Breach Pt. 02

I fucked up. Beyond anything I would have ever imagined, I fucked up. When you get married, you have all these fears and images in your head about how you might ruin it. And when you have kids, your mind fills up with angst, reminding you of all your flaws and imagining unique ways they could ruin your family. I had outdone even my irrational paranoia. I had broken my marriage vows by forcing myself on my own son.

I had convinced myself that I deserved what I took from Abram. In my tired, traumatized, desensitized state of mind, I truly felt justified in my infidelity. My incestuous infidelity! How guilty I felt that next morning. I couldn't even face Abram. The shame was too great. All I could remember was his many objections. 'I don't think we should do this,' and, 'you're my mother,' and 'I think we went too far.' Abram denied me every step of the way as I defiled him, forcing him to sleep with his own mother. The scars he'd carry!

I untangled myself from my son's sleeping, naked form and slipped out of his bed without looking back at him. I put on my little robe and clutched it tightly to my body, shamefully hiding my near nudity from my slumbering child as I exited his room. I didn't even look for my panties, too afraid I'd wake Abram and have to answer for last night's transgressions. I traversed the hallway and closed myself inside my broken bedroom. Eventually I'll talk to him, I told myself.

Eventually.

That time never came. Or at least not in the first few days since the incident. I simply avoided Abram as much as possible, shame and fear rising in me every time I saw his face. If he tried to talk to me, I'd dismiss him, tell him we'd talk later, and find something else to do or somewhere else to go. Eventually, he got the message that I didn't want to talk about that night and he held his peace. Though I really did intend to have a conversation, the words I came up with didn't seem that they could make everything right again, and so, we silently agreed to ignore the most important six hours of our lives.

After days of relative silence and scant interactions, our relationship went back to how it was before, or at least an empty shell of it. I'd make him dinner. I'd ask him about work. He'd ask me about work. I'd ask him about his girlfriend, Emily. He'd give me some rather vague, nonchalant answer as if he was only marginally interested in the beautiful, 18-year-old high school girl who once captivated him. Then he asked me if I had spoken to his father. I'd been trying to contact him for the past few days to tell him what happened but I couldn't reach him. When I told Abram this, he sarcastically said, "wow, that's not like him at all. Such an oddity for him to disappear like that. Humph."

"Abram, you know he's doing important work," I said. "He's helping people. Saving lives. In a place where he's needed the most."

"He's needed here." Abram's anger flashed momentarily.

"Yeah, but I won't die if I don't hear from him every day. And neither will you." I was trying to lighten the mood with some levity and I should have chosen my words more carefully, but I was suppressing the memories of that dreadful night and responding how I might have before the incident.

"But you could have died! If it wasn't for me, that man probably would have raped you and killed you!"

"Abram!" I chided. "You don't talk to me like that!"

"Why? It's true. If he would have killed you, then what? Me, Mya, and Eli would have had to plan the funeral and dad wouldn't even know. He comes back a month later, clueless because-"

"Enough! You're not going to talk about your father that way!"

"What father? Elijah had a dad. Mya had half a dad. But me? No. Sick kids in Africa got mine. And you don't have a husband anymore." Then, softening, he added, "but..., you do have me."

My eyes welled as I stared into my son's sincere face. I knew I was going to cry. I wanted to pull Abram close and weep on his shoulder all night. But I didn't deserve to. He was as much a victim as I was - even more so - and he didn't even know it. I took advantage of him that night. My vulnerability took control and he was swallowed up by his mother's ocean of conflicting and confusing emotions. I couldn't bear to put any more of my weight on him. As twin tears fell down my cheeks, I rose up from the dinner table and strode past my son.

"Mom, please talk to me," was the last thing I heard before I shut myself up in my shattered bedroom, placing my back against the door. As I glanced around my room - walls cracked, red blood soaked into the carpet, mirror fractured in its frame - I conceived that it resembled my life, and despaired. The busted walls were my aching heart. The crimson splotches in my otherwise immaculate carpet represented my sin-stained soul. The broken mirror rendered it nearly impossible to recognize the woman I'd once been. I slid down the door as tears poured freely down my face, my heart exploding within. I wept heartily for countless hours, hating myself for what I had done to our family. I forced myself to stay in my room, seeking absolution by way of self-inflicted emotional torture. And eventually, I fell asleep in my trauma-haunted room for the first time since that terrible night.

