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This is my first story and is about, inspired by and written with the encouragement of the amazing Catmoore, whose brilliant works are to be found on this site. I’ve categorised it as ‘Erotic Couplings’ but it has some features of the Incest/Taboo category. There is no Incest in it but both participants indulge in the Incest fantasy. If that is a turn off for you, be warned. It also has a strong ‘Loving Wives’ theme to it, so if you don’t like affairs, be warned also! Anyway, enough of the health warnings, I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading. Any constructive feedback is very welcome.
It was a delayed train that led to this. I had been due to catch a train back home from a work trip to Brighton on the London Victoria service but it was late — a typical Friday night occurrence on our rail network you might think. I noticed that there was a train to Bedford, however, leaving in a few minutes and I hoped on board as I knew it went through London. As I stepped into the carriage I saw that the electronic board stated that the train was going to St Albans. I knew that was where you lived, in that big Victorian house that you wrote about and hated, the beautiful, airy conservatory the only room you loved there. I knew that because we’d made love there in that conservatory. Not actual love, of course, but virtual love or fucking, I wasn’t quite sure which but I kind of wanted to know. I sat on the train trying to work but each time I looked up the train information board kept telling me This train will be calling at St Albans – St Albans — St Albans — St Fucking Albans. If I wanted I could just stay on until St Albans and see you or at least be in the town where you were. I didn’t know your address, of course, and even if I did your husband would be there and how would I explain it to my wife — “Sorry dear, I fell asleep on the train and happened to end up in St Albans so I decided to spend the night there?” Not very plausible nor very sensible.
As stupid as it was, though, I couldn’t get it out of my mind, you had become too firmly lodged in there over the last month or so. I’d never cheated ‘in real life’ on my wife of ten years, had never wanted to, but I had on the internet. I had for years used the anonymity of the internet to play out the fantasies that I wasn’t brave enough or was too ashamed to share with my wife. Almost invariably they focused around incest, a fantasy my wife knew about and abhorred. That particular fetish had been in my psyche since the age of eighteen, though a counsellor once told me that it was due to being sent away to boarding school aged nine. Despite all my efforts and prayers it still haunted me and excited me beyond measure. Whenever I went online to satisfy my cravings, whether through stories, video or chat, it was for incest that I looked. At least I know that I’m not alone. You’d never know through the mainstream media as it is almost never spoken about, but incest is huge online and I’ve always found plenty of partners willing to swap and share fantasies.
The great thing about being online, of course, is that you can be anyone and if you can, so can everyone else. I played as men and women, as sons, fathers, brothers, daughter, mothers, sisters and aunts. I suspect most of the ‘women’ I played with were men like me, looking for satisfaction online but there, on the internet, that doesn’t matter. They say that the mind is the most powerful sex organ and I truly believe that. Online is doesn’t matter what you do, fantasy is just fantasy, at least that’s what we tell ourselves, and for me that was always true. I still thought of myself as a good person, a good husband, a good father, a pillar of respectable society whatever fantasies I played out through my computer screen. Until I met you that is.
You were different. Unlike most of those who populated the chat rooms at Literotica, my chat and story site of choice, you were someone who had actually written stories on the site — lots of them, really good ones and, most importantly, ones about incest. More than that you were British (no need for ‘Mom’, to make allowances for Americans’ chronic disregard for the letter ‘u’, and the chance to use the word ‘knickers’ which for some reason only known to Brits who’ve been to Public Schools, is so much naughtier than ‘panties’) and had the most splendid arse (another great British word) as your profile picture. I had to try to get your attention and by some miracle you replied. We chatted, connected and chatted some more as I read your first incest-related story, the Vesuvius series, which pressed all my buttons. We exchanged emails and you offered to write a story with me. From there our relationship grew. I felt I got to know you more and more through your stories and through the story we were writing together and through the odd, non-story related email we sent to each other.
