It was early afternoon, a Tuesday, and I was home from work, in bed, with my oversexed mother-in-law laying naked in my arms. My wife, her daughter, had left the house just after nine that morning to run errands and then do volunteer work for a local charity that devoted itself to children in need. Lest I mislead you, this was not the first time I’d been to bed with my mother-in-law: we’d done that every day, literally, in one bed or another, since the day she’d arrived for a four-day visit at our home. That was nearly two months ago. When she got there — or I should say, when she was driving there — she’d intended to leave at the end of the four days. But as soon as she walked in our front door, before we’d even been formally introduced, the plans changed. She and I both knew immediately, but didn’t say for several hours, that she wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. If ever. I wanted her to stay, and she wanted to stay. So, she stayed. And here we were, alone together, at home, in the bed I shared with my wife of not-quite two years, unclothed, each laying on our right sides, with her back spooned against my front, and my no-longer-erect cock still half-lodged in the ass of the woman who’d given birth to the woman I’d married.

You’ll need a bit of history to put this in context, though even that may not keep you from considering me a monster. Or a significant idiot. Or both. But I have to try.

When she stepped into our house that night, I’d never met Marjorie before. I’d seen a total of three pictures of her, the most recent being over a decade old, but she hadn’t been at the wedding, because she was literally out of contact and beyond reach. No one knew where she was: not my fiancee, Marissa, not Marissa’s father, Johnny, not Marjorie’s sisters or high school friends. Nobody. She had left Marissa with Johnny and his second wife when Marissa was three, moved out of state, came back a handful of times between then and Marissa’s entering middle school, and then disappeared altogether. Marjorie was a wild animal, by all accounts, not to be tamed, or broker, or penned. She was also not to be predicted. She fell off the map, leaving behind Marissa and three other daughters, all by different men, leaving behind four ex-husbands (the stories differed, depending on who was doing the telling, as to whether any of the husbands had fathered any of the girls, before, during or after any of the marriages, or whether they’d been fathered by four different men Marjorie happened to be dating while married to another man), and leaving behind absolutely no means of contacting her or tracking her. Marissa had tried to locate her to at least tell her about the wedding, having done so only because I insisted. It was Marjorie’s absence that had delayed my marrying Marissa, because she was underage and BOTH parents would have had to sign — Johnny couldn’t do it alone, though he was more than willing — in order for her to get married before the age of eighteen. Had Johnny been awarded legal custody of Marissa when Marjorie was still around, he could have granted the necessary consent by himself, but Marjorie had never created any stir in Johnny’s parenting of the child, nor sought joint custody or even visitation, so he’d never bothered taking that step, or felt the need to incur the expense of trying to do it without Marjorie being a party. The only procedural problem that Marjorie’s vanishing act had produced in Marissa’s life was her ability to freely marry me before she reached the age of majority. Of course, not having a mother in her life created a series of emotional, personal and psychological problems, but many of those were ameliorated by her relationship with her step-mother, and they subsided altogether when Marissa and I became involved. This is where you’ll start to think me a monster.

I was 34 when I met Marissa. She was 15. I know, I know: it’s wrong. But it happened and it was beautiful and we were happy. We hid the relationship for four or five months, but then it began to become obvious to everyone that we were dating because we were together all the time. She introduced me to Johnny and his wife, and though they were troubled by the relationship and the age difference at first, they quickly became my biggest supporters, and eventually agreed to allow Marissa to move in with me. Marissa was more than a handful (possibly her mother’s nature coming out in her), so Johnny was eager to be rid of the responsibility, and the cost, of having a 15-year-old daughter who liked nice things. With Johnny’s permission, we had Marissa drop out of school at the end of tenth grade, so she cold focus on us.

