Incest/Taboo Charlottesville High School

This was not a good day for me to spend time with Marisa Pappan's art. Her work was passionate and powerful, even the non-erotic stuff was erotic, and I was already a walking bundle of sexual energy. Amy, my son's girlfriend, was dancing the adagio from Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade as the finale of her ballet school's senior recital. Amy was good; not, as I had been, professional material, but good. On the other hand Robert Jones, her partner in the dance, couldn't wait until it was over. He'd grown to detest ballet, an activity his overbearing mother had foisted on him. He had no interest in rehearsing and Amy wanted to do a first rate job; this might be the biggest stage on which she'd ever perform. She'd prevailed on me to practice with her.

The problem? Scheherazade is the most sensual ballet there is. A little background might help you understand my situation.

I'd been a prodigy, moving from Charlottesville to New York in my teens to be tutored by Samuel Johnson, among the best teachers and most powerful figures in ballet. He and I would practice for hours, I'd become wildly aroused - the passion of my dancing was among its most striking attributes - and we ended up in bed. I was naive, knew little about birth control, and expected this older wiser man to let me know what to do. He didn't; I got pregnant. He wanted me to abort the child; I decided to keep it.

He fulfilled his financial obligations to me and the child, but no others. Thin and having health problems, I had to leave school during the third trimester. When I reapplied I was turned down. I was also rejected by the other leading schools. Sam Johnson wanted no reminder of his indiscretion; I'd been black-balled.

That's when Florence Henson called. She'd been a celebrated dancer; now she was a persistent critic of the ballet establishment. She'd heard what happened and offered to teach me. We danced together, we fell in love, and while I made great strides, I still couldn't find a spot with any of the leading companies. Sam Johnson's influence was simply too great.

Then I was summoned by Beverly Clearly, every bit as important and even more imperious than Sam Johnson. She told me with my ability and her connections she could get me a position with the New York Ballet, but there was a condition: I could not longer work with Florence, whom Beverly detested. My ambition won out over my heart. I accepted her offer, then took the coward's way out, telling Florence over dinner at a crowded restaurant, pretending we would survive my betrayal, knowing we wouldn't, and sacrificing the only true love affair of my life

I was with the New York Ballet, at the top of the food chain and, for the first time since I'd moved to New York, unattached. It was a wild time. My dancing kept me in a constant state of arousal; I was surrounded by beautiful people unabashedly celebrating their physicality. I became a sexual carnivore: women, men, groups, a mother and daughter, a father and son. I had them all. And then, during my second year with the Ballet, I shredded my knee; I'd never dance at this level again. I was yesterday's news.

I returned to Virginia, went to college, now I was the Assistant Principal at Charlottesville High. Since leaving New York I had some pleasant long term dating relationships with perfectly decent men who did most everything for me but make love the way I craved. I also had a few short term crazy flings with wholly unreliable younger guys or married men who screwed me silly, but even then, it'd been awhile.

And now every day I was dancing with my son's girlfriend. And if I haven't been clear, dancing arouses me, it wildly arouses me. Amy was beautiful; Amy was sensual, and while they were discreet, it was clear she and my son had an active happy sex life - yes, we'd had the birth control discussion. I also suspected that dancing turned her on as much as it did me; I could feel it whenever her body moved against mine. I was a walking mass of concupiscent desire. No, Marisa's art was definitely not what I needed to see right before heading home to dance with Amy. Thank god, I thought, the recital was only two days away. Thank god for my dildo, vibrator, and butt plug.
​

* * * *​

I got home, considered bringing myself off, but there wasn't be time. I had just changed into a two piece black leotard when Amy rang the bell. I opened the door. Amy was dressed as I; it was, in fact, like looking at a picture of my eighteen year old self.

People constantly commented on our resemblance. I was five feet tall, she four feet eleven inches. We were both slight of build, had dark skin, round faces, small features, olive eyes, and dark brown, almost black, straight hair. Hers, as had mine in my teenaged years, cascaded past her shoulders; I now trimmed mine to shoulder length.

