The more accepted definition of #CovertIncest is a relationship where family members are more like a Spouse, without the actual physical intimacy…
It all seems so tawdry when I stop to write this down, but I suppose those stories have some foundation, somewhere. Usually the most salacious, and inappropriate pairings, but my son Weaver mentioned that.
Let me go back, I was happily married, once. I can’t even explain what happened, just say “We grew apart.” Knowing full well how meaningless that is. A long story short, we had a divorce. Which is just a nice way of saying we couldn’t stand each other any more.
What perplexes me is that neither one of us had changed. He was the same man that I married, and I worked hard to maintain the same shape that I had had in college. I ran track, long distance 3 Kilometers, and though I never medaled, nor won any Trophies, I mostly just ran for fun.
I don’t know what I was trying to run away from. I certainly wasn’t abused, I suppose there was some emotional distance that I won’t complain to you about, but I felt as if I had accomplished something at the end. Once I started to tire, I could look forward to that, and push through.
My Warren came bye the practice track to watch me, and the other girls I’m sure. He even said that he loved runner’s bodies, which ment not just mine, but I ended up with him. Looking back, I suppose that my attitudes changed.
Some of the things that I found endearing became more, and more annoying as I grew older, but then Weaver had a friend over.
Tom was a loud young man, and showed up in our yard as my son was building a snow fort. Throwing snowballs at each other, and others until half the neighborhood was out there, and then they came in out of breath. Laughing, and stomping their feet in the foyer, I mopped it up with a towel before going back down the hallway.
Where I heard “Hot as fuck.” I stopped, hand nearly touching the door knob, and thinking of some way to say something about his language.
Then Weaver said “Dude, she’s my mom.”
“I know, but it’s hard to believe she’s old enough to be your mom.”
“Well, she is.”
“Like Mrs. Mountbatten.” Okay, maybe that was it. I’m not used to being compared with the Duchess. She’s not a Duchess, she just acts like one, and this was starting to feel like idyl gossip.
You know, I had never actually listened to boys talk? It wasn’t something I would, normally do. So, I must have managed to avoid it, but that’s when my son laughed, and said that he “Always have the most inappropriate attractions.”
“Well, look at her, she looks like a model. You think she ever did any modeling?”
“Yeah, maybe when she was younger.” Honestly, it sounded like girl’s gossip to me. Like you know, you think he’s cute? Uh! Scoff scoff, giggles, and so forth, but that’s not what the housewives, and divorcees said about Elise Mountbatten.
She’s a trophy wife, and a gold digger. She only married him for his money, and with the age difference. There’s something unseemly about a man his age marrying a woman her age, but she lorded it over everyone.
I know it’s unkind, it’s jealous bitches being unkind, behind her back. Some women look at a couple like that, and make up some reasonable explanation of what she sees in him, when it should be fairly obvious:
His money, he has a nice house that she considered a Mansion, if not a Castle. His title, he’s a Mountbatten, from the House of Mountbatten. So, I suppose she sees herself as like India Hicks. Of course there’s money, but that isn’t all. Money is only worth what you can buy with it, but he could be charming.
Of course, he’s one of the most prominent members of the community, a philanthropist, and so on, and so forth. She’s just so stuck up about it. She put on airs, and came back from visiting family with this posh affected accent, telling us all how down to Earth Megan Markle really is.
Like a fucking Dutchess, and it’s infuriating, because there isn’t one of us that doesn’t secretly ask what she’s got that I don’t? Well, other than the mansion, the cars, the driver, servants, and yearly trips over to England to snob it up with the Royals.
She’s a princess. Not really, officially of course, but what girl from our generation doesn’t grow up reading about Princesses, and meeting Prince Charming at a ball? Cinderella, she’s living out all of our Cinderella fantasies, and it’s just. Fucking annoying.
So, I found myself pacing the halls, getting myself upset, and kicking myself for running back to her. Honestly, it’s irresistible. As much as we gossiped behind her back, we also came running at the first sign of a catering truck outside her door, because she had the best gossip in the world to lure us over.
She mingled with the most talked about family in the English speaking world. However, I suppose that’s where some of those stories get started. Be it a Daytime Drama, or one of those Mommy Erotica novels I used to sneak away from my mother’s night stand to read giggling with my friends.
The Duchess, getting bored at home. Whilst her husband was away at war, and it’s as formulaic as Agatha Christie. (Of course, Agatha Christie were the same sorts of stories, only with a little Murder added.) The butler did it in the back seat, then the driver in the garage, the gardener back behind some bushes, the cook in the pantry, and you get the idea.