In my defense, at the time we met, I was dating a very immature 17-year-old girl and Marissa was dating a 41-year-old divorced man. I realize it’s one of the rationalizations you hear from every man dating an underage girl, but it was perfectly true in this case: Marissa was extremely mature for her age. Vondie, two years older, was far less sophisticated and knowing, and much less sexually experienced and aware, than Marissa. Vondie was fond of telling everybody that she and I were engaged, when in fact we’d never even talked about marriage: when I pressed her about it, she denied having said it directly, and that she was just letting people think what they wanted without correcting them. I then discovered that she’d bought herself a piece of cheap but persuasive costume jewelry, a faux engagement ring, that she flashed around, saying, “Look what David bought for me!!” I had, in fact, begun giving her money — “my allowance”, she joked — and the fact that she’d used some of that to buy the ring gave her some slight tie to truth. Another distinction between Vondie and Marissa was that Vondie’s parents were NOT okay with her dating an older guy, and though they took no steps to actively prevent it, we had to hide it from them, and our sexual adventures were rarely conducted during overnight stays, unless she was able to slip out or plausibly lie about her whereabouts. This limited our sexual contact and frustrated me to no end. While I was with Vondie, I would, when she couldn’t come to the house or meet me at a hotel, sometimes date girls in their twenties or thirties, but reserved my interests in younger girls for Vondie. Admittedly, there was one somewhat lengthy affair with one of Vondie’s young cousins, an almost-fourteen-year-old for whom I seriously considered leaving Vondie, but her father got transferred to another city, and there was no way he would have left her with me. Once I connected with Marissa, though, I was hooked on her, and I couldn’t even look at a girl as old as twenty anymore.

I met Marissa while I was dating Vondie. Marissa was hostessing at an upscale Mediterranean restaurant at the edge of the city, on the cusp of the suburbs, that had been open for about a year, and which I’d avoided until the usual hip crowds had died down to the point where you didn’t have to wait an hour to get a table and then another hour to get served: I had hated the cool kids and their fads in high school, and hated jumping on their little trends in my adulthood, as well. I was dating Vondie at that time, and though she kept pressing me to “Take me! Take me!”, I steadfastly refused until the culinary bandwagon had headed off in other directions. Our first night there, a late Thursday evening after a long day at work, we were greeted at the door by a college boy who took our names, gave us a buzzing pager and told us we could wait at the bar and the hostess would call us and seat us when our table was ready. We were headed into the bar (Vondie could, most of the time, pass for drinking age) when the hostess returned from seating another party: it was Marissa, and her golden name tag brightly so announced. I had no idea how young she was, only that she was very tall (5’9″, give or take, and well over six feet in her heels), very blonde, very thin, and very, very well-dressed. She smiled, I smiled, and then we both glanced at Vondie, who had, fortunately, started into the bar ahead of me and didn’t catch the eye contact between Marissa and me. Marissa shrugged at me and smirked at her, as if to say, “She doesn’t concern me at all.” Very cool. Very certain.

We took seats at a high-top table in the bar area, I walked up and ordered two glasses of wine to avoid the possibility of Vondie being carded, and I returned to my stool. Marissa walked in, stopped just behind and slightly to the side of Vondie, smiled at me again, adopted a stance with her feet and legs spread rather wider than most women would adopt, and without even so much as a glance at Vondie, said to me, “Something has just opened up, sir, if you’d like to have it.” I glanced back down at the distance between her feet, focused my thinking on her use of the word “opened”, hoped that she knew what she was saying and wasn’t being coy, and had started slowly working my gaze back up her long muscular legs toward her knees, when she shook me from my thoughts, saying, “Seriously, sir . . . it’s opening . . . right now . . . just for you . . . if you want it”, and shifting her feet about two inches farther apart. Vondie suddenly pulled her attention away from the TV set over the bar behind my head, and said, to Marissa, “God, yes, of COURSE he wants it!” I glanced quickly at Vondie, to be sure she didn’t know what was being actually offered, or what she was accepting on my behalf, and then said to Marissa, “I absolutely DO want that; yes, I do. Please, please: take me away.” She led us to our table, advised us that our waitress would be right with us to take our drink orders if we needed ours refreshed, and handed us our menus, telling me: “You can have anything you want, whether or not it’s on the menu: you just ask.” Vondie was fussing with her chair, and her dress, and her purse, and she wasn’t paying attention. Sensing Vondie’s distraction, Marissa added, looking directly at me, “Seriously . . . anything you want.” “Thanks”, Vondie said, not looking up. Marissa started to turn away, then turned back, asking for our pager. I reached in my pocket to take it out, realized it was right next to my wallet/card-case, pulled it out with the pager, intentionally dropped both onto the floor, reached down and, while under the table, extracted a business card which — thankfully — contained my cell number, slipped the card underneath the pager and handed it to Marissa, hoping she wouldn’t assume it was a mistake and give it back, crushing my blossoming fantasies about her, and announcing my intended infidelity to Vondie. She took it and returned to the hostess stand.

