This is not happening, I thought. This cannot be real.

“Sweetheart!? Could you come up here for a minute?”

Outside in the yard, the lawn mower rumbled to a stop. The sound of my husband Paul’s grumbling reached my ears through the open bedroom window as he made his way up the yard and onto the front porch. I felt bad about asking him to mow the grass so soon after his business trip to Vegas, but after ten days away from the house it was really starting to become an eyesore. And I promised him I’d make it up to him tonight.

Plus, it gave me time to get his laundry handled.

Which is where I made the discovery.

My marriage is over. Paul… oh my GOD…

I hadn’t even been looking for anything out of the ordinary. Just separating the dirty clothes—stacked semi-neatly in the middle of the well-used suitcase my husband used for all of his business trips—from the smaller number of still clean ones he hadn’t used.

That’s when I saw them.

Both of them.

Two tiny foil packets, torn open at the corners.

They stared up from the depths of Paul’s boxer shorts like they’d been put there deliberately. Like my husband had wanted me to find them. Except that didn’t make the slightest bit of sense. Why not throw them away? Why not at least try to hide them better?

Paul hadn’t worn condoms with me in nearly a decade. After all the difficulties surrounding the birth of our son, Stephen, we’d decided to put children on the backburner for a while. It never came back to the front burner, and just before his fortieth birthday, Paul went ahead and made what we’d already decided official by getting a vasectomy. I was finally able to flush my birth control for good, and the sex between us got even better than before—not that our sex life was ever bad to begin with.

Or was it? Did Paul think differently? Is that why he…?

It’s funny, the thoughts that flicker through your mind when you realize your husband is cheating on you.

My shock hadn’t turned to rage just yet, but I could tell I was ready to boil over—that whatever story Paul might spin when he saw what I’d found, I knew it would be a lie. I stood there waiting for him over the suitcase, with one of the little foil packets in my hand and the other lying on top of his underwear, staring at them like artifacts of a long-dead civilization I’d recently unearthed. The urge to crumple them up and throw them across the room welled up inside me, but I forced it down. I wouldn’t let Stephen hear any of this.

Paul sauntered in, brushing bits of grass off the shoulder of his t-shirt. “You couldn’t wait until after I finished mowing the lawn, dear…?”

I held the condom wrapper up. “What the hell is this?”

His reaction wasn’t what I’d expected. I don’t know what I expected, honestly: tears, maybe, or him insisting that this wasn’t what it looked like. Either way, I certainly thought he’d be upset by what I found.

But he just chuckled. Like I’d found a Victoria’s Secret catalog stashed in his things, and not evidence of an affair.

“Oh Jesus, Betsy,” he said, his face going a little red as he rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s nothing weird, sweetheart, I promise. Or not too weird. I was just using them.”

I blinked. “Using them?”

The corner of Paul’s mouth curled in a smirk. “Honey, I was in Vegas for nine days. You really don’t I could go that long without… you know…”

My jaw dropped open.

“Without what?”

He chuckled. “Without using them,” he said. “Do I really have to spell it out for you, Bets?”

Apparently he did.

“You used them,” I muttered, picturing Paul alone in his hotel room. “To… to…?”

I’d always been a little prudish, I suppose. It was Paul who had to say it for us both.

“To come,” he said. “Yeah, I got off inside of them. I know you don’t like talking about this—”

I blinked, something inside of me screaming. “That’s not true,” I said, the hurt and the anger rising to the top of my mind. “That can’t be true! You—you’re married, and you brought condoms to Vegas—!”

I wanted to be angry. To get furious; to throw Paul out of my house. This betrayer in the guise of a husband and father didn’t just cheat on me, he left the evidence of it sitting out in the open where anyone could have seen.

Where our son could have found it if he’d been the one to open Paul’s suitcase and dump his clothes in the hamper.

More than anything, the thought of Stephen being involved in this made me certain I was doing the right thing.

I’m going to throw him out, I thought. I’m going to get a divorce—

“Betsy,” Paul said, maddeningly reasonable. “Yes, I brought condoms on my business trip. I got off inside them.” His cheeks pinked, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “But it’s not a big deal, alright? There’s nothing wrong with getting off inside of condoms. Condoms don’t count.”