I was more comfortable, more open with you than I had ever been with anyone. As I’ve said the internet gives you the chance to be whoever you want to be and I’ve always been cautious about revealing too much about etimesgut escort myself online, surely that’s only sensible? With you, though, sense was rapidly going out of the window, especially after you sent me your photos. You were sharp, witty, smart and, your photos revealed, gorgeous. I loved your beautiful eyes (I could never quite decide if they were green, grey or blue due to my colour-blindness) with the tiny fleck in your right eye being utterly enchanting. I loved the shape of your nose and the laugh lines around your lovely mouth. I was entranced by your amazingly sexy thighs in the pictures you sent me with you in stockings and by the flatness of your tummy which I gathered was due to the gym and tennis. Shallow as I am, though, it was the pictures you gave me of your breasts that made me lose my sanity. They were perfect, simply perfect. Large, natural, smooth and peaked by the most delicious areole and nipples that I have ever seen. I just longed to kiss them and suck them. I began wanking over you every morning, staring into your eyes and at your tummy or your tits after breakfast and before my bath while my wife and daughter were downstairs.
What was I doing? What was becoming of me? I hadn’t told you my real name and I’d only told you my old job and where I’d used to live but I did send you my real photo, the first time I’d ever done that and I’d been truthful about other things. I knew that at thirty-five with glasses, thin bordering on skinny and a disappearing hairline I wasn’t in your league but then I wasn’t in my wife’s league either and you hadn’t run away screaming after getting it so I can’t have been too hideous.
For several weeks we continued our incestuous story until that fateful train journey. Despite my busy job and busy and happy home life, the highlight of each day had become the contact with you, the update to our story. We’d become ‘Mum’ and ‘your boy’ and it was such an exciting privilege to write with you and to share our fantasies together.
St Albans, St Albans, St Albans — Cat, Mum, Cat. I had to see you, to meet you. I suggested it the next day but you were reluctant, uncertain, especially given that I hadn’t been entirely truthful with you when you had exposed so much of yourself to me. I knew, or hoped I knew, that you felt it too, though. Felt that this was something special, different to what we had both experienced previously online. I knew from your stories and what you had told me that you were lonely, that you liked younger men, that you had at least fantasised about your own son, that you had had flings and affairs before and that your husband was away a lot.
As for me, I loved my wife very much but perhaps I had been playing with fire for too long online and now I had finally got burned, finally found someone with whom I clicked sexually and personally and who lived close by. Does that sound too heartless, cynical? I don’t know but I do know that I felt about you in a way that made me want to meet you, to be with you in person not just through a computer screen.
You were cautious, I understood that, and I wasn’t going to push. We carried on writing to each other, continued our story which drew our characters ever closer and into more and more intense sexual encounters while the idea of a real-life meet still lay out there as a possibility. Nearly two weeks later though, you sent me an email.
“Book somewhere nice in London, a hotel with restaurant for next Saturday. No promises as to what happens but I’ll be there. Cat xx”
I stared at the screen, disbelieving. Fuck this was getting real now. I had asked for it but could I really go through with it? I was terrified, my heart pounding in my chest as if I’d already been caught. I went for a walk with our dog, a cocker spaniel, to clear my head and, as I threw his balls for him, batted the idea back and forth. Could I? Would I? By the time I’d got home an hour later, I realised that I’d spent more time thinking about how I could make it work than whether I wanted to do it. That being the case, I decided that this was a sign that I wanted it more than I feared it.
It was unusual for me to have to work at a weekend but not unknown and I told my wife I’d be away on Saturday and might have to stay over. She wasn’t best pleased but in the end had to accept it. Was that the hardest part, lying to her? Maybe, at any rate I felt like a heel but comforted myself with the excitement of what was going to happen. I went online and booked a nice hotel on Gracechurch Street in the City, bound to be quiet at the weekend, and made a reservation at the restaurant for one o’clock. I emailed you back with the details and waited. And waited. God, it was agony. The next morning, though, you replied with an update to our story and the simple message.
“1pm it is. Xx”
The next week was agony, waiting. Several times I nearly backed out and I wondered if you were thinking the same. I tried to keep on doing normal things, fortunately it was a busy time at work trying to get everything done etimesgut escort bayan before the Christmas break and that kept me sane. The day before, I went to get my hair cut before work and emailed you to check we were still on. ” 😉 ” was your reply.
