My son Manuel

The next Thursday night, I got home late from my weekly board game night with my girlfriends. My husband would, of course, be sound asleep by now. I saw that Manuels car was in the driveway, and I was eagerly looking forward to a bathroom shower show.

Manuel met me in the living room. He was wearing a tight pair of blue jeans and nothing else. He obviously had an erection; the crotch of his jeans bulged close to bursting.

“Mom!” he said, “I thought you’d never get home! Come upstairs with me quick!”

I followed him wordlessly up to his room. There was a girl there, about Manuel’s age. She was stark naked, blindfolded, with her hands lashed together at the wrist and tied to the head of Manuels’ bed. She was certainly pretty, I had to admit that: she had red hair and fair skin. She was slim, and her breasts were on the small side. She had pretty, full lips and a ring with a bead on it through her navel. She had very little pubic hair; only a small triangle just above her vagina. Her legs were spread wide, exposing herself thoroughly. She was obviously sexually excited; her labia were swollen and pouted open, and vaginal secretions glistened on her lips. I could see a big damp spot underneath her crotch on the sheet. On the bed beside her were a couple of sex toys: the purple one Manuel had used in his masturbation session the week before, and a longer, candy striped dildo with spiral ridges down the length and a bulbous tip.