WARNING: All characters are 18+ and should know better. This story contains explicit adult content involving taboo relationships. If that's not your cup of tea, best sod off elsewhere.
So I fucked my son, and my best friend and her son. There. Said it. Written down. Can't take it back now can I? Venice last week. Of all the places.
Shocked? Fair enough. I've gone from analysing Oedipus Rex to living it. Freud would have a bloody field day. Still reading though? Course you are. Want to know how it happened, don't you? It's quite the story.
---
[
that last glass of prosecco
]
'Found something', James holds up dusty wine bottle on our final night in Venice. 'Housekeeper says guests open it during transformations'.
Three glasses in and I'm soaked. We're all drunk now.
You can feel it building, can't you? The tension. That delicious anticipation before boundaries dissolve.
'To discovering what we want', Maggie raises her glass.
Four bodies in this ancient palazzo. Four days of tension ready to snap.
'Been thinking about tonight', Maggie twirls hair. 'Last night in this place'.
'Depends what we want', wine making me brave. 'We've paired off separately over the holiday. But there's another option'.
Danny leans forward. 'All four together?'
James chokes on his drink. 'Too far! Christ, Danny'.
'We're all thinking it', Danny shrugs.
'There's a line', James flushes. 'That's mental'.
'Is there?' Maggie touches his wrist. 'We crossed lines at Stansted check-in'.
Flashback to our first morning. Breakfast table. James avoiding my eyes after I'd heard him with Maggie the night before. Under the table, my stockinged foot brushed his ankle. He froze. My foot slid higher.
You're wondering how this started, aren't you? How we slipped so easily into depravity. It began with stockings. Always stockings. The way he looked at them. The way they all did.
Maggie missed nothing. 'That stocking fetish runs deep. Should've seen him with mine last night'.
Back to now. Masks on the table between us.
'Haven't you wondered?' Maggie behind James now, lips at his ear. Tan stockings catching light. 'Seeing you and your mum together?'
'Your body disagrees'. Her hand finding his lap. 'You have a stiffy just thinking about it'.
I watch my son's resistance crumbling. Should revolt me. Doesn't.
Don't pretend you wouldn't be curious. The forbidden has always been the most seductive.
'Maybe masks would help', I suggest. 'Venetian nobles knew what they were doing'.
Danny returns with four masks. James protests while Maggie strokes him through his trousers. 'Come feel how wet this makes me'. His hand trembles. 'Fuck', he breathes. 'Soaking'.
'Want to see your cock balls deep in her while she begs for more.'
Words hit hard. Face burning, but gosh I'm wet between my legs. Years since I've been this aroused.
The moment she said it aloud, something clicked into place. Like she'd named the thing we'd all been circling. You can feel it too, can't you? That thrill of the unspeakable finally spoken.
'More wine', Danny tops glasses. We drink deeply.
'Let's be clear', my lecturer voice fighting arousal. 'We're crossing lines most find appalling'.
'Want to stop?' Maggie asks.
Heavy silence. Church bells ring somewhere.
'No', I finally admit. 'Tired of English propriety'. James reaches for his mask. 'We'll regret this?'
'Probably', Danny slips his mask on. 'Regret not doing it more though'.
[
watching from the doorway
]
On our first night in Venice there had been midnight thunder. The rain soaking my nightie on the terrace, while I was wearing one of Danny's masks, before wandering the corridors and seeing through Maggie's door. My son with his hands gripping her stockings while she rode him. My hand between my legs later.
Should've been disgusted, shouldn't I? Instead, I watched for minutes. Memorized how he touched her. How he worshipped those tan stockings. Later, touching myself, I imagined it was my black ones he was stroking. Depraved? Perhaps. But you're still reading.
[
stockings and silk scarves
]
Now those same hands grip my black stockings, his fingers snagging slightly on a loose thread. I should have packed the nicer pair.
'Keep those on,' Maggie traces my stocking tops, her fingernail leaving a trail of goosebumps. 'James loves them, don't you?' She extends her tan-silk leg with exaggerated grace, nearly losing her balance against the antique chaise longue. Her thighs, softer than they'd been a decade ago, catch the candlelight in a way that somehow makes the dimples in her skin look appealing rather than embarrassing.