She gave me a hug and thanked me for the thousandth time for working with her. We planned the routine, then stretched. I was stiff; I had danced more in the last couple of weeks than I had in years. Happily, tomorrow would be our final rehearsal, then I could give my body some time off.

Scheherazade is unapologetically sensual; to dance it properly you have to embrace those feelings in yourself. I was dancing King Shahryar, Amy Scheherazade, and I quickly lost myself in the role, imagining myself intertwined, falling in love with the sensual slave-girl Scheherazade. We danced; I held her body to mine, ran my hands across her frame. We straddled each other, pressed our bodies together. I pulled her face to mine, our lips brushed in a kiss. I felt the warmth of her skin. I'd started the dance turned on and, minute by minute, it grew ever more intense. Then my attention wavered for a second - I thought about the vibrator waiting in my bedroom - and didn't plant my foot properly. There was a slight cramp in my leg. Amy noticed, but I kept dancing and she did also. We finished a few minutes later.

Amy hugged me and in a voice filled with genuine concern said, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, felt a little twinge in my calf. Just a cramp. It happens sometimes."

She gestured to the couch. "Why don't you sit down. I'll get some water."

She returned, handed me a bottle of water, sat on the end of the couch, moved my leg onto her lap, ran her fingertips along it, applied pressure, palpitated the muscle.

"I'm so sorry; I feel terrible."

"Don't blame yourself, its not your fault. It happens sometimes, I still favor the knee. That old ballet injury still haunts me."

"Yeah, that must have been so horrible, you were so good."

Her voice was certain; it wasn't an empty compliment. But Amy had never seen me dance.

"Thanks, but you were in diapers."

She had that look on her face, like yep, I goofed. "You gotta promise not to tell."

"Okay."

Bart and I have been looking for videos of you dancing. It's taken some doing, but we found some. We've watched them together. You were magnificent. We're having them transferred to a disc to give you for Christmas."

I was genuinely touched, and curious. I had not watched myself in years

"I had no idea, that is so kind."

She made a face.

I said, "Don't worry; I'll keep the secret and act totally surprised."

Her fingers kept working my leg. When I started to tell her she didn't need to do this, she shushed me, said she wanted to help, that she felt responsible. And she knew what she was doing. She found the right spots and worked on the knots with surprisingly strong fingers.

"Feels so good."

"Thank you, it helps having a Dad who's a physical therapist."

We grew quiet. I focused on her hands. The remnants of the cramp disappeared, she worked my leg for another minute or two. I knew she and my son were sexually active and thought lucky boy, this young lady knows how to touch. I closed my eyes, was breathing rhythmically, when she stopped - it seemed abrupt - and said, "How do you feel?"

Sucking my bottom lip into my mouth, I stretched, then flexed my leg. "You're amazing, all better."

"Thanks, but you're the amazing one. You've given me so much of your time. And about what I said earlier, I mean you're still a wonderful dancer. Still, when I watch the videos of you before the injury it makes me sad to think how your career was cut short, how the world was deprived of your talent."

I teased. "Thank you dear. It warms the heart of an old lady to hear she's admired by the young."

She laughed and in a conspiratorial tone said, "Would you like to see one of them?"

I checked the clock. While I still had an appointment with my vibrator, Bart would not be home for several hours; the administrative work I'd brought with me could wait.

"Sure."

I went to the kitchen, poured a glass of wine for me, one of water for her, and joined Amy in the entertainment room. She loaded the video into our home system, fiddled with the remote, and there I was, at her age, dancing Swan Lake, the quality of the video surprisingly good.

She sat next to me, cuddling against my side, holding my leg across her lap, softly kneading where the cramp had been. After our dancing the physical intimacy seemed natural; I draped an arm across her shoulder and watched the screen in utter fascination, traveling back in time. People were right; I'd looked just like Amy at that age and the longer I watched the more I recalled, re-lived might be more accurate, my joy in the dance, the way it pushed me to the edge of my capability, how my body became a finely tuned instrument, how I attained an emotional euphoria, became a vibrating mass of sexual energy.

