Rat Catcher
by DiscipleN
Being cuckolded isn't like being pregnant. A woman is either pregnant or isn't. Traditionally, a husband is cuckolded when his wife has sex with another man. If my wife cheated on me with a woman, that supposedly wouldn't count, because cuckolding is also about raising another man's child. It's got lots of room for interpretation. I can't figure out how my situation overlaps the cuckold spectrum. You see, my wife is cheating on me with our son who is too young to cum.
It's not like Corinne is cold in our bed. She and I have pretty amazing sex still, eight years after Grant was born and after eleven years of marriage. At least once a month Corinne will drag me to our bed and pretend to rape me. I do get off powerfully when she takes charge. Mostly we have loving sex every three or four days. I instigate it about twice as often as she, and I'm confident that she's not pretending or even faking her orgasms. I'm confident because I recently overheard my wife confessing her lust for me, to our son.
My dilemma began on Grant's eighth birthday. Corinne and I hosted his party in our backyard. He was allowed to invite ten guests. Eight showed up, five boys and three girls, all Grant's classmates. I hadn't met any of the children before then. His report cards often noted that he played well with others, but Grant never invited friends to play at our house. He always went to theirs.
I was curious to see how he interacted with his friends, but despite the backyard turning into a festival of childish games and pranks and scraped knees and bruised elbows, Grant participated haphazardly. He'd play one round of pin the tail on the donkey and take off to swing on the tire hanging from the old apple tree in our yard.
It was the last survivor of a series of orchards which had been converted to residential housing decades ago. After a half dozen swings, he jumped off and shot marbles with a couple other boys. I assumed that he was trying not to play favorites, but I noticed Corinne shaking her head.
"What's the matter?"
"Poor Grant." She set down the grill spatula in her hand and hugged me. "The other children are ignoring him."
It seemed I needed to look closer. After studying the scene, I sooorta saw what she meant. Grant would get into a game, but the other kids wouldn't give him much attention. They weren't rude or mean. They just interacted with each other more often than with Grant. I felt sorry for the little guy, but I was in no position to help him. As an adult, my presence was at best a safeguard and at worst embarrassing authority.
I returned to setting the table, something that I could do. It was all paper plates and plastic utensils, but I enjoy tidying things. I work as a commercial landscaper's assistant. My wife works part-time as a web designer. One of our shared loves is artistic expression. By focusing on slicing tomatoes and onions and cheese for the burgers, the antics in the backyard were a soundtrack that sounded happier than my boy was probably feeling. Every scream and squeal was joyful, none were my son's voice.
I looked up from my work to see how Corinne was coming along with the burgers, and caught her talking to Grant near the apple tree. He handed her a small fruit he had picked. It was too early in the season to be edible, but his mother accepted it with a smile and touched his cheek.
I finished setting the table, and another of my senses kicked in. The burgers! They were burning! I raced to rescue them from the grill.
It wasn't like Corinne to abandon a task, but she was nowhere in the yard. Perhaps she got distracted, fetching something from the kitchen. Fortunately, I was able to scrape off the burned bits and save the burgers, but they would be dry instead of juicy. I added cheese to offset the taste.
Still no Corinne. I took a quick scan of the yard. The kids were enjoying their games. Grant wasn't among them. I went inside and called out, "Grant? Corinne?" I heard her voice from the utility room, talking as if she hadn't heard me, though. "Your father will always excite me, in ways that-." I was quick to open it.
That was the beginning of my dilemma.
Inside, Corinne was on her knees, adjusting her bright green blouse. Grant stood next to her, zipping up his jean shorts. He wasn't wearing underwear. At my surprise intrusion, my wife covered her mouth with a hand. The top button of her top was undone. I swear her lips had been glistening. "What happened?"
"Momma fell." Grant stepped back, as if he was afraid of me.
"Darling! Are you hurt?"
"Um," Her eyes shot our son a puzzled look. They widened brightly, and she smiled at me, after swiping her mouth. "Silly, me! I slipped on the rug, Win. (Win is her pet name for me, Winton.) Corinne held out a hand, and I helped her to her feet. "Only my pride is hurt." She gave a chuckle.
Grant dashed out. "Dad'll take care of it, Momma."
She frowned at him, as if she felt neglected.
"What were you doing in here?"
"I thought I'd give him a pep talk." She stepped past me and returned outside. I followed her into the bright afternoon. She gushed at me for saving the hamburgers.
