I sat on the back porch alongside Donald, my husband, with the muggy afternoon sun beating down on our heads. We had just finished lunch and, with the crusts of our turkey sandwiches still on our plates, were procrastinating the dreaded act of cleaning up.
Donald had come home from work for lunch, but sandwiches were not the main reason he had come home. We needed to have a conversation while our son, Tom, was out of the house about the events that had transpired the previous night.
Tom, in the middle of a terrifically powerful sleepwalk, had forced himself on me. The marital bed my husband and I had shared -- the very one upon which Tom had been conceived nineteen years earlier -- had been permanently sullied by his unconscious actions. He remained oblivious.
Donald and I feared that the knowledge of what he had done, regardless of his culpability, would have overwhelmed him. We had decided to spare him from the truth. That left us with a massive secret to keep, and Donald had come home that day to discuss exactly what to do about it. It was not a secret to either of us, however, that watching our adult son mount and inseminate me had turned both of us on enormously.
Donald admitted that, like me, he'd been unaware that he was interested in cuckolding. He had never mentioned it to me, and I had never thought seriously about it. As farfetched as it sounds, I believed that our son was the one who unintentionally awoke the kink in us both. One thing was for certain— we both wanted it to happen again.
I had my feet resting in Donald's lap so he could massage them while we chatted. "I don't want to do it with a stranger. It feels too gross."
He dug a knuckle into the ball of my foot. "I get that. For some reason, it give me anxiety to imagine you doing it with another man."
I bit my lower lip and scrunched my nose. "Unless that man is our son?"
He shrugged. "I mean, it still makes my stomach flip -- but in a good way, if that makes sense."
"Lots of people are into cucking. It's not that weird, honey."
He chuckled. "Not with their own kids, Lily."
"I know," I admitted. "It should feel
weirder
to do it with him. But..."
"But you already have." Donald knew exactly what I was getting at. "Against your will, no less!"
I joined him in creating coping strategies that would help us avoid feeling like bad parents. "Exactly! It's not like we
wanted
it, right?"
My husband took a sip of his iced tea and swallowed hastily, rushing to get his words out. "Yeah! We're just making the best of a bad situation. When life gives you lemons, you know?"
I giggled. "When life gives you lemons, use it as an excuse to have sex with your son. Is
that
how the saying goes?"
He blushed. "Okay, fair point. We may be going out of our way for more of those lemons at this point."
I wanted him to know we were both on the same page, so I reached out and stroked his forearm reassuringly. "I don't care how many mental gymnastics it takes. At the end of the day, you liked it. Right?"
Donald tuned a richer shade of rouge. "I really did."
I patted his arm. "Me, too."
"So what do we do, then?"
I waved my hands in the air erratically, gesturing to the invisible taboo that, as members of a non-degenerate society, we could not escape. "Forget all of
this
, okay? What do
you
want?"
He twiddled his thumbs. "I want to do it again. I want
him
to do it again."
I nodded enthusiastically. "So do I. Are we crazy?"
Donald seemed surprised that I even felt the need to ask. "Of course we are... but at least we'll be crazy together."
"God, honey. My heart is racing and he isn't even home yet!" My ribcage was being hammered from the inside a thousand times a minute. I could not imagine how much more excited I would have been if Tom had been home.
Donald playfully pinched my pinky toe. "What about tonight?"
It did not take me more than a second to consider. "Yes! Oh, honey. I'm so happy you're not jealous of him."
He took a deep sigh to steady himself. "I
am
jealous. It made me sick to my stomach to watch him thrusting on top of you. But..."
I raised an eyebrow. "But?"
He pursed his lips with a defeated shrug. "The jealousy is hot, I guess. I don't really understand it."
"What are you jealous
of?"
Donald rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and first finger. He had stopped massaging my feet, so I knew he was deep in thought.
I had a guess as to what might be bothering him, but I wanted to be sure. "Are you upset that he made me cum?"
He cringed, then nodded solemnly. I could not tell if the rouge blossoming on his cheeks was that of shame, or excitement. "Not
upset
. I mean, I'm happy you got to feel good... for once."
"Honey, don't—"
He held up a hand to silence me. "No, no. I know, Lily. I didn't mean it like that."
"Then how did you mean it?"
He chewed on the inside of his cheek. "I believed you when you said you couldn't orgasm. I thought it was true."
"It was, technically. No
man
has ever made me cum."