Likewise, we concocted likely stories about whom Elise must be cheating with. On the assumption that her husband was too far gone for even Viagra to help. Finally, I turned around, and marched right back down the hall to my bedroom. Pulled out my Lycra, and a wind-breaker for the cold. Checked out the window to see that the trails were indeed thawed enough, and laced up some cross-trainers to go for a run.
Just to clear my head, honestly I’m going insane, and Weaver’s driving. It’s the Holidays, so he doesn’t have school, and I was loathe to admit how much he was becoming like his father. The same little quirks that I found endearing until they became annoying, the toilet seat.
For God’s sake, you have gravity on your side, surely it’s simpler to put it back down when you’re done than to lift it in the first place. I don’t want to touch it, it’s filthy, and of course I can’t expect him to clean up after himself, so I wind up feeling like a maid, because I can’t bring myself to get Help, because that would make me one of those women, with Servants.
“Huh! Huh!” I just kicked snow out of the way, and put my arm up on a tree, and catch my breath, shaking my head, and scolding myself. “You should have paced yourself, look at.” I looked around, “You haven’t even gone half a mile, and already you’re out of breath?”
I’m not happy. Of course, it was childish to believe that I would ever be happy. Happily Ever After is the punchline of a fairy tale, and in the real world. Real men start out charming until they get sick of your “Bullshit. Who, who!” I kicked snow back over to the paved trail, and concentrated on my breathing. “Who who!”
Of course it wasn’t all one sided, you’re not perfect either, and one of his top complaints was that I placed all the blame on him. Made him “The badguy,” so his relationship was strained with his children as well. They were our children, but my daughters when one of them was doing well, and then your daughter when one began acting out.
I haven’t been distant, have I? I tried to be there for them, and told myself that I was a good mother, but I didn’t smother them, and I was as available as I could be. Juggling a career, and a Marriage. Trying to be a good mother, and I suppose that I might have piled up so much on my plate that something had to give.
Also, Emmeline acted out, sexually. I suppose I have no one to thank but her father for that, because he was so over-protective, and “Cock Blocking.” She called it in high school, when she got to that “You’re not going out dressed like that young lady” stage. Then, she appeared in a video, and that was the last straw, I suppose.
“It’s only Girls Gone Wild,” I tried to tell him, “And why do you think it’s called Girls Gone Wild? She’s in College, so she’s drinking, and partying, and it’s not as if she’s doing hardcore pornography. She just took her top off.” She even kept her bra on, and I can’t say that I was especially proud of her, but the shame didn’t last long, because I had been there.
He had been there, when we’re still dating, and gone to parties. I was never very much of a “Party Girl” per se, and he had to practically drag me off to show me off to all his friends. Also the frat boys, and I had found myself topless on top of a table more than once.
“Hey,” I had to put my feet down, and come to an abrupt stop. Panting, and sticking my hands in my pockets. Because he met me at the fence, I would have had to’ve stopped at the road, in case of traffic, but he blocked the gate. With his arm up on the post, leering. “Don’t run it all off.”
Fortunately, he paused dramatically, long enough for me to get my thumb on the safety. I even took in a ragged breath, held it, aimed, and closed my eyes before I depressed the trigger.
FSHSHSHSHSH!
“Ah, fuck ahhhhh!” I felt a little breeze gust up, peeling the hair off my neck, and blinked at the world gone slow motion. His hands up covering his eyes, and his yells dragging out interminably. “Fuck, you maced me?” He couldn’t believe it, “You bitch!”
“Uh!” I just turned on my heels, and ran back the other way. “Ahahahahah!” I hate to admit, I needed that. Honestly, there never seems to be a. Well, Big Bad Wolf around when you need one. Of course, it were better if they didn’t hang around right at the boundry to the neighborhood, for some woman, or young lady to run past, but at least he’d been polite enough to do it right on the side of the road.
In public, full view of anyone who happened to drive past, so perhaps I was a little hasty? He just surprised me, and I was so preoccupied. I didn’t consider the situation, but he surprised me.
“I was scared? No, I wasn’t afraid for a moment, I barely had a moment to react, and what am I making excuses for? Really, you’re just having a bad day, and you took it out on the first man you saw, because you’re blaming all the men around you rather than admit to yourself that you feel like a failure. Who!”
I found another tree, and kicked through the snow from the pavement that warmed up enough to melt it. “Whew!” I looked back, and judged the distance to be sufficient to escape his wrath. “You mustn’t blame yourself,” I remember telling Emily.
