Chez Fiona Ch. 01

I'll admit I was frustrated. And frustration is a very powerful emotion. Or rather, it's a very powerful manifestation of other emotions. In my case, the frustration was a buildup of undirected lust and boredom, and a feeling of being neglected and underappreciated. And it all came to a head on a Friday afternoon, when I was sitting alone in my big, empty kitchen.

I should mention that I love my kitchen. It's the one nice thing my husband Harold has done for me in the last few years. Probably he had it build for me out of feelings of guilt about his sexual neglect. Whatever. It's a glorious kitchen with lots of morning light, and a wood-burning fireplace I can turn on in the evening. On this particular day, I was actually using the fireplace, slowly roasting a chicken I had planned on serving for supper, along with some oven roasted vegetables and some flatbread, with a phyllo-pistachio layer-cake for dessert. And then Harold called, to say that he had to work late and wouldn't be home for dinner. And I pretended I was fine with it, but inside, I was fuming. As if it wasn't enough that my sexual prowess was being underutilized, it was a further, perhaps even a greater insult that my culinary expertise was being ignored. But no matter. There would still be, Ethan and Nancy when they got home from summer school, and Peter, who was home from university for the summer. But one by one, each one called. First Peter, saying that he was going to be out with some highschool friends, and then Ethan, who had a date--his first girlfriend, Giselle, who he had not yet introduced to us. Nancy called to say she was going to be over at her friend Tanya's for dinner. Tanya Menko, who's mother Edith always made the most bland casseroles from the recipes on the back of noodle packages. I was damned if I was going to let this meal go to waste, though. I called my close friend Olivia, who lived just across the street. Maybe she and Tony would want to come over for dinner. Olivia picked up after the seventh ring.

"Oh my god, Fiona. Look out your window right now." The excitement in her voice was obvious. I took the cordless phone and went to the front window, peaking through the drapes. Someone was just leaving Olivia's house. A young man.

"Okay," I said, not sure what I should be looking at. "Wait a minute, is that Kim?" It was Kim, a friend of Peter's. Kim grew up down the street, the son of a Korean couple. He had taken Kung Fu lessons, and was chiseled like no other guy I knew. I had seen this--his finely muscled torso--when he and Peter would play basketball out on the front driveway. But what was he doing at Olivia's. Then it sunk in.

"You didn't," I said.

"We did. We did continuously, for about two hours, and I don't think I touched the ground once."

I watched Kim look back over his shoulder, then walk down the winding suburban street toward his own home.

"It was so good. I did things I've never done before. Things I never thought I'd do. Like... anal." She whispered the last word.

"That's great," I said, not even attempting to sound enthused. Kim had been my sexual fantasy, my little taboo, and now that was gone. If Olivia had him, for me to have him would be cheap, a copy-cat gesture. Even the possibility of masturbating while thinking about Kim lost all of its taboo.

"Have you ever had sex with a guy with a shaved head? In the shower?" It was a rhetorical question. Olivia knew that my sexual history was extremely limited. "It's so hot. He was down on his knees, rubbing his head against my pussy, it was like I was going to take his whole body inside me."

"Sounds great."

"Wow. Anyway, enough about me. Why were you calling?"

The thought of having Olivia and her husband over for dinner had lost its appeal. Of course, it wasn't Olivia's fault. I had never told her that I had lusted after Kim for all these years. No doubt it had been a long festering lust inside Olivia, too. Someday, when I was feeling less depressed, I would ask her about it, how it happened, who initiated it.

"Nothing," I said. "Just calling to see how you were doing. Oh, sorry!" I added a level of surprise to my voice. "I've got something in the oven I need to go check on."

"Okay, bye."

"Bye."

I dropped the phone on the couch and wandered back to the kitchen, regarding the chicken rotating slowly over the fire. Stabbed through with a skewer, it seemed it was getting a better sex life than I was. Part of me wanted to take the bird out of the fire and just toss it into the garbage. But I couldn't bring myself to waste what was going to be such a fantastic meal. So I set about preparing the vegetables, coating them slickly with olive oil and cracked black pepper, then sliding them onto the stove.

