You Couldn't Handle Me Ch. 06

I learned to suppress my sexual urges. I redirected them to healthier pursuits, like fitness or yoga. I devoted myself to being a good mother and let this new phase of my life be my focus. I learned to accept the pretty good sex I got from Jay as what I would be getting for the rest of my life. And honestly, he wasn't bad, more than enough for most girls. But he simply did not match up to me and I knew that from early on. I eventually had to be less demanding of him. Knowing what he was capable of handling, I tailored what I asked of him. It was like when he was in drive, and I had to learn to shift into neutral.

I had to make sacrifices. I had to learn to not wear my husband down, not making him feel inadequate in the bedroom. That was a good wife's job, especially one who was much better at sex than he was. The old me would be happy with taking it twice a night, every night, but I had to learn to be happy with twice a week. I had to stop using my patented blow-job technique, because I could make him cum in 30 seconds flat doing that. I had to be more dainty with him, which was not my preference. I stopped making him fuck my ass. My asshole would drive him wild, but he couldn't deal with how vigorous I would get, my driving ass bruising his torso, making him sore for days. And unfortunately, I had to give up expecting to cum all the time. In the beginning he had enough to take the edge off with small orgasms, but he didn't have enough to make my world shake. Nobody did.

Nowadays, my desire was as strong as it ever was, but his had waned. My body had become so well trained, so finely tuned, that he couldn't get the job done at all anymore. It took someone who really knew my body to make me cum. And, due to that, the only way I came these days was due to my own fingers or with my big, rubber dildo, but that was no substitute for the real thing. I didn't even push him for sex anymore, letting him control our sex schedule, and it was almost a relief to him. When we had sex, it was almost as if I was forcing him to run a marathon and he was relieved not to have to. And that was fine. My fingers and my dildo did a better job than he ever did. And it allowed me to control my own pleasure. It was simply a pressure relief, so I could function as a normal adult and quiet the urges within me. Cause I knew what happened when those urges overwhelmed me.

I was scared of the woman I was becoming before I got pregnant. That is why I didn't even let myself consider going down that road, of acting even remotely like the slut I used to be. Even though I knew I outclassed my hubby in the bedroom, and I'm sure others saw I was out of his league, I never once considered actually cheating on him, of finding someone to slake my hunger. I had to get used to not taking advantage of guys falling over me. Sure, I found myself tempted on a raw animal level, but honestly, it wasn't like I would be getting any better than what I already had. I had to get used to spending my days with perpetually hard nipples, an always throbbing clit, and an ever-ready, wet cunt. I was on another level sex-wise than every guy I had met and I knew that it would require someone on my level to make me cum. Since no one else on my level was around, I was forced to do the job myself.

The biggest advantage of being a housewife was that I had a lot of time on my hands. Jay had no idea how much I masturbated. I'm sure he imagined me going shopping, swimming, or cleaning the house, or meeting up with friends. I was more likely to be in bed with two fingers roughly fingering my cunt while I had a dildo jammed up my ass. I was more likely to be washing the sheets only because I had squirted girl-cum all over them. I can't saw how many times he called home while I was in the act of giving myself the pleasure he should be providing. I had to get my pleasure one way or another. That was not up for debate.

I had to give up on my pursuit of someone who could match me. It was fool's gold. I could go on that journey and maybe I could find someone, but it would likely destroy any semblance of the good person I needed to be. Sure, I was tempted a few times, but I had to make a choice. I could either be a productive member of society or a nasty slut who spends all day, every day, riding cock. And that sounded really fun... like really, really fun, riding a big, thick meaty cock... but, uh, life was about having control over yourself. Your body, your mind, your urges. I had to have self-control or I would lose all control. Sex was my addiction and if I relapsed... I would not be able to conquer it again. And keeping my cool, maintaining control, that required a level of discipline I had never had before.

I didn't want to be even close to the slut I was becoming. And I thought I had done the job. I felt pretty confident that I had expunged any trace the filthy slut I was becoming. I mean, sure, I still flirted and found ways to have some fun, but it was all innocent, really. I was calm. I was focused. I controlled myself completely.

