The supermarket had been busy: too many people pushing trolleys, bashing into me, rubbing against me. And don’t even start me on the body odours. I parked on the drive and quickly hauled my shopping bags into the house. I put the frozen in the freezer, the chilled in the fridge, and left the rest on the work surface. It could wait; I needed a shower. I needed to get the aroma of other people off me.

I rushed up to my bedroom and pulled all my clothes off; they would all go in the laundry just as soon as I had showered. I headed into the ensuite and turned the shower on and got under the water. I turned the setting to needle; I just wanted to get the stink off me. I took the rose in my hand and played it all over me, blasting away the unwanted smells. My bladder called for my attention.

I was not getting out of the shower just for the loo. I stood, legs apart and relaxed, a stream of yellow passing through my lips, splashing between my feet and heading down the drain. I closed my eyes and let my bladder empty; the relief was restorative. I felt my mouth slide into a smile. I felt the flow slow and then stop, and my body slowly relaxed.

I took the rose and sprayed it up at my groin; I couldn’t help but gasp when the needle jets of water hit my nubbin. My knees went wobbly, and I leant back against the shower wall as I played the water over my clitoris, my breath gasping and my fingers tightening around the shower handle. My pleasure began flowing, my pressures were building, I wanted this moment, and I needed this moment. I was close.

I half opened my eyes and almost gasped in surprise, but instead gasped with my flowing pleasures. Standing in my open doorway was my eighteen year old son Richard, his shorts pulled down and his dick in his hand, his hand moving rapidly. I was rapidly approaching my moment; I didn’t want to stop. I needed to ignore him and his hard dick. I closed my eyes again and gasped as the fine jets of warm water played against my clitoris. 

I was gasping, I was gulping, and I began bucking my hips; I was so close. My pressures were ready to explode, and I replayed in my mind the image of my son working his dick. I arched backwards and exploded, my orgasm erupting and my lungs emptying in a shriek of pleasure. I redirected the shower flow away from my crotch, turned around, and replaced the shower head on its hook.

I slowly turned around; my son had gone, but I knew what I had seen. He had watched me pleasure myself in my shower and masturbated as he stood watching. Had he finished, I wondered? I hadn’t let him know that I had seen him, but my mind was filled with memories of his dick, hard and meaty. Memories of his hand speeding back and forth as he masturbated, of his purple and dark red glans as it flashed into view.

I had seen the bulge in his clothing but had never seen it since he had grown up into a man. My heart was racing, beating fast in my chest, as I imagined what it would feel like inside me, sliding my inner walls and pumping his seed into my fanny. My hand found my nubbin, fingers teased, pressed, and nails nipped. I gasped out loudly as another orgasm erupted. God, what was the matter with me?

“How was your day?” Hubbie Jonathan asked as he sat at the kitchen table after getting home from work. I was standing by the work surface peeling potatoes for our tea.

“Oh, the supermarket, it was terrible; I had to rush home and shower. The stink of the people, God, I hate interacting with outers."

‘Outers’ is the term we use for people who live outside our house, outside my world. I go out when I have to, but I try to go when other people don’t, or at least, only a few do. Hubbie understands; he knows how I feel. His way of dealing with it is to ignore my feelings about outers; he believes it is irrational. He is wrong; it is a genuine and pathological hatred of interacting with them.

“Oh, baby, well, it has to be done sometimes; otherwise, how else would we eat? We can’t use home delivery, and anyway, you do need to get out of the house occasionally.”

He finished with a smile and a blown kiss. He knew that the thought of other people handling our food, selecting it from the shelves, putting it into trolleys, and then delivering it to me, an unknown delivery man coming to my home with my food, was more of an anathema than me going to the shop myself. I told myself that wasn’t the real issue; it was just that no one would select the food I wanted, no one could know the marbling I wanted in my steak or pork chops, or the size of the potatoes, or the fatness of the carrots. No, how could they?

I blew him a kiss back. "The shower was nice, though,” I said. "All clean now.”

He stood up and walked to me, his arms around me, embracing me, his lips on mine. I felt his arms slide down to my buttocks, pressing them apart. I could feel his hard dick push against me, his arousal apparent, his desire obvious. He inched my dress up; my thighs exposed to the air in the kitchen, he would know I wasn’t wearing knickers.

“Oh, God, you two,” Richard’s voice cut into the moment.