It ended and I looked at Amy. It had had much the same effect on her as it had on me. Her pupils were dilated, her skin flushed, her mouth half open. I studied her face, compared it to the one on the screen: same shape, same small mouth and thin lips, same color eyes.

She noticed me studying her. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes, sorry to stare, I was just thinking how much I looked like you."

"Yeah, everyone always commenting on it. They tease Bart and me, say it's like he's dating his mother, but he doesn't mind. He thinks you're beautiful and sexy. And as for me, well, I agree with your son. Looking like you, that's an amazing compliment, you're graceful and magnificent, and," a sly tone crept into her voice, "hot."

Then she dropped her voice, as if sharing a secret. "In fact, it was after Bart and I watched the videos that I decided to grow my hair out longer, so I'd look more like you at that age."

She snuggled up to me. "I just wish I had your talent. I have a partial recording of you dancing Scheherazade. Do you want to see it?'

Dumbly, I nodded yes. My son and his girlfriend discussed my looks? My son thought I was sexy? His girlfriend thought I was hot? She actually emulated my appearance? He approved?

I watched her load the video. Her butt could have been molded from mine. She returned, snuggled against me. The video started.

I watched, recalling the performance: the dance, the crowd's applause, the New York Times saying I'd fully realized the sensuality of the role, how turned on I was through it all. I remembered sneaking away from the after-party to fuck the male lead in my dressing room, then the two of us after the party, at his place, making ferocious love, not stopping until the sun was over the horizon.

On screen my body was pressed to his body; off screen my sex pulsated in time with the music. Amy pressed close to me, took my hand in hers, ran her fingers over my palm, her eyes on the screen, said, "Gosh, look at you, you're amazing, so sexy."

I croaked out a thank you; my nipples were hard.

When the video ended Amy hugged me, told me how great I was, got up, turned it off, turned back to me. Her breasts were outlined in her top; her erect nipples, like mine, on display, clearly outlined in her top; her face was flushed, her breathing deep.

"You're such a sexy woman Jessica. And you've been so kind to help me like you have."

She put her hands on the back of the couch, one on either side of my head, and kissed my mouth. Just a peck.

I didn't pull away

Her face inches from mine, she whispered, "Thank you."

My voice husky. "You're welcome."

She touched my cheek. My heart thumped in my chest. She kissed my neck, kissed up towards my ear. I was on fire. The entire evening: dancing with her, watching myself dance, learning that my son, and his girlfriend, thought I was beautiful, that they were not only conscious of her resemblance to me, but actively imitated my appearance, it all merged into a fiery gumbo between my legs.

I had to get control of myself: Amy was a student, she was my son's girlfriend.

Amy's mouth reached my right ear. She took the lobe between her lips; I felt her warm breath. She captured the lobe of my left ear between two fingers, tugged on it, whispered, "I love dancing with you. Your talented and graceful and sexy. And, y'know, it turns me on. And then, when were moving together, sometimes it seems like you feel the same way, that you're becoming aroused."

The hand on my ear went to my chin, turned my face towards her. She said, Am I right?" I dropped my eyes, not daring to answer the question.

She tilted my head back up; I raised my eyes, looked into hers. The fight was draining from me. She said, "I want you," brought her lips to mine, kissed me. Her hand went to the back of my head, held me in place. Her tongue ran along my mouth; my belly did flip-flops.

I should stop this. She was a student. She dated my son.

"Amy, you're Bart's..."

She placed her hands on the back of the couch, moved forward, dropped to her knees, straddling one of my legs. She pressed her body to mine. My sentence ground to a halt. She brought her lips to my ear.

"It's okay, I told him I want you, he said I should go for it. He knows you're a sexual being. He understands how much freedom you gave up when you came back home to raise him. He knows you deserve more, he knows how good I can make you feel."

Was all this true? Had Amy and Bart discussed my sexuality? Had Amy confessed a desire for me? Had Bart given his approval?

And then I was thinking about Florence and I making love, then about my son and Amy doing the same, getting hotter by the second. My body was betraying me.

