A LITTLE TREAT [AngelCherysse]

"... and you can reach me on my cell if you need me. Brenda and I are trying out a new club downtown. I probably won't be back until late, so don't wait up, okay? Just make sure everything is locked up before you go to bed. I have my key. Sleep tight, and I'll see you in the morning."

Those luminous emerald eyes, cat's eyes, beheld me once again. They captivated me so effortlessly, set beneath immaculately-groomed, pencil-thin, high-arched brows, framed by long, thick, curled eyelashes. I had watched her, sat by her side, as she made up those eyes. Three coats of Blackest Black mascara. Slashes of Jet Black liquid liner, above and below, extending beyond the corners of her eyes. Moss Green shadowed lids, fading to pearlescent white just below the brows.

Those provocative, smoldering eyes perched atop the highest, most prominent cheekbones one could possibly imagine. A darker, contouring blush below the bone, with pearlescent white above, enhanced their definition. The cheeks curved inward, then flared to a firm, sculpted jawline. Plush, bee-stung lips glistened in gloss-enhanced Raven Red.

That most perfect face was framed by a full, fluffy mane of thick copper curls which draped over her shoulders and softly caressed her mid-back. The long, graceful neck segued into the kind of 38-24-37 fantasy body porn stars pay thousands to achieve. That body was poured into a stretchy green satin tank dress which hugged her curves like wet tissue. The deeply-scooped sweetheart neckline with its built-in underwired cups revealed the chasm of cleavage created by her firm, round D-cup breasts. The little sheath's scandalous hemline paid lip service to covering the welts of her sheer black stockings and the garter tabs that held them in place. The stockings caressed her long, shapely dancer's legs from sheer toe to high on her firm, generous thigh.

That five-foot-six walking wet dream was now an even six feet, set high atop green patent ankle-strap sandals with Lucite platform soles and towering Lucite stiletto heels. The wet-look Raven Red finger- and toenails were a perfect compliment to those full lips. Oversized gold hoops dangled from her earlobes. Gold rings adorned several fingers on each hand, plus two toes on each foot. Conspicuously absent from the third finger of her left hand were the wedding band and matching solitaire, replaced by a simpler, less symbolic costume ring. The seductive scent of Obsession wafted about her, completing the picture.

"Of course," she purred, delicately tracing one elegant fingernail down my chest, "I would be happy to wake you and give you a little treat when I get in. Would you like that?"

As if there could be any doubt. I swallowed hard and nodded dumbly. She smiled sweetly at my response, delicately placing one hand to my right cheek and softly kissing the left.

"Okay, Baby," she trilled. "I'll see you later then. Take care."

She pivoted gracefully on her toes and strutted out the door, undulating her hips provocatively. Although her tush always swayed attractively as she walked, I knew she was putting a little extra wiggle in her walk for my benefit. I appreciated that, as the hardness in my jeans attested. She waved and smiled as she slipped into Brenda's car. Then, they were gone.

A little treat. I knew what that meant. Sometime in the wee hours between midnight and dawn, she would slip into my room, a little drunk and disheveled. She would climb into my bed, kissing me softly and stroking my face and hair to awaken me. Then she would kneel astride my face and lower her naked pussy to me. I would suck on her nether lips, swallowing the aromatic blend of pussy juice and thick, ropy wads of spunk she expelled into my mouth. Then, I would delicately lap inside her with my tongue, cleansing her slavishly. Once finished with this task – and having enflamed her libido once again – I would turn my attention to her hyper-sensitive clit. At the same time, I would use a finger to stimulate her G-spot and perhaps her anus. If she achieved anything less than six orgasms before she collapsed, sated, I considered it a personal failing.

Afterward, she would cuddle up beside me and tell me all about the man – or men – who had taken her that night, how big they were, what they had done to her, and how she had felt. All the while, she would be stroking my shaft, urging me on, until I exploded all over her hand and my abdomen. She would scoop up as much of my cum as she could and feed it back to me, then have me lick her hand clean. Finally, she would tuck me in, kiss me good night, then slink down the hall to her own bedroom. She had never slept with me, nor had sex with me in the traditional sense. She told me that would have been wrong.