Condoms don’t count.

I shook my head, but the thought stayed lodged in my brain.

Of course they don’t count. Paul and I haven’t worn condoms for years.

We didn’t need things like that any more. For Paul to have them in his suitcase, buried among his used clothes was strange, but maybe not as crazy as I thought at first.

Because condoms don’t count.

It’s just latex, I thought. Latex and friction.

An idea occurred to me—one that simultaneously made no sense and made all the sense in the world. My knees nearly buckled beneath me, and tears sprang unbidden to my eyes. A tiny part of me kept on screaming that Paul was guilty, but the sheer relief of the thought overwhelmed the doubt and suspicion written across my face.

Of course.

Paul used the condoms to masturbate.

“I don’t understand, though,” I said, shaking my head. “Why… why not just use your hand? Why not do it in the shower, or finish inside of a tissue?”

Paul laughed, stepping closer, using the same hand I’d just mentioned to gently take the wrapper from my hand. He scooped up the other one, too, crumpling them both and tucking them into his back pocket. “I’ve never been into the whole shower thing,” he said, giving me a look like I ought to know that. “And tissues—they’re messy, Bets. With a condom, it’s all contained. You take care of your needs, you tie the end off, you toss it in the trash. No cleanup, no fuss.” He mimicked tying a knot with his fingers, then winked. “Plus, it feels a lot better.”

I’d never heard that before. “It does? Really?”

He nodded. “You use a little lube before you put the rubber on,” he explained, like I was his child instead of his wife. “When it gets slick the whole thing moves up and down, and there’s all this friction… well, let’s just say it’s a hell of a lot better than the shower.” He grinned. “What, did you think there was something else going on?”

I frowned, my mind wrestling with the oddness of the situation. Every few seconds I felt an unexpected burst of anger, followed by the urge to slap my husband across the face—but what he said sounded so reasonable that I’m sure it’s the truth. It has to be.

Paul isn’t that kind of man. We’ve been married for almost twenty years.

Wouldn’t I know by now if he’d cheated on me?

“It just seems strange,” I said, my tone softening. “You’ve never told me about this… quirk of yours before.”

“I guess I’m a bit embarrassed,” he said, pulling me into a hug. The warmth of his embrace melted the last frozen bits of doubt surrounding my heart. “I’m sorry if I made you jump to conclusions, Bets. It’s just a guy thing, I promise.” A strange look flickered across his face, and he dropped his voice to a near whisper as he held me tighter. “Hey, maybe I could show you sometime? It could be, like, an odd sort of foreplay. I wouldn’t mind…”

I sighed, leaning into him. “I don’t think that will be necessary, dear,” I said with a relieved laugh. “I’d much rather you be with me than have to… do those things on your own.” Something about my tone made me flinch. “But of course I understand. On those business trips, you’re away for so long…”

“Any port in a storm,” he said, giving me a kiss on the forehead. “Thanks for taking care of the laundry, by the way. I’m gonna go and finish the lawn work, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, watching him go.

What a wonderful man, I thought. What a rock.

By the time I finished unpacking his shirts, I’d forgotten all about the wrappers.

###

For the next week, nothing troubled me. With Paul back in the house, things quickly fell back into their normal rhythm: him at home doing remote work two days out of the week and in the office for three, family dinners and movie nights and those wonderful moments when he pulls me to him first thing in the morning and buries himself inside of me before I go wake Stephen up and fix everyone breakfast.

After nine days without my husband, regular sex was definitely a relief.

The condom incident only occurred to me once, briefly, during one of those mornings. As I felt Paul grunt and shudder, his seed splashing against my walls as his hand loosely clasped my throat, I felt a surge of possessive triumph. My husband. My man.

I bet that feels better than any condom ever could, I thought as he pulled out of me, leaving me dripping. Take that, Vegas.

I almost said something to that effect, but then decided I shouldn’t. Something about bringing that moment of unpleasantness up at such an intimate time felt wrong. Paul would have just teased me about jumping to conclusions, anyway.

