The Sweetest Sin Pt. 04

I checked myself in the mirror and liked what I saw. The silver hair complemented my silver ring, which contrasted well with the ivory dress that barely contained my breasts. My areole peeked over the top. For the first time in my life, I knew I looked sensational, irresistible. I was ready. I stepped into the master bedroom and enjoyed watching his jaw drop. His mouth was working but no words came out.

Finally he managed to say: "Sweet Jesus. Mom, you look ... honestly, you are the most beautiful woman in the world. You look amazing - is that really a wedding dress? An actual fucking wedding dress? Mom, you realize what this means?"

"Oh, Jack, darling, I realized that a long time ago."

He was fumbling with his belt.

I turned to the window, looking out over the city, and sank to my knees. I arranged the folds of the dress around myself and stuck out my rear end, presenting him with my soaking slit, like any other honeymoon whore offering herself to her new groom. Like any other bitch in heat.

I heard buttons fly as he ripped off his shirt. His hands gripped my hips. I felt his knob at my entrance. We always delay at this point, both of us, his meat helmet pressing against my hole, enjoying the anticipation before he pierces me. But this time there was no waiting. I winced as he forced the crown between my lips. My cunt was dripping, but no matter how wet I was, there was always that little bump and that flash of discomfort whenever he crammed it in. He was sliding up into me now, full length. I felt stuffed.

We knelt there for a moment, looking out across the city as the day drew to a close. And then he began that age-old rhythm. That steady in-out, in-out, in-out, the sexual dance of men and women throughout all time, his dick fitting my tight cunt perfectly, his rhythm so in time with mine. He growled and bent to my neck to bite me, to worry me like an animal, as he so often does in this position, his teeth clinking against the silver of my wedding band.

I wondered whether we could be seen from the street, 20 floors up. I hoped so. This is where I wanted to be, high above the city, being fucked by my boy-child on our anniversary.

Down there, right now, were men from all walks of life. And suddenly I had a vision of them forming a line behind me. All of them. Doctors, architects, grocers, bus drivers, tourists, lawyers, soldiers, priests, schoolboys. Forming a line behind me that stretched across the room, out of the door, along the corridor, down 20 flights of steps, around the block and winding through the city. A queue of men with a coffee or cigarette or cell phone in one hand and their erections in the other.

Men of all colors and shapes and sizes. Tall distinguished professionals. Men with huge beards and rough hands. Skinny, smooth-faced youths eager for their first sight of a woman's secrets. Husbands with dried-up old wives who had thought their sex lives were over. Handsome Romeos with a stable of pretty girls. Young bucks whose pricks never wilted. Old men who knew what a woman wanted.

Men with cocks of different sizes, their cum-slits wet, all with full, heavy balls between their legs. Making sperm for me. Billions upon billions of wrigglers whose sole purpose was to swim up inside me. The men would take their places one by one, with those hard cocks and their ivory-colored semen. They would thrust up into me, thrusting so hard that their sperm shot through my body and jetted out of my mouth, splattering against the window, then shattering the glass and streaming out over the city. A flood of sperm showering across Paris.

So much sperm. So many cocks. But I needed only one cock. I felt the storm gathering inside me: "You're going to make Mommy cum, baby. Mommy's going to cum so hard on her big boy's dick."

I felt my first wave. Behind me, he whimpered and his tempo stuttered. I braced for his final furious onslaught. "Hey, up here, Paris," I shouted, banging on the window with my fist. "Look at me. My name is Susan Quentin, I'm 43 years old and my gorgeous teenage son is fucking me doggy style, 20 floors up. I'm getting fucked by my son, my husband. Do you hear me, Paris!"

Then the waves crashed over me, Jack was roaring as he unleashed, and the only sounds I could make were those of a happy woman cumming her absolute ass off.

We collapsed and lay there panting as the dark rose and Paris slowly turned into the City of Light. I don't know how long we had lain there when he raised himself on an elbow, looked into my eyes and held my ring.

"Susan Elizabeth Quentin, do you take this man...?"

"I do," I said. "And John Samuel Quentin, do you take this woman?"

"I do." He kissed me long and lovingly. "The ultimate dream. Married to my mother."

"Lovers for life. And when we've recovered, you're going to take this woman again and again. In every position. Because that's what husbands and wives do."

We had just gone through a ceremony as binding as any held in a church or register office. Ever after that, I regarded us as Mr and Mrs Quentin. Those were our names anyway, it was just a matter of how one looked at it.

Eventually I stirred, cleaned my new husband's cock with my mouth and claimed the last few drops. We crawled to the bed. I was too exhausted to take my wedding dress off.

"I hope these walls are soundproof," he muttered.

I said to him: "I want everyone to know. I am yours, physically and emotionally and -- if there was any justice in the world -- legally too. But yeah, I kinda hope no one heard me."

The last words he said before we fell asleep, his cock against my ass, hand holding my breast, were an imitation of the concierge: "Madam, if you cannot stop your son taking you a chien, please would you mind keeping zee noise down."