Opening up

The next day she was radiant.

I came home from work to find her in the kitchen, humming something I didn’t recognize, pulling a casserole from the oven. She’d changed out of her work clothes into a blouse I’d bought her two years ago - the one she’d never worn - and a skirt that ended above her knees.

Fishnet stockings.

I stopped in the doorway. “You’re in a good mood.”

She turned. Beamed. Crossed the kitchen in three steps and threw her arms around my neck.

“I’m in a great mood,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about last night all day. I wanted to surprise you.”

She stepped back and did a little spin. The skirt flared.

“You surprised me,” I said.

“Good.” She turned back to the microwave, bent to check the timer. The skirt rode up. The fishnets ended mid-thigh. And underneath ...

Underneath there was nothing. Just the smooth curve of her ass, the shadow between her legs, the pink hint of her lips.

She glanced over her shoulder. Caught me staring.

“Like what you see?”

Something unspooled in my chest. Something that had been wound tight for years.

I stepped behind her. Pressed myself against her. My hands found her hips.

“I love what I see,” I murmured against her ear.

Her breathing quickened. She pushed back against me, grinding, and I felt myself swell inside my jeans. I fumbled with my belt. My zipper. Freed myself.

“Do it,” she whispered. “Right here. I want you to.”

I pushed inside her in one slow, slick motion.

She moaned. Low and long. Her hands braced against the counter. The casserole steamed in the oven. The microwave beeped twice and went silent.

“Yes,” she breathed. “That’s ... yes, Sean, I love your cock, I love how you fill me ...”

I gripped her hips and moved. The fishnets rasped against my thighs. Her knuckles whitened on the countertop. I watched myself slide in and out of her, watched her body open and accept me, and it felt like being young again, like being wanted again, like being me again.

The kitchen filled with the sounds we made - her gasps, my grunts, the rhythmic slap of flesh.

Neither of us heard the front door.

Neither of us heard the footsteps in the hall.

The kitchen light flicked on - it hadn’t been on; we’d been moving in the dim glow of the oven display and the setting sun through the window, and neither of us had noticed.

“What the ... ”

Ellen ... her voice cut through the haze like a blade.

I looked up. Our eyes met - mine, Ellen’s, Rita’s - in a triangle of shock.

“What are you doing?” Ellen’s voice climbed. “What came over you? What the hell is this?”

Rita cried out - not from Ellen, but from me, because I couldn’t stop, I was already there, already past the point of no return. I felt myself pulse inside her and I groaned as Rita’s body clenched around me and she came too, her back arching, her mouth open in a moan that turned into something between a sob and a laugh.

Ellen stood frozen in the doorway.

Rita was the first to recover.

Her body uncoupled from mine with a wet, soft sound, and she straightened her skirt with a casualness that seemed impossible given the circumstances. My release dripped down Rita’s thigh, over the fishnets, onto the kitchen floor. She didn't wipe it away.

"Hey, sweetheart." Her voice was steady. Warmer than I'd expected. "I'm sorry. You weren't supposed to see us like this."

Ellen's fiery green eyes - Rita's eyes, that same startling shade - were wide and unblinking. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. The leather strap of her shoulder bag had slid down to her elbow, and she made no move to push it back up.

"But sometimes," Rita continued, stepping toward her daughter, "there's a need inside. An urge. And giving in to it ... it's so relaxing. You probably have your own experiences with that."

The kitchen still smelled of casserole and sex. The microwave's display blinked 00:00 in steady green pulses.

Ellen's jaw finally unlocked. "But that ... that guy." Her gaze flicked to me, then away, as if I were something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. "What do you see in him? I mean, I haven't ... I thought I'd wait. For the right one. When I watched you two over the years, I wanted something better for myself. Something not so ... restricted. Something loving."

Haven't. The word hung in the air.

Rita tilted her head. "You're still a virgin?"

Color flooded Ellen's cheeks. She crossed her arms over her chest. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. You're right - sex is something special. It should be. But sweetheart ..." Rita reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind Ellen's ear. "Try to find the right guy. Don't wait until after marriage to discover you're incompatible. It might be too late by then."

Something shifted in Rita's expression - a shadow moving behind her eyes.

"Jeff almost never made me orgasm. His cock was ... fine. We had fun together, I thought. But I just couldn't climax with him. Years, Ellen. Years of thinking my body was broken." She glanced back at me, and the shadow lifted. "Sean's cock is different. He makes me come so easily. Sex can be such incredible fun. I never knew."

I couldn't believe my ears. In seven years of marriage, Rita had never - not once - spoken about Jeff's performance. About my performance. About the shape or quality or effect of any man's anatomy. The words felt illicit in her mouth, and her mouth shaped them as if tasting something delicious.

Ellen stared at her mother as though a stranger had replaced her.

Rita reached for me. Her fingers wrapped around my softening length, still slick with our combined fluids.

"Would you please try to accept Sean?" She spoke gently, but there was steel beneath the softness. "I love him. And I love you. Just ... see him as a friend. You're an adult now. Don't be childish about this."

She sank to her knees on the kitchen tile.

Her mouth opened.

Her tongue - warm, wet, impossibly soft - traced a line from the base of my shaft to the tip. I hissed through my teeth. My hands found the counter's edge.

Ellen made a strangled noise somewhere between a gasp and a protest.

