It was a Tuesday afternoon and the house was quiet. Too quiet. My husband Bill was away in Chicago for a conference which was typical. He was a good provider, a steady man, and a fantastic father, but excitement wasn’t exactly his middle name. He was “vanilla.” Reliable, sweet, comforting vanilla.

I, on the other hand, was bored out of my mind.

I was finishing up the laundry. I had a pile of Liam’s clothes on the bed. My son is 16 and enjoying his summer before senior year. He spends most of his time in his room with the door shut, gaming or on his computer. Or so he says. I wash his sheets. I know what he really does in there.

I picked up a pair of his basketball shorts to fold. They were huge. I held them up and shook my head. He was a big boy, over six feet tall now. I remembered when he was a toddler running around in diapers. Now he was a full grown man leaving crusty socks under his bed and taking hour long showers.

I put the shorts on the pile and caught my reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door.

I’m 44 years old. I’ve held up pretty well. I’m 5’5” and I was hovering right at 140 pounds. I try to keep it under 135 but the wine has been calling my name lately. I turned to the side. My ass was still high, thanks to the yoga and the squats, but it wasn’t the rock hard apple bottom I had when I was 22. My tits were a 36C. They were still perky enough in a bra, but gravity was starting to win the war when the bra came off.

I looked at my face. A few lines around the eyes, but I still got looks at the grocery store. I still had it.

The problem was I had nowhere to put it.

Bill and I had sex maybe once a week. Missionary. Lights off or dim. He would kiss me, touch my tits for a minute, slide inside, pump for a few minutes, and cum. It was sweet and intimate.

It was boring as hell.

I sighed and looked at the pile of laundry. I felt a throb between my legs. It had been building for days. My “ticking time bomb” as I called it. I played the part of the suburban housewife perfectly. I drove the SUV, I went to the PTA meetings when the kids were younger, I wore the sensible Ann Taylor blouses.

But before I was Heather the Mom, I was just Heather. And Heather was a slut.

I missed her. I missed the nights in the clubs and the reckless abandon. I missed the feeling of being used. I missed Franklin.

The thought of his name sent a jolt of electricity straight to my clit. Franklin was my boyfriend the year before I met Bill. He was 6’4”, black, and built like a linebacker. He didn’t ask me if I was okay during sex. He didn’t make love to me. He fucked me. He broke me. And honestly I’ve never recovered.

I looked at the bedroom door. It was shut. Liam was in his room down the hall, probably with headphones on. Cora, my 18 year old daughter, was in her room across from him. I hadn’t seen her since breakfast.

I walked over and locked the bedroom door.

I went to my dresser. Not the top drawer where I kept my sensible cotton panties and the beige bras. I went to the bottom drawer, underneath the winter sweaters. I pulled out the shoebox.

I sat on the edge of the bed and opened it. There it was. My secret. My dirty little getaway. The only way to defuse the time bomb.

It wasn’t a cutesy little toy. It was a monster. Ten inches of black silicone. Thick. Veiny. It was comically large to some people, maybe, but to me, it was a memory. It was almost an exact replica of Franklin.

Just looking at it made my pussy wet. I could feel the moisture seeping into my panties.

I stripped off my jeans and kicked them aside. I pulled my t shirt over my head and threw it on the floor. I stood there in my bra and panties. I reached around and unhooked my bra, letting my tits fall free. I rubbed my nipples. They were already hard.

I lay back on the bed. I didn’t bother with a towel. I wanted to make a mess.

I slid my hand down my stomach and into my panties. They were black lace. I liked to feel sexy even when I was just the homemaker.

I was soaked. I rubbed my clit through the wet fabric.

“Fuck,” I whispered.

I pulled my panties down, kicking them off one ankle and left them dangling from the other. I spread my legs wide. I grabbed the lube from inside the nightstand, a big bottle, not the little travel size, and squirted a generous amount into my palm. I slathered it onto the black shaft of the dildo. It glistened in the afternoon light. It looked mean. It looked hungry.

I positioned the head of the toy against my pussy lips. It was cold, but the slick lube warmed it up fast. I rubbed the head against my clit, circling it.

“Yeah,” I breathed. “You like that, you slut?”

I loved talking dirty to myself. Bill would have a heart attack if he heard the things I said in this room. He thought I was a lady. And most of the time I was. He had no idea I was a closet nympho who needed to be stretched open every once and a while to scratch that itch.