Cuckold. The word echoed down the long, dark passages of my mind as I gazed at the empty spot down the street where I had last viewed Brenda's tail lights. I knew what the word meant; I had looked it up on the Merriam-Webster web site. I had certainly read about it in high school English and American literature. Cuckold. That didn't apply to me, did it? I mean, sure, she was cuckolding my father, gone on another of his seemingly-endless business trips. But a mother can't cuckold her own son – can she?

We were not one of those laughably dysfunctional families you see on television. My father was the CEO - and best salesman – of a medium-sized manufacturing company. He was a good, if not overly affectionate provider. He and his wife had a nice home in an affluent suburb, a stable relationship, and one child – me. My family belonged to a posh country club and had a lifetime health club membership. Mom and I used the latter regularly to keep fit and toned. My father did not use it at all, and it showed.

My parents had met in college. Well, he was in college. She was dancing at a local gentlemen's club to put herself through Cosmetology School. He and a group of his fraternity brothers had visited one Saturday night. He saw her. She danced for him, first at their table, then privately in the Champagne Room. He bragged about the family firm and that his future was pre-ordained. Sparks flew, and yadda-yadda-yadda....

She got knocked up. Even he didn't know how old she actually was until then. Mom called it 'plausible deniability'; no one would have to know she was jailbait as long as he slipped that ring on her finger. The couple had danced around the subject of her background when he presented her to his parents. Dad graduated and went to work for my grandfather in the 'family firm'. They all lived happily ever after – sort of.

After my birth, Mom took enthusiastically to her dual roles of mother and trophy wife. Apart from her fitness regimen, she sweet-talked her husband into paying for a few surgical 'tweaks' over the years to keep her looking as good – or better – than she had when they first met. The new boobs and buns came early on. Even her staunchest critics agreed they looked really good. She was never adverse to flaunting them, either. You always hear men talk of their wives appearing ten years younger than their actual age. By the time she reached her thirties, with the right makeup and clothes, Mom could still pass for a sensual, exotic twenty-year-old. Even her name – Marilynn – evoked images of wanton lust and desire.

She wouldn't have minded that image a bit. She was always uninhibited, on the exhibitionistic side – at least, when my father wasn't around. I grew up believing it was perfectly natural for a boy to view his mother naked, fresh from the shower, as she painted her fingernails and toenails, did her makeup and hair and dressed for her day. That was what she wanted me to believe. She and I had always been that close – much closer than I had ever been to my stiff, aloof, overly-formal father.

What is it about corporate life that seems to lobotomize otherwise healthy, well-adjusted males? Once he became entrenched in the fast track, my father suddenly decided he had a certain image to cultivate and maintain. By extension, his wife did too; she had to become the perfect little corporate spouse. Mom loved my father, but that oh-so-proper image chafed at her spirit. She and I used to talk about it. She told me how much she wished she could just cut loose and be a shameless hussy once in a while, but my father would never understand, much less approve. In fact, he bought the clothes he wanted to see her in on the occasions when they went out together. It was always tasteful and elegant – in an understated way. Apparently, their sex life took on a similar tenor.

Of course, he was on the road a lot. At first, it was two- or three-day trips to places like Grand Rapids, Milwaukee, Corning, and Hutchinson. As the business grew, the destinations became glitzier – and farther away; Los Angeles, New York, London, Bonn, Vienna. He took his wife on some of them (Mom loved Europe), but mostly he went alone – and for a week or more at a time.

That was when Mom got her ya-ya's out. She wanted, needed to be seen, admired, desired for the sensual woman she was in her heart. She had a wardrobe my father didn't know about; lingerie, corsets, shoes, boots, and clothing she had purchased and wore to express her inner self when my father wasn't around. She kept in contact with a coterie of special friends, especially Brenda, a similarly desperate housewife. They would go out in the evening and vent their pent-up frustrations on an evening of drinking, dancing – and more.

