The Sweetest Sin Pt. 03

Chapter three of four-part story

"Admit it, Mom, I'm just your fuckboy, aren't I."

I looked up from my book. "I wouldn't put it in quite those terms. More of a son with benefits."

I had been fucking my 18-year-old son for six months, more or less round the clock. I'd put him on the payroll, at a generous wage, so that he would be available to me, any time of the day, at a minute's notice.

"You hired me to be your assistant," he continued, "but there's not enough work to justify what you're paying me."

"Jack, I pay you for your services. Let's just say I'm very pleased with the services you are rendering."

"Funny, Mom. Well, I'd like to switch things up round here. Make some decisions, justify my salary."

"Sure. If they're improvements on what we're doing now," I replied.

"I was hoping you'd say that. OK, here is the list. Rule 1: No Panties. Rule 2:..."

"Wait, back up. Rule 1 again?"

"You are not to wear underwear. Ever. Anywhere," he said.

I chuckled. "Wait, now, Jack. I thought you were going to come up with ideas for improving things around the house, around the business."

"Mom, I can't think of one single thing that would make a bigger improvement to our lives than your not wearing panties. And believe me, I've looked at it from every angle."

"Ha. Right. Well, around the house, I'm happy to go commando. It's kind of exciting. But when I'm out in public..."

"That's when it's most important," he interrupted. "I want you thinking of that thing between your legs every time you move. I want you to be aware that one mis-move, and you will be exposing yourself. And I want access to it at all times. I need to know there's nothing between you and my fingers or my cock or..."

"Be serious, Jack. What about when I go to the doctor?"

"You gynacologist?"

"No, Dr Venntner, our MD. Last week I had an earache."

"You had an earache and Dr Venntner asked you to spread your legs? What kind of pervert is he?"

"No, Jack, he ... well, what about if I have to meet a business client, give a presentation?"

"Mom, do you have a bunch of clients lying on the floor, looking up your skirt?"

"Not funny. What if they can smell me in a meeting?"

"I guess that depends on how turned on you get in a meeting, Mom. Do you really love your job that much that your clients can smell it?"

"Jack, stop it. What about when I'm shopping - if I bend down to pick something up?"

"From what I've seen, you know exactly what you're doing when you bend down, and exactly what you are showing. And if you're in doubt, just do a little more practice in your robe in front of the mirror."

"OK, OK, what about when I am changing at the gym," I said.

"You don't go to the gym."

"I do now. I've taken out membership to get my fat ass fit. You can't expect me to strip to the buff in front of everyone when I take a shower. Or would you rather I get in the car straight away and drive home all sweaty?"

"Mom, that's up to you. You have to get stripped to the buff for a shower anyway, in case you hadn't noticed. The rule just says not to wear panties, knickers, frillies, scanties, bloomers, briefs, thongs or other such nether apparel. How you not wear panties is up to you."

"This is ridiculous."

"Don't blame me, Mom, I don't make the rules."

I argued, I really did. But he was insistent. I finally managed to carve out a couple of exceptions. I could wear underpants in church (those polished pews) and if I had to attend hospital for any sort of procedure. The Rules also permitted me to carry one (1) pair of panties in my handbag at all times. And I was allowed to wear panties with jeans. Except Rule 2 was: No Jeans.

As he knew I would, I soon began to enjoy the thrill of reaching for a can of beans in the grocery store or surreptitiously opening my legs under the table at a business meeting. I would have done anything for him. In fact I wanted to go further. I suggested a sign that would show I was his, body and soul. I begged him to let me get a giant tattoo of his name running down my back. Or "JACK'S MOM" branded on my ass. I so badly wanted to give myself to him, to be his possession, his property.

He shook his head. "I don't want that flawless alabaster skin marked. No tattoos, no piercings. You don't put a bumper sticker on a Ferrari."

It was an absurd thing to say, but yet again I loved how he made me feel good about myself, always complimenting me, buoying me up with positivity. I knelt at his feet. "Jack, I want to prove I'm yours. Love, honor and obey, sickness and health, till death us do part."

He put his hand under my chin and tilted my face up. "Wear my ring."

"Yes, oh God, yes." My heart jumped. "Jack, I would love that."

