Strawberry 44

(Note from villanova: this is the result of a collaboration between a friend and myself. Some of it is true. Some of it isn't. The parts in italics were all written by my friend; I have very minimally edited her words, mostly for punctuation and spelling but I did delete two sentences and add four. I'd originally planned to rewrite it all myself, but her writing turned out to be so great I've preserved it 99.5% intact. The stuff not in italics – the less good stuff – is by me.)

STRAWBERRY 44:

This is a story within a story.

For the young woman whose account follows it is her story – for my son and I, her story is a part of ours. So the full story here comes from the experience of all three of us. I have bracketed our side of it as a kind of commentary. But first the commentary needs a bit of an introduction because the story of what has developed between my son and it forms a sort of frame around Villanova's story. To begin with: things were already strange and steamy at home before I came across two of Villanova's earlier stories. One was about a mother and son, and another was about an older woman and a young neighbour. The stories themselves were deliciously erotic for me. Imagining these women of her creation seducing, dominating and humiliating…only to be themselves degraded and used grossly, deeply, satisfyingly. But what made these tales really sear my imagination was that I found them in my son's PC; and in them, and other mother/older woman stories the names were always mine and his.

I had already noticed that he was taking my used panties from the laundry box. When they reappeared they didn't have semen stains so I assumed that while his sperm was going elsewhere he was no doubt getting his face into them.

It was a shock at first, but only a few minutes later I found I was so horny that I laid down and masturbated recalling a memory of catching him masturbating in the bath a few months ago. I had a stupendous orgasm and then a sense of guilty dread which didn't last for long.

What I've always loved in a male – or a female – is someone who likes to get their nose, mouth and tongue into my pussy and especially between my buttocks. When someone wants to do that to me I feel adored. And I'm a woman who can really make love to an adoring face with my big soft slippery-when-wet underparts. However in a respectable home a Mum doesn't just say, over morning cornflakes: "Matthew dear I know you just tossed yourself off to the smells in my knickers, so I'd really like you to get your head down between my legs…so…" No, I couldn't say that. What I did instead was to suggest we paint his bedroom. It got us busy, got me distracted and able to go off the boil…but there was more to it. Our third bedroom is full of office stuff because I work from home.

So with his room out of use, it meant he'd share my bed. It's a big bed. It was normal. Except of course it wasn't. I don't know if I ever made a "decision" – I just wanted to see what would happen if we shared my bed. I wasn't exactly intending to seduce my son, but I knew I was making an opportunity.

That night in the early hours I woke to the warm tubular pulse of his hard cock pressing my thin panties into the crease of bottom. I didn't move away.

I breathed evenly and he very gently rocked against me. He stopped and started and stopped…cautious and nervous – but the heat and hardness of that cock! Suddenly he was quivering and catching his breath and I felt his penis making little jolts and the ripple as his warm spill wet my cleft.

I lay there feeling dirtied and used but also aroused as his spunk trickled, cooled and dried on me, starching my panties and nightie. My son's living sperm! It had been a tentative, gentle, hesitant rape. And he'd been so close to the place that's always sends spasms through me when I'm hot, my anus. Later, as he snored asleep, I went to the bathroom, sat on the loo and got a G-spot, clitty and anus fork on myself and sobbed with the wonderful orgasm…heels and toes and nipples and earlobes and reflex contractions, and squirting like I always do when I really come.

So when I found Villanova's stories I was even more agitated. I was already thinking incest, I knew my son was too…so it was time to say something.

I told him I'd come across the story about the woman and the young neighbour (I didn't mention the other stories, my wandering panties and him wanking on my bum.) I got him to admit he longed for anal sex and it wasn't long before I'd suggested that I could write to Villanova. She obviously fantasised about being taken that way…she might be interesting… There, that's what led to what Villanova tells below.

VILLANOVA:

It started when I was checking my email for feedback.

