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Catherine's Conundrum

My BI Son

Book THREE

Lady Devreux


Chapter One: Catherine

I have been married three times.

The first marriage lasted ten years, and while it managed to produce my son, nothing else good came out of it. My first husband was abusive to me, hitting me whenever I had the nerve to do something that he did not like. I was tired of his treatment of me, and when I had finally made the decision that I had to leave him or he was going to kill what was left of my soul, fate intervened as it often does. Mike got arrested at the mine- they had found nearly six ounces of pure methamphetamine in the trunk of his old Honda hatchback, and although he had never been arrested for a felony before, the district attorney took the fact that Mike was well known as a bully (even before he married me) into consideration. The judge, an old battle ax who herself had been through three bad marriages herself, sent my first husband to the penitentiary for the next seventy years. That was the end of that marriage, and while the divorce still took some time to finalize, it essentially ended the day that Mike walked out of the coal mine and into the belly of the state prison system.

After my first marriage, I decided that some things were going to change in my life.

I was thirty years old, going on thirty one, and while I had never been considered to be an unattractive woman by others, I was unhappy with the woman I saw staring back from the mirror at me every morning when I woke up. Stress had made me gain weight, my formerly fit form turning into lumpiness, and I had abandoned my own dreams of advancing a career because my husband didn’t allow me to leave the house without him. I had no choice but to get a job- despite what some people think, the state does not provide nearly enough for someone to live on it’s benefits- and since I didn’t want to get stuck doing menial level work for the rest of my life (why trade one source of abuse for another one?), I started going to back to school.

In college, I rediscovered my love of learning, and I discovered other things about myself, as well. I had been living under a tyrant for so long that my own personality had been subsumed into the maelstrom of personality that is my first husband. I didn’t need to buckle under a man to be considered worthy of male attention, and the last thing I needed in my life was another brute. I met my second husband, Tom, who was much younger than me and pursuing a degree in teaching.

I should have been able to build a happy life with Tom- after all, he is attractive, he is kind and he is intelligent, but even though he was everything opposite from my first husband, going to this extreme wasn’t fulfilling to me, either. I had questions about the long term compatibility of our personalities long before I said “I do”- while we were dating, I discovered that Tom was more than just a believer in equality within marriage. No, he was a weak man, a sniveler who would not even fight his way out of a paper bag.

But, I was still getting myself back together emotionally, and my son did like Tom. Tom treated him like he was his own, and while plenty of men are willing to date single mothers, I knew that as I was already in my thirties that the pickings of good men were indeed getting slim. Yes, I could hook up with some man who still lived at home with his mother, or some guy that himself had been divorced two or three times, but to find another man that was even remotely close to Tom in quality was going to be a challenge. So, when he proposed, I accepted, and I settled into my life of being married to a good man who was not exactly the most exciting nor sexually skilled.

As much as I wanted this marriage to work, and I wanted to make myself happy with Tom, I soon found out that no matter how hard I tried, I just wasn’t happy being in a marriage with this man. A woman does not need a brute like my first husband, but I grew to resent how my new husband was so weak that he let me dominate everything. A man needs to be a man, without being a dictator- maybe this was an impossible request, but I knew that I was not getting everything I needed from husband number two.

So, I cannot lie to you- I started to cheat.

I didn’t turn into a full time slut wife, but when I was hit on by a sophomore who had been staring at me for weeks, I did not turn him down. This much younger man was rough, he was crude- much like my first husband- and while he was definitely not marriage material, he was more than able to satisfy me in the ways that Tom was unable to do. We started having sex, usually in his van in behind the college library, and soon we were hooking up like clock work three times a week. I went to class in the morning, fucked Brett in the afternoon, and went home to my husband at night. I still let Tom do his thing with me sexually, but having this release on the side helped me to accept the fact that Tom would never be able to make me feel like a woman in the most primal of ways possible.

This went on for two semesters, but I was graduating from college, and I knew that this was coming to an end. No, I never got caught with Brett- three weeks after the last time I saw him, I was sitting in a local bar filling out job applications, when I was picked up by another much younger man. This guy once again was a hard edged man, a crude recently discharged Marine who slung his cock around like it was a real rifle. We did not have sex the first time we met, but after three evenings spent sharing beers, I finally gave in and decided to blow him in the parking lot. I still needed some hard, satisfying manly cock- and Tom was still not able to give it to me- even if Brett was back home and I was out of college.

