Author's note. It has been some years since I wrote anything new, due to a battle with the big "C." I am now in my fifth year of remission, so here goes. I hope you enjoy it.
Blowing in the wind.
It is hard to imagine that anything as innocuous as a pillowcase could change a person's entire lifestyle, but that was exactly what happened to me.
I had woken at dawn on a beautiful warm summer day. A brisk breeze was swaying the trees, so deciding it was a perfect 'drying' day, I stripped my son Marc's bed, smiling sardonically at the dried semen stains on his sheets, then stripped my own bed and dumped the soiled linen into the washing machine.
By the time I had remade the beds and had coffee, the machine cycle was finished. After hanging out the washing, a glance at the clock told me that I had time to relax before Marc came home from his night shift at the local factory, but realising that he would likely be exhausted from a gruelling work shift, I collected the week's dirty clothing and reloaded the machine, hoping to get finished in time, so the rumble of the washer wouldn't keep him awake.
The timing was perfect, because he arrived home - a little later than usual - just as the final spin cycle ended.
I poured him a mug of coffee, and he sipped gratefully. "Thanks, I needed this. I've had one of those nights when nothing seemed to go right. I think I'll skip breakfast and hit the sack."
I waited a short while in case he changed his mind about breakfast, then went to bring in the by now dry bedlinen. It was a struggle controlling the sheets in the strengthening wind, and I was reaching for the last of the pillowcases when it billowed in a sudden gust. Tearing free from the clothes pegs, it bounced along like a half inflated balloon down the six foot gap between the house and the high side fence.
Cursing under my breath, I took the rest of the wash inside the house, and went to retrieve the errant pillowcase. As i stooped to pick it up, I was startled to hear Marc's voice through his open window.
"Wow, those are some tits!"
Thinking that somehow my robe had come open in my struggle with the washing, I blushed and glanced down, relieved to see everything was as it should be.
Then a second thought struck me when I heard a throaty chuckle and a female voice.
"I'm glad you like them honey."
'How the hell did he manage to smuggle a girl into his room without me noticing?' I thought indignantly. 'No wonder he was in a hurry to get to bed.'
Since the high fence guaranteed his privacy, I knew he only ever closed his curtains for added warmth in the winter, and I risked a cautious glance into his room.
He was alone, staring at his computer, which showed an image, not of a girl, but of a woman who looked several years older than my own thirty nine years. As far as I could see, she was naked from the waist up and cupping a huge pair of breasts that seemed out of all proportion despite her being more than a little overweight.
She spoke again, and this time I picked up on the lazy drawl of the American south. "Are they as good as your Ma's?"
He shook his head quickly. "I don't know, I've never seen hers."
"You're kidding me, right?" she sounded surprised, and a cold fist clenched around my heart as she went on. "You told me last week you want to fuck her."
He had the grace to blush. "I do," he stammered, "but..."
"It don't make no sense," she interjected. "how can she expect you to stick your cock in her if she don't even let you see her titties?"
"She doesn't know," he admitted, "and she'd probably slap me into the middle of next week if she even suspected."
The woman nodded in apparent understanding. "Yeah, my boy Clyde was like that until I gave him a bit of encouragement, then after he fucked me the first time he couldn't get enough."
Marc said something else, but I was too stunned by the revelations to take it in, then she shook her head. "I don't have time today. Maybe tomorrow, but I'm warning you, you don't get to see my cunt until you show me your pecker."
The screen went blank as she closed the connection, and I scurried inside, my mind whirling with confusion and more than a little disgust. Not so much at what Marc had said, because after all, lots of sons went through similar phases, but at the woman's confession that she had actually acted on and encouraged her own son's illicit urges.
I couldn't really blame Marc for what had happened. When all is said and done, I never heard of any normal, healthy man passing up a chance to see a pair of naked breasts. Nor could I blame any woman for wanting to be admired, and if exposing her body was what it took, then so be it. It was her choice and her right.
But for any mother to openly boast to a total stranger that she had encouraged and induced her own flesh and blood to copulate with her was unthinkable. I was, of course, aware that such things happened, and took the view that what people did behind closed doors was their business, but to broadcast it not only carried the risk of discovery by the authorities, it showed a distinct lack of self respect.
There was, however, one aspect of the whole sordid situation that gave me a degree of smug satisfaction. The woman had asked if her breasts were as good as mine, and although admittedly mine were slowly losing their fight with gravity, her mammoth floppy jugs looked to have completely capitulated.