I checked the cake in the oven, which was coming along nicely, so I poured myself a cocktail--vodka, lime and gingerale, and set the table for one, a setting for myself at the head of the large oak dining table. What the hell... I decided I'd dress up a little nice, too. If nobody else was going to appreciate me, I'd at least appreciate myself. I put on stockings, lacy black underwear, and a really form-fitting crimson dress that I generally used only for Christmas parties--it went really well with my pale complexion and dark hair. I looked fantastic.

I went back downstairs, took the chicken off the fire, cut myself off a big piece of breast meat and leg bone, served up a few vegetables, and went and sat down at the table.

I picked up my knife and forked, but then stopped. I'm not sure why, exactly, but I made the decision I was going to eat with my hands and fingers. I think I liked the contrast--juxtaposition, I think that's the right word--of being dressed up in my best dress and eating this greasy, juicy chicken with my fingers. and it was delicious. the skin was nice and crispy, and the flesh beneath was tender and moist, with the strong flavour of pepper. Some juice ran down my arm, and rather than wipe it off, I raised my arm up and licked it, a gesture that gave me shivers. I was feeling carnal. I was feeling like an animal. I was so ready to masturbate.

"Fuck." I remembered that Olivia had just fucked Kim. Who was I going to think about now? I tried to bring the image of Kim into my mind, try to forget that Olivia had already been with him. I remembered him when he was younger, playing basketball out front, his body lean and firm and glistening with sweat, his movements so elegant and catlike, his gaze pure and unfocused, like he was seeing everything without looking. But I couldn't do it, couldn't think about him that way anymore. I cursed Olivia under my breath. And then, across the basketball court in my mind, beyond Kim, I saw Peter, standing there bare-chested, his skill pale like mine, but hair red like his father's. He was built, too. A nice, lean body, not as muscular as Kim, but lean and nimble. I had a decision to make. Was I going to let myself think about him while I masturbated? If not, I needed to move on and find a different fantasy before my mood passed. I continued to eat the chicken with my left hand, my right hand now hiking up my dress and resting it against my inner thighs where my stockings came to an end.

Just this once, I told myself. I'd let myself think about my son while I masturbated this time, but it would be a one-time thing. I know it would seem like to great a taboo for most women just to entertain those thoughts. But when I was a girl, I had fantasies about my father, so I guess to taboo of incestuous thought had already been breached for me.

So I imagined Peter there with me, at the table. Him in his basketball shorts, barechested, still sweating from exertion, leaning back in his chair, and in thinking such, slipped a finger slick with olive oil and chicken grease beneath my panties, and gently touched my clit. It was a nice, tingly lubrication, as I let my fingers wander delicately over my pussy, imagining Peter now rising from his chair, pulling his shorts down, and taking his cock--which, of course, I imagined to be enormous and glistening--in his hand, as it slowly gained firmness and direction, pointed toward me.

I continued to eat as I masturbated. I'm not sure why, except that it seemed really hot, really taboo. I helped myself to some grilled red peppers, juicy and almost tongue-like in my mouth, and found it easy to imagine that as Peter's tongue with all the excitement and fear of a boy kissing his mother. Delicious. I stuffed my mouth too full and the juice ran down my chin, down my neck, and again it was easy to imagine this as his eager tongue. And then I came. Just like that. It was so shocking, so hard, the best orgasm I had experienced in at least ten years, and everything went black and signals hit me in the back of my spine. A few seconds later, I was standing, leaning forward on the table, legs spread. I don't remember standing, but there I was. I legs quivered under the tension of my body. I sunk back into the chair, noticing that the floor below me was wet. Had I ejaculated? If so, that was another thing I hadn't done in at least a decade.

But as much as my body was on a high from that fantastic orgasm, my mind was reeling a bit. Those seconds after an orgasm are clear moments, I find. And there's no moment as sobering as the waking seconds after masturbating about your first-born. Hell. I was going to hell for that. Not that I believed in hell. I went upstairs and changed out of my dress, putting on jeans and a t-shirt, and went back downstairs, cleaning up the mess on the chair and the floor. And I put away the food. Anything to keep my mind off what I had just done.