That night, Corinne was unusually amorous. She dragged me to our bed an hour before it was Grant's bedtime. When I asked, "Who's going to make sure he brushes his teeth?" She snorted. "'Win, it's his birthday. Let his teeth rot for one night."
That was the night she told me she wanted to have another child.
We'd been waiting for the right time, and I admit to excessive caution. Raising Grant had been more expensive than we'd planned for, but after eight years, we'd saved up enough for a little brother or sister for our lonely boy. I spent my seed eagerly into my wife's hot baby oven.
Randy days followed Grant's eighth birthday. Corinne and I were making love every other night. I asked her about her fertile time. We practiced natural birth control. Only this time, instead of avoiding pregnancy, we actively sought it. She told me that she was on top of it, and not to worry about wasting a single sperm. I trusted her.
My trust wavered about a week later. I was watching TV after a full day of work. I'd sliced fresh broccoli and cauliflower. Grant said he'd set the table. I was taking a break while they wrapped up. The mystery show on the screen was so suspenseful, my mouth was dry. I got up to pour myself a glass of water.
Grant's voice sounded as I rounded the corner. "What are you doing, Momma? I told you not to wear them." Corinne was leaning with a hand on the granite countertop where she had been preparing a salad. Her back blocked my view of Grant standing directly in front of her. Her knees were trembling. "But, Sweetie, your father-"
Our son's head jerked up at my arrival. I couldn't really see, but it looked like he pulled a hand away from his mother and stepped back, holding it behind his back. Corinne spun around. "Winton!" She was breathing heavily.
I didn't know what to say. I couldn't fathom what they were doing. I assumed the best. "What were you helping your mother with?"
"Nothing." Grant blurted, but then he said, "A cranberry fell into Momma's pants."
Corinne blushed. "The silly boy." She laughed. "He reached for it without thinking." Her dark blue slacks shook slightly.
"You let your Mom take care of things like that, Grant." I lectured.
"Yeah. Okay." He stepped away from his mother, wiping his hand on the back of his shorts. "I hope we eat soon." Grant crabbed around me and went to his room.
I hugged Corinne. "That must have been embarrassing."
She froze in my arms for a second. "Oh, you mean him reaching for-" Another laugh interrupted. "Thanks." She melted against me.
The next morning, I woke early, energized. Sex had been great the night before. Corinne was getting dressed. She usually woke first, because she could nap during the day. Part-time web design was easy enough. She was pulling on her slacks. She didn't like wearing skirts during her work days. Pants helped her get into a professional mood.
I observed, "You forgot to put on panties."
"I didn't forget." She winked at me. That told me we were going to have sex two days in a row! I hoped after last night's double-header, that I could come to the plate swinging. Usually I can, but on the occasions when I disappointed her, I felt terrible.
In the afternoon, Corinne called me at work. "Can you pick up Grant on the way home? He's at Sally's house, but her mother isn't answering the phone." She gave me the address. I left work a early, as I didn't like that Sally's mom might be neglecting her responsiblity to watch Grant, let alone her daughter.
I pulled up to the address and got out of the car. A little girl in a pretty, yellow dress was sitting on the front porch.
"Are you Sally?" I recognized her from the party.
"Uh, huh." She frowned. "Are you Grant's dad?"
"Yes. I'm here to pick him up." Not seeing my son, I asked. "Where is he?"
"Inside." She sighed.
"Why are you outside?"
The girl's frown turned into a sharp glare, as if I'd said something utterly stupid. Her changed expression told me that she wasn't sad about being alone outside.
"Can I go in and get him?"
"It's okay, but I wouldn't." She resumed her mope.
I opened the door gingerly, "Hello?" I probably said it too softly. Entering the front hall, noises and words issued from a door to the far left. Passing the living room, I reached the door. It was not quite shut. Recognizing Grant's voice, I pushed my way in. "Grant?"
"Daddy!" He twisted around, seated in a lounge chair. The room must have been Sally's father's man cave. Instead of animal trophy heads mounted along the walls, bookcases wrapped the walls, except where a large desk and office chair had been placed.
On the floor, in front of my son, Sally's mother was on her knees between Grant's widespread and very naked knees. His shorts lay beside her on the carpet. She also jerked up from what had looked like a head bobbing motion. She scrambled away from my son, backing up against a bookcase. "Mr. um, Densly! What are you doing here?" Her blouse was unbuttoned, and she wasn't wearing a bra. Her breasts were on the small side, but they were entirely in the open!