“Uh!” Why did I have to go, and think about that?
I blamed myself, and her father blamed himself, when really it had nothing to do with either of us. It wasn’t like that at all, for one thing she wasn’t out jogging. She never was much of a runner, and I swore never to body shame her for her choice. “Mom, it’s my body, and I’m not going to starve myself just to fit in!”
I gulped, on a dry throat, and tried to swallow nothing. The snow looked clean enough to scoop up in my hands, and melt in my mouth, once I’d caught my breath.
All right, he wasn’t like that, man. Using the word in the broadest sense of the word, I assume he’s little more than an animal. Running on instinct more than giving any rational thought to his behavior, but it’s just so predatory. What sort of man blocks the path to catch women running, and hit on them so bluntly, it was just rude!
With Emily, it was a friend, or at least he pretended to be her friend long enough to get her alone. I tried to warn her about boys, I’m sure her father did as well, but at the time she was too young, insecure, and I suppose even lonely to resist.
“He said he was my friend!” She sobbed into my shoulder, and I tried helplessly to make her feel better. Not ask too many prying questions, about what he’d done when she was already triggered, but being her mother, I just had to know, and that just made things worse.
“Well, some boys lie about things like that, to get what they want.”
“I gnow!” She sucked salty snot back into her nose, and hugged me closer. “But he was so nasty, and he didn’t seem so nasty, but then he changed.”
As soon as he’d gotten her alone, he had a car, and he gave her a ride, but not home. He lied to her about that, but then later. Years later after she’d calmed down, and come out. Not as a Debutante, as a Lesbian. She assured me that that experience hadn’t put her off of boys, but that’s neither here, nor there.
Honestly, she was a little lucky, and I can take credit for her Savate classes. At least, he bit his tongue when she connected her knee to his chin, and that gave her time to release the door locks. Crawl out, and run, before he could fix up his pants, and run after, but that was the worst night of her life.
So far, I suppose. She’s still young, and fairly happy. One can hope, living with her girlfriend, who is a lovely young lady, and even though I don’t lean that way in the slightest, they are a cute couple. Already talking about getting married, and she’s more than welcome into the family, but I digress.
I couldn’t be more proud of her, watching her work out. Hoping she’d lose some weight more than ever have need for it to fight off a teenager with a raging erection, and grabby hands. I’m still impressed to this day, that a girl with her generous proportions could ever get her foot that high, twirl on her toes, and land her heel on a board with such precision.
“Huh!” Back home, I checked the Alarm to see why it wasn’t beeping. “Uh!” I pulled out my phone, and threw the empty can in the garbage. Scrolled all the way to the bottom of my contacts, careful to select Weaver instead of Warren. I’d made that mistake before, and the last person I wanted to talk to was my ex husband, or worse, his new girlfriend.
I hit Intercom first. “Warren? You home?” Nothing, so I texted him: [You left the Alarm off again.] Now that I was home, I armed it. Tapping my foot, impatiently, waiting for an answer.
[Oh, sorry mom. Where’d you go?]
[Out for a run, and you?]
[Oh, over at a friend’s house, but can I call you back?]
[Sure.] I just threw it in the kitchen sink, and got out a water from the fridge to drink. Pitched the cap in the trash, and the bottle in the recycling once it was empty. Unzipping the windbreaker once it got too hot and sweaty inside. In the heat, I checked the thermostat on my way up the stairs, and pulled off my sports bra in the bedroom. Started on my Yoga pants, and bent down with my elbow on the side of the bed when I looked back.
There was a thump down the hall, at Weaver’s door, and Thomas thought to cover himself. “Uh!” he ran for the restroom, and slammed the door, but not before I saw the condom he was wearing. Nothing else, just a condom, but I had to put on a robe before went after him. Beat on the door, “Thomas Henry Garland, what do you think you’re doing in my house?”
“Nothing,” he ran water in the sink, “But I don’t have any clothes in here.”
“Mom,” I jumped, startled, and fled a few steps before I realized that Weaver was there, holding up his pants. “Hey, Tommy?” How’s the peeping. “Open up, it’s me.” He stuck the pants through the door, the cuffs still darkened with snow melt from taking it off, and putting on a condom, in my son’s room.
“What’s going on?” I focused on the wrong clues, when it should have been obvious.
“Well,” he looked down sheepishly, and just shrugged. “You know Emmy, and Carol.”
“Of course, are you telling me that you, and Thomas are boyfriends?”