Amy kissed my ear, my cheek, along my jaw line, back to the corner of my mouth. When she reached my lips I finally responded to her.

"Is that true? You told Barton you wanted me? He said it was fine?"

"Of course. Why are you surprised? He cares about you, wants what's best for you. You're a beautiful sexy woman. He knows you gave up so much of your personal life to make him the priority. And now that he's become a man, that he and I are lovers, he recognizes your sexual side, how you sacrificed that for him."

And, after a pause, she added, "He, I, we know about Florence."

"How?"

She ran a finger down my body. It felt good. "He found some letters in a bundle in the attic. He says they're pretty steamy. We contacted her; she's the one who had the videos."

I remembered the letters; I'd thought I'd lost them. Weakly, knowing I'd have done the same, I said, "He shouldn't read other peoples mail."

Amy smiled, said, "He understands; he's willing to be grounded," and kissed my lips. My sex was a steam room and memories of Florence, Amy's body against mine, our dance, the knowledge that my son saw me as a sexual being; the walls were crumbling. I offered no resistance when Amy kissed me again my lips parted, her tongue was in my mouth.

Amy buried her hands in my hair, pulled me close. I tried to catch my breath, to claim some control, but Amy was having none of it. Increasingly confident, she held me to her and her hand slipped under my leotard, moved to my breast. I flushed, aching for her touch. My mind may have been muddled, but my body was focused, my pussy was warm wet hungry. Amy kissed my lips, my cheeks, my neck. She brought my hand to her face and kissed my fingertips. I moaned and Amy released my breast. Her hand slid down my body - her touch knowing and sweet - to stroke the inside of my thighs. A finger brushed the outline of my pussy, then pushed a little harder. I trembled and she closed her hand over my pussy lips, squeezed. I spread my legs wider.

Her touch was gentle and exquisite, her tongue soft and supple. I leaned back, eyes closed, immersed in the sensations. Her hand left my sex; she peeled off her top, tossed it aside. Her breasts, like mine, were small firm pert, the areolas slightly raised, the nipples brown. She leaned forward, kissed a nipple through my shirt, and slipped a hand inside my bottoms.

I reached for her hips, held her in place, jostled my leg, increased the pressure on her groin. I could feel her wet sex though our leotards. She wore no underwear.

Amy smiled. This had been my first overt act in our love-making; the needs of my body had overcome the reservations of my mind. I leaned forward; our lips met; I slipped my tongue inside her mouth. I was ready to make love to one of my students, to my son's girlfriend.

Amy ended our intense, if all too short, kiss, stood, took hold of my shirt. I raised my arms; she pulled it off me, then sat back down, straddling my leg. Taking firm hold of the arm rests she slid her pussy on my leg, rested it on my knee, and leaned forward, mouth open, and covered my right breast, tapping the brown nipple with the tip of her tongue, then licking with the flat of her tongue. I stroked the back of her head, told her she was wonderful. She took my sensitive nipple between her lips and, gently, sucked and licked, then grazed it with her teeth; she gave the other breast the same treatment.

As she sucked on my breasts Amy slid up and down my leg, then humped herself on my knee. I raised my leg on my toes, forcing my knee between her pussy lips. Her mouth moved from breast to breast, but her licks and sucks grew wilder, less co-ordinated, oft interrupted by moans of sensual delight. I reached for chest, fondled her breasts; her nipples were hard and warm.

Amy groaned, savoring the orgasm building within her. Her movements got jerkier, she bucked her hips against my knee. She sat back up, leaving my breasts covered with her spittle, and put her hands on my shoulders, bracing herself and increasing the speed and force of her movements on my leg. Her jaw tightened, her head dropped forward and rested on my forehead; she fucked herself on my leg.

I worked her breasts, my thumbs rubbed her sensitive nipples; I held my knee firmly to her groin. Amy, taking a hand from my shoulder, reached for her clit, frigged herself at a blistering pace.