But eventually I had no choice but to think about what I had just done, and the bittersweet reality that I would do the same again, that, unlike Kim, nothing could take this taboo away from me. That Peter could fuck any girl, and number of girls, could even fuck Olivia across the street, and the fantasy would never grow old for me, because my pleasure was at the thought of the incestuous taboo.

Was Peter a virgin? I doubted it. He had been at college for a couple years, after all. But I had never seen him hanging out with a girl. And the more I thought about it, the more it crept into my mind that maybe Peter was gay. One of his friends was definitely a homosexual. Maybe Peter was, too. I began to convince myself of this. If Peter was gay, I decided, there was no way I could think about him sexually. In the back of my mind, I knew I was just trying to trick myself into losing interest in him. The least I could do was investigate, though. Maybe he had emails on his laptop to a gay lover. He had left it here, hadn't he? I went upstairs to Peter's room, sparsely decorated because he had taken so much stuff with him to college. His laptop was on the desk, and I flipped it open, waiting for the display to come to life. I entered the password 'ginger'. It was his first pet, and he used it as a password for everything.

I opened his emails and scanned through, but they were all fairly mild. Emails to friends, classmates, usually just discussing their lives (which seemed pretty dull) or their classes (also dull). Some jokes about girls, but nothing to really establish him as being either gay or straight. I checked the bookmarks on his web-browser. Hidden about three folders deep, were a collection of bookmarks to adult sites. The first two were tame, collections of pictures of women masturbating. They didn't do much for me, but I could understand how a young man might be really into those pictures. That should have been enough proof to convince me that Peter was straight, but I kept looking. The third site seemed to be a collection of videos of big black men screwing tiny white women. Some of them started kinda hot, but they always got too vicious, looked a little too painful. The next site didn't have any pictures at all, just links to stories. I picked one from the list and began reading. It was talking about a boy watching his mother in the shower. My heart began racing as I read it, a stronger reaction than to any porn I had seen before--whether video or film or pictures. It was poorly written and I skipped ahead to the finish, which was of the mother licking her son's cum off the bathroom floor. I clicked back and read a different story, this one about a mother and her two sons. Then a third story about a father and a daughter. And then I heard something downstairs, someone coming home, possibly, so I quickly closed the website and turned off the computer.

I wasn't sure who was downstairs, but I wasn't ready to look at anyone. I went into my bedroom, shutting the door, and fell upon the bed. I hadn't intended for that to happen. I had intended to look at his computer, proving to myself that he was gay, and thus removing him from my fantasies. Instead, I had only proved--or at least found reasonable evidence to suggest--that he had similar feelings for me. What if I was to do something? Initiate something? If I took a first step, would he take a second, and would I then take a third? I no longer trusted myself--the slightest hint dropped, the slightest lingering glance could start something that neither of us would be able to stop.

I woke up beneath the covers. I could tell that Harold had been home, had slept beside me, had perhaps undressed me and put me to bed. But his side of the bed was now empty but for his smell.

"Hey dear," he looked up from his paper when I got downstairs. "Sorry I didn't get home until late."

"It's alright, I understand."

"Did you and the kids have a good dinner?"

"I wouldn't know," I said, somewhat resigned. "None of them came home for dinner, either."

"Oh." He looked at me earnestly, searching and likely finding the lines of hurt on my face. "How about tonight, we'll make sure that we're all here for dinner."

"That's great," I said. "Except that I spent so much time in the kitchen yesterday that I don't really feel like doing the same today."

"Well, I'll take us out for dinner then."

I nodded, giving him a pat on the sleeve. I could hear the shower upstairs. Was it Ethan, or Nancy, or Peter? It was the first time I had thought of Peter this morning, the first time I let myself remember the dark fantasies and surprising revelation that had followed dinner. I made myself breakfast, just toast and jam, and took the Books section of the paper. The sound of the shower stopped, and a couple minutes later, Peter came downstairs, his hair still wet from the shower. He wore boxershorts and a t-shirt, the shirt clinging to the wet parts of his chest. He sat down at the table across from me and started fixing a bowl of cheerios. I watched him carefully. This was easily a man I could be sexually attracted to, even as much as I had been attracted to his father. It would be too easy, even. I couldn't help it, imagining being pressed against his moist, firm body, his arms around me, sliding my housecoat up to touch my soft bare ass... I had to shook my head and looked away, turned, and knocked my glass of orange juice onto the floor.