Do anything enough times, and eventually, luck either hits or runs out- this is why older people are usually the ones who win the lottery, and that’s why I say that I really got caught with Brett. Tom just happened to be driving past the bar at the right time to see me walking with the Marine to his vehicle, and he stopped.

My husband had caught me, and I did not know what to expect- was he going to challenge this man, was he going to hit me, or what was he going to do?

If my husband had decided to go after this Marine, I know that he would have lost the physical confrontation, but I would have gained enough respect for Tom that I would have stopped fucking around on him. Yes, a need for fulfilling sex was the reason that I cheated, but sexual fulfillment for me comes from more than just penis size or youthful stamina (actually, Brett was not very well hung at all, and much smaller below the waist than my husband was). I craved masculinity more than anything else, in the way that a drunk craves a real beer when he is stuck drinking O’Doul’s. Just standing up for himself as a man would have been enough to end my cheating ways.

If he had decided to break it off with me, than I would have accepted this as a result of my own actions- I could not blame anyone else for what I was choosing to do, even if I have reasons for it- and I still would have gained some respect for Brett as a person. While this would make things difficult, it would not make them impossible, and Tom at least would have proven to himself that he did have a limit.

Instead, Tom started crying- begging me not to do anything, to stop cheating- right in the middle of the parking lot. The place that I hung out was usually a place where a combination of miners and bikers hung out, and while the other patrons were not necessarily interested in our problems, the literal crying of my whiny husband did make some of them outright laugh at us. I was more embarrassed by the fact that I was married to , for want of a better word, a complete pussy and cuck, than I was by the fact that I was now publicly exposed as a cheating wife. The Marine acted like he was going to slap Tom across the face, at which Tom simply flinched, and cried even louder.

So that ended my second marriage, and after this shorter but still disastrous part of my life, I decided that I was done. I needed a man that was both masculine, but not an abuser. A man that would never hit me, but that would expect me to respect him- and that would be able to gain my respect. Until I was able to find that man, I would continue to have occasional affairs and one night stands with guys like Brett or the Marine.

During my second marriage, I had firmly gained control over both my finances and my own physical self. I had lost the belly that I had been growing, by dedicating myself to a firm routine at the gym, and I secured a job as a secretary in a large legal office. The attorneys there were mostly older men, but they still carried that same air of alpha dominance that Brett and the Marine had. A man did not have to do a physical trade in order to be a man- he just needed to carry himself like one. I did have an affair with one of the partners, even though he was twenty years older than me and I find younger men most attractive. This affair lasted about three months, and it was never designed to go any longer than it did. I did not regret that I had it, and I was not upset when it ended- and as a nice little bonus, I got my implants paid for.

All women seem to have one or two qualities that they themselves consider their best assets, and one or two parts of their body that they wish they could exchange if given the chance. In my case, I was very happy with my newly firm body- and the way that men stared at it, especially these barely twenty year old hunks at the gym- and my ass was the part of me that got the most attention. While I am not chunky, I have always had a relatively big ass for a woman who is five six and a size six- big enough that Black guys call me a PAWG (phat ass White girl). Whether I am wearing tight blue jeans or a dress for the office, my backside always seems to get looks from all but the most flamboyant of males.

The part of me that did not get attention was my chest. How it happened that I had naturally small breasts, I don’t know- all the women in my family, on both sides, seem to be blessed with mountains, whereas I came equipped with small hills. I thought growing up that maybe I would eventually develop more in the top part of my body, and I was disappointed when I did not. Having my son, Mark, I thought maybe my breasts would finally fill out. They did grow, from an A to a B, but nothing close to the monumental growth I was hoping for. When my older lover asked me if there was one thing that he could do for me, anything as a thank you for re-igniting his sex drive, I told him I wanted tits.

