Playing with Cindy - The Beginningbygeronimo_appleby©
The second chapter of Cindy. This piece describes how the affair with my mother [Cindy] began. I found that when I started it that the piece just kept getting longer and longer; until I eventually got sick of it. Thanks to those who looked at it, made suggestions, and helped my with the process. Any errors (and there will be errors) that remain are all mine.
Read, send feedback, and hopefully enjoy.
Her sudden appearance today reminded me of the beginning, the start of our affair, and once again I experienced the confusion synonymous with Cindy. It was after Cindy had left that I felt all those conflicting sentiments rise in me again. I felt the ache of loving her, the slide of guilt, and the acid taste of jealousy. That night I slept fitfully, in doses; snatched sleep snarled with tangled threads of memories and half dreams -- the legacy of her.
Somewhere just after 2am I gave up, rising from the bed to brew coffee and to think.
I sipped vaguely and studied the old photograph. Years had gone by since I'd hidden the thing away. It had been the return of Cindy that prompted me to liberate the ageing picture from its hiding place.
I caught my mother on Thursday afternoon. Dad was away, it was his usual two-week stint out in the North Sea oil fields on a platform somewhere between Aberdeen and Norway. The normal pattern meant he left early on a Monday morning and returned thirteen days later. The regular timetable, distance, and remote location of Dad's place of work meant that Mum was pretty much free to conduct her life in any manner she chose.
Unfortunately for my mother, my timing and geography were less predictable. This led to me discovering her lifestyle choices just as she was straddling John Bevan's cock. There were tears, anger, protests, and shame in the hours that followed.
In those surreal moments immediately following my interruption several things happened. John Bevan exited the scene, my mother wept, and I stared at her nakedness. Even now I can vividly recall the details.
The image that lingered in my memory was the look of rapture on my mother's face in the moment before she realised I was present. Her expression said it all; she loved riding up and down on that cock. For me, knowing that he had invoked her desire curdled in my guts for months -- long after Cindy's arrival -- and it was partly my need to usurp that man as her lover that led to me being so ardent and robust whenever my mother, or Cindy as she insisted, invited me to her bed.
I can still picture the way John Bevan's cock, sheathed in its condom, slapped back against his belly as my mother rose to her feet.
"Anna, no," Bevan protested. My mother's body blocked his view and he hadn't seen me at that point. "Get back on," he insisted before his face twisted when he noticed me in the doorway. "Shit!" he blurted. "What..?"
I still grow aroused when I picture my mother's matted pubic bush, the result of her copious outpouring, a phenomenon I would find so exciting when she and I became lovers. The shape of her legs; her breasts; her hair, loose and flowing that afternoon -- all of those images are still clear.
"Oh God... David! What..? What are you doing back? Saturday..." The details of the aborted camping trip weren't important right at that moment. The damage to the tent and the subsequent fight amongst friends were petty compared to this. Of course I now knew why the phone went unanswered when I'd tried in vain to call from Inverness. I'd wanted to let my mother know I was returning early but obviously she'd been busy elsewhere. She sat on the sofa; her knees together and one hand across her breasts. "It isn't..." She broke off then, unable to reasonably deny it was exactly how it looked.
Sitting in my kitchen sipping coffee and awaiting a reluctant dawn, the provocative photo momentarily forgotten, it's easy with the benefit of maturity and hindsight to see that any jealousy I may have felt for my parents' sexual relationship was largely mitigated by the creation of Cindy. I'm sure that being able to switch from Anna to Cindy helped my mother to compartmentalise her two worlds. I found it difficult to separate the two at first; Cindy or Mum. She could pretend, but I knew who I was fucking. The woman writhing and groaning beneath me as I jabbed into her with my cock was still my mother. She could wrap herself in the tinsel and pretence. She could wear those clothes and ooze depravity from every pore as Cindy, but she remained my mother. As the days and weeks passed however, I found I could divide the two identities, and this ability probably helped to avoid all manner of conflict.
Seeing her today was a shock. I wonder why she decided to reappear. Why now? She mentioned the break-up. Irena leaving would open the door for Cindy again, sure, but what else had happened? Dad was still at home, and since he was the primary reason for the end of the affair, that part was puzzling.
