My Son's Girlfriend, My Mistress

I watched my son slip the ring onto her finger, then watched her sip the celebratory champagne, those lips that had been wrapped around my cock that morning.

Martyn's hands were shaking as he knelt in our sitting room. Ingrid was crying. Anna looked at me over his head, her expression unreadable. Six months of madness led to this moment.

I'm Stephen Bennett. Fifty-four. Professor of economics at Cambridge. The kind who publishes papers nobody reads about theories nobody gives a shit about. Thirty years married to Ingrid, a writer who hosts a book club on Thursdays where everyone drinks too much wine.

One son. Martyn. Twenty-seven. He works in the City doing something incomprehensible with other people's money. "Fund management," he calls it. I call it legal theft.

I'd never cheated before Anna. Never had the urge, really. Ingrid and I had good years. Then adequate years. Then years that just... existed. Efficient. Enough to pretend we weren't just flatmates who occasionally shared a bed.

Then Martyn brought her home one weekend.

Anna wasn't beautiful in that obvious way. Not a silly blonde with fake tits. She was striking. American. A PhD student studying English literature at Cambridge University.

She had a dark bob. Pale skin. A swimmer's body, broad shoulders and unexpected curves.

But the eyes. Christ, the eyes. They were too old for her face, like she'd seen things. Judged them. Found them wanting.

"So you teach economics," she said over Christmas dinner. Martyn had spent ten minutes explaining my supposed importance. "Do your students actually care? Or are they just ticking boxes?"

"Anna," Martyn laughed. That nervous laugh when people went off-script.

"They tick boxes. I tick boxes. The university ticks boxes. The whole system is recursive bureaucracy - forms that generate forms that justify more forms."

She smiled. Not politely. She really smiled. "At least you're honest."

Ingrid refilled wine glasses, steering things back to safe territory. But something had shifted.

Later, in the kitchen, I reached past her for plates. My arm brushed hers. Nothing dramatic, but the way she looked at me.

After the weekend, Martyn went back to London. Anna stayed in Cambridge.

---

I couldn't stop thinking about her. I wanted to see her again, so I started taking different routes across the city. Visiting different coffee shops, student hangouts, like a bloody stalker. Pathetic. A grown man with nothing better to do than hope for an "accidental" encounter.

When I saw her through the café window, my stomach dropped. She was alone, reading. I should have walked on. Gone home to Ingrid and pretended to care about her day.

Instead, I went in.

"Anna."

She looked up, startled. "Stephen. What are you doing here?"

"Coffee." Though I'd already had three cups. My hands were shaking. "Mind if I sit?"

Half the tables were empty, but she nodded to the chair opposite.

"How's the studying?"

"Slowly. I'm trying to understand Plath's fig tree. All those lives hanging there, rotting whilst you decide."

I knew the passage. The paralysis of choice. "Sounds familiar."

"Does it?" She leaned forward. "Do you ever feel like you've wasted your life sitting under the same tree?"

Christ. Straight for the throat. I ordered coffee from some pierced teenager who looked bored out of his skull.

"Most people feel that way."

"But you don't talk about it. Not with Martyn. Not with your wife."

Hearing Ingrid mentioned was like a slap. "Some things are better left unsaid."

"Are they? Or do they just rot?"

"This is dangerous."

"What is?"

"This. Us talking like this."

She smiled. Not polite. Something hungrier. "We're just talking, Stephen."

But we weren't. Every word felt loaded. When she reached for sugar, her fingers brushed mine. When I leaned back, she leaned in.

"I should go. Ingrid's expecting me."

"What time?"

"Seven."

She checked her phone. "It's half past three." The café was emptying. Outside, rain hammering down.

"Walk me to my accommodation? I haven't got an umbrella."

I had one. Black, sensible. Still in its wrapper until that morning, like I'd fucking known.

We walked slowly, sharing the small shelter. Her shoulder pressed against mine.

"This way." She turned down a narrow lane. College accommodation behind high walls. Her key stuck.

"Fuck," she muttered, wrestling with it.

