I couldn't believe it. I simply couldn't believe it. Alison and I had been married six months. Life was almost too good to be true. We had our MBA's. We'd received huge bonuses and were working on trading desks at two of the largest firms in the world. And we had bought our hideaway. Not some trophy case in the Hamptons, mind you, but an A-frame in the mountains - with a trout stream, near skiing, and away from all of civilization, so that we could spend our time there naked and fucking. Which we did. Every weekend - when we could. Naked. Fucking. Like animals. Until our jobs came along, and suddenly we met for pasta and cereal, at breakfast and dinner.
And, again, until Alison and her brilliant idea came along. "Honey, I really think our moms should get to know one another," she said over breakfast in bed one morning in July. I put aside my Total. I knew this was a bad idea. My mom and Alison's were cut of the same cloth. Indeed, so were Alison and I. We were both raised by our moms after our dads had fled, and our moms both turned out to be wildly successful traders - Mine in NY in the bond business, Alison's in Chicago in the trading pits. Somehow, Alison and I met at Tuck, and we fucked our way through B-school.
This could not be good. "Sweetie," I pleaded, "we never have any time alone. And our moms can't help but be competitive. And worst of all," I added, "the walls will have ears."
"Honey, I have it all planned." Alison planted a big wet smooch on me, one wet enough to leave me bewildered. "I guarantee this is going to be the week of your life."
We had one week off together. And our week was going to be with our mothers.
It was the week before Labor Day weekend. Our intention had been to stretch the week out. Alison and I drove our mothers - Leslie, her mom, and Kathryn, mine - up to the fuckfest house, as I liked to call it when Alison and I were there alone. Not much was said on the ride up. Leslie was tired from her flight and sat stonefaced, her red hair, the same color as Alison's, perfect and unmoving. Likewise, Kathryn, a New York suburban bottle blonde of fifty years, was unresponsive to conversation and reading the Journal. I was steeling myself. However, as I pulled into the driveway, Alison flipped her gorgeous head of red hair, squeezed my groin and said, "Trust me. You've always wanted to watch me eat pussy, haven't you? Now's your chance." I was now officially flummoxed.
When we arrived inside, we ordered a pizza, ate it, and turned in. In bed, Alison forced my head between her thighs, yelling, " suck my cunt; Jesus, my clit; suck it, suck it." As is our custom, I did as I was told, languishing in her totally beautiful, red furred pussy. For good measure, and because I loved to do it, I tongued her fuckhole like a loyal pup. Alison almost smothered me as she came all over my face. We curled up and cuddled as we fell asleep.
The next morning, Alison sent me out to a "local" bakery eight miles away for croissants and Danish. When I returned, the coffee was made, and we sat down with our moms to a quiet breakfast. Sunday morning was evolving uneventfully. It must have been 10:30 or 11:00 when Alison announced, "Ladies, in this house, we brunch. Which means Bloody Marys or screwdrivers. I'm taking orders." Astoundingly, Kathryn spoke up first.
"Finally," she said. "An ice breaker. Make it a screwdriver. And don't waste any unnecessary orange juice."
Leslie looked at my mom. "Bloody Mary. Extra vodka. Extra tobasco."
Alison made the drinks. She knew I loved Bloody Marys, and made mine especially strong. She had a screwdriver. I wondered how strong the other drinks were. It didn't take me long to find out.
"Allie, honey, I have a question - I hope it's not too personal," Leslie said. At that moment, as I awaited a freshening of my own drink, I looked at Leslie - and, guiltily, my own mother - and realized they were both attractively dressed in the same manner. Each wore shorts and tank tops, and, for the first time in my mother's life, as far as I could recall, no bras to reveal large, pendulous breasts. My mom, Kathryn, smirked as Leslie asked the question.
"What is it?" Alison asked.
"Well, last night, I couldn't help but overhear you two. And frankly, you were screaming like a banshee, Allie," Leslie stated in what I thought was an overblown Chicago accent. My mom giggled. "I'm sorry, I thought I was the only one who heard," she chimed in.
"So what is it?" Leslie asked. "Is he a stud, or was he removing your appendix?"
At this point I must describe Alison. Demure, almost diminutive, and the most perfect body. Along with the greatest mind I've ever encountered. In short, if she hadn't married me, I would have volunteered to eat kibbles 'n bits in a corner of her kitchen just to be near her. I also knew that she knew my weak spots. I started to see what was coming.
"Well, if the truth be told, mommie dearest, Jack eats pussy. My pussy. Whenever and wherever I ask - or tell him to. What you heard last night was Jack eating my pussy. He does it all the time. And I don't even have to fuck him in return, although I do, because he has this curved dick that's great for slow doggy style fucking." Alison took a long sip of her screwdriver to measure the response of her audience.