“Well,” speak of the devil, he peeked out. At least he had his clothes on. “Not exactly, but. I never did anything gay with anyone else before, but.” He tried to put his arm around my son, who shook it off, embarrassed. “It just kind of happened.”
“I’m not gay, man.” He went back in his room, and slammed the door. Leaving Thomas and I in the hallway, which was awkward to say the least.
“What happened, exactly?”
“Well, you know,” he looked down, and pulled his pants up by the pockets. “We came in with wet clothes, and a little cold, so we had to take them off. I didn’t have anything to put on, and he was looking for some clean clothes to loan me.” He grinned, and shook his head self consciously. “In the closet.”
“Here.” Weaver opened the door enough to throw his shirt, and underwear out. Slammed it, then opened it again immediately to throw out the shoes. “You better get dressed, and leave.”
“Yeah,” he pulled on his shirt, and turned to head off down the hall. “I’m sorry I saw you naked.” He lied. Of course, I was less worried about that than what he’d done to my son, so I stopped on the stairs.
“What did you do?”
He pulled a sock out of one shoe, and shook it out to put it on. Finally, he shrugged. “Well, I got a boner, so when he turned around, and saw it. He got horny too, I’m bisexual.”
“I gathered that.” I held my robe crossed over my chest, aware that I had nothing on under it besides the yoga pants I’d pulled back up.
He pulled on the other sock, “Maybe he’s bicurious, I don’t know, we don’t really talk much, or at least we never have before.”
“What did you do?”
“Huh, well. I told him what a nice ass he had, and he bent over to pull down his shorts. I had a rubber on me, so I screwed him. Don’t worry, I was careful not to hurt him. He wasn’t complaining until you called, and then he got cold feet.”
“I know, this must be embarrassing for him, so you better grab your jacket, and leave.” I went back up to knock on his door. “Weave?” Tried the handle, the pulled my head back when he sat up, covering his lap. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you knock? Uh, what the fuck mom, you knew I wasn’t decent in here.”
“I’m sorry, but I did knock, and you had put some clothes on.”
“I just took them off.”
“I know, and this is awkward enough, but we can’t use this as an excuse not to talk about it.”
“Mom,” he was close to the door, and he lowered his voice, but then I let go of the knob when I felt it turn, and he came out to hug me in the hall. “Oh, mom. I think I might be turning gay.”
“Well, all right, I. Think, maybe we should discuss this a little further before we jump to conclusions, but you just had sex, and that has a way of clouding your judgement until you come down.”
“Yeah, but. I didn’t think that I would love it so much, and I didn’t even want it until he was there, and I didn’t know what to do, until my body took over, and I just started acting like a bitch in heat.” He sniffed, and sat down on my bed, hugging me, and crying quietly on my shoulder. “I don’t want to be a bitch.”
“Honey, that’s. Not.”
“I know, pardon my language.”
“Don’t worry about your language, you’re 16, so you can say Fuck.”
“Uh!” That shocked him out of it, and he let go to look at me, as if he’d never seen me before.
“What? It isn’t as if I don’t know the word fuck. I fucked, or you wouldn’t be here to look so offended.”
“Haha, yeah. It’s just a little funny to hear something like that coming from you.”
“Well, I suppose that I policed your language, a little too hard, and that was my mistake, but now that you’re feeling better, I have to tell you that there’s nothing to be ashamed of. I know that there is a social stigma about homosexual acts between males.”
“That’s better,” he joked, “Homosexual acts between males sounds more like something you would say.”
“Or anal sex.” I didn’t go so far as to say buttfucking, because it’s crude, rude, and honestly the sort of thing that Thomas would say. “Now, there’s no reason to go all the way to the extreme just because of a single confusing sexual experience.”
“Yeah, I like girls too, but I’m a good looking guy, right?”
“Uh?” For a moment there, he reminded me of his father, when he was younger. Okay, not that young, a little older when I met him in college, but that insecurity was one of the things that I found endearing, until it became annoying. “Of course you are.”
“Then why don’t girls ever want to talk to me?”
“Because they’re girls, in high school. Look, you’re nervous around them too, right?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Well, the worst thing you have to be afraid of is rejection, perhaps maybe being humiliated if they laugh at you.”
“Especially with all their friends, and then the whole school’ll hear about it in a week.”
“Exactly, however. A girl has to worry about that, and more. Of course it’s very likely that they’ll get their feelings hurt, and of course the most likely rumor could be that she gets a name for being promiscuous, but also. There’s the very real threat that she might pick the wrong guy, and he’ll hurt her physically.”