I pushed the head past my lips and into my hole. It was a tight fit. Even after two kids, I kept tight. I pushed harder. The first two inches slid in. I gasped. That feeling of fullness. That feeling of being invaded.

“Oh fuck,” I groaned. “Come on, Franklin. Get in there.”

I pushed my hips up to meet it. I slid it in another two inches. My pussy walls stretched to accommodate the girth. That was what I was missing. That feeling of being totally occupied. Of being owned.

“Stretch me,” I hissed. “Stretch my pussy open. It’s yours. You own it.”

I started to pump it. Slow at first. In and out. I closed my eyes and pictured him. Franklin standing over me, pushing my legs back until my ankles touched my ears. I pictured his sweat dripping on my tits. I pictured that massive black cock sliding in and out of me, effortless and powerful.

“Fuck me, Franklin,” I said out loud. “Fuck your white bitch. Ruin me.”

I picked up the pace. My juices were mixing with the lube, creating a wet, squelching sound that filled the quiet room. Schlick. Schlick. Schlick.

I spread my legs wider, one foot planted on the floor, the other knee bent on the bed. I jammed the dildo deeper. I felt it hit my cervix. A jolt of pleasure and pain shot through me.

“Oh FUCK you are deep,” I moaned. “Deeper. Harder. Break it. I don’t care. Just fuck me.”

I was sweating now. My hair was sticking to my face. I looked down at myself. My tits were bouncing with the force of my thrusts. My hand was a blur moving that black rod in and out of my pink hole. It looked obscene. It looked perfect.

Bill was safe. This was primal. I needed to feel like a piece of meat. I needed to feel used.

“You like using my holes, don’t you?” I whispered harshly. “You like stretching this little pussy until it gapes.”

I reached down with my other hand and found my clit. I started rubbing it furiously. The dual sensation was overwhelming. The fullness inside, the friction outside. I was getting close. I could feel the tension winding up in my belly.

“Oh god,” I panted. “I’m going to cum. Fuck me hard. Fuck me harder!”

I slammed the dildo in as deep as it would go and started grinding my clit against my knuckles.

“Cum for me, Franklin,” I begged the empty room. “Fill me up. Fill this slut up with your big black cock. I want your cum. I want to drip with it.”

I was right on the edge. My breath was coming in short gasps. I was making too much noise, but I didn’t care. The house was big. The kids were in their rooms with their headphones. I was safe. I was going to cum so hard I’d blackout.

“Fuck! Yes! Yes! I’m cumm—”

CRASH.

A loud thud echoed from down the hall. It sounded like something heavy hit a wall.

I froze.

The dildo was buried deep inside me. My hand was on my clit.

I listened.

“Stupid piece of shit!”

It was Cora’s voice. She sounded frustrated. Angry.

Then silence.

The orgasm that had been seconds away evaporated, leaving behind a jagged, painful ache of blue balls, or blue ovaries, I guess. I let out a breath that was half groan, half sob.

“Fuck,” I whispered, but this time it wasn’t sexy. It was pure irritation.

I waited another second. Was she hurt? Was she fighting with someone?

I slowly pulled the dildo out of me. My pussy made a loud, wet popping sound as it released the vacuum seal. I felt my juices drip out of me and run down my inner thigh onto the sheets. I was a mess. I was soaking wet, throbbing, and incredibly frustrated.

I looked at the monster in my hand. It was glistening with my fluids. I wanted to shove it back in and finish what I started. I wanted to lock the world out for five more minutes.

But I was a mother. The “Mom” mask had to come back on.

I grabbed a tissue and hastily engaged in a cleanup operation. I wiped the lube and cum off my thigh. I wiped the toy down and threw it back in the shoebox, shoving it under the sweaters.

I pulled my t-shirt on, not bothering to put my bra back on. My nipples poked through the fabric, hard and sensitive. I stepped into my panties, feeling the damp spot where I had soaked them earlier. They felt cold now. I pulled my jeans up and buttoned them.

My pussy was still throbbing. I felt heavy between my legs, that swollen, unfinished feeling. It made me edgy.

I walked to the door and unlocked it. I smoothed my hair, took a deep breath, and tried to look like the wholesome mother of two I was supposed to be.

I walked down the hallway to Cora’s room. Her door was shut. I could hear sniffling sounds now.

I raised my hand and knocked.

“Cora? Honey? Is everything okay?”

“Go away,” she mumbled.

I tried the knob. It was unlocked. I pushed the door open.

