Discordia

Discordia

Part 1

I sprung awake as the ship heeled over to the rails, tossing me against the bulkhead at my bunk. Then, seconds later back to port, throwing me from the bunk onto the cabin floor, my legs and arms in all directions. Through my splayed body, intimately spread out upon her, I could feel the ship vibrate and groan, the strain of the storm resonating through her very frame. It is a feeling and a sound most unsettling, and a very bad sign.

My fear brought me to full consciousness. Panicked, I gathered myself up from the floor and crawled toward the rack. There was no time for a full change of clothes so I quickly pulled on my foul weather gear, jacket and boots and wrapped them over my night gown and stumbled toward the port way as the ship lurched below me. I opened the door and stepped into a nightmare.

The noise of the wind was deafening, the shouts of the crew filled with fear and urgency barely heard over it. Although it was still day, you could not tell. The dark gray daylight mixed with the sea spray to create a translucent cloud encircling the entire scene.

The deck was a fury of running and shouting crew, of sheets and sails whipping uncontrollably through the air. From the quarterdeck I came out on I could barely see the bow not 80 feet away. The wind-swept sea spray was thick and horizontal, beating and soaking everything within its reach. The heeling was the worst I have ever experienced, allowing the green waves to wash up through the gunnel and across the deck. Men struggled to maintain balance in the melee, working the rigging of the ship in a vain attempt to prevent our doom.

Entranced by the scene, I took one step forward out of the relative shelter of the door way and toward the chaos. The spray violently slapped my face, the wind pulled at my jacket and skirts. I spread my feet far apart to balance and reached out my hands to grasp the hatchway edges on both sides. My grip firm, my knuckles white as I tried to prevent being swept away. After another crashing ride into the trough of a wave the winds returned with a fervor and tore my jacket open and down off my shoulders to hang from my straining arms. The sea spray lashed me again, soaking my white cotton night gown to near transparency, adhering the fabric tight to my naked skin below, leaving little to the imagination.

I shrieked both from the cold and the nudity and instinctively released my grip on the rail to reach down to grab the flailing edges of the jacket. The ship rocked again and my unbalanced position while attempting to cover myself caused my feet to slide out from under me, leaving me hanging from one arm. Terrified, I drug back my flailing legs and landed into a squatting position, legs apart and one hand on the rail. The demands of the new position forced my feet even further apart to maintain balance against the violent tossing of the ship.

Wrestling one handed with the edge of my jacket, another gust blew through me and folded the nightgown to my waist. As I struggled between my modesty and the need to not be flung from the ship, I looked up to see, not 5 feet from me, a young yeoman at the wheel, who attracted by my shriek, could not help but stare. Even in this chaos, he is still a young man after all. And how often does one get to view a lady this way. I met his eyes, thinking this may be his last chance, and gave up on the attempt to conceal myself and instead focused on self-preservation and grabbed the other rail with my free hand.

The landlord's wife, precious and reserved, displaying herself to him at probably the most frightening moment of his life. The combination of events was so incongruous, so improbable.

I stared back at him. He is young and so vibrant at this moment of terror. My shame evaporates and I allow him to look. I enjoy his stare, his absolute focus. The fact that I have drawn his attention so completely away from what he should be doing, at such a moment, is exciting to me. I can feel it down there, fighting against the cold sea spray. How is this even possible I ask myself. Even with all of the distractions, the certainty of disaster, I am wet, both outside, and in.

His eyes dance across my exposed body, his expression an incredible mixture of fear and delight. I cannot recall ever seeing such a combination. The ship continues to be tossed, sea spray continues to lash my exposed body, but the chaos of the deck seems to fade as the world narrows to just me and him. I notice that as the ship rises and falls, my hips are following along, each peak causing me to thrust my pussy up at him and then return back, seeming to fuck the air between us. On the next rise another blast of salt water stings my most sensitive parts, causing me to cry out from the pain. Its as though the sea and this ship have conspired to humiliate me in front of this boy.

Even covered by the layers of gear he has on, his growing erection is apparent, straining, outlined through his soaked pants. My appearance must be something from his dreams. The transparent cotton of my wet gown is matted to my breasts, my nipples achingly hard from both arousal and cold. My pussy exposed and spread before him as the winds toss my gown up and down, rivulets of cold water running down my abs, across my pussy and then down my ass. How long this moment lasted was never clear for me, although I have replayed it many times. After a moment, or an hour, his focus is finally drawn away by the demands of the ship and his captain.

Tacking into the wind, the ship steadies for a beat, giving me a chance to scramble up enough to launch myself back into the relative safety of the cabin, slamming the door behind me. My breathing heavy, my wet body chilled and my mind overloaded with a combination of terror and arousal from what had just happened.

It was so humiliating and therefore exciting, a continuation of my fall from grace that started before we left on this voyage.

Part 2 - Before

We moved to the estate in late summer, nearly 2 years before we were to set off for the new world. It was a homecoming of sorts for me, and particularly for my husband, whose family had lived on this estate for generations. I was raised near here on a smaller estate, so the entire area was pat of my childhood and familiar to me for as long as I could remember.

