Blowing In the Wind

tagIncest/TabooBlowing In the Wind

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.
"If we weren't on opposite sides of the world, you could stick it in here anytime you wanted," she leered, removing her hand and spreading her legs, grinning as he gaped at her meaty, totally bald pussy. "Quick, rub one out for me before Clyde gets here," she panted, pushing three fingers deep inside herself.
I could feel my cheeks burning with shame, and there was an unwelcome tingle between my legs, as I stared avidly at my son's clenched fist flying up and down his beautiful cock.
Suddenly the woman stopped fingering herself and appeared to listen. "Oh crap, that sounds like his truck now," she groaned, "I'd better let him in."
It was then that Marc asked what under the circumstances had to be the stupidest question ever. "Has he come to fuck you?"
She paused long enough to flash him a dirty grin. "You better believe it. Wanna watch?" Before he could reply, she rose and moved out of camera shot.
We stared at the vacated couch for about ten minutes before she returned, accompanied by an equally naked, coarse looking man about half her age.
He leered into the lens as he took a seat beside her. "I guess you're the dude who wants to see me fuck my bitch," he smirked, pushing a thick finger deep into her gaping slit. "I suppose I'd better get her in the mood." He pulled her head towards his crotch. "Go ahead Ma, suck it like a good little whore."
My lip curled in disgust as she opened her mouth obediently and engulfed his tool. Not because of what they were doing, but because he had disrespected the woman who had given birth to him by calling her a bitch and a whore.
I took some smug satisfaction in noting that she had been well justified in her earlier admiration of my son's tackle. Clyde's was at the very least a good inch shorter, although admittedly what it lacked in length it made up for in girth.
She sucked enthusiastically for two or three minutes, before he pushed her away and stood up. "That's enough for now," he told her, pulling her to her feet. "Now bend over so he can watch your slutty cunt get creampied."
Without hesitation, she turned her back to the camera and bent at the waist with her legs straight and parted. Bracing herself with one hand on the seat cushion, she reached between her thighs and parted her puffed up lower lips. "Like this?" she giggled.
Her heavy thighs wobbled, and with a squeal of delight she pushed back to meet him as he entered her. "Oh yes, Clydie baby! Squeeze my titties!"
He reached forward and dug his fingers into her massive swaying jugs, as he rammed into her, rutting like farmyard animals. I might have watched them with more interest, perhaps even pleasure, had they been more attractive, and I don't just mean physically. Their crudity and disrespect repelled me more than their looks, and after a few seconds I turned my attention to Marc. Engrossed in the action, he was stroking his cock furiously and muttering to himself.
Taking a chance, I moved closer, ears strained, and heard him urging the man on.
"You lucky bastard Clyde. Give it to her good!" Suddenly sitting back, he held his throbbing tool vertical. "Geez, I wish my Mum was sitting on this!"
I stepped back in fascinated horror. Earlier, under the woman's prompting I had heard him admit that he wanted to fuck me, but in the back of my mind I had hoped he had only been trying to impress, in the hope that she would show him her pussy. Now he had seen it, and much, much more, yet still he had said it.
Mercifully I was distracted by a muted roar of triumph from Clyde. "Creampie time!" He gave three or four short, sharp thrusts and stepped back with a satisfied grunt.
With a casualness which suggested that this may be far from the first time she had done it, she reached back and parted the bloated lips, allowing a thick glob of semen to slide from her well plundered cunt.
As much as I disliked the word, in her case, and at that instant, it seemed appropriate, and I looked away from her in disgust just as Marc gasped and a stream of cum splashed onto his abdomen. "I should be shooting this into your pussy, Mum," he whispered as another spurt joined the first.
My disgust at the unnecessary crudity of the mother and son had somewhat subdued the tingling between my thighs, but now the sight of my son ejaculating made it flare up again, and hearing him say he should be shooting it inside me intensified it, and I fled to my room in dismay.
I fought the urge to stroke my burning pussy, in case I revived the years of agonised frustration that followed my marriage breakdown, but afraid that I was already too late. For one irrational moment, I even told myself that I was repelled by the self degrading manner of the couple, rather than the act itself. After what had just happened, the proximity of my son in the next room was sending my thoughts in directions I definitely did not want them to go, and I knew I had to get out of the house before I did something I might regret.
Hoping that a brisk walk in the fresh air might clear my head, I left the car at home and followed the main road. Although I had no particular destination in mind, fifteen minutes later I arrived at the shopping precinct. I spent the next hour or so browsing in the department stores, and slowly the tension began to ease, until the burning in my pussy was reduced to a dull buzz on the edge of my subconscious.
I stopped for a coffee, and was sitting in the main concourse sipping when a girl walked past, wearing a shirt with a supermarket logo, reminding me there were a few things I needed to stock up on. Returning the friendly wave of Adam, the duty shift manager, I grabbed a shopping trolley and entered the store. Aged in his mid to late thirties, Adam wasn't exactly the best looking man on the planet, but he had an air about him that drew people to him, which made him a perfect fit for his job. He had the respect of those under him, because he never expected them to do anything he wasn't prepared to do. Even his instructions sounded more like requests, making even the most mundane tasks seem less onerous.
His rapport with customers was equally impressive. Regardless of age, everyone from toddlers to seniors, was made to feel important, and he was never too busy to stop and exchange pleasantries.
I wandered aimlessly along the aisles, and it wasn't until I had passed through the checkout that I realised it had turned out to be one of those shopping trips that everyone can have occasionally if they are distracted. I stared in dismay at a trolley load of groceries that could well have waited until I had my car, and I now had no way of taking home.
Fortunately, Adam came to my rescue. When he saw my crestfallen expression, he broke off lightheartedly flirting with an attractive shopper in her sixties, who giggled like a schoolgirl and aimed a playful swipe at him.
"Having a party?" he grinned, nodding at my purchases.
"I know it sounds stupid," I confessed, "but I forgot I didn't bring my car. Is there any chance you can get someone to keep an eye on this lot whilst I dash home and get it?"
He grinned again, and in the same bantering tone he had used with the other customer, he chuckled, "That's what happens when you don't keep your mind above your waist."
Normally I would have laughed it off, but now I felt my cheeks burning in embarrassment. It was almost as though he had read my mind.
Without missing a beat, he added, "No problem. Leave your address and I'll have it delivered. It'll save you another trip."
The relief must have showed in my face, because he waved away my thanks. "Company policy," he quipped. "Anything to keep the ladies satisfied."
When I arrived home, I made some coffee and pulled a chair up to the window, ready to intercept the delivery driver before the doorbell rang and woke Marc. I scarcely had time to get settled before an impressive sports car pulled into the driveway, and my jaw dropped as the driver's door opened and Adam scrambled out.
I hurried out to help him collect my shopping from the passenger seat. "Nice car." I said admiringly.
"You know how it is," he smirked. "Chick magnets are essential accessories for predatory males."
"Hardly predatory," I laughed. "An outrageous flirt maybe, but far from a predator."
"Not so loud," he chuckled. "You'll destroy my hard earned image."
"I just made coffee if you'd like a cup," I offered as we carried the bags into the house.
He nodded. "That would be nice."
We sat at the dining table chatting and drinking, then he dug into one of the bags and handed me a box of chocolates. "I brought a little parting gift."
"Parting gift?" I looked at him in puzzlement.
"Yeah, tomorrow is my last day. I've been promoted to manager at another store. It's better money and more regular hours, so I can finally have a social life."
"Congratulations. You certainly earned it. I'm going to miss you." I told him sincerely.

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