He lifted me on to the bed. He ate me out, I sucked him off, and the next Saturday he took me out in the car, going west on the highway. I'd never been here before, but Jack knew what he was looking for. He pulled up outside a building. Tattoo Parlor & Piercings. But he'd said ... Oh, I get it. He wants his ring tattooed on my finger. That's pretty sexy.

Inside, I sat in a sort of dentist's chair while Jack got into a discussion with a man who looked like a Hell's Angel. Big beard, red bandana, denim vest, tats all over.

He approached me: "You cool with this, lady?"

"Will it hurt?"

"Not if you keep still," he grunted and went out.

"I really want to do this," I told Jack.

He gave me a quick kiss. "It will look sensational. You won't regret it."

I squeezed his hand. "I trust you."

The man returned. "Could you put your hair up, lady?"

I was puzzled. "My hair? You mean like this?" I tied it back, and felt something cold and hard on my neck.

I glanced at Jack in panic, but he put a reassuring hand on my arm. "Nothing to be scared of."

I closed my eyes and tensed. There was a metallic crunching. I flinched.

"You can look now." Jack handed me a mirror.

I gasped. A beautiful silver band circled my neck. Jack's ring.

"This is so ... I feel so bound to you, Jack," I told him on the sidewalk, my palms on his chest, looking up at him. "To be yours. To wear your ring. Man and wife. This is forever."

"Forever, Mom. The clasp is clamped shut. The ring is there for as long as our love."

"That's the only way I'd have it." My hand went to my neck. "This is so beautiful. My God, Jack, I love you - you have no idea. I wish you could take me, right here, in broad daylight."

"Can't you wait till we get home? It's not going to heal up in half an hour, is it?"

"Jack, don't be so vulgar. I thought I had brought you up better than that."

He laughed.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

"Getting branded on the ass! JACK'S MOM! How would that work? Who does that?"

"JACK'S MOM, that's who!" I punched him playfully on the arm. "Oh, I know I'm such an idiot - where do you think you get it from!"

We both laughed, and I found myself gazing into his eyes, and the laughter died. It was like staring at the sun, yet I couldn't look away. My hands were on his hips. I was on tiptoes, my breasts pressed to his chest, leaning up to ...

My God, I am three inches away from french-kissing my son in the middle of the sidewalk! One step away from coupling with him on Main Street USA.

It sounds funny, but it wasn't. We had to be so careful. We could never act like lovers in public, never share the small gestures and acts and words that other couples took for granted.

I tore my hands away, took a step back and hoped no one had witnessed our display.

+++

Jack wasn't done with the Rules. He didn't tell me what he had planned, just handed me an envelope and told me to present myself to an address.

Before I left, he raised my hair and inspected the back of my neck. "You're clean." He gave me a slap on the bottom, "Off you go."

"Clean?!?" What the hell is that about?

The address turned out to be a hairdresser. "I see," I said as I parked. "He wants to dye me blonde again."

When I began going gray, for some reason, instead of keeping up the strawberry blonde coloring, I had gone for this indeterminate brown. And this pudding bowl cut. Why? To blend into the background, I guess, sending out the minimum of sexual signals. Just like I concealed my body in baggy 20-year-old fashions and subconsciously put on weight so that my chest wouldn't be so conspicuous.

I handed the woman at reception the envelope. "Stella will be with you in a moment. Take a seat," she said.

Beneath Stella's experienced eyes and sharp scissors, my new haircut took shape. I was too nervous to watch, so I kept my eyes shut until she had finished. I opened them to find myself unrecognisable.

The length was shorter, and I understood why he had checked the back of my neck - for teeth marks.

At the forehead, my hair swept back, left to right. On one side it tumbled down toward my shoulder, on the other side it tucked behind my ears. It looked expensive and classy, lengthening my profile and taking pounds off it. I recognized the face from my teens, before marriage and pregnancy and divorce.

"It looks high-maintenance, but really, it's pretty versatile. This way looks real dramatic, or you can just part it and wear it down on either side," Stella said. She wielded a comb. "See? Classic look. Or a ponytail. You have the bone structure for it. Now for the color. I'll put some music on. This is going to take some time."

The chair leant back and once again I closed my eyes, imagining how I would thank Jack tonight. It was a pretty elaborate fantasy, and it went on so long that I nodded off. I awoke with a start when Stella tilted the chair up. I still didn't dare open my eyes until she gave the command.

