Secret No Longer Ch. 01

Maybe Jannie noticed too, maybe not; I never got around to asking her. It didn't matter. We both knew from the evidence before us who our mystery man was, the voyeur in both eye and camera who had made it his practice to observe us, masturbate watching us, photograph us and then pass the photos on to our evidently appreciative husbands.

"Jason," I whispered. Jannie only nodded numbly.

Jason. My son, Jason. My twenty-year-old college-engineering-major boy, Jason.

I felt suddenly ashamed to face Jannie. It made no difference that I had known no more about this than she did. It was my son, my family, my house and my responsibility. Both of our minds now confronted the image of my son, his eye glued to the peephole before us, his cock emerging from the folds of his unzipped jeans, stroked to rigid eagerness at the sight of his own naked mother wrapped in the Sapphic embrace of his equally naked and passionate next-door neighbor, seeking the peak moment within the practice of our lust to drive his own, and once found, soiling the bedroom wall with the milk of his manood, only later to devote a rather inadequate effort to the task of cleaning up the result.

"Jannie, I am so sorry," I pleaded. This seemed no different from catching Jason in Jannie's back yard, peeping at her through her bedroom window blinds. "I would never..."

"Chill, Lin," she interrupted, quickly. "Don't stress about it one bit. It's not your fault."

She seemed to have read my mind again. I looked up. She raised her hands and tenderly reached around the back of my neck, then softly drew my again-tearful face to her shoulder. In a fairly short time I got past my own irrational reaction and relaxed.

"Let's sleep on this one, Jannie," I said. "Let's see if any inspired solutions await us when our minds are a bit clearer."

"Tomorrow," she replied with a sweet, soft kiss and embrace.

Sleep did not visit my side of the bed that night. I had bitter, enraged arguments with my husband, many of them, all confined to my own imagination. It was maddening, being unable to seize some kind of higher position from which to protest the affronts visited against us. No matter how I twisted the facts, every complaint I thought I could raise against Jason, my husband, or anyone else, collapsed under the weight of the illicit relationship between Janine and me from which all the rest flowed. Is this just moral justice? I have my beliefs and convictions, but that didn't fit them. This wasn't happening to me as punishment for sin.

At one point the cinema of my memory threaded up the scene from several days earlier and began to play it.

Janine's fingertips pressed very gently upon my increasingly erect nipples, sensing their answering pressure against the wispy layer of my light bra and the silken blouse over it. Her eyes were bright, her expression soft and open at the feel of my early response to her touch. Her movements were unhurried, sweet, tender, feather-light; the sensations gossamer, mere wraiths emanating from an unseen fire as prominences emanate from the greater heat of the interior of the sun. The patient flow of her touches took me into a timeless, dreamlike space, where both the pleasure of the immediate and the anticipation of the future could be savored, seamless, flowing from the separate into the common, erasing time from the experience and leaving only an eternal instant.

Her touch had progressed from my nipples to the underside of my breasts, and I felt the softest of touches as her lips brushed my forehead in the mere hint of a kiss. She then returned to her place sitting on the edge of the bed. Never losing contact with me, her hands flowed back to my breasts, to my shoulders, then behind my back.

I felt desire rising within me, leading me to return the tenderness in kind and then amplify it. My fingers toyed with the buttons of my blouse and it softly opened. Jannie placed her hands on my shoulders, inside the blouse, and gently lifted it and slid it down my arms and off. She then deftly grasped the clasps of my bra, and that joined the blouse on the bed.

My hands were now around her rib cage as I lifted her top over her head, exposing her own unencumbered breasts. Tracing the contours of one of her breasts with my fingertips, I sought the nipple of the other with my eager lips. When my tongue circumscribed the boundary of her nipple, I heard a sudden catching of her breath as my touch registered itself with her and the soft touches of her fingertips upon my skin became more insistent.

I felt her arch her back, opening more of herself to me. My touches flowed down her body, hands on her sides, as I placed gentle kisses down the front of her body, from her breasts to her navel, gradually halting at the waistband of her jeans, hinting at the possibilities living within the circumstance in which the barrier of the garment was removed.

Janine rose to her feet, her hips level with my eyes, unfastening the snap of her jeans. She pulled down the zipper of the jeans and in moments they fell from her hips gathering about her feet, which she extricated from them.

My tongue automatically sought her expectant clitoris, pressing through the silky fabric of her panties. Her breath caught again, much stronger than before, and I felt a shudder flow through her, followed by an automatic thrust of her hips against my face.

For some period of time whose duration is of no importance, I continued to tease her clit with her tongue, delighting in the accelerating response of her hips, her breath, her entire being. Finally she drew back and gently pressed my shoulders. I fell back to the bed and felt her repeat the removal of her jeans, now with mine. The simple sensation of the zipper being lowered, the relaxing of the tension of the denim around my hips, the uncovering of more and more of the most intimate regions of my flesh, all combined to elevate my consciousness to a plane devoted solely to ecstasy.

Presently, her tongue returned the attention I had recently devoted to her clitoris. At the first contact, a powerful ripple of excitement tore through my body and soul, and I felt the sudden acceleration of breath, the flutter of heartbeat and the tingling sensitivity of my skin as they all reached out in supplication to the gods of pleasure, begging for the satisfaction of their cravings.

