Mothering Sunday

She gave a half smile and tightened her robe again.

"See you in the morning then, I guess," she said, still a little nonplussed. What does a wife say to her husband as she goes off to fuck their son?

She paused at Paul's door and gave a little knock.

"Yes?" he said.

"It's me," she said pushing the door open.

He was sat in bed, a soft light by his bedside. He seemed to be reading.

"Hello?" he said enquiringly.

"Hi," she said, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. "Can I come in?"

"Yes of course," he said, putting his book down. She could see the cover: Jane Eyre.

She stepped in, closing the door behind her, wishing it had a lock.

She sat down on the bed, and he drew his legs up to make room for her. He was topless, his firm chest looking good in the warm light. She wondered what he was wearing beneath the sheets.

"Is he just down there?" Paul asked nodding towards her bedroom, "I thought you said we should back off for a bit?"

"I did, but he told me to come in here, to come to you..."

"No!"

She nodded, smiling. "Said the day couldn't get any weirder, so..."

He shook his head in disbelief. No really? But he shrugged and grinned.

"I think it probably could..."

"Oh?"

"... get a bit weirder, if you want it too."

She toyed at the belt of her robe. Looked at him from under her eyelashes.

He nodded, excitement running through him. He felt himself hardening.

She pulled the knot open, but kept the robe closed.

"Want to see?" she asked quietly.

"Oh yes," he said, wide-eyed.

She stood up in front of him and opened the robe for him.

"Wow!" he said. Just like her husband, she noted.

She giggled and cinched the robe off her shoulders with a little shrug, letting it pool on the floor at her feet.

"You look stunning," he breathed, pulling himself higher in the bed. He was still hidden, but she could see a growing tent.

"Like it?" she said, looking down at herself. The black chemise was sheer enough to show off her pale skin, but the lacy decorations tight across her breasts were distended by her pointy nipples.

"You look beautiful," he said sincerely, "Sexy. Stunning."

They stared at each other, a couple of metres apart, drinking each other in. She was revelling in the anticipation of the moment and wanted to prolong it.

She did a little circle for him, letting him admire her from all angles, her shapely bottom in its sheer little panties. The thought crossed her mind; how could she be so withdrawn with her husband, but so ready to flaunt herself for her son?

Her breasts swelled, ever tightening the sheer fabric. He stared at the dents of her nipples.

"Can I take a photo?" he said, "For my very private collection. To keep me going on lonely nights."

She nodded, trusting him.

He reached for his phone and took photo bursts as she moved this way and that, leaning down to show her cleavage, cupping her breasts together. Acting like a whore, she thought.

"You are so sexy," he said, "Somehow even sexier partially clothed."

She sniggered and pulled the sheet down a few inches from the bottom of the bed.

"Let me see you."

She pulled a little more, slowing it down to again prolong the moment.

As she hoped, he was naked, and she shivered as she saw his big thick cock slowly revealed, standing upright against his stomach.

She pulled the sheet off the bed, and took in the sight of her gorgeous son, legs splayed, erect cock, broad chest, handsome face.

"My turn now," she whispered gesturing for his phone, "For my private collection. You can give them to me later."

She tapped away taking shots. He didn't pose for her, just sat there massively erect, a wry smile on his face.

She wondered if he could see her arousal. She was so wet for him.

But still she wanted to postpone the inevitable moment. Looking at the photos on the screen, she wanted a sense of scale, a measure of her man.

She looked around the room.

"What are you looking for?" he asked.

She stepped into his bathroom and found something that would do.

"I want something to compare you with," she said, "To look at, and hold when you're away." She had a cannister of his shaving foam in her hand.

He smiled, realising where this was going.

"I've got a vibrator, but you're quite a bit bigger than it."

She held the shaving foam up and stretched her hand around it. About an inch was showing between her thumb and first finger.

"Hmmm," she breathed. "I think it's the girth that does it for me."

He groaned.

"Splitting me apart."

She stepped to him and positioned the canister against his cock. Gently, she stretched her hand around him. Her fingers were almost as far apart.

"Fuck, Paul," she said in awe.

Next, she considered the length. At length. He was even longer than the can.

"Wow," she said. He grinned proudly. He was not bashful anymore.

Days later, mooching about in his room, gazing wistfully at his bed, she came across the shaving foam can again, and rushed off to get her measuring tape. The can was seven inches round and eight inches long. With a shudder she remembered that Paul was bigger.

Gavin sat in bed, listening intently.

He could hear the faint sounds of their playful whispers, and Rachel's girlish giggles. She's never like that with me, he thought ruefully. Desperate to hear more, he considered listening at the door, but knew that if he was caught it would be curtains.

Straining his ears, he could make out what he thought were kissing noises and then some low groans from Rachel.

He was rigid with excitement and could not resist pulling down his pyjama bottoms and wanking in time to the groans and gasps of his wife and his son.

Pretty soon the moaning became accompanied by the rhythmic creaking of Paul's bed, and he heard his son become more vocal too with grunts and occasional bangs, and then a long female shriek and silence.

He glanced at his bedside clock. They'd been at it for ten minutes or so. He started to clean up the ejaculate, now pooled and cooling on this stomach, when the bed creaking sound began again.

With a shudder he realised that the temporary hiatus was simply an intermission, a chance maybe for Rachel to recover from her orgasm before her son began ploughing her all over again.

He tried to picture them. There was not a lot of room in Paul's single bed. Was he on top of her? Or was she riding him?

She was on top, he decided. Rather sums Rachel up, he thought.

He pictured her thrusting hips rising and falling, tried to imagine his thick girth forcing her tight lips apart as she thudded down onto his groin. His hands cupping her spectacular breasts, his mouth on her long nipples. Her hands bracing herself on his chest from his long insertions.

He heard their mumbled entreaties to each other. Her shouts as she climbed the hill again. The increasing frequency of the tortured bed going on and on.

There was another sharp bang and the sound of something falling onto the floor, then an unearthly wailing outburst. The creaking finally stopped and there was a long exhale and then minutes of blissful silence.

So, this is what it's come to, he thought, looking at their marital bed and the empty space beside him. Their bed hadn't made those kinds of noises for years, if ever. How would things ever return to normal. What is normal now.

The sound of footsteps and water running somewhere brought him back to the imagined events down the hallway. He could hear their low conversation and wondered what they were saying to each other. Their declarations of intimacy and love.

The bed settled again with the sound of what must have been two squeezing into it, and the continuous sounds of pillow talk. He could almost see their naked bodies pressed together, her hair spread out on his chest, hands stroking each other's bodies and lips kissing.

He noticed a tear in his eye as he considered their warm intimacy, their union, their bond. And his exclusion.