Soccer Mom Slut

"I told you it was too dangerous! What the fuck would we have done if your brother had walked in on us?"

"It would certainly be quite a sight," he mumbled.

"You pig!" I slapped his shoulder.

He smiled at me. That charming, cheerful smile he had been giving me since he was a little boy. The smile I could never resist. He pulled me up on top of him and kissed me once more. His tongue forcing itself into my mouth. I submitted to him and kissed him back.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I just couldn't resist you. Am I still your best little boy?"

"Yes, of course, baby," I replied, stroking his sticky dick with my hand, "always."

I slipped off the bed and staggered towards the en-suite bathroom. Somehow, I could feel his eyes following me, gazing at my jiggling, naked flesh, as I disappeared from view. I closed the door and stood by the hand-basin, staring at myself in the mirror. I started crying, tears rolling down my cheeks as my son's semen rolled down the back of my legs.

"What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?" I asked myself.

2

So, this takes some explaining.

To begin that arduous process, we should probably jump back in time a little. I was born on the East Coast, the youngest daughter of an accountant and a house wife. My parents named me Esther, after one of my grandmothers, who died during the Holocaust. When I was about five years old we moved to Kansas, and I've mostly lived there ever since.

My childhood was, for quite a while, blissfully happy. I was my parents eldest child. The first born. Sometimes they get overlooked or ignored. Not me. I was spoiled rotten. Particularly by my father. God, I was such a Daddy's Girl. I absolutely worshipped him. I followed him round as much as possible, from the moment he got home, to the moment he would put me to bed. I remember many long hours, lying on the floor, in his home office, drawing and colouring, while he worked at his desk.

He would read me bedtime stories. I would cuddle up to him, staring up at him as he spoke softly. I couldn't imagine loving anyone more than I loved him. When I was very young, I used to ask him if I could marry him when I got older. He would just smile and kiss my nose, and tell me that he loved me.

And then one day he was gone.

Later on, I would discover that he had been having an affair with his much younger secretary, and she got pregnant. He abandoned his wife and children and ran off with her. But all I knew then was that he had vanished. My mother told me he had left, and that was all she was going to say on the matter.

The disappearance of my father was devastating. He had been the centre of my world for the entirety of my life. It was shocking. It was awful. I wept and wept, devastated by this absence in my life.

And that was when Uncle Bob entered the scene.

Well, he wasn't actually my uncle. He was a guy who worked at the same accountancy firm as my father. He had probably only just turned forty, but he seemed impossibly old to me at the time. He started making an appearance every so often in the family home, after my Dad had done his moonlight flit. He was a jolly, amiable guy, who provided moral support for my mother. He liked to call me Sweetie Pie, and he always tried to make me laugh, sometimes with a little success.

Then, after a few months, I would occasionally find him sitting at the kitchen table, first thing in the morning, wearing only pyjama bottoms and a wife-beater shirt. Obviously the moral support he was giving my mother now extended to the bedroom.

It seemed to me a bit grubby and a bit sudden. My father had only recently left us, and now my mom was fucking some guy he had worked with. I wasn't all that happy with her, feeling she was betraying her husband (even though he had betrayed her first). I felt offended on Dad's behalf. Which is pretty stupid, if you think about it.

As for Bob, I just assumed he was a sleazy guy making a move on a vulnerable woman. Typical shitty male behaviour. But, as it turned out, my mother was not really his main target. Soon enough, he was going to make a move on me.

Looking back on things, it now seems obvious that he was essentially grooming me. If you can say anything to his credit, he didn't do anything physical until I was eighteen. But he was there. All the time he was there. Not just first thing in the morning, eating bacon and scrambled eggs, sitting in the chair my father used to sit in. He would pick me up after school. He would take me to the mall. He would come and watch me play softball.

And then on the night of my eighteenth birthday, he got me drunk and raped me.

Well, to be fair, he didn't exactly rape me. Not that first night. But he did other stuff. There was no party. I didn't have a huge number of friends. Instead we went out for a meal, Mom, my younger sister and brother, and Uncle Bob. The restaurant was about as fancy and upscale as you could get in the small town I grew up in. It had leather-upholstered booths and crisp white linen tablecloths. The waiters all wore dinner jackets. The cutlery was finely-polished and shone like sunlight on a dappled pool.