Medical science is not perfect, but at least for us ladies, it can help. Yes, maybe I went a little extreme- now I carry around a 36DDD, which makes me look a little top heavy when you consider my average sized frame. Yes, they are not “real”- but the most important thing, is they make me feel fully confident in the body that I have now. Maybe I entered my thirties as a woman who was not sure where life was taking her, who was tired and burned out and subjected to ill treatment, but I left them confident, educated, and as certain of myself as a president on twitter. At forty, I felt better than I ever had in my life, and while nothing is ever perfect, I was certain that whatever lay ahead was going to be the life I chose.


Chapter Two: Mark

So what are you doing later tonight?” Rosyln asked, over the phone.

Rosyln is the unofficial head of the secretaries at the medium sized personal injury firm that I work for. Although Rosyln is neither young nor attractive, she has used her three decades of experience being around members of the legal profession to secure for herself a permanent place at the firm- and, if the plentiful gossip around the office was true, to seduce half of the young men that came in as junior partners. Rosyln’s husband, whom had retired several years ago, was also known for being profligate towards the females who entered these doors. While it was an open secret that both of them were engaging in numerous affairs, turn about was either fair play within the confines of their marriage- or he knew that divorcing his aging redheaded wife would cost him more than it was worth.

Whatever works for other people is their business.

I am not sure yet,” I said, “Why?”

Are you still seeing J.B.?” Rosyln asked me.

In her position, she felt comfortable asking all of us around the secretary pool about our love lives- even though this question was one that was both technically illegal in the Keystone State, and one that we could never ask her in return.

No,” I said- it had been awhile since I had seen the aforementioned young man, a clerk in the mail room, “Why- did you want to meet him?”

Do you want to fuck him?

This was as close as I dared to asking her the obvious question on my mind. I had become friends with Rosyln, as much as any two women in a fierce environment of gossip and backstabbing can be friends- we went out to the bar together twice or three times a month, but I am smart enough to know that she would turn on me in a heart beat if she felt it was to her advantage.

The legal profession- where the lawyers and their helpers are as dirty as their clients.

Not at all,” Roslyn said, her tongue touching the corner of her lip- she was brave at seventy to be wearing such a bright shade of lipstick, “He is a little older than I like for my friends.”

So thirty is too old for you- LOL!

I see,” I said, restraining my laughter, “No, I am not seeing him anymore. Did you want to go to Bobtails?”

Bobtails is getting kind of dull,” Rosyln said, “Well, I mean, too light for my liking. Lately I have been more into a darker environment.”

So you are into Black men now?

Rosyln was sure pushing the envelope- she was so certain of her own unassailability, that she had the privilege of being able to basically say what she was doing as long as none of us came right out and called her on it.

I myself had never really been interested in Black men. Contrary to popular opinion, not all blondes in their forties who were looking for action chose chocolate- personally, I still preferred my men in their early twenties. Young enough to be full of energy and cum, but more importantly, not yet worn down by life. A lot of White men seem to be so bitter and angry by the time that they hit thirty that they push away women like me- or Rosyln. Being angry and whiny is as weak as being a cuck who cries when his wife is blowing other men.

How about Seventy Six’s?” I suggested.

Seventy Sixes, on the north end of town, was not named after the basketball team, but after the fact that one time George Washington supposedly stopped there for a drink. It was an old tavern, complete with a half dozen run down rooms over the bar, and the joke was that they hadn’t changed the linens since the patriot himself had slept there.

More importantly, Seventy Sixes was the rare bar in Williamsport that had both Black and White patrons. This city is very segregated socially, even if separation had never been the law here, and most bars and churches remain one race or another one. The more recent entry of Hispanics into the area had created a problem for this long term duopoly, until a bar finally opened that catered to them. They were still not welcome at Seventy Sixes, generally speaking, even if the Blacks and Whites reluctantly accepted each others’ presence there. It had taken a couple centuries for that to happen, so who knew how long it would be until this third group was accepted?

I guess that will work,” Rosyln said, “I’ll meet you there at nine.”

Sounds good,” I said.

I guess you have to go home and feed your husband, before you eat some Black cock for dessert!

Hanging up the phone, I decided that tonight I was definitely going to be finding something new, so I needed to prepare my purse accordingly. Condoms- three for good luck, extra makeup, a tampon just in case (ever since I had been literally fucked into my period, I had learned), aspirin, and lastly, two shades of lipstick. Sometimes one shade looked better in the darkness of the bar than it did in the bright lights of a motel room, and I like sex better with the lights on.