I grew from adolescence into my teen years, then through High School. Mom felt more comfortable sharing that side of herself with me, knowing I would never betray her confidence. What red-blooded boy wouldn't be enthralled by the presence of a drop-dead-gorgeous woman in such close proximity – one who delighted in flaunting her sensuality for such an appreciative audience? It was exactly the kind of attention she craved, even from so young an admirer.

She enlisted me as a co-conspirator in her little tease, asking my opinion of this or that outfit, shoes, even makeup and hair style. I was soon taking a more active role, fastening the band and adjusting the straps on whatever lacy, racy bra she chose to cradle her magnificent mammaries. Mom favored a garter belt and stockings to pantyhose, relating that it made her feel much more feminine. After rolling her stockings up her long, shapely legs, she would allow me to fasten the welts to her garter tabs. On those wicked occasions when she wore seamed hose, I had the pleasure of massaging the stockings around her gorgeous gams to make sure the seams were straight. She would do her makeup and hair – far more provocatively than anything she affected in my father's presence - while I watched, then slip into the dress or blouse and skirt she would wear that evening. I buttoned buttons, zipped zippers, and fastened belts where required.

As if that wasn't enough to get a boy going, the high heels she wore really did it for me. There was nothing subtle about the skyscraper five- and six-inch stiletto-heeled pumps and platform sandals she favored when she really wanted to express her 'inner slut'. That became a high point of our little game. Once she was dressed and made up just so, she would seat herself in her favorite chair in the living room and lit a cigarette, something she only did when she was 'being bad'. While she smoked and gazed bemusedly at me, it was my delight to slip the shoes or boots she had chosen on her feet, then buckle, tie, or zip them snug. As my reward, she would strut about the living room, doing a little 'show' for my appreciation. The sight of her was always as intoxicating as the heady scent of her perfume. My physical reaction kept pace with my emotional one – a fact that was not lost upon her.

All the while she taught me things, life lessons about women's wants, needs, and desires, what they find attractive in a man, how they like to be approached, and how to please a woman both emotionally and sexually. Our special intimacy evolved from that. I asked her one night if she had ever shared her 'special treat' with my father. She just smiled a bit ruefully.

"No, Sweetie," she replied, cuddling a little closer. "It takes a special kind of man to share that level of intimacy with a woman. I love your father to death, but he just isn't that kind of man. You, on the other hand..."

She kissed me softly on the lips.

"... are adventurous, sensitive, considerate, and giving, yet strong and emotionally secure in yourself and your relationships. That makes you everything a girl could ever want. Don't ever lose that."

Thanks to my mother's teachings, I was much better informed about women and sex than any of my friends. Through high school and into my first year of college, I had a series of girlfriends and was intimate with a few. I was developing profoundly in a physical sense, and my sex partners were wild about it. They were cute, and the intimacy was nice, but they were... girls. Compared to the vision of Womanhood I saw at home every day – well, there was no comparison.

Mom did not comment openly about my 'development', but there were little signals she was anything but oblivious to it. When I stood behind her, fastening her bra strap or zipping a zipper, she would back up just a bit. The ever-present bulge in my pants would invariably find its way into the cleft between her butt cheeks. She held it for a moment or two, then moved away. It was such a subtle move, it could have been coincidental, but it happened more than once. Likewise, she sometimes brushed the crotch of my jeans with her hand when reaching for something. She might smile apologetically, but there was a look in her eyes that suggested it hadn't been so accidental – and that she was seeing me in more than a motherly light.

My nineteenth birthday dinner, celebrated at the country club to which we belonged, was as bland as Dad wanted us all to be. It was held on a Wednesday night, two days before my birthday, because my father had to leave on a business trip the following day and would be gone through the following week.

I had received acceptances from a half-dozen major universities. We weren't hurting for money; I could have gone pretty much anywhere. It had been my choice to attend a very prestigious local school – and continue living at home. Dad was actually enthusiastic for a change. He could not fault the credentials of their School of Business and had arranged for me to intern as his 'Personal Assistant', thus preparing myself to "hit the ground running" after graduation.