Cora was lying face down on her bed, her face buried in a pillow. On the floor, near the far wall, lay a small, pink vibrator. It looked like it had been thrown with considerable force.

I looked at the sad little toy on the floor. It was buzzing softly against the carpet.

I thought about the ten inch monster sitting in my drawer, still wet with my juices.

I felt a smile tug at the corner of my lips. A dirty, knowing smile.

“Rough afternoon?” I asked, stepping into the room and closing the door behind me.

I walked over to the pink thing vibrating on the carpet. It was buzzing angrily, spinning in slow circles. I bent down and picked it up. It felt cheap in my hand. It was hard plastic, barely five inches long, and about as thick as a thumb.

I turned it off. The silence that rushed back into the room was heavy.

“Cora?” I said softly.

She didn’t move. Her face was still buried in the pillow muffled noises coming from underneath. She was wearing a pair of grey boy shorts and a tight white tank top. It was her standard uniform around the house. I noticed the shorts were hiked up dangerously high on her thighs exposing the curve of her ass cheeks.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. I could smell the air in the room. It smelled like sugary body lotion and sweat. It smelled like sex. Or at least the attempt at it.

“Go away,” she mumbled into the pillow. “I’m fine. Just leave me alone.”

“You don’t sound fine,” I said. I turned the little pink vibrator over in my hand. “And throwing your toys against the wall isn’t usually a sign of a good time.”

She rolled over then. Her face was flushed red, tear streaks running down her cheeks. She looked young and frustrated, exactly like I did at eighteen when I couldn’t figure out why every guy I slept with left me unsatisfied.

She saw the vibrator in my hand and her eyes went wide. She snatched it from me and shoved it under her pillow.

“Mom! Oh my god. Get out!” she shrieked.

I didn’t move. I sat there calmly, crossing my legs. I was still throbbing from my own interrupted session. The wetness in my panties was cold and sticky against my skin. It made me feel bold. It made me feel less like a mother and more like a woman who knew exactly what frustration felt like.

“Relax, Cora,” I said. “I’m not going to ground you for owning a vibrator. I’m your mother, not a nun. I have needs. I know what that is.”

She stared at me, blinking. “It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s normal,” I corrected her. “Or it should be. But judging by the dent in the drywall, it wasn’t working for you.”

She looked down at her lap picking at the hem of her shorts. “It’s broken. Or I am. I don’t know.”

“You’re not broken,” I said.

“I am,” she insisted. She looked up at me, eyes glistening. “I tried for an hour, Mom. An hour. Brad ... my boyfriend ... he tries but he finishes in like two minutes and I just lie there and fake it. So I bought this stupid thing because I read online it helps. But I just rub and rub and I get close but I can’t ... I can’t finish.”

She let out a sob. “I’m frigid. I’m never going to cum.”

I looked at her. My beautiful daughter. She had my dark hair and my eyes, but she had a body I would kill for. At 18 she was firm everywhere I was soft. Her skin was flawless. Her tits were perky without a bra.

My mind flashed back to ten minutes ago. Me, spread eagle on my bed, jamming a ten inch black cock into my pussy, sweating and begging a ghost to ruin me.

I looked at the pillow hiding her pathetic little toy.

“You’re not frigid,” I said. My voice dropped an octave. “And that little piece of plastic isn’t going to help you. It’s a toy for a child, Cora. You’re a woman.”

She frowned. “What?”

I knew I should just give her a hug, tell her it gets better, and leave. That’s what the parenting books say. Respect boundaries. Give them space.

Instead I patted her bare thigh and looked in her eyes. “We’re going to fix this.”

“What? How?” Her voice was nervous but I saw a flicker of curiosity in her eyes.

“Because we are going to talk about pussies and what feels good and how to get yourself off,” I said.

“Mom!” she hissed. “Don’t say pussy. That’s gross.”

“It’s a word,” I said. “It’s a part of your body. And if you can’t even say the word, how the hell do you expect to make it work?”

I scooted closer to her on the bed. “Look. I taught you how to drive. This is just another thing to learn. And learning takes time and practice. If the car won’t start, you check the engine. You don’t just kick the tires and cry.”

She wiped her eyes. “I’m not following.”

“Think of your pussy like a car,” I said. “And yours is brand new. You just don’t know how to drive it yet. You let boys like Brad fumble around in the dark for two minutes. That’s not driving. That’s pushing a bunch of buttons and hoping for the best.”