Grant snickered as he bent down to fetch his shorts. "Thank you, Ms. Coster. I'm sorry you couldn't finish."
I couldn't not notice my son's erect penis. It was slick with saliva. The view vanished when he bent down and pulled on his cutoffs. Like Ms. Coster's breasts, his peter wasn't very large but probably average sized for his age. I stammered. "G-Grant! What was-" I turned to and accused the cringing woman, my voice rising, "WERE YOU doing!?"
"Daddy, don't be mean." My son unexpectedly scolded. "I like Ms. Coster!" He said it with such enthusiasm, my perfectly understandable outrage cooled.
"We're leaving." I told him. He followed me after snapping his pant's snap and shaking his head at the terrified woman. She flinched harder at my son's obvious disappointment.
I didn't notice him shaming her. I was only thinking about calling the police as soon as we got home. Corinne talked me out of it.
"Don't do anything until I've heard what happened - from him." She growled, obviously as upset as I. She took him into our bedroom and locked the door. I wanted to listen from my side, but that would have just inflamed me further.
I sat in front of the TV and watched a stupid sitcom.
When Corinne entered the living room, I asked. "Well?" There was something wet on her chin, like a drop of white glue.
She sat next to me on the couch and hugged herself to me. "I called her, Win. After getting Grant's side of the story, I interrogated the hell out of that bitch."
I'd never heard Corinne so angry. My own simmering anger was like a needle prick compared to hers. "What next?"
"We think about our son above all else." She declared. "That cunt deserves to be raped in prison and put on every sexual predator list in the country, but we have to protect Grant, foremost."
"We're not gonna call the cops?" I deferred.
"We should." She released me and glowered at the cackling TV. I muted it. Corinne explained, "I don't trust how the police will treat Grant. Sure, they probably want to act careful around him, but just imagine a six pack of cops wearing body armor and utility belts festooned with weaponry, invading our home. No matter how politely they behave, Grant is too young for such an experience."
I wished I had my wife's wisdom then. I hugged her. We sat for a while in front of the silent, flashing widescreen. At one point she said, "I'm sorry." She took my hand and slipped it under her pants. "I was hoping we could continue our family project." I felt her naked pussy. It's wetness surprised me, but I wasn't in the mood, that night or the next. Grant acted as if nothing important had happened.
It was Sunday when our libidos and our commitment to increasing the family was ready for another effort. I had strung a hammock from the apple tree to a hook screwed deep into the back wall of our house. Lying in my swim trunks, soaking up the sun and a frozen daiquiri, I started feeling randy. Corinne and I had sneaked quick fucks in our bedroom before, while Grant was occupied elsewhere. I remembered hearing him say that he was going down the block to visit his friend, Pablo.
I walked casually into the house but couldn't find Corinne. I thought about calling her cell phone, but that would have been obsessive. She was probably nattering with a neighbor. An abrupt squeal led me to Grant's door. Recognizing my wife's voice, I rushed through, imagining she had seen a rat. "Corinne?"
I stopped midway through the door. The spectacle before me hit like a brick wall. Corinne was laying in the middle of Grant's floor, legs spread wide. Grant was kneeling between them, poking two fingers inside his mother's vulva. Her light brown skirt, bunched around her waist, was matched by the color of her pubic hair.
Their heads jerked in my direction. Their faces blanked, surprised but without emotion.
"Daddy." Grant's eyebrows narrowed.
"Win," Corinne spoke calmly. "Close the door. I'll be right out and explain. Don't make a scene that might scare Grant."
Confused as hell, I obeyed. While I waited in the hall, I tried to untagle the incredible sight I had interrupted. I readied for a blowout with my wife. I didn't have to wait long. In about the time it would have taken her to put on panties and pull down her skirt, she slipped out of our son's room. Only, I hadn't seen any panties.
"What the hell-" I trembled, speaking firmly but trying not to explode.
"Not here." She interrupted and dragged me into our bedroom. Closing the door, she crossed her arms over her ample chest and sighed. "Okay, but please try not to scream too loudly."
I read her the full riot act, as calmly as I could. My anger burst out twice, at understandable moments. Given that I ranted for ten minutes, I thought I acted with exemplary restraint.
