Fucking My Stepson

Margaret booked the theatre three weeks ago. Then cancelled two days before because of a cold. Offered us her tickets. "Shame to waste them, Richard. You and Sarah should go."

So Sunday afternoon. The Cambridge Arts Theatre. Arcadia. Just the two of us. First proper outing in months, Richard called it.

Got dressed that morning. Navy wrap dress. Stockings and suspenders more comfortable than tights for a long performance.

Richard in a proper shirt. Made an effort. Looked nice actually. Held my hand walking there.

The lobby packed. Sunday matinée Stoppard in Cambridge. Everyone who's anyone.

Then I saw him.

Tom. Standing near the bar. Suit and tie. Looking at his phone.

Fuck.

'Alright, love?' Richard noticed I'd stopped.

'Fine. Thought I saw someone from work.'

We kept walking. Found our seats. Dress circle. Row C. Richard checked the tickets. Seats 15 and 16.

Sat down. Richard took 15, end of the row. I took 16.

Victorian seats. Narrow. His thigh against mine.

'This is nice,' he said. Smiled. Squeezed my hand.

Then someone sat down next to me.

'Oh sorry, excuse me--' Male voice. Familiar.

Looked up.

Tom.

He stopped. Recognised me. His eyes did this thing. Surprise. Then something else.

'Sarah.' Not a question.

Richard leaned forward. 'Tom! Didn't know you were a theatre person.'

They know each other.

Of course they fucking know each other.

'Richard. Hi. Yeah, trying to be more cultured.' Tom laughed. Recovered fast. 'Didn't realise these were your seats.'

'Margaret's tickets. She's unwell. Sarah, you remember Tom from the rowing club fundraiser?'

The rowing club fundraiser. Three months ago. Before the hotel. Before the filming. Before I knew what Tom's cock tasted like.

'Er of course yes. Hello Tom.'

'Sarah.' He sat down next to me. Seat 17. 'Good to see you again.'

Richard already reading the programme. 'Should be excellent. I love Stoppard.'

Tom and I sitting there. Not looking at each other.

The last time I saw Tom he was coming on my tits while James fucked me from behind and Lilly filmed it. Twenty-three thousand pounds split four ways. Posted online for seventeen thousand subscribers.

And now he's sitting next to me at the theatre. With my husband on my other side.

The lights dimmed.

Richard reached over. Took my left hand. Interlaced our fingers. Rested them on my lap.

Sweet. My husband holding my hand.

Curtain up. Thomasina and Septimus. 1809. The actress was good.

Richard absorbed immediately. Loves this stuff.

Tom shifted next to me. Our thighs touching. The seats too narrow.

'Sorry,' he whispered.

'It's fine.'

On stage, carnal embrace. Septimus explaining.

Felt Tom's hand. On his own lap first. Then moving. Slowly. Onto the armrest between us.

Richard's hand in my left hand. Tom's hand inches from my right thigh.

This is mental.

Tom's fingers drummed the armrest. Once. Twice.

Then his hand moved. Onto my lap. On top of my coat and then slid under, found my knee through the dress.

Richard squeezed my left hand. Engaged with the dialogue on stage.

Tom's hand moved up. Slow. Under the dress hem and found bare skin. The stocking top. Stopped.

Felt him go completely still.

Then his fingers moved. Over the suspender strap. Up.

Oh fuck.

On stage, mathematics. Iteration. The second law of thermodynamics.

Tom's fingers found the edge of my knickers and slipped under, no hesitation at all.

I was wet. Already.

His finger on my clit. Circling.

Fuck, I love this. Love being fingered and I mean really fucking love it. If there's anything that's a proper kink for me it's being fingered along with being fucked, and fingering done right with me touching my clit is pretty much guaranteed to make me come. Fingers have special skills that cocks don't--they can rub and twist and stretch and push and turn in ways no penis can manage, and there's something so fucking hot about seeing fingers inside me, watching them disappear and reappear.

