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Before you read, this is a story that involves sexual contact between close family members. It is quite long and the nature of the sex is not extreme or particularly pornographic. If any or all of the above is something you take issue with, it's likely better not to read it or sent me dumb comments afterwards about how wrong it is. This is meant as a work of fiction, intended for entertainment, and does not reflect anyone (living or dead :) The characters in this story are over 18 years of age.
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It seems that the most noticeable changes happen when you`re not paying attention. Relationships can dissolve during periods that seem so very static. Stability is what most people seek, as insane as it may seem, aspects of instability is what makes life interesting to me; the out of control moments make me feel more alive. I need to feel that action, a depraved need to be on the other side of what is normal, on the other side of what is expected. When things are too idyllic or too status quo, I feel trapped, trapped in a comfortable velvet cage, but trapped nevertheless. I have the aching desire to be the one you least suspect, to be deplorable to better sensibilities. There's nothing that I want and nothing that I desire, because whenever I get it I just want something else.
I've always known that I was never wired quite right. Dark fantasies have permeated in my mind from the day I can first remember, and have often percolated into my actions. I can't tell if some trauma led to my histrionics, or if the histrionics led to traumas, or if it really matters. It seems that if I know a right action I will think about the opposite as a possibility. I always saw this as a sphere closed to my own realm of thought, never one that I would share with anyone close to me, and definitely not one I would pass on to my children.
Starting from the beginning would be impossible, so I will just start from a non-arbitrary point in time, a point in time pertinent to the beginning of this recollection. It was a Saturday morning on a cool sort of summer day, the sort of day that would have blended unnoticeably into a pile of typical Saturdays. The kids weren't home, giving me a sense of peace while I was starting the weekend chores.
Housework isn't something I enjoy, but under the right conditions it can be therapeutic. That morning I dove into it with the feeling that everything would be clean when I was done. Before long I was outside myself and completely into the tasks; taking the multi-disciplined approach to the process. I was washing while organizing, starting machines while considering places where dust may have been hiding.
I cleaned all the laundry in the house by the early afternoon, while organizing my dresser I noticed that something just didn't add up. There was little doubt, I was missing underwear, the thoroughness of my process left little chance that there were any waiting to be washed. I had the feeling that I had been missing underwear for a while but no firm suspicion had formed. I first noticed weeks previously, but I figured that I just misplaced a pair, perhaps dropped behind the machine, maybe somehow left them at the gym or whatever else. But now I was convinced this was something else, I was missing at least five pairs, two of which were fancy and expensive. I laid out all my panties on my bed and counted, re-counted, grouped and then regrouped; I was missing panties.
I started searching my husband's side to see if they got mixed into his; nothing came up. Next I checked my daughter's room, she was only twelve, but I figured that just maybe she thought they were pretty and took them. It was a long shot, she liked pretty things so it wouldn't have shocked me if she took them, but it would have shocked me if she didn't tell me she took them. After exhausting that search, I swallowed hard and realized that I had to search my 19 year old son's room.
In my mind, I was telling myself that there was no way and at the same time thinking that there was no other way. I searched in the normal places, under the bed, in his closet, some loose boxes, behind his desk, under his mattress and even in his hockey bag. Feeling ever more perplexed I searched a number of other places I would have considered clever, before giving up and sitting on the bed. While sitting on the bed I was trying to think of what else could have happened to them. My eyes went unfocused for a second or two, when they refocused I was looking at a piece of fabric poking out of the bed frame. The bed had gone together in pieces and came apart rather easily. The blue pipes fit into each other for simple assembly and, of course, the opposite as well. I took the pipe that connected the bedpost to the headboard apart and there they were; it was fabric stuffed into the hollow post, obviously women's underwear more particularly my underwear.
My heart felt like it was in my feet as I peeled the first pair out of the hollow pipe. My thoughts were paced at breakneck speed; thousands flooded my mind in a wave of fear and anxiety. I thought that maybe he was wearing them. I'm not proud of it, but the notion he might be scared me. My sense of liberalism was being tested in my own house, in that split second I was failing the test. Soon it became pretty obvious that any of my instinctual, and shameful fears, were misplaced, and that I was dealing with something completely different. It looked almost like globs of dried glue that were flaking on the edges and cracked in the middle. The stains were unmistakable and they were distributed all over the panties, this was cum. My son was masturbating and ejaculating on my panties. I felt dizzy and knelt next the bed using the edge to support my head as I struggled to take in air. My stomach was throbbing with butterflies, I felt the need to pee, but my legs wouldn't respond to my requests to move.
I sat, kneeled by the bed, for a long time, horrified and waiting for my senses to return. I finally gained the strength to go to the bathroom and not a moment too soon. Returning to his room, the scene of the crime, everything seemed so quiet, as if the slightest movement would upset all balance. In most every way his room looked normal, it was my perception of it which had changed. My senses were more acute to the mess that surrounded the floor, a mess that I had given up fighting about years ago. The closets and dressers were built into the walls and painted white, with the walls painted a light blue. The idea was to brighten up the room, but now they were covered with posters featuring stuff I didn't, and likely wasn't supposed to, understand. Hockey gear was prominent in the corner, as were the trophies and medals on his shelf it helped him earn. His room looked a little juvenile for a 19 year old, but perhaps that doesn't change until they move out.
I made my way slowly to the partially disassembled bed frame. For some reason I was being careful not to disturb anything else in the room, in light of the fact that I knew I had to recover the panties, the precaution was trivial at best. With the help of a wire clothes hanger, soon they were all out and laying on the floor. I poked at them with the hanger, flipping them over, inspecting them and doing my best to hold back my tears. The implications of what I found hadn't quite hit me yet. Each pair was covered in sperm and clearly these were panties taken from the dirty laundry and not my drawer. One pair in particular seemed to have gotten a lot of use; a baby blue pair that I had liked, a pair that I would have worn if I planned on having sex. They were so heavily laced with sperm that they were discoloured into a darker blue, deepest in the middle and progressively returning to the normal, lighter, colour at the edges. They were all beyond cleaning. I got a plastic bag and dropped each pair, one by one, into the bag and sealed it closed. I reassembled the bed and left looking back at least three times before closing the door.