Why do business people insist on using those old, tired clichés?

After dinner, we adjourned to the bar for after-dinner drinks (Dad thoughtfully ordered a Coca-Cola for me). I endured The Speech – you know, the one where the father tells the son how proud he is that his son is now a man (yeah, Dad; here I sit, nursing my soda, feeling really manly). I was waiting for him to launch into "Son, one of these days, all of this will be yours." I looked at him, then at the handful of stodgy old "regulars" who didn't seem to have anything better to do on a weeknight than come to the club and drink. I wanted to puke.

Through all of it, my mother beheld me with a knowing smile. The way she gazed at me led me to think she had something to say other than my father's banalities. She would never say so while my father spoke because he hated to be interrupted almost as much as he hated to be corrected. I was looking forward to his departure the next day, so she could share her thoughts with me unhindered.

After a long, frustrating commute, I escaped the expressway madness Friday afternoon, thankful the week was over. I was actually feeling pretty good about being nineteen. It wasn't quite the defining moment eighteen had been, but I would have some time off from work while my father was out of town. There was at least a possibility I could convince my mother to go out with me for a pizza or cheeseburger, just the two of us. That would have meant a whole lot more to me than the stuffy, formal 'event' of two nights previous.

I came home to discover her dressed to the nines and seated on the couch in the living room. Her sinfully-short black lambskin microskirt was a personal favorite of mine. She had mated it to a matching black lambskin halter-necked vest that revealed the deep valley of her cleavage and most of her back. Her makeup and hair were wickedly overstated in a way that proclaimed she demanded to be the center of attention. She had gotten her nails done, too; fetish-length, gently-curving Raven Red talons with flashy gold nail art that would have given my father fits. The open-toed, stiletto-heeled sandals she wore put her matching sculpted toenails on prominent display, painted the same deep red as her talons and plush, kissable lips. There were drinks on the coffee table before her and she was smoking a cigarette. This was sensory overload!

I immediately thought Brenda was there. She and Mom often had a drink or two before going out. Any disappointment I might have felt for my own tentative plans was overshadowed by my wish that Mom go out and have a good time.

"Mom?" I inquired hesitantly.

She smiled coyly and shook her head.

"Call me Marilynn," she replied in a seductive purr. "Only my son calls me 'Mom'."

I was confused. If I wasn't her son, who was I?

"Do you have company? Would you like me to come back later?"

She shook her head again and softly patted the empty space next to her.

"Not at all," she cooed. "I've been waiting for you, Michael. My husband is out of town on business tonight. I wanted to spend a little quality time with the other man in my life."

Dazed, I took my seat next to her. I had seen that look in her eyes before – many times. It was that hungry, predatory look she had when she described the men she had had sex with. I was no rocket scientist, but I could see this little scene was not about mother and son. My cock was suddenly getting very uncomfortable in my tight jeans. She raised the two glasses from the table before her, offered me one, then snuggled up next to me. Her drink was scotch on the rocks; her favorite. Mine appeared to be Coke. Oh, joy. One sip told me it was far more than that.

For the rest of the afternoon and evening, the world I had known did not exist. I was submerged in an alternate reality, where this gorgeous creature and I were meeting for the first time. She refreshed our drinks frequently and smoked while engaging me in conversation that only a man and woman might share. All the while, she gently stroked the back of my neck with her ultra-long, curving crimson talons. The erotic sensation sent chills down my spine.

My beautiful companion revealed intimate details about her former lovers and her relationship with her husband, adding what she had liked and disliked about each, as though I was hearing it for the first time. She asked me about the other women I had been with, expressing no shock to discover I was no longer a virgin.

"I would expect a good-looking guy like you would have to fight them off," she purred, with a seductive smile and wink.

