The Catcher In The Den: The Full Series - Madame Gallivant - ebook

DESCRIPTION: Tabitha catches her son and his best friend watching porn. It begins a forbidden sexual discovery. This is the story of a horny young mom daring to try the unknown taboo. Every mother has some dark passion within her soul—some hidden secret, desire or whim that may never surface to be seen even by the closest confidante. This is the full nine volumes of the 'Catcher In The Den' series. EXCERPT: Was it the fact that I was watching someone else's private home fantasy, or the fact that I was really watching and listening to my son, waiting to hear what he thought about me? The moistness between my legs, the tingling of my flesh, and the strong compulsion to put my fingers inside of my pussy- which I was doing, I just realized, with the tip of my index finger slowly and gently toying with the outer folds of my sex- was not deniable. No matter what was the reason, I was standing here in the doorway between my den and my living room in the middle of the night.         Playing with yourself, and watching your son play with himself.                                                    “I do,” Destin answered finally, “Man, fuck, I do.” “Of course,” Durrell said, in his natural smugness, “I do too, see?” Durrell, without further ado, unzipped his pants, and exposed the turgid flesh of his risen manhood. In the dim light of the television glow, I was not able to see it as clearly as I would have liked to have seen it, (it had been so long since I'd seen another cock in real life!), but I could tell he was as impressive under his pants as he was under his shirt. Although I didn't have a “mental” ruler, his cock was at least as long as my hand, probably larger, and thick around as my fist. “Uh, yeah,” Destin said, uncomfortably. “It isn't no big deal, is it?” Durrell asked, “I mean, it ain't like you haven't seen another guys cock before?” “Well, I,” Destin stammered. I've known Durrell since my son had started school, the two boys were inseparable, and Durrell has always been the extreme one, the outgoing one; my son is the quiet introvert. “Look, we're both adults,” Durrell said, “It ain't like I want you to suck it or anything like that. When I'm watching porn, I like to whack off.” With that, Durrell's hand began to make the universal movements of male masturbation, slowly stroking the length of his dick, from tip to base, not waiting to see how my son would react. Durrell was going to stroke one off, and he didn't care who was watching. I bet he'd like my hand on that cock! As Durrell stroked himself, I now had two fingers inside of me, and I was beginning to work my way to my own orgasm. The two boys were lost in the film, and I was lost in the boys in front of me. I want that dick in my mouth, I want to taste it. No harm in fantasy is there? I began to feel the warmth building up from my legs, creeping up the inside of my stomach, my nipples beginning to stiffen, the coolness of the room on my skin, the glow of the television; as I built towards orgasm, the world around me both faded away and became so much clearer, the details as sharp as butcher knife while the background was as fuzzy as an old tin type photograph...

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by Madame Gallivant

The Complete 9 Volumes

Published by Lot’s Cave

Full Series

The Catcher In The Den, © 2018, Madame Gallivant

Cover & Graphics by Lot’s Cave

All Rights Reserved

All Characters In This Book Are Age 18 Or Older

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the Lot’s Cave website and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

A Lot’s Cave Novel


Caught Catching My Son

Defining The Distance

Exploring Options

For My Boys

Getting Us All Together

His Graduation Gift

In A Related Matter

Just A Mommy And Son Bang

Letting Barbara In


Author’s Note

Family Exotica

Incest Erotica

Other Novels

by Madame Gallivant

A Lot’s Cave Novel

Book 1

“So has Destin talked about college yet?” I asked my husband, as I began setting the table for dinner.

“No,” Andrew said, looking up from his phone, “Why?”

As much as Andrew liked to complain about young adults and their phones, my husband of twenty years was just as bad. Andrew worked ten or twelve hours a day, and every moment he wasn't at the office, he seemed to be connected to his black plastic device.

“I'm just getting a bit worried, that's all,” I said, absentmindedly flicking a loose strand of my hair.

I am definitely overdue for a visit to the salon; there is way too much gray showing.

“He's very quiet, like you, hon, but still, he should be getting ready for the fall,” I agreed.

“Now you’re worried about what Destin's plans are?”, Andrew said, his voice switching to that tone of incredulous disdain that I have always hated, as his eyes looked back to his phone.

“A little bit,” I admitted, annoyed.

I turned back towards the stove top, and knowing that Andrew was paying absolutely no mind to me, I just happened to drop a plate from the counter.

Maybe that will get his damn attention!

“Damn, looks like you broke a plate!” Durrell said, in his loud, direct voice, a tone of laughing in his words as he walked into the kitchen.

“Mom, you okay?” my son, Destin asked, right behind his best friend, as usual.

“Yes, I'm fine,” I said, which was half true; having been a wife for two decades, and a woman for twice that length of time, I knew how to drop a plate without cutting myself. Turning around, I saw that Andrew still sat there, obliviously staring at his phone, but the two young men in the doorway were concerned with what I was doing.

Destin, of course, was just being the good son he always was; the middle child, the only boy, he was used to putting up with women and their ways- from his older sister Bridget's competitiveness, to his younger sister Gwen's babyish qualities. Smiling, almost shrugging his shoulders, he began to pick the pieces of gray ceramic nearest his feet up from the floor.

Durrell smiled too, but the look on his face was not one of a son's concern, but that of a hungry male animal; as I knelt to pick up the pieces next to me, I saw his blue eyes look first into my own, down to the swell of my breasts, and then back to my face- a glance that, while not long enough for me to call him on it, let me know exactly what he was interested in.

Looking him directly in the eye, I let Durrell know that I knew what he was doing; many men, when I catch them staring, immediately turn their heads quickly, almost sheepishly.

Durrell, smiled even more broadly, and he made a point to look down again at the flesh exposed by the top of my plain blue blouse. He was caught, and he didn't care.

“Do you need help with anything else?” he asked.

You smooth bastard!

I tried not to grin- here was this eighteen year old, my son's best friend, flirting with me- and I really shouldn't have. Grinning just encouraged him, but I couldn't help it; meanwhile, my myopic, self-absorbed husband was still off in his own world.

The boys sat down at the table, and as I served dinner, I saw that Durrell could not seem to keep his eyes off me; as Destin talked a little bit about some school event, Durrell's glances kept going from his plate to my chest. Despite myself, I felt warmth growing in between my legs.

