Harry's App Ch. 02: Out of Lockdown

Content Note: Incest

For me, the end of lockdown is like waking from a dream. Indeed, I can hardly remember the past year, apart from some very occasional shopping and lots of gardening, and my lazy, disappointing son being forever there, wandering about the house in a semi-dressed state that is frankly embarrassing. It's a relief that he will be back at university and not bothering me - not least because I had a disturbingly erotic dream about transforming into a huge-breasted blonde bimbo and letting my son use me like a whore...

It's strange how vivid my memory of that dream is. When I awoke this morning, I rushed to the mirror to reassure myself that it had been just a dream, and the relief at seeing I wasn't a huge-breasted blonde bimbo was profound. Damn, I looked hot though. My chestnut hair was darker and straighter than usual, my body toned and slender, and the accumulated lines of age much diminished. I looked twenty years younger than before lockdown. The result of healthy eating and exercise, no doubt.

I shied away from questioning this second youth too deeply. The only really troubling thing about it is how perky my tits look. (My breasts, that is. For some reason I keep thinking of them as tits.) And I definitely don't remember my nipples being so prominent before - or quite so sensitive.

My pubes were a dark, tangled bush, and if I didn't know better, I would have said there was cum sticking to it - but that was impossible. I've been stuck home alone for a year with only my son for company, and no way in hell would I ever let him fuck me. Although, why had I dreamed about him fucking me? Why did thinking about his cock make me tingle inside? - as if he could possibly arouse me.

In the shower, as I washed myself, and as my fingers strayed between my thighs, the hair there bothered me. I sat and carefully cut and shaved it away, and my armpits too of course, and afterwards felt a hundred times sexier. Lockdown was over, and the world felt full of possibility. My son had even found me a job...

That is an odd thing. My lazy son, who has spent the past year either in front of Zoom or in front of the TV, has somehow found me a job. A secretarial position - which I don't mind; I've done a dozen different types of office work. Harry has even gone online and bought me some new shoes and suits to wear.

Well, the thought was nice, but the skirts are shorter than I like, and the shoes have high heels and thick platforms, like something a stripper would wear. Unfortunately, the only other clothes I have all scream middle-aged stay-at-home mum. Just the thought of wearing my old clothes is depressing.

With a sigh of resignation, I opt for Harry's overly sexy purchases, and have to admit the charcoal skirt and jacket fit well, that the hold-ups and high heels make my legs look fantastic, and that actually I really like the sexy secretary look.

"I'm off to work," I shout to Harry as I let myself out the front door, and it isn't until I'm walking into my new office building and get hit by a gust of cool, conditioned air that it occurs to me that I completely forgot to wear underwear. I have never in my life forgotten to put on underwear. It's not the sort of thing you can forget. I remember looking at my various bra and panty sets, but somehow I got distracted from actually putting any on.

But I don't have time to do anything about it. It's my first day of a hopefully exciting new job, and there's simply no time to return home or to dash out to the shops. Blushing at the thought of my freshly shaved pussy being open to accidental view, and at the unmistakable points my nipples make in my white shirt (thankfully concealed by my jacket), I take a trembling breath and continue on, praying that I can make it through to lunchtime without my error being discovered.

*

Harry peered through the slit in the curtains, watching his mother drive away to work. He had enjoyed having her be his bimbo-whore, but with lockdown over and their bank balances falling into the red, Harry decided it would be better to have a source of income, or two.

The App that had made it all possible was a closely guarded secret, but there was a growing dark web community of users that shared possibilities. A couple of businessmen had described how they had turned their secretaries into wanton sluts, and others had wished they'd thought of that too instead of changing their wives into bedroom whores.

One of these lived in the same city as Harry, which had given him the idea. "I can make my mother be the secretary you want," he offered, and the offer had been jumped at. It had always turned Harry on to call her his whore, and to actually sell her for someone else to use during the workday was a sweet bonus. She would be home in the evening to cook him dinner, and to do whatever he asked of her. He looked forward to seeing her pussy full of someone else's cum.

There was a chime from his tablet, and then another. Curious, he checked his notifications and saw they were both from the App. The first read, "Happy Birthday, Harry! As a loyal user, you have been selected for some bonus self adjustments." Harry followed the brief instructions and discovered he was able to adjust his own body in various ways, although only by ten percent.