The next morning, the morning, I was so nervous. I hadn’t slept well, the pangs of conscience perhaps, and I found my hand shaking slightly as I shaved in the bathroom mirror. I love a close shave, the smoothness of the skin and the sharp freshness of applying aftershave. That morning, however, despite my best efforts I nicked myself slightly and the aftershave (Bvlgari Pour Homme Extreme) stung like buggery when I applied it, just my luck! Given my build, I realised a few years back that slim-fit clothes were the way forward and I slipped on a light blue plain shirt and a pair of stone coloured chinos. A navy blue Crew Clothing V-neck jumper followed and a light brown jacket. My brown Grenson demi-brogues completed my outfit and, while I didn’t think I’d compare to you, I was pleased with the effect- none too shabby if I say so myself.
I had walked towards the City from Oxford Circus. It was cold and nearly Christmas and there were thousands of festive shoppers out — young and old, families, couples, single people. How many were having affairs I wondered, how many presents being bought for mistresses today? As I headed south eastwards gradually the number of shoppers began to thin until I reached the City where the streets were almost deserted as they always are at the weekend. I got to the hotel on Gracechurch Street at about 12.45 and checked in. I was sure I was giving myself away but what the hell, I thought, you were worth it, it would be worth it to walk in with you on my arm, providing you turned up of course. I was nervous as I sat in the lobby, my feet tapping on the polished floor. After a few minutes I got up and walked outside, the cold air hitting my lungs sharply after the warmth of the lobby. I could see my breath in the winter’s air as I looked up and down the street and leant casually against the stone cladding of the hotel frontage.
Then I saw you, coming from the direction of Bank Station and I was sure my heart must burst through my chest it was thumping so loudly. Your freshly washed champagne-blonde hair bounced off your shoulders as you shimmied down the street in your black, heeled boots. God, there was a woman who knew how to move, I thought, even wheeling a small overnight bag behind you (a positive sign I reckoned). So few women do these days – know how to walk that is – especially younger women. A sexy, confident walk is a lost art among women but you certainly knew the secret and I was mesmerised as you approached. You raised a black gloved hand and gave me a smile and a little wave. You had a grey military-cut coat with the belt tied around your waist casually, cinching in your slim waist. The broad lapels hid your breasts and I guessed from a distance that the material was a mix of wool and cashmere. From beneath it flashed black nylons each pace you took towards me.
As you approached the noise of the sparse traffic seemed to die away and all I could hear running through my brain was the sound of your heels click-clacking on the pavement. Then, you were before me, reaching out to touch my sleeve.
“Hello Sam, or should I call you Tom?” you asked in a voice as rich and smooth as honey. I blushed at my deception and managed a half smile in response.
“I’d prefer Tom if it’s ok, that’s the name I always hear you call me when I think about you.”
“Do you think about me a lot Tom?” you asked with a playful tone in your voice. I nodded.
“More than a married man should,” I admitted and leaned in to kiss you on the cheek placing one hand on your waist. Your hair smelt and felt divine as it brushed against me and I could also sense your perfume. Unlike many older women, you didn’t overdose on perfume but used just the right amount to pique a man’s interest. It was so thrilling to touch you around the waist and to feel my lips on your cheek. I had fantasised about you so much and now, here you were in the flesh, and the excitement of a new relationship beginning, and the stiffening effect that touching a woman you fancied for the first time was heightened by the fact that I already knew so much about you and felt that we had so much in common.
“It’s always nice to be thought of,” you replied. “Shall we go in Tom?” I took your arm in mine, feeling the outside of your breast against my upper arm, one of the most intimate of public acts I’ve always thought, and sensed my cock hardening nicely. We went through the doors together and I led you towards the restaurant. The Maître d’ took our coats as we came in and my breath caught in my throat when I saw what you were wearing. It is, I believe, called a bandage dress, all I can really say is that it was scarlet (my favourite colour as you knew from our chats), off-the-shoulder and short, that is to say just long enough only to hint that you were wearing escort etimesgut stockings beneath it. You knew, like all truly sexy women, that to suggest, to glimpse, to make a man question what he saw, is so much more exciting than handing it to him on a plate. I knew, though, at that moment, or perhaps more properly I should say I guessed, that you hadn’t just come for the food.
