By the time I got Cynthia’s restraints undone, she started coming out of her fainting spell.  

(Later, I learned about “la petite mort,” or the little death, where some women temporarily pass out after an especially strong orgasm. It’s considered harmless, but I didn’t know that at the time.)  

“I’m going to get Beth,” I told her. “She’ll know what to do.” 

“No,” Cynthia told me weakly as she struggled to get up, equally weakly. “Bathroom. Shower.”   

In her earth-shattering orgasm, Cynthia had squirted—peed—all over herself, and me, and the bed. Even coming out of a faint, her first instinct was to clean up before anything else.  

I half-walked, half-carried my mother-in-law into her master bathroom. The torn remnants of her shredded tee-shirt and shorts fell off her as I turned on the shower.  

I stood with her in the stall; I didn’t trust her legs to properly hold her steady. We were both naked and I tried, oddly enough, to be a gentleman and not touch her private parts; this didn’t seem to be the time for that, even though she and I had engaged in kinky bondage sex the previous Saturday afternoon and all this Friday evening. 

(Come to think of it, bondage sex was the only sex that she and I had ever engaged in. She was tied down in self-bondage to the bed last Saturday, I was fully restrained in the downstairs shower and the dungeon earlier this evening, and then she was strapped to the bed moments previously. We were in some kind of a kinky rut. )  

We got our bodies hosed down, and then, uncharacteristically, she put her head under the spray, destroying her perpetually-perfect hairstyle and makeup.  

She turned to face me, dripping wet. From her expression, I could tell she was now remembering the litany of brutal, perverse sexual things I had just told her I would do to her. She took a deep breath.   

“Are you going to hurt me, Christopher? I would understand if you are.” 

"Oh god, no!” I replied, still holding her by the arms. “That was all an act. Jekyll and Hyde. An adventure. A fantasy. Like your Dominatrix act as ‘Madam’ downstairs. I wouldn’t really hurt you, Cynthia.”  

She was still a little unsteady as we stepped out of the shower. I tried to lead her into the bedroom, to lie down, but she plopped herself in a corner of the bathroom, in a spot that, thankfully, had a rug in place. 

I told her I was going to get Beth, who was in the basement either cleaning the dungeon, or perhaps by now, sleeping in the bed down there. She would not have heard her mother’s sex-scream way down there.  

Cynthia grabbed my hand and pulled me down beside her. She put my arm around her shoulder and snuggled in close. She was trying not to shake.  

“I t-t-thought you were really going to hurt me,” she whispered into my chest. “I know you hate me, and you have every right to, but goddamit, Christopher ...” 

She slapped my chest in annoyance. 

“... you scared the ever-loving fuck out of me.”  

At which point I threw my wife squarely, totally and completely, under the bus.  

“It was all Beth’s idea. She wanted me to spin a BDSM fantasy to excite you. And frighten you. And maybe I could vent a little of my frustration along the way. I don’t hate you.”  

“Christopher,” she started. “Oh, I’m sorry, I know you prefer ‘Chris.’ I’ve been calling you that just to be contrary.” 

“No, ‘Christopher’ is fine,” I told her. “Actually, it’s gotten to the point that it’s kind of funny now. It’ll be fine, just for you. Between us.” 

“Well then, Christopher,” she resumed. “I am so sorry for being so rude to you. Like I said before, at the time you came into our lives, I was angry at losing Julius in the accident. At God, at the Universe. And scared I’d be alone the rest of my life.”  

“You won’t be alone,” I told her. “You’ve got Beth. And me.” 

“And I should have known that Beth put you up to the ‘Jekyll and Hyde’ fantasy thing. She and Julius tried it out on me once, when I was strapped down to the X-cross downstairs, but Jules gave it away because he couldn’t keep a straight face as the villain.”  

At the mention of her departed second husband, she teared-up. Soon she was crying in earnest, burying her face in my chest.  

I ended up joining her. We cried for a man I had never met, and for a  heartbroken widow. We shared that experience for what seemed a long time.  

She eventually wound down. I grabbed a couple of towels and she wiped her face and blew her nose like a longshoreman. 

(In the time I had known her, Cynthia’s persona had always been either that of a proper, somewhat snooty society matron—in public—or an uninhibited bondage sex freak—in private—so this version was a revelation to me.) 

“And what’s worse,” she continued, “I was stupidly, blindingly jealous of Beth. Here I had lost the love of my life, and within a week of the funeral, she found you and fell in love. To make it worse, you kids then got married within a few months. It was all ... massively, cosmically unfair. I’ve been a complete and utter bitch. To you and to Beth.”  

I had no earthly idea how to respond to all this. As we sat naked and wet and vulnerable on the bathroom floor in the dim glow of one little nightlight, I began to feel a stirring. In my heart, sure, but also in my groin.  

I was growing acutely aware of my mother-in-law's voluptuous, damp body clinging to mine. And of her emotional vulnerability. I was trying to be decent and not take advantage of the situation. 