Within two minutes, my cell phone rang. My heart jumped. My breathing stopped. And my cock twitched. I pulled the phone from my inside jacket pocket and opened it, seeing it was from a number I didn’t recognize. I hoped it was Marissa calling from her cell or the restaurant land line, though I knew it would be an awkward conversation, with my date sitting right across from me and able to hear anything I’d say on my end. I answered, and heard the same voice I’d heard at the table a moment ago, now saying, “This will only take a second, so just pretend it’s a call from your work, okay?” I responded by saying, “It’s okay, really: we’re at that restaurant I mentioned to you yesterday at the office, y’know? And we’re still just having drinks. We haven’t even ordered yet. How are you?”. I was pretending to be talking to a colleague. “I could tell you’d rather be with me than with her”, Marissa continued, “and that can happen. I mean it, David: that can totally, totally happen.” I checked my respiration and circulation: if I’d been on a monitor, I’d be flat-lining. No breathing, nor any heart-beat. Zero. I stumbled on. “Okay, I think that’s a great idea. How can we make that happen?” I could hear her giggle at our cloaked conversation on the other end, and then “She really has no idea, does she?” “None whatsoever”, I replied, using as business-like a tone as I could muster. “If you want a different, younger girlfriend than that one, I get off from work at ten o’clock. Can you make an excuse and go leave her somewhere really quick and come back and pick me up at ten? If you need to, pretend like what I’m saying totally pisses you off: I’ll understand, really. But please, David, don’t say no!” As she directed, I feigned exasperation, looked at my watch, looked over at a very confused Vondie, looked at my watch again, which read nine-thirty, and then said, following the thread of the fictional/theatrical conversation, “Yeah, I guess I can make that happen.” Marissa’s voice over the phone line emitted a small squeal of delight, while Vondie’s face began registering the disappointment of another evening spoiled, which was an experience she’d had with me before when work called. I tossed a ten on the table as compensation for our waitress’s trouble, even though we’d paid for our drinks up at the bar, while I hurriedly ushered Vondie up from her seat, wanting to get her to and out of the front door as quickly as humanly possible. But before I hung up the call, I added, “Are you prepared to stay on for the duration?”, making it sound like I was referring to working into the early morning hours but actually asking Marissa if she was ready for a long ride and able to stay overnight with me. “Oh my fucking God, David, YES! I’ll call my parents and tell them I’m sleeping over at my friend’s house, and she’ll lie for me, and I won’t have to be home until noon tomorrow: Jesus, we can fuck all night and all morning!!”