I looked in the mirror and was lost for words. What has he done to me? I wished I'd read his note before handing it to the hairdresser. I put my head in my hands and sobbed.

"Are you all right? I'm sorry, I just did what it said in the message," Stella said hurriedly. "See, this is what it says. I was told you wouldn't be upset."

"It's just the shock. I wasn't expecting this," I gasped between sobs. "It's gorgeous."

It was a phrase I would never have used about myself before. It was true: I looked fantastic. The reclaimed gray set off my blue eyes and matched the silver wedding band at my throat. Like a sculptor with a piece of stone, he had seen something inside that sexless brown haircut and decided to set it free. Paradoxically, going gray made me look younger, sexier.

"Is that my natural color?" I asked.

"Sort of. As your natural gray grows, it will blend in with the dye. I've also put highlights in. You'll need to come back to get them redone in a month, but eventually you may not even need that. In the meantime you just let your own color grow through," Stella said. "It's expensive, but ..."

"Worth every penny," we said together.

Jack greeted me at the door when I got home. He didn't say a word, but his eyes said it all.

"Jack, it's ... I love you ... I ..." Seems I was lost for words too.

He led me to the kitchen and pushed down on my shoulders. Out came his penis. I was ready to give him the mother of all blowjobs, but he began stroking it. I watched his hand working up and down that awesome staff, saw the pre-cum in the eye, then he pushed my head down. I felt the first spurt of jism splat on my head, then plenty more after that, as he christened my new hairdo, wringing himself dry.

I ran my hands through my hair. Turns out the hairdo also looks great when it's slicked back. They say semen is good for the skin - who knows, it might do the same for hair. I certainly wasn't complaining. It became a cherished ritual every time I had my hair done.

New clothes followed. And again, ditching the fashions I had worn decades ago gave me a whole new sleeker look.

There was something else. When I was young, a friend had confided in me that her greatest desire was for her boyfriend to put a dog collar on her and lead her around on a leash on all fours. She wanted to abase herself, to give herself totally to her man, to offer her humiliation as a proof of her love. Her words had a strong effect on me at the time, and the vision cropped up occasionally over the years.

Again, Jack was a step ahead of me.

"Upstairs, Mom. Get naked and prepare to meet the last of the Rules."

He picked up a plastic packet from the bed and drew out a long chain. One end he clipped to my wedding band at my throat. I felt the band anxiously. "It won't hurt my wedding ring?"

"Don't worry, it's padded. It won't damage the silver," he said, running the chain down between my breasts, between my legs, through my bush and up my back, where he clipped it to my wedding band at my neck. It looked amazing in the mirror. I took a few steps up and down. It clinked a little, but what I soon noticed most was that it slid in between my pussy lips, rubbing my clitoris as I walked, and I found myself moistening at the feel of steel on flesh.

Cassie was away for the weekend, so I revelled in parading round the house naked, stopping at every mirror to enjoy the sight of the chain dangling down between my large breasts, pressing a path through my thick pubic thatch and climbing up my spine. The color combination of my silver hair, my silver wedding band and my steel chain was striking. The image in the mirror was proof that I was his.

However, the constant stimulation was a distraction. No matter how I shifted the chain, pushing it to the side, it slipped back, spreading my lips and pressing on my clitoris. "If I move slightly, it feels so good that I can't get any work done," I complained.

"That's kind of the idea," he said. "I want you to think about sex all the time. I want you ready whenever I am."

I started to tell him I did think about sex all the time and I was always ready for him ... but I loved my chain.

I didn't always wear it. It came off at night, and sometimes he - never me - would unclip it and it would disappear for days, even weeks.

It was surprisingly easy to pass it off in public as an edgy accessory as it disappeared down between my breasts, and it was a real turn-on to wear his steel as we sat in a restaurant or walked down the street.

And I don't know whether my old friend every got to act out her dog-leash fantasy, but I did, and I can confirm it was exciting and liberating.

Jack took me through the house on my chain like an animal, naked. In the lounge, he released me and commanded me to walk around the room slowly on all fours, complimenting me on how my breasts swayed beneath me, and how he loved the sight of my pussy lips rubbing together as I moved.

