Breach

We are our purest selves when under the influence of heavy emotion.

Sadie is 48

Abram is 20

I was horny as hell. Lying naked in bed at night, my body exhausted but my skin inflamed with urgent want. I'd always heard that women's libidos peak in their mid to late forties, and I had always looked forward to it. I had imagined I'd be with my husband and we'd make love all day and all night. But I fell in love with and married Rick, a great and compassionate doctor who wanted to save the world. He spent almost all his time in poverty-stricken, African villages, tending to the sick and dying. I'd see him for maybe thirty days out of an entire year. And most times it was a just day here, a weekend there, a holiday, an emergency. I'd be lucky if I had sex ten times a year.

A few years ago, I had intimated my predicament to a girlfriend who suggested a sex toy (after I shot down her suggestion of cheating on my husband.) So I tried it. I had always thought of having sex with an inanimate object to be a ludicrous notion. How could a gadget produce the feelings I was looking for? How could it satiate the hunger for deep intimacy I was suffering? I had bought a few items to see if I could answer my questions and predictably, I came up empty.

Dildos just looked and felt silly. Clitoral massagers produced a buzzing on my sensitive flesh that almost felt good, but was somewhat painful. After about a six month trial with zero orgasms as the return on my investment, I threw out the toys and never looked back. The only time I had ever achieved orgasm on my own was through manual masturbation, one of the rare moments I got to facetime Rick from halfway around the world. That one took almost two hours. And it wasn't a very satisfying one, leaving me desperately wanting for more.

So, there I was lying in bed, faint images of my husband's somewhat impressive body flashing in my mind, fingers of one hand circling my clitoris, the two middle fingers of my other hand plunging into my pussy. I whispered naughty things. I humped the bedsheets. I fondled my large breasts, strummed my clit and stuffed my hole until they all hurt. And still no joy. I called it quits, turned over and went to sleep as my body whined and cried and begged for release. I'd grown quite accustomed to that hollow ache.

*****

I'm a pretty light sleeper, so I woke up immediately when I heard something that sounded like a window opening. I listened for a few seconds and determined it must have been my son, Abram, maybe opening the refrigerator. The fact that I didn't hear his bedroom door open down the hall, and the fact that a refrigerator door sounds completely different than a window meant nothing to my sleep-addled mind. I closed my eyes again. A minute later I felt a breeze that indicated my door swinging open. I figured it was Abe checking to see if I was still asleep. He doesn't normally do that. And at this time of night? What time is it? Why would he- Before I could open my mouth and eyes to find answers to these questions, a rough hand was covering my mouth and a man's heavy weight was pressing me down into the bed. My heart jumped and I whimpered, the sound muffled.

"Shhhhhhh!" the man whispered sharply into my ear. "You scream, you die." I nodded once, stopping when I felt cold steel against my cheek. He had a knife. Fear and panic exploded in me, freezing my body and smothering my short-lived intentions of fighting him off. I tried to speak, only tasting the oil, dirt and salty sweat of my attacker's hand. He removed it to let me speak, sliding the point of the knife against the side of my neck.

"Take whatever you want and leave," I managed to say, my voice weak and unreliable.

"Mmm," he laughed, "my pleasure." When his weight lifted off me for a brief moment, I felt relief. All I'd have to do is stay here cowering in my bed. He'd take whatever items he could carry and he'd be on his way. How wrong was I. He snatched my covers away, leaving me completely naked and vulnerable. My heart leapt into my throat and I gasped, turning to look at him and covering my private parts.

The burglar was average height, big and fat, but rather strong looking. He was dirty, his hair overgrown and his beard and mustache wild and unkempt. The man smelled like sweat, dirt and hard work. He wasn't particularly attractive but with the right grooming.... Why am I thinking about this!?

The housebreaker used the blade of his knife to coax my hands away from my naked flesh, leaving me completely exposed to this violent stranger. He ate up my flesh with his hungry eyes, grinning wickedly. I grew self conscious, fighting the urge to cover up again. My skin felt like it was being touched everywhere his eyes went. From his vision's touch on my breasts I could feel my skin tingle and my nipples tighten. When he looked between my legs I could feel the cool air on my bare skin and the secret wetness I possessed within my feminine essence. I was horrified to find that through the fear and panic and adrenaline, I was turned on too.