The clarity of those scenes stays with me but the minutes and hours following the discovery are blurred. I remember going up to my room and taking some comfort in the familiar surroundings. The smell of my bed linen, freshly laundered by my mother in anticipation of my return, was soothing. There were the familiar posters on the wall; the objects and souvenirs I'd collected as a child. All the reassuring treasures from a time now most definitely in the past; a time of innocence.
I couldn't get the picture of my mother out of my mind. I kept turning the scene around and around as if the events were on a loop of film; playing, ending, and back to the start, over and over.
One thing I do recall however is the sensation in my belly, deep down there in that special place. I was sexually aroused by what I'd seen. I fought the urge but it was there, sneaky and insidious; I desired my mother.
It was dark when she came to see me. I heard the tentative knock at my door and ignored it. She knocked again, firmly this time as though steeling her resolve. Eventually, after receiving no response, she simply came in.
"David? I can't stand it." I sensed she was close to my bed, no doubt looking down at me with a worried expression. "I've been sitting down there for hours. I..." I heard her voice break but I was determined she'd suffer. "I'm sorry," she sighed. "You shouldn't have seen it. I was stupid to bring him here." She laughed then, though it was a mirthless sound. Then, in an aside to herself, "Not on your own doorstep they say. That's the truth."
I seized the opportunity. I lifted the dagger of those words and plunged. "You're sorry? Sorry for what?" How dare she come to me after causing me so much pain; so much anger, and so much confusion. I wanted to hurt her. I wanted to make her suffer. I pushed the blade deeper. "You're probably only sorry you got caught you..." I fought to find the word. The anger was rising in me now, hot and vicious. "You're a whore, Mum. I caught you fucking that wanker." I was sitting upright now, spitting the poison at her shadowy figure. And then, in what I now see as a petulant outburst, I vented my worst: "And I'm going to be telling Dad when he gets back."
Of course my threat worked. There was a moment of utter silence; Mum was as still as stone. Then, without a word, she left me alone in that dark room.
Guilt came next. I felt guilty for having hurt her. Whatever she'd done I shouldn't have hurt her, but I was just nineteen, what did I know?
"Shit!" The expletive burst in the gloom before I groaned and lay back down, curling into a foetal position. "Shit, shit, shit..." It was a long, troubled night.
The following morning I was up first. I sat in the kitchen absently spooning Frosties into my mouth until I heard sounds from upstairs and experienced the cocktail of emotions swirling again.
"Morning, Mum," I ventured tentatively. I was polite, attempting to make some amends. My mother looked at me with an expression I'd never seen before. "Mum, I..." No response. "Please Mum..."
"Not now, David. I didn't sleep. I'm not strong enough at the moment. Please, whatever you want to say... Later. Not now."
Chastened, I looked down into the cereal bowl. My appetite gone, I pushed my breakfast away while my mother boiled water, rattled the spoon in the cup, and took her tea upstairs.
An hour later I took her a fresh cup. I knocked before entering and she turned to face me when I walked in. It was then, when I saw her face puffy from crying, that one emotion above all the rest bubbled to the surface. I realised then, on that Friday morning, cup in hand, that over everything else I loved her. She was my mother and I loved her.
"I won't tell Dad," I mumbled. "I want you to know that I won't tell him."
The effect was immediate. I saw her face brighten. Her shoulders lifted, and there was even a smile -- albeit wan -- on her face. "Thank you," she murmured and took the cup from my hand. "He doesn't deserve it. He's done nothing to deserve any of this. We'll talk later. Is that all right?" Reluctantly I left my mother sitting in her bed. I wanted to stay and talk to her. I needed to understand why she did what she did, but I left her sipping her tea, the tangled sheets evidence of a night as tortured as my own.
"So," my mother opened, "now what?"
Despite wanting to discover the reasons for my mother's behaviour, I now felt awkward. Sitting across from her in the living room there was no preamble at all, she was straight to the point.
"Uh..." was my inarticulate response.
Mum sighed: "Look, David, you're nineteen; you're not a child so I won't treat you like one." She stared at me from the very spot where John Bevan had been resting his naked arse twenty-four hours earlier. I tried to return her look but failed. "The rights and wrongs don't come into this, David. What it comes down to is your father's away a lot..." she paused then, probably feeling as awkward as I. "He's away for weeks at a time and I... Well, I like sex." She had the courtesy to redden at that point. "There's more to it than that, but the basics are that I like sex and I weakened with John; I let him in."