In the intervening years, so much had happened in my life. Travel, marriage, children, obligations of society. Yet upon returning, it was as though nothing had happened here at all. The place was eerily similar to what it had been like years before. As though time had stopped.

The land and gardens were expansive with areas of open fields combined with deep, ancient woods. They seemed to have all had been maintained in my absence so as to keep it perfectly aligned with my memories. Much of my youth had been spent wandering through these very lands. I had a deep connection to the place, and seemingly it to me. I could not have been happier to return.

I looked forward to seeing my son James experience the freedom of the estate and enjoy the ability to roam the grounds. After years in the city, he would finally have the chance to be totally free, to be able to go where and how he wanted, with few to no restrictions. As I had been able to do in my youth.

In the first few days, my husband had to tend to the beginnings of our project, so I was able to show the place to James. He was newly 18, just becoming a man, so the timing was perfect. Each morning I looked forward to riding with him to various quadrants of the estate, bringing old memories to my mind. As we explored, I would tell him a few stories of the history, which he seemed to latch on to, giving him a grounding in and an understanding of our past.

I came to sense that there was something darker here though. Something that was not there in my youth. Or perhaps it was something in me that had changed and this place was simply a lens for focusing those new thoughts.

As the days progressed, I began to clearly realize that it was something in me that the place awakened. I have never understood the connection, but this place now made me think of things that I had never before. Made me act in ways that were completely out of character for me. Acts that were morally wrong and completely inappropriate. Until that summer, I had never considered the kinds of things I ended up considering, and then ended up doing.

The first inkling of this came during one of our rides. We were out near the farm lands and came upon two young men who were James' age. They worked on the farm and James dismounted to introduce himself. I remained on my horse.

As they talked and began their friendship, there was a moment where they all 3 had lined up, slightly turned to me but not looking in my direction. The were positioned upwind of me so that the scent of their work and bodies drifted lightly upon the breeze to my senses. As I looked down the line of boys, a thought sprung to life in my mind. It was as though that thought was not my own. At first so foreign and frightening, but somehow all consuming. A whole new part of my mind bloomed around this single thought. I understood the changes in me immediately at that moment. What had been tormenting me suddenly became clear.

I recognized in that moment that those young men were beautiful. Not in the way one appreciates art or youth, but in a completely erotic way. A deviant, taboo way. As I looked toward them, I felt myself become aroused, unconsciously sliding myself back and forth in the smooth saddle as I stared at them. The newly formed idea telling me that what was in front of me was mine to take. That I should ignore the norms of society and take them. To embrace this unnatural desire for those boys and my son. To give myself to this perversion. That this completely immoral act would be perfection, that it was what would make me complete.

My perceptions reached a heightened pitch as I wrestled with this new thought. From my horse I could feel their energy, I could smell their bodies, I could see the shape of their cocks in their pants. All of it was exhilarating, the passion welled up in me was so strong that everything else, that every other thought faded. Time seemed to stop. Just me, and them, and this incredible, terrible thought.

A small movement of the horse and I suddenly awakened from the trance. I became aware of my state of mind, where it had run to, and immediately attempted to get ahold of myself. The shame was overwhelming. My face shone bright red, my breathing shallow and rapid. Initially I felt real remorse, real confusion over what I had just thought. But that did not seem to stop what I was feeling down there, that I was soaked and completely aroused. That part of me seemed to have no remorse.

Finally, shouting at myself to stop it, to stop looking at these young men, my son, in this way, I was able to break away from the moment. But it took a heroic effort. The genie had somehow left the bottle, and I feared I would never get it back in.

I sat there on that horse, shaking my head, wondering what the hell was going on in my mind. Where did this sudden attraction to young men come from. And if I was totally honest with myself, it was not just any young men. My interest seemed to include my own son. Maybe even be focused on him, then radiating out to the other young men like him. How could I have become so deviant, so perverted, so as to take an interest in James. I know for certain that I had never thought these kinds of things about him before. About any young man.

They continued talking, but I had begun to lead my horse away from them, hoping to regain some composure before James joined me on the rest of the ride. After a while he and his horse walked up to where I had stopped and asked "what's wrong mom?"

I could not meet his eyes at all, so I just looked off to the horizon and responded "just tired I think, James. We should probably head back to the house." He mounted and we rode back in silence to the barns where I jumped off and immediately went to the house and up to my rooms.

There I sat, staring out the window, running through everything I have thought and experienced for as long back as I could recall, to try and find some source for this disgusting perversion. I just had no idea. It was terrifying, but also weirdly exciting, that my mind could still harbor such secrets.

I thought I should confess to the local parish pastor, but how could I? This is a small place and I would see him regularly. What kind of monster would he think me. What I would confess is unforgivable. The embarrassment would destroy me.

If this was an infatuation with another man, I could confess that. That was normal. But to admit that I had those same attractions to young men, to my own son of that same age, would be impossible. I could just barely admit it to myself. It was horrible, perverse, wrong in every way, but I still could not make the thought go away.

I decided that there was no way out, no absolution. There was something deeply flawed in me, and that I had no choice but to repress the thoughts and desires as deeply as possible. James would be off to school in another few weeks, and I would be able to avoid him and all young men of his age till then. After that, I would go into complete denial that this had ever happened, that I had ever had such thoughts.