I love writing stories. I can let my imagination go wherever it wants, I can do things or have things done to me that I would never allow in real life, just because I love imagining them. I dream up fantastic or terrible scenarios, I get excited as I sit at my computer, and I know when a first draft is promising because I have to undress and lie on my bed and bring myself to orgasm just from the idea. Often, that's me for the day; after I've come from one of my own fantasies I have to give up writing erotica and get on with something mundane, because I can only write well if I'm aroused by the idea, and that means not letting myself get so carried away that I spend my excitement in pleasure.

I know my stories are a little weird. I had had two published on the site. The first was a story about a woman a little older than me who takes her younger male neighbour with a vibrator in his arse and is in turn fucked in her own arse by him. I got some positive feedback for it, so I published the second one I thought was good, a riskier tale about a female photographer who lets herself be seduced by her 18-year-old son in the act of photographing him nude, only to then be buggered by him in an assault which she photographs and uses in an exhibition of her own work. I liked the fact that there was a sense in both stories that my heroines had crossed the line at some point, that they had provoked or at any rate invited a humiliation that they hadn't realised they'd wanted, but which when it became inevitable, they'd embraced and found immensely powerful. I knew that not everybody would find these stories as arousing as I did, but then I had a lot of other stories that I knew were way too far out for even the site to publish.

The strange thing is that, in neither of these stories am I totally sure whom I most identify with. I write from a woman's point of view, and I think of myself as being a strong woman who knows what she wants, and yet my favourite stories make me confront things about myself that I don't normally like to face. I wouldn't want to be either of the heroines of these stories, dominated and humiliated by strong young men, and yet I love to fantasise about it.

I was checking the feedback from this second story and finding it gratifyingly enthusiastic, when I opened an email from someone identifying herself as "strawberry44". It struck me as being unusually…well, direct:

"I just wanted to write and say how much I enjoyed your stories "Forcing My Neighbour" and "Photographing Chris". I thought it was very strong and really thoroughly conceived. I am divorced, and I have a son but I have never had any thoughts about him along the lines you talk about...until now."

STRAWBERRY 44:

Whoops – little white lie!

VILLANOVA:

"He is 20 and still lives at home and I have since fantasised about situations like the one you describe. Isn't it amazing what fiction can do? Anyway I wanted to thank you for writing them and expanding my horizons so beautifully. I will look out for your stories in the future."

Strawberry44 included her email address. I mailed her back, thanking her for being so complimentary, and I didn't think much else about it.

The next day I had a reply from her.

"Thank you for writing back. You must get an awful lot of mail from people telling you your stories are great, but I just wanted to assure you that you really made an impression on me.

I had some wild times when I was in my twenties but that pretty much ended when I had Matthew. My husband was prudish and more than a bit homophobic and while I think he was initially attracted to me because he saw me as a "free spirit", that soon wore off. He became violently jealous of my friendships with other women and was obsessed with the idea that I was being unfaithful to him. (And in fact I was often tempted to be, but I never actually made the leap until we were separated. I slept with a good friend of mine, with whom I am still close. And it was wonderful, although we haven't repeated the experience – she is still married, for one thing!) In the end I had to file for divorce on the grounds of mental cruelty. I think he was relieved to see the back of me. Matthew took it badly though, (this was three years ago) and I still wonder if he has forgiven either of us. He is very private, and he has never brought a girlfriend back to the house, although I have often told him that I wouldn't mind if he did. Judging from the size of our internet phone bills, I think he finds most of his satisfaction online!

Forgive me for asking but I can't help wondering who writes your stories. Are you young? Old? Male? Female? I think you must be a woman but I'm not totally sure. I would love to know a little more about villanova. I am 44 years old, mid-brown hair, five foot six and in pretty good shape, in case you were curious. Still a hopeful romantic and clearly a secret deviant!

If I'm prying please ignore this. I hope your writing goes well."

It seemed to me very much like Strawberry44 was flirting with me. I could put this down to her being a sexually-starved desperate housewife having a little internet fun, but I couldn't help being intrigued. If she was flirting with me, she seemed not to mind very much whether I was male or female. I decided to tell her the truth.

"Dear Strawberry44," I wrote, "I'm very sorry to hear about your marriage. You sound pretty sanguine about it, though, and I hope all goes well for you. I will be thinking of you through the times ahead.