"Aw, Mum... Bevan? Why Bevan?"
"Would it matter who it was, David? Would it make any difference?"
Her perspicacity was right on the money. Of course it wouldn't make any difference who she was with. For me it would be exactly the same. "No," I muttered. "It wouldn't matter."
"Just so you know, and I may as well be completely honest here, there have been others. John wasn't the first."
"Fucking hell, Mum!" How many was she going to confess to? Did I really want to hear this? I stared at her, my mouth agape.
"I know, I know," she replied, abashed. "I can't help myself. It's like an addiction. Every time your Dad leaves I promise myself that this time I'll be different. And sometimes I manage to behave." She shrugged her shoulders. "Two months, three... But eventually I succumb. There's always a man somewhere who's interested." She became agitated, shifting in her seat and gazing at me with an imploring expression; as though willing me to understand. "There's always some predatory male with an offer of a drink; it's as though they can smell me out. That they know I'll open my legs fo..." She stopped mid-sentence, perhaps embarrassed; perhaps she'd gone too far? "I'm sorry, David, I shouldn't be telling you this much. What must you think of me?"
I couldn't tell her that I understood what those men sensed. I couldn't reveal to her that I'd been aroused by her nakedness when I saw her with Bevan the day before. How could I tell my own mother that her matted pubic bush was one of the sexiest things I'd ever seen? And that even now I could feel my cock thickening.
"I love you, Mum," was all I could think of to say. Of course, looking back, it was entirely the right thing to have said.
"Thank you, David," my mother responded, the relief evident in her tone. She obviously didn't realise the spirit in which I'd delivered my declaration. "I love you too, my baby." She stood and opened her arms to me inviting me to embrace. "Oh, David, what a mess," she murmured into my shoulder as we hugged.
I left her then and hurried to my room. Once inside and with indecent haste, I pulled my jeans down to my ankles. I took hold of my erection and tugged at myself. The kaleidoscope of images flashed vividly as I fantasised over my mother and her lovers. I imagined her in all sorts of situations. I pictured her sucking cock; I imagined her on her hands and knees with a man behind fucking into her like a savage. I saw her in my mind's eye with her breasts and face smeared with spunk, and I fervently wished it was my come streaking her body.
It was that thought that sent me into the abyss. My semen spurted in a hot torrent of relief as I imagined my beautiful mother kneeling before me, her mouth open to catch my goo with her tongue.
On Saturday, the day I was originally due home from the truncated Scottish adventure, Mum left me alone in the house. She needed to find Bevan, she told me. "I want to see him; I want to tell him it's over and not to bother me again."
I was ambivalent about her decision. On one hand I was jealous of any contact with the man -- of course I couldn't tell my mother that -- but I also wanted her to leave the house so I could indulge myself. During my masturbatory fantasies, of which now there'd been several, I'd driven myself wild with desire at the thought of my mother's underwear. This was the opportunity for a little snooping in her room.
I baulked at the door to my mother's room. It wasn't as though I'd never set foot in the room before, of course I had; the problem now was I was an interloper. I was there with neither her knowledge nor consent. Nevertheless, and with my hands shaking, I entered.
I noticed her bed was neatly made, in contrast to the mess and confusion of my last visit. For some reason I can't explain I avoided the drawer that I knew contained my mother's underclothes, I opted instead for the wardrobe. Perhaps it was because the contents of the cupboard were a mystery to me. I'd never looked inside it before; I hadn't been curious when I was younger, but now things were very different. I'd discovered one sordid secret of my mother's and I wondered what else I might find.
It's important that you realise the place I was in. It was madness on my part for even thinking I would get away with it. As soon as I opened the door I knew that my mother would know I'd been in there. It would be impossible for me to replace the contents in exactly the same order as they were currently, but I hoped that my mother wouldn't recall the order of the wardrobe in any detail. As I said it was madness; that's where I was inside my head; I was reckless and it was folly to even think I'd escape discovery.
I lifted out clothing and placed the piles carefully on the carpet between me and her bed. I could at least attempt to replace the items as I'd found them, but I was determined to make a thorough search. I was certain that there were treasures in here.