If I’d had any breath remaining in my lungs, I would have likely gasped. But I had none. My mind flashed on those long legs bending and wrapping around my back, my cock sliding into her body, and then out, and then back in, deeper, and then out, and then back in, deeper still, eventually bottoming out and pressing up against the opening to her womb, trying to find a magic button and allowing my entry there. I tried not to look at Vondie so she wouldn’t see the obvious deception and infidelity in my eyes, and tried to focus instead on Marissa and that long blonde hair, and her willingness to approach a strange man and open a door for him to pursue her while his date was right in front of both of them. The only thing I could think of at that moment was the phrase “we can fuck all night and all morning!”, and the way she said it. Joyfully. I was about to start breathing again as Vondie finished collecting her things and we started toward the door, when the buried phrases from Marissa’s declarations arose and slapped me across the face: “younger girlfriend” and “my parents”. I stopped dead, parsing her sentences. Shit! Her age hadn’t even occurred to me until that point, because of her height, and attire, and makeup: I thought she was probably early-twenties. I’d realized she was younger than me, but it hadn’t occurred to me that she might be younger than Vondie, who was seventeen. “Your par. . .? um, uh . . . your people?” I had tripped over something I should have seen, but missed because I wasn’t looking for it. I stammered again, “How . . . I mean, are you . . .?” I was losing ground in my effort to hide the truth from Vondie, who was looking at me with the staying-or-going confusion that only a child can gin up, and I was sure it was becoming obvious to her that something was off. I regrouped and started again. “Will your people be okay with this?” Obviously, I couldn’t casually ask her age without it falling outside the scope of a putative business call and tipping my hand to Vondie. I was hoping Marissa would pick up on my worry, and address it. She did. “Don’t worry about my father and step-mother, David. That’s my problem, not yours. I won’t lie to you: I’m fifteen. But I date a lot and I fuck a lot, and they know I’m active because they were the ones that put me on the pill, and that was four years ago. I know what I want in sex, and I know what I’m doing, and if you want it, we can fuck all night and all morning. All night and all morning. All night . . . and all morning.” My reply was what she wanted to hear: “I’ll be there by ten”, though it was not what Vondie wanted to hear. And Marissa’s reply was what I wanted to hear. Again. “We can fuck all night and all morning.”

And that’s precisely what we did. We fucked all night and all morning. Without sleeping. Without food. Without water. And then, on Friday morning, after a particularly hot fuck, Marissa did three things that I loved her for and that tied us together. She reached over onto my bed table, picked up my cell phone — she didn’t care that anyone on the other end would have my number via caller ID — and called her father and told him, “I’m out of school today, so I’m going to stay at Kori’s for the rest of the weekend”, two thinly-veiled lies that got a lecture but then an approval, called the restaurant and cancelled her shifts for that night and the next night, and then called Kori and told her, “You gotta cover for me ‘til Sunday morning, ‘coz I got a new man and he’s fucking me too good for me to do anything but lay here in his king-size bed, spread my legs and let him keep fucking hitting it and hitting it and hitting it and hitting it”, which elicited a reply I couldn’t hear, but one that made her laugh, and which prompted her to reach over to my cock, wrap her hand around it, give it a firm tug, and say, “Oh, GOD, yes: like a motherfucking horse!” Of course, that wasn’t close to being true, not even within the realm of possible experiences of a fifteen-year-old girl, much less THIS fifteen-year-old girl; but it made me feel like more of a man than I’d ever felt in my life. And I felt that way every day with Marissa. Right up until her mother walked in our front door.

Marjorie and I would both say later that we knew the minute that we laid eyes on each other that we were destined to become lovers. We exchanged a brief glance as she stepped into the foyer of my house that is only exchanged by animals before one mounts the other. Everything from that moment forward was simple prelude to sex. Everything. And once the sex started, there was absolutely no stopping it. Sex with my mother-in-law was just too good, and if you ever stuck your cock in her, you’d never want to take it out.

That introduction happened just before sundown on a Friday night, after Marjorie had been on the road all that day and the day before. By virtue of several phone conversations Marissa’d had with her mother, in anticipation of the visit, she had learned that Marjorie was traveling to spend time with her other daughters as well; the other daughters she had birthed and soon thereafter abandoned. Marissa learned that she was actually the luckiest of the group, or the unluckiest, depending on one’s perspective, but Marjorie had stayed with Marissa three years, and that was six months longer than any of the other three daughters, who ranged in current age from 37 (which was my age) down to Marissa’s 18. The girls were in four different states, no two adjacent, so Marjorie was on what Marissa had come to call her mother’s “Cross-Country Atonement Tour”, trying to make amends for “dropping us, and then dropping us”: Marissa’s words. We were the last stop on the Tour.

