The Nasty Wife Pt. 09-10

"You don't know my wife like I know her—she's stubborn in this really specific way where, whatever you say or do, she knows what she wants and she's smarter about getting her way than you could ever be about stopping her."

"She's fake."

"...Excuse me?" I was angry at the thought of anyone bitching about my beloved that wasn't me.

"She's a different person every time I talk to her, it seems. Yeah, she's nice and all most of the time... but she has these eyes, and that smile, and that tone in her voice: she's... I don't know—and I don't think I have to tell you, assuming you already know; though I guess it's not really my place to talk about her, anyway." Then, when I was seething in silence, Mom said, "She's your wife; you love her... I love her—she's family. ...But you know who else is family, and that doesn't mean I have to agree with her ways."

"You're referring to Kate?"

"The both of you," she was finished with her cigarette, "but mostly Kate anymore. Don't get me wrong, I love you kids to death and back—I'd do anything for you, even bend over backwards... even deliver a... But," she shook her head, "it's not right. You know it, as do I—and so does Kate; Miranda, too." When I, as per usual, could say nothing, her stare pierced me as she said, "I want you to look me in the eye and admit I'm right."

I did—although my words were, "I don't think you are, Mom."

"And why not?" she was passive aggressive. "How aren't I?"

"The moment doesn't care, that's the best way I can put it. Other than the fact she's having a kid we know shouldn't have happened—and I mean, despite our disagreements on how to approach the situation, that you and I are in agreement while Kate and Miranda are happy as shit about it—other than that one fact, the possibility of her having something that complicates or is complicated within itself; when I stop and just let the world speak to me, where the silence behind existence has nothing to say, I don't think it matters. I can't convince you of that, I know, but I had—and excuse me for being blunt!—sex with my sister and time didn't stop, society didn't collapse, and the world itself batted not an eyelash. In the moment, the stigma unravels, and you just stand there saying, 'I can live with this'—and I can, Mom; I can literally live with Kate and Miranda under the same roof and the consequences, apart from the one fermenting in my sister's stomach, that accompany that... Our relationship is fine, it's the people in it that are dysfunctional."

"...You're surprisingly mature and intelligent about it, at least." And, for what it was worth, I could tell she legitimately respected me, too.

"They're conspiring against me, Mom."

"What?" Neither of us expected me to blurt that out. "What do you mean by that?"

"You called Miranda fake—well, Kate is just as bad: I hear them have conversations behind my back sometimes, and they planned for her to get pregnant; Kate was even the one who poked holes in the condom—you know, regardless of the fact... Ah, scratch that last part; it doesn't matter."

"Are you sure...?" Her eyes fired with thought. "Hey, Hun, is that true—did you really hear them say that, or are you just being paranoid from stress?" Mom's hand touched mine to console my visible tension.

"I heard it, I know I did; and, as much as I love my sister and my wife—who are two different people, thank god—well... I think you're the only person I can trust, and that's saying something because our relationship is pretty much over because of everything that's happened so suddenly in our lives."

"Hey, whether you and Kate are... you know... or not, you're still my son; she's still my daughter—I care about you; both of you; and I'm here, of course... I always will be." She nervously laughed to break the ice, "Just don't mind it if I have a cigarette in my hand while I'm here."

"Well... thanks, then, Mom." I weakly smiled.

"But, while we're talking, why did you come over? There must certainly be a reason. You know," she smirked with nostalgia, "you moved out so fast it's almost unbelievable you'd ever willingly come back home, even just to visit."

Not knowing what to say to that, I paused before confessing, "Miranda is going nuts, driving me nuts in the process, and with Katy being off her nut with all this baby shit herself, I just told them I had to go for a while."

"Fair enough, but that doesn't answer my question when it raises so many more... I know only about your private lives as you've been willing to share—and sometimes you share too much, honestly—but I'll never know what any of you are like or what you're up to behind closed doors unless you fill me in, Hun."

"The two of them are absolutely baby-crazy, for one—and, well... Miranda cries after she orgasms sometimes, if I can talk to you like we are in fact both adults."

"...What?"

