Note to self:
Let’s see, I’ve started typing this out on the laptop at home with the intention of writing a debut novel — I’ll throw out a few ideas as they come to me and see if I can’t come up with something vaguely appealing — hah! I’m sorry, but this sounds so ridiculous even as I’m typing it in. I mean I’m doing this because my Uni professor in English proposed it as a way of starting things off — the first tentative steps in a hundred-mile journey, so to speak.
Write about what you know, Alan, he said. But I don’t know anything. Okay, that’s not quite true, I mean, I got into university so I must know something, mustn’t I? Yeah. They’re not the things that go into a novel, though. What goes into a novel are the trials and tribulations of real life’s obstacles and how they’re overcome (happy ending) or not (tragedy).
Well, reader (me, for now…), that’s a start, I suppose. So tomorrow (set myself a timetable?) I’ll build on this incredibly weak preamble and, perhaps, come up with a few solid ideas.
Must try harder.
But I’m trying! It’s just, well, I just need something to concentrate my mind while trying to write. In the old days, you remember you could chew on your pencil while watching the clouds float by o’er vales and hills outside the window. You really can’t do that with a laptop, there’s nothing to chew on. Maybe the flash drive? Wow, now there’s an idea — an edible flash drive. Not edible as such — I mean, that’d defeat the whole purpose…unless you were a spy, of course. No, the sleeve of the flash drive could come in different flavors…interchangeable for the hesitant future would-be writer. Nicotine flavor?
Stop it, your mind is wandering again. Okay then, concentrate. Let’s get back to basics. I’m trying to write a story — let’s see, probably one that is light but dramatic? Romantic but not slushy? Sexy but not trashy, and…why am I pacing my room, like an expectant father? Inspiration is what I need, so let’s see…sexy? Well, my Mum’s sexy, but you’re right I really shouldn’t go there. Who else is sexy? Besides the long list of movie stars of course, I mean, I want to keep it real…
Now that I’ve mentioned ‘sexy’, I suppose I’d better hide this file away in a deep folder inside another deep folder somewhere so that Mum doesn’t come across it accidently. She’s not computer-challenged, to put it in politically-correct phraseology, she’s simply disinterested and only uses the laptop to access her emails. Even those are not very hot (yes, I’ve been through them — I mean, wouldn’t you if the account was left open out there on the table for all to see?) So, no secrets there. She seems to actually lead quite a boring life even though she’s pretty. Why? I dunno, don’t ask me…
Still, I should be careful — I mean, I’ve already used the word ‘sexy’; how long will it be before I start to use words like ‘orgasm’ or ‘cunnilingus’ or those other words I used to look up surreptitiously in the dictionary (I still think it strange how the dictionary in the public library used to seem to fall open at these pages…). Alright then, this SEXY little piece will go into the folder I use for ‘those’ pics I like to keep to myself.
I’m all a-tremble.
Mum has just brought me some ointment (?) and a cup of coffee and said I seem a bit worried, and stroked my hair.
Well, I am trembling.
You’ll see why when I take you through it. You’ll remember (well, it was only yesterday, duh…) I was looking for things to inspire me to write something perhaps along the sexy line?
I’ve admitted Mum is pretty. If I wasn’t her son I’d say she’s probably the hot fantasy of most of the men in our street. The hypnotic sway of her ass as she sashays down the road in clothes which might try but fail miserably to hide her curvaceous full body probably ignite a simmering jealousy in all those unfortunate wives who suffer badly by comparison. But she seems quite oblivious to the effect she has on others. Anyway, I’m her son, so let’s keep it on the straight and narrow and say she’s pretty (…and pretty hot – sorry, couldn’t resist it).
So with a curious feeling about this enigma that is my Mum, I found myself drawn to her bedroom in search of inspiration. It was still early afternoon and she wouldn’t be back from work until later, I’d have enough time to enter her inner sanctum and root around for… whatever.
I know, I know — you’re saying, ‘Well it didn’t take him very long to go from planning a sequel to a Tolstoy novel to rooting around in his Mum’s knicker drawer’. Remember I’m still in the planning stages here and, after all, even Anna Karenina must have worn some kind of underwear occasionally when she wasn’t doffing it under the noses of appreciative cavalry officers.