As much as I didn't want to, I felt better in the morning. A good cry can sometimes feel like rain. After an attempt to drown in despair, having survived, I found myself, instead, feeling somewhat cleansed by my lake of tears. The full weight of guilt hadn't completely lifted, but I felt a little lighter. Thinking it might be dangerous to dive again into depression, I accepted the layer of peace I felt on the surface of all my heart's issues and took a deep breath, then stood and left my torn bedroom. I felt even lighter as soon as I was on the other side of the door, the room having a type of gravity to it. I went upstairs and returned to my daughter's old room, where I had moved all my essentials. I paused to survey myself in the mirror, feeling relieved to recognize myself again. My eyes were red and puffy, my cheeks were streaked with dried tears and my hair was a mess, but I saw me. I took it as a sign that I would get past this hurt and I'd be fine, though doubt lingered on the heels of my hope.

I actively took steps to regain control of my life. I tried calling Rick, and not so surprisingly, to a bit of relief, it didn't work. Choosing not to dwell on the aching absence of my husband, I searched phone numbers of contractors and called them to replace the drywall, carpet, and mirror in my room. As days passed, my bedroom began to look like its old self. the contractors cut out the cracked walls, repaired the holes, and painted over them. My carpet was replaced with an identical one and they installed a new mirror above my dresser. I felt better, but I still stayed in my daughter's room for a few days after the men had finished their work. My room still felt haunted, but only with a nice mask, trying to convince me it was safe. I felt that once I let my guard down and inhabited the room, it would swallow me whole once again.

I still hadn't spoken to Abram about that night, and I had ignored his outburst at dinner. And since then, we went back to our normal routine - small talk, work, dinner, TV, more small talk. Once, at dinner, he made a joke. The little quip, under normal circumstances, would have earned a nice little chuckle. But our home was so starved of levity, what began as a lighthearted giggle and a sneaky titter was prolonged and dilated into raucous laughter. Afterward, our eyes were teary with mirth and we regained a bit of the mother-son closeness we lost due to my indiscretion. It was a good step on our path to normalcy.

My son recognized that I hadn't slept in my room in the three days since it was repaired. "Mom?" he said, "Do you want me to sleep with you? In your room, I mean." He was sincere. If he had anything inappropriate in mind I couldn't tell. Abram was simply concerned about me and wanted to make sure I was feeling as good as I had been acting.

I thought about his offer, being comforted by the simple image of cuddling with my son until I could fall asleep. But I didn't trust myself, and I wasn't ready to face my fears just yet. "No, it's okay," I said with a smile. "I like Mya's room just fine."

"Yeah," he chuckled, "sleeping on a blowup mattress is way better than sleeping in your own big, comfy, expensive bed. Maybe sleeping on the floor would be even better."

"Hey," I laughed, "watch that smart mouth of yours, Abe. And seriously, I'm good."

"But...," he took a deep breath, "you're not though, Ma, are you? You won't even talk to me about what happened. Or the other thing that happened." I opened my mouth to speak but he cut me off, holding up his hand. "Now, I don't expect that to happen again, but I want you to know it's okay. It wasn't..., bad or..., like..., you're my mother but..., what I'm trying to say is I didn't hate what we did. I.... I liked it." My heart caught in my throat, and we stood staring for a stretched moment. "Anyway, I don't want you to feel bad about that part. At all. And the other part - I'm here if you wanna talk. I'm... I'm just here for you. Whatever you need. I just want you to be okay, Ma." The urgency in his voice was palpable. Please be okay, was the general sentiment of my youngest son's heartfelt plea.

My eyes welled up. "I will be, Abram. I promise I'll be okay. Thank you so much for being such a good son. I love you." I embraced him in a hug for the first time since we made love. And he held me tightly in his strong arms as if desperately trying to hold his broken mother together. "I'll be okay someday," I whispered, trying feebly to assure us both as tears streamed down my cheeks and soaked into Abram's shirt. "I know it."

I felt so much better after talking to Abram. I felt like I had unlocked something between us. Like we had impossibly gone back to who we were before the incident. Our relationship felt innocent again (at least more so than in the past week and a half). I called Rick again, he couldn't be reached again, and I sighed a sigh of relief again. I never knew how much I would tell my husband, only that I needed him to come home as soon as he could. Still, my life seemed to start to fall back into place, my emotions growing more stable, more tame and serene.