James turns bright red but says nothing. The mask sits awkwardly on his face, slightly too large and threatening to slip off with any sudden movement. His youthful stomach tenses as he shifts position, not an ounce of fat there. Not like mine, bearing the silvery marks of carrying him all those years ago.
'I want to try something,' the wine making me brave, the sweet Venetian Prosecco still tickling the back of my throat. 'I've always wanted to be tied up.' I admit, fumbling over the words. 'Not in control. I want to be used.'
'Bloody hell,' James shifts, hiding his obvious arousal, but his elbow catches the side table, nearly toppling an ornate lamp. We all freeze for a moment before nervous laughter breaks the tension.
'Oh yes, your mum has needs you never imagined,' Maggie smirks, her voice slightly slurred. She's had more to drink than any of us. Her breasts hang lower without a bra, nipples pointing slightly downward, nothing like the perky ones in porn, but somehow more arousing for being real.
My face is burning. I nod once, unable to meet anyone's eyes.
Forty-eight years of propriety. Decades of missionary sex with lights off. And now, asking to be tied up and used by my own son. Venice changes people. Or perhaps just reveals what was always there.
They tie me to the divan, stockinged legs spread obscenely wide. The silk scarves cutting into wrists aren't actually silk but some synthetic blend that feels rough against my skin. Ankles bound tight to wooden legs, my thighs trembling with the strain of being held apart. My right hip already starting to ache from the unnatural position, a little reminder of age I try to ignore. The ancient divan creaks ominously beneath me, and I briefly wonder if we'll break this priceless antique.
'Christ,' James breathes, cock visibly throbbing as he sees me displayed. Not his mother but a horny middle-aged woman in a mask, desperate for his young hard cock. The mask slips slightly, and he pushes it back up awkwardly, the gesture oddly endearing. His chest smooth and taut in the lamplight, all lean muscle where my ex-husband had gone soft decades ago.
Maggie slaps my inner thigh, leaving a red mark that stings more than I expected. 'She's dripping already. Look at that wet cunt. Taste her,' she commands James, then adds in a stage whisper, 'I saw this in a film once.' Her breasts swing freely as she moves, the weight of them settling naturally to her sides as she leans over me.
He hesitates, then bends. His first approach is too eager and his nose bumps painfully against my pubic bone. 'Sorry,' he mutters, repositioning himself. The second attempt is better, first touch of his tongue electric, but uncoordinated. He finds his rhythm eventually, and it's wrong and perfect all at once. I'm crying out, my back arching against restraints, one of which is already coming loose. My stomach crinkles unattractively as I twist, but no one seems to care or even notice.
His tongue. My God. Where did he learn that? Certainly not from his father. David never went down on me like that. Like he was starving and I was a feast. Like he'd been waiting his whole life. Though the beard stubble is starting to chafe uncomfortably.
'That's it. Deeper. Make her squirm', Maggie instructs, pinching my nipples hard, twisting them between her fingers. 'She likes pain with her pleasure'.
Maggie straddles my face, grinding her wet cunt against my mouth. Tan silk thighs smothering me. 'Lick me while your son tongue-fucks you. Always wanted to sit on your face'.
Danny is watching, stroking his thick hard cock. 'Fuck me, she's taking it like a mummy fuck toy'.
'Call her that', Maggie orders. 'She gets wetter when you degrade her. Don't you, professor?'
Moaning agreement into Maggie's cunt as James pushes two fingers inside me alongside his tongue.
'Look at her slutty holes, all ready for cock', Maggie announces. 'Which one first, boys?'
'Flip her over', Danny suggests, voice thick. 'Want to see her arse up, face down'.
They untie me only to flip me onto my stomach, re-securing wrists to headboard. Bum raised high, face pressed into pillows.
So exposed. So vulnerable. In that moment, I wasn't Dr Matthews, respected academic. Just flesh and need. Strange how liberating complete surrender can be. Have you ever experienced that?
Maggie spreads my bum cheeks wide. 'Look at this tight hole. Ever had anything in here, Sarah?'
I shake my head, face burning with shame and arousal. The humulation is real, but sensual and empowering in a kinky fuckery fashion.
'Mmm a tight virgin arse', Maggie announces. 'Who wants it?'
'Me', James and Danny say simultaneously.