A lady’s bedroom is another world. Apart from the heady scents which make you feel giddy and light-headed, and the various ointments and unfathomable unguents which share any and all available horizontal surfaces with endless shades and thicknesses of makeup, there is a sense that you are making an unforgivable intrusion into her private space, and that entry is strictly by invitation only.
But in my defence, I’m young and therefore irresponsible.
As I delved into Mum’s panty drawer and was hooking out various frilly items, noting in passing that they included a black suspender belt, and holding them up to the light to see to what degree they were see-through, there was a sudden rattling of the front door and a bang as it closed behind “Oohee, Alan? It’s me — you home yet?” my mother.
If I’d had a spare half hour or so to solve the problem, I might have gone onto something like Twitter and typed, ‘Hey. Got a problem and need quick advice…’ and then taken the best reply as the most suitable solution to my quandary.
As it was, this was a WTFOMG?!? moment.
I could a) shout out, “Yeah, I’m in your bedroom perving your knickers!” resulting in immediate homelessness and ostracization from respectable society, or
b) close the drawer, exit the room which Mum will see me coming out of and have a maximum of about four seconds to come up with some lame excuse before breaking down and pleading for mercy in a flood of tears, or
c) do what I did, which was to quickly close the drawer and scoot myself under her bed while drawing my legs up to my chest and praying to everything that is sacred that she wouldn’t notice me. I’d seen it work on stage in many a farce, so…
Yeah, you’re quite correct. Within the space of a couple of minutes my projected literary masterpiece had sunk from high art down through cheap fap material to finally rest in the stinking cesspit that is low farce. Go figure.
So there I was under the bed and there were Mum’s legs in a down-to-the-knees-length dress, nylons and three-inch heels pointing towards me. She’d called again a couple of times while making her way upstairs, and the sound of my bedroom door opening and closing told me she was doing the rounds and ascertaining that she was indeed alone in the house.
From five feet or so above her trim ankles, she let out a deep sigh and flipped her shoes off in my direction, narrowly missing my head. I couldn’t very well shout out, ‘Oi! Watch where you’re kicking those things!’ She’d have had a heart-attack.
Then the hem of her skirt defied gravity and rose up and out of sight, there seemed to be a bit of a wiggle while one leg was raised and then returned, bare, to the carpet. The same process was immediately followed with the other leg, and then her two bare, ruby-red toenailed feet were standing there side-by-side playing out some kind of rhythm on an invisible carpet keyboard.
Then followed the soft ‘swish’ of her bundled-up tan hose and white panties falling onto the bedroom carpet just in front of my nose. The fragile panties formed a cosy, frilly number eight shape, the kind they make you decipher on a webpage to check you’re not a bot, nestling inside the dark brown cocoon of her tights. I was entranced (as well as still being scared shitless, of course…), but the spell was broken the very next moment by the depression of the mattress above me as Mum lay down on it. There were now mere millimeters between my head and the bed springs.
Nothing seemed to happen for a while as Mum seemed to bounce a little bit and adjust herself for comfort, pressing my ear down repeatedly as she did so. But then she emitted this low growl, a sound completely alien to anything I’d ever heard come out of her mouth until this moment. As it was still reverberating around the bedroom, the bed itself began to rock. Other noises emanated from her throat, some quiet, “Yeah, yeah, c’mon, c’mon…”, some like steam escaping a burst pipe, “Oooooh, ohhhh, urrrhhh…” some screamed to the rafters, “Fuck me harder, you fucker, that all you got?! Oh God, if only you were black, now DO meeeee…DO me right up for fuck’s sake..! umpf, umpf…That’s it screw me senseless… you can have my ass as a reward!!…yeah, I thought you’d like that you dirty bugger…”
And the bed for its part did a tremendous job under the circumstances — she was bucking, she was writhing, I could only imagine the contortions she was going through as she lifted her ass high in the air and then had it pounded back down only to lift it up again in anticipation.