I was dressed up for the occasion, trying to be as classy and grown-up as possible. I was wearing a short-ish dress and high heels. I'd spent a couple of hours of that afternoon at a beauty salon, and my coiffured hair was down and I was wearing a little make-up. I was even wearing black stockings and lacy underwear. I felt sexy, or at least as sexy as a pretty naive virgin could feel.

And I couldn't help but notice the way Bob noticed me.

Everyone so often I would glance in his direction and I could see him look at me. Stare at me. Even someone as relatively innocent and sheltered as myself could recognise the hunger in his eyes. I was a virgin but I wasn't an idiot. I had discovered masturbation, so I knew what sexual desire was. And it was obvious, at least to me, that I was desired.

The thought of it was a little unsettling, a little creepy, but unbelievably exciting too. I was now a young woman and I craved attention. I wanted to be wanted. Bob had flirted with me in the past and I suppose I had flirted with him too. It was fun. It made me feel like an adult. He was older than me, old enough to be my father, but he wasn't unattractive. He was balding but he was still in pretty good shape. It seemed like a safe way to explore my sexuality. He was Bob. He wasn't dangerous. Or at least I didn't think he was.

You can probably guess that Kansas has some of the strictest alcohol laws in the country, so I'd expected to be drinking soda at the restaurant. But Bob surprised me by ordering me a glass of wine. I suppose I looked pretty grown up that evening, and the waiter didn't say anything. I wasn't complaining, happy to be a little daring. And after I'd finished my first glass, Bob asked me if I wanted another. Why the hell not, I thought to myself.

Pretty soon, I was fairly buzzed. I hadn't had the opportunity to drink much before, so it was certainly having an impact. And I wasn't the only one pushing the boat out. My mother was also in the process of getting royally drunk. Bob kept filling and refilling her glass, ordering drink after drink. She got louder and louder, a combination of raucous laughter and maudlin tears. By the time I got to my dessert, she could barely keep her eyes open.

So Bob took us all home and put my mother to bed, while I did the same with my younger siblings. Then I quietly made my way downstairs, a little unsteady on my feet, walking into the front room, to find Bob sat on the couch. He had taken off his jacket and mostly unbuttoned his shirt. He was drinking a glass of brown liquid, which I guessed was whisky.

"How's Mom?" I asked.

"Oh she's fine," he replied, "although she'll probably have a terrible headache in the morning."

"Yeah, I've never seen her like that before."

"She doesn't get out much these days, not since your Dad left. She was just getting things out of her system."

"Oh."

"Did you enjoy your night out?" He asked.

"Oh yeah, it was neat."

"Neat?"

"Yeah, it was really great. Thanks."

"You look really beautiful, Esther."

"Thank you," I replied, blushing deeply.

"Come, sit with me," he said, patting the cushion next to him.

"Oh, I should probably go to bed."

"Sit with me. Just for a little while."

Like a good little girl, I did what I was told. I moved across the room, a little tentatively, and sat next to him on the couch. He smiled at me and took a swig of his drink. He placed his hand on my leg and squeezed it gently.

"You want a taste?" He said, motioning towards his glass.

"No...no, no, I think I've had enough for one night."

"You're an adult now, Esther, it's okay to have a drink or two."

"I've had more than two tonight. And I am only eighteen."

"Bullshit. I started stealing beer from my parents' fridge when I was fourteen. You liked the wine I got you at the restaurant?"

"Yes."

"This is nicer."

"What is it?"

"Scotch."

"I don't think I'd like it."

"How do you know if you don't try it? You're not a kid anymore, Sweetie Pie."

No, I wasn't a kid anymore. He was right. Why shouldn't I try it? I was an adult. Adults drink. I had been drinking that evening. Why not have one more? I reached out and took the glass from his hand. He nodded at me, as I brought it to my lips.

"Just a sip," he whispered.

I felt the glass against my skin and tipped my head back. The warm liquid entered my mouth and I started coughing violently. Most of the scotch burst out in a cloud of moisture.

"Uurggh, it's horrible!"

"No, it's an acquired taste. Trust me, you'll learn to like it soon enough."

"No way," I giggled, "it's gross."

"Try again."

"No, never."

"Go on."

"No, no, no."

"We'll try one more time, in a different way. Close your eyes and open your lips up a little."

"What?"

"Do as your told."