"To answer your questions, yes I am a woman. Thirty-two, five foot two, 115lbs, short hair (dyed blonde, okay, okay). I swim but that's about the extent of my exercise. Vegetarian, but a smoker and a drinker – although I'm not a drunk. But I figure, trying to be a writer, it goes with the territory…(sigh).

"Please do keep in touch and let me know how things work out."

I checked my email again the same evening.

"Villanova, honey, you are so sweet! I think you think I am much more upset about it all than I really am. In fact, I am looking forward to a time when I can find out a little more about who I am and what – or who – I want (!).

"Of course it's difficult starting out again as a single woman at my age, after so long being off the scene. But I guess confidence is the name of the game, right? Who knows – maybe I'll meet a cute younger woman who I can explore a whole new side of myself with. Someone intelligent, imaginative, daring…maybe even…a writer? ;-)

"Sleep well honey,

"Strawberry44

"Xoxox"

Well, how about that, I thought, she is flirting with me, dammit! And I must admit, I was a bit excited about it. I had had a couple of drunken encounters with friends, back in my student days, but nothing very serious, and in only one case had it led to a dissolution of the friendship. I'd confidently thought of myself as being bisexual for, oh, years, but I hadn't done anything about it for a long time. Come to think of it, I hadn't done anything about anything in my sex life for a long time. That's probably the main reason I like to write erotica. You get to be everyone for a change.

Still, I didn't have the nerve to reply. And I didn't hear from Strawberry44 for a week. I assumed that she had got bored waiting, or that she hadn't been serious, and I wrote it off as one more missed opportunity.

Then one Sunday I got up, fed the cat, made myself a cup of coffee and went into my office to check my email. And there was a message from her.

"|Hi – is everything okay? I'm thinking about you. A lot. Please tell me to go away if you want me to. But I can't get the thought of you out of my mind.

"S44

"Xxx"

The morning sun from my window was warm. I was still in just my bathrobe and my coffee was steaming and smelled good and I felt ready for anything.

I searched through my picture files until I found a reasonably OK photo of myself, taken in a club only a few months ago by my best friend. I'm smiling, but not too goofily, and the flush in my face could be good health instead of two or three Cosmopolitans. I wrote her an email.

"Hi. This is what I look like.

"Villanova

"Xxx"

And I attached the photo and hit "Send".

STRAWBERRY 44:

Matthew and I were so excited – we were spending a lot of time discussing Villanova's fantasy…it was a sort of vicarious sex. We were already sharing an unspoken knowledge – we had not yet found a way to explicit and admitted incest.

VILLANOVA:

Later that day, at lunchtime, I checked my mail.

"Darling, you are a lovely young woman. God, I sound so old-fashioned! I enclose a picture of myself. Hope you like it.

"Where do you live?"

The enclosed picture was a studio shot of a neatly dressed, smiling woman with long straight brownish hair, her face a Botticelli oval, with a small nose and her lips full, firm and confident, her green eyes narrow and direct. God, she was so lovely.

Looking at her picture, I couldn't help wondering what she looked like without her clothes; how she carried herself naked, the exact fall of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the particular mould of her belly, how it might curve downwards in between her thighs. And I wondered, too, about her son; whether or not he thought about her that way as well. Did he listen to her while she was taking a shower? Did he wonder whether she listened to him, while he was taking a shower? As he stood naked in the bathroom with the water falling over him, did he take his half-swollen cock in his hand and wish for his mother to walk into the room and glimpse his form through the curtain? Did he want her to open the curtain and smile at him?

I felt a rush coming on. I had to go into my bedroom and slide my jeans over my hips and touch myself. But first, while I still had the courage of my arousal, I hit Reply. I sent Strawberry 44 my address and phone number. I wanted her to get in touch with me. Then I hit Send, logged off my email and nipped into my bedroom.

*****

Two weeks later, I was standing on a doorstep in the suburbs. It was a warm night and I was wearing a light summer dress and clutching a bottle of wine. Inside, I was all nerves.

