Blowing The Boys! - Lady Devreux - ebook

Kim was raised by hippies, and she has always enjoyed teaching ballet- especially to boys. Her husband, a gruff refinery worker, dismisses her interests as liberal hogwash. Little does he know that she teaches more than dance in her studio- and little does Kim know that her special technique is about to discovered by her son! Excerpt It was too late to change what had happened. No matter what resulted, I could not take back my lustful actions. I was the teacher, and the mother, the one who was normally in charge. Though we were all legally adults, my extra quarter century of living- and the positions of authority I held over both Oliver and Shane- usually meant that they deferred to me. Oliver had never denied my leadership, especially since we started having oral sex- and though my son did argue with me sometimes, he almost always eventually gave into me now. This was not normal territory, not a normal situation for a mother to find herself in with her son. There were no rules here- none that were natural and just assumed, nor those written by Dr. Spock or any of the other “experts” on child development or family psychology. Shane just kept looking at me- I wasn’t sure exactly what was in his face. Was it disgust, or was it something deeper? They say that sons always naturally lust after their mothers, and a lot of mothers too do have sexual lingerings towards their sons. I can’t say that I really did- I would have been blind not to notice that Shane had developed into a good looking young man, and I swore that a few pairs of my stockings had disappeared to somewhere else other than the cavernous pit of the dryer. Past that, though, I nor my son had ever shown the slightest inklings towards any incestuous feelings. It was just like with my own parents- though they never made an effort to hide nudity, or even their sexual practices, even the sight of my father’s cock flopping around had never drawn more than the natural looks of curiosity. I knew my father had a cock, and I knew that it was able to make my mother and their sexual partners happy (who couldn’t hear the moans at two AM?), but I can’t say that I ever looked at it with lust. “You can look at her,” Oliver said, “It’s alright.” Maybe my son was unsure, maybe Lucas was unsure- he had already zipped himself back up- but this former captain of the local hockey team took command. “Oliver, come on, man,” Shane said- he was now unsure of what was going to happen, “She’s my mom.” “So?” Oliver said, as if I may as well been any woman in the world, “What difference does that make?” Where is Oliver going with this? “Seriously, Shane, we all know your mom is hot,” Oliver said, almost laughing- he was making no move to cover himself, or his cock, which was already starting to swell back up, “You don’t have to lie and say that she isn’t, just because she is your mom.” “Yes, but-” Shane tried to say, but Oliver cut him off. “Look, Shane, you said once my mom was hot,” Oliver said, “Remember?” “I do,” Shane confessed, “That’s different though.” “How’s that?” Oliver said, “Because it was my mom you thought was hot?” “No, not that,” Shane said, “I just…” “Shane, you think for a minute if I didn’t see my mom naked, I wouldn’t look?” Oliver asked. “Of course I would,” Oliver said, “And your mom is hot. Ms. Kim, show him your tits.”

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Chapter One

Chapter One: Ballet On Ice

Everyone comes from a different family background.

Some people, like my husband, are born into very conservative families.

Scott was raised by parents who believe that Communism is the greatest threat to society (even today). My in laws are convinced that Russia is still the USSR, that the Democratic Party is run by a combination of Marxists and Anarchists, and that the reason the governor of their state was nearly recalled was due to some secret conspiracy between a coalition of greens, reds, and minorities. To them, the turbulence of the sixties was due to people simply wanting to get out of the responsibilities of life- and to them, these people now are the reason why society has problems. They see a bearded commie under every rock, and a foreign agent under every tree. Since they live in Wisconsin, they see a lot of these agents.

My parents, on the other hand, came from across the bay- and from a completely opposite tradition.

Just as Minnesota and Wisconsin share a border and a climate, but little else, the only thing our families seem to share is being of northern European ancestry.

My grandparents even supported Henry Wallace in his bid for the presidency, and my grandfather voted proudly for McGovern in 1972- as did my parents, who at the time were living on a commune in eastern Oregon. That’s where I was born- into that generations attempt to rebuild the structure of society in a more equal image. Though the commune, like most similar attempts before it, collapsed eventually and I moved home with my parents right before I began school, they have never abandoned their basic philosophies. They say that Germans, like my husbands family, are stubborn- well, we are Swedes, and we are just as stubborn in our own, opposite way.

I wasn’t raised in a world of church on Sunday and “sin” the rest of the week, I was raised with the idea that people are basically good. What makes people stray from this is not some dark conspiracy or being, but the idea that things are more important than other people. As I grew up, I can’t say that I didn’t have the normal arguments that all children have with their parents- that would be a lie- but I can say that our arguments were not full scale verbal and mental assaults. I never could accuse my parents of being hypocrites, then or now- they wanted the best for me, like all parents want for their children, but they did not expect me not to discover the world on my own.