What had gotten into me ebbed and flowed through the following months after James left and my plan succeeded as much as it failed. Sometimes I would behave completely appropriately. Other times I would greet a young man and my juices would drip down my thighs. But only with young men of James age. My husband was still satisfying, but he was no match for what was brewing in the dark corner of my mind.

As spring approached, my repression plan began to fail more profoundly. Part of me was relieved that my obsession was not just for James, although it did seem to circle around him closely. I had found an alternative.

The gardens were maintained by Mr. Magruder and his son, Stephen. He was a perfect fit for my obsession. I had noticed him many times over the last year, watching him grow, and his interest in me grow as well. There were many moments of eye contact, of catching him looking at me, and he catching me looking at him.

That he was so similar to my own son caused me the greatest worry. Of all the men around who I could dwell upon, why would I choose a boy. But I knew. It was just something I could never allow myself to fully accept. I had to maintain that last reserve of revulsion with myself in order to prevent a catastrophe.

This dance with Stephen built through the spring, until James returned in the summer. My days after that became panicked and restless. As much as I loved him, and as much as I wanted to spend time with him, I could not trust myself in the least. Just running into him in the hallway would cause my passion to inflame. I would even burst into his room, hoping for something to happen. One of those times I confronted him without his shirt on, his bare chest smooth and lightly muscled. My urge for him nearly overwhelmed me and it took all of my effort not to tell him of my desire for him. I had almost no control left when I was near him.

My walks and rides into the country became more frequent and of longer duration, keeping myself away from the temptation that was my own son. It was one of these days where the entire house of cards came down.

After lunch on one sunny afternoon, I decided I would take another horse ride through the estate. I had been riding since I was a child and knew it as one of the truly great joys in life. I dressed in my usual outfit of riding britches, jacket and high boots and walked out to the stables.

Although just noon, the air was already thick with humidity and pollen, resulting in a kind of sultriness common for this time of year. Arriving at the stable barn I met Paul the young stable keeper who had already saddled my favorite horse. I hooked my foot up into the stirrup and glanced over my shoulder, catching Paul taking a furtherative glance at my backside as I hoisted myself up into the saddle. I know from my husband's comments, my back side in britches was a view much appreciated by men. And a little rare. The norm for women would be a dress and side saddle, but I was not just going to sit on a horse. I needed to ride the horse, to control it, and for that one needed to use their knees. Pants like a man was the only way that could work.

Paul's face reddened and his eyes darted away as he saw me look back at him. When he glanced back, I gave him a reassuring smile, making it clear I was not upset. I, more than any other woman around, appreciated a young man's attention. I hoped for it.

Once up, he handed me the reigns without looking me in the eye and I moved out of the shade of the barn and into the bright sun of the afternoon. The horse and I trotted into the adjacent fields to trace the cool shade of the forest edge.

There is a pond on the estate that had been a swimming hole for generations. The water has always moved fast through the pond, keeping it clean and cool. Most of it is surrounded by oaks and willows, but some parts are open to the adjacent fields. After an hour or so of our ride, we both were quite hot and sweaty and looking for a break. I led the horse through the field and down the rise to the pond to drink. As we got near, I held him off and dismounted to walk him the rest of the way. The edge of this pond was sometimes a little treacherous and mucky. Once at the water's edge he put his muzzle into the water and began to draw in the cool water. Being alone, and a sweaty mess myself, I walked into the water a couple of feet, bent over and used my grimy hands to bring water up to my mouth and splash onto my face and neck. Although I was raised to be a lady by governesses, I was also raised by my brothers in the fields and forests and had no qualms about roughing it. As we both drank and cooled ourselves, clouds of summer insects buzzed above our heads, spinning about in their busy works.

Riding also had a secondary effect on me, ever since I was a young girl. The motion of rider on a horse always put a tingle in my delicate parts. When young, I had no idea what this was, but as a woman, I had no doubt, as inappropriate as that was. Not so much stimulating, but more just making me aware of myself down there. After a few years of marriage and getting to know one another, my husband would often be waiting at the stables for my return, walking me back to the house for a bath and a fuck. Knowing that I would be most obliging.

The quality of the mount seemed to have an effect on this reaction as well. This horse was a fine one. Young, muscular, strong willed yet still willing to please, in the right hands. I had been out on him throughout the summer and each time we became a little closer, a little better together.

As we drank together, a shout and splash to our left from the edge of the trees startled us. We both pulled up our heads from the water and focused our attention in that direction. What I could see, not 50 feet away from us were three young men hanging from an overhanging tree branch, then dropping into the water. The horse not interested in the activity backed out of the water and slowly wandered up the rise. I was enthralled however, and shrank into the grasses at the pond's edge so as to not be seen.

The three young men, gangly, yet virile, hanging from a tree branch, were completely naked. And one of these young men was my son. "Camille," I whispered to myself, "walk away, just walk away." But I could not. I was frozen in place, drawn, anchored to this moment. Receding to my hands and knees in the tall grasses at the pond's edge, my eyes focused on them. On him.