"Yes!" he shouted, immediately increasing his libido and stamina by ten percent, increasing the volume and creaminess of his cum by ten percent, increasing the length and girth of his cock by ten percent - it was disappointing how little ten percent extra seemed, but it was definitely something. He could feel the difference in the weight of his engorged cock as he stroked it happily.

The second read, "As a reward for sharing Subject 1, Subject 2 has now been unlocked. Enjoy!"

"Awesome!" Harry cried, seeing the blank profile appear.

*

My boss is not what I would call handsome, but there's something exciting about the possessive way he looks at me. I spent the morning with HR and learning the system, and managed successfully to not reveal my lack of underwear, one way or another, but my plan to rush out to the shops at lunchtime goes awry.

Mr Richards asks me into his office for a private chat. "How do you like it here?" he says.

"I like it so far, sir," I reply. The 'sir' startles me. It feels right and natural to say it to him, but I'm suddenly very aware of being alone with him. My mind is suddenly racing with all those stories I've read of bosses having affairs with their secretaries. There's a photo of Mrs Richards on his desk, together with two young boys. My boss is a happily married man, it seems. And I am still not wearing any underwear.

"I like the way you call me 'sir'," he says, and I feel the heat in my cheeks. "Take off your jacket."

It's spoken as if it's just a suggestion, but I say, "Yes, sir," and it's a relief to remove the jacket - until I remember just why I have been keeping it buttoned all morning.

Mr Richards is staring at the obvious outline of my tits - my breasts - and my jutting nipples. "If you're going to distract me all day by dressing like a slut," he says in a very reasonable tone of voice, "it's only fair that you help release the tension this makes."

"Yes, sir," I agree automatically, while flushing with shame at being called a slut. I'm not a slut. I can't remember the last time I had sex, and my lack of underwear was an accident.

Mr Richards moves round his desk until he stands in front of me. I try not to look at the very obvious bulge at his crotch - but it's impossible not to stare at his hard cock as he tugs it awkwardly from his fly. "See what you've done to me," he says.

"Yes, sir," I whisper. I can't not see the erect cock throbbing in front of my face. This is not at all how I expected my first day at work to go. First forgetting my underwear, and now with my boss thrusting his cock into my face. The smell of it makes me dizzy with lust. I'm not a slut, I insist to myself, but it is my fault that my boss's cock is hard, and it is only fair that I help him with it.

I wrap my lips about the large, soft head and suck gently. For a brief, disturbing moment, I remember sucking on my son's cock as if it was the most amazing thing in the world - but that was just a dream. This is real. I'm not a slut, though. I'm a single mother and a secretary. This is just a task I need to do so we can both get back to our jobs. I focus on doing it as quickly and methodically as possible, making a tight ring with my lips and bobbing my head down and up with a steady rhythm, no moans of pleasure or looking up lustfully into his eyes. It's a fairly long cock, so I take it into my throat - which is surprisingly easy; I never used to be able to do that, but in that dream about my son, I used my throat and maybe that's why I feel so confident and relaxed now.

Mr Richards steps away. "It's not enough," he says. "I need to use your pussy. Bend over my desk."

"Yes, sir," I say quickly, and obey. "Wait! No!" By agreeing to blow him, I hadn't intended to offer myself completely.

But before I can stand up and get away from him, he lifts my skirt and sees clearly my exposed pussy, shaved bare and almost certainly wet. His hand on my back prevents me from standing, and I am held in position, helpless and embarrassed beyond measure. "No," Mr Richards says. "I've never seen a pussy more desperate to be used. If you don't want to be used like a slut, don't come to work dressed like one."

With one eager thrust, he pushes deep into me. "Fuck me, sir," I cry, the words out of my mouth before I can stop them. "Use me like the slut I am!" I can't believe I'm saying these words. But his cock feels so fucking good in me, and as long he keeps fucking me I honestly don't care if he thinks I'm a slut. "Harder, sir! Faster!"

He pauses, and reaches for his phone, which he switches to speaker. "Hello, dear," a woman's voice says. It's his wife. Mrs Richards, who is looking at me from the photo on his desk.