"This is a nice cock," Rita murmured, pulling back just far enough to speak. She looked directly at her daughter. "You should look for something similar someday. It's tasty, especially after a good fuck. And watch ..."

Her lips closed around me. The suction was gentle at first, then firmer. My body responded despite the absurdity - Ellen standing frozen at a short distance, her bag finally sliding off her arm and hitting the floor with a thud.

"Look how it comes back to life."

She was right. Under her ministrations, I was hardening again, swelling against her tongue, filling her mouth. Rita made an appreciative sound and took me deeper.

"Mom ..." Ellen's voice cracked. "What's happened to you? You're so ... different."

Rita pulled back with a soft pop. "No, baby. This is what love looks like when you stop being afraid of it." She gestured at my erection, standing thick and wet and undeniably present. "Come here. Sit beside us. Watch."

Ellen didn't move for three long breaths.

Then she did.

Her steps were slow and uncertain, but they carried her to the kitchen chair nearest us. She sat on the edge of the seat, spine rigid, hands clenched in her lap. Her eyes never left Rita's mouth as it slid down my length again.

"Mom," she whispered. "You're so different now."

"Touch it," Rita said, coming up for air. "I think Sean wouldn't mind. Would you, Sean?"

My throat had closed entirely. I managed a hoarse syllable that might have been "no" or might have been "please."

Ellen extended her hand. One finger. Her fingertip brushed the underside of my shaft and retreated, then returned.

"But it's so big," she breathed, her finger tracing a tentative path along a vein. "Doesn't it hurt?"

"Not if you're ready. Not if you want it." Rita's hand joined Ellen's, their fingers interweaving around my girth. "Look how happy I am, sweetheart. Does this look like pain?"

Ellen slid off the chair. Knelt beside her mother. Her green eyes were dark now, the pupils blown wide. The tip of her tongue moistened her lower lip.

"Maybe I could..." Her words were barely audible. "Maybe I could try. Just ... licking?"

"Yes," Rita said. "Try it. You'll like it. But not too eagerly - he might finish before we're ready."

Ellen leaned forward. Her tongue darted out - a quick, shy touch against the head of my cock. The sensation was feather-light and electric. She did it again, braver this time, her tongue flat and warm.

I gripped the counter behind me until my knuckles ached.

Her lips parted. She took just the tip into her mouth, and the wetness of her, the tentative suction, the way she looked up at me through those familiar green eyes.

Rita's mouth found the base of my shaft. Together, mother and daughter worked my length, finding an unspoken rhythm - Rita deep and practiced, Ellen experimental and eager. When their tongues met across my skin, neither flinched.

"Worth it?" Rita murmured.

Ellen answered, but the words were lost against my flesh, reduced to vibrations that traveled straight to my spine.

I felt the pressure building. The tightening. The inevitable approach.

"Stop," I gasped. "Both of you. Stop. I don't want to - not on your faces."

They pulled back. Both of them looking up at me with the same expression: anticipation, curiosity, want.

"Let me sit," I said, pushing my pants the rest of the way off. "Rita, ride me. Ellen can watch if she wants."

I dropped into the kitchen chair. Rita didn't hesitate - she turned, backed toward me, and lowered herself with one hand guiding me home. The heat of her swallowed me whole. She sank down until there was nowhere left to go, and her head fell back against my shoulder with a moan that vibrated through my chest.

Ellen was watching.

No - Ellen was closer now, her hand reaching out, fingers tracing the place where her mother and I were joined. Her fingers brushed my shaft, then slid higher, into the wiry hair at Rita's mound.

"That's ..." Ellen's voice was thick. "Mom, your ... it's so wet."

"Because it feels good," Rita gasped, rocking against me. "Because I want it. Because I want him."

Ellen bent forward. Her tongue found the seam of us - where my cock disappeared into her mother's body - and she licked. Rita cried out. Her rhythm stuttered.

The sight of Ellen's dark head between her mother's thighs, her mouth pressed to our joining ...

"Mom," Ellen said, pulling back just enough to speak. Her lips glistened. "Would you let me try? I mean ... take your place. This looks so ... my underwear is soaked through. I've never been with a man before. Just my vibrator. I know what an orgasm feels like, but this ... it looks so much better ..."

Rita's hips slowed. She looked down at her daughter - her daughter, on her knees, mouth wet with evidence of our sex.

"I don't know," Rita breathed. "He's my husband."

But she was still moving. Still taking me deep.

"Just for a minute," Ellen whispered. "As long as you're here. As long as you're part of it."

The kitchen held its breath.

"Okay," Rita said. "But wait. I need a few more strokes. I need to feel this a few more times."

Her pace quickened. Her nails dug into my thighs. The slap of her body against mine filled the kitchen, and Ellen watched, and Rita's breathing became ragged, and then she cried out - not words, just sound - and I felt her clench around me in the familiar, devastating rhythm of her climax.

When she went limp against my chest, Ellen was already undressing.

The blouse first. Then the jeans, peeled down over hips that were narrower than Rita's but with the same elegant curve. The bra - simple, white, unremarkable - unclasped and fell. The underwear followed, a dark patch of moisture visible at the gusset.

Her body was stunning. There was no other word. Youth and genetics had conspired to create something that made my throat ache.

Rita slid off my lap.