Jonathan laughed and stepped back; my dress fell back down, and the moment was gone. I turned to Richard and stuck my tongue out. 'Spoilsport,' I mouthed silently at him; images of his hard dick filled my mind. I took a deep breath and concentrated on the potatoes; I did not want to accidentally cut myself with the peeling knife. The potatoes were for boiling to turn into mash; the peelings were to be salted and baked in the oven for snacks in front of the TV, possibly tomorrow. If I cut myself and got blood on the potatoes, then they would all have to be thrown away. I couldn’t have that, oh no.

I mashed the potatoes, adding cream from our local farm shop. I knew when to visit when most other people didn’t, and their cream and goat butter were delicious. As the mash sat in the pan, I grated some carrots and served our food. I had made the apple sauce to go with the pork earlier. After we had finished, Richard loaded the dishwasher, his contribution to household chores. Jonathan poured us a glass of wine each, and we went and sat in front of the TV and watched MasterChef.

After an evening on the sofa, Jonathan and I went up to bed; Richard stayed on the sofa; he wanted to watch some weird thing on Netflix. In our room, I hit the ensuite first. After I had stripped out of my dress and underwear, I sat on the loo. As I was sitting there, Jonathan came in and started to clean his teeth. It is amazingly difficult to be amorous when you are cleaning your teeth or sitting on the loo peeing. I looked at his dick and watched it twitch as he noticed me looking.

I wiped and waited for him to finish before getting to my feet and cleaning my teeth. Jonathan stood behind me, his dick pressing into the cleft between my buttocks. A thrill travelled through my body; a frisson of excitement perked my nipples, and I almost bit into my tongue. Finished, my heart beating, I headed into the bedroom and pulled the quilt back and lay on the bed watching as Jonathan’s dick entered the room; his dick was all I saw. Jonathan turned the main light off, our room only illuminated by my small bedside table. His dick, like an Olympic beacon, in my mind.

His dick climbed onto the bed, and then Jonathan’s lips brushed against mine. I snapped back into reality, my lips pressing hard against his as his tongue attempted to invade my mouth. My hands were around his back, my fingernails dug into his shoulders, my fanny pulsed, and my breath was held.

“Roll over, baby,” he half whispered as he eased away. I knew what he wanted; I wanted it too. I rolled onto my knees, my buttocks high in the air. I felt him position himself between my legs; once more, I felt his dick between my buttocks. He moved back and forth, his dick sliding down my cleft and across my fourchette, my fanny getting wetter by the moment. I felt the pressure, my petals parted, and his dick slid into my depths, smooth, easy, and filling.

As his dick pressed into my fanny, I could feel his foreskin roll back, his glans uncover, and his rim scraping the walls of my fanny. This was how I liked it, deep inside, yet no face staring at mine. My imagination took over; my lover’s face was, perhaps, Brad Pitt's, sometimes even Clark Gable's, yet always my husband's. Jonathan began a steady rhythm, his dick sawing in and out, his stomach slapping loudly against my buttocks, my breath mere gasps.

I tilted my head backwards, looking down my lover’s body, and saw the bedroom door open, and Richard stood holding his dick as he watched us. No, I didn’t want that; I didn’t want to be watched, but I couldn’t stop watching my son. I could not close my eyes to the horror of being observed in my most intimate moment, my watcher masturbating. I gasped louder and louder as Jonathan thrust harder and harder into my hot, wet, and welcoming tunnel. My pressures grew quickly, so quickly, and my pleasures were flooding my body. My fingers clutched at the bedding; my buttocks pushed back as Jonathan pushed harder and faster.

Richard’s hand was a blur as I watched him through half-closed eyes; my mind imagined his dick inside me, filling his mother, spunking me into a dripping mess. Jonathan roared and grunted, and I felt his seed pour into my fanny, filling my womb, and my pressures released. I shrieked, I screamed, and my body bucked and pushed back hard into Jonathan as my orgasm ripped through me. My head snapped forward. My eyes stared at the bedstead, not at my masturbating son.

Jonathan eased back, his dick falling from my fanny, leaving it gaping, dripping his spunk onto the mattress. He rolled to my side and lay on his back. I knew what I had to do; I looked down at my target, his dick, softening and glistening with the white of his cum and the juices from my fanny. I bent across, dipped down, and took his dick into my mouth. His taste was salty, perhaps a little metallic – my treat, my sauce from his meat.

As I licked and sucked, his dick began to get firm again, the blood pumping back into his dick, making it hard again. I cupped his balls in my right hand, using a fingernail from my left to trace the wrinkles covering them. Jonathan’s hips raised, his buttocks left the bed, and he gasped as a spurt of semen shot down my throat. I smiled; he was drained, and I was filled; it was as it should be. I lay down, pulled the quilt over us, and then, somehow, it was morning.