"Shit!" I stood up suddenly, and then hurried to the sink to grab a towel.

"Need help mom?"

"No, just sit and eat your breakfast."

I knelt and began mopping up the juice. And then I looked up and through the forest of table legs and chair legs, I could see where his boxer shorts had ridden up his thigh and the head of his cock, shriveled and red, stuck out from beneath the plaid. I imagined crawling over there on my hands and knees, beneath the table, and just gently sucking it in, between my lips and against my tongue. Bringing him to full, agonizing hardness, even as my husband, his father, sat and read the editorials in the next chair over. So deliciously nasty.

And then the outrageousness of it hit me again. I picked up the towel and carried it to the laundry.

"I'm going out for a bit. I've got some errands to do," I called out. I got dressed and left.

I drove around aimlessly, just listening to the radio and thinking to myself. I tried to convince myself that things I was contemplating were evil, debauched and potentially dangerous, both to my marriage and to my psyche. But the more I thought about all those reasons why I shouldn't, the more it appealed to me. Trying to talk myself out of it was proving difficult. Maybe, reverse psychology would work.

After all, there was nothing really that taboo or exciting about fucking one's son. It was actually just a mediocre, bland act. It's not like I would be the first parent to screw their child. Why, I probably wouldn't even be the first on my street. Maybe Maude who lives two doors down fucks that goth-punk boy of hers all the time, chaining him up and riding him. Maybe Sing Chau has Kim fuck her every morning over the kitchen table after breakfast every morning. Maybe Harold was fucking Nancy right now, while Peter and Ethan both watched, or maybe took turns sticking their dicks in her mouth. God! I took a hand off the steering wheel and gave my breast a hard squeeze.

The reverse psychology wasn't working. My mind, it seemed had already been made up without me really getting any say in the matter.

There was also the matter of how to actually get him. I tried to imagine myself simply sitting him down, telling him that I wanted him, and figured he wanted me, too. But I couldn't realistically see myself saying that. I imagined just slipping into his bed late one night. Hot, but again, not something I could imagine myself doing. I've always been somewhat timid in terms of action even if not when it comes to desires. No, I needed him to initiate it. I would simply tease him, flirt with him, make him so overcome with desire that he would have no choice but to come to me.

I decided to begin that night at dinner, selecting the shortest skirt I owned.

"Isn't that skirt a little short for a family dinner?" Harold asked me as I was getting changed.

"You always used to like it," I said, calculating that any allusion to his sexual decline would end the conversation. He had no idea, of course, that I wasn't wearing panties.

We went to a nice restaurant called Fitzgerald's, and I ended up sitting across from Peter, through my own designs. I asked each of the children about their days, and let Harold talk about his work. I played with my hair, gently touching behind my ear, and licked my lips, not making eye contact with Peter but hoping that he was watching me.

Then, just after our food arrived, I dropped my fork, letting it slide down my leg so that it actually landed over by Peter. "Oh, damn. Peter, would you grab mommy's fork?" I hadn't planned the words out, and it was completely by accident that I called myself mommy. I hadn't called myself mommy in the third person like that in years. But if Peter was turned on by the thought of incest, that's what I wanted to do, right? Draw attention to the fact that I was his mother? Peter knelt to reach for the fork, and as his head disappeared beneath the table, I let my knees drift apart somewhat. Not too obvious. His head was down there for about five seconds, which isn't a long time, but longer than it takes to pick up a fork. That's it, I thought. Look at mommy's thighs. I bet you didn't know mommy works out.

I few minutes later, Peter dropped his fork, and again I let my thighs drift apart. When he did it the third time, I was asking Ethan about his plans for college next year. My hand was already in my lap, so I stroked my thigh in a gentle, distracted circle. I was sure Peter was looking now, and my pussy was growing wet at the thought. It was starting to look strange now with Peter dropping his for and his napkin all the time, so the next time Peter went down, I had my legs crossed. He didn't do it again through the meal.