Lost in time, immersed in pleasure, I felt her rise and lie beside me, her fingers never leaving my skin. The fingertips of two hands sought and pleasured the most sensitive parts of two bodies; two hearts exulted in the moment and in the promise of the explosive peak we knew awaited us. Other hands sought breasts; lips sought other lips as well as the soft sides of necks delighting in the soft brush of our fevered breathing against them.

At one moment I rose to allow my abundant hair to brush her face and breasts; another, she used her own to find sweet contact with me. Now our bodies were intertwined, legs wrapped around each other, rolling, twisting, undulating against each other.

I was now once again between her legs, drawing my tongue lovingly and yet feverishly against her clitoris. I felt the tension grow in her body, her breath grow frantic and I knew her climax was close at hand. Onward I continued, concentrating on nothing but her and sensing her sensations. Finally, her peak was attained. Her body convulsed; for some moments her breathing stopped as she held her breath, gathering the force within into a single, star-hot sphere; and then, in a single explosion, burst forth. Her body leapt in my embrace, her suspended breath returned with hurricane force and wave after wave of electric fire danced a tsunami of ecstasy within her. I stayed with her, riding the crests with her, doing my best to vary between actively touching her and holding back when it was best to do just that.

Gradually, very gradually, the wild fervor yielded to peace. Her frantic thrusts turned to slow, smooth movements, eventually, to no movements at all, as she regained her awareness of her surroundings. I moved to lie beside her and she rested her head against my shoulder, knowing I would stay there with her, for as long as she wanted, as she recovered.

In time, still somewhat breathless, she turned smilingly to me and pressed my shoulders against the bed. With practiced precision she placed her own tongue against my grateful nubbin. The primal force I had just witnessed within her now asserted itself within me. Like a white-hot point expanding into a sphere inside me, the pleasure occupied more and more of me.

Suddenly, with heartless indifference to feelings or sensibilities, the memory of joy changed. Though my mind remained in the same place, at the same time, knowing the same events as had been in my memory moments before, my concentration on my experience of pleasure died. In its place, I saw my eyes sweep the room, exactly as they would have had they not been closed at the time, settling on that glass cabinet. The intricate optical wonder there, once a source of pleasure, became a malignant eye, the eye of a monster. Feeling only caustic fear, I recalled the undertone of excitement that had added itself to our experience when we believed we had the appreciative audience of the men we loved and cherished, and them alone. I recalled how, without even thinking about it, we had learned to make little adjustments to our play to maximize the transmission of our pleasure to their eyes, eyes living merely across a small shift of time, within its glass and silicon memory, or so we thought. In the midst of that thought, I felt the shock and anger burn as the eyes behind the lenses became, not our husbands', but instead, my son's.

My memory now cycled through a hundred little teases I had delivered to the silent eye, sometimes choosing a negligee or a gown, sometimes some other clothing, sometimes some other decoration, sometimes nothing at all, but all chosen expressly according to what I knew my Fred liked most. I remembered seductive dances, wanton movements of breasts, hips, pussies, whatever flowed naturally from within me, all of them designed to shout silently what my soul was shouting: this body is yours, it wants you, it wants to please you and be pleased by you, it cries out to be one with yours, to feel your blessed eminence declare your oneness with me by penetrating the most hallowed reaches of my natural sex, to draw that part of you entirely inside me as my soul wants to draw all of you inside, not to confine, but to complete, not limit, but liberate.

And now, every bit of that inner cry had instead been delivered into the prurient gaze of the young man which was the issue of that same blessed call some two decades earlier.

There was suddenly anger bordering on rage aimed at my husband, sleeping beside me in blissful ignorance of my agony. He knew what Jason was doing; in fact, he was, at least indirectly, part of it. For that matter, so was Sammy. Didn't they care? How could they exploit their own wives this way?

For the thousandth time I turned to stare into the red glow of the clock by the bed. What a heartless monster it is, I thought, dragging the hours by so slowly and yet inexorably, to prolong the torture, all the while promising the threat of a new day filled with the tormented raging of my mind which I must face weakened by lack of sleep.

My son. My own son. My Jason, eye flattened against the wall, peering into his telescope, watching his mother having illicit, lesbian sex with the lady next door, eventually convulsing in an orgasm driven by incestuous lust. I struggled mightily to convince myself that it was only Janine that appealed to him and not his own mother; but I knew perfectly well that this was pure self-deception. He was hot for us both, and no amount of mental flim-flam would change that.

The obvious answer, to call off our own lustful pleasures or move them beyond his sight, brought no satisfaction. It was as much what had happened and could not be reversed, but even more, the mere knowledge that these men had behaved as they had in response to it, that made the unbearable situation permanent.

Now and then, too rarely, a whisper of sanity penetrated the noise. It was a soft voice trying to assure me that the hurricane of thought really would pass, that the time would come when I would regain my power to think, to reason, to choose and accept, all things not even remotely possible now. The raging of the noise was obscuring that voice, drowning it out; but in those few blessed moments, it subsided enough to let me hear.

Hang in there, girl. Give it time...

Time... The word drove me back to that unwilling fascination with the clock. Fatigue of mind and heart made it hypnotic, a single thing that could occupy my thoughts instead of the nightmare.

So it was, and so I remained, as darkness yielded to the soft glow of dawn.

(To be continued)