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 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.