Durrell was a good looking boy- no, young man- taller than average, with thick, jet black hair, blue eyes, and an almost chiseled jaw. I could not help but notice how his white t-shirt clung to his chest, the clear outlines of his muscles straining against the thinness of the fabric; yes, he was one good looking young man.

My son is the same height as his best friend, and just as attractive, though in his own way; though the boys share the same length of inseam, there the similarity in looks ends. Durrell is dark haired, with pale skin, and ice cold blue eyes; my son is tanner, with brown eyes like his father, and light brown hair that was somewhere in between my own and his dad's.

Yet neither one of them had girlfriends, at least not to my knowledge; a mother doesn't know everything, let alone everything about her son's best friend, but I had never heard either one of the boys mention anything about a girl in particular. Sometimes I walked by them when they are playing video games and they are talking about how some classmate was blowing someone in the bleachers, or who had the best pussy, but nothing they had said had ever indicated to me that either one of them had anything but second and third hand “experience.”

“Hey, mom, is it alright if Durrell stays tonight?” Destin asked me, and that made Andrew lookup from his phone.

“Well, tonight isn't the best-”my husband began to say.

“Yes, of course,” I said, smiling at my son, and quickly, almost daringly, at Durrell, “You are always welcome in our home.”

Now who's playing the game? I should be ashamed of myself!

“Tabitha, I have to get up early tomorrow-” Andrew began to say, whining really.

Lately he had taken to whining, and I was getting tired of it.

It was bad enough that Andrew didn’t give any thought to his appearance anymore- nobody can help getting older, myself included, and I don't expect him to be perfect- but Andrew had embraced the complacency of middle age in fullness. His hair, once thick and brown, was cut poorly, due to his insistence on “getting it cut for under ten bucks”; his glasses, last updated in the Clinton administration, did nothing but make his broody eyes look even more intense. Not in a good way, either; Durrell's eyes blaze with the intensity of a young man's ardor, but my husband’s eyes had the intensity of an accountant looking for an error in the books.

Andrew is not a pauper; he makes a decent living, and there is no reason why my husband can't buy shirts that don't come from thrift stores, or pants that don't have rips on the bottom because they are too long for his legs. Andrew works in an office, and office casual is somewhat to blame for this new sloppy employee look, but the least he could do was wear decent jeans!

“You always get up early,” I reminded him.

With that, Andrew decided to leave the table for his office. The man does work hard, well, as hard as pushing buttons on a computer can be. I have never been able to accuse my husband of mental laziness; I just wish he would invest some of his efforts into his body.

At forty-two, I am not a school girl anymore; three kids has put a few extra pounds on me,

I have some sags and wrinkles and the normal effects of age on my body. Nobody can expect to turn thirty, let alone forty or older, and not have some changes in their physical appearance. But I go to the gym every morning, I walk and I run, and I make an effort; and while I won't ever be the young girl I was back in college, I still make men look at me in want. I still see that look of lust in their eyes when I walk by.

By the way Durrell kept staring at me tonight, I knew that men half my age appreciated me, even if my husband was too busy with his stock market tips and accounts and reports to notice...

“So are you ready to turn out the light?” Andrew asked, rolling over onto his side.

There used to be a time when he could not go to sleep without touching me, even if most of the time that was simply to get his rocks off and bust a nut in my wet pussy or my warm mouth. I didn't always cum with him, but even when I didn't, it still made me feel needed as a woman.

“Not really,” I said, putting down my book, a somewhat uninspired romance novel; the strapping man, with black hair and blue eyes on the cover had drawn me to purchase this volume, but even though I was in the midst of a “love” seen, it was not particularly enthralling.

I was tired; I had a busy day, as busy as any of my days were, (which were not as busy as they used to be when the kids were little, but busy nonetheless), but I didn't really feel like sleeping. Boredom was the cause, and this book wasn't doing much for that, but it was better than laying in the dark and listening to the snoring of a disinterested husband.

“Well I am,” Andrew said, in finality, not caring to take me into consideration as usual. When he wanted to do something, he wanted to do it now.

“Ok,” I said, “Do you want to talk?”

“About what?” he asked, fatigue exaggerated in his voice, or annoyance.

“Destin not making plans,” I ventured, “It's only a few months away. Bridget had already decided on Kentucky by her sophomore year, and he is about to graduate.”

“I'm sure Destin has something planned,” Andrew said, “He is quiet, after all. Maybe he will surprise us.”

“So our son's future should be a surprise?” I asked, “Really?”

“Look, Tabitha, I'll ask him tomorrow,” Andrew said, “Right now, can I just get some sleep?”

“Fine,” I said, almost leaping out of bed, “Get some sleep. I'm going to go watch some TV downstairs.”

“I don't know why you always get mad,” Andrew whined, “I have a job to go to.”

Andrew can really push my buttons- he acts like being a housewife isn't a job, but he was the one who wanted me to quit working when Bridget was born!

Instead of fighting, I simply shut off the light, and I closed the door behind me.

Walking down the hallway, I checked on our youngest- she was fifteen, and sleeping as soundly as she did when she was a baby- and then I decided to check on Destin. The door to his room was open, so I figured maybe he was still downstairs- usually when Durrell stayed over, the boys would play video games in the living-room all night.

Let them enjoy it, they only have a few more months of this, I smiled, and walked down the stairs.

The normal white glow of the flat-screen was not lighting the living-room; instead of finding the two teenagers engrossed in some virtual shooting match, the couches were empty.

Where were they?

Even though they were both technically adults, I'd never known Destin to sneak out. Maybe Durrell ran around when he wasn't here, (with his looks, he could easily do that!),but usually, the pull of virtual combat drew their interest more than anything else.

As I walked through the living room, peeking into the kitchen- some half eaten pizza rolls were on the counter, signs of young male activity, but no male presence- it struck me that maybe they were in the den.

Usually that room was empty- we had an old television in there, one of the old VCR/tube combos, some old videos, and that was about it. When a family member visited from out of town, we put them up in the den, but normally, nobody really went in that room anymore.

I looked around the corner of the den, and there were the two boys, sitting next to each other on the old couch, watching a video of some kind. Why they would watch a VCR was beyond me, with computers and the new flat screen available, but as soon as I was about to say something, I saw what they were watching.