I’d certainly forgotten all about it by the afternoon I went through Paul’s laptop bag. I wasn’t snooping—Stephen had spilled tea all over the little student laptop he took with him to the local college, and I’d been letting it dry in rice all night with the hopes the damage wouldn’t be too bad to fix. The charger was dead, but I remembered Paul kept a spare in his bag that might fit.

I found it.

And I found the USB drive.

It peeked out of a side pocket as I pulled the charger from the bottom, glinting like one of those condom wrappers. I would have completely ignored it—Paul’s work things are generally off-limits, as his company has a pretty strict privacy policy—but I couldn’t help but notice the single word written on the gray plastic in black Sharpie, visible through the pocket’s cross-hatching.

VEGAS.

I don’t know why I did what I did next. A little kernel of suspicion hardened in the back of my mind, and I found myself pulling the drive from the bag and taking it upstairs after connecting the second charger to my son’s laptop. From there it was simple enough for me to grab my laptop, plug the drive into one of the ports on the side, and take a peek.

What I found left me reeling.

I expected work documents—PowerPoints, maybe, or some of those giant spreadsheets that Paul always seems to be working on whenever I glance over his shoulder in his office. Instead, the folder had a number of pictures and a couple of videos. The photos showed Paul out with several of his coworkers, traveling from what looked like one casino bar to another along the Vegas Strip.

My pulse quickened as I clicked on one of the videos and opened it.

Five seconds after starting it, I wished I hadn’t. It showed Paul—my Paul, my husband of twenty years Paul—wearing nothing but one of his button-down shirts and a loosened tie, thrusting inside of a blonde woman bent over his hotel bed. The two of them were going at it so hard that the headboard slammed into the wall with every thrust. Paul’s face was a mask of pleasure, and from the way the woman beneath him groaned and panted and threw herself back on him, I knew she was anything but reluctant.

Then she lifted her face and looked right into the camera. My heart skipped a beat.

That was Susan. His boss!

I’d met her many times. I remembered her from company parties and corporate events, a woman so professional and put together I doubted anyone who saw her could have imagined her like this.

Writhing like a porn star. Gripping the sheets so hard her fingers shook, begging my husband for more.

“Yes! Paul! Oh God, baby, fuck me harder!”

I stared at the video, praying that it would disappear. That it was some kind of incredibly detailed prank—something one of his coworkers put together on a lark with video editing software. Maybe even as blackmail material?

But even as I watched, I knew that was wrong. The look on Paul’s face—I knew that look. It was the same intense, focused look he always got when he was with me, right before he went over the edge. The way he got when he was really, really enjoying the sex.

As if I’d called it, Paul’s thrusts suddenly doubled. He grabbed Susan’s hips tight, pounding the slit between her legs like a battering ram. “Yes,” he grunted, tossing his head back in high-definition. “Fuck, I’m gonna shoot…!”

Even as acid rose in the back of my throat, a tiny part of my brain couldn’t help but notice he’d never dared use my body like that.

Susan’s moans reached a fever pitch, her back arching as Paul plunged into her from behind. I didn’t want to watch the rest, but I couldn’t look away—so I sat there as my husband came, burying himself hilt-deep inside of his boss’s vagina as he unloaded his seed inside of her. As if triggered by the feeling, Susan shuddered and screamed his name, her own orgasm turning her legs into jelly beneath him.

I couldn’t watch it any longer. I paused the video, tears blurring my vision, and raced into the master bathroom. I threw up into the toilet, my hands shaking on the porcelain as the wonderful breakfast I’d made for my husband and son came racing back up and out.

How could he? After all these years, after everything we’d built, my husband was having sex with other women. Our home, our lives—our relationship with Stephen—all of it was ruined. All of it was going to change.

How could I have been so blind?

I copied the files from the USB stick to a folder on my laptop, then shut it and tucked it under my shoulder. I had all the evidence now; nothing Paul could say would stop me from doing what had to be done. My head was clear for what felt like the first time in weeks; like I’d suddenly surfaced from the bottom of a cold, dark pool into the crisp summer air.

When Stephen asked if he could stay at a friend’s house that night, I surprised him by saying yes. Once he was gone, I sat at the kitchen table with the laptop, drinking cup after cup of coffee as I waited for Paul to get home.