As she spoke, she devoured me with her eyes. I was already six feet tall, just like my father, but a lot leaner and more muscular. She paid particular attention to the prominent bulge in my jeans. She cocked her head to one side and glanced at me askance, smiling coyly.

"My, my," she trilled melodiously. "Is that a really, really big mouse in your pocket, or...."

Mom – Marilynn – knew damn well she could make me hard simply by walking into the room. Her tease made me that much harder.

"You are being rude," she admonished quietly.

"I am?" I replied.

"Yesss," she sighed, glancing at the huge bulge in my jeans. "You haven't introduced me to your friend."

She reached over with both hands, unzipped the zipper and, with difficulty, extracted my rampant rod from its denim prison. Her eyes went wide in disbelief.

"Oh, my... God," she spoke in a near whisper. "I knew you were big, but this...."

She raised her head slightly, gazing at my now-trembling lips through heavy-lidded eyes.

"I think it's time your friend and I got better acquainted," she expressed in hushed tones. "Perhaps on a long-term basis."

"B-but what about... your husband?" I queried, instinctively staying in character.

"Baby," she sassed, brushing my lips with hers, "he is putting my feet to sleep. He hasn't even touched me in a month. A woman like me has needs and he isn't satisfying them. As far as I am concerned, I am trading up!"

In all my dreams, all my fantasies, I never dared hope it would be this good. The smell, touch and taste of her overwhelmed my senses as she embraced me and attacked my mouth with her probing tongue. She shifted one hand to my exposed shaft and began softly stroking its length. Pre-cum oozed from the tip like a leaky faucet. I slipped one hand up her sinfully-short skirt. Sweet Jesus! Her shaved, pantiless pussy was hot, wet, and completely open to me!

It was instantly clear there would be no foreplay, no gentle caresses this time; we were both too far gone for that. The only 'pillow talk' we would exchange would be the gutter variety. In our frenzy, we were barely able to get my jeans down around my ankles before I was on her, then in her. Her eyes opened as wide as saucers as I slammed my meat into her soaking snatch. The only sound she made was a loud grunt as the impact of my initial thrust expelled all the air from her lungs.

"So fucking hot," I murmured. "So fucking wet. It's like I am nailing a steam pipe."

"Oooo, yeah, Baby," Marilynn cooed. "I am on fire. Fuck me. Rape me. Use my worthless cunt. Make me your whore. Ram your great big fuckstick into my slut hole until I choke on it. Stretch out my cooze until I can't even feel another man! You are all the man I could ever want. Harder. Harder... you... bas...tard...fuck... me...HARDERRRRRRRR!!!!!"

The possessed redhead's body bucked violently beneath me. Her eyes lost focus, staring straight at the ceiling, but seeing nothing. I knew she had been close but had had no idea she had been on a hair trigger. The ecstasy of watching Marilynn plummet into oblivion, knowing I sent her there, pushed me over the edge with her. I flooded her love cave with wave after wave of molten lava.

"Don't stop, Baby," she gasped. "Don't ever stop! I need more of you. I need all of you, everything you have to give."

I didn't stop. My cock was possessed, had a will of its own. It just kept slamming into her pussy, squeezing white cream from our previous orgasm out the sides. I came twice more while we banged on the couch. She came... I dunno, maybe six, seven times. Finally, I shed my shoes, socks, jeans and briefs, then carried her limp form into the master bedroom and lay her carefully on the bed. I allowed her a few minutes to recover her senses while I lit some candles, then refreshed our drinks (I could tell by the smell she had dosed my Coca-Cola with dark, sweet rum; I made another).

She took her drink from me gratefully and sipped while I stood before her, sipping mine. We each placed our drinks on her bedside table. I gently removed her vest and skirt, noting we miraculously had not soiled either during our frenzied sex. I folded them carefully and placed them atop her dresser, vowing we would have use for this particular fetish outfit sooner, rather than later. I approached the bed and gazed down, seeing her as I had never seen her before. She was clad only in garter belt, stockings, and heels. Her long-lasting lipstick had held up well enough, as had the rest of her makeup. Her hair was a mess, but nothing that couldn't be fixed with a little time and care. There was a glow about her mere words could not begin to express. This was the woman who had given me birth. Now, she offered me re-birth – a life I had only begun to sample. She was equal parts Heaven and harlot, and she eagerly awaited my return.