The man came closer and I cringed away from him, withdrawing backwards into my headboard. He put his knee between my legs as he crawled onto my bed, pointing his knife at me. "Don't fucking move," he commanded. I froze, panting, a wave of excitement pulsing through me, and behind it, a sense of shame. Why am I so turned on? I tried to tell myself it was just the normal, constant horniness I was accustomed to. But I knew it was something more.

"Open your mouth," he said. Horrified, I did so. He shoved the two middle fingers of his right hand into my mouth, cramming them back toward my throat until the knife handle widened my lips. I could taste the sweat and grime off his fingers. His evil grin featured a missing tooth and his breath smelled like alcohol and cigarettes. But somehow, some way, he was turning me on more than I could have ever admitted to myself. I found myself wondering whether he would rape me, and the thought just thrilled me to my core, in a primal part of me I never knew existed. I was so ashamed.

"She likes it," he snarled, grabbing my breast. I groaned as his rough, filthy hand made contact with my soft, clean flesh. He squeezed my breast with no regard for the pain it caused, clawing my large globe with his long fingernails, pinching and pulling my nipple until it hurt, laughing at my discomfort. I whimpered at his roughness, melting for him, my desire heightening and pooling between my thighs.

He lifted my heavy breast to his lips, took my wide, dark areola in his mouth, and sucked. Hard. I gasped, then before I knew what I was doing or why, I began to suck my attacker's dirty fingers.

"Yeah, you fat, dirty bitch," he said to me, "suck that shit!" He went back to fondling my breasts with his free hand, squeezing them, pinching the tips, slapping them, all to my mutual horror and titillation. With his other hand, he stroked my tongue, virtually fucking my mouth as I sucked his two fingers which were now clean enough to feel they were covered in healed scars and callouses.

"Open them fucking legs!" he growled low and flung my thighs apart. By instinct, I slid down, exposing my drenched slit to my offender, and he slowly slid his two wet fingers into my needy pussy. I sighed deeply and involuntarily. This depraved man's fingers sliding deep inside me just felt so damned good! I hated myself for finding such intense pleasure in being violated.

"Goddamn!" my molester hissed, his voice low and gruff, "your pussy wet as fuck! Every other bitch don't be this wet. You a freaky mothafucka, huh?"

I shook my head, biting my lip and trying to drive down my desire to submit wholeheartedly to this strange and violent criminal. "Please," I managed to whimper, "please stop." My plea only served to fuel my flames, reinforcing my powerlessness, frailty and shame.

"Fuck that, I'm taking this pussy," the man said, sliding his two fingers out of me to lick them. I watched as the still filthy fingers of his other hand crept close to my vagina, then parted my delicate netherlips and entered me. I gasped, and moaned deeply. The sensations of having a man inside me again, even just his fingers, were divine. The idea that it was some strange, perverted man sticking his grimy fingers up my pussy set me on fire.

I tried to fight off the pleasure as my assailant finger-raped me. I squirmed in protest, but that only made him press his hand against my throat and hold me hard against my headboard, increasing my pleasure, and with it, my shame. I tried to keep still. That made me feel like I wanted it, hell, it felt so good. But then I'd feel guilty for liking it. My fear, humiliation, and pleasure would compound off one another as the man violated me. The fear I had for this strong, dangerous man inexplicably turned me on so much. I would relish in that sexual energy, which would make me feel so filthy, and the guilt would ignite pleasure in me again. The man pumped his nasty fingers in and out of me, rubbing his hard cock through rugged jeans.

Suddenly, he grabbed me by my hair. "C'mere bitch," he spat and dragged me across the room, slamming my hips against my vanity, pressing my head against the mirror and forcing my back to arch forward. Abe definitely had to hear that, I thought. The burglar grabbed my throat from behind. "Don't. Fucking. Scream," he warned with his knife against my cheek. He tossed the weapon back onto the bed and began to loosen his belt, keeping me pinned with his hips against my ass and his iron grip around my throat. This is it, I thought ruefully. About to be raped in my own house. The thought filled me with fear and then excitement, and then shame for having felt excited, and then pleasure borne of shame. Around and around my mind went as my heart raced, anticipating my defilement to equal and increasing parts pleasure and self-hatred.