Her screams and pleas were becoming more and more high-pitched as she approached a strangled cry to go down in history. “Aieeeooouuuh…!!” would be an approximation to what I heard — but imagine that sound as it would be yodelled by someone who’s just been bayonetted.
Then with a thump of her body back onto the bed, all became quiet except for Mum’s gasping as she took in gulps of air.
What now?
The bed bounced again, only this time relatively gently, and there were Mum’s feet once again, only this time pointed away from me. Then her flowery dress fluttered to the floor, followed a couple of seconds later by a white bra.
Mum’s feet padded away towards her en-suite bathroom. My God, she must be totally naked! I only had a split-second to jut my head out from my hiding place and take in two lovely swings of her gorgeous pale ass before she entered the bathroom and swung the door shut behind her. Almost immediately there was the sound of rushing water as she turned on the shower and began to adjust the temperature and that was my signal to get the hell out of there.
I couldn’t get back to my room quick enough, but, oh, she’d checked there, hadn’t she? — so I slid quickly on tiptoe down the stairs, quietly exited the house, pulled the front door gently to behind me and went off down the pub for half an hour to give what I estimated was a respectable amount of time and also to go over and make sense of what I’d just been through. As I sat over my pint, I rubbed my swollen ear. It had taken a thorough pounding up there in Mum’s bedroom. Mum, my Mum, this gentle creature who is always ready to offer up a smile of assurance, of encouragement, this soft, pretty face that is one of the foundations of my whole being — my Mum, wow, my lovely Mum is a slutty tigress!
So, a short while later, noisily re-entering the house, still rubbing my swollen ear, I encountered Mum sitting demurely in an armchair, legs crossed at the ankles and wearing fluffy pink slippers, perusing a magazine and sipping a cup of coffee.
“Hey, you.”
“Hi, Mum.”
“Why are you rubbing your ear?”
That flustered me straight off, and I garbled something about not looking where I was going and walking into a lamppost (Ha! Really? That the best you can come up with? You can see how I would have immediately crumpled under any form of interrogation earlier. Shine a torch in my eyes and, “Yes. I’m guilty, take me away, lock me up, throw away the key…” Weep weep…)
“That ’cause you’re drunk? I can smell the alcohol on your breath.”
“No, no. I met Luke on the way home and he persuaded me to go have a pint with him. He’s got girl problems and wanted someone to talk to.” (I think I’m getting better at this.)
“Luke? I can’t believe he has problems with any girl. He’s a hunk.”
As she said this a small smile spread across her lips, and now I’ve just realized something I forgot to mention about him. He’s black.
“Well even the best of us have our off-days.”
“Mmm, I see you’re including yourself in ‘the best’. Does that mean your girlfriends haven’t any cause for complaint? No, don’t answer that, and just what is it with your ear? It looks like you’ve come out of ten rounds in the boxing ring. Come over here and let me have a closer look…”
I went over to where Mum was sitting and knelt down in front of her chair. She leant over to observe it closely, giving herself a better view and also giving me an equally good view down her neckline to find she hadn’t bothered putting a bra back on after her shower. The tan-lines adorning her ass were now replicated low down across her breasts, just above her dark nipples. (What is this? Normally I would have averted my gaze out of respect, but now her whole body was like a magnet to me…) She blew on my ear and I winced. So then she gently licked it and that sent a quiver through me. The scent of her freshly showered body filled my nostrils.
“Ooh, it looks quite nasty, you sure you weren’t squashed under a meat truck?”
Should I answer that? I didn’t. It was hopefully a rhetorical question.
“I’ll get some ointment to cool it down.”
“Okay, well I’ll be upstairs. I’m in the middle of this project I’m doing for English.”
So I made my escape as quickly as possible, probably walking at an odd angle because of the boner I was trying to disguise.
Which brings us up to the present. Mum applied the ointment and dabbed some on my nose for good measure, served me a mug of coffee with some biscuits, again looked worried about the (mental?) state I was in, gave me a warm hug and kiss on the cheek and left me to my work and my reminiscing.
I’m not making much progress, am I?
How to continue?