Cynthia was not making it easy on me.  

“And to make matters worse, Christopher,” she whispered, holding my face, “I lusted after you. I wanted you in my bed. I wanted your cock inside me, night after night.”  

She reached down to hold that stirring member. Not to stroke it, just holding it, for comfort.  

“I wanted to wake you up every morning with my mouth around your cock. Expanding in my throat. I wanted your body on mine, your hands, your lips ...”  

And with that, she kissed me. Deeply. Which took me a bit by surprise. 

Cynthia and I had had kissed before, of course. But with her, it had always been a sexy, flirty, “hey, see the mature dame breaking taboos with her son-in-law" brand of raunchy smooches. This felt entirely different. 

This was her wanting to connect with me. To me, not to some sex plaything. I took her lead and kissed her back.

I held her tight; we fit together perfectly, on that bathroom floor. She still held onto my cock. 

We pulled apart, catching our breath. Then I kissed her.  

This one was even better, somehow. Not quite so urgent, neither of us quite so desperate. She now knew that I forgave her, without me saying the words.  

Eventually, we pulled apart again, each a bit overwhelmed. 

 “Fuck,” I whispered in mild astonishment.   

“Yes, please,” came her reply. 

With a grin, I eased her onto her back and, without fumbling, without needing a guiding hand—I'm not usually the most graceful of lovers—I moved my rigid cock into her smoothly, effortlessly.  

It slid into her still-tight, perfectly-formed forty-five-year old wet pussy like they were manufactured pieces designed expressly to fit together. She wrapped her legs around me.  

There on the bathroom floor, we rocked together in the eternal rhythm of passion; not rushed, not frantic. Like the kiss, we melded together as one.

(This is going to sound weird, but—I read somewhere that many, many thousands of years ago, the number of homo sapiens on earth measured only in the hundreds. Humanity was in danger of dying out as a species, so every act of intercourse was crucial to our survival. There, on that floor, I felt that our intercourse connected us to something universal, something eternal, something meaningful. As if we were saving the world.  

Not that we were in the position of creating a child—Cynthia was beyond that. It all sounds weird, but hey, I'd been drinking, and emotionally, I was on shaky ground.) 

It was not long before I shot my seed into her body. She accepted it gracefully, joyfully. For once, it wasn’t kinky sex with Cynthia; just a man and a woman making love.  

Then, with just a push of her finger, Cynthia somehow rolled us over and she was on top, my cock still somehow inside her. Her smile was warmer than I had ever seen on her face.  

“Christopher,” she whispered. “If you want to torture me tomorrow, you can. I won’t protest. I deserve to be punished. It’ll make me feel better.”  

“I-I-I don’t think I can do that,” I stuttered. 

“Why?” she asked.  

I replied with three words.  

Those three words.  

Yep. That short phrase of eight letters that changes relationships forever; a sentiment that you can never take back. Not unless you’re a total, heartless bastard.   

Cynthia beamed and repeated them back to me, meaning every syllable.  

Well, damn. That happened.  

Now there was nothing else to say—or else a million things to say—so she lay on top of me for a bit, relaxing. We held each other in silence for a minute or two. I don’t know what she was thinking, but I was somehow both relaxing and panicking.  

Eventually, I realized she had gone limp and was snoring. Not loudly, not for classy Cynthia. She hadn’t passed out like before, just tuckered out.

She was dead asleep.  

I carefully rolled her off me. After putting some bath towels on the bed to cover the wet spot, I tried to pick her up and place her there.  

She sleepily waved me off, like a grumpy, slumbering child not wanting to move from the back seat of a car in the middle of the night. I didn’t think I could deadlift her from where she lay. She seemed comfortable enough where she lay, and there was a rug under her, so ... 

I got her a pillow for her head, another to cuddle with, and a sheet to cover her.  She stirred a bit, but never really woke up during the process.   

Then, as I was leaving the room, the clouds outside parted a bit and illuminated the lady in moonlight. 

Cynthia’s makeup was gone, her hair was a tangled disaster, and she looked every single day of her forty-five years on this earth. 

But she was relaxed and at peace for once, and in that moment, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.  

I think my heart actually skipped a beat. I know my breathing did. I practically ran out of the master suite. 

I leaned against the wall in the hallway, wrapping my mind around the implications of what had just happened. It had been a mere two hours ago that my wife had pleaded with me, “Please don’t fall in love with my mother.”  

"Shit, shit, shit,” I mentally berated myself. “What the absolute living fuck are you doing, you idiot?” 

I considered going back in and talking it over with Cynthia, but that could lead to actions and/or conversations I was not ready for. Not at this moment.  

I descended the stairs to the main level, considering the possibility of continuing into the basement and snuggling up to Beth, but that would lead to conversations that I was absolutely and totally not prepared for. 

It was true that Beth had left Cynthia and I alone in the bedroom with the idea of some kind of bondage sex occurring. Maybe she’d understand that things got out of hand . . .  

Nope. Nope. Nope.  

