I Couldn't Stop
I’ve always been a very sexual person. Even as a young girl, I was curious, touching myself, exploring my body in secret, always craving more than what was considered "appropriate." When I met my husband, I thought I had found the perfect match. He was attentive, passionate, and our sex life was active and fulfilling. We had a great marriage, full of love, laughter, and desire. But there was always something missing, a hunger that never quite went away, no matter how many times he made me cum.
I guess I've always been a cheater, have that need inside me for extra, different, forbidden cock, but mostly I've managed to control it. I cheated on my husband a number of times, while dating, while engaged, while married, just a few times here and there, not too bad considering the *need* inside me and the chances, invitations, propositions I had.
Then we had a son. I worked at being a good mother and wife, caring for our family as best I could. Of course I did slip up here and there, once or twice a year, I wasn't a saint. The need inside me hadn't magically disappeared, and honestly it was quite easy to do and get away with. My husband oblivious to what I do during the day as while he is at work. Not enough to be a problem, but just barely enough to keep the need manageable.
Then things changed a bit. My son was older, and it was very difficult to take care of things with an eager cock, with less time to myself. Much more difficult, not impossible.
It started innocently enough. I knew it was time for "the talk." But I didn’t want to make it awkward or clinical like every parent does. I wanted him to understand that sex and sexual play wasn’t something to be ashamed of. Maybe it was the exhibitionist in me, or maybe I just wanted to be the kind of mother I never had, open, honest, unafraid.
One afternoon, I caught him in his room, his hand down his pants, a nudie magazine splayed open on his bed. My husband’s old stash, no doubt. Instead of scolding him, I smiled and told him not to worry, that it was natural. The relief in his eyes was real.
I glanced at the page he was looking at, some hot, airbrushed bimbo with huge tits and pouty lips, quite sexy. I laughed and said, "Real women don’t look like that, you know. All that magic makeup and airbrushing…", almost feeling insecure about my appearance, my small tits and skinny legs. But then he looked up at me, his voice soft but certain: "but you're prettier than any of them" his eyes flicking to my tits, and my tummy.
My heart skipped. My cheeks flushed. I should have ignored it and walked away. But I didn’t.
From that moment on, I made a point of being more open about my body around him. I’d walk around in just a t-shirt and panties, or a robe that didn’t quite cover everything, a pronounced bounce in my step making my unencumbered tits jiggle and my little ass undulate. I told myself it was about normalizing the female body, the *human* body, about making him comfortable. But the truth? I liked the way his eyes lingered on me. I liked the way he’d glance away when I caught him looking, only to steal another peek when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.
Slowly he became more comfortable and less shy about erections and masturbation, more and more often I caught him playing with his cock, and soon he would keep going even if he was caught, saw me watching. In no time he was even leaving the bedroom and bathroom doors open while jerking off. I would just smile and joke "have fun" or "don't break that thing", letting him know it was just fine with me.
One evening, he was on the couch, absentmindedly touching himself through his pants while watching TV. I was feeling particularly horny that day when I sat down beside him, my skirt riding up just enough to tease. His cock was hard, tenting his sweatpants, and I could see he was slightly nervous with me sitting so close.
"Need some help?" I asked, my voice soft, my fingers already reaching for him. He froze, his eyes wide, like a deer in headlights. But he *didn’t* say no.
I wrapped my hand around his young cock, feeling the heat of him, the way it twitched under my touch. It was smaller than my husband’s, of course, but so hard, so eager. I stroked him slowly, pretending this was just another lesson, another way to show him that his body was nothing to be ashamed of.
But the way he moaned, the way his hips jerked when he orgasmed, dry, but his whole body trembling, sent a rush of heat between my legs. I had to excuse myself to my room, leaving the door open just in case he wanted to watch (or maybe I wanted him to) but he didn’t follow me *that* day.
The real turning point was when I caught him watching me after a shower.
The bathroom door was open wider than I’d left it. I stepped out, a towel wrapped loosely around me, and there he was, sitting on his bed, his hand moving furiously under the blankets,cheeks flushed.
I could have scolded him. I could have covered up.
