it happened more than once. Likewise, she sometimes brushed the crotch of my jeans with her hand when reaching for something. She might smile apologetically, but there was a look in her eyes that suggested it hadn't been so accidental – and that she was seeing me in more than a motherly light.

My nineteenth birthday dinner, celebrated at the country club to which we belonged, was as bland as Dad wanted us all to be. It was held on a Wednesday night, two days before my birthday, because my father had to leave on a business trip the following day and would be gone through the following week.

I had received acceptances from a half-dozen major universities. We weren't hurting for money; I could have gone pretty much anywhere. It had been my choice to attend a very prestigious local school – and continue living at home. Dad was actually enthusiastic for a change. He could not fault the credentials of their School of Business and had arranged for me to intern as his 'Personal Assistant', thus preparing myself to "hit the ground running" after graduation.

Why do business people insist on using those old, tired clichés?

After dinner, we adjourned to the bar for after-dinner drinks (Dad thoughtfully ordered a Coca-Cola for me). I endured The Speech – you know, the one where the father tells the son how proud he is that his son is now

a man

(yeah, Dad; here I sit, nursing my soda, feeling

really

manly).

I was waiting for him to launch into "Son, one of these days, all of this will be yours." I looked at him, then at the handful of stodgy old "regulars" who didn't seem to have anything better to do on a weeknight than come to the club and drink. I wanted to puke.

Through all of it, my mother beheld me with a knowing smile. The way she gazed at me led me to think she had something to say other than my father's banalities. She would never say so while my father spoke because he hated to be interrupted almost as much as he hated to be corrected. I was looking forward to his departure the next day, so she could share her thoughts with me unhindered.

After a long, frustrating commute, I escaped the expressway madness Friday afternoon, thankful the week was over. I was actually feeling pretty good about being nineteen. It wasn't quite the defining moment eighteen had been, but I would have some time off from work while my father was out of town. There was at least a possibility I could convince my mother to go out with me for a pizza or cheeseburger, just the two of us. That would have meant a whole lot more to me than the stuffy, formal 'event' of two nights previous.

I came home to discover her dressed to the nines and seated on the couch in the living room. Her sinfully-short black lambskin microskirt was a personal favorite of mine. She had mated it to a matching black lambskin halter-necked vest that revealed the deep valley of her cleavage and most of her back. Her makeup and hair were wickedly overstated in a way that proclaimed she demanded to be the center of attention. She had gotten her nails done, too; fetish-length, gently-curving Raven Red talons with flashy gold nail art that would have given my father fits. The open-toed, stiletto-heeled sandals she wore put her matching sculpted toenails on prominent display, painted the same deep red as her talons and plush, kissable lips. There were drinks on the coffee table before her and she was smoking a cigarette.

This

was sensory overload!

I immediately thought Brenda was there. She and Mom often had a drink or two before going out. Any disappointment I might have felt for my own tentative plans was overshadowed by my wish that Mom go out and have a good time.

"Mom?" I inquired hesitantly.

She smiled coyly and shook her head.

"Call me

Marilynn

," she replied in a seductive purr. "Only my

son

calls me 'Mom'."

I was confused. If I wasn't her son, who was I?

"Do you have company? Would you like me to come back later?"

She shook her head again and softly patted the empty space next to her.

"Not at all," she cooed. "I've been waiting for you, Michael. My husband is out of town on business tonight. I wanted to spend a little quality time with the

other

man in my life."

Dazed, I took my seat next to her. I had seen that look in her eyes before – many times. It was that hungry, predatory look she had when she described the men she had had sex with. I was no rocket scientist, but I could see this little scene was not about mother and son. My cock was suddenly getting very uncomfortable in my tight jeans. She raised the two glasses from the table before her, offered me one, then snuggled up next to me. Her drink was scotch on the rocks; her favorite. Mine appeared to be Coke.

Oh, joy

. One sip told me it was far more than that.

For the rest of the afternoon and evening, the world I had known did not exist. I was submerged in an alternate reality, where this gorgeous creature and I were meeting for the first time. She refreshed our drinks frequently and smoked while engaging me in conversation that only a man and woman might share. All the while, she gently stroked the back of my neck with her ultra-long, curving crimson talons. The erotic sensation sent chills down my spine.

My beautiful companion revealed intimate details about her former lovers and her relationship with her husband, adding what she had liked and disliked about each, as though I was hearing it for the first time. She asked me about the other women I had been with, expressing no shock to discover I was no longer a virgin.

"I would expect a good-looking guy like you would have to fight them off," she purred, with a seductive smile and wink.

As she spoke, she devoured me with her eyes. I was already six feet tall, just like my father, but a lot leaner and more muscular. She paid particular attention to the prominent bulge in my jeans. She cocked her head to one side and glanced at me askance, smiling coyly.