On the screen, a woman, probably about forty or so, with brown hair, was busy undoing her top, button by button; judging by the quality, it was an old porn movie. Probably one of Andrew's; all men keep a porn stash, and it did not surprise me that Andrew still had some of his movies lying around, forgotten next to the CD's and cassette tapes of yesteryear.

“Those are some nice tits,” my son said, as the woman's breasts came into view; they were definitely large, and looked natural, a pretty pair indeed.

“That's nothing,” Durrell said, “The movie is just starting.”

The woman on the TV continued to undress, licking her lips lasciviously as she did so; she had a gleam in her eye that told me this was no eighties porn queen, but a real woman, and she was enjoying what she was doing.

“You like that?” she asked, in a voice that ringed with sultriness, “You like that?”

“Yes baby I do,” said the man, obviously behind the camera and off screen.

The scene moved outward, and it was obvious the woman was indeed middle-aged; she was wearing only a pair of white panties, simple off-the-shelf underwear, with cheap white cowgirl boots made out of patent leather. She was leaning against a kitchen cabinet, and in the background, one could hear the ringing of a phone.

“Should you answer that?” she asked the man.

“You would like that,” he said, “Me talking on the phone while you play with yourself.”

“Oh yes, baby,” the woman said, her left hand sliding down her bare stomach, into the space between her underwear and the soft flesh underneath, “I would.”

“You like showing off, don't you?” he asked her, “Being a dirty girl, don't you?”

She answered him by pulling down her panties, exposing her pussy to him- and the lens of the camera- as her fingers found their intended target, and began to explore the fleshy folds.

I have never been with another woman- I have never really thought about it- but like most women, I find other women attractive, beautiful, and occasionally sexy.

This brunette was just that, sexy; it wasn't her looks- yes, she was good looking, but not in any spectacular way- it was the gusto with which she proceeded to play with herself, for the amusement of the mystery man and whoever else was watching this tape (in this case, my son and his best friend).

I felt my own temperature rising, but I remembered where I was- standing in the doorway to my den, clad in my nightshirt, while my son and his best friend sat in front of me, watching someone's home porn movie- and that realization broke my reverie. Turning my head from the screen, I looked over at the boys.

“Man, she's hot,” Destin said, “Real hot.”

“Told you,” Durrell laughed, “Look man, I wouldn't lie to you!”

“You said that's your aunt?” Destin asked.

“Yeah, my mother's sister, Karla,” Durrell said, “She's a real slut. She fucked my dad when my parents were dating, and she fucks around on her husband all the time.”

“How did you get the tape?” Destin asked, curiosity in his voice.

“When I stayed over there last summer, I was poking around my uncle's garage, and I found it,” Durrell said, “I wasn't able to snag all of them, but I got this one and two more.”

“He didn't catch you?” Destin asked.

“No,” Durrell said, “I switched out some other tapes in the cases with no labels, so unless he decides to watch them, how the fuck will he know?”

“Huh,” Destin said.

On the screen, Karla had proceeded from self-pleasure via her fingers, to playing with a cucumber; the head of the thick green vegetable was now penetrating her, and while this video was definitely the work of an amateur, it was not hard to see the phallus sliding in and out, in and out.

My own pussy was tingling with desire; was it the fact that I was seeing something so private, so personal that I wasn't supposed to see- or was it because my son and his best friend sat five feet in front of me, completely unaware of my presence?

“I bet your dad has some tapes,” Durrell ventured, “Maybe we should look for them.”

“Tapes?” Destin asked, not catching on as quick, “Of who?”

“Your mom, stupid,” Durrell said.

Destin didn't say anything for a moment, and neither did Durrell; as I watched from the background, I wasn't sure where this conversation was going to go.

Andrew is very conservative when it comes to sex; there is no way he would ever film me- or us- doing anything. One time I tried to go down on him when we were stuck in traffic, and he nearly flipped out about it. Sorry to bust their bubble, but all they would find would be old children's movies and cartoons on those old videos.

And to think of the idea of my son watching me, masturbating to the image of my naked body, to the sounds and sight of my self-pleasure!

I should be appalled, I should be disgusted, but I wasn't.

Does that make me a bad mom?

“I don't think so,” Destin said, finally, after the uncomfortable silence.

“We should look tomorrow,” Durrell said.

“Come on, it's my mom,” Destin said, “I don't---”

“Look, we've been best friends forever,” Durrell said, “Don't tell me you don't know how hot your mom is!”

“I don't know, she's my mom,” Destin said.

“And that's my Aunt Karla,” Durrell said, “I'd fuck the hell out of her if I could!”

“You'd fuck your own aunt?” Destin asked, “Really?”

“She's fucking hot,” Durrell said, “Your telling me you don't have a rager right now?”

Destin didn't say anything to that, though thinking of what must be going through his mind, had my own mind abuzz.

I had heard about this sort of thing- boys wanting to fuck their own mothers. Before I finished college and became a full-time mom, I had taken some classes on human sexuality.

The desire to have sex- or at least, fantasize about having sex- with one's own mother was more common than many wanted to admit; although in almost every human society, relations between immediate family members were completely off limits, this primal fetish persisted across all cultures and social classes.

The recent explosion in popularity of so-called “Milf” porn was founded on this fetish. Many of the men- and women- who enjoyed watching “mature” women in sex acts simply found women of a certain age- my age- attractive, but the fact that in the last decade “Milf” porn had become one of the most popular genres of that industry was partially due to this primal desire. At first, these “Milf” movies were about the “son's best friend” or the “hot teacher”, but as society became (at least on the internet), more open, increasingly these movies featured actual mothers and sons (or, at a minimum, actors playing mothers and sons)/

So how does that make you feel?

The words of my psychology professor rang in my ears, long retrieved after all these years; how did it make me feel?

I had never really seriously considered my son as a sexual object; in the time of my marriage, and with the decline of the sexual chemistry between myself and my husband I did of course fantasize- but never about Destin, or Durrell, for that matter. Usually my fantasies were of some nameless, almost faceless man, with dark hair, blue eyes, and a very thick cock, a man that would bring me to the cusp of pleasure time after time, who would be at my disposal...

How does it make me feel?