I discovered early on that in addition to wearing tie die, and supporting every liberal candidate of my childhood from Carter to Dukakis, my parents truly did their own thing. They were never heavy duty drug addicts- my father always said that drugs that came from a factory were just as bad as weapons- but they did openly smoke pot. They still wore beaded clothing, even when Reagan was busy with the conservative “revolution” of the eighties, and they didn’t turn into yuppies like so many former hippies did.

The biggest thing, though, that really stuck out, were my parents were swingers. I didn’t know the word at the time, but I did know that they had parties sometimes where “friends” would stay over for a weekend or three days. None of my parents friends ever did anything inappropriate towards me- it wasn’t like that- but something always seemed a little strange about this. When I was in high school, and I started finding out about sex, I finally put two and two together. Both my father and my mother would sometimes have guests that joined them in their bedroom, and I even walked into their room once and found them in bed with another couple. They weren’t having sex, just sleeping, and I didn’t see anything physical between them, but I did notice that my mother was sleeping next to the other guy, and my father was sleeping next to the other woman that had joined them in their bed.

The biggest argument we had wasn’t about when I started dating- both of my parents told me that I was free to make my own choices when it came to things like boys and sex- but it was when I brought home Scott.

I was seventeen then, almost eighteen, and though I had been messing around with him for three months, I hadn’t yet introduced them.

In those days, Scott grew his black hair long, he wore a lot of leather, and he had a motorcycle.

He was different from most of the other boys in school. The first thing I noticed wasn’t his bike- it was his hair. It was long and unkempt, and it flowed behind him like a dark mane. He wasn’t one of the worst troublemakers in school, but he rejected the whole idea of trying to fit into the whole clique system of high school. He acted like he didn’t care what other people thought of him (something that made him similar to my parents), and he was genuine. I accepted a ride back from school on his bike, and soon we were “going steady.”

Bikers, like hippies, are “rebels”, but that doesn’t make them friends. Both don’t want anyone else telling them how to run their own lives, and both also don’t try and tell other people what to do, but that is where the similarity ends between the two groups- well, maybe that and the guys in both groups grow their hair long. Hippies may smoke pot and have parties too, but hippies are not obsessed with material things- bikers may live in a trailer and drive a thirty year old minivan, but their bike is usually their prize possession.

I am not saying that everyone who owns a bike is a bad person- I married a man who loves being on a motorcycle more than anything else in the world. What I am saying is that while both my parents and my husband believe in living by their own code, my husband’s personal views contrast with those of my parents (and those of myself).

Now, my husband isn’t a full time biker- he isn’t a member of some gang, though he does participate in a club (made up of people that get together and do runs). He works in the local oil refinery, a good paying job, and he has since he graduated from high school. The town we live in has been losing population for years- some of it is because of the brutal weather, and most of it is because of the lack of good paying jobs- but we are fortunate enough to not have to worry about the financial future. People will always need oil products, and though the refinery is one of the smaller operations, the asphalt it produces will always find a market.

I myself work two part time jobs. One is at a local bar- I work there about twenty hours or so a week, and while it does not make me a millionaire, it does allow me to pursue my other passion in life.

I love teaching dance- ballet mostly- and that is my main interest in life.

My parents encouraged this interest, and though I have never gone past the level of local performance myself, I have established my studio as a place for all the locals who want their children to learn one of the oldest forms of high end artistic expression.

I say children, because although ninety percent of my students are girls, I do encourage boys to get involved.

There has always been discrimination against males who love to dance, especially males who want to be in the ballet. True, many professional male ballet performers are gay- but not all. People seem to think that if a boy or a man has an interest in something like ballet or music, that he is something less than a man is supposed to be.

This, of course, is bullshit- people should be free to enjoy whatever it is that they like, irregardless of their gender or other characteristics. Even though most of the people in this area would consider themselves politically on the left, old ideas about female and male roles still affect their views of society. People may encourage their daughter to go to college herself and get a degree, but the same people seem aghast at the idea that their son would rather dance than play hockey.

In our marriage, this too has played a role.

My son, like most boys that are born and raised in the Great Lakes region, has always loved hockey. I didn’t really want my son to play this sport- though the injuries are usually not as bad as those in football, nonetheless, plenty of even the youngest players do lose teeth and break bones.

My husband was adamant that his son would get involved- maybe Scott doesn’t find much time outside of work to do anything but tinker around with his old Harley, but once Shane started playing on the ice, he suddenly found more time. My husband has never missed a game, whether it was in the Pee Wee League, or when my son was playing for our local high school team.