"I have a new secretary," my boss says, and thrusts his cock into me so hard, so deep, I moan with mingled pain and pleasure. "Can you hear?"

He holds nothing back, slamming into me hard and deep and fast, the impacts sending waves of pleasure through me. "Sounds like she's having fun," Mrs Richards says. "I'm envious."

"You can taste her slutty pussy on my cock when I get home."

"I can't wait. Please tell me you'll be home early."

Despite the acute embarrassment of his treating me like a slut while talking with his wife, the pleasure his cock is delivering is too great for me to object. He's pushing me closer and closer to the edge, and I know his wife can hear it in my moans. The thought of her sucking on his cock later and tasting my pussy adds a surreal note to the pleasure.

He pushes a fingertip into my ass suddenly, and the shock almost pulls me back from the edge - but then I'm tumbling over, gasping loudly as my ass clenches about his fingertip, my cunt contracts about his ardent cock, and waves of blissful release radiate from my core. Mr Richards holds his phone to my mouth as I convulse, so that Mrs Richards can hear every incoherent murmur of ecstasy.

When I am done, he orders me to hold the phone against my pussy, and resumes his strenuous fucking. I can only imagine the sounds his wife hears, the wet squelching of my pussy about his thrusting cock. Abruptly he pushes in deeper than ever, painfully so, and I feel the kicking of his cock within me, the tickle of his cum bursting out against the entrance to my womb, and it's enough to make me come a second time.

I don't think I've ever come twice before.

"Tell my wife what just happened," my amazing new boss orders, holding the phone to my mouth again.

"Yes, sir," I say. "Your husband just came inside me, and made me climax a second time."

A long moan issues from the phone, and I understand that Mrs Richards has just been masturbating while listening to her husband fuck me.

Mr Richards pulls out slowly. "I don't want you dripping cum all over the office, so you will wear this until you get home." He pushes something into my pussy. It feels almost like a small cock, but has a narrow neck and a wide, flat base. I worry that it will slip out when I stand up - but actually I am able to grip it from within.

He says goodbye to his wife, tidies his wilting cock away, and dismisses me with a wave. I make my way awkwardly back to my desk, conscious with every step of the toy stuffing my pussy, my boss's cum inside me. Wondering what if I get pregnant...

People - my fellow secretaries - are staring at me as if they know what has just happened. I check myself in the mirror. My face and neck are flushed. My long, dark hair is tangled, and my lipstick smeared. I definitely look like someone who has just been fucked. I certainly feel like it.

But damn that was the best fuck of my life.

*

At thirty-five years of age, Jane Halley was the youngest professor in the faculty and one of the most successful too in terms of getting grants and funding. Though an attractive woman, even by her own high standards, her research had always been her priority and her relationships had been few and generally quite short. She disliked dealing with students, especially the dim ones who barely scraped through their exams, and clearly didn't understand the simplest parts of what she tried so hard to teach.

Harry was one such. His coursework was lazy, and the way he looked at her made her feel dirty. One good thing about lockdown was that she hadn't needed to see him at all. "Hi, Professor," he said. "I wonder if I might have a few minutes with you. It's a private matter."

Jane sighed internally and nodded. "Five minutes," she said.

Harry smiled in a way that made her want to run away, and she was tempted to demand he leave her office door open. "I just have a few quick questions," he said, holding his tablet up - and before she understood what he was doing, there was a flash and the sound of her photo being taken.

"Hey, stop that!" she shouted, abruptly furious - and then, just as abruptly, her fury evaporated into confusion. She stared at him, trying to remember what she had been about to say, and why, and also why she was suddenly more aroused than she could remember ever being before. "I, um," she said.

"You were going to take off your clothes," he said, and Jane sighed with relief. That's exactly what it was, and hurriedly stripped out of her trousers and blouse, and only once she was left with her bra and panties did it seem a very strange thing to do. "All your clothes," he said when she hesitated, and she completed the act.

But the why of it eluded her. Jane was a scientist. She needed to understand, and if anyone were to enter her office and find her standing naked in front of a student, she could not have explained it away. "You were going to demonstrate how a woman masturbates," Harry said.