Corinne just nodded. "Yes." She agreed. "You're right." She accepted everything I threw at her. Her total contrition fueled the final three minutes of my rage. My voice gave out, and I simply stewed in confusion and a sense of helplessness.
"There's nothing I have to say in my defense, Winton." She took a deep breath. She been turning blue for the last minute.
"You said you'd explain." I offered her a lifeline.
"It's better if you hear it from Grant." She sat on the edge of our bed and hung her face into her hands. I heard weeping.
Unsteady footsteps led me back to my son's room. I knocked. "Grant?"
"Yes, Daddy?" He sounded as calm as ever. "You can come in."
I entered, clutching the door for balance. I failed to make it look like a natural pose. "Can you tell me what happened?"
"Okay." He looked guilty. "I asked Momma about Ms. Coster. I mean, what she did, um, that day."
I understood then. He must have been as confused as I was when I interrupted that woman molesting my son. As responsible parents, Corinne and I always answered his questions about sex. He had the normal questions that an eight year old would have. "Is this my penis?" "My friend said penises do more than pee." And my personal favorite, "Why don't mommies lay eggs?"
Ms. Coster's oral assault must have knocked strange new questions into his head, but perhaps also it was why his mother had acted unreasonably and without good sense! It was only fair, after my tirade, to confirm her actions. "I'll answer your questions, Grant. Your mother overreacted, though."
"It's okay." He smiled sheepishly. "I got what I wanted to know."
"Come to me, next time." I patted his shoulder and returned to the master bedroom. Corinne apologized again. She had obsessed over the idea that, without actual experience of positive sexuality, Grant might believe that sexual assault was normal. She swore that all she did was show her body and let him touch her while answering his questions.
Women are more sensitive to the problem of sexual assault, so I had to forgive her. I love Corinne, and it was easy to do. However, I didn't feel guilty for taking her to task. We slept in each others arms but didn't make love. That would have been weird, for me at least.
Grant must have been satisfied with his mother's solution because he seemed eager to meet with his friends at their houses. Ms. Coster's attack hadn't frightened him from going out. I felt sorry for Sally, to have a sexually deviant mother, but I had promised to protect our son from questioning authorities. I hoped that her father was made of greater moral fiber and was protecting her as devotedly as Corinne and I protected Grant.
...to be continued...
by DiscipleN
Being cuckolded isn't like being pregnant. A woman is either pregnant or isn't. Traditionally, a husband is cuckolded when his wife has sex with another man. If my wife cheated on me with a woman, that supposedly wouldn't count, because cuckolding is also about raising another man's child. It's got lots of room for interpretation. I can't figure out how my situation overlaps the cuckold spectrum. You see, my wife is cheating on me with our son who is too young to cum.
It's not like Corinne is cold in our bed. She and I have pretty amazing sex still, eight years after Grant was born and after eleven years of marriage. At least once a month Corinne will drag me to our bed and pretend to rape me. I do get off powerfully when she takes charge. Mostly we have loving sex every three or four days. I instigate it about twice as often as she, and I'm confident that she's not pretending or even faking her orgasms. I'm confident because I recently overheard my wife confessing her lust for me, to our son.
My dilemma began on Grant's eighth birthday. Corinne and I hosted his party in our backyard. He was allowed to invite ten guests. Eight showed up, five boys and three girls, all Grant's classmates. I hadn't met any of the children before then. His report cards often noted that he played well with others, but Grant never invited friends to play at our house. He always went to theirs.
I was curious to see how he interacted with his friends, but despite the backyard turning into a festival of childish games and pranks and scraped knees and bruised elbows, Grant participated haphazardly. He'd play one round of pin the tail on the donkey and take off to swing on the tire hanging from the old apple tree in our yard.
It was the last survivor of a series of orchards which had been converted to residential housing decades ago. After a half dozen swings, he jumped off and shot marbles with a couple other boys. I assumed that he was trying not to play favorites, but I noticed Corinne shaking her head.
"What's the matter?"
"Poor Grant." She set down the grill spatula in her hand and hugged me. "The other children are ignoring him."
It seemed I needed to look closer. After studying the scene, I sooorta saw what she meant. Grant would get into a game, but the other kids wouldn't give him much attention. They weren't rude or mean. They just interacted with each other more often than with Grant. I felt sorry for the little guy, but I was in no position to help him. As an adult, my presence was at best a safeguard and at worst embarrassing authority.