He was an hour and a half late. “Hey, Bets,” he said, planting a little kiss on my forehead as he entered the kitchen. “Sorry I was late. I thought you’d grab some takeout—”

“Sit,” I growled through gritted teeth.

His smile faded instantly. “What’s wrong? Bets, sweetheart, what—”

“Sit,” I told him. Something told me not to let Paul start talking. Which was silly; even if he was a cheating bastard he was still my husband. I ought to give him a chance to defend himself. “There’s something I have to show you.”

To his credit, he took the seat across from mine. “Okay. What’s up?”

I turned the laptop around and opened the video. The sounds of ecstatic moaning filled the kitchen, so upsetting that my cheeks went scarlet.

“I found this on a USB drive in your bag,” I said, shaking with rage. “How could you, Paul? With Susan? Your boss? How long has it been going on? How long have you been cheating on me…?”

I trailed off. Paul was laughing.

Not laughing in a mean way. Laughing like I’d just shown him a funny cat video, or one of those compilations on Youtube of people falling down.

“Oh Betsy. Sweetheart, what are you talking about?”

My mouth opened and closed on air. If he thought he could get out of this, he was wrong. I’d already drafted an e-mail to a divorce lawyer, along with messages to our extended family explaining the situation and asking if they had any evidence of additional affairs Paul carried on during our marriage. I was done with this man. Over.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” he said, still chuckling.

My face went pale. “You’re not going to… to confuse me,” I muttered.

“Bets,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Sweetheart, I would never confuse you. Come over here—sit next to me. There’s something I want to show you.”

Although it made my stomach turn, I pulled my chair up next to his. The video was paused, Paul frozen in the act of pulling back from between Susan’s legs for another thrust. His gaze was fixed at the place where the two of them joined, like he was admiring his handiwork.

“You’re fucking your boss,” I said. I wanted to shout it, to scream it at the top of my lungs, but it came out as a whisper. “You’re. Fucking. Your. Boss. I saw it. I know it was real…”

Why did I sound like I was trying to convince myself of that?

Why wasn’t I throwing this man out of my house?

Paul shook his head, calm as ever, and pointed to the screen. “Look closer, Bets. Do you see it? Look right there, between my legs.”

I leaned in, squinting through my tears. It took me a second to notice—Paul’s wearing a condom. A thin sheath of latex shrouds his penis as it jackhammers into his boss’s cunt, the same pearly white shade as the controller on my son’s Playstation.

Don’t look, something inside of me whispers. Don’t listen!

“P-Paul,” I hissed, choking on my words like there’s a noose around my neck. “You’re cheating on me. You’re having sex with your boss. Y-you’re cheating…”

Paul sighed, patient, the way he did when he had to explain math problems to Stephen when he was young. “I’m not cheating on you, Betsy,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Honey, I already explained this to you. I’m just coming inside the condom.”

I shook my head. My mind reeled. “The condom is inside of her,” I protested, wanting with everything inside of me to get out of the chair and run. “And it’s on… on your penis—”

“Which has a little bit of lube inside so everything feels better,” he said, like he’d just told some private joke between the two of us. “Bets, it’s just friction. I’m using the condom to get off, the way I already told you I was doing. Honey, you already know about this!”

“I didn’t know there was another person involved!”

“Who, Susan?” He waves it away like a joke. “She’s just helping me out. She’s a great boss like that. Always looking out for her team—especially our stress levels. Honestly, it helped me out a lot with that big presentation I had to do for the firm.”

“I… I don’t care about the firm,” I said. “This isn’t right, Paul. You’re married.”

“Susan’s married too,” he replied with a shrug. “So what?”

I think I’m going to be sick. “Paul, she’s cheating too,” I stammer, trying to make it make sense. It should be making perfect sense, it’s about as natural as two and two making four, but for some reason in Paul’s presence it’s like I’ve just discovered that two and two have made five my whole life and I never knew it. “She’s moaning, Paul. I think she came!”

“Of course she’s moaning,” he said, as if that were obvious. “And if I were tickling her, she’d be laughing! That’s a natural human reaction, don’t you think?”

