“Fuckk!! You bigggg fuckingg boyyyy! Stir me gooooddd! EEEK!!” his wife shrieked, her request obviously fulfilled.
Second, his heart grew cold.
Almost as a defense, he began recounting all the boys and men in his wife’s life. Out of his control, his brain put to work imagining each one in between his wife’s legs on his marital bed.
Yet, as he approached the top, he realized that the noises were not coming from his bedroom, but from the right side of the stairs.
Third, his heart began to ache.
Oh god, was the bitch cheating on their son’s bed? In the domicile of their only child?
“Aaanh!! Nobody fills me like thissss!! Ohhhhh!!” Kristen grunted with a voice that her husband had never heard.
As he passed the bathroom, he learned that indeed she was. He neared the end of the balcony, adjacent to his son’s room, the sickening sounds now at a fever pitch. From here, he could see that the door was flung open. He queasily wondered if it belied a clear conscience or a practiced ritual – or both. With all the curiosity left in his soul, he turned to face the doorway.
Last, his heart broke.
There was the love of his life. Her blond, matted hair flew wildly as her thighs propelled her ample ass up and down what seemed like a police baton with a marble handle. The ferocity and enthusiasm of her steady gallop was a sight unknown to Doug, and the religious look of enrapturement in her eyes and her craven lust indicated by her lolling tongue felt like a punch in the gut. Her right breast was being mangled and tweaked by a lone hand, and her left one was being enthusiastically devoured by a voracious mouth. There was his son.
All but one part of his brain begged him to look away from the heights of passion that he couldn’t have even imagined, much less have experienced. His rational mind stunned completely, the one part took over and he experienced everything.
The musky, powerful stench. The sounds of psychotic ecstasy. The sweat from his wife’s body mixing with his son’s. Flushed, pale and shiny, tanned skin slapping together. The pink welts covering his wife’s buttocks. The red lipstick on his son’s chest, and the redder scratches on his son’s back. The frothy fluid coursing down his son’s taint and joining the large wet-stain on the bed. The knocked-over trash can, filled with a mound of used condoms bulging with their contents.
Suddenly, his son released his mother’s tits from his mouth and folded his knees, raising his hips up. He grasped her hips in his large hands and thrust deep.
His mother gasped, her eyes opening to meet his. The look of need and submission that Kristen offered to her son was one that Doug couldn’t even remember.
“Who owns you?” he muttered, before he began pile driving his mother from below as fast as he could. Doug had always been too busy to attend his son’s football games – he now saw firsthand the athleticism that other fathers had praised him for instilling in his son.
Kristen barely held on for the ride, her jaw clenched and her face contorted from the brutal pounding she took below. Her arms began to fail, and her head slowly lowered onto Garrett’s chest. It looked like she was going to cry. She did.