Well, it’s next afternoon. I spent last night in a fitful sleep. As you can imagine, a lot of things were swirling through my head. Strangely enough, it wasn’t having to lie through a matinée performance of Mum’s greatest fantasy, i.e. being shafted by a Big Black Cock, no. It was immediately afterwards when I watched her pale, smooth bum swing through that door. She’s got an incredible bum! There are still vague bikini tan-lines around it from that scorcher we had last summer. You should have seen her in a bikini, wow…I’m only a poor English Lit student so I don’t have the words to describe it (don’t tell my professor…) — but put it in the context of her slim waist and long, long legs and add the bit where it wiggled (winked?) at me as it went sauntering through the bathroom door and you’ll begin to understand the passion stirring inside me.
As for the novel, ah yes, that epic novel… to get back to why I’m writing this in the first place, I’m now toying with elements of Madame Bovary, a wife enchanted with illicit romance (but, I think, without the agonizing death by arsenic…) together with elements of myself in a version of the young Holden Caulfield trying to come to terms with what is happening around him.
You (whoever you are) have not read this yet so you can’t tell me whether to run with the idea or use it for fire-lighting.
I’ve just had an enforced break. Mum came in and asked could she use the laptop to send off some emails and family pics to an old school-friend. I duly signed out and placed this epistle safely into its assigned cubbyhole.
She must be a really slow typist (strange, because I know she types a lot at her job…) and it took her ages before she returned it to me. She was quiet when she handed it back. I asked was there any more of that ointment because my ear was still bothering me. She silently went and brought it, but instead of coming across to me and applying it lovingly to my ear, she flung the tube across the room from the doorway with a “Humpf!” and stalked out, leaving me nonplussed.
Hmm…
Okay then, it’s now around forty-five minutes later and I’m still sitting here unable to continue writing. Why? Because I’m confused, conflicted, concerned, con… (add your own).
I can just see my professor getting all excited over this state of affairs —
“This is really marvelous, Alan. Now we’re getting somewhere. Use it, Alan, let the turmoil show through in your writing…” and then the question, “What’s the problem? Where’s the problem? Why is there even a problem?”
It’s my Mum.
“Your Mum’s a problem? Do tell…”
Alright, you asked for it. My Dad died about four years back, and since then, my relationship with Mum has evolved into a sort of co-dependency, a kind of protective bubble for the both of us. (The professor’s hanging on to my every word. Is that because he got a good look at Mum on Open Day last month and decided she’s hot?) We’ve got each other’s backs, so to speak, and I won’t allow anything or anyone to hurt her. She for her turn dotes on me and I’ll do anything not to disappoint her. Just now, this one act of her throwing the tube of ointment across at me and slamming the door behind her makes me feel I’ve done something unforgivable and I simply don’t know what it is. It can’t be the fact of me sneaking into her bedroom, which I regret and not just because I was almost caught, because she doesn’t know about that.
I think it’s simply that I’m in love with her. No, not as mother and son. It’s difficult to explain these feelings. It’s in everything. I find myself looking forward to her coming home from work in the afternoons so we can do things together, I love laughing with her, I love her in the morning when she’s in the kitchen in her ratty housecoat and dishevelled hair, preparing me breakfast, I love secretly observing her break apart and hide her secret tears at some silly Rom-Com she’s watching for the fifth time on the box. Those kind of moments are when I want to make her world better, to hold her close in my arms and hug her and kiss her and… maybe I should stop there?
I’ve got to laugh. I’ve just imagined my professor on the edge of his seat, tongue hanging out, urging me on, more, more, wanting the full dirty.
The fact is, there is no dirty.
I love my Mum with all my heart, but that’s it. (Cue: disgruntled professor marking my paper ‘Fail. And don’t bother seeing me after class.’)
Now I really am going down the pub.
You’ll never guess…
…where I’m typing this from, the next day.
I’d stayed at the pub until Last Orders. A couple of mates had turned up, Luke one of them, girlfriend in tow, and we all had a good time. As usual, at some point, our bladders fit to burst, we all trooped off to the Gents to do our stuff. You don’t think I was being too gay when I nonchalantly took a surreptitious gander at Luke’s penis as we were standing there, do you? I mean, I had to see what all this kerfuffle was, about BBCs.
