Unspoken Pleasure (erotica)

"Mom!" I said exasperated, still torn in different directions. In one respect I was horrified that my mother would cheat on Dad; in another, my head was swimming with vivid fantasies of how it would look and feel to give in to Jake. I could faintly smell how wet my panties were getting.

"What? I'm just saying that years from now you sure don't want to regret that you've never taken a chocolate drive shaft for a ride," Mom continued. Knowing she had my attention again, she returned to her chair.

"I'm married," I reminded my mother.

"I know, and I sure wouldn't say this if Emery was satisfying you sexually," Mom continued. "But he isn't, and he hasn't been doing his job for a long time. It's obvious to anyone who loves you that you're not happy, and there's no reason why you can't be happy once in a while."

"You're suggesting I cheat on my husband?" I demanded hotly.

"I guess I am," she nodded placidly, before adding, "But I would argue it's not actually cheating."

"How so?" I asked. Mom was full of surprises today.

"If the cock under discussion is bigger than your husband's, it isn't cheating," she explained.

"That's ludicrous," I said.

"Not really. Emery can't possibly give you what you need, although the way he's been ignoring you, he likely wouldn't even do that if he had it to give," Mom pointed out.

"I don't think I could do it," I said, the conversation suddenly sobering me up.

"Why not? He doesn't satisfy you. If he were doing his job, you wouldn't be fantasizing about Jake," she said.

"Who said I fantasize about Jake?" I prevaricated.

"Am I wrong?" Mom asked, knowing me too well.

"I didn't say that," I smiled playfully.

"Well, you know what you're always going to wonder about," Mom smiled back.

"What's that?" I obliged.

"Whether the saying 'Once you go black you never go back' is true?" Mom answered with a huge grin.

"But you apparently fucked black guys in the past and now you don't," I pointed out.

Mom didn't respond, but the look on her face spoke a thousand words. A picture leapt into my head of smiling cats and canary appetizers.

"You still do?" I asked, the answer suddenly obvious.

"You're not the only one sick of being ignored by your husband," Mom answered.

"You've cheated on Dad?" I questioned, again the question rather rhetorical.

"Nope," Mom said.

"Really?"

"No, I never cheat. I make sure they're all bigger than your father," she answered. "It's easy to find out... just ask."

"I can't believe this," I said, my whole world suddenly sent spinning. It was one thing to talk about fucking a black man, even to learn that my mom used to get fucked by a ten inch black cock, but it was another to learn your mother was still fucking black cock. And she was almost sixty!

"Honey, don't judge me," she said, although not as a request, but in the stern motherly way that told me that I was the one in the wrong here.

"I'm not," I said, even though I obviously was.

"Look," Mom said. "We have needs. When they're not met, we find other ways to satisfy them."

"But it's cheating," I pointed out.

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"And our men cheat on us by choosing work over love," Mom countered, an argument that sounded absurd at first, but after years of playing second fiddle to a job, I saw completely where she was going.

"I guess," I nodded, as I reflected on my husband's matrimonial obligations being shirked for money. In a very real sense he was spending almost all of his time whoring, as if his life was all about money and not me. Mom kept going, "If you were happy at home would this guy be making you all wet?"

"I didn't say he was," I said, even though he definitely was.

"Connie, I know you better than you know yourself," Mom scoffed, which was frustratingly true.

"Okay, maybe a little wet," I shrugged.

"You liar," Mom scolded. "Your panties were soaked, weren't they?"

"Fine, yes, they were so soaked I walked funny," I admitted, exasperated at both the conversation and at her always being right.

"And I bet your panties are dripping wet right now, just talking about him," Mom assessed.

I hadn't completely been paying attention, although part of the conversation had indeed been tantalizing, but once her words were spoken, I noticed that indeed I was very damp down below. "Okay, they aren't completely dry," I sighed. "I'm not saying you should rush into his classroom and fuck him at school," she said. "But you need to consider some possibilities. He's an attractive and personable man showing you the interest your husband isn't. He's also a black man which means, likely, he will have a nice big dick to fuck you properly with."

"Mom!" I again gasped, hearing Mom lecture me so bluntly and using the 'f' word so strange.

"Honey, if you're like me, you have a nasty tongue in the bedroom," she said, again true... I loved dirty talk, something Emery was not good at, but a couple of my exes had been great at.

Truthfully, in the bedroom I loved being called a slut. I didn't want to be made love to, I wanted to be fucked, shafted, pounded. I loved shifting my persona from prim and proper teacher to submissive slut. I had thought Emery understood that, he sure liked it when we were younger, but although the stereotype is that after the marriage a woman's sex drive fades, in my relationship it had been the opposite.

"I can get pretty vivid," I vaguely answered.

"You're submissive in the bedroom, right?" Mom asked.

"Are you?" I asked back. Trying to avoid the question with another question.

It didn't work. "To the right man I am one hundred percent submissive," Mom answered openly and convincingly.

"Me too," I admitted, feeling more comfortable admitting such a thing after she'd opened the door.

"Well, it seems that the 'like mother, like daughter' statement is really true for us," Mom laughed, just as the front door opened and my husband walked in.

He walked in looking stressed like he always does as he greeted, "Good evening, ladies."

"Hi, honey," I greeted, walking over to him, thinking Jake's flirting and flattery today could be to my hubby's benefit tonight.

He kissed me back, but like a brother, not a lover.

I could sense something amiss. I asked, "What's wrong?"

"We'll talk later," he replied tersely, glancing at my mother.

Mom, who was drunk and annoyed, a dangerous mixture that usually meant bluntness shot out, "Let me guess, you won't be in town for your wife's fortieth birthday party?" The look on Emery's face answered her question. He looked at me completely guilt ridden.

I accused, "You can't be serious?"

"I need to go to Hague to meet with members of the World Court to plead our case over the international trade royalties involved with oil."