I returned to setting the table, something that I could do. It was all paper plates and plastic utensils, but I enjoy tidying things. I work as a commercial landscaper's assistant. My wife works part-time as a web designer. One of our shared loves is artistic expression. By focusing on slicing tomatoes and onions and cheese for the burgers, the antics in the backyard were a soundtrack that sounded happier than my boy was probably feeling. Every scream and squeal was joyful, none were my son's voice.
I looked up from my work to see how Corinne was coming along with the burgers, and caught her talking to Grant near the apple tree. He handed her a small fruit he had picked. It was too early in the season to be edible, but his mother accepted it with a smile and touched his cheek.
I finished setting the table, and another of my senses kicked in. The burgers! They were burning! I raced to rescue them from the grill.
It wasn't like Corinne to abandon a task, but she was nowhere in the yard. Perhaps she got distracted, fetching something from the kitchen. Fortunately, I was able to scrape off the burned bits and save the burgers, but they would be dry instead of juicy. I added cheese to offset the taste.
Still no Corinne. I took a quick scan of the yard. The kids were enjoying their games. Grant wasn't among them. I went inside and called out, "Grant? Corinne?" I heard her voice from the utility room, talking as if she hadn't heard me, though. "Your father will always excite me, in ways that-." I was quick to open it.
That was the beginning of my dilemma.
Inside, Corinne was on her knees, adjusting her bright green blouse. Grant stood next to her, zipping up his jean shorts. He wasn't wearing underwear. At my surprise intrusion, my wife covered her mouth with a hand. The top button of her top was undone. I swear her lips had been glistening. "What happened?"
"Momma fell." Grant stepped back, as if he was afraid of me.
"Darling! Are you hurt?"
"Um," Her eyes shot our son a puzzled look. They widened brightly, and she smiled at me, after swiping her mouth. "Silly, me! I slipped on the rug, Win. (Win is her pet name for me, Winton.) Corinne held out a hand, and I helped her to her feet. "Only my pride is hurt." She gave a chuckle.
Grant dashed out. "Dad'll take care of it, Momma."
She frowned at him, as if she felt neglected.
"What were you doing in here?"
"I thought I'd give him a pep talk." She stepped past me and returned outside. I followed her into the bright afternoon. She gushed at me for saving the hamburgers.
That night, Corinne was unusually amorous. She dragged me to our bed an hour before it was Grant's bedtime. When I asked, "Who's going to make sure he brushes his teeth?" She snorted. "'Win, it's his birthday. Let his teeth rot for one night."
That was the night she told me she wanted to have another child.
We'd been waiting for the right time, and I admit to excessive caution. Raising Grant had been more expensive than we'd planned for, but after eight years, we'd saved up enough for a little brother or sister for our lonely boy. I spent my seed eagerly into my wife's hot baby oven.
Randy days followed Grant's eighth birthday. Corinne and I were making love every other night. I asked her about her fertile time. We practiced natural birth control. Only this time, instead of avoiding pregnancy, we actively sought it. She told me that she was on top of it, and not to worry about wasting a single sperm. I trusted her.
My trust wavered about a week later. I was watching TV after a full day of work. I'd sliced fresh broccoli and cauliflower. Grant said he'd set the table. I was taking a break while they wrapped up. The mystery show on the screen was so suspenseful, my mouth was dry. I got up to pour myself a glass of water.
Grant's voice sounded as I rounded the corner. "What are you doing, Momma? I told you not to wear them." Corinne was leaning with a hand on the granite countertop where she had been preparing a salad. Her back blocked my view of Grant standing directly in front of her. Her knees were trembling. "But, Sweetie, your father-"
Our son's head jerked up at my arrival. I couldn't really see, but it looked like he pulled a hand away from his mother and stepped back, holding it behind his back. Corinne spun around. "Winton!" She was breathing heavily.
I didn't know what to say. I couldn't fathom what they were doing. I assumed the best. "What were you helping your mother with?"
"Nothing." Grant blurted, but then he said, "A cranberry fell into Momma's pants."
Corinne blushed. "The silly boy." She laughed. "He reached for it without thinking." Her dark blue slacks shook slightly.
"You let your Mom take care of things like that, Grant." I lectured.
"Yeah. Okay." He stepped away from his mother, wiping his hand on the back of his shorts. "I hope we eat soon." Grant crabbed around me and went to his room.
I hugged Corinne. "That must have been embarrassing."