Donald's hands quivered. "No man besides our son, you mean."
My pulse quickened. "I— uh, yeah. Yes."
"I just..." He hung his head in defeat. "... wish I could do that for you."
The alarm on Donald's phone rang out, informing us that lunch time had come to an end. I shooed him away, insisting that he get back to work while I cleaned up. Truthfully, I was happy to have avoided prolonging the awkwardness that had come from my husband realizing that his sleepwalking son had undeniably outperformed him. It was a bit of a "be careful what you wish for" moment - though I supposed the entire conversation could have been that, so in my view it hadn't gone all that badly.
I could practically see his heart pounding against the inside of his chest when he stood up from the table, but it was only half as noticeable as the modest bulge forming a tent in his trousers.
It was hard for him to come - no pun intended - to terms with the fact that the only man who had ever made me orgasm was the boy that we had raised together, but based on his undeniable erection, it excited us in equal measure.
I imagined that Donald was feeling incredibly inadequate over his decades of failure to do something that our son had achieved in just one night. For me, it had instantly become a core memory. Whenever I recalled the sensations that Tom had given me, my pussy would immediately clench up.
The pace of my rapidly beating heart picked up, and I had to manually remind my brain that we were not in immediate danger. It was incredibly exciting to plan something so wickedly sinful, and, given that Donald had come aboard, I was not about to spend the rest of that week passively waiting for something to maybe happen. I wanted to strike while the iron was hot, which meant we needed to devise a way to get our son into bed with me before he got home.
That said, we could not risk him overhearing what we had in store. If it went well, he would wake up the next morning none the wiser. Donald and I, on the other hand, would be in for one of the wildest nights of our lives— again!
We planned to leave the buckle undone again. As long as there was a way to escape, I knew that Tom would find it. He had before, though that had been an accident on our parts. If we intentionally gave him the means to break out, we were confident that he would do so. The only difference was that we would be ready and waiting.
Donald returned to work while I took to finishing chores around the house. I paid no more than half attention to my surroundings while I folded laundry, vacuumed our bedrooms, and prepped for dinner. The entire time, my impending encounter with Tom was all I could focus on.
Before I knew it, several hours had passed. I knew Tom would return home sooner than his father, but my heart still leapt into my throat when I heard his familiar footsteps trudging in from the garage.
"Mom! I'm home!"
My heart pumped equal doses of fear and excitement into my bloodstream. The cloth under my armpits became damp with nervous sweat. Despite the shaking in my legs, I forced them to carry me to the foyer to greet him as I usually did. Even though I felt anything but normal, I felt as though if I didn't put on a perfect front for Tom, everything would fall apart.
It was not wholly inaccurate to say that I was secluded indoors with my rapist— one that had already proven how easily he could overpower me. That worry lingered in the back of my mind, even though Tom - when awake - was the sweetest boy that a mother could ever hope to have raised.
Perhaps other women would have felt greater trepidation to approach him, knowing what he was capable of. I doubted any of them would have felt greater arousal than me when I laid eyes upon him -- the man who had dominated me so forcefully. My pussy was soaked.
"Hi, sweetheart," I said with a weak smile.
My pulse was racing so quickly that I could not draw a full breath, forcing me to adopt a staccato method of sucking in air. It was a half-hearted attempt at hyperventilating, as I would have needed some serious sedatives to truly quash my nerves.
Tom kicked off his boots. "Didja miss me?"
I gave a nervous giggle that did not sound anything like my regular laugh. "So much, Tommy. How was the job hunt?"
His demeanour soured. "Predictable."
I knew what that meant, and I entered "mother mode" in response to the sadness on his face. I strode over, hardly even noticing that my maternal instincts had calmed my nerves and given me the courage to approach him.
I wrapped my arms around his midsection and pressed my face into his remarkably firm pectoral muscles. "Oh, sweetheart. I'm so sorry. I know how hard you've been looking."
Tom pursed his lips. "Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to matter to the people interviewing me!"
"They don't know what they're missing!"
He stopped moping and returned my embrace, looping his arms around my neck with his nose in my hair. "I'm just happy I'm home."
A tiny, yet noticeable, rush of adrenaline struck me. "Me, too. You wanna watch some TV with me? Dad won't be home for about an hour."
He agreed to keep me company on the couch while we watched cable. He asked a couple of times - some would say pleaded - to switch to Netflix, lamenting the lengthy commercials that kept us from enjoying a rerun of
Cheers
.