Karla was an attractive woman; the movie showed that- she was attractive, and wild, and definitely a fully sexual being- but I had seen naked women before (at least on the screen.)

So what was it that turned me on so much?

Was it the fact that I was watching someone else's private home fantasy, or the fact that I was really watching and listening to my son, waiting to hear what he thought about me?

The moistness between my legs, the tingling of my flesh, and the strong compulsion to put my fingers inside of my pussy- which I was doing, I just realized, with the tip of my index finger slowly and gently toying with the outer folds of my sex- was not deniable. No matter what was the reason, I was standing here in the doorway between my den and my living room in the middle of the night.

Playing with yourself, and watching your son play with himself.

“I do,” Destin answered finally, “Man, fuck, I do.”

“Of course,” Durrell said, in his natural smugness, “I do too, see?”

Durrell, without further ado, unzipped his pants, and exposed the turgid flesh of his risen manhood. In the dim light of the television glow, I was not able to see it as clearly as I would have liked to have seen it, (it had been so long since I'd seen another cock in real life!), but I could tell he was as impressive under his pants as he was under his shirt. Although I didn't have a “mental” ruler, his cock was at least as long as my hand, probably larger, and thick around as my fist.

“Uh, yeah,” Destin said, uncomfortably.

“It isn't no big deal, is it?” Durrell asked, “I mean, it ain't like you haven't seen another guys cock before?”

“Well, I,” Destin stammered.

I've known Durrell since my son had started school, the two boys were inseparable, and Durrell has always been the extreme one, the outgoing one; my son is the quiet introvert.

“Look, we're both adults,” Durrell said, “It ain't like I want you to suck it or anything like that. When I'm watching porn, I like to whack off.”

With that, Durrell's hand began to make the universal movements of male masturbation, slowly stroking the length of his dick, from tip to base, not waiting to see how my son would react. Durrell was going to stroke one off, and he didn't care who was watching.

I bet he'd like my hand on that cock!

As Durrell stroked himself, I now had two fingers inside of me, and I was beginning to work my way to my own orgasm. The two boys were lost in the film, and I was lost in the boys in front of me.

I want that dick in my mouth, I want to taste it.

No harm in fantasy is there?

I began to feel the warmth building up from my legs, creeping up the inside of my stomach, my nipples beginning to stiffen, the coolness of the room on my skin, the glow of the television; as I built towards orgasm, the world around me both faded away and became so much clearer, the details as sharp as butcher knife while the background was as fuzzy as an old tin type photograph...

Karla, for her part, was now bent over, away from the camera, her large, rounded ass spread wide, but what the brunette was doing was definitely secondary; it wasn't some other woman I was excited about, or the fact that I was watching private matters, it was that two virile teenage boys were only five feet away from me, and playing with their dicks.

Two boys, not one, yes, two boys.

I looked towards my son, to see what he offered; while his friend had such a nice dick- a perfectly suckable cock- I was lusting for the most forbidden fruit of all, if only for fantasy.

I want to see the cock of my son, my only son, yes I do!

“Fuck it,” Destin said, suddenly, finally giving in, and with that, he pulled out his own dick.

As I saw it in the dim light for the first time I had seen it since he was little, I was impressed.

Durrell had a nice, thick meaty cock, but my son is even more impressively built; while size isn't everything, granted, there are few things nicer than a big dick to suck on. And my son, well, I have no idea where he got this trait from- it wasn't from Andrew, that is for certain- but he is definitely fortunate.

Destin's cock is a little longer than his best friends, and while it didn't seem much thicker in the light, it is an even match in its girthiness; Destin has the type of dick that other men are jealous of, and the type that some women would be scared of at first.

I've never had one that big; I wonder what it feels like?

I didn't marry Andrew because of his physical traits, or his sexual ability; Andrew is a conservative lover, and even when we first married, the sex between us was adequate, but nothing to write home about. I married Andrew because I love him, and I knew that he was reliable, he was steady, and even if he is boring, he will never be the type to get a hair up his ass one day and disappear into the wild blue yonder.

Destin's cock reminds me of one I had right before his father's; a one night stand in college I had, with a boyfriend of a girl that I was friends with. At the time, she and I were fighting, so I decided to fuck her man; although nothing came of it- me and her patched things up, and he ended up moving away- I still remember how good he felt inside of me.

I wouldn't say I'm a size queen, but any girl who says she doesn't appreciate a nice cock- like that on the two boys in front of me- is only saying that because she doesn't want to hurt her husband's feelings, or she is afraid of fully embracing her own pleasure. Too many women are afraid to admit even to themselves what really turns them on.

Like watching their son masturbating?

“Almost there, watch out,” Durrell warned, and with a grunt, he came, a handful of spunk all over his closed fist.

I bet that tastes good.

Destin, meanwhile, didn't say a word; he simply groaned, and his own eruption burst forth. Even from a few feet away, I watched the thick drops of cum- a thickness that young men seem so able to muster- fly several inches into the air.

“Oh fuck!” I suddenly exclaimed, verbally, as I felt my own crashing orgasm sweep over my body, my legs twitching as I came, right after my son; I was last to cum, as always, but the feeling of intensity was one like I had not experienced in years, even if my hands were the cause (and not one of their beautiful young cocks!)

As I shook from the intensity of my release, I realized just exactly where I was once again; in the doorway of my den, in my nightshirt, getting off to my son and his best friend jacking off right in front of me- and their young eyes were now on me, my presence no longer a secret!

In that split second of cataclysm- Durrell smiling, Destin looking as awkward as I felt- there was no denying what we all had been doing.

Durrell was the cause of all this, and now both I and my son were as uncomfortable in our own home as a deer in the headlights!

I reacted, my feet quickly turning and leaving, leaving fast as I could, going anywhere- to the kitchen, yes, to the kitchen, the need for a drink overpowering me, and blue almost blocking my mind; my orgasm, still throbbing, but subsiding, as I entered the familiar warmth of the whitish light of the kitchen.

I grabbed the small bottle of whiskey that Andrew kept under the kitchen sink, and poured myself a shot's worth in a “World's Greatest Mom” mug. The mug had been a gift from Destin, nearly seven years ago, and as I held the cool pottery in my warm fingers, fingers warm with my own juices- juices he had evoked from me- the realization struck of what had just happened.