I followed you to the table, admiring the way your arse cheeks moved in the dress, were they moving just a little more than necessary, even in the high-heeled boots you were wearing? As you sat down, you draped a napkin over those delicious thighs and I inwardly cursed your good table manners that temporarily had robbed me of my view of them. I found compensation by drinking in your beauty first hand which before this I’d only been able to enjoy through photos. There was a vivacity about you that pixels couldn’t capture and which enchanted me even more than before. I was transfixed by the life and light in your mischievous eyes; I adored your beautiful nose with the slightly flared nostrils that had entranced me from the first moment; I loved watching the laughter lines around your mouth and the way your shoulder-length blonde hair moved. It looked so beautiful and delicate, I just wanted to reach out and touch it.
Those first few minutes were hard for me. I was knocked sideways by finally having you here in the flesh before me, and what flesh it was, but I needed to drag my attention back to our conversation and prove that I was actually worth spending some time with. Eventually I managed to get myself back onto something like an even keel and to sound like a human being who had actually held conversations with beautiful women before. By mutual but silent consent there was no talk of our families but we had plenty in common from boarding school and livings that revolved around the written word to our dogs as we came from similar upper middle class backgrounds, just fifteen years apart. We made each other laugh and, as anyone can tell you, that is as attractive a trait as a well-turned ankle or shapely thigh, though it hadn’t escaped my notice that you had both of those too!
We had both had a couple of glasses of wine to help take the edge off our nervousness and I could feel a nice buzz inside that was only partly caused by the alcohol. When the pudding came, the waitress asked if we wanted coffee and I inclined my head in a questioning way and raised my eyebrows, leaving the decision to you as I don’t drink tea or coffee myself. You paused, then smiled softly and slightly suggestively.
“There’s coffee in the room, right?” You said quietly, placing your hand gently over mine and rubbing your nail along the back of my hand. I had to work hard not to blush under the gaze of both you and the waitress as we all knew what that meant. I nodded and managed to croak.
“Sure, that sounds good. Just put the bill on my room please,” I said, just about managing to look the waitress in the eye and feeling like a naughty schoolboy about to do something illicit and extremely exciting.
When we finished our puddings, I watched you slowly and deliberately dab your delectable mouth with your napkin and then smile.
“Shall we?” You asked, your voice like silk. I stood up and offered you my hand and felt you place you soft palm in mine and another frisson of excitement ran through me. We walked out of the restaurant hand in hand and across the lobby towards the lift, leaving our coats behind us in the cloakroom. A young couple were waiting with us and the bloke grinned at me in approval as we entered the lift. They got out on the first floor and we were continuing up to the third. As the doors closed behind them, I decided to be bold and slid my hand around your slim waist and pulled you towards me. In your heels you were still a touch shorter than me but I did not have to bend far to touch my lips against yours as your face titled up towards me, your hair cascading down behind you. One hand slid further around your waist and down onto this splendid arse, pulling you into me, while the other stroked the nape of your neck. You gave a little gasp as you felt my hard cock against you and then I felt your lips smile against mine and your tongue dart out and then back. You then placed your hand on my chest, looked up into my eyes and smiled. You said nothing but didn’t need to as we both knew now what would happen once we entered the hotel room.
The room was large, comfortable and well-appointed in the slightly anonymous style of most upmarket hotels these days. I closed the door behind us as you walked towards the bed.
“So, coffee?” I asked, making for the machine. You gave a little laugh.
“Later, I think,” you said, kicking off your boots and walking over to me, grabbing my lapels and kissing me firmly on the lips. I loved your confidence – you knew and had always known that you could have me at a click of your fingers and here you were doing it. Taking what you wanted in a way only a confident, sexy older woman can. We had discussed online about how important kissing was to both of us and we each gave each other everything in that kiss. It was deep, intense, passionate, searching and long as we gave ourselves to each other in that moment. Nothing else mattered, then, not our spouses or children or lives outside that moment of a man and a woman kissing.
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