Okay, sigh, that’s one up to Luke.
We all said goodnight and I turned down their offer of a late portion from the local chip shop and made my way slowly back home. I took my time because I was still trying to figure out how to repair whatever it was I had to repair in my relationship with Mum. And it was with a deep foreboding that I went through the garden gate, walked up the path which I wished were infinitely longer, and used my key to open the door to discover…
“Hi love! Great, you’re just in time! I’m about to watch ‘Notting Hill’ on the box. Yeah, yeah, I know it must be about the sixth time I’ve seen it, but for some reason I feel like, tonight, it’s really appropriate. D’you wanna join me on the couch?” and Mum expectantly held out a glass of red wine towards me.
I was dumbstruck for the moment. Not just because of the wine which, in retrospect, was the second glass she’d poured out, the first already sitting waiting on the low coffee-table, but the fact that she was wearing a diaphanous black negligee that was low, low cut at the front, obviously braless, and swirled down to her bare feet. Her hair was loosely up at the back, and the hand which wasn’t offering me the glass was fiddling with a black satin bow which was the only thing holding the outfit together at her breasts.
I took the glass, apparently still at a loss for words, and Mum stroked my cheek and turned to the couch, revealing that the back of the negligee was cut even deeper than the front, almost down to her ass. She’d also turned off the main light and the only illumination was from a tabletop lamp at the far end of the room. Thus, as she strolled away from me, her whole body was outlined as a curvy black silhouette and, no, she didn’t, did she? seemed to exaggerate the swing of her hips.
Smoothing out the wispy satin beneath her, she plonked herself down at the far end of the couch and crossed her legs, which allowed for a slit in the material to open up and reveal a long expanse of smooth thigh, and patted the place beside her.
“Come on, you, snuggle up.”
Had I entered a parallel universe? Should I go back out and come in again?
I didn’t, because her open smile was irresistible. I took off my jacket and put it, threw it, somewhere, anywhere, and went across to where Mum was already folding her feet up onto the cushions. As I sat down, she hooked her arm around my neck and pulled me in for a big kiss on the cheek. I knew from the glossiness of her lips that if I was to look in the mirror now, I’d find a perfect oval replica of those lips in an understated tone of red just below my eye. And her perfume. What was that? I tried to decipher it from all those scents I’d experienced when trespassing into her territory (momentary twinge of guilt which passed almost immediately), but no, I couldn’t place it. And just because of that it was suddenly extra-special.
She left her arm dangling round my neck while taking a sip from the wine, and asked me about my evening. As I gave her my bland reply about meeting up with the mates, she seemed to be paying rapt attention to what I was saying, while at the same time describing small circles around my ear. As the circles decreased in circumference, I winced slightly as she swept across a particularly sensitive spot.
“Oh my poor baby, is it still causing you problems?”, and with that she brought my head down gently into her lap so she could get a better look. She brushed the hair away from my ear and leant forward. Out of the side of my eye I was aware of the orbs of her breasts hovering above me, and, below, I was aware of the heat rising from the junction of her belly and lap.
“Mmm, I dunno…” she leant back, then forwards again, which provoked a swing to her breasts, and I could feel the in and out movement of her belly as she breathed, “I’m no expert but I think maybe we’ll have to amputate…”
So saying, she licked her index finger and inserted it into my ear and swirled it around a couple of times. The resultant frisson through my whole system seemed to please her.
“Well, you’ve still got feeling there…”
We both laughed, and I raised my head, perhaps quicker than she had expected, and it bounced off the heavily weighted breast above it.
“Oops.” Was all she said.
Then she seemed to come to a decision, bent down further and her lips were now suddenly full on mine, exerting a gentle pressure. The softness of them slid apart, and now she was enclosing my mouth in hers until her tongue started to explore at my teeth and, when I opened my own mouth, linked up and coupled playfully with my tongue. Her arm was round my neck as was mine round hers and we both adjusted our heads to the best angle by which to suck at each other’s throat from the inside.