I hung out the rest of the washing, double pegging it against the wind, and took a shower, after which I did something I had not done in more years than I cared to remember. I stood in front of the mirror and studied my figure. Really studied it, trying to see it as a man might. Using both hands and eyes.
All things considered, I had fared rather well over the years. Despite the slight sag, my breasts were still pleasingly firm, and when I circled them with finger and thumb and squeezed, my nipples stood out like thimbles. I stroked my palms across them, shivering with pleasure at how sensitive they still were,
In a way, I wasn't so different from Marc's woman friend - I found it hard to think of her as a lady. Although I would never in a million years show myself to a total stranger, I did like to be admired. In the three months or so I had been with the boy I gave my virginity to, I lost all sense of shyness or modesty. Sometimes, even in public places - provided nobody else could see - I took a delight in exciting him, and myself, by discreetly raising my skirt, so he would know I was not wearing panties, and was his for the taking. The public occasions also carried the added thrill of knowing that strangers only feet away were totally unaware that my pussy was on show, if they only chanced to turn their heads.
In the months after my first lover and I parted company, I engaged in occasional short liaisons, as I explored my new found sexuality. In learning how to please and be pleased, I quickly discovered the joy of lying naked my lover of the moment explored my pussy and breasts, first with his eyes, then with his fingers, lips and tongue, and finally with his hard cock.
Strangely, in these brief dalliances I had no interest in discreetly exposing my pussy as before, but what I liked to think of as "private viewing" resumed during my only two longish term relationships, and became a normal part of foreplay. It was also during the second of these that I hesitantly took a cock into my mouth for the first time, and when the first wad of cum hit my tongue I sucked harder, eager for more and wondering why I had been so reluctant.
Shortly afterwards I met and married Marc's father, and naturally, in the throes of what I told myself was my one true love, my exhibitionism and newly discovered liking for cocksucking, took on a whole new meaning. Unfortunately it also indirectly contributed to the failure of our marriage. At first it excited him as much as it had my previous lovers, but once we were married he began to drop hints that, if I did it for him, I should be willing to do it, and perhaps more, for his friends. Over time the hints became blatant suggestions, all of which I vehemently refused. The marital death blow came one evening when he came home late smelling of alcohol. He announced that he had been drinking with his boss, and discussing a possible promotion.
That was when he dropped the bombshell that he had arranged to bring his boss over to have sex with me in order to 'seal the deal.' In a fit of blind outrage I screamed at him that if he wanted a whore to help advance his career he was more than welcome to find one. That night he slept on the couch, and next day I had the locks changed whilst he was at work, and that was it.
I had continued idly caress my breasts as I reminisced, unaware that my free hand had wandered down over the slight roundness of my middle aged spread. For the first time since my marriage ended my fingers touched my clitoris, and I jerked my hand away as if stung.
I had gone through almost two years of sheer hell after I had the locks changed, until I learned to suppress my sexual needs, and the last thing I wanted was to go through it all again. At best it had been a constant ache in my pussy, but there were times when I was so frustrated I was almost ready to call my ex and tell him to bring his friends over.
I didn't sleep at all well that night, being constantly woken by a vague, not quite remembered dream. It was starting to get light when I finally gave up all hope of trying to sleep. Despite having a shower followed by some strong coffee, I was moving like a zombie as I made a half hearted attempt to do some housework. Marc came home late again and went straight to his room, and five minutes later I was standing outside his window. I was a little shocked to see that he had already stripped to his boxer shorts, and was staring impatiently at his computer.
When she finally came online I was even more shocked. Her camera had been repositioned, to show her seated on an overstuffed couch, totally nude but with her hand covering her sex.
"OK," she grinned, "I don't have much time, so how about you show me what your Ma is missing out on, then you can see my cunt."
I cringed at her casual use of the 'C' word, because although I had occasionally used it to myself in moments of extreme passion, I very rarely said it aloud. Perhaps I was being too picky, but in my mind it simply wasn't something a real lady said. A moment later I suppressed a gasp as without hesitation Marc stood up and pushed his boxers down and off.
"Holy crap!" she burst out as she, and I, stared in awed fascination at his rigid tool. "If my Clyde had a skin flute like that I'd be blowing tunes on it all day long!"
I had to concede that she definitely had a point. My son wasn't overly endowed, but what he did have was more than impressive.