"She gets high off sex—like, unimaginably high—and then falls... hard. She was flying in the clouds today—you know, going about as full psycho as maybe she can safely go—and then, she 'finishes', and suddenly I'm holding my sobbing wife as my naked sister watches from the other side of the bed, completely alienated by this stone of a human being just weeping."

"But why—what happened? What was wrong with her?" Just talking about it made Mom uncomfortable—as it did the same to me, too, of course.

"People don't know her like I do," I explained; "some might say she's crazy, or evil, or whatever else, but I remember Kate telling me we're all playing a game—and she's right, Miranda is a master of games... and that's all they are, no matter how many times I keep forgetting that; only ever able to see it in hindsight, to be completely and regrettably honest."

"...But what kind of games?" My cryptic moon-speak was making Mom—who was indeed but an outsider, completely oblivious to what we were, as she said, like behind closed doors—no longer just uncomfortable, but quite disturbed. "Do you mean like... you know, trying to see if she can get her husband to masturbate to pictures of his mother?"

Although coughing and loosening my collar, I affirmed, "Yes, that's it exactly."

"She must be really persuasive—never in a million years would I have ever thought my son would be capable of something like that."

"...I wouldn't do it on my own, but to be completely honest, I don't feel bad about it until I'm shamed by other people over it."

"What do you mean?" her confusion was equally as visible as it was audible.

"I'm not attracted to you in that way—I mean, as a woman, you look completely fine, Mom—but when it comes to something that, unlike what happened between Katy and I, has no immediate consequences (if ever!), then I can move on without ever looking back. As I said, it only bothers me whenever someone makes it an issue; otherwise, I'm no longer shocked by my lack of shock at the fact that I can live with having done something like that—and maybe the fact I was coerced into it a bit helps, I suppose."

"Wait... are you saying that, if you and I—you know, mother and son—were to... you know, have sex... unless I was to get pregnant, you don't care—it doesn't bother you?"

Nervously rubbing my forehead, I stammered, "It's something that's really hard to explain, Mom—I'm definitely not saying I would ever want that to happen, but I guess it wouldn't bother me, no. But I'm trying to be objective here—and you brought up the incest element, not me."

"No, no—I think you brought it up by having sex with your sister," I was ruthlessly shamed by my passively aggressive parent—of whom I was beginning to suspect was borderline offended, though I couldn't imagine how or why. "You know, it's a little weird: you're having steady sex with Kate—so you obviously find members of your own family attractive!—and yet, even though you're literally insisting the idea and actually going through with it doesn't and wouldn't bother you, it's still inconceivable you'd have anything to do with me. I'm obviously not saying I'd ever want that—we can both be pretty assured of that!—but what, is your mom truly that old and unattractive? What's the difference between me and her? We're both related—so I guess that means that there's another reason you're so against the idea, am I right or am I right?"

"...Mom, you're an attractive woman as a woman—as my mom, though... you're my mom. And, uh, the fact there is no objective difference, I guess, is sort of the point... even if that point isn't currently in my favor."

"All I'm saying is this—and I kind of want an answer, even if it's just morbid curiosity: you're okay with incest, just not with me. Why? There has to be a reason—and the fact I'm your mother certainly can't count if Katy being your sister, for heaven's sake, didn't stop you from knocking her up...!"

"...It's a conscious choice."

"But you still kinda need to explain what that means!"

"I don't know what you're trying to achieve, Mom," I was getting irritated, "but fuck it—I'd have sex with you. I'm not saying I want to right now, or that I'm asking for it, or that I'd ever act upon it; but if you're pressuring me about it, I have to confess that you're an attractive woman and I'd have sex with you because of it. That's it. But you know what? I respect you, and society, and ethics, and everything that says that's not okay. I don't think about you sexually, or feel sexual feelings towards you, but if you're going to ask me why I wouldn't do it—or wouldn't want to, rather—it's because I'm not allowed to think or actually do it. What more can I say?"

"...We're both adults, so I'll be honest with you—I've been smoking because I'm horny. I haven't had a man—I mean, I haven't had anyone—since your father; and, to be brutally blunt, masturbation doesn't do it for me. The way Miranda described smoking," Mom stared dreamily at her cigarette pack, "it was erotic; and with everyone having sex but me—even weird, fucked up, incestuous sex!—it's funny how I, a normal, sane, and rational woman who is allegedly still young and attractive, is the only one not getting any."