The fog of confusion lifted. Of course that was it. And that must be why she was so aroused. It was perfectly natural for women to masturbate, and Harry needed to see that. Perching on the edge of her desk, she spread her legs for him to see her pussy, and spread her labia with her fingertips. "Here is my clit," she said, gently brushing the little hood that covered it.

While she caressed and teased her clit for Harry's education, he distracted her with questions about her life: Was she married? Single? Did she live alone? Where was her house, and how big was it? What car did she have? What kind of sex did she like? How many men had fucked her? How many women? How much money did she have?

Jane answered the questions, but making herself come was the only important thing. She was single, she lived alone in a nice house in a good area, she drove a Jaguar, she liked her sex simple and romantic, three men had fucked her, no women, and money-wise she was pretty well off. But none of that mattered. What mattered was her fingers on her clit, building the sweet tension, pushing her steadily to the precipice and over.

She stood in front of him, convulsing in silent pleasure as she continued to work her clit... until she was done.

"Thank you, Professor," Harry said, and stood to go. "I've e-mailed you my address. Come and see me in the morning."

Jane snorted and shook her head. Letting him watch her masturbate had been educational. She had no intention of driving to his house. She waited for Harry to leave her office, then locked the door behind him and sat back in her chair. Spreading her legs wide, she plunged the fingers of her left hand into... into... into her cunt, and finger-fucked herself slowly while working her clit with her right. She had never needed so badly to come, and for some perverse reason she imagined it was Harry plunging his fingers into her cunt until she wanted to scream out loud.

"Fuck me, Harry," she pleaded. "Fuck me. Fuck my cunt!" Her pleas grew louder with each climactic release. Jane had never had multiple orgasms before, not even by her own hand. She was getting wetter too, until juices were gushing out as she swore loudly. "Fuck-fucking-fuck!" she cried out as a final, powerful orgasm tore her apart, a jet of clear fluid arcing up from her pussy and splashing across the papers on her desk.

Sated at last, and a little horrified by how long she had just sat there masturbating when there was so much work she needed to do, but pleased also because squirting like that felt oddly like an achievement to be proud of, Jane cleaned and dressed herself, and headed home. No man had ever given her such sustained pleasure, and she determined to find one who could.

*

Harry is in front of the TV when I get home. Before I can go upstairs to clean myself, he calls me into the living room. I hate that I've been working hard all day and he's sitting on the sofa - with his cock in his hand.

I stare at his cock, wanting to tell him off, to order him to get dressed properly, but I can't decide what exactly. "Lift your skirt, Mum," he says, and I do. I can't work out what is worse - Harry looking at my pussy, or Harry seeing the purple silicone plug that I've worn since Mr Richards fucked me. "Take it out, Mum," he says, and then I do know what is worse. Worse is Harry staring at my pussy as cum drips down my thighs.

No, worse is Harry telling me to sit on his cock, to ride it like a slut, and me actually doing it because I can't think why not. Worse is the sudden realisation, even as Harry comes inside me, inside my cunt that is still wet with my boss's cum, that this is incest, that I am fucking my own son just because he asked me to, and that clearly I am a woman of no morals whatsoever. They're right to treat me like a slut. I am a slut, and irredeemable.

And with that epiphany, I come harder than ever, screaming with pleasure in Harry's face as I convulse in ecstasy upon his lap. His cock is still hard, and it occurs to me that it is bigger than I remember - except we've never done this before... Have we?

Dreams are strange, I think to myself, as I climb the stairs, wondering why I decided to remove the plug before getting into the shower. Holding my hand to my pussy to contain my boss's cum inside as well as I can, I decide firmly to wear underwear from now on. Fun as I suppose it was today, I'm not a slut - and my boss is a married man, after all.

*

Jane Halley parked her Jaguar outside the small semi-detached and hoped it would be safe enough for the very short time she would leave it there. It was a run-down area, no doubt full of thieves and disaffected vandals. Why she had come at all, she didn't really know. Harry had asked her, and it felt important somehow.

She had been feeling anxious ever since she woke up. Aroused too, in a strange way. Unusually for her, she had slept in the nude, and when she had brushed her fingertips between her thighs, she had discovered her pussy was very wet, her clit swollen and demanding. Within minutes she had brought herself to a wonderful release, and a shockingly wet one too, forcing her to strip the bed quickly and shove the sheets into the washing machine.