She froze in my arms for a second. "Oh, you mean him reaching for-" Another laugh interrupted. "Thanks." She melted against me.
The next morning, I woke early, energized. Sex had been great the night before. Corinne was getting dressed. She usually woke first, because she could nap during the day. Part-time web design was easy enough. She was pulling on her slacks. She didn't like wearing skirts during her work days. Pants helped her get into a professional mood.
I observed, "You forgot to put on panties."
"I didn't forget." She winked at me. That told me we were going to have sex two days in a row! I hoped after last night's double-header, that I could come to the plate swinging. Usually I can, but on the occasions when I disappointed her, I felt terrible.
In the afternoon, Corinne called me at work. "Can you pick up Grant on the way home? He's at Sally's house, but her mother isn't answering the phone." She gave me the address. I left work a early, as I didn't like that Sally's mom might be neglecting her responsiblity to watch Grant, let alone her daughter.
I pulled up to the address and got out of the car. A little girl in a pretty, yellow dress was sitting on the front porch.
"Are you Sally?" I recognized her from the party.
"Uh, huh." She frowned. "Are you Grant's dad?"
"Yes. I'm here to pick him up." Not seeing my son, I asked. "Where is he?"
"Inside." She sighed.
"Why are you outside?"
The girl's frown turned into a sharp glare, as if I'd said something utterly stupid. Her changed expression told me that she wasn't sad about being alone outside.
"Can I go in and get him?"
"It's okay, but I wouldn't." She resumed her mope.
I opened the door gingerly, "Hello?" I probably said it too softly. Entering the front hall, noises and words issued from a door to the far left. Passing the living room, I reached the door. It was not quite shut. Recognizing Grant's voice, I pushed my way in. "Grant?"
"Daddy!" He twisted around, seated in a lounge chair. The room must have been Sally's father's man cave. Instead of animal trophy heads mounted along the walls, bookcases wrapped the walls, except where a large desk and office chair had been placed.
On the floor, in front of my son, Sally's mother was on her knees between Grant's widespread and very naked knees. His shorts lay beside her on the carpet. She also jerked up from what had looked like a head bobbing motion. She scrambled away from my son, backing up against a bookcase. "Mr. um, Densly! What are you doing here?" Her blouse was unbuttoned, and she wasn't wearing a bra. Her breasts were on the small side, but they were entirely in the open!
Grant snickered as he bent down to fetch his shorts. "Thank you, Ms. Coster. I'm sorry you couldn't finish."
I couldn't not notice my son's erect penis. It was slick with saliva. The view vanished when he bent down and pulled on his cutoffs. Like Ms. Coster's breasts, his peter wasn't very large but probably average sized for his age. I stammered. "G-Grant! What was-" I turned to and accused the cringing woman, my voice rising, "WERE YOU doing!?"
"Daddy, don't be mean." My son unexpectedly scolded. "I like Ms. Coster!" He said it with such enthusiasm, my perfectly understandable outrage cooled.
"We're leaving." I told him. He followed me after snapping his pant's snap and shaking his head at the terrified woman. She flinched harder at my son's obvious disappointment.
I didn't notice him shaming her. I was only thinking about calling the police as soon as we got home. Corinne talked me out of it.
"Don't do anything until I've heard what happened - from him." She growled, obviously as upset as I. She took him into our bedroom and locked the door. I wanted to listen from my side, but that would have just inflamed me further.
I sat in front of the TV and watched a stupid sitcom.
When Corinne entered the living room, I asked. "Well?" There was something wet on her chin, like a drop of white glue.
She sat next to me on the couch and hugged herself to me. "I called her, Win. After getting Grant's side of the story, I interrogated the hell out of that bitch."
I'd never heard Corinne so angry. My own simmering anger was like a needle prick compared to hers. "What next?"
"We think about our son above all else." She declared. "That cunt deserves to be raped in prison and put on every sexual predator list in the country, but we have to protect Grant, foremost."
"We're not gonna call the cops?" I deferred.
"We should." She released me and glowered at the cackling TV. I muted it. Corinne explained, "I don't trust how the police will treat Grant. Sure, they probably want to act careful around him, but just imagine a six pack of cops wearing body armor and utility belts festooned with weaponry, invading our home. No matter how politely they behave, Grant is too young for such an experience."