She told me it started with a tingling in her legs, arms, and stomach which spread through her body in a feeling of divine blissful warmth. Then, suddenly, as if falling from a cliff, she went rigid, a small hard orgasm smacked into her. The tingling returned, but now it was focused between her legs, and then it all let go, like an exploding balloon, the impact ricocheting through her body.

"OOhhhh, Mmmmm, yessss, nnnnhhhhhhhh."

Warm waves of energy cascaded through her. Her juice soaked her leotard, seeped into mine. She shook, moaned, fell into my arms. I held her and she quivered; waves of pleasure ran through her body. She shuddered one last time and slumped against me; quietly murmuring in delight. I held her, she turned her head on my shoulder, we shared a soft kiss. Her eyes were happy, she smiled, snuggled up to me and after awhile whispered in my ear, "Your turn."

She stood, offered me her hand, helped me up; we stood toe to toe. She hooked a finger into my leotard, knelt, dragged it down with her, kissed my damp panties. I stepped out of the bottoms. She stood, pulled her leotard pants over her butt, turned around, looked over her shoulder at me, winked, laughed and shook her ass. She turned back around and pulled her bottoms off, making sure I saw them cling to her wet pussy.

I was frozen in place by this wanton display, unable to take my eyes off her. Amy touched my shoulder, then her hand drifted down my body, came to my sex, slid under my panties, the only thing either of us was wearing. One, then two fingers were pushed into my pussy. Soon she found a comfortable happy rhythm and looked into my eyes. We both smiled and, as if on cue, brought our lips together. Amy's fingers left my sex; she lay her open palm on my chest, guiding me onto the couch.

I pulled my panties down, over my knees, tossed them aside. I was naked, fully exposed to my young lover. She studied me, then said, "I like what I see."

I smiled. Her approval had become vital to me.

Bending forward, her hair hanging over her face, she put her hands on my knees and eased them apart, then knelt in the space she'd created. I slumped back until I was on eye level with her. She kissed my knee, then nibbled, licked, kissed my skin, moving forward along my inner thigh. My breathing grew ragged and shallow; I closed my eyes, her warm breath was on the lips of my vagina. She planted a firm wet kiss on my pussy lips.

I moaned, surprising myself with the intensity of the sound. Amy kissed the same spot, then returned to my knee, dragging her tongue in a long lascivious lick along my inner thigh, stopping just short of my pussy. She kissed above my clit, then licked and nibbled up to my navel. My body lurched. Amy understood: I was ready, there would be no more teasing. She licked my pussy with the tip of her tongue, ran the tip up and down my slick slit, adding a little more pressure each time; she worked her tongue between my pussy lips, lapped my horny box.

I squirmed, my legs quivered, my pussy throbbed, there were spasms in my stomach, my heart thumped, my cunt grew wetter. Overloaded with sexual energy, I yearned for the release that only an orgasm could provide.
​

* * * *​

After Jessica Harris had addressed the incoming students on Amy's first day at Charlottesville High several people mentioned how much the two of them looked alike. Amy didn't mind, she thought Jessica was beautiful. When she got home she masturbated, imaging her and Jessica's bodies, naked and intertwined.

When Amy learned Jessica had a son she asked a friend to introduce them. He was cute. When Bart, responding to her flirting, asked her out, Amy was overjoyed. He was a virgin, but a quick learner. Under Amy's tutelage he quickly became a talented and imaginative lover. Their favorite role-play? Bart seducing his mother.
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* * * *​

Amy could feel everyone of my moans and shivers flowing through my sex. She could sense the orgasm closing in on me; she was determined to shove me over the edge. She stroked my engorged clitoris with her forefinger; I groaned, sharper and louder than ever. Amy trailed her finger down my wet slit, stopped at the entrance of my pussy.

Waiting for that finger to be shoved inside me, I braced myself with one hand, cupped a breast with the other, rubbing the brown hard nipple. Then I got what I wanted. Amy penetrated my pussy, a single finger, soon joined by a second, slid deep into my body. Amy withdrew them slowly, in a corkscrew motion, then added a third; they plunged back inside me. I gasped, my body tingled. Amy picked up the pace, her fingers slid in and out of my cunt fast and hard. Whenever she hit bottom I gasped, moaned. I released my breast, combed my fingers through Amy's long hair.