Then we took our hands away, took our lips away, backed off a little and stared into each other’s eyes.
“It’s probably best not to tell anyone about this,” Mum whispered.
“That’s alright, I might tell myself sometimes but don’t worry, I won’t believe it.”
Mandy actually cackled at that, and I loved her for it.
Yes, I’ve not told you yet, but Mum’s name is Amanda. I thought this might be a good place to mention it.
By this time (actually had been from the moment I stepped through the front door and saw how she was standing there) my dick was rock-hard. This vision from my ultimate sexual dreams and fantasies was here playing them out for me. Dreams, though, lack all kinds of things like colour and smell, and Mum’s scent was intoxicating, and the heat coming off her could ignite the both of us in an instant. This was so not a dream.
“Mum, I’ve got to tell you some…..”
“Shh…” She held a finger up to my lips. “It can wait.”
She reached down and took a loose end of the bow holding the negligee at her chest, twirled it between her thumb and forefinger, and then inserted it between my teeth. She raised an eyebrow.
With the satin string clenched in my mouth, I pulled my head back, but the cord was longer than we’d both estimated and stubbornly remained tied. I pulled back a bit more and comically overbalanced off the sofa, landing flat on my back on the carpet with Mum above me, the top of her negligee suddenly gaping wide and her heavy breasts with excited nipples erupting out of it and gazing down at me. With a giggle and another ‘whoops’, she tumbled down after me off the sofa and I found myself pinned beneath her, supine, my face wedged between her breasts. She wiggled her chest from side to side and I was caressed by her warm, pneumatic flesh.
Down below, her legs slid apart but then she brought them back together again to hold my hips imprisoned between her hot and surprisingly strong thighs. She rocked back slightly and I felt my dick penetrate into the crevice that was her ass. A familiar growl emitted from the base of her throat. I’d heard that growl before up in her bedroom when she was coming to the boil.
She rocked again, harder this time, and sat up, squatting on her haunches, balancing her hands on my stomach and thrusting her exposed breasts out. I could feel the knob-end of my penis trying vainly to separate her pussy lips.
I reached down, flicked the button of my jeans and slipped the zip all the way down and my dick lost no time in springing free.
Mum too, she reached down to brush the flimsy material of her negligee to one side, grabbed my dick between thumb and forefinger, then with her remaining fingers pulled the crotch of her tiny panties away and pushed my dick all the way up inside of her.
A gasp escaped the two of us. The sublime heat and slickness of her tunnel stunned me momentarily before she started to ride me, gently at first, but then, egged on by my reciprocating thrusts, like a bucking bronco. To her credit she remained firmly in the saddle in spite of me lurching wildly, attempting to impossibly get more of my dick inside her than had already been sucked in. To my credit she didn’t ask for me to be replaced with a black man.
Her warm sandy hair had come loose and now ran in rivers across her shoulders, and as she swung her head from side to side it thrashed around her face in swirls and eddies. Her heavy breasts tried vainly to keep up this side-to-side swing until I grabbed at them and began to knead them, luxuriating in their weight. She was wildness personified.
Our rutting was building to a noisy crescendo, with caveman-like grunts from me as I pushed my ass up again and again off the floor, and encouraging squeaks and snorts from Mandy as she thrust herself down again onto my rod like a nail-gun. It flashed across my brain that I was simply being used as her sex-toy, making up for all those years of self-denial or, where that hadn’t been possible, self-indulgence.
But as we both gave ourselves over to our own unrestrained, riotous climaxes I knew it wasn’t just that.
As her cunt repeatedly squeezed and released my dick in order to milk every drop of cum out of me, she opened her eyes and gazed down at my face, smiling, and silently mouthed the words, ‘I love you’, before returning her gaze to the ceiling, closing her eyes again, arching her back and giving herself over to the sensations that were coursing through her lower body. Her fingernails made grooves in my chest. She was probably gouging out whole gouts of blood, but I didn’t care.
I loved everything about this woman. I didn’t care how she wanted to use me, just as long as when she did, it was often.