"Get your fucking hands off her!" I heard Abram's militant voice say. My assailant released me to turn and face my son, who was now standing in the doorway to my room, also completely naked. It made sense for Abram to be naked. He slept nude and when you hear your mother being attacked, there isn't any time to get dressed. It also made sense for him to be fully erect. It's common for a young man to have an erection as he sleeps, and the added adrenaline afforded by the moment quickens the pulse and increases blood flow to every part of the body. But what I couldn't justify is the way my mouth watered as I stared at my son's supreme body.

Abram was tall and athletic, strong without being overly muscular. Perfectly sculpted, lean and wiry. My son was no whimp, so I didn't expect him to cower, but I didn't expect to see what I saw. The look in his eyes was serious and confident, like he was prepared to kill this man and knew he could. A dangerous gaze, terrifying to the one on the other side of it. My son, in that moment, was an absolute pillar of power, with his austere glare, intimidating frame and that strong, hard cock that I couldn't keep from glancing down at.

The three of us stood frozen for a few moments, then chaos erupted as soon as Abe saw the knife on the bed. He dove for it. But the assailant was already closer to it and moved. I screamed. They both grabbed the knife and began to struggle, wrestling for control. The burglar was shorter than my son, but was a lot bigger, by forty pounds at least. I was petrified, frozen stiff, covering my nudity with my arms as I watched my son fight.

Abram almost had possession of the knife, twisting it out of the other man's hand. Then the bigger man bit my son's forearm, hard. He grunted, a trickle red blood beginning to drip from the assailant's mouth. But Abram didn't let go. He knew that if he let the other man get the knife, both of us were likely dead.

My son, with his face twisted in agony, lifted the bigger man up and dove off the bed, crashing loudly onto the floor with him. The burglar landed back first and hollered. Abram snatched the knife downward and away from their faces, peeling it out of the attacker's hands. As soon as the weapon came free, the big man grabbed my son's wrists, rolled them both aside and slammed his hands against the wall. The knife fell from Abe's hands and he immediately kicked it underneath the bed.

My heart in my stomach, I watched the two men struggle. I could see my son's taut muscles contracting and twisting under his smooth skin as he defended his mother. And I know my mind shouldn't have been on this, and I knew it then, but the fight was having an arousing effect on my poor, sex-starved, rape-teased body. How my son grunted and fought and risked himself for me, how his glorious, shamelessly naked body looked in primal action. Every glimpse of his adrenalized cock made my heart patter and my put an aching hunger between my thighs. If I could have masturbated in that moment, I'm sure I could have cummed.

On their feet now, I watched Abram slam the intruder into a wall, seeming to shake the very foundation of the house. "Mom, call the fucking police!" he yelled at me. My brain being as scrambled as it was, that thought hadn't even crossed my mind. I picked up my cellphone off the nightstand, watching as the two men violently rammed each other back and forth against the walls of my room, cracking the drywall and shaking various items off every shelf and surface. I told the operator the situation and our address and he assured me he would send someone right away.

I purposely left out the part about him trying to rape me. I didn't want to have to explain that to anyone. And besides, this man would be going to prison for a nice, long time even without that particular charge.

Abram had gained the upper hand in the fight, lodging his powerful forearm against the man's throat and driving him into the corner with violent force. As soon as the man hit, his knees buckled a bit. My son then delivered a devastating elbow to his nose, breaking it instantly and causing it to stream blood. He hit him with a second elbow to the face, and that's when his arms went limp. And then Abram delivered two more of the same, holding him up with just his forearm before letting him crumple loosely in the corner.

There was so much blood. It was the most violent thing I'd ever seen my youngest son - or anyone else - do. I was hornier than I'd ever been in my entire life. I was quivering with fear and trembling with adrenaline, my nerves shot to hell. As I realized it was over and my son cursed at the unconscious assailant, relief began to kick in, slowly reining in all other emotions.

Abram's countenance turned from one of pure, instinctive rage to concern and worry in half a second. He walked over to me, still naked, covered me with my blanket, and hugged me tight. "Ma, are you okay!?" he said, his voice shaky and full of concern.