His tone was playful, but a little stern too. Like we had already ascertained, I was basically an obedient girl, so I followed orders. Especially when they came from paternal figures like Uncle Bob. I pouted at him, giggled some more, then closed my eyes and let my mouth fall open. I waited for a few seconds, expecting the rim of glass to touch my mouth.

But then I felt the softness of his lips against mine.

My eyes opened widely as he kissed me, in shock and disbelief. Then his lips parted and a small trickle of warm liquid dribbled into my mouth. A fresh mouthful of scotch. I didn't cough and splutter this time, but the taste had hardly improved. A burning, scorching flavour. Following the alcohol, Bob's tongue slipped into my mouth, gently probing and exploring. I didn't stop him or resist him, but my whole body stiffened.

"We shouldn't do this..." I muttered.

"Shhh, Sweetie Pie. Just enjoy yourself."

He kissed me some more, his hand cupping my breast, squeezing it firmly. I winced a little, but didn't push him back. I didn't want this to be happening, but I didn't know how to stop him. The idea I could just say no seemed to be entirely unfathomable to me. He then caressed my cheek, softly stroking my skin.

This isn't too bad, I thought to myself. A bit weird. A bit unnerving. But not terrible. I had kissed a couple of guys - and a girl - before and Bob was not the worst kisser I had experienced. His breath smelled of tobacco, and I could taste the alcohol on his tongue, but that was kind of sexy, after a fashion. This wasn't the way my eighteenth birthday party was supposed to go, but I could live with it.

But then I felt his hand slip under my skirt and within a few moments, he was rubbing against the crotch of my panties. Then he tugged them to one side and slid a couple of fingers inside me. I gasped, partly in shock and partly in pain. I pushed his chest back away from me.

"No, don't do that. You shouldn't do that," I whimpered.

"It's okay, trust me, you'll enjoy it. You're so beautiful, Sweetie Pie, I just can't resist you."

"But it's wrong. Please stop. Please."

"Come on, baby. You're going to be a good girl for me, aren't you? I've done a lot of things for you and your mom, since your dad left. Don't I deserve something in return? You're going to be nice to me, aren't you, baby girl?"

There seemed a kind of twisted logic to what he was saying. He had been good to us. He had been kind to me. He'd given me lifts. He'd picked me up from school. He'd helped out in so many ways. Was it really so hard for me to let him have some fun? Give him something back in return? This wasn't too awful, was it? That's what I was telling myself as he molested and violated my teenage body.

He kissed me once more, much more forcefully, pressing me back into the cushions of the couch. His fingers sawed in and out of my snatch, his thumb rubbing against my clit. Despite my uncertainty, despite my half-assed protestations, my body was betraying me. I was wet and my nipples were hard. My mind was screaming no, but the rest of me was responding in a very different way.

Initially, I had been frozen stiff, terrified and confused, but as he continued finger-banging me, I started to squirm and wriggle around. My body was responding mechanically, not emotionally. I was definitely getting aroused, even if I would much rather be up in my room, as far away from all this as possible. I could feel a heat building up inside me. It felt like all the hairs on my body were standing up on end, as the sensations of unwanted, unfamiliar pleasure coursed through me like an unchecked electrical current.

All the while, this big, heavy form was pushing against me. Overpowering me. Pressing me into the couch. His tongue in my mouth. His chest pushing against mine. His hand between my legs. I could feel his heat. I could smell his sweat, his cologne. I could feel tears rolling down my cheeks. I whimpered and squeaked, trying to say 'no', but unable to express myself, his mouth crushed flat against mine.

His hand was remorseless. Relentless. It just ploughed back and forth, squelching and sliding inside me. I was so wet, it felt like I had peed my pants. I would have been embarrassed if I wasn't so numb with shock and disbelief. His thumb kept rubbing against my clit, which was throbbing and pulsing. It felt so wrong, but fuck, it felt good. I just couldn't help myself.

It didn't take that long for me to cum. Like I said, I had started masturbating by now, so I knew what an orgasm was, but this one was unlike any I had previously experienced. I came hard on his hand, his tongue still in my mouth, smothering any moans or screams I might have emitted. I was shaking and twitching, my whole body wracked with novel sensation. I came again and again, my skin on fire, my nipples like daggers, my cunt practically humming.

"Aaaaahhhhh! Oh fuuuucccckkkk!" I screamed, cumming and sobbing simultaneously.