I was a warrior. A samurai. I had conquered my own dark urges. I dismissed those who sought to conquer me, dismissing them deftly. Friends of my husband. Dirty old men. Cocky young guys. Friends of my son. Even the occasional woman. But I would not yield. I would not be conquered. My sight was clear. My virtue was true. My focus... unyielding.

Then my son told me he wanted to fuck me.

When it first happened, I honestly thought it was pretty funny. Tom was typically cool and collected, but with a good smattering of healthy teenage arrogance. Seeing him so nervous, stammering and sweating, stumbling over his words while admitting he wanted my body, it was kind of adorable, to be honest. There was no part of me that even considered giving him what he wanted. I was ready to just shut him down, ruffle his hair, and send him on his way.

He was just a boy! It was really that simple. A young, stammering, nervous young guy was not the man to match up with me. It was cute that he even thought he had a chance. He was an 18-year-old boy. I was a 40-year-old woman. His sexual history could fill a coloring book. Mine could fill an encyclopedia. He could play checkers. I could play chess. At this point in life, a woman like me could fuck circles around a guy like him. When I told him he couldn't handle me, I meant it. I would break him. I broke guys far more capable than he was. Guys more confident than him, older, more experienced, more self-assured, had crumbled at my feet. I tore my son down and made it clear that what he wanted would never happen. And I'm sure it hurt to hear it. I had never seen him react that way. He was so fragile in that moment, so exposed to me. If he got what he was asking for from me, I would demolish him. I was being a good mother, preventing him from going down a path that would lead to his destruction. I had broken so many guys like him before, ruined them for other girls. Asking to have me was the worst thing he could ask for. So, like I said, he didn't have a chance, which is why I dismissed him so easily. Plus, you know, there was the fact that he was my son.

I was ready to walk away from him when I looked back. He looked so crushed. So broken. It was a moment of weakness in me, I guess. A bit of mercy. So, when I posed at him in his doorway, squeezed my tits at him, and purred that he couldn't handle me, I thought I was giving him something to pick him up, to motivate him and prevent him from getting too down. I had shot him down, but at the end, I couldn't resist throwing him a bone. I thought it was over there.

I bent over at the waist, touching my toes, ignoring my throbbing nipples.

When I saw Tom for the first time after his confession, and saw the lust in his eyes, a surge of pleasure went through me. A feeling I hadn't felt in years went through me. A bit of the old me re-emerged. Knowing I had him wrapped around my finger so obviously, knowing I could drive him wild, make him squirm like I had done to so many men before, it sent a jolt of dark pleasure through me. I couldn't stop myself from teasing him a bit more, rubbing salt in his wounds a little bit. I didn't plan to take it beyond that night, honest. I just planned to have a little fun, taste a bit of that raw, nasty side of me I used to revel in, and move on from there.

But that night, I couldn't stop thinking about it.

I mean, it was absolutely filthy. That much was clear. My son had confessed he wanted to fuck me! His own mother! It was incest! My son had practically admitted he wanted to fill his mother with his thick teenage cum! It was so wrong! So incredibly nasty. And yes, I had turned him away easily, deftly, and sure, I was amused by the whole thing. But the thing was, it shouldn't have been that easy. This was a big deal. I was his mother and he was my son. He wanted to bathe in the dark waters of incest, and the most disturbing thing was how little this admission disturbed me.

It should bother me more, shouldn't it? I mean, he was my son. I should be skeeved out, or worried, or upset. I found it funny. What did that say about me? Why didn't it bother me that much? I told myself it was because I had kinda truly seen it all sex-wise, so seeing someone expose a strange fetish was nothing new. But even after seeing this, confronting incest first-hand, something that would bother most mothers and make them drag their sons to counseling, I wasn't bothered by it at all. I laughed at it, and teased my son mercilessly about it. I had fun with it, cause I always had fun teasing men about how much they wanted me. But this was so very different. This was my son. This was incest! Why didn't this level of depravity bother me?

I tried to quell these thoughts. I was thinking like the old me. Thinking about all the nasty things I used to do. And it was the nasty side of me that wondered how far I could push this before it began to bother me? How far was I truly willing to go?