Taken aback, I asked, "But why are you telling me this?"

"It's as you said... I could live with it—and I guess I also realize that, after all these years alone, you're the only person who has taken a sexual interest in me. It's crazy, I know, but each cigarette is Miranda's decadence; and so it reminds me both of you and Kate and what you did to my panties... to that picture of me... I don't want to have sex with my son, but I think I've been having sex with you every cigarette I've had this last while—and it probably doesn't help that it's so oral..." She chuckled anxiously to herself at her own inside joke.

"What does that have to do with anything?" I blinked in confusion, realizing at once that I wish I hadn't of asked.

"...I have the biggest oral fixation: when I think about men—"

"Enough, enough...! I get it, Mom..." Then, my tone less abrasive, I repeated, "I get it."

"...Do you?" Her eyes flickered with interest, as if two smoldering ashes threatening to burst back into flames. "Tell me, then—what did I mean by that?"

Shaking my head, I replied, "If I have to say it, you're talking about oral sex."

She shuddered off her hysteria, returned to normal, sighed, and then coolly lamented, "I need what you described, to be able to live with myself—right now, there's still all this stigma... I just want to have sex; I don't know anyone, though—I've been out of the loop for so long I can't date or even try to score a one night stand. What do I want; what do I need? To have it happen once, absolve me of the guilt, the tension, and the hormonal rage, and then just accept and get over it."

"...Uh, Mom, it doesn't sound like you're just talking about sex—it sounds like you're—"

"Talking about having sex with you. Yeah..." And we both fell equally into uneasiness after that, fidgeting about in our seats.

"That's so unlike you, though—I just can't fathom how you'd ever be capable of something like that, Mom."

"Well, isn't that how I felt about you and your sister? It seems everyone might be capable of even more than they themselves are aware of—and, it's like I just said, I'm still lusting you indirectly anyway. That's what these are," she held up her cigarette pack before comically saying, "incest."

"...Yet you're the sane one, Mom—you're the principled one with morals and inhibitions and a conscience while the rest of us are too dumb, young, and horny—"

"No, stop," she intervened; "you're right, but you're also so wrong: Yeah, I'm the one who scolded the three of you for the filthy things you've been up to, but it's been eating at me—my son, my daughter, and my son's wife are fucking each other. My son, my daughter—brother and sister—are fucking. It hurt, at first, thinking about what people would say, what everyone would do if they found out; but then, restless one night, I realized I could fall asleep with it in the back of my mind. The next day, I woke up with an enormous weight lifted off my shoulders—I thought about you, Kate, Miranda, and the rest of our lives without remorse, or tension, or worry (well, other than about Kate's pregnancy, anyway), and while the thought of inevitable incest was always in the background of my every thought regarding each of you, I accepted it: I brought the thought of my son fucking his little sister to the forefront of my mind and asked, 'So what?' I said, 'He's still my son, she my daughter, and I almost don't care... I don't care.' And it was scary, don't get me wrong, but I could fucking live with it—and then, realizing I was capable of that... I started to think, 'What else are you capable of, huh, Gaby?' So I thought about it—really, really thought about it... about as hard and as deep as it can be thought—and so I wondered how much I could get away with before my conscience got to me. So I, uh... experimented with the family photo album."

"...Uh, you did what?" I asked in stutters, though admittedly on the edge of my seat.

"I did what you did to me—or what Miranda made you do, at least—just to see if I could live with it... I did it, and I could."

"But what did you do to our family photos?" My heart was pounding so fast and hard that it hurt, the adrenaline causing me to shake as if it was the table and chair and not the pulsations in my chest.

"Well... First, I woke up completely wet—yeah, make your faces at me, but you've thought and done worse!—and so I just snuck a hand between my thighs and my gooey labia lips—"

"Jesus Christ, Mom—stop!" Her description had churned my stomach, as well as created a certain hardness in my trousers. "Please, please don't continue—I'm literally begging you..."