Why had I allowed it to go so far?

It was my fault, yes, all my fault; I was the adult, even if their birth certificates (and their cocks, their thick, meaty glorious cocks), said otherwise, and I should have known better.

You could have turned and walked away, Tabitha, and nobody would have been the wiser!

However, I had not done so; and now, there would be fall out from this disaster, as with all natural events.

That's all it was, a natural event.

I doubled, no, I tripled, the amount of whiskey in the mug, and I swallowed it in one solid gulp; I am not a regular drinker, and as the burning liquid made its way down my throat and into my stomach, I was left with the doubts now plaguing my mind.

You were still in the wrong.

I was Destin's mother; Durrell, lusting after him was bad enough- but he was not my son, he had not emerged from my womb like Destin had- and as I read the words on the mug, I felt about as clean as three day worn underwear.

I am as naughty- no, as bad, that is the word!- as Karla.

I'm worse, really. Karla didn't make that tape for her son, or her nephew- she made it for her husband!

“Well, I'm off,” Andrew said, with a shrug, as I opened my eyes, a slight pounding behind the lids; damn, it really had been a long time since I had drank, if one triple gave me a headache!

“What time is it?” I asked, groggy, “Leaving already?”

“It's nine,” Andrew said, “And yes. I was hoping you'd be up already, so we could talk about Destin, but I have to get into work, I can't wait any longer.”

About Destin?

Oh fuck, I hope he- or that damn friend of his!- didn't say anything!

“What?” I said, not wanting to give myself away; if he hadn't said anything, I sure did not want to be the one to broach the subject of last night's activities to my husband.

“About college,” Andrew said, “I've got to go.”

“Ok,” I said, and acted like I was turning back over to go to sleep, but really, I was avoiding the inevitable.

I was going to have to walk down those stairs in a few minutes, and I was going to have to go back to being mom; I could not hide in the warm cocoon of comforters and pillows that surrounded me, no matter how much I wanted to.

Last night- that was just a fluke.

It wasn't like Destin would tell his father that he had been masturbating in his den, on his couch- or that he had been discussing watching me masturbating, his own mother, with his best friend!

Andrew wasn't violent, and he wasn't physically imposing, but sons had a natural fear of their father. If anything would make a father lose his temper, it would be the fact that his son was fantasizing sexually about his own mother!

And how would a husband act, knowing that his wife of twenty years was fantasizing about fucking her son- their son?

I tossed and turned and repositioned myself for another hour or so; I was an early riser, and the later I waited, the more out of the ordinary things would be.

I was not the first mother to walk in on her son masturbating, or worse; this was a common inevitability, an eventuality of living in the same household with a male past puberty

How many of those mothers, however, joined in, and played with themselves while watching their sons doing the same thing, hmmm?

Porn fetishes, and Milfs and everything aside, this was real life; this wasn't a stage set in Southern California, or a basement in Russia. This was a better than average home in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. Behind me weren't a crew of cameramen and various set jockeys, or a mustachioed director; instead I lay in my bedroom.

I had to face reality, and I had two choices- either acknowledge what had happened, talk about it and find some sort of solution, or act like nothing had occurred.

“Good morning,” I said as I walked in the living-room, where Destin and Durrell were already busy on one of their games; maybe the whole thing had been imagined, after all, just a dream and not an event?

“Morning,” Destin said, same as always, not turning from the screen.

“Likewise,” Durrell said, and as he turned to face me, his blue eyes glowing, looking up and down at my chest, everything seemed to be completely normal.

I did not smile back; I simply walked into the kitchen, turned on the coffee pot, and began to make breakfast like I always did on Saturdays.

“Hey mom,” my youngest daughter, Gwen said from the table, “So I was wondering, if it's okay, if I go hang out with Brenda this morning?”

“Brenda?” I said, not looking in her direction.

Although I was being ridiculous, I felt like she would somehow sense something was wrong, or at least out of the ordinary.

“You know, my best friend, Brenda?” Gwen said, “Anyway, Brenda wants to pick me up, and we're going to go over to the mall.”

“Kids still go to malls?” I said, still not really paying attention; I had somehow gotten a piece of shell in the eggs, damn the distraction!

“Well, the Avenues, anyway,” Gwen said, “So she will be here any minute.”

“I didn't say you could go,” I said.

The last thing I wanted right now was to be in the house with these two young men alone!

“Why can't I?” Gwen whined, “Destin gets to hang out with his best friend!”

It wasn't right for me to take out what had happened on Gwen; she had no part of it, and punishing her for my own mistake was wrong. As much as I didn't really want to be alone with the two boys, that wasn't exactly fair to her; she was doing good in school, and Brenda was a good influence on her.

Unlike Durrell, who is a bad influence on Destin?

That wasn't really fair or accurate either; after all, Durrell hadn't walked in on me masturbating and watched me get off... and Durrell was just a horny teenage boy, an eighteen year old with a big dick (that was the truth) and probably nowhere else to whack it.

The blaring of a horn interrupted my thoughts.

“Mom, she's here!” Gwen said, grabbing her pink purse, “So can I go?”

“Fine, go,” I said, giving in.

If anyone was being weird this morning, it was me- not Andrew, not Gwen, not Destin or Durrell- and I needed to get over it. Destin sure hadn't made a big deal of it, and Durrell was just being Durrell; yes, I was the one who needed to just let it go.

“Breakfast, boys,” I called out, “Looks like it's just the three of us.”

Destin and Durrell, as they usually did in the morning, wolfed through a dozen eggs, half a loaf of bread, and an entire half gallon of orange juice, with few words between them (or us); as they ate, and I nibbled on some toast, they seemed to pretend everything was normal.

“So are you boys going to play video games all day today?” I asked them.

“Probably,” Destin said, “Why?”

“Why not go the mall and look at the girls?”I asked, in all seriousness.

Maybe if the boys had girlfriends, they wouldn't be so interested in their female relatives.

“What?” Destin said.

“Look at the girls,” I said, “Two studs like you should have no problem getting dates.”

And with cocks like those, no problem in keeping girlfriends, either... stop thinking like that!

“Nobody does that,” Durrell chimed in, his eyes glancing again at my chest, though he couldn't see much under the Wildcats sweatshirt I was wearing this morning, “Besides, girls don't go to the mall, well, not girls I'm into.”