I reached around her, our bodies close. The key turned easily. "Just needed the right touch."

She looked up. Water on her eyelashes. Lips parted. The space between us disappeared.

I kissed her against her door. Soft, then desperate. Her hands tucked inside my jacket, pulling me closer.

"Come inside."

"Anna..."

"Please."

The door opened. We tumbled through. Small room, books everywhere. Single bed. Posters of dead authors glaring down - Woolf, Plath. A tribunal of judgmental women.

She pulled off her wet jumper. White cotton bra underneath, slightly grey from washing. Nothing sexy about it, which somehow made it worse.

"Are you sure?" My hands were already reaching for her.

"No. Are you?"

"No."

We kissed again, harder. A couple of stolen glances collapsed into need. I backed her towards the bed, hands mapping her body through thin cotton.

"Stephen." My name sounded different in her mouth. Real.

I pulled off my jumper, suddenly aware of my soft belly, grey chest hair. The body of a man who'd given up. But she looked at me like I was worth wanting.

Her fingers traced my ribs. "You're shaking."

"It's been... I haven't..."

She kissed my neck, her tongue found my nipple and I gasped like a teenager. When had anyone last touched me with actual desire?

I lifted her onto the bed. She was light, breakable. I wanted to consume her and protect her and fuck her senseless.

"Take it off." Her voice was rough.

I fumbled with her bra clasp. When it fell away, I stared. Small breasts, pale pink nipples hardening.

"Beautiful."

"I'm not..."

"You are."

I took her nipple in my mouth, hands in my hair. Her fingers found my belt, desperate.

"Let me touch you first." I stilled her hands.

I peeled off her jeans, kissing newly exposed skin. Plain white knickers, damp with want. I could smell her - musky, desperate.

"Please," she whispered.

I pulled the cotton aside and touched her properly. Soaking wet, swollen. My finger slipped inside and she bucked against my hand.

"Fuck, more."

I added another finger on her clit. She was tight. Made me wonder when Martyn had last been inside her. The thought made me harder.

"Let go," I murmured, working her steadily.

She came hard, eyes wide, mouth open. I wanted to memorise it - the flush across her chest, her thighs trembling, her cunt pulsing around my fingers.

"Your turn." She reached for my belt.

"Not yet. I want to taste you."

I kissed down her body, parting her thighs. She was pink and glistening, still swollen. I licked her carefully, savouring the taste of cunt.

"Oh fuck, Stephen..."

I worked her with my tongue until she was writhing, begging. When she came again, I felt it everywhere.

She pulled me up, kissing me hard, tasting herself. Then she wrapped her fingers around my cock. "Christ..."

"I want you inside me."

"I don't have anything..."

"I'm on the pill."

I teased her clit with my hard cock, looking into her eyes. This was it. The moment that would destroy everything.

I pushed inside slowly. She was impossibly tight, gripping me. I had to stop or it would be over embarrassingly quick.

"Ruin me," she whispered.

I pulled back and thrust deeper. She wrapped her legs around me. Perfect angle, made her cry out.

We found rhythm - deep, deliberate. Her eyes stayed locked on mine, unflinching. Like she was looking straight into my soul.

"What are we doing?" I whispered.

"Don't know. Don't stop."

I couldn't have stopped if the world ended. This was beyond reason. Pure fucking need.

Her breathing changed. I felt her tightening, close again. My thrusts. "I want to feel you come on my cock."

She fell apart beneath me, muscles contracting rhythmically. The sensation dragged me over. I buried my face in her neck and finished harder than I had in years, filling her completely.

We lay there afterwards, sticky, hearts hammering. The enormity settling around us.

"I should go."

"Yes."

But neither of us moved. Outside, church bells chimed five.

"What happens now?"

"I don't know."

But I did. This wasn't ending. It was beginning. And it would destroy everything.

I dressed in silence whilst she watched from the bed. At the door, I turned back.

"Anna..."

"Don't. Don't apologise. Don't say it was a mistake."

It wasn't. That was the terrible truth. It was the ugliest betrayal of my life and the first time in years I couldn't lie to myself about who I was.