I found what I was looking for in an innocuous shoe box; photographs of my mother when she was much younger. She must have been my age in those pictures -- nineteen or twenty? She was beautiful, smiling and obviously happy. In some of the black and white images she was unashamedly naked while in others, and these were the ones I found to be the most arousing, my mother put on a little striptease.
My favourite was the one that showed her lounging along the back seat of what I recognised as Dad's first car. In it my mother was laughing, with her skirt pulled up around her waist, her thighs parted in a careless, casual fashion, and with her tee-shirt hauled up to show her breasts. There was something in that old polaroid that stirred a primordial urge deep in me, something potent enough to drive me to a totally reckless act. I held that candid photo tight and stared at that place between my mother's legs until I could no longer resist the urge.
I rushed to the laundry basket and fished around until I found the prize. I took a pair of my mother's panties back to her bed and held the cloth to my face, sniffing her scent while fanning the photographs across the counterpane. Then -- and my face burns with the shame at the recollection -- I dabbed my tongue at that part of the material that had so recently nestled against her body.
I wrapped the garment around my cock and masturbated. Half a dozen strokes, perhaps ten were all it took. I felt the rush of my semen and my climax exploded in a molten rain. I tried in vain to catch the outpouring with my mother's knickers, but of course the scrap was wholly ineffective against that deluge.
In the immediate wake of my orgasm, in that moment clarity returned, I was mortified to see three dollops of come splashed across the counterpane. I could hardly change my mother's bed; what possible excuse could I give? My stomach gave that sickly slide; I was in trouble.
I gathered up the photographs and put them back in the box. In one further act of recklessness I pocketed my favourite picture, and after replacing the clothing and other odds and ends in the wardrobe, I scuttled like the thief I was back to my own bedroom.
Her call upstairs heralded her return. I didn't answer; I thought that by ignoring her greeting she'd think I'd gone out, perhaps to make amends with Alan following the fracas in Scotland.
I hid in my room, my stomach churning with dread. I could hear her moving throughout the house, and then, finally, she came upstairs and confronted me.
"You've been in my room," she accused after barging in to my bedroom. "I know you've been in there, David. Things have been... disturbed." She glared at me; I shuddered under that accusing stare. I was guilty as hell.
"I..." My face was full of heat with shame.
Something in my expression must have touched her. "What, David?" she asked softly. "What happened? Please, Baby, tell me; I'm trying to understand." She perched on the edge of my bed and stroked my hair. "Did you look in the wardrobe?" There was a pause. "You did, didn't you? You... You found them." I closed my eyes; I was too ashamed to look at her. I cringed at the recollection of those incriminating stains. I implored her silently not to mention them. Anything, let her talk about anything, but please, Lord, don't let her bring up the come splashes. "I know you found the photos, David. They're in a specific order. I know which one you took."
"Yes, Mum," I croaked. My mouth was so dry; I thought my saliva had turned to glue. "I found them. I... I took one."
The questioning was relentless: "Why did you take it?" I only shook my head and squeezed my eyes closed even tighter, willing her to go away. "Did..?" I heard a tremor in her voice and realised that this must be incredibly difficult for her as well. I'd caught her in flagrante delicto only a day or so earlier, and now I'd heaped further embarrassment upon her by invading her personal space and stealing compromising pictures of her. "Did the pictures turn you on, David? Is that why you took that one?"
I stared at her then, my mouth agape. "Mum, I... I mean they're of you. It's wrong to be..." I began to babble in my confusion. "When I saw you with him, with Bevan, and you were naked..." I groaned and covered my face with my hands.
There was a long silence. The interval lengthened to the point that I thought my mother had silently left the room. I uncovered my face and opened my eyes. She was still there however; sat on my bed, looking at me with a strange expression on her face.
"Those photos did turn you on; I know they did." My mother sighed deeply. "Then you know how it is for me, David. That's the same feeling I have when your father's away. Like an addiction, a craving; I've got to have it." She sighed and gave that wan smile. "Is that how it was, Davey? Am I right?" I couldn't answer, the words refused to come. "What did you think when you saw me in those pictures, Davey? How did they make you feel? I know how it feels for me. I have to touch myself. If I don't have a man... then I have to touch myself." Her voice cracked and became a whisper. "Did you touch yourself? " She paused and then added, "I think you did. I found the evidence on my bed."