Tom knew this. We'd filmed together. He'd learned my body.

His finger pressed and then two fingers pushed inside me, curling exactly right.

Bit my lip. Stared at the stage.

Richard leaning forward, completely absorbed and still holding my hand. Loving husband.

Tom worked his fingers and knew exactly what he was doing. Impressive for someone so young but then he took direction well.

The scene building. Music getting louder.

Tom's thumb on my clit. Fingers curled inside me.

Richard's thumb rubbing the back of my hand. Gentle. Absent.

I was close. Right there.

Tom increased the pace. Relentless.

The revelation on stage. Final line. Blackout. Applause.

I came. Silent. Completely silent. Clenching round Tom's fingers. Richard's hand in mine.

Lights up.

Richard standing. Clapping. 'Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!'

Tom pulled his fingers out slowly. I stood. Legs shaking.

'You alright, love?' Richard looking at me.

'Yes. Just... moved by it. The actress was wonderful.'

'Wasn't she! Drink?'

'Please.'

Richard headed up the aisle. Chatting to someone else he'd recognised.

Tom and I stayed in our seats.

Silence.

'Sarah--'

'Don't.'

'That was--'

'I know.'

'Your husband was holding your hand.'

'I'm aware.'

He laughed. Quiet. Slightly unhinged. 'Christ. This is fucked.'

'Yep.'

Richard calling from the aisle. 'Tom! What are you drinking?'

'Pint. Cheers mate.'

We stood. Followed Richard to the bar.

Interval. Packed. Richard getting drinks. Tom and I standing there.

'Did you plan this?' Tom asked. Quiet.

'No. Did you?'

'No. Margaret's tickets, you said?'

'She cancelled. Gave them to us.'

'Fuck.'

Richard returned. Handed Tom a pint. Me a gin and tonic.

'Enjoying it?' Richard asked Tom.

'Yeah. Really good. The actress playing Thomasina is excellent.'

'Isn't she! Sarah was just saying that.'

They chatted. Rowing club stuff. Some race coming up. Both completely normal.

We found a small table away from the crowded area. I sat there. Tom's fingers were inside me twenty minutes ago. Richard held my hand the whole time.

Moved closer to Tom. Removed my shoes and slid my foot under the table. Found his ankle.

Fuck, I love this - love giving footjobs and I mean really fucking love it, there's something so filthy about using my feet on a man's cock whilst looking completely innocent standing there. The stockings make it better, that slippery nylon sliding against him, watching his face whilst I work him with my toes and he has to stay absolutely silent.

Ran my foot up his calf. Higher. Tom took a drink. Didn't look at me.

My foot reached his thigh. Inside it. Kept going and found his crotch.

Pressed my toes against him through his trousers. Rubbed slowly. Tom coughed and set his pint down.

Richard talking nonsense and oblivious.

Worked my foot up and down. Could feel him getting harder.

'You alright, Tom?' Richard glancing over.

'Yeah. Fine. Bit warm in here.'

'It is packed, you need some air?'

'I'm fine.'

Kept rubbing. Toes pressing harder.

Tom gripping his pint.

The bell rang.

'Second act,' Richard said. 'Best bit apparently.'

Pulled my foot back. Slipped my shoes on.

Tom adjusting himself as we walked. Trying to be subtle.

Back to our seats. Same configuration. Richard on my left. Tom on my right.

Lights down.

Richard took my hand again. Immediately.

Tom's hand on my knee. No delay. Straight there.

On stage, both timelines. Past and present. Clever staging.

Tom's fingers under my dress. Inside me. Deeper than before.

Richard squeezed my hand during an emotional bit.

This is the Cambridge Arts Theatre. My husband is holding my hand. A young man from the rowing club has two fingers inside me. We've fucked on camera for money and seventeen thousand people have watched it.

What the actual fuck is my life.