Marilynn (she had been right; being with her this way, I couldn't conceive of her as 'Mom') reached for me tenderly, pulling me down into her embrace. We explored each other's bodies by candlelight, using little licks, nips, kisses and soft caresses to express ourselves to each other. Making love to her was easy. She had already given me the 'keys to the castle' by teaching me all the little tricks that turned her on – and turn her on, they did. I reduced her to a quivering mass of multi-orgasmic gooseflesh with only my fingertips, lips, tongue, and a bit of mutually-inspired pillow talk.

"Oooooooh, Sugar," she sighed, "that was good. You really know how to push my buttons."

"I had a good teacher," I replied, kissing the tip of her nose softly. "The best."

"...and don't you ever forget it," she responded with a wink and a grin. "Eat your hearts out, Bitches."

"Huh?" I responded, confused.

"My 'competition'," she explained playfully.

"No contest," I asserted with a smile. "There never has been."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

I stared at the sheets we would almost certainly have to trash, gathering my thoughts.

"The others were just... babies," I asserted. "I was attracted to them in an almost clinical way. For most of them, it was their first time. I used what you taught me to make it a good experience for them. Usually, it was – for them..."

I gazed into the stunning redhead's eyes.

"You ruined me for anyone else," I avowed quietly.

The expression on her face was equal parts love and anguish.

"Oh, Baby, I'm so sorry..." she began.

I silenced her with a single finger to her lips.

"Don't," I cautioned. "I am not sorry. I have had the best. I'll leave the rest to someone who doesn't know the difference."

"I'm about to make every other girl on this planet hate me with a passion," she sighed.

"Why would they?" I asked.

"Because," she softly proclaimed, "as of this moment, you are off the market. I have decided you are just too damn good a prize to allow some other slut to get her hooks into you. I'm gonna do whatever it takes to keep you all to myself."

As if realizing the import of her own words for the first time, Marilynn gazed down at those same cum-stained sheets, shaking her head sadly.

"I feel like such a slut," she sighed. "My own s..."

I cut off her spoken thought with one index finger to her lips. Then, I placed that finger under her chin and lifted her gaze to meet mine.

"You'd better," I demanded. "I wouldn't want it any other way."

Her eyes filled with shock. Her body jerked as if she had been physically punched. The shocked expression was replaced by a glimmer in her eyes, followed by that same heavy-lidded expression of lust I had seen earlier. Her hand slid down, grasping my tight butt and pulling forward. The alignment was perfect; my born-again joypole slid effortlessly into her bush with an audible squish. She sighed expressively, then looked me full in the face and smiled evilly.

"Say it," she hissed. "Tell me exactly what you want me to be."

It was my turn to grin as I pistoned my prick in and out of her snatch.

"I want," I began slowly, pressing a finger against her anal button, "you to be a nasty little slut, the lewdest cunt around."

She caught her breath with a little gasp.

"How nasty?" she inquired, moving her hips in rhythm with mine.

"Really, really nasty," I intoned. "I miss my 'little treats'. In fact, I want more than that. I want to take my slut to a bar, someplace as sleazy as she is. I want everyone who sees her to know she is available to all cummers. I want to see her take a cock in her pussy, in her ass, in her mouth. I want to see her make all three cum inside her. I want her to come back to me dripping, weeping, gushing cum from every hole. I want her to confess to me what a sleazy little whore she has become and describe every detail of how they took her while I clean the cum out of her, then take her myself. I want her to confess to me she is addicted to cock, addicted to sex, addicted to cum, addicted to the thrill of being taken by other men, many men, as many as she can get. I want her to be nothing more than a shameless fuck toy, cum catcher, a receptacle for sperm."