Tickling? No. This wasn’t tickling.

But it almost… kind of makes sense?

My rage faltered. Tears are streaming down my cheeks, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why.

“It’s not cheating, sweetheart,” Paul said, insistent. “I know it probably looks that way, but it’s exactly like I explained before. I’m just using the condom. Susan’s there, sure, but it’s not sex. It’s just a simple biological reaction, like sneezing or yawning.” His hand came down on the top of my head, gently patting it. “Honestly, honey, I’m a little irritated that you went through company property without asking. But I guess I gave you reason to be suspicious of me. Tell you what, let’s call it even. Okay?”

Okay, I almost said. Something strange was happening: it was like struggling with a knot in a dream, trying as hard as you can to untie it while every time you look down at it, you see it’s somehow gotten twice as tangled.

Some little part of me screamed to claw at Paul’s face, to bite, to do whatever I could to shut off the flood of explanations. That they were drowning me as surely as a tidal wave.

“But… but she was still there,” I stammered. The words felt like a jolt of electricity across my skin; the fog in my mind began to clear. “She saw you using the condom, Paul! Even if you were just… taking care of yourself, she was still in the room with you!”

Watching him. Helping out. Adding friction to his little quirk.

“Paul, that’s… that’s…!”

Something snapped inside me.

“That’s an affair!”

I was Betsy again. I blinked, like a woman who’d just started out of a trance. Before Paul could stop me I rose to my feet, the anger surging in me like a geyser going off deep in the depths of my soul.

“You cheated on me!” I snarled, stepping away from my husband. A glance to the side filled my vision with our front door, closed but unlocked—it was a straight shot from the kitchen table to the car. To freedom. “You cheating bastard—!”

Paul chuckled.

“Bets,” he said, sounding like I was the biggest fool on earth. “Honey, calm down.”

I turned to run.

He spoke to my retreating back. “Condoms don’t count, Betsy.”

I froze.

“Condoms are just tools,” Paul continued. “If you used a vibrator on yourself instead of your fingers, Bets, I wouldn’t say you’re cheating on me with the toy. Would I?”

Slowly, I shook my head. No. He wouldn’t. That would be silly.

Condoms don’t count.

They’re disposable. There’s no love involved, no intimacy, no trust—just the quick pleasure of a single night, getting off before throwing what you just used away and forgetting it ever existed.

Use… and forget.

No cleanup. No fuss.

Cheap pleasure, single-use, twelve to a box.

Just tie it off and go.

Heat. Slick.

Shooting inside the latex, filling it to bulging, making the cleanup so easy.

They were together. She was in the room—naked, moaning!

But it didn’t matter.

It was just friction.

Because condoms don’t count.

“I…” I turned around slowly. The video was still paused, Susan’s face frozen with her eyes rolled back and her tongue lolling from the side of her mouth, but it no longer held the sting it once did. It felt like a misunderstanding. Something a little embarrassing, certainly, but not worth getting angry about.

He sounded so sincere, so logical. His words soothed the raw edges of my hurt. And there it was, even in the single frame—the condom, proof he wasn’t having sex with Susan.

The proof that my husband was just indulging his silly little quirk.

“Oh my God,” I groaned, facepalming. “I have been such a fool.”

Paul relaxed. I must have been imagining it, but for a moment he’d looked truly worried—probably because his wife was flying off the handle over something that absolutely wasn’t an issue. I could only imagine how he’d been feeling.

My anger dissipated like smoke. He was just getting off inside the condom.

Paul loved me. He would never do anything to hurt me.

The next thing I knew I was in my husband’s embrace. “You’re my world, Bets,” he said, his hand going to my lower back. “You have nothing to worry about, I promise. It’s just a condom. Condoms don’t count.”

“Condoms don’t count,” I repeated, a warm feeling spreading through my chest.

“Besides,” he chuckled. “I only do it when I’m away. You know you’re more than enough for me when I’m home, babe. I don’t need to mess around with condoms when I’m with you.”

“Good,” I said.

As he planted a kiss on my forehead, I felt another wave of relief. Crisis averted.