I had a rule- I never brought men home.

Mark was now twenty, and while he was legally an adult, he still did live at home. Sighing as I selected an outfit for the evening- tight blue jeans I had bought two weeks ago at the flea market, black cowgirl boots, a vaguely western style belt, and a low cut white blouse that barely contained my breasts- I did wish that he would start growing up a little. I had been his mother now for two decades, and while I would never stop being his mother, I was starting to get tired of being mom.

My son wasn’t completely immature- he did work at least, nearly full time at the gas station three doors up the street from our house- and he always offered to help with the bills. Honestly, I didn’t need the money, so when he handed me twenty or fifty bucks, I put it away in a savings account. The day that he told me he was moving out, whether to go to college or just to say fuck it and see the world, I was going to make this his going away present. I had started doing this when he first started working, with the idea that he would have enough to buy a halfway decent car when he graduated high school.

Now there was over nine thousand dollars in that account, enough to buy a very decent used car or put a down payment even on a house, and that was the problem. As much as I looked at the account and was pleased that my son would be able to get a good start on his own, part of me wondered if that account would even be touched until I was eighty.

Mark had seemingly reached the threshold between being a teenager and an adult, and he had paused right in this doorway between the two worlds. He worked like an adult, he even offered to pay bills like an adult, but he did not drive. He had never signed up for the class in school, and while I had offered him many time to learn on my car, he ignored any attempts to go through this rite of passage. Instead of spending his free time going to the bar, or even going and working a second job, he spent it on his computer. At first, I thought he was constantly whacking off, but I had discovered that he was playing WoW- the same game he had been playing for a decade or more. My son didn’t smoke, or do drugs, or get into trouble (which was definitely a good thing), but he didn’t seem to want any part of the social aspects of adulthood.

Namely, I was starting to find it strange that Mark had never had a girlfriend. Yes, he had posters of women on his wall- so I know that he wasn’t gay- but he never told me about any real life female. He would make comments about various actresses or singers, but never about a pretty girl that happened to pass by our house or anything that was potentially tangible for him. The most he ever said was that a girl was now working at the gas station, and that she constantly was bugging him about going to the bar together.

I didn’t care if this girl was three hundred pounds or ninety years old, I would have been happy for my son to get laid. Losing virginity is an important part of becoming an adult, and maybe if he had sex, than he would put away childish things and start thinking like an adult. When I told him he should go out with her, he said she wasn’t attractive. Spying, I “dropped” into the gas station, and was surprised that this woman he was talking about was a very good looking young Black girl. Maybe my son wasn’t into Black girls, but this girl had the type of body that all but the most prejudiced of rednecks would have wanted to jump onto- no, it seemed like my son had as much interest in getting laid, as he did in learning to drive, which was none.

How can a twenty year old man have no sex drive?

I know that men and women are different- it seems the older I get, the more that I want sex. I want it a lot more than I did when I was thirty, and maybe three times as much as I did when I was Mark’s age. Looking at Rosyln in a way was like looking into my own future. If I remained as confident about myself in thirty years as I am now, then I too will probably be another granny who is out gobbling cock.

Can’t be a grandmother if Mark doesn’t ever have sex, can I?

Many men do seem to lose their sex drive as they get older, but I know my fair share of men that are twenty, and every one of them seems to want sex as much as my older bad influence does. It doesn’t matter if they are as nerdy as Urkel, or as built and buff as a wrestler, they all are trying to stick themselves into any female hole that will accommodate them. My son wasn’t gay, though even gay guys- and there are a lot more of them who are open about it now then there were when I was his age- make no bones about wanting to get some action. No, I was worried that my son was just not ready to become an adult, in the most instinctual and primal of ways.

As long as Mark lived at home, I had no intentions of bringing a man back here.

My son must have known that I was going out and getting laid- it isn’t like he is an idiot, and virgin or not, he has seen what I look like when I leave the house on my “bar nights.” Tight jeans that cling to the curve of my ass like the wrapping of a sausage, shirts that my tits almost fall out of - how can any male not see what these clothes are saying in such a direct and blatant fashion?

It isn’t that I feel I had to justify myself, or my actions to my son, it was that I didn’t want to rub it in his face that I was going out while he was not.


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