Marjorie appeared to have lived hard during her 54 years, and all the drinking and the smoking and the fucking — some minor knowledge of which had come to Marissa via Johnny, her father — showed in her face and skin and body, and had taken a toll on her. She looked rough, and though she was dressed and made “up” that night, she was obviously not wealthy, because her tight-fitting clothing and heavy makeup were lesser-department-store quality: if you passed her on the street, you’d definitely notice her, because she dressed herself and carried herself in a way that called attention, but you’d probably think “trailer-trash”. But having said all that, on even casual inspection, which is what I did as she entered our home for what was supposed to have been a four-day visit, she had the magnetism and the carriage of a woman with an intimate knowledge of the male of the species, and a skill at utilizing that knowledge. In the more modern vernacular, she was hot. And nasty. And I could not, literally, take my eyes off her.

The way she moved, the way she occupied space, the way she crossed her legs, the way she operated a cocktail glass, the way she smoked a cigarette, the way she shifted her body in her dress and her butt cheeks in the sofa cushions, the way she spoke — even the sound of her voice, made deep and slightly raspy by decades of smoking, and mixed with the sexual innuendo and double entendre she frequently employed — was arousing to me in a way I’d never before been aroused. I’d had my share of older women before recognizing that my tastes were better suited to, and my needs were better met by, younger women, and before I married Marissa, but I’d never met anyone nearly so sensual or innately sexual before. Not even close. Marjorie wasn’t just sexy, I found myself thinking that night and many, many times since; she WAS sex. Yes, that was actually it. She was sex itself, the essence of sex, from the tips of her blonde-black-copper-streaked and teased-and-sprayed hair to the glitzy jewelry to the D-cup bra she filled to its maximum capacity (and then some) to the powerfully-deep tanning-salon tan to the five-inch black spike heels that brought her total height to maybe 5’5″, roughly four inches shorter than her youngest daughter standing flat-footed. Every time she moved, my cock moved. And it moved in Marjorie’s direction. And she absolutely knew it. Thankfully, Marissa didn’t.

I had already decided to prepare dinner, so that mother and daughter could visit without interruption or distraction, so I poured drinks for both of them — Marissa was having merlot, and Marjorie, thrilled to find we had good bourbon, took a large glass of it on the rocks — and then excused myself and went into the kitchen. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on one’s perspective, a portion of the family room was visible from the kitchen, just beyond the work island near the stove and then over the open counter and bar at which a few stools were positioned. Marissa was seated with her back to me and mostly out of my view, but Marjorie was sitting in profile to me, with the light from the setting sun at her back. It was a stunning profile, and I realized, when she changed positions in her chair and arched her back in the process, that what I’d estimated as being a D-cup was probably on the high-end of a double-D or more. I washed and chopped vegetables for a bit, put the fish in the oven on low heat and listened as Marissa was explaining how hard we’d been trying to get her pregnant and how miserably we’d failed. She admitted that the problem was her, that I was capable, according to the doctors, but she had problems with her ova that they’d been unable to diagnose, or treat, and they were offering little hope.