“Like Harvey.”
“Harvard Daniels?” He nodded, of course. The boy that had molested, and tried to rape his little sister, Emily. “Exactly like that.”
“I don’t come off as threatening, do I?”
“Of course not, but that doesn’t mean anything. Take Harvard for example. Some boys are well aware of how it looks, so they work hard to appear non-threatening. That’s not always the case, of course you’re not the sort of guy that would take advantage of the situation, but they can’t know that. It’s impossible to tell the truth apart from a good liar, when all the boys say the exact same thing. Of course, a rapist isn’t going to tell you he’s a rapist.”
“He didn’t rape me, did he?” He looked hopeful.
“I don’t know, from what I heard, from his side of it. Again, he wouldn’t confess to me that he’d raped my son before he left.” I stopped. “Oh, sh’. THOMAS? Are you still there?”
“Yeah, uh. I didn’t know the code to disarm the alarm.” Of course, I’d set it when I got back, because I’d just been in an altercation myself, and I was feeling a little. More secure with the alarm raised in case he’d followed me home.
“Well, as long as you’re here.” I pulled my robe tight again, “You might as well come up, and talk about what happened.”
“I’m sorry, man.”
“Don’t be, it’s okay. I was just scared, and starting to feel a little homophobic.”
“Yeah, I get that but like your mom said. You don’t have to go all the way to the extreme, and assume that you’re gay, just because you like it up the ass.”
“So, you’re bisexual?” I assume he didn’t hear us talking on the stairs, in his room, abusing himself on the bed when he got his clothes off again.
“I don’t know, man. You’re right, honestly, you hit the nail on the head.” He turned around, and started pacing. Then, he ran his finger down my DVD collection on the way back. “Huh!” He shrugged, and let his breath out when he dropped his shoulders, but with him here. In my bedroom, after seeing him in nothing but a used condom, from sodomizing my son, and even through the jacket, it’s hard to ignore how broad shouldered he is, for his age. “I knew it was wrong.” He stopped, and tipped up a plastic case.
[Body of Evidence]
“I don’t know why that turns me on, but it just does. Not because I’m gay.” He let go, so it dropped back down, and turned around. “But in a way, I guess it’s because I’m not. It’s like, straight guys, or taking a straight bottom especially.” He waved over at me. “It’s like your mom, or that.” He waved his hand in circles, and stuck his nose up to look down at us sitting on the bed. “Snooty bitch Mrs. Montbatten.”
We both had to laugh at his impression of his lordship’s regal accent. “I know that I don’t have a shot with someone like that, never in a million years. So when you think about it, it’s really kinda hot.”
“Well,” I patted my son on the back, “You better let him out.”
“Yeah,” he got up, and they chatted on their way down the stairs. “You mind if I come over to your place, and talk about it some more?”
He looked back, at me, and I nodded. Have fun exploring your sexuality, but as soon as I heard the door lock. Automatically, the timer stopped beeping to let them out before it armed, I got up.
Went down to check the foyer, and made sure they walked past the windows together, before I loosened my belt. “Huh!” I relaxed, and with all that had happened that morning. Early afternoon, the DVD player said [3:17] I got out Body of Evidence, and popped it in, to kick off my clingy sweaty workout clothes, and lay back on the bed.
I wasn’t really horny, but that’s not what it was all about. I was pent up, tense, and I needed something to take the edge off. It was too early to go down and pick out a bottle, but the opening scene.
“Huh!” As soon as it panned away from the TV, I skipped ahead before it centered on the dead body. On the bed, okay. Madonna was 34 when she did that. Older than I am, and as role models go? She was The Queen of Pop, and I used to “Vogue” with my friends, watching the music video, and running it back again and again.
Like a Virgin was still on VH1, because it was a rerun. I was probably a little girl when that came out, with her lacy glove, but they had Michael Jackson videos on there too, and then there’s this.
Fatal Attraction, and Basic Instinct, but this was probably the best of the Femme Fatal erotic murder “Mysteries,” when it was obvious who dunnit. Sharon Stone? Okay, writing about a murder, and then doing it exactly the way you did in the book isn’t an “Alibi.” That’s called a Confession.
Also, an ice-pick instead of a nasal spray full of cocaine. Her lesbian lover, this was back before they really had such a thing as transgender roll-models, but it’s really hard to overlook the phallic symbolism of stabbing them through the heart with an ice pick to get an orgasm.
“Hhuh! Yeah.” So at first, it was Madonna. I liked her, I liked her music, I tried to dress like her, and dance like her, while Glenn Close was.