Oh yes they do, I know exactly what you are into.

“So what kind of girls go to the mall?” I asked, absently.

“Those who are fifteen,” Destin said, “Like Gwen and her friends.”

“Yeah, we can't date fifteen year olds,” Durrell reminded me, conveniently adding, “We are both over eighteen now, so we are kind of stuck.”

“Well, what about eighteen or nineteen year old girls?” I asked.

“They are dating college guys,” Destin said, “Nobody wants to date an eighteen year old who is still in high school, mom.”

“I see,” I said.

Maybe that's all it was- they lusted after women like Karla, and like me, because they saw us as available. Available not for actually doing anything, at least they knew us personally, so maybe it was far easier to think about fucking us, then it was to think about fucking some little eighteen year old girl with her nose up in the air.

After finishing breakfast, the boys went back to their games, and I began to clean up the mess; it looked like five or six people had eaten as much as they had, but I did not mind. In a few years, I would be cooking just for myself and Andrew (when he stayed for breakfast), so I might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

The boys did have a point; it wasn't their fault they were both born late (in August and November), and got stuck finishing up school a little bit older than most of their classmates. Fault or no fault, it must make it rough for them- they were around pretty girls all day long, girls they could not approach without fear of consequence, and the few that were in school with them already had somebody older with money and vehicles. College would help, but they seemed content to stay in their virtual worlds for now.

After the last of the dishes were in the washer, I thought about what I was going to do the rest of the day; everyone else was busy, the house was clean, so I pretty much had an open day to myself. My mother had warned me about this- when the last of the children leaves, it is really boring and lonely being a housewife.

I decided to go to the gym; even if the boys noticed me more than my husband did, so what- I went to the gym for my own benefit, not the benefit of anyone else.

On Saturdays, the gym is usually crowded, and today was no exception; after changing into workout clothes, I was finally able to find a treadmill in the corner. I turned on my headphones and began sweating it out.

Normally, I keep a pretty steady pace, but today I felt invigorated; instead of my usual pace of a quick walk, I soon accelerated into an almost run, setting the machine for hills and valleys instead of the regular course.

Last night, I had one of the most intense orgasms I had in years; and while an orgasm is just a momentary thing, today I felt more energetic than I had in a long time.

My mind was still mulling over everything; even though the boys had apparently let the moment pass- they had not pursued me into the kitchen last night, nor had they even broached the subject over eggs and toast this morning- my own head kept turning over everything.

I had been sexually attracted not just to Durrell, but my son as well; although I was already wet and excited when Durrell took out his cock, it was when my son exposed himself- and came- that I had answered with my own release.

The question now wasn't what would happen- nothing had- but why I had been so turned on?

Maybe it was the taboo fact of mother son sexual fantasy, or maybe, like the boys, it was due to a lack of excitement in my own relationship with Andrew; yes, I was married, and I had a husband, but I didn't have the romance. With most men, romance is sex; with most women, sex is romance, and lately, I was as lacking as they were in that department.

I had never once cheated or done anything behind Andrews back; I hadn't ever considered it, and last night was the furthest I had ever gone in that respect. That step was only because of the randomness of the situation- if I hadn't been poking around in the dead of the night, then I would not have ever thought to even go that far.

And now, I still wasn't considering it, either; although I was bored, and my sex drive was way above that of my husband, I wasn't running this treadmill and thinking about actually fucking someone else.

Next to me, I noticed that the last person on that machine- a redhead of about sixty who was aggressive in her routine- had been replaced by a man; while it was less common to see men on the treadmills than women (men gravitated towards the weights), usually the men who utilized them were men along the lines of my husband.

This man, however, was not; he was shorter than average, but young, maybe twenty, and his college tank top clung to sweaty glistening muscles of his chest like the skin on a hot dog. His black hair almost glowed with perspiration, thick and overgrown like a vibrant jungle, and his calf muscles looked to be made of solid bronze. His ass was tight, masculine, a powerful muscular buttocks that could propel his cock deep into the flesh of any willing woman, and a quick peek at the front indicated that he had the right stuff to get that job done.

My eyes must have given me away, because he suddenly turned to me and said, “Good workout?”

“Yes,” I blushed- when I am caught, I always turn as red as a beet, “It is.”

“My name is Antonio,” he said, with an air of exaggerated mystery, “What’s yours?”

“Tabitha,” I said, trying to keep pace on my machine, as beads of sweat rolled not just from my brow, but from the warm cleft between my legs.

“Have to keep the legs in shape,” he muttered.

“Why's that?” I asked, making conversation with this stud.

“Well, legs are the wheels of the vehicle known as the body,” he said, and if he wasn't so damn attractive, his dorky line would have been laughable; but his looks allowed him to get away with a statement that would have earned lesser men a round of guffawing!

And they probably let him get into the pants of a lot of women, too.

“True,” I agreed, “So you go to college?”

“Yes,” he said, “You?”

“Don't be silly,” I said.

Even with his looks, that line was laughable!

“Why not?” Antonio said, “A lot of hot MILF's go to college now.”

“So I'm a MILF?” I laughed, “Putting it on thick, aren't you?”

“Of course,” Antonio said, “How else is there to put it on?”

“Very funny,” I said, “Why do you say I'm a MILF?”

“Your hair is beautiful, your smile draws me in, and your eyes are like cool water,” he said, not missing a beat.

He either is a gigolo, or he is a virgin, using lines like that!

“Oh really?” I said, playing along, (why not?), “But the rest of me is just so-so then?”

“Hell no,” he laughed back, “I just don't want to be crude.”

“Well, Antonio, I'm probably old enough to be your mother,” I said.

“And?” he retorted.

“I'm married,” I said, hoping that would end this conversation before I let it go too far. Flirting is one thing, but flirting too much can have its consequences!

“And?” he said, insisting, smiling as he did so.

“I mean, I'm happily married,” I said with finality.

“I know he must be happy, but are you?” he asked, intending to be rhetorical, though those words struck a little too close to home.

Not right now.

“I have to go,” I said, stopping my machine, and taking one last look at that nice ass of his- yes, it was nice.

“Later”, he said, returning to his workout.

Antonio was no teenager, so why was he coming onto me so strong?