The action building. Questions of knowledge and entropy and sex and death all tangling together the way Stoppard does.

Tom's fingers working me steadily. Knew I was getting close.

Then the final scene. The waltz. Margaret's favourite. Couples dancing across time, 1809 and the present overlapping, Thomasina and Septimus and Hannah and Gus all on stage together with that music building.

Tom's thumb on my clit. Relentless. Wanted me to come with them.

The dancers moving, the past and present bleeding together, something about the impossibility of knowing anything for certain and the beauty of trying anyway.

His fingers curled exactly right. Knew my body too well.

Richard's hand gripping mine tighter, moved by it, by the romance of it.

The music swelling. The couples turning. Time collapsing.

I came. Quieter than the first time but deeper. Clenching round Tom's fingers while my husband held my hand and the past danced with the present on stage.

Final tableau. Lights fading. Blackout.

The play ended. Standing ovation.

Richard on his feet instantly, pulling me up with him, still holding my hand. 'Wonderful! Just wonderful!'

Tom pulled his fingers out under cover of us all standing. Legs shaking properly now.

Outside. Bright sun. Felt wrong after the darkness.

'That was wonderful,' Richard said. 'Thanks for the recommendation, Tom.'

'Any time, mate.'

'We should do this more often. Dinner maybe? You, me, Sarah, and whoever you're seeing at the moment.'

Tom looked at me. 'Yeah. That would be great.'

'Excellent. I'll text you.'

Tom left. Waved. Walked toward King's Parade.

Richard took my arm. 'Nice bloke, Tom. Don't see him enough.'

'Mmm.'

Home. Twenty minutes. Richard chatting about the play the whole way.

Parked. Got out.

Inside. Richard checking his phone. Work email. 'Just need to reply to this. Won't be long.'

Went to his study.

My phone vibrated.

Tom: "What the fuck just happened."

Me: "I don't know."

Tom: "Your husband invited me to dinner."

Me: "I know. I was there."

Tom: "Are we going to talk about this?"

Me: "Probably not."

Tom: "The others want to film the cinema thing. Four grand."

Me: "No."

Tom: "We just did the theatre. In front of him. What's the difference?"

Stared at the message. He was right.

Me: "I'll think about it..."

Put the phone down.

Richard came out of his study. 'Fancy a cup of tea?'

'Oh, yes please darling.'

He put the kettle on. Humming. Happy. Cultural outing with his wife.

Sat at the kitchen table.

James and Lilly are going to absolutely lose it when Tom tells them. Which he will. Because of course he will.

Closed my eyes. Could still feel Tom's fingers inside me. The way he knew exactly where to touch, how to work me. Hours of that. Tied up and blindfolded while he edged me over and over, bringing me right to the edge then stopping, making me beg for it.

Fuck.

Masked MILF bound and fingered by a young man half her age. Premium content. Maybe six or seven grand for that.

Business brain. Can't turn it off.

What the fuck, Sarah.

But also. Four grand for the cinema thing. Six or seven for the bondage shoot.

And Richard wants to have dinner with Tom.

This is fine. Everything's fine.

---

Later. Midnight. Richard asleep.

Couldn't sleep. Too wired.

Hand between my legs. Thinking about Tom's fingers at the theatre and Richard holding my other hand the whole time.

Then thinking about the hotel. Tom behind me while James fucked my mouth and Lilly filmed it. Both of them using me. My stepson's cock in my throat while his rowing mate pounded me from behind.

Rubbed faster. Imagining them doing it again. James's hands in my hair and Tom's fingers digging into my hips and the camera recording everything for thousands of strangers to watch.

Doctor brain trying to start. Blood flow and arousal response and--

Shut up, Sarah.

Came hard. Silent. Richard sleeping two feet away. Lay there after. Staring at the ceiling.

Forty-three years old. Consultant. Mother. Wife.

Pornstar.

What the actual fuck is my life.