I went back in to the family room to freshen drinks. “Come join us, David”, Marissa said, as I refilled her glass, to which Marjorie added, as I turned in her direction, “Yes, you really must come in here”, and since I was standing between her and her daughter at the moment and blocking their view of each other, she parted her knees quickly, winked at me and smiled: she knew that I’d understood her use of “come” as a homophone for “cum”, and that I’d understood her meaning completely when she opened her legs as she uttered, and emphasized, “here”. I thought I might faint and fall into Marjorie’s lap, being weakened by a sudden and entirely illicit desire for my own mother-in-law and the accruing knowledge that she had the same sudden and entirely illicit desire for me, and God knows I wanted to get my face into that lap, but I managed to begin filling Marjorie’s drink and remain upright. “Fill me up all the way, baby”, she smiled again, still screened from her daughter and still talking dirty to me without talking dirty. In my mind, I said “Oh, dear God, yes!”, because filling her was what I wanted to do, but I got hold of my thoughts and informed my drink customers that I would go get a drink myself and join them, making sure first nothing was burning. I told them I’d be back in a minute.

On the way back to the kitchen, the incredible coincidence dawned on me: my wife had used exactly the same approach on the first night I met her, taking a feet-apart stance and speaking to me in an aggressive sexual code while I was with another woman. I turned inadvertently to look at them both, pondering the oddity, noted that they looked nothing alike, were built nothing alike, had no physical features in common whatsoever, and yet their nature was the same and the manifestation of their desires and the way they went about quenching those desires were almost unbelievably alike. Nothing else but nature could explain how or why they’d both come on to me in the same way, even though they’d spent only three years in the same house, and even then, with Marissa being an infant and then a toddler. It was, at once, both freaky and frightening. Before returning to the kitchen, I noticed Marjorie slowly lick her lips, and then her teeth, and then her lips again. She wasn’t looking at me, because Marissa was looking at her, so at first I didn’t know if she meant it for my consumption or if it was just something she did involuntarily. That question got answered when, as she finished the licking, and without looking directly at me or her daughter, she laughed. She meant it for me and she knew I’d seen it. Again, my cock jumped. And I wanted that tongue. Christ, I wanted to lick it. As I inched back toward the kitchen, unable to remove my eyes from my mother-in-law, she reached down, got her purse, took out a cigarette and lit it, and then when she’d taken a deep drag, turned her head toward me, exhaled long and far directly at me, and then licked her lips again. With the motion, she’d looked at me in the eyes and reached out to me with her smoke, all while allowing her daughter to believe that she was doing nothing more than blowing the smoke away from her. She smiled at me, and then turned back to Marissa, knowing that she had me and that I was a puppet on her string. And that she could have me anytime she wanted me. A low moan spilled from my mouth, as I contemplated the stunning sensuality of that mouth of hers, and then instantly realized that I had an incredibly urgent erection that was draining blood away from my head and making me a bit dizzy.

Summoning my remaining resources, and attempting to distract myself from my lurid thoughts of Marjorie and her power over me, I sliced some cheese and assembled it on a plate with some crackers and grapes, and then poured myself a glass of wine. Using the plate as cover for the fairly-obvious problem in my pants, I maneuvered my way back to the family room, placed the tray on the table between the two women and, still bent at the waist, quickly took a seat on the sofa across from both of them. Marissa, fortunately, didn’t notice the tenting in my pants, and said to her mother, “This is David’s favorite type of cheese: he really loves it”. Marjorie, unfortunately, did notice the tenting in my pants, and simply said, with a dirty smile, “So I see.” As I was beginning to dream up an excuse to get me out of the hot water I was rapidly swimming toward, and to do so in a way that would avoid the embarrassment of getting an intense and insistent hardon devoted entirely to my mother-in-law, Marissa excused herself to go use the restroom and got up and walked down the hall.