My voice steadily rising, I whimpered and whined and sang. I was ready to explode, shatter, and then Amy's tongue was on my clitoris.

"Ohhh my GOD! FUCK."

My pussy clamped down, gripping Amy's fingers; she licked my sweet clitie; she finger-fucked my cunt, a waterfall of moisture lubricated her fingers.

"OOOH AMY, MY..."

My brain reached overload; my grasp of English deserted me. I whined and wheezed, hot waves slammed into my body; my muscles tightened, I squeezed my eyes closed, my skin tingled, my senses sharpened. I came, my pussy convulsed, squirted cunt juice; Amy kept going, her tongue and fingers indefatigable. Another orgasm jolted my sex. Then I could feel it, the big one, looming on the horizon.

Amy kept thrusting her fingers into my slick pussy, added a twisting motion that ran across my g-spot. I slid another inch down the couch, let go of Amy's head and clutched my breasts, working the firm flesh. Amy cradled my clit between her lips and with the fury of the piston of an Indy race car, whacked it with her tongue. I bit my lip, glanced at Amy. Her face was pressed to my sex, her eyes focused, her long black hair flowed down her back. I gloried in the forbidden addicting action. Amy licked faster, pushed her fingers harder, and then my orgasm - the big one - was here. Flames burned in my belly and licked at my soul, lava poured through my veins. I yelped and begged and hollered and squirmed. Amy pulled her fingers from my pussy, but kept sucking my clit, slowing the pace, prolonging my climax. Finally, she stopped, sensing I could take no more; the adrenaline seeped from my system.

I was spent, exhausted, laying there, trying to breathe, delighting in the warmth bubbling inside me. Lazily, I looked at Amy. My cream covered her face. I could feel it on my legs, dripping to the floor. My pussy lips were numb.

Saying, "Fuck, that was amazing," Amy crawled up on the couch next to me. We stroked each others hair, embraced, shared a kiss. I tasted myself on her lips.

The front door opened.

"Mom, Amy"

With complete assurance, Amy shouted, "In here babe."

Bart appeared around the corner, then stopped, assessing the lay of the land.

I froze.

Amy was nonchalant.

"Hey babe, I told your Mom most everything. How we both think she's beautiful, how we learned about Florence. I told her that you I wanted to make love to her and you said it was okay."

She motioned him closer with her finger.

"I left out a few things. I didn't tell her how much our resemblance turns you on. I didn't tell her about our role plays, where I pretend to be her and you seduce me."

Amy pulled down Bart's gym shorts; his erection lept out. Light brown in color, blue veins running up its sides, the head large and tinged pink. Not porn star size, but thick and long and lovely.

Amy wrapped her lips around the cock-knob, then, moving slowly, took about half its length into her mouth. She withdrew, kissed the head, took hold of the staff.

"I also didn't tell her that, like me, you want her."

Despite everything that had happened that evening, I was dumbstruck. Dumbstruck that my son had walked in on Amy and I making love. Dumbstruck when Amy sucked his dick in front of me, dumbstruck by her incestuous proposal.

Amy leaned over and kissed me. Her lips were on mine; her lips tasted of my son's penis. When she did it a second time I closed my eyes; my lips moved against hers.

The kiss ended. I opened my eyes. Bart was standing directly in front of me, his penis inches from my face.

"Imagine it Jessica, no one will question your son or his girlfriend being at your house. You can retire the dildo, discard the vibrator, although I'd really like to use them on you. We both want you, we both love you, be ours."

My son, until then silent, spoke.

"Mom, for as long as I remember I've wanted you. I never told anyone, but Amy saw it in my eyes. First she confided to me that she wanted you. Then she'd dress like you, pretend to be you; she convinced me to do a role play where she was you.

"Finally I told her everything. She said she'd find a way to make it happen. C'mon Mom, take that step with us."

Amy took hold of his cock, angled it forward; it was pointed at my face.