If it was just a matter of availability, Antonio could have easily picked any girl up at that gym (who was single, or at least “available”); yet, the young Adonis had latched onto me as his pick.

Maybe it was more than availability, why my son and his best friend seemed to want me. Maybe they wanted ME because of how I looked, not just because I was there!

The one bad thing about the gym I go to, is there are only two showers in the ladies locker room, so instead of waiting, I decided to drive home. I was dripping with sweat, still a little excited and wound up from the work out (and from Antonio), and I was ready to get home quick.

When I pulled in front of the house, I noticed that Andrew was still not back; he was a key member of his work group, but usually, Saturdays were a half day. Oh well. I had a nice hot shower- no, a nice hot bath- planned then, and maybe I'd skip on cooking dinner tonight.

Entering the house, I almost announced myself as I always did, but at the last moment, the thought grabbed me, It's awful quiet in here.

Maybe the boys decided to go somewhere--- who am I kidding, they live on those damn games!

They apparently had not heard me drive up-- my car is electric, so a lot of people don't hear like they would a gas vehicle- but instead of the sounds of gunfire and artillery shells, punctuated with screaming and trash talk, I heard nothing as I walked in through the kitchen.

The living-room was empty; the two game controllers were tossed on the floor, next to a pizza box and an almost empty bottle of soda, hastily discarded.

They wouldn't be at it again, would they?

The clock said one; middle of the day. People will often do stuff at night they won't do in the day, but it was just past broad daylight- no way they would be watching that tape, not after being caught?

I'd better just go up to my bedroom and not look. I don't want to know.

Controlling my own prurient interests, I forced myself to walk up the stairs, instead of towards the den; I was not going to continue this with a repeat of last night, no I was not. They had let it go, and I was going to do the same thing.

As I reached the foot of the stairs, I heard them talking.

“Told you,” Durrell was saying, “All people have secrets- see?”

“See what?” Destin answered him.

See what indeed?

“This box,” Durrell continued, “I bet this is where your dad keeps pictures of your mom.”

Not possible; I have never been photographed nude. So good luck with that.

“No way,” Destin said, “My dad wouldn't have anything like that.”

“Well, let's find out,” Durrell said, “Oh, even better, look at this!”

“Yeah, what is it?” Destin asked.

“It's a dildo,” Durrell laughed, “Man, this is even better.”

They had found Jack!

I was embarrassed, I was enraged, and I was excited all at the same time; they were touching something that nobody else, but me, had touched, something that had been in my most private of places, and I should storm in there and straighten them out.

And do what? Make the situation even worse?

“Come on, Durrell,” Destin said, almost whining just like his father, “That's her private stuff. We should put it back and get out of here.”

Part of me wanted to thank my son for being such a gentleman- but part of me wanted to see (or at least hear) what happened next.

“Ok”, Durrell said, surprising me, “Hey, let's go downstairs and watch the rest of that video.”

“There is more?” Destin asked.

“Man, we only saw about half of it,” Durrell said, “Oh yes, there is more!”

“Your aunt is a freak,” Destin conceded, “Fuck it, why not?”

I quickly slipped into the hallway closet- just in the nick of time- as they left my room, and passed me by. They had been spying on me, prying into my most personal of possessions, but still, I felt like I was the guilty one.

What do you expect, you spied on them first!

“Hey, we should try and play it on the flat screen,” Durrell suggested as they walked by, oblivious to me standing less than a foot away.

“How can we do that?” Destin asked.

“Simple, just use a cable to hook the TV/ VCR into the new television,” he said, “Shouldn't take more than ten minutes.”

As they descended down the stairs, I knew I had a few short moments in which to make my decision.

What I should do was act like nothing had happened; go in my bedroom, lock the door, put Jack in a new hiding place, and take my bath. As amped up as I was, maybe I'd take Jack along; he wasn't as good as an actual cock, but he made a satisfactory substitute. Once the boys realized there were no pictures or anything else to find, this too would die down- or at least, I could pretend the whole episode was over.

What I wanted to do was go in my bedroom, wait for them to get the porno going on the flatscreen, and spy on them from the top of the stairs; I wanted to see the rest of that tape, and those two meaty young cocks again, and take Jack with me. If I stayed at the top of the stairs, I could watch them and not get caught.

As long as I don't get caught, who will know- it's not like I'm going to do anything more than what they are doing.

Once I was sure the coast was clear, I slipped quietly into my room, and took off my workout clothes.

They were almost soaked by sweat to the skin; I stunk like the gym, not the most attractive odor, and looking in the mirror, I looked like a woman who had just been rode hard and put away wet. No makeup, not even lipstick, my hair shiny and clinging to the nape of my neck, I looked like Antonio had just fucked me.

If he had just fucked me, I wouldn't be worried about Jack, now would I?

Taking off my sports bra, letting my breasts free, the relief of release feeling freeing, I began to slide off my black thong panties, when it hit me.

If I take a shower, they will hear the water; and then they will know I heard them. So what now?

The burning in my pussy was not going away any time soon, not without some attention; I did need to wash up, but being caught was not on the agenda. If they caught me spying on them a second time, there would be no more denial- to myself or them- that I was excited by what they were doing, and I didn't want to be forced into that situation.

If I watch them from the stairs, I will know when they “get done” and leave, and then I can slip around them; maybe they will take a shower or something after wards, and I can act like I just got home.

This was the only reasonable course of action.

I decided I better leave my thong on; just in case, I didn't want to be “caught naked”, and I grabbed my white bathrobe as well, throwing it over my shoulders. And then, slowly opening the door as to not make a sound, I waited.

It seemed like an hour before I finally heard the sound of talking coming from the television, but as soon as I did, I walked out of my bedroom and to the top of the stairs.

Destin sat on the left side of the couch, Durrell on the right; they kept some distance from each other, though it was clear the comfort level between them was much higher than it had been the night before. Both my son and his friend were completely naked, not even bothering to disguise or hide their nudity from each other, and on the screen, the movie was beginning again.

I could clearly see their fit young bodies from where I stood; Antonio had turned me on with his clothes on, but damn it, these two boys were naked, and while they were not yet hard, the sight of the two eighteen year olds already had me getting wet.

They don't even know you are here. Why were you worried?

“Where's the rest of it?” Destin asked suddenly, “All I see is a boating movie.”