The very second we heard the metal latch click on the hall bathroom door, Marjorie quickly put her wine glass down on the coffee table, stubbed out her cigarette, exhaled the last of its smoke at the ceiling, stood, covered the two steps between her chair and the sofa where I was seated, stood between my feet, turned her back toward me, bent, and sat down on the edge of the sofa seat, wedging her hips between my thighs and spreading me wide. I pulled away from her, to give her more room, but she immediately moved with me, pressing her back against my torso, pressing her shoulders against my chest, reaching her hands behind her head and touching my face with them, and pressing her ass against my groin. Hard. Inadvertently, I tilted my head back and closed my eyes, thinking only of the heat between Marjorie’s body and mine, and feeling her so close. After squirming against me for four or five seconds and working her ass cheeks around my shaft, she smiled at me over her shoulder, and said, “Mmmm, I knew it, David. I just knew it. You have a thick one. And God knows . . . I’m a girl that fucking loves a thick one.” She squirmed more forcefully, now clearly trying to work me up. Her curled and teased and sprayed hair rubbed against my face as she worked herself against me; up, down, side-to-side, mostly focused on the cock reaching out for her ass, through my pants and her dress, and the smell of hair products and cigarette smoke was hidden inside the waves, with perfume drifting up from somewhere below, probably that magnificent chest. With that thought, I opened my eyes, looked down over her shoulder and could see nothing but tits. Nothing. They were even bigger than I originally thought, and the sight of something so huge, so beautiful, so feminine, so close, was entrancing. She dropped her hands from my face to her sides, took my wrists in her hands, and then raised them to her breasts. The feeling was like heaven. I cupped my hands around her breasts and she cupped her hands around my hands. In that position, she guided me through the best method for exploring the new territory. I had had my hands on bigger tits — before marrying Marissa, I had cut a sizeable swath through the topless joints in three states, dated a dozen (or two) strippers, and enjoyed more than my portion of gigantic boobs, none of which were natural — but I’d never before touched any that were so heavy or so . . . dense. And they were clearly all-natural, and so, even more amazing. Even with the heavy, thick underwire bra that was needed to support a 54-year-old rack, the characteristics of the breasts were apparent, and I could detect large, hardening nipples, much larger than those accompanying any of the surgically-enhanced variety I’d encountered: these breasts were unique and beyond belief.

Marjorie broke my reverie by reminding me, “Our girl is going to be back from the ladies’ within probably forty-five seconds or so”, referring to Marissa, whom I’d completely forgotten, as I held my mother-in-law’s dressed, brassiered mammaries in my hands. Just as I realized that she’d substantially picked up the speed and pressure of her masturbation of my cock with her ass, she added, “and we cannot have her see that you have an erection, or that you can’t stop looking at me: eventually, even a woman as naive and clueless and vain as she is will realize that it’s me you want, and I’m not ready for her to find out yet about our relationship.” As I realized that I was already in a relationship with Marjorie — she’d just said it — and was beginning to consider when Marjorie might be “ready” for Marissa to find that out, she finished her thought. “So, I want you to pop that nut for Mama: yeah, I want you to pop that motherfucking nut right now!” A sudden rush of hyper-adrenalized blood suddenly found its way to my penis, and I did just as she said. I came. And then I came some more. And then more. “God fucking DAMN, David”, Marjorie said, “that’s a serious fucking load.” She had no way of knowing it, but it was the biggest load of my entire life.

“You are such a good boy. You’ve made Mama very, very happy.” She reached one hand back behind her head and cupped a side of my face in it. As she did that, she pressed backward against me, found the mid-point of my shaft with her tailbone and pressed, to be sure and squeeze out the final drops of the load, and to be sure that I was properly erection-free. “We’ll be doing that without clothes later tonight, but I think that was a good start, don’t you?”, she said. I nodded because I couldn’t speak. She laughed softly, recognizing the weakened state of the post-orgasmic male, and admiring her excellent handiwork. With the release, I caught a whiff of the scent of bourbon and tobacco smoke when she laid her head back against me, thought again of the sensuous nature of her mouth, and then leaned over her shoulder, placed my left cheek next to her right, and attempted to kiss her, because I just needed to taste that incredible mouth. And those lips. And that fucking tongue. I just had to have it. When she realized what I was doing, she turned her head quickly to her left, and said, “We can’t kiss right now, baby; I wear a lot of makeup and lipstick and liner, and she’d see me on you. It’s not time for that kind of dirty brazenness yet. For now, we’ll just have to cheat, and be careful.”

