To readers whose preference is to read instant sexual activity, I'm sorry to disappoint you.
Thanks to editor Norm.
***
My name is Christine. I am a 41-year-old wife and mother. If they were asked about it, people who know our family and me would probably call me a prim and proper wife. I'm cultured, moral, modest, wholesome, virtuous ... in a word, chaste. And that is the kind of woman I have tried to be for most of my life. They call me such because I do not miss going to church on Sundays and other days of obligation; and more so, because I have made the virtues of purity and propriety as unwritten rules to be carefully honored, at home and in the community. The truth is that decency and being a virtuous woman with high morals really does matter to me; these really are things that I care about.
On a scale of 1-10, it appears that most men and women who know me rate my sexual attractiveness as about a '7'. No matter, the fact is that I do take care to dress appropriately and act demurely, as a proper woman should.
I stand 5 feet 7 inches tall; weigh 128 lbs, brown-haired and blue-eyed. And I have been blessed further with smooth skin and a well-formed figure. The nature of my bosom is such that it is rather difficult to downplay.
I'm so proud of my son, a handsome young teenager named Albert. He's a polite, courteous kid whose good manners he'd obviously inherited from his mother. (Forgive my prideful slip.) He is 18. Still, the big growth spurt with that age hasn't hit him yet. He still stands at only about 5' 7" tall. That does make him not an inch taller than me yet. He has a very sweet personality, very thoughtful, and amazingly mature and discreet, far beyond his years; and he's dark-haired and blue-eyed, too, like his mother.
My husband Mark is a good family man and provider and not bad in bed, or was anyway. Suffice it to say that we are a happy family with a nice house living in a relatively comfortable community.
There is one thing I have to say. Just because a wife is doing her best to be a woman of virtue does not make her a living saint as some people may think. Inside the Sunday dress she wears is a typical woman, with needs and sexual fantasies too. To remain prim and proper though she keeps her physical expressions under the tightest possible control, but not necessarily her private fantasies.
And so here I am, a role model wife and mother, or so they say. No one in the neighborhood would ever suspect me of visiting erotic sites in the Internet, like Literotica.com, but I do of course, only when no one is watching. I must maintain my standing with the community.
* * *
One recent morning while I was cleaning my son's room, putting in order his disorderly stuff, I saw a white full-length cotton robe underneath his sheets. It was my robe. I was puzzled. How did that get here? I remember putting the gown in the laundry hamper the night before. And why in the world would it be in here anyway? Not suspecting anything further, I took it with me to the hamper to await the next washing.
I would have dismissed the discovery altogether if not for another one. Soon after, on another morning, I once more found a full-length silk robe of mine in his room, this time my pink one. That was the one I'd just slipped out from just about an hour earlier, before my son left.
I didn't take it with me to the hamper just yet this time but decided instead to ask my son later what on earth he wanted from my used private clothing. I decided to try to learn a bit more about this first just the same.
When he came home late afternoon, I allowed him to get some rest for some time before carrying out my planned "offensive." I would need to catch him, however, so to speak, before he could return the housecoat to my hamper. And to that, I remained vigilant watching his bedroom door.
The time for my "offensive" came. As a pre-emptive act, I didn't knock at his door when I entered his room. That was a mistake. Was I ever in for the shock of my life.
The scene was stunning, to say the least! What I saw was not for the hypertensive or the weak of heart. My handsomely gorgeous teen-aged son was lying on his bed masturbating, his mother's long robe covering his naked body. The scene looked like he was trying to heighten his sexual climax by carefully devouring every square inch of the gown, appearance, touch, scent, everything.
I managed to utter a quick apology before withdrawing and hurriedly closed the door, stunned and breathless.
My mind was awhirl, my legs quivering and about to buckle. I felt so weak that I had to hold on to something to keep upright. If my clothing were not involved, I would have been a good deal less stunned over what I'd just seen. Or at least, I thought it was reasonable enough to handle it satisfactorily, even if it was well outside of what I considered appropriate boundaries.
In any case, however, I immediately made the missing connection. It could only mean that my son was harboring sexual fantasies towards his mother. He was apparently making his mother's recently used clothing into a fetish of some sort, directing his sexual energy to it and to the traces of his mother on it, her scent and body heat. And as far as I was concerned then, it was wrong!
I began rehearsing a dialogue on how to talk about it with my son. As I did, it flashed into my mind that he might have thought I failed to recognize my clothing anyway. And so, I decided not to talk about it for the time being.
Masturbation is held, after all, in the general public's mind, to be a normal thing, especially for adults anyway whether male or female. Therefore, there need not be a fuss about it. Chidingly, I reminded myself, I even do it myself, for heaven's sake.
Come dinner time, Albert told us he'd come down later. Obviously, to avoid embarrassment was the reason behind it.
The next day, when I was about to do the laundry, my pink robe was back at the hamper, with additions. The stains of my son's ejaculations were there for me to see and touch.
A sudden sexual tingling enveloped my body. The thought of my son ejaculating in my just taken off private clothing, my body heat and scent still in it was, to my mind, very sexy. I abandoned the laundry stuff and soon found myself in my bed, wrapped in the unwashed, long robe that my son had sprayed with his potent sperms the night before, participating in a very private, sensual behavior.
The touch of the silk was erotic. It seemed now as if I could feel the intensity of my son's youthful passion as he'd heatedly ravished my article of private clothing. For myself, I began masturbating in the same unwashed gown as hotly as my son had probably done, if not more so.
Spreading and writhing obscenely, my robed body began to perspire as my fingers neared my pussy. My mouth opened and expelled a loud gasp as my finger touched lightly against the wet flesh along my clitoris.
Using my finger, I made rhythmic in and out strokes while my left hand wandered up beneath my robe playing with my erect nipples.
My thighs began to tremble, tightening and untightening as my steadily probing finger drove me to still higher states of arousal.
When my heated body was about to explode my legs straightened and spread further apart, curling my toes and feeling the silky robe tease my thighs and calves into sensual awareness.
"My God! I'm... I'm...coming...almost there...Oohhhhh!"
When I exploded, my quivering ass rose up in the air. I must have remained jerking about like that for a full minute as I crossed the peak of one of the most ecstatic orgasms ever to hit my body.
When my ass finally fell back to bed, my body wouldn't stop jerking. My ass continued to shake, my crack spasming with sensual aftershocks.
***
I felt guilty when it was over, very guilty. I knew so well that two wrongs do not make a right. Yet I had done it, the second wrong. For hours, my prim and proper self couldn't fathom the reason why, nor was it very pleased with me.
Because guilt and sexual spasms lorded it over my mind and body I failed to do the laundry that day. I decided to do the washing the next day.