"Yeah, I think so," I said, squeezing him tight. I tried to ignore his erect penis pressing my against belly, but relished it instead, rationalizing that I was entitled to whatever comforts were available given what I had just gone through.

I squeezed my son tight in my arms, crying. "You saved me, Abe. My baby boy saved me. I'm so sorry you had to do that."

"It's okay, Ma. I'm supposed to protect you."

I laughed, still crying. "I'm supposed to protect you."

"And you have. My whole life. Tonight it was just my turn."

I smiled at that, allowing my tears to stream down and dampen my son's neck and shoulder as I held him tight. "Mom," he whispered. "Did he.... Did he...." Poor boy couldn't even get the words out. I felt so sorry for him that he would even have to ask his mother something like that.

"No, baby," I said, "he didn't rape me." I added, "thanks to you," and kissed his cheek.

"Thank God," he sighed and kissed my cheek. And then I kissed his cheek again. And then I kissed his lips, surprising him. Surprising me. My heart shuddered. He looked at me quizzically for a second. And then he kissed my lips, slowly, deliberately. He watched me, reading my confused eyes, both our expressions then melting into a strange mix of mother-son love and affectionate desire. Our lips met three more times in quick succession, like an experiment. And then we kissed longer, my son pressing his soft, young lips to mine, both of us panting through our noses. Abram's cock was straining unabashedly against me as he held me tight, the faint sound of police sirens growing more distinct. Our mouths began to open, and before I could taste my son's forbidden tongue, blue and red lights flashed through my closed eyelids.

We broke our kiss. "We need to get dressed," Abram said. "If this fucker gets up, yell. Or better yet, just knee him in the face as hard as you can," he added as he went naked to his room. My heart leapt as I watched him walk away, the muscles in his back and ass making me long for his touch as he strode down the hallway.

"Get it the fuck together, Sadie," I whispered to myself.

The police arrived, and then an ambulance. And then about eight more police cars piled around our home. It was a little overwhelming. For four hours, my son and I recounted the incident to about twelve different people, including police officers, detectives, EMTs and two police psychiatrists (a guy for Abram and a woman for me.) I was asked at least fifteen times if I was raped, denying that I was even touched in a sexual way. We then had to wait for the EMTs to wake up the would-be rapist, put him on a stretcher and take him away.

The police identified the assailant. Apparently he was a serial rapist who had raped at least five other women, killing three of them. They said that he usually strikes when he knows a woman is alone, so he probably didn't realize Abe was home since he lent his girlfriend his car. Knowing I could have definitely died tonight made me feel uneasy. But being saved by my son made me feel proud of him, and grateful to him. I loved to see his charming, modest smile whenever an officer said he was a hero.

When the house was finally empty again, I was mentally, emotionally and physically exhausted. I headed to the shower to wash, donned undies and a robe, and returned to my destroyed room. The cops and EMTs had cleaned my room as best they could, but the cracked drywall and blood-stained carpet didn't provide the cushiest environment for sleep. I didn't want to sleep alone either. I went to my son's room, weary to my bones and horny to my core, barely able to think a coherent thought. I cracked the door and peeked inside. "Abe?" I whispered.

He was lying in bed but turned toward me. "Yeah, Ma?"

"You sleep?" I felt so small and needy, and I was.

"No, I'm awake. You okay?" He propped himself up on an elbow, revealing his bare, muscular shoulder and part of his chest. I shuddered and swallowed.

"I- I just.... I don't want to sleep alone tonight."

"Oh. Um, okay. Lemme put on some clothes."

"It's okay," I said, gliding to the side of my son's bed. "You don't have to get up. Just move over." He moved aside, staring at me in the darkness.

Still wearing my comfy, satin robe, I peeled back the covers and joined my son in bed, facing him. I really didn't have any intentions. I hadn't thought past my exhaustion and the fear of sleeping alone, imagining that stranger's hand smothering me in the night. The frightening thought inexplicably taunted my horny body to a tremor every time it popped in my head. Taking a deep breath, and absorbing the warmth of my son's bed and the comfort of his presence near me, my nerves began to settle, even if my lust never did.

"Baby," I heard myself whisper. "Can you hold me?"

Abram turned to face me. "Ma, are you okay?" He was so close now I could feel his breath on my skin.