As Marjorie rose from the couch and checked to be sure that none of the semen was soaking through my pants, and that everything else was in its place, she leaned over toward my crotch, breathed deeply, and said, “God, that smells delicious, and I can’t wait to get it in me.” She stood upright, reached into her purse, pulled out a prescription bottle, uncapped it, dropped a capsule in the palm of her hand, recapped it and returned it to her purse. She held the capsule over Marissa’s drink, separated the top and bottom and let the contents fall into the dark wine, swirling it with her index finger. As we heard the water flowing through the house’s pipes toward the hall bath, Marjorie straightened out her heavyweight bra, brushed down the wrinkles in her dress, resumed her seat in the chair she’d originally occupied, leaned toward me and whispered. “Listen carefully, David. When she drifts off to sleep tonight, I want you to get up and come down to my room. Once she’s asleep, she won’t wake up for hours, and she won’t have any memory of what happened. Don’t worry about her: all I want you to do is to be prepared to stay in my room until dawn.” We heard the door open, and footsteps falling on the hall floor, and she added, even more quietly, “And I want you to be prepared to fuck me — with that thick fucking dick you were trying to drive up ass and inside my fucking spine just now — like an animal. All fucking night.”

When Marissa came back into the room, she sensed something was askew in the environment, but couldn’t fix on it. “What?”, was all that her 18-year old brain could think to say, looking back and forth between her mother and her husband, and wondering what was different than it had been when she left for the restroom only moments before. There had been a sea change, but it wasn’t a visible one: it was a sexual one, and it was one that was about to change everything else. I couldn’t worry about what Marissa might be feeling: all I could think about was how quickly those drugs would work and how quickly I might get between the legs of my wife’s mother. Marjorie, always thinking, always planning, always aware, deflected the question and the problem, saying, “David and I were just talking about how exciting it can be to start new things, new adventures, and new relationships, which is kind of what’s happening here, right in this house. So, we thought it would be good to make a toast.” She stood and lifted her tumbler of bourbon, picked up Marissa’s wine glass and handed it to her before she had a chance to sit, and then did the same for me, as I stood. “To new things”, Marjorie said as we all touched glasses, first looking at her daughter, and then, seeing her smile, over to me, with a filthy look that said “Fuck me . . . hard”. Then, as everyone drank to the toast, my mother-in-law and I both glanced at Marissa and saw she was oblivious to the overwhelming sexual tension arcing between us, we drank from our glasses deeply, indirectly encouraging her to do likewise, and we hoped she would soon be out of our way for the night.

I sat my glass on the table, saying, “Ladies, I need to finish that fish and get you fed.” In reply to my exit line, Marjorie said, slyly, “God, that smells delicious, and I can’t wait to get it in me”, which my wife didn’t know had a context that had nothing to do with fish or cooking: it had to do with my cock and where Marjorie wanted it to go, and it was a verbatim repeat of what she’d said just minutes before, when she’d gotten a whiff of the spend being absorbed in my pants: an orgasm she’d given me in but seconds and of which she was justifiably proud. When I reached the kitchen, I looked back at the girls who’s taken their same chairs, awaiting the call to dinner, Marissa with her back to me, and her mother in full profile (and with those spectacular tits seemingly expanding in size by the minute): I waited until I caught Marjorie’s eye, then blew her a silent kiss. She caught it in her left hand, waited for Marissa to look away, and then slipped the catching hand up under the hem of her dress and further up between her thighs. And rubbed it in. When Marissa looked back at her, Marjorie said, “Well, TGIF!”, and then raised her glass again; another toast. Somehow, I knew she was talking not to Marissa, but to me. And I knew that the abbreviation she was quoting, even though it was a Friday and Marissa clearly understood it in the conventional sense, wasn’t “Thank God It’s Friday”, but something else. My mother-in-law was saying, “Tongue Goes In First”. And I knew the night was going to be an interesting one. And an illicit one. And a tasty one. And a sexy one.