I did this for five minutes, parading before him while Jack sat and stroked his penis and commented on my body. He told me to stop on an old rug in front of the fireplace. "Lower yourself and rub your breasts on it."

I did as I was told, slowly dragging my nipples across the rug. It was pleasant at first, but the slow burn grew, and soon my nipples were on fire. He whistled. "Over here," and I gratefully waddled to where he was masturbating. He snapped his fingers. "Sit. Good girl." He stood, took me by the throat, pushed my head back with one hand and with the other kept stroking himself and spurted globs of semen all over my breasts. It was like water on hot coals - I could almost hear the hissing. I rubbed his liquid into my stinging nipples and gasped with relief.

My nipples had been to hell and back, but like the No Panties Rule, like my wedding band and the gray hair -- I loved it. I had been dying for him to cum on my breasts, but it's not the sort of thing a lady can ask; it's the man's place to suggest it.

There was another change - not really a Rule, more a bit of fun, an in-joke. We did our research and eventually found a pink nail polish that exactly matched the color of my nipples. So I was flashing my nipples at everyone I met, even though they didn't know it. As I say, not much in itself, but it amused us. We did try to find a lipstick to match my ... sadly, that didn't work out so well.

As for me, I had only one Rule for Jack: no masturbation. If I had to go to a church meeting or shopping or a business conference - even overnight -- he was to wait, no matter how built up he got, no matter how blue his balls turned. Every drop of his cream was mine: facial, blowjob, tits, hair or direct injection into my cervix. Every drop. If there was fluid with sperm in it, it belonged to me.

In addition to the services he was rendering me, he was learning computer coding. His twin sister Cassie was scornful: "So that's what you're going for? Coding? The last refuge of a loser?"

What a cow. He couldn't say anything back to her, but I knew coding wasn't a vocation for Jack. Now that he had stopped pretending to be my admin assistant, it was a way of earning money without having to leave me in my big house, all alone and horny. I felt guilty, but as he told me: "Mom, I've waited years for this. You are all I want. Why would I find you, only to spend all day away from you at some stupid job?"

So he was doing coding part-time, and doing me pretty much full-time.

Meanwhile, as I hit the gym and found a diet that suited me, and started wearing away the extra pounds, Jack was growing, bulking up. I like to think I was partly responsible. After all, nailing your mom more or less non-stop has to have some effect on a boy's emotional and physical development. It was just one more turn-on, clutching his big hard biceps while he rode me.

While I swam, he worked out. Weights, rowing machine, boxing bag. I was shedding weight; he was filling out. I had to buy him a new suit and tuxedo (but kept the original tux for erotic entertainment). His 19^th birthday was approaching. Before I could make plans, he suggested something: a road trip.

"Just a few days. Cassie can take care of herself. Or let her stay with friends. You and I can share the driving. We needn't go far. See the sights, stop at a different spot each night. Get away together, just you and me. It would be the best."

The more I thought about it, the better I liked it. We could get out of the house, enjoy time in our own company at our own pace. And it was fun planning the itinerary. We wanted to visit several places, but not spend too much time driving. We decided to head for the coast and meander from town to town, sightseeing, exploring antique shops, lingering in cafes and restaurants. I rang to organize our first night's accommodation, then the rest we left to chance.

Little did I know I was about to get the three greatest erotic experiences of my life so far.

The weather was good. Stopping a couple of times for gas and rest breaks, we also took time out to stroll along a quiet beach, just us and a couple of people walking dogs. We wore shades and I had a big sun hat and we kept our heads down. I figured we wouldn't bump into anyone we knew, so we held hands. Just held hands and walked, the sand between our toes - the sort of thing ordinary lovers take for granted but that we found so precious.

Whenever we went out together, we must do nothing to provoke suspicion. No kissing, no contact. It was even dangerous to look at each other for too long, because it was impossible for us not to show what we felt for one another. In those circumstances, the slightest touch - our hands "accidentally" grazing as we walked, or my breast "accidentally" pressing against his arm as we stood in line at the theatre - was electrifying.

We sat by the shore. The waves rushed up, closer and closer to our toes. I brought my knees up to my chin, reflecting that there was nothing but air between my pussy and Africa.

"This is so lovely, being here alone with you, Jack. But where do you think we'll be in five years' time, 10 years, 20?"