In the morning, I got up, put my dressing gown on, and went down to make coffee and toast for Jonathan before he went to work. He was upstairs showering, shaving, and doing all the things men do. I desperately needed a shower after last night and also to change the sheet on the bed, but Jonathan’s needs were more urgent than mine; I didn’t need to get out to work. I was aware of the stickiness in my crotch, and I was sure that there must be an aroma too, but the fresh-roasted coffee beans managed to mask that, for now.

We kissed, we hugged, and Jonathan left for work. I put the dirty crockery and utensils into the dishwasher and headed up; now it was my turn. I hung my dressing gown on the hook on the back of the bedroom door and headed into the ensuite. I turned the shower on, put my hair in a shower cap, and stepped under the stream. Oh gosh, that was lovely. I took the rose off the hook and sprayed my crotch, the jet powerful enough to partially cleanse inside.

Partially was not good enough. I unscrewed the rose and smeared gel around the end of the hose and carefully pushed it inside. It is quite an amazing feeling. I have to be careful not to have the water pressure too high but high enough to reach my inner crannies and flush out the remnants of last night. I turned to put the rose back on, and from the corner of my eye I saw Richard. Oh goodness, again! I didn’t make any comment but turned my back to him and let him look at my bum. I called out to my watcher.

“If you are going to stand there, do something useful; come and wash my back for me.”

I wondered if he would be surprised that I knew he was there, watching me, and even more surprised that I had spoken to him. I couldn’t hear his movement over the sound of the shower, but I did feel him as he stood behind me. His hands began to move on my back, and then a hand reached past me and took the gel and the scrunchie. A moment, and then he was moving the scrunchie over my back, defoliating, cleaning and prodding.

The prodding was his dick, pressing into my cleft, parting my buttocks. I gulped and swallowed. What was I doing? I widened my legs, and his dick slipped under, sliding along my valley. I held my breath; my husband had the only dick that belonged in contact with my sex, and here I was letting my son touch me with his. He slowed the scrunchie, and his dick was resting at my entrance, my petals fluttering, shower water running down over my stomach into my crotch and falling from the end of his dick. 

His dick twitched, my petals parted, and as I bent forward slightly, my son’s dick began to enter me, to penetrate my core. I gasped, I held my breath, and I bent over just a little more. Deeper his dick went, pressing further inside my fanny. His dick was hard, so very hard, much harder, it seemed, than Jonathan's. My fanny twitched, and I gasped again as Richard’s dick lurched, filling me to my depth, his stomach pressing hard against me, my buttocks apart, splayed across him.

He pulled back a little and then pushed back in, my fanny clutching at his dick as he moved. I could feel his foreskin move inside me; I could feel his hard rim scrape along the walls of my fanny. He began to go faster, further out, and deeper in. I was gasping, my hands pressed flat against the shower wall as my son shagged me under the running water. Harder, faster, the slap of his stomach against my buttocks as much a splash as a crack, my gasps almost lost in the sounds of the running water. 

Harder he pushed, so much harder than his father, deeper it seemed. It felt as if he were disembowelling me from the inside. It had been a very long time since I had been shagged by anyone other than Jonathan, not since we got married. I was struggling to breathe; the shag was so intense and so taboo, also. A shag was, in theory, a shag, but it was how much he filled me that was different. Richard, it seemed, was actually quite a big boy, or perhaps my fanny had shrunk in the wash.

Richard was moving faster and harder. My gasps were almost all converging into one. My pressures were at breaking point, and I knew that only the third person in over twenty years was going to bring me to an ending. I screamed, I shrieked, I pushed back hard on his dick, and as my pleasures released and washed through me, I felt my fanny filling. His dick spurting his young seed into my older body, flooding my fanny, filling my womb. He eased back, his softening dick fell from my fanny, and I felt empty.

“You had better go,” I said. “I need to clean up again.” I could not turn and look at him. I knew what we had done and what I had allowed, and yet, still, I could not easily look a lover in his face; that would be a step too far.

“Okay, Mum,” he said, and then I was alone with an open and dripping fanny. I took the showerhead and aimed up; my fanny was open enough that the shower water easily penetrated and flushed away my son’s emissions. I stood flushing for a few minutes, contemplating what I had allowed. Had I encouraged this? Had I wanted it? I thought not, but I had enjoyed it, and I knew I would encourage it to happen again. The water washed away my uncertainties.