My lover's eyes glazed over. Her cunt was flowing like a river. I wet the middle finger of one hand and slid it up into her anal blossom. She melted against me.

"Yes," she gushed. "YES! I am that slut. I want to be your nasty little ho', more than I have ever wanted anything else in my life. I'll take you to those places. I want you to see other men use me, defile me. I'll come home to you painted in cum, nastier than the cheapest, sleaziest whore who ever did the ho' stroll on the nastiest corner of the nastiest street in the nastiest neighborhood of the nastiest town on the face of the earth. I'll be that whore for you. You can drop me off on that corner, leave me there, watch me walk the street, watch me turn dates. I'll come home to you so full of cum, you will be eating it for a week! I'll serve you up a three-course meal; from my pussy, ass, and mouth. Just tell me I am yours, that I will always be yours, forever and ever, and I will be the filthiest, nastiest, cum sponge that... ever... ever... LIVVVVVVVVVVVED!!!!!!!"

My lover collapsed against me, spasming like an epileptic in the throes of a Grand Mal. Her eyes were rolled up into her head. She drooled a little from the corner of her mouth. The only sound she could make was incoherent gurgling. My cock was flooding her pussy like a firehose, adding to her sensory overload. She finally recovered enough of her wits to straighten up and gaze longingly into my eyes.

"No-no-no-no..." she stuttered ineffectually, "no one has ever gotten inside my head the way you do. You scare me, the way you do it so effortlessly."

I shrugged my shoulders a little.

"That came from inside my head," I admitted.

Her eyes opened wide in wonderment. She pressed her lush body tightly against mine and gazed longingly into my eyes.

"Tell me you love me," she intoned urgently. "Tell me I am yours."

"But what about..." I began.

"FUCK THAT!" she screamed. "Fuck ALL of that! The love of my life has sprung full-blown from my own loins. That is just as dirty, nasty, and perverted as I am, but it is God's own truth. I will continue to be your father's dutiful little trophy for as long as he wants me, but my heart and soul belong to you now."

She grabbed my rampant rod and squeezed – hard. All the while, she fixed me with a steely gaze.

"Tell me you love me, you bastard," she repeated emphatically. "Tell me I am yours, forever and ever, or so help me God, I will rip this magnificent ten-incher out at the root and feed it back to you right now."

In response, I placed my hand firmly over her hand and jammed forward, spearing the head of my cock between her pussy lips. She released her grip just as I thrust forward a second time, ramming it all the way home. She shuddered and sighed a small sigh.

"Does that answer your question... slut?" I inquired.

Before she could frame a response, I continued.

"I have always loved you, first as my mother, then as my mentor, now as my whore. You do belong to me; heart, soul, body, mind, every part of you. When you fuck other men – and you will fuck other men – you will do so as my slut. If my father demands you to honor your spousal obligations, you will fuck him as my slut, not as his wife. After you have had a man, you will drag your sorry slut ass home to me, dripping with cum, and confess how much you adored taking his cock, taking his seed deep inside you. You will admit to me how cheap, dirty, and sleazy it makes you feel to know what a depraved little cum sponge you are. Do you hear me, Whore? Do you? ANSWER ME!"

She couldn't. At that moment, her mind was somewhere in another plane of existence. Her eyes stared blankly at my chest as her body shuddered through yet another release. Moments later her body slipped off my cock and collapsed on the bed, still vibrating like a tautly-wound violin string. I straightened the covers as best I could, then pulled them over her supine form. I slipped in next to her and held her in my arms. I was asleep in a matter of minutes.

Was it a head game? Sure, and a very powerful one. But it wasn't just a head game. We played out our 'game' for real many times during my college days; in bars, clubs, even that 'street-walker' fantasy. Each time, my slut lover returned to me dripping with a man's creamy offering, confessing how much she loved being a sleaze and especially how much she loved having me to share a cum-filled kiss and mind-blowing fuck with afterward.