"That's my precious girl. That's my Sweetie Pie. Didn't I say you'd enjoy it?" Bob whispered.

"Can I go to bed now?"

"In a minute. But there's something you can do for me first."

He unzipped his fly and rummaged around inside for a few moments, before pulling out his dick. I gasped at the sight of it. In the coming days, weeks and months I would become very familiar with that cock. I would become very familiar with a lot of cocks. But at that moment, this was the first adult penis I'd ever seen. It wasn't all that long, but it was thick. It was a weird brown colour, a totally different hue from the rest of him. It had a big purple head that both fascinated and frightened me.

He took hold of my hand and brought it to his groin. Then he took my fingers and wrapped them round his erect pole, which was hard, hot and damp. He clasped his hand round mine and started jerking it up and down. I was entirely passive, letting him do all the work. I could feel his skin against my fingers.

"Good girl, good girl, my good little girl," he panted, squeezing my hand tighter and tighter against his dick.

I didn't say a word. I just sat there silently, jerking him off against my will. After about thirty seconds, I could feel his dick to expand, and Bob started breathing more heavily. Then a little gob of cum squirted out of his cock. It twitched a couple more times, but no more semen appeared. He sighed to himself and let his hand drop to his side. For half a second I was holding it on my own, but then I pulled my fingers back and wiped them on my dress.

"Oh Sweetie Pie, you're so beautiful."

"Th...thank you..."

"Maybe you should go to bed now, okay?"

"Uh...okay."

I pulled myself up, lost in a daze. I staggered off, making my towards the stairwell. But then Bob called out after me.

"Esther?"

"Yes?"

"Not a word to your mom, now. You understand?"

"Okay."

"She wouldn't approve of what you did. You don't want to get in trouble, do you?"

"Uh...no."

"Good. This will be our little secret, okay? Yours and mine?"

"Okay."

"Night, Sweetie Pie."

"Night, Uncle Bob."

And that was how it began. With that little interaction between an abuser and the abused. It would be our little secret. Mom wouldn't like what I had done. That was the seed he planted in my mind. The sinister, evil fuck. He had molested me. Assaulted me. A week or so later he would, for the first time, rape me. But he had begun the process of convincing me I was in on the plan.

I felt guilty, even though I hadn't done anything wrong.

I was a young woman, in many ways still basically a child. Naive. Innocent. My father had abandoned me and I craved attention. And then this older man entered my life and showered me with as much attention as I could ever want. I look back at this period in my life now, with the understanding of a mature adult. I can see what Bob was doing. He was a monster.

But then, I was kind of flattered. It was enticing, hypnotic; having this grown-up take an interest in me. I went to bed that night and sobbed. But I was weirdly excited by what had happened too. It was a secret but it was my secret. It all seemed terribly sophisticated and adult.

I was having an affair.

That's what I told myself. I was having an affair with an older man.

But I was really being abused by an older man.

The next morning, I waited in my room for Bob to leave, and then I crept downstairs. My mother was sat at the table, nursing a black coffee and smoking a cigarette. She barely acknowledged my presence, too deep was she in the depths of her hangover. I should have been similarly afflicted but I hadn't drunk as much as she had. And I was young. I could shake things off in a way she couldn't. I quickly said goodbye and slipped out of the house.

All day, I sat in my classes, a growing sense of dread and unease building in my stomach. I watched the hands of the clock with a fascinated intensity, fearing what was waiting for me at home. Eventually, the final bell of the day rung out and I was quickly to discover that was waiting for me at home had come to meet me at the school gates.

Uncle Bob was parked across the street, looking intently at the kids streaming out of the building. He saw me just as I saw him, and he waved at me cheerfully. I slowly made my way to his car and climbed in next to him.

"Hey, Sweetie Pie."

"Hey, Uncle Bob."

"I think you can call me 'Bob' now, don't you think? At least when we're alone together."

"Okay," I muttered, entirely unconvinced.

"Why don't we go for a drive?"

Off we went, pulling away from the school. I was wearing a short skirt, and he had his hand resting on my bare leg. He caressed my skin and once again my body was betraying me. I could feel myself getting wet, even though my heart was racing and my eyes were watering. We ended up at a parking garage on the other side of town. We were on the top floor and there wasn't a single other vehicle in sight.