Paul turned, closing the video. “Hey, if Steve’s not going to be here, we should throw an impromptu date night,” he suggested. “Why don’t I order us a pizza and we can curl up on the couch together and watch a movie?”

I thought that sounded amazing and told him so. “Join you in a minute,” I said, wiping my eyes. “There’s something I’ve got to do first.”

“Sure,” he said, giving me another kiss. “And no apologies needed, Bets. Love you.”

Before I joined him in the living room, I deleted all the e-mails I'd drafted.

The last things to go were the videos, the trash icon on the desktop going from 'full' to 'empty' as they were deleted.

Thank GOD I didn't send those, I thought. That would have been so embarrassing.

###

After what happened with Paul, I expected date night to be awkward. But it was as sweet as could be. Between the pizza, the horror movie and the sex we had on the couch (no condoms, of course—why would we need them?) I felt closer to him than ever before. Any lingering doubts about our relationship were gone by the time he passed out in bed next to me, snoring like an ox. I was looking forward to having him home—and to not having to think about those little pieces of latex.

But a few days later, I found more.

Periodically I get the urge to do a little spring cleaning around the house, even if it's November. Stephen always says he doesn’t want me going in his room (like a typical eighteen-year-old he wants to spend as much time away from his parents as possible), but he always appreciates coming home to a clean place. So I went inside.

In the drawer of his bedside table, I found them. A box of condoms, with about half of the shiny little wrappers still inside and unopened.

I stared at them in shock. And then burst out laughing.

The memory of Paul’s quirk hit me like a wave, and I nearly doubled over with a fit of the giggles. Like father, like son, I thought, shaking my head and clucking my tongue. Stephen wasn’t exactly going on business trips, but he was a growing boy—I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised he had a healthy sex drive.

He came inside of condoms, too.

It was no big deal. Honestly, I found it kind of endearing. Stephen had always been such a diligent student, so responsible, that I was glad he’d found a way to… well, explore in a way that wasn’t risky.

Because condoms didn’t count.

“It’s just friction,” I murmured, Paul’s words tumbling through my head. “Feels so much better than your hand, or so I’ve been told…”

I must have lost track of time, because I was still standing there holding the box of condoms when I heard a noise behind me. I turned to find Stephen standing in the doorway of the bedroom, a look on his face like he wanted the earth to swallow him up so he didn’t have to explain himself.

“Mom! What are you doing in here?”

I grinned, holding up the box of condoms. “Found your little secret,” I said, shaking the box. “Don’t worry, son, I understand. It’s adorable that you like to cum inside of condoms.”

No mess. Easy cleanup.

Feels so much better.

His eyes widened. “Um, what? No, Mom, listen, it’s not what you think…”

Now I feel like Paul. Explaining something to someone who ought to already know it.

“Sweetheart, I’ve already had this explained to me. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. When it gets all slick, the rubber goes up and down and it feels good. It’s just a guy thing, right? It makes it easy to clean up after. It’s just a condom.”

“I swear I bought them just in case,” my son tried to say.

Silly boy, I thought. I can already see that you used half of them.

Cumming inside of condoms.

Which don’t count.

Condoms don’t count.

In fact…

“I have a great idea,” I said, taking one of the foil packets out of the box. “Why don’t I help you, the way Susan helped your father?”

Before he could say a word, I tore the foil with my teeth. Good bosses help their employees, I thought.

Just like good mommies help their sons.

“Help me? Mom, what are you talking about. Hey, wait—”

I shoved Stephen onto the bed. As soon as his butt hit the mattress, I unbuttoned my blouse and placed it on top of his dresser. Susan had been naked when she helped Paul come inside the condom, which meant it would probably be even better if I was naked, too.

The air was cold enough to make goosebumps break out on my breasts. Stephen stared at them, his mouth hanging open.

“Oh shit,” he muttered. “Mom, this is wrong.”

“What?” I stopped in the middle of unbuttoning my skirt. “Honey, you’re just using a condom. It’s like scratching your back, but with a really nice backscratcher instead of your hand!”

I shimmied out of my skirt and tugged down my panties, feeling oddly liberated by my own logic. Condoms don’t count, I thought, smirking.