I walked home past colleges where better men pondered morality. Ingrid was humming in the kitchen when I arrived.

"Good day?"

"Fine," I said, kissing her cheek. She smelled of paint. Safe. Everything Anna wasn't.

But as I showered off the evidence, I could still taste Anna. Still feel her grip. And I knew this was only the beginning.

---

We established patterns. Taking ridiculous risks. My office. Grantchester woods. Two weeks in, we fucked in the disabled toilet at the Ivy.

I was pretending to listen to Davies droning on about REF criteria, my smoked fish with poached egg going cold. This is what happens when food critics decide where academics eat. I should've gone to Nando's.

Anna walked in with her PhD friends. She wore a blue dress that made her look older than twenty-six. When she bent to sit, I caught a glimpse of her arse. My cock responded like I was still capable of surprise, still young enough to be undone by wanting someone.

But Christ, the way she moved. Like she'd never thought about joint pain. Never had to explain erectile dysfunction to a doctor. Never watched her body betray her daily.

Our eyes met across the restaurant. She looked away first, cheeks red.

I nodded at Simmons who was droning about marking schemes. My heart thumping while my hands shook slightly. When did that last happen? When Ingrid called about Martyn's accident, three years ago. It was a different fear.

Anna's table was too loud. Her laugh carried. That bright sound before life teaches you to shut up. In twenty years she'd be where I was, pretending to care about pension contributions and wondering where her life went.

"Excuse me." I stood. Simmons barely glanced up. None of them would miss me.

The disabled toilet. Always empty. I locked the door and stared at myself. Lines around my eyes. When did I start looking like my father?

A soft knock.

I opened the door, and she slipped past. Fuck, she smelled good. I locked the door again.

"Someone might need..."

"Fuck them." It was out of character for me, I was thinking with my cock.

She kissed me first. Her mouth crashed into mine. Teeth clicking. Tongue too fast. Sloppy. Desperate.

"Christ, slow down."

"Sorry, I..."

I shut her up with my mouth. I pushed her against the sink. The tap dug into her spine. She let out a sharp breath.

"Fuck, that's cold."

My hands found her dress. I pulled it up, ripping her tights. The cheap nylon fabric easily torn. No knickers.

"You planned this?"

"No, I just..." Her breath caught as my fingers found her. She was already wet. "Jesus, Stephen."

Footsteps outside. We both went rigid. Some cunt was humming that stupid Sabrina Carpenter 'Espresso' song, taking their time. I put my palm over Anna's mouth. She bit it, not hard, just enough.

The humming faded. The door swung shut.

"Turn around," a voice said that didn't sound like mine.

She spun. Her hands were flat on the mirror. Arse out. I fumbled with my belt. My thick, clumsy fingers. My reflection was red-faced, sweating, and old. Anna's eyes met mine in the mirror. An understanding.

I pushed deep inside her obscenely wet cunt. "Uhhh fuck...', muffled by my hand.

"I need this," she whispered.

I fucked her hard, short, sharp thrusts. Any more and I'd lose it. She pushed back, meeting each one. Her breath fogged the mirror. The door rattled with the impact.

"Harder." Her lips brushed my ear. "Fuck me, Stephen, harder."

I grabbed her hips and really went at her. Skin slapping skin. Anyone listening would know.

"Fuck, fuck me..." Her forehead was against the mirror. Her eyes were shut and her hand was between her legs.

It lasted two minutes. I spunked into her, my teeth in her shoulder, trying not to make a sound. She followed seconds later, her body rigid with a strangled cry. My cum leaked down her thigh.

We stayed like that, breathing hard, my forehead against her neck. I could smell her shampoo. It was sweet, Boots for three quid, probably.

The mirror showed everything. My grey chest hair. Her flushed skin. Two people with no business being in the same room together. She stepped back, trying to pull her torn tights up. They were beyond saving, hanging in tatters.

"What are we..."

I had nothing to say. Standing there, my cock hanging out.

"Everything's going to..." She didn't finish.

"I know."

"And you still want to?"

"Yes." No hesitation. Too old to lie. Too young to stop wanting wrong things.