Since the incident, I had slept in my daughter's room in pajama pants, a long-sleeve t-shirt, a thick, woolen robe, and socks. As I began to feel like myself again, I started slowly removing articles of clothing one night at a time. First, the socks went. And then the robe was discarded. And then I switched from the pajama pants and long shirts to pajama shorts and a conventional tee. And then, feeling comfortable with my body once again, I slept in just panties and a cami top, just a hair away from my typical nudity.

As I eased back into normalcy, the once familiar ache of desire began to stir inside me again. I had almost forgotten what it felt like to be horny and was worried that I would not want to have sex ever again. But when that sexy urge began to taunt and tempt my body, I welcomed it wholeheartedly. Though unwilling to consummate my desire on anyone but my husband, I was thrilled to have my sense of sexuality back intact. I suffered the torturous aches and pangs of my body's shameless begging, rubbing my thighs together to confirm the wetness that had accumulated between them. I tried my husband once more, to no avail, but still, I welcomed and endured the hot lust that boiled inside with a wide smile on my face. I was myself again.

One night, I went out to dinner with Abram, Elijah, and Mya. The night was long and lovely. I felt no shadow of that dreadful and shameful night, freely enjoying the company of my amiable, lively, cheerful family. Abram and I never told Eli and Mya the part about my molestation, not wanting them to worry. But still, they had visited from time to time to check on me as I put on my best performance as a woman unbroken. This night though, I didn't need to act. My kids, they made me feel so alive, so loved, and so happy. I was the most me I'd been even since before the incident. I felt how I did in times when they all lived with me and my husband was much more present. I could have sworn I'd never laughed so much in my whole life.

Abram and I said our goodbyes to Eli and Mya and we left in pairs, son with mother, sister with brother. We chatted on the way home, just as light and carefree as the entire night had been. When we arrived, I fell right back into my old routine, heading to my own room to strip and don my cream-colored, little satin robe. The way it glided on me felt amazing, and I wondered if it had always felt so smooth and sexy. It had only been about three weeks since I'd last worn it and I couldn't believe I had forgotten what satin felt like on my naked skin. My nipples perked up immediately under the touch of a thin garment as soft as a baby's breath. And I could feel the accompanying reaction between my thighs. Again, I embraced feeling sexy again as I left my room and passed Abram on my way to the bathroom. He saw me, my legs bare to my upper thighs, my nipples jutting from my robe. He started, then straightened quickly with a smile. I smiled too, knowingly, a bit naughty, then stepped into the bathroom, smirking and blushing to myself before focusing on the task so that unclean thoughts of my son wouldn't have time to take root.

After a hot, relaxing shower, I slipped back into my little robe, feeling just a bit sexier than I had twenty minutes before. By familiar habit, I found myself walking back toward my room, then paused at the threshold. Just then, Abram said, "good night," standing just inside his door on the opposite end of the hallway. I turned to him. "I'm glad you're feeling better." His smile lit up my world. I smiled back. I wasn't sure if I was ready to sleep in my own room yet, but I felt good. And my son was so glad to see me better, I couldn't let him think I had regressed.

"Good night, baby," I said, "I love you." And then we both shut ourselves in our respective rooms as we had a thousand times before. I slipped out of my robe and left it on the floor and caught a glimpse of my naked self in the new mirror, and stopped to admire my full figure. It was me. Wholly and completely. Me. I smiled at myself, switched off the light, and got into bed. It felt comfortable. The bed was much more welcoming than an air mattress. Silk sheets and soft cotton covers felt more soothing on my naked skin than a thick robe and pajama pants, or even panties and a camisole. I was at home. Me at last.

Predictably, I got very horny very fast. The cloud-soft bedding caressed my hard nipples as I adjusted my body to find comfort (or just to tease myself, I was unsure.) I sighed with the pleasure of electric want zipping through my nerves all over my body. At that moment, I decided I needed to cum. Though the chances of bringing myself to climax were slim, I hoped against all knowledge of my own body, against all of my experience, and against all sound conclusions I had drawn. I had proven that I needed human contact to orgasm, but stubbornly, I endeavored to make the near-impossible a reality. Just this night, I bargained with my body as my hand sank to fondle my breasts. I rolled my swollen nipples between my thumbs and forefingers, then pinched, then pulled, and twisted, sighing in the darkness.