I tried to forget about it the next morning. I was getting dressed, trying to decide what I needed to wear for the day. What would I be doing? I had a few errands to run, but I couldn't stop thinking at how easily I could make Tom squirm, and how tempted I was at the thought of teasing him a bit more. Would I wear comfortable, flattering but appropriate clothing for running errands? Or would I wear something to show off my body? I knew better, I really did, but I had those old thoughts bubbling to the surface, tempting me in a way I hadn't been tempted in years.

Needless to say, by the time Tom came downstairs, he saw me wearing the shortest skirt he had ever seen on me. He saw me in one of my more cleavagey tops, and he saw my thong straps lifted over my hips. I justified it to myself. It was just a little bit of fun. What harm would it be to dress a little slutty?

I hadn't played the game in years, and once I began playing again, I found myself sliding back into my old ways. My animal side took over. My competitive streak returned. I loved the game. The tease. The control I could exert. It didn't matter that it was my son. He was another guy I could exert my power over, and the thrill of doing so was indescribably hot. It was a slippery slope, though, and I had no doubt taken it too far. I probably shouldn't have shown Tom's friends my tits. That really pissed him off. But I tell you what, the anger and jealousy he felt, combined with the lust I saw from all those high-school students when they saw my rack... let's just say, that night... I came harder than I had in years!

I tried to stop myself but the tease was becoming second nature. I would tease on accident, almost. Then he would get mad or he would respond, and I would respond in kind. It was a vicious cycle, and the tension was becoming overwhelming. I knew eventually, he would explode.

I tested his limits and I was impressed by his control. I remember when we talked in the bleachers after football practice. He was on the offensive and I loved seeing the effort he was putting in. I loved forcing men to step up, to change themselves for me. And as he was on the attack, I jutted out my chest at him, practically begging him to just reach out and touch them, even though he knew he couldn't. But he didn't. He showed a bit of control. A bit of discipline. He stepped back and let me walk away. His attraction was far more than him wanting a simple roll in the hay with his mom. His game was a bit more complex. I realized then he didn't just want my body. He wanted to conquer me.

His efforts were cute. Trying to be confident and suave or trying to show off his body and his prowess in the bedroom. I enjoyed the game, and Tom was very cute, but my opinion on him never changed. He still didn't have a chance with me. He tried hard, I will admit, and I was slightly impressed. My favorite move of his was buying those little cameras just to see my naked body. Ha! I soused that one out immediately. Tom wasn't as subtle as he thinks he is or at being secretive. But I didn't see his reaction coming. He was furious that I was always one step ahead at all times, sure, but I didn't realize I had driven him over the edge.

When he came back minutes later, and slammed that glass of cum on the table, I realized Tom had stepped up the game quite a bit. He had taken this to a new level. He was transforming before my eyes, from a young, slightly cocky boy, to an arrogant, driven young man. His smirk as he left that cum in front of me impressed me. He was more capable than I thought.

I couldn't help but confront that glass of cum he left for me. Something had to be done with it. I really meant to just pour it out, honestly. I really did. But to do so, I was forced to lift it, to carry it to the sink. And when I did, I felt its warmth, and its weight, a glass half-full with my son's thick cum, with some slopping over the edge. This was cum that mere minutes prior had been swimming in his balls, swelling his balls because of me. I should be disgusted, but as I reached the sink, a waft from the glass hit me, and that smell, that smell of hot, fresh cum... it brought back lots of memories. A lot of very good memories. My nostrils flared, my mouth watered, my nipples tightened.

I looked down at the glass of cum, tipping it, testing its thickness. Yep, it was the good stuff, nice and thick. Just because this cum belonged to my son didn't mean I wasn't able to appreciate it and its value. It would be a waste to dump all that precious cum out without getting a better smell, right? Before I could reconsider, I brought it to my nose and took a big smell of it, and my knees nearly buckled. Surges of memories flashed through my mind, and like Pavlov's dogs trained to drool at the ring of a bell, I was trained to drool at the scent of hot cum.

I couldn't stop myself. Nothing could have stopped me.

Before I could think twice, I brought my favorite glass to my lips and tipped it back. My son's cum entered my mouth, passing across my lips, hitting my tongue, filling my mouth. I should know better than this. I really should. I was better than this. I was a mature, classy, elegant woman. I was disciplined. I was a warrior.