“Mom, stop,” Stephen moaned. But he made no move to push me away, and his cock stood ramrod-stiff from between his legs. He’s ready for the condom, I thought. The friction.

I knelt in front of him, gentle and motherly. “Shh, honey, we don’t want your Dad to hear.” The thought of Paul coming in and finding out his son had the same quirk he did actually filled me with glee, but I knew poor Stephen would be so ashamed about having to explain himself. “Just relax, baby. This isn’t anything bad—I’m just helping it feel good when you use the condom.”

I spit in my hand and used it to stroke. It wasn’t lube (makes the rubber go up and down) but it did the job. By the time I finished putting the condom on my son’s cock, he was practically shaking with excitement.

“Oh fuck, are we really going to do this? Oh my God, Mom, I can’t believe this—”

“It’s alright, dear,” I purred, climbing into his lap. “You’re going to do this. Just enjoy the condom, baby. Cleaning up will be so easy after, you just tie it off and throw it away—”

I sank down onto him, the condom filling me in one smooth stroke.

“Oh fuck!” Stephen tossed his head back, eyes shut tight. “Oh my God, Mom, that feels amazing!”

“Of course it does,” I said, rocking gently back and forth. “There’s so much friction! Goodness, now I understand why your father is so into this!”

Confusion filled his face for a moment, but then my hips moved faster. Slowly, Stephen reached out for me, gripping my sides tight and thrusting upwards into me, really moving the condom hard and fast.

A little moan escaped my lips. Oh wow. It really was like being tickled!

“You’re doing so well, sweetie,” I encouraged, picking up speed. The bed creaked gently beneath us as I bounced up and down in my son’s lap, his hips bucking to meet me. I felt a warmth building between my thighs, but ignored it—it was just a natural reaction. No different than sneezing, or yawning. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. You’re just like your father!”

Stephen’s panting came faster, his voice tight with both pleasure and guilt. “Mom, oh my God, oh fuck I think I’m gonna…!”

“Come inside the condom, baby!” I yelled, mimicking Susan’s tone exactly. “Fill it up! Don’t hold back—it’s just a condom! It’s there for you to shoot your sperm inside—!”

And shoot he did.

Stephen groaned deeply as he came, pumping thick ropes of semen into the condom. I could feel it bulging inside of me, jerking against the soft, tight walls I’d been using to help him fill the latex. As he buried the condom inside of me once more I shuddered, my eyelids fluttering, but it wasn’t an orgasm. Someone who saw my cheeks flush or heard the way I moaned would probably think so, but I knew better.

It was just the friction.

As soon as he was done I pulled the condom off him gingerly, tying the end before any of his seed could leak out. “See?” I said, standing naked and grinning in front of him. “Super easy. Much better than using your hand or finishing inside tissues!”

Stephen stared at me in a way I’d never seen before. “That… that’s amazing, Mom,” he panted, his eyes still wide with shock. Underneath of them, though, I could see something new gleaming—a closeness between us that wasn’t there before. “Um, that was incredible. Could I maybe, uh, fill a condom with you again sometime?”

I thought it over.

“Of course, honey,” I said, ruffling his hair with my fingers. “Anytime you need help with your little quirk, you just let me know.” An idea occurred to me as I turned to grab my clothes, like a lightbulb going off over my head. “Oh, we could even use different kinds of friction! I know Susan just does it the one way, but there’s so many other things we could try. Maybe I could use my breasts to move the condom, or my mouth?”

He looked at me like he’d just discovered a winning lottery ticket. “Mom, you’re the best,” he whispered. “I… I’d really like it if you’d use your mouth next time.”

“Then that’s exactly what I’ll do,” I promised. “Really honey, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. I wish you’d come to me about this sooner. I’m happy to help you with your little condom thing.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Stephen said, grinning like Christmas morning.

Maybe it was a big time commitment. But really, what was the harm? He was a young man, after all, and if I could help him with his quirk in a way that brought us even closer together, then that was a wonderful way to spend time with him.

After all, it wasn’t sex. It wasn’t even really masturbation.

It was coming inside of a condom.

And condoms don’t count.