Oh, the want! The sheer neediness! It was nigh unbearable. My body whined at me, begging for release, and I denied it, trying to prime myself until my body was so desperate to cum it would let me cheat its own cruel rules. Just this once. I set a pillow between my legs and humped once, sensations shooting through me, muted but exciting. I moaned. Needing to tease myself more, I turned on my back, denying myself another jolt of sex, taking the pillow from between my legs and sniffing my moist essence off it. I lifted my large breast to my mouth and licked it, then slurped my tense nipple between my lips. I sucked hard and then bit the firm nub, welcoming the pain and the painful desire that flourished in my body. I whined, dying to orgasm. If I wasn't ready now, I'd never be.

I slowly let a hand sink down my midsection, my body tense and sparkling with anticipatory need, almost twitching. I passed my breasts, taking note of my heaving chest and hammering heart, then passing the soft skin on my pudgy tummy, I traced a finger through my patch of coarse pubic hair. I parted my pussy lips and let a finger's tip slide through my sopping slit, teasing myself back and forth through my slick labia from my clit to my entrance. And finally, I sank one finger into my pussy with a deep sigh, closing my eyes tight and focusing on my pleasure. Simultaneously, I spread my lips apart and began to stimulate my clitoris with the other hand. I was building to something, but I knew it was just higher levels of horniness. It felt good. So damned good. But it wouldn't be enough. I was sure.

I whimpered in bed, pressing my finger deep into my vagina in frustration as I rapidly polished my clit. "Come onnnnn," I whined aloud to my disobedient body, almost in tears. In my desperation, I searched for an image that might turn me on more. At first, I thought of my husband; handsome, fit, sexy. But I hadn't seen him in so long. And his image just didn't feel exciting enough. Not dangerous enough. "Aughhh," I murmured as a shameful thought flashed in my mind. I was violated in this very bed. I was hit with a surge of sexual gratification and I walked through the shameful door, imagining that my attacker was here, molesting me again.

Don't you fucking move, I remembered him saying, and shuddered, still masturbating my pussy. Open your mouth, slut, he'd said to me. I opened up and shoved my two middle fingers inside my mouth, gagging myself as I reached for my throat. "You dirty bitch," I said, muffled. "Yeah, you dirty fucking slut. Suck that shit. Mmmmm." I moaned, my body reacting a fraction of the way it did when I was being defiled. I savored the little morsel, hungering for more debasement.

I turned over in bed, on my knees, face down, ass up. "Imma take this fucking pussy," I whispered to myself, trying to relive the tragically arousing moment, the shame of it seeming to tempt my body. "Don't you scream, you little whore." I closed my eyes and imagined that my attacker was raping me as I shoved two fingers up my drenched pussy. "Oh, oh, oh," I whined low, "mmm please stop it, mmmm!" It was working. I was climbing the staircase of pleasure, one slow, corrupt step at a time. I rocked and bucked in bed, fantasizing about being raped as I plunged two, and then three fingers into my cunthole. "Mmmm, please! Yes, don't, stop, mmmmm, take me! Fuck me! Rape meee!"

I felt myself coming close. So close. All I needed was a little push. I reached behind myself with my free hand and spread my butt, then took one of the three fingers out of my pussy and slid it inside my tight little ass hole, my eyes rolling back as I sighed in decadent pleasure. I tried to remember when the attacker had finger fucked my ass, vaguely able to recognize the familiarity of the feeling. But then I realized it wasn't the housebreaker who violated my anus, but my own son.

"Oooohhh, Aaaabram," I sighed. "Mmmm, fuck mama's ass." I transitioned seamlessly from being raped by a stranger to being fucked by my son. I couldn't help myself. I needed so badly to cum. I figured the more deviant the thoughts and words, the closer I'd get to my prize. "Yes, Abe, baby. Take me. Take it!" I thrust my fingers in both holes, moaning softly and taunting myself. The filthy words that poured from my mouth were all arms, reaching desperately for some forbidden fruit. My pussy and my ass were mouths, consuming what felt like nourishment, but were never filled, never satiated. My orgasm eluded me and left in its wake a body that ached all over. By the time I was ready to give up, both my holes were quite sore. My nipples ached and buzzed like beacons, sending signals to the rest of my body, notifying all my flesh that sexual fulfillment was imminent. The promise was utterly empty.