I made her seduce my father on more than one occasion, while I awaited her in my bedroom down the hall. She invariably returned in an hour or so, having completed her task and sent him off to Dreamland, yet still had enough time to paint her face whorishly, don garter belt, stockings and heels, then slip down the hall and into my waiting arms. She railed at what a flabby, pathetic fuck he had become, and how glad she was to have a real man to come home to. The fact that she was cuckolding him while he slumbered just down the hall made her near-continuous orgasms all the more intense. My shoulder took a fearsome beating as I jammed her mouth into it to stifle her room-shaking screams of ecstasy. It was all I could do to prevent her from waking the dead, let alone her husband.

My father died of a massive heart attack about a year after I joined the company full-time. It was so tragic – and comic. He had suffered his coronary in a hotel room in Grand Rapids – while fucking the secretary of one of his oldest, most dedicated clients. That part got left out of the published obituary. My father had been unfaithful? My lover and I just gazed into each other's eyes and shook our heads in amazement. You never know.... Yes, she cried at the funeral. We both did. Bizarre circumstance aside, we both loved him. We buried him with his wedding band on his finger and hers in the palm of his hand. ...'til death do us part....

I had proven my worth to the company, first as an intern, then in the year I had been my father's right-hand man. That, plus the wealth of knowledge I displayed about company products, practices, and procedures – I was my father's son – was all the proof the board of directors needed. I made them feel as though my father had never left. For purposes of business continuity, I was appointed to take his place. They were duly impressed when the dutiful son elected to reside with his mother, the grieving widow, to see to her needs as well as those of the company. The directors were certain they had made the right choice.

There were a few changes in procedures at the top. At Marilynn's suggestion, I hired Brenda as an executive secretary. That has worked out well, both for her and the senior-level officers who share her. I made certain I had a cadre of top-notch sales people in my employ. That, plus teleconferencing, reduced the need for me to go out on the road, as my father had. When I did travel on business, it was always in the company of my own ravishing 'personal assistant', now on the payroll. The company long-timers forgave me this little bit of flagrant nepotism. In private, they congratulated me for my unflagging devotion to my mother. If they only knew....

We were married in a private ceremony, with only a few scene-related friends in attendance. Brenda was Marilynn's Matron of Honor. There had not been, and would not be a public announcement of our betrothal to our 'extended family' at the company. The Oedipal overtones would have been too much for the sensibilities of most. A few key players – those my wife and Brenda assured me they were in a position to leverage, if not trust – were briefed to smooth over any potential rough spots. We don't view it as a May-December romance. It's more like... May-July, as in the Fourth of July. The fireworks are still exploding every day.

We exchanged rings in the traditional way, as a symbol of our utter devotion to each other. The company at large will assume Marilynn is still wearing her original wedding band in tribute to her late husband. If anyone asks me about the ring I wear, I merely state it is my own special token of devotion and let it go at that. There may be idle speculation, but even old company hands tread lightly when it comes to the CEO's personal life. Productivity and profits have never been higher, the board and stockholders are happy, and profit sharing has benefited every employee. I believe everyone will be content to let sleeping dogs lie.

Our 'reception' was held at a club that would not be found on either Cityscapes or the Michelin Guide. It was heavy on Industrial drum and bass, light on due order and decorum, and stacked to the rafters with over-sexed pretty people. Marilynn and Brenda certainly fit that description and dressed the part. The evening drew on and I let my bride know I was more than ready to get her alone. She and Brenda looked at each other and giggled. Marilynn pressed her body against mine, wiggled her pussy against my mammoth bulge and kissed me warmly.

"You go ahead, Baby," she trilled musically, a twinkle in her eye. "I'll be along in a bit."

About two hours later, I heard the door to our hotel suite open and close. A moment later, both my bride and her Matron slinked seductively into the bedroom, coy smiles on their lips. I will swear I saw canary feathers on both. They approached the bed from opposite sides, knelt above my face and raised their skirts. Thick, ropy gobs of white goo oozed from their pussies and down their inner thighs.

"Are you ready for a little treat?" my bride purred, winking an eye. "It's kind of a... double-dipper."