She kissed me, a quick, chaste kiss, like kissing her father goodnight. And left.

I washed my hands and looked at myself. I was exactly what I was. Someone's husband. Someone's father. A middle-aged man who'd just fucked his son's girlfriend in a disabled toilet.

"Everything alright?" Simmons asked when I sat back down. "You look a bit warm."

"Fine. Stuffy in here."

Anna was laughing with her friends, the same bright laugh. She tucked her hair behind her ear. Martyn did the same gesture yesterday. A genetic echo. It made me sick.

Weeks passed. More meetings. More fucking. More lies.

"Do you love my son?" I asked once, watching her dress in my office.

"I'm fond of him."

"That's cruel."

She shrugged, unselfconscious naked. "Would saying yes stop this?" She gestured between us.

It wouldn't have. That was the terrible truth. Even if she'd loved Martyn completely, I'd have continued. It was beyond reason. Beyond decency.

When Martyn announced their engagement. I sat at the dining table, nodding and smiling. Something inside me shriveled and died. Ingrid was thrilled, already planning the wedding. Under the table, Anna's stockinged foot reached out and found my hard cock.

In the kitchen later, she cornered me.

"This changes nothing," she whispered.

"What the fuck! This changes everything. You're marrying my son for fuck sake!"

"I haven't said yes, yet."

But she did. And she still came to me. The engagement intensified everything. The secrecy. The betrayal. It became part of what drove us.

God help me.

Ingrid noticed changes. She said I seemed "different." Asked if something was wrong.

"Just tired. Work."

"You seem almost... alive again," she said one night. "It's nice."

I nearly confessed then. The words were right there. I swallowed them back. It would destroy my son. My marriage. My reputation. My career.

Everything.

Anna started talking about leaving Martyn. Running away together. I knew it was fantasy. It would destroy everything.

"We can't," I said.

"Can't we? We already are."

----

Martyn called. He wanted us to meet for lunch. Just us. My heart stopped. Did he know?

But he didn't. He wanted property advice, where to live after their wedding. He was looking at me with trust. Admiration. I felt physically ill.

"I'm so lucky, Dad. Can't believe she chose me."

She didn't, I wanted to say. She chose us both. Or neither. I still don't know what Anna wanted.

The next day, Anna disappeared. She left a note for Martyn, saying she needed time to think. He was distraught. He called her repeatedly. He went to her accommodation. Checked with the University. She had quit her course and was gone.

A few weeks later, I received an email from an unrecognisable proton email account, with just an address. A Norfolk cottage. I told Ingrid I had a conference in Edinburgh. She believed me. She always believed me.

The cottage was on the coast. Isolated. Anna was waiting.

"I had to see if you'd come."

"I shouldn't have."

"But you did."

We spent three days there. Barely left the bedroom, barely ate. I think I lost weight. We both knew this was the end. We needed to exhaust whatever madness possessed us.

On the fourth day, I woke. A note was on the pillow. "Tell Martyn I'm sorry. Tell yourself whatever you need."

I returned to Cambridge. Lectures. My wife. My son, heartbroken and confused. I told him what young men need to hear. It wasn't his fault. Sometimes people aren't ready. He'd find someone else.

I didn't tell him I wake at night, certain I hear her breathing, or that I check my email daily for messages that never come. I know with absolute certainty I'd risk everything again if she returned.

The damage isn't just what we do to others. It's what we do to ourselves. Parts of yourself you can't get back.

Sometimes, walking through Trinity Court, I think I see her. Dark hair. Pale skin. It's never Anna. Perhaps she's in America. Perhaps she found someone else to consume, and be consumed by. Perhaps she's forgotten me entirely.

I haven't forgotten her. Never will.

I'm not sure it was love. Just recognition. Something in each other. A shared emptiness. A willingness to torch everything - marriage, blood, reputation - just for the illusion of being alive again.

Martyn's met someone new. A nice sensible girl. Finance too. They're moving in together. Ingrid is pleased. Life moves on. The university made me head of department. Everything looks perfect on the outside.