Like a deflated balloon she finally collapsed on top of me and we lay there sweatily entwined, exchanging wet kisses, laughing, kissing again and then simply hugging one another.
Did we fall asleep for a while? I think we did because the next thing I remember was Mandy pulling at my arm and urging me to follow her upstairs to bed. She’d already removed her negligee and panties and set about getting rid of my pants and boxers too. She tugged them off my heels and got her first good uninterrupted view of my dick, sticky from the mixture of my cum and her juices which had seeped back out of her in our post-coital embrace.
She observed it with a wicked smile on her face, took a hold of it, licked around the knob-head, and without taking her eyes off my face, proceeded to swallow me whole.
My God, Mandy is the perfect woman. She sucked me dry and didn’t spill a drop.
The stairs in our house, like most in suburban England, are fairly narrow, so we couldn’t go up them two abreast. I selfishly let Mandy go first. Why selfish? Because this afforded me the vision of Mandy’s ass swaying succulently up the stairs mere inches in front of my transfixed eyes. Oh, if I could only have converted that into a GIF, I would have played it endlessly as a screensaver on the laptop.
Upstairs, we went into her bedroom (!) and into her shower where we languidly rinsed each other down, taking the opportunity and time to get to know the intricacies and pleasure spots of each other’s body. And then into bed, where we toyed, spooned, and fell into deep sleep.
When I awoke, Mum (should I call her Mum, Amanda, or Mandy from now on?) had already gone off to work and left a note for me by the kettle (yes, always a cup of coffee first thing to start the day right — she knew that). On it she’d written – ‘Sorry for spoiling your study schedule yesterday (not really, haha…). On my way home I’ll bring us back some Chinese takeaway, Love, Mandy, xxxxxxxxxxoxxxxxxx
Well, I guess it’s ‘Mandy’ from now on!
So I’m writing this in Mandy’s bed, a pile of pillows supporting my back and the heavy scent of ‘woman’ in the air. Ah, isn’t life wonderful?
Okay then, finished that and I’m off to my afternoon lecture at the Uni.
Place this file deep, deep, deep into the recesses of the laptop memory, close file, sign off — done.
9/10 V. Good! Watch those comma splices.
What the…………?!?
How the…?!???
When the…??????!!!!
Add the word ‘fuck’ to all of those.
I sort of, kind of stumbled/rushed/toppled downstairs to the kitchen where my mother (!) was licking her fingers after finishing off the remains of the Chicken Chop Suey (her favorite).
I turned the laptop screen towards her. It was my turn to raise an eyebrow.
“Comma splices — yeah, you’ve gotta watch out for those. The Grammar Police don’t like them, especially in the States. Not that they give a damn over here of course, I mean, it’s just your style, after all. I think it shows…”
“Mum..!!”
She had a quirky smile at the edge of her mouth.
“Yes, darling son of mine?”
“How did you..? When did you..?” I think my needle’s stuck.
“Ah, you mean how did I chance upon your Roswell, top secret, your eyes only, sex file?”
“Well, yeah…”
You remember a couple of days ago I wanted to send off some family pics to my friend?”
“Yesss…”
“Well I’m a complete nubbin when it comes to computers and I forgot where I’d put the pics I wanted to send…”
“Yesss…”
“Well this woman at work told me a dead easy way to find them…”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. You just go into that search box thingy down at the bottom left and type in dot jpg.”
Silence.
Added silence, though I think Mum could sense the cogs turning in my brain.
“Yeah, well I did that, and what do you know, all these tons of pictures came up, probably every pic from every file in the computer…”
Was she expecting me to say something?
“Well, there were so many it was almost as hard as looking through the files by name, but nevertheless I started to trawl through them and…”
“And?”
“And woohoo, up came lots of pics of a, let’s say, ‘saucy’ nature. I thought they might be of your Aunty Jane, I mean she’s got a rather promiscuous side to her, but even she wouldn’t…”
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Spread her legs like that…unless she was well paid of course, haha…”
“But this specific file here?”