But, holy fuck, his cum tasted SO FUCKING GOOD! OH MY GOD!

I let his thick cum fill my mouth. I sloshed it everywhere. I coated my tongue with it, spread it across the inside of my cheeks and covered my teeth. Having nowhere else to go, I gulped it down, swallowing my own son's hot cum. My plump lips parted, bands of cum stretched between them, as I exhaled. With glassy eyes, I noted the glass still contained some of that sweet, tasty cum. Like a cum-guzzling whore, I tipped that glass back and sucked down the rest, tasting it, savoring it, gulping it down. I needed more!

I licked the edge of the glass, capturing the cum he left there on my tongue. I used my fingers to wipe the inside of the glass, gathering the cum remaining there on my fingers, before jamming them into my panting mouth, closing my lips around them, getting every fucking bit of cum off of them. That glass was fucking cleaned of every fucking drop of cum before it hit the sink.

This was so wrong! So fucking filthy! This was, without a doubt, the nastiest thing I had ever done. I had swallowed my son's cum. And it was sooooo good! The inside of my mouth was still covered in it. Honestly, I would take a glass of that for every fucking meal.

My body was buzzing. I had not been this turned on since college. If Tom came down at that moment, I would have eagerly gotten on my knees and swallowed the good stuff straight from the source.

I twirled my back, switching the hands I was using to touch my toes as I recalled this memory.

I had enough time to recover. The gravity of what I had done hit me. It was so messed up! I guzzled his cum like a whore. I had not acted that slutty since college, but nothing I had done matched up to this. I had swallowed my own son's sperm! I shouldn't have enjoyed it as much as I did. I shouldn't have enjoyed it at all.

I had just relapsed in a big way. My slutty side had taken over. This was a hiccup. It had to be. I had to stop myself before going way too far, farther than I already had. I had to double my efforts, resist the urge to even play this game with Tom anymore. But it wasn't even Tom defeating me. I was defeating myself. I had to stop myself. I had to regain control.

And I succeeded. I shut down Tom when he finally emerged from his room, and I allowed him no room to maneuver for months. I gave him nothing. I regained my focus, regained my control of this situation, and tried to forget about how good Tom's cum tasted. Tried to forget the way I guzzled it down. And for the most part, I succeeded.

Then he fucked Casey.

I was stunned. Straight up stunned. Tom was a good looking young man and he was not untalented at the game of sex. But out of nowhere, he landed a prized woman in Casey. She as a 10 on most guys' list. A confident, mature woman, like myself, but with a hint of a dirty side, again, like myself. But she was not an easy catch. Despite what I told Tom, while Casey might be a bit slutty, she was not easily seduced. I had seen her shoot down men as deftly as I did. And yet, she fell victim to my son's charms. So, either my son was a lot better than I gave him credit for, or Casey was an easier lay than I ever knew. And I knew Casey. She wasn't easy.

Tom was right about one thing. When I saw her, clearly freshly fucked, obviously fucked stupid, I envied her. Not for having spent an hour or so banging my son. But that look she had, that shaky, exhausted, conquered look, as if she had been well and truly fucked, that is what I wanted. That is what I needed! Not from my son, obviously. He could handle Casey, but Casey wasn't in the same league as me. And she was a fucking 10, so that should give you a hint of my skill.

Even though I was a bit jealous of Casey, I was furious with Tom. He had stepped up his game in a big way. But he had crossed a line. Sure, I crossed a line before, flashing his friends, but he crossed one now, fucking my best friend. I was creating a monster here. Part of me felt guilty at having driven him to this, but part of me wanted to wipe that cocky smirk off his face. He knew he made a good move, and I was speechless.

My relationship with Tom had crossed too many lines. I made sure to keep my distance from that point on, not wanting to encourage him anymore. This game had gone too far and we had both lost control. That was why when the time came for him to leave for school, I wasn't sad or mopey. I was relieved to put an end to this tension.

Tom made one last move, it was desperate, and he knew that. I was doing my best not to encourage him, against what my mind was telling me. But when the time came for him to leave, when he made one last gasp Hail Mary, I easily deferred him, and sent him on his way. It could have been over then. It could have. But, I couldn't help myself. I did it again. I squeezed my tits at him and called out that he couldn't handle me.