No problem is so big that you can’t run away from it. Or drown it in booze.  

So I ended up in the living room with a bottle of Julius’ excellent bourbon—and a glass, I’m not a hillbilly—pulled a chair up in front of the portrait of him and Cynthia, and sat my naked ass down.  

My plan—if there ever was one—was to stare at his gorgeous bride and consider my options, but as I drank and drifted into lullaby land, I ended up having a “conversation” with the man who would have been, had he lived, my father-in-law.  

Or step-father-in-law. However that crap works. 

I had never met the man, but damn it, I was fucking his wife, and I was filling his role as a boy-toy down in the dungeon, so it was time we talked.  

“So, Chris,” he began. “Quite a mess you’ve gotten yourself into here, son. Let’s start with this: are you in love with my wife? Who, as you might remember if you ever thought with your brain rather than your dick, is the mother of your wife?” 

“No,” I replied. “Well, yes. Maybe. I – I – I don’t know. Yes.”

I was miserable. "What should I do, sir?” 

“Well, son, let’s break this down into pieces. Do you want to marry Cynthia?” 

“No! No. I’m already married. Happily married. Christ, I’m newly married, practically on my honeymoon! Fuck me. Fuck me hard.”  

“Well then. Would you consider leaving Beth to shack up with Cynthia? My step-daughter is, to put it plainly, on the plain side. She must have inherited her appearance genes from her biological dad, not her mother.” 

“I know.”  

“Whereas Cynthia is an incredible woman. Rich. Beautiful. She can give you things Beth can’t. She’s a force of nature.”  

“Yeah, I've heard that description before. And the answer is ‘no.’ No way, sir.” 

“And why?” 

“Beth is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. She’s sexy and fun, but she’s also smart and organized. I’m a better person with her. I’m taking risks, I can thrive. I’m ready to get off my butt and make something of myself.” 

“Living with Cynthia, however ...” Julius began.  

“Would be ninety-nine percent wild adventure,” I admitted, “but only one-percent stability. I don’t need a ‘force of nature,’ I need a partner. I love your bride, sir, but I love and need my wife more.” 

Dream-Julius closed in and put his ethereal hand behind my neck.  

“Then here’s what you do, son.” He touched his forehead against mine, in a fatherly way, to get me to focus.  

“You take your love for Cynthia, your inappropriate passion, and you do what civilized men have done in this situation for years. You take that feeling and shove it way into the back of your mind. Into the hind-brain, the reptilian brain, where the higher functions, like love and guilt, never reach.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Better yet, you cram that feeling deep down into your body, past your heart, down into your guts. And in the years to come, when you and Beth have an argument and you’re sleeping on the couch—and that will happen, believe me—you will never, ever drag that feeling out. You will never try to unwrap it, to inspect it, to pick at it, pondering what might have been. Do you understand me, son?” 

“Yes, sir,” I told him. “Man-up. Shove it deep. Don’t pick at it.”  

"You don’t ever tell Beth the truth about what happened upstairs. Confessing might make you feel better, but no good ever came of telling a wife the complete and honest truth.”  

I considered his wisdom. “Got it.” 

“Good boy,” said the old man, releasing his hold on the back of my neck. “Now, would you like a blowjob?” 

“Uh, w-w-what?” I stammered.  

"A bee-jay. A hummer. Just between us guys.” Dream-Julius reached down between my legs and expertly caressed my balls. "I've been around the block a few times, son, and let me tell you, I am mighty damn proficient at it.” 

Suddenly, Julius was indeed licking and sucking my cock with exquisite skill.  

“Chris, I know you’re not gay,” he somehow said to me even while his throat was filled with my expanding cock. "But if you’re tied up, you can’t prevent it, so you might as well just relax and enjoy the sensation and go with the flow, right?” 

Damn, now I was somehow suddenly tied to my chair while the old man was pleasuring my genitals in ways that even a master fellatrix like Cynthia had never achieved. And he was right—I had never been with a man and would not normally consider it, but since I was restrained ... 

“If I were still around,” he continued, “it would be the four of us down there in that playroom Instead of just you and the two ladies.” 

And now, somehow, Cynthia and Beth were next to us, bound together with chains and lapping at each other’s pussies. It was an activity they said they’d never actually done, but they looked like seasoned veterans at the art.  

"Two men and two women, Chris,” the ghost said, still deep-throating me, “sets up so many more options, so many more permutations of dicks, pussies, mouths and asses. At some point, the ladies would tie you and me up with our faces in each other laps and we’d pretty much have to suck each other off . . .” 

I felt myself ready to cum into his mouth, or on his face or wherever, when I suddenly jolted awake. 

Beth was between my legs, her head bobbing up and down on my lap. I jumped from the chair in confusion, knocking her on her butt. She wasn’t hurt, just surprised. She was still in her tee-shirt and shorts from the night before.  

“Whoa, there, tiger,” she laughed, picking herself up. “I thought you were just pretending to be asleep, but I guess...