“I'm telling you, there is more on here,” Durrell said, “This is a ninety minute tape, and we only saw about half of it.”

“How do you know what's on it?” Destin asked, “Have you seen it before?”

“No, but come on, why would my uncle tape Karla on the front of it, and some boating bullshit on the back of the tape?” Durrell said, “You think I just feeling like sitting here with my cock out for nothing?”

“We could skip it,” Destin suggested.

“Better not,” Durrell said, “Never know when the action will start.”

I couldn't really see the screen so well from where I was standing, and although the main attraction for me was right in front of me, I was interested in seeing the rest of the movie; I don't like watching anything halfway, I told myself, though part of me wanted to see exactly what Karla was going to do.

As quietly as I could, I moved down the stairs, with each step dreading the consequences of being caught; luckily, Destin and Durrell were so engrossed in waiting for the action on the flatscreen, that I moved unobserved.

“Here it is,” Durrell said, “It's beginning.”

On the screen, the lusty Karla was laid on a chaise lounge on the deck of what appeared to be a small yacht; the sexy mature brunette was dressed in a too-small gold and blue bikini, the top barely containing the mass of her lovely breast flesh.

“So why don't you tell us about yourself?” her husband, ever the narrator, intoned.

“Don't be ridiculous, honey,” she said, laughing, her finger twirling a loose strand of her brown hair, “I thought you didn't want to be a professional.”

“Well, if you want to be a professional, you have to work at it,” said her husband, with an air of seriousness, “Of course, it's easy for you to work at what your good at... What is it your good at?”

“Sex,” Karla answered, rolling her eyes.

“Please explain,” he said in the same business tone.

“Don't be silly,” she said, “Fine, okay. I like to suck cock, I like to get fucked, and I like cum.”

“You like cum?” he asked, “How much cum do you like?”

“As much as I can get,” she said, “I love the taste of it, the smell of it.. I like to swallow it, and have it dripping out of my mouth.”

“Oh yes,” he said, “I bet you want to suck some cock right now.”

“I do,” she said, licking her lips, “I really do. Come here and I'll show you, honey.”

“Well, I've got a better idea,” he said, “I know you’re a slut.”

“I'm not a slut,” she said, though by her tone, it was clear even she knew that was a lie.

“How many guys have you fucked, Karla?” he asked.

“Oh, I don't know,” she said, coyly, “A few.”

“A few dozen?” he asked, “Tell everyone, they want to know.”

“Well, about a hundred I think,” she said, “Maybe a few more.”

“I bet,” he said, “How many since you married me?”

“Just you, honey,” Karla said, as her hands began to palm the underside of her breasts, “Just you.”

“But I bet you'd like some more cock,” he challenged, “Some fresh cock.”

“I'm a married woman,” she said, “Wives aren't supposed to fuck other men.”

“Sluts fuck men,” he said, “Lots of men.”

“Why don't you let me suck that cock, honey?” she asked, “I'm hungry.”

“Close your eyes baby,” he said, “No peeking.”

She smiled, but then she did as she was told, and shut her eyes tight. The camera focused on her for a moment- apparently, this second video was better than the first in quality. Either they had purchased a better camera, or at least he had learned how to use the one they had.

“I'm waiting,” she said, after a moment.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, “I want some cock.”

Just then, from the right side of the screen, a man entered.

I couldn't see his face, just his body from the neck down; he was pale in complexion, smooth, with no chest hair and only some very thin wisps of hair under his arms. He was thin, but not scrawny, and from the look of him, he appeared to have the build of a younger man.

The man approached the mature brunette, and without further ado, he slid his black swim trunks down, just past his cock. His manhood was already turgid, erect, and while not as impressive as what lay between the legs of my young son or his best friend, was still a decent piece of man meat.

Sliding over to Karla, he moved the head of his dick across her lips, and she gladly opened her mouth, taking him into it. She began to suck, slowly at first, tasting the cock like she was tasting a new flavor of wine, and satisfied with what she found apparently, soon she had him completely in her mouth. She worked her mouth up and down, up and down the shaft, and while the face of her paramour was not visible, he placed his hands onto her shoulders, holding on for dear life.

“Told you,” Durrell said, his hand lazily beginning to stroke his own dick into life; my son likewise was sporting an engorged member, though he was more concentrated on touching his balls than he was the shaft.

I had opened the front of my robe, and my own hands had delved into the cleft of flesh between my legs, my left hand finding my warm wetness, and my right hand squeezing the flesh of my left breast, rolling the nipple between my fingers; I had to be careful not to cum too quickly, or too loudly as I had last night- that loss of control is what alerted the boys to my whereabouts.

In the daylight, their cocks were even more impressive- two turgid young joysticks that demanded to be touched, to be sucked by the mouth of a woman, and I licked my lips at the thought.

You want those cocks, don't you, Tabitha?

Yes I did; just as much as, in a perfect world, I would have took Antonio off of that machine and proceeded to pull down those shorts of his and suck his dick right then and there, I wanted to play with those cocks.

I want Durrell's cock.... And I want my son's cock, too.

On screen, Karla's partner had pulled his cock out of her mouth, and his hand was stroking the base of it; he appeared to be struggling not to cum from her erstwhile ministrations.

“How did you like that cock?” asked her husband, the narrator.

Karla, breaking the rules as they were, opened her eyes, and a look of shock betook her face; she simply said, “Holy fuck.”

“Go ahead, baby, make him cum, you know you want to,” directed her husband.

“I- I don't,” she stammered, her air of confidence temporarily misplaced, just like my own had been last night.

“Yes you do,” her husband said, “You know you do.”

“But- but he's our son,” Karla said, still unsure; despite her surprise, she did not draw back from the dick of the young man in front of her, nor did she make any attempt to stop the proceedings.

“And you want his dick,” her husband said, “Go ahead, get it.”

Holy fuck was right- she had just sucked her son's cock!!!!

This was no longer just the implied fantasies of porn queens and poorly written scripts, where twenty five year old starlets pretended to be the “mommy” of men their own age- this was not just the stories of psychology books, where middle aged men related their problems to their counselor (who then wrote them down and sold them to the highest bidder). This was an actual fact, an event right in front of me, that was as undeniable as income tax!