That morning, if you'd told me I'd be staring at my son's penis, considering taking it into my mouth, I'd have said you were harmlessly daft or criminally insane. Now it seemed inevitable. After a deep breath, I took the head into my mouth, rolled my tongue over it. He spewed pre-cum; I leaked cunt juice.

He rocked back and it slid from my mouth. Amy's hand was on my chin, turned me toward her. She kissed me, stood, kissed my son, took both our hands, led us to my bedroom. We lay down, I sandwiched between them. We kissed, we touched, grew comfortable with each other. Then Amy smiled, said she had to get home.

We watched her leave the room. Barton rolled on top of me, vibrating with excitement. I asked him if he was sure; he said he was, that he'd dreamed of this for years.

He asked me if I was sure. I wasn't, but said I was. I took hold of him - he trembled at my touch - and placed him against my sex. He entered me. He was "just right," large enough to fill me with that sensation of being penetrated, but not large enough to be painful. He began driving himself into me: I loved the warm hardness of his body on mine. It had been more than a year since I'd had a man inside me. I'd forgotten how it felt to be totally filled up, of have something alive and big and hot inside me, of feeling helpless and open before the intrusion.

He was excited, he wasn't going to last long; after only a few thrusts he was on the edge. I put my hands on the small of his back, pressed him to me, whispered that I needed him to come and he did, filling me with his seed while his sweaty body slid, jerked, and spasmed against mine. I held him, told him I loved him, that he was wonderful.

We took a break, got a bite to eat, returned to bed; he took his time, explored my body, finding the places that excited me most. He entered me again, fucked me nice and slow, grinding his body on mine, the way I like it; I came, I came again, and again, then we came together.
​

* * * *​

The next Amy and I rehearsed for an audience of one. When finished, we three made love. Amy's parents attended the recital the following night, then kindly agreed to let her celebrate by staying out late with her boyfriend, under the careful eye of his mother.
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* * * *​

Every year since I'd arrived at Charlottesville High I'd thrown a Christmas party for the faculty. But what had begun informally had steadily become more elaborate, approaching the status of an official school function. It also become a pain in the ass. Last year, when I'd suggested that someone else might want to take it over, Principal Strickland appointed a committee to help me. It was a typical committee. When it did anything, which was rare, it suggested ideas for other people (i.e. me) to implement.

I now had a much better use for my free time and arrived at school on Monday determined to tell Principal Strickland I would not do it this year, but was intercepted by Natalie, Sandy, Lupita, and Tao. They said they'd formed a club - after last year they figured committee was a bad word - to help me. I wanted to say no, but couldn't conjure a way to do so in the face of their obvious enthusiasm.

The four women proved true to their word, they left me almost nothing to do besides open my home. They even raised enough money from the faculty to pay for a through cleaning before and after the event and to cover the cost of the food and drinks.

At the last second Barton asked if he could have a few friends over during the party; I said yes as long as he kept them upstairs and away from the staff.

Natalie, Sandy, Lupita, and Tao arrived early to help get everything ready. Tao even brought a bottle of champagne, Don Perignon, to toast our success after the event.

As we readied the house Bart's friends filtered in. Amy was there, of course, but also Nina and Richard, Vivian and Ralph, Cindy and Brent, and Marisa and Artie, who I didn't think Bart knew that well. They gave us a hand with the preparations, which I appreciated, but still my son had said a few friends, not ten kids. We'd have words later.

Afer the guests left Tao uncorked the champagne - it was wonderful - and Natalie, Sandy, Lupita, Tao, and I spilt up the few tasks that could not wait for the clean-up service.

I was in the kitchen, cleaning a bowl, when two arms circled my waist, an erection pressed to my ass.

"Hey Mom, been thinking about your hot bod all day."

"Son, me too, but not now."

He said, "You sure," and kissed my neck. Reaching for his arms to pry them from my waist I whispered, "Son!!"

Then I heard Amy's voice at the top of the basement steps.

"Hey everybody, Nina is tying Natalie to the pool table. Come get some."​