“Huh.” I don’t want to say old, or even older. Okay, she was 40. I remember turning 40. I don’t want to of course, but my marriage was falling apart, and I was “Pushing 40” for several years after I turned 40, because I didn’t want to be such a cliche.
A middle aged divorcee, who’s lease was up. So, my husband got bored, and traded me in for a motorcycle. A younger model, and stuck me with the kids so I could fight him for child support while he rented yachts, and cruised around between Myrtle Beach and Fort Lauderdale to catch both Spring Breaks.
Oh yeah, until his daughter appeared in a Girl’s Gone Wild commercial. It’s different when she’s your daughter, acting like all those other men’s daughters. It sucks to think that there might be thousands of men staying up late to jerk off looking at her nipples showing through her wet bra.
“Hhuh! Uh. HhuhHhuh! Huh!”
I used to look like that. I suppose, she has her father’s nose, or a miniature version of it, but she still thought it was too big, and she begged us to get rhinoplasty, but we managed to talk her into waiting, until she grew into it, and now, she’s.
Got me wondering, what she’s up to, right now? “Huh!” That’s a weird thing to think about. Coming down from a minor climax. More anticlimactic than anything, but.
Butt. Thomas, and Weaver. “Really?” That came out of nowhere, but what I didn’t see. Tom told me that, hell Weaver admitted that he bent over like a bitch in heat, and I saw the evidence for myself.
It’s not so much that it’s. “Uh!” I have to roll my eyes, remembering Thomas bragging that as soon as my son saw his hard dick. “Fucking immature.” I swear, I only read something like that in Penthouse Forums and the like, when a man was trying to write the motivations of a cock hungry cumslut he’d met in a dark alley, or.
Whatever, you know the stories I’m talking about, of course. It was a dick, a young dick, flaccid, and maybe I’m imagining the white blob hanging in the tip, because I honestly didn’t get a good look at it.
He covered it up, and I was bent over, looking back, and rushing to pull my pants back up when he ran into the bathroom. I got a good look at the rest of him. “Oh,” his hairy muscular legs. A flash of one taut bun from the side, and it flexing when he took a step, then disappeared into the bathroom.
My son, well. I never really looked at him sexually, but come on. He came outta there, I wiped his butt, gave him baths, and helped him put his overalls back on when he was potty training. I never looked at the back of my hand and thought, you know, there’s some sexy knuckles, but it wasn’t hard to imagine him bending over for his friend.
Slipping his underwear down, and looking back at the rubber rolling on behind him. “Please be gentle. Ihn!” I sucked in a breath, and held it. Pushed, so the nail didn’t scrape against my sphincter, puffing out to the surface where it could stretch out, and accept the penetration. “Uh, I’m a virgin, ngh!” the first knuckle. “Hn fgh! Mh me fuck me, ugh fuck me Tommy! Fuck my ass yeah. Neay neah neah neah neah you fuck so good. Where’d you learn to fuck so good oh! Yes, fuck yes. Oh fuck yes.”
Not unlike a virgin, I suppose. Back there, I haven’t been married for a couple years, and even long before that. I stopped trying to entice him to deliver around the back. “UH! Ihn!” I carefully withdrew my fingernail, and rubbed it gently. “Huh, dry. Bareback, fuck. Faggots are so fucking hot.”
Don’t take that the wrong way, it’s just dirty talk. “Fuck him faggot. Fuck his tight virgin cherry ass, fuck, hmn! NHM!” I clamped my knees, and turned over on my side. My dirty fingers back in the wet hole. It wasn’t completely bone dry. “Hihihihnm!” Biting my lip, and giggling with relief.
I’d gotten it wet before I felt down, but I’d forgotten, just what a dirty thrill it was, and Tommy. “Oh,” I put my elbow down, and got my hips up. “How’s the peeping, Tommy?” Shaking my ass in the air. “You like what you see? Huh, yeah.” I crawled over to my night stand, to get out my vibrator. “Yeah, why don’t you come over here, and fuck me up the ass.”
Not really, but it was like he said. Never in a million years, but it’s so inappropriate. That’s what makes it so hot, and dirty, and almost incestuous.
It isn’t as if I would ever go through with it, but he’s not gay. For all I know he’s not even bisexual, he just knows that. Well, my boy, is probably in denial, but as far as he knows, he just took a straight boy’s virginity. “Ihn, my boy. Huh, Weaver, you like that? Huh, yeah, you love it up the ass, don’t you?
Faggot?”
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