Strawberry 44 – or Melanie, to give her her real name – had invited me to dinner. We had been sending each other flirtatious emails ever since I had told her my address, and she had been trying to entice me round to her house for a fortnight. Finally I had said yes, and she had told me that Matthew would be there too, as he wanted to meet me. Apparently, he too was a big fan of my stories, although she didn't tell me how she knew this. I felt strangely as though I were going on a date with two people at the same time.

The door was opened and there was Melanie, smiling at me, wearing a short-sleeved khaki top and a pair of matching trousers. Her clothes clung to her body in a way I envied. She was taller than I'd thought, half a head taller than me, with round hips and long legs.

"Erin?" she said.

"Hello," I said warmly, and held out the bottle to her. She put a hand to her throat in a you-shouldn't-have gesture.

"It's lovely to see you," she said, smiling. "Come in." I stepped up into the doorway and she leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. I kissed her back, because there seemed no point in being standoffish. She took the bottle and led me into the living room.

"Erin, this is Matthew," she said, indicating a slender young man sitting in a chair, looking like he didn't really want to be there. He glanced up at me with a vague nod and grunted.

STRAWBERRY 44:

He was sulking. He had wanted to watch while I seduced her – I didn't want him around until she was good and hot. It would almost certainly embarrass her and he'd probably quite literally get to be a loose cannon and fire off too soon. A conversation had touched directly on the subject of women with women and he got strained-looking with a swollen bulge. I told him I liked women. His eyes went inward, distracted. I knew he was trying to imagine me with some woman. I'd got him to see reason but he was still hoping to be there from the start: "I want to see how you pull her" "No". He knew that was that but didn't like it. I remember thinking that it would get his cock nice and angry – I wanted to feel that anger in him when he – well, you'll see what he did to her.

I'm amazed that I managed to keep my predatory look out of my eyes.

VILLANOVA:

"Hi, Matthew," I said with forced friendliness.

"Matthew," said Melanie, holding out the bottle to him, "open this for us, will you, love?" He sighed heavily, unfolded himself from the chair and took the bottle from her, vanishing out into the kitchen.

Melanie and I sat down on opposite ends of the sofa and chatted about the weather, the recent election, the state of the buses, the planned block of flats by the old harbour. She was warm and sexy and articulate and funny, and I let myself be wooed by her. Matthew came in holding the opened bottle and three glasses, and he poured us generous glasses of wine and a somewhat less generous one for himself. I recognised the signs: Matthew knew what his mother was up to, and by conspicuously drinking less than her he was broadcasting his disapproval. I was amused by what a prig he was.

STRAWBERRY 44:

Not quite ... I'd told him he mustn't drink much because he's not used to it and it makes him tiggerish and loud for a few minutes, then sleepy.

VILLANOVA:

Every so often Melanie would disappear into the kitchen, from which delicious smells were emanating, and I would try to make small talk with Matthew. I asked him if he was a student, and he said he was, but I had to ask him again what he was studying before he muttered that he was doing English. I happily nattered on about the writers I admired, like Carol Shields and Margaret Atwood and Patricia Highsmith, but he showed no signs of having read them.

Eventually Melanie announced that dinner was served. Matthew sloped into the dining room and I followed him.

Melanie had made a delicious vegetarian lasagne, with baked mushrooms and fennel, and I was hungry. I ate it with relish and had a second helping, confident that I'd work it all off in the pool the following day. Matthew seemed pretty pissed off that we were having a vegetarian dinner and no sooner had he finished off his first helping than he mumbled "I'm going upstairs," and left the room.

Melanie turned to me, raised her eyebrows and blew out her cheeks.

"He seems lovely," I said tentatively. She refilled my almost empty wineglass.

"He's such a rude little shit when he wants to be," she said and laughed. I had to laugh, too. She shrugged. "I understand, though. Anybody who comes round nowadays, he thinks I'm trying to seduce. And sometimes he's right," she added, with a wink.

I felt my face go red and I had a gulp of wine to try and conceal it. I was getting quite tipsy. I drained my water glass and poured myself some more from the glass jug on the table.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" I asked, aching for a cigarette. She rolled her eyes in mock relief.