"It's okay, sweetie," she kissed my hand before holding it firmly, "your mother is a woman, and if I have to deliver you and your sister's baby, you can hear about Mommy's gooey pussy lips and how fucking fat and plump they are; how they stick together and need delicately peeled apart after peeling my panties from my swollen, sopping wet slit... I just get so sweaty and drippy and horny throughout the night—and every... single... night, too."

"...Then hurry up and just tell me the rest of the story, Mom... Fuck..."

Rubbing her bare foot against my pant leg affectionately, she continued with, "I woke up just so, so needy," a harsh groan suddenly escaped her lips; "you know, like I am right now... And so I started touching myself—slipping my hand down my panties; rubbing my sensitive bulb after pulling my thick, meaty hood back; dipping my fingers into my pouring cunt to rub its slickness all over the entirety of my pussy... before pulling on the waistband of my panties, peering down to see the strands of cream and froth stuck to the crotch of both myself and my underwear—and," she salaciously sighed before shuddering, "I started to think about you, my son, after thinking about how you've been fucking your sister enough to get her pregnant; I got even wetter, rubbed my clit even harder, and was soon sloshing my slippery fucking fingers in and out of my cunt so good—previously unable to really masturbate, but now really going at it because of that extra edge; because of my incestuous thoughts of my son fucking his sister before running home to come fuck his Mommy—and so I stopped... I asked myself if I could really live with myself after this, feeling a little disgusted—but I loved feeling so disgusting in this filthy and raunchy and nastiest of ways; so I ran to grab the photo album, flipped it open to the same beach pictures I knew my own son had cum to like the filthy little sister- and motherfucker he is, and just started masturbating so hard and so good and so deep and so fucking fast that cream was just rolling and rolling and pouring and gushing from my slutty, incest-loving fuck-hole as I turned page after page just to see you in your trunks... just to see Katy in her skimpy fucking whore bikini... and how badly I want to suck your—my own son's!—dick and lap and lick my own daughter's tasty little cunt..." She was squirming and clutching one of her large, natural G-cups by this point. "Please, son... oh god, it's so wrong, and I came so hard again and again to all our family photos—but please, please, please tell me how big your cock is and... oh god, please tell me how fucking beautiful and bald my incest-slut daughter's pussy is...!"

Trembling, my balls churning, my heart and dick pounding, I told her.

There was silence as she mewed with satisfaction, and then her leg departed from mine after having coiled around it to caress my calf with the full, bare length of her own (she was just in shorts and a revealing tank top underneath the robe she let fall open). "Get out," she turned from me after her demeanor suddenly became its complete opposite; "I, uh... I can't explain myself, but you need to leave."

"...But why, Mom?"

"I said just go!" her voice cracked. "Get the fuck out of my house...!" And then she whined, "Please..."

Intimidated, I still couldn't help but ask, "...But why?"

"Because if you don't run home to your wife—to her and your fucking sister!—...I think I'm going to try to have sex with you... I'm so afraid I'm going to have sex with my son..." And then, when I went to comply—where I had to fix the front of my trousers first before standing to maintain a sense of decency—she asked, her voice full of carnal curiosity, "Hey, what are you doing?"

Having stood by this point, my erection slipped down between my boxers and pant leg, I said, "I just had to fix—"

But a stray pulsation had my dick sling from its place and create a bulge in the front of my trousers; at that moment, my fuck-hungry mother pounced, suddenly on top of me as I fell back to the floor with such a curvaceous woman now on top of me—her robe open; her vast, dangling cleavage and lack of bra exposed right in front of my face; her pelvis glued to mine as she straddled my supine body and grated her cunt against my cock through the fabric of her shorts and my dress pants. Her libidinous eyes so dark and aflame with desire—and yet now filled with apologetic remorse—she removed her hands from holding my wrists above my head, arched her back as she yielded to let me out from under her, and said, "...Please go... I'm sorry," she unconsciously rocked her hips, grinding against my crotch, "I just... can't control myself—it's been too many years since I've felt a dick inside me, and you need to fucking run before it's yours I ride like it's never been ridden before."

So, without saying a word, I crawled away; and she did nothing as I scrambled to get to my feet, nor when I staggered back in my incapability to look away... And then, as she pulled her robe shut and cast her glance away, I turned and ran.