I wished I had my wife's wisdom then. I hugged her. We sat for a while in front of the silent, flashing widescreen. At one point she said, "I'm sorry." She took my hand and slipped it under her pants. "I was hoping we could continue our family project." I felt her naked pussy. It's wetness surprised me, but I wasn't in the mood, that night or the next. Grant acted as if nothing important had happened.
It was Sunday when our libidos and our commitment to increasing the family was ready for another effort. I had strung a hammock from the apple tree to a hook screwed deep into the back wall of our house. Lying in my swim trunks, soaking up the sun and a frozen daiquiri, I started feeling randy. Corinne and I had sneaked quick fucks in our bedroom before, while Grant was occupied elsewhere. I remembered hearing him say that he was going down the block to visit his friend, Pablo.
I walked casually into the house but couldn't find Corinne. I thought about calling her cell phone, but that would have been obsessive. She was probably nattering with a neighbor. An abrupt squeal led me to Grant's door. Recognizing my wife's voice, I rushed through, imagining she had seen a rat. "Corinne?"
I stopped midway through the door. The spectacle before me hit like a brick wall. Corinne was laying in the middle of Grant's floor, legs spread wide. Grant was kneeling between them, poking two fingers inside his mother's vulva. Her light brown skirt, bunched around her waist, was matched by the color of her pubic hair.
Their heads jerked in my direction. Their faces blanked, surprised but without emotion.
"Daddy." Grant's eyebrows narrowed.
"Win," Corinne spoke calmly. "Close the door. I'll be right out and explain. Don't make a scene that might scare Grant."
Confused as hell, I obeyed. While I waited in the hall, I tried to untagle the incredible sight I had interrupted. I readied for a blowout with my wife. I didn't have to wait long. In about the time it would have taken her to put on panties and pull down her skirt, she slipped out of our son's room. Only, I hadn't seen any panties.
"What the hell-" I trembled, speaking firmly but trying not to explode.
"Not here." She interrupted and dragged me into our bedroom. Closing the door, she crossed her arms over her ample chest and sighed. "Okay, but please try not to scream too loudly."
I read her the full riot act, as calmly as I could. My anger burst out twice, at understandable moments. Given that I ranted for ten minutes, I thought I acted with exemplary restraint.
Corinne just nodded. "Yes." She agreed. "You're right." She accepted everything I threw at her. Her total contrition fueled the final three minutes of my rage. My voice gave out, and I simply stewed in confusion and a sense of helplessness.
"There's nothing I have to say in my defense, Winton." She took a deep breath. She been turning blue for the last minute.
"You said you'd explain." I offered her a lifeline.
"It's better if you hear it from Grant." She sat on the edge of our bed and hung her face into her hands. I heard weeping.
Unsteady footsteps led me back to my son's room. I knocked. "Grant?"
"Yes, Daddy?" He sounded as calm as ever. "You can come in."
I entered, clutching the door for balance. I failed to make it look like a natural pose. "Can you tell me what happened?"
"Okay." He looked guilty. "I asked Momma about Ms. Coster. I mean, what she did, um, that day."
I understood then. He must have been as confused as I was when I interrupted that woman molesting my son. As responsible parents, Corinne and I always answered his questions about sex. He had the normal questions that an eight year old would have. "Is this my penis?" "My friend said penises do more than pee." And my personal favorite, "Why don't mommies lay eggs?"
Ms. Coster's oral assault must have knocked strange new questions into his head, but perhaps also it was why his mother had acted unreasonably and without good sense! It was only fair, after my tirade, to confirm her actions. "I'll answer your questions, Grant. Your mother overreacted, though."
"It's okay." He smiled sheepishly. "I got what I wanted to know."
"Come to me, next time." I patted his shoulder and returned to the master bedroom. Corinne apologized again. She had obsessed over the idea that, without actual experience of positive sexuality, Grant might believe that sexual assault was normal. She swore that all she did was show her body and let him touch her while answering his questions.
Women are more sensitive to the problem of sexual assault, so I had to forgive her. I love Corinne, and it was easy to do. However, I didn't feel guilty for taking her to task. We slept in each others arms but didn't make love. That would have been weird, for me at least.
Grant must have been satisfied with his mother's solution because he seemed eager to meet with his friends at their houses. Ms. Coster's attack hadn't frightened him from going out. I felt sorry for Sally, to have a sexually deviant mother, but I had promised to protect our son from questioning authorities. I hoped that her father was made of greater moral fiber and was protecting her as devotedly as Corinne and I protected Grant.
...to be continued...