“Oh, that was easy. I just looked at the root file for these pics — it’s written at the top, you know — clicked on that and — dadah! All the pics appeared in one group. Plus, I might add, an obscure Word file which intrigued me.”
“And just why did it intrigue you?”
“Maybe because it was in a folder listed as — Christopher Marlowe subjunctive clauses subsection xii stroke iii. By the way, you should be more careful there. I loved the character Christopher Marlowe from when we watched ‘Shakespeare in Love’, you remember, we were cuddled up on the couch and watched it together? You must remember, because I burst out crying and you had to console me. Anyway, I might have been tempted to open it just because of his name.”
My whole body sagged and I sat down with my head in my hands. I tried vainly to think what secrets I’d divulged over the last couple of days. While I was doing that, Mum continued…
“So after looking at the first bit I was understandably pissed off at you for going through my stuff, although I did get a laugh over how you injured your ear…”
“I know, I know! I did try to tell you…”
“Yes, I know, sweetie. But then the next evening I read the continuation where you imagined a discussion with your tutor, professing all these hidden feelings and, well, you know how I’m a sucker for romance, and all these feelings for you simply bubbled up to the surface…”
By now she was running her fingers through my hair and down across my cheek.
“And you confirmed them all in the latest episode.”
She embraced me and kissed me hotly on the lips. Again our mouths opened to facilitate tongues. The temperature (mine) was definitely rising and I couldn’t blame it on climate change.
Then Mum (okay — Mandy) ingenuously said,
“You mentioned ‘cunnilingus’ in the first bit.”
“Can we forget that?”
“No. I’ll tell you a secret. You know me and your Dad, we got married very young…”
“A bit before my time.”
“Only a little…and your Dad was, let’s say, a tiny bit reserved when it came to making love. We never discussed what each of us liked. We never really experimented. We did it in the back seat of the car of course like everyone else, but let’s say we never got round to, kind of, having fun with the gear lever very much…”
If this was an analogy it was a bit confusing.
“Anyway, I’d never heard of ‘cunnilingus’, but I’d heard of cunnilingual, so I thought maybe it’s something to do with being bilingual, but a bit more…”
“Well, it is sort of a play on tongues…So Dad never…went down on you?” (I couldn’t believe I was referencing my late father so candidly)
Mum was standing there wringing her hands, apparently not knowing how to proceed.
“Maybe I could show you…”
“Would you?”
She stood up in front of me, where I was kneeling, and looked down at me, a smile creasing her face, as I took hold of her calves and drew her close, the material at the crotch of her cotton dress rubbing up against my nose. As it did so, I could feel the intricate lace pattern of her panties moving underneath.
Like one of those old-fashioned photographers, I lifted the hem of her dress and ducked my head inside. The material was thin and it suffused the white of her panties in a pale bluish hue. They were even smaller than her bikini bottoms, so this caused her tan-lines to stand out almost like they were being illuminated by blacklight at a disco. Her pubic mound pulled the panties taut at the front. I lifted my hands to gently caress it, then brought them round to the back across her bum. I hooked my thumbs into the elastic waistband and drew them down, slowly, slowly over her cheeks then moved my hands round to the front and eased them further down over her small, well-tended thatch of pubic hair.
I stopped then and just took in the beauty of her, the deep groove bisecting the hair with an embankment to either side, delving in between the top of her legs and begging to be excavated even further.
I felt Mandy’s hands on the sides of my head, urging me forward. On the outside she must have looked like an enormously pregnant woman about to give birth, but instead of trying to press the offspring out of her womb, she was eagerly trying to do the opposite and pull my face inside of her.
I pushed Mandy’s panties down past her knees, at which point they dropped to her ankles, where she lifted one foot to let them drop off and then parted her thighs to allow me access.
With my hands grasping her bum, I pulled her onto my waiting tongue which slid the whole length of her crack, and then I pulled back, hooking my tongue deeper between her folds which eagerly parted at my touch. The moment my tongue reached and toyed with her clitoris this elicited squeaks and squeals from above.
I left one hand where it was, caressing her bum, and I brought the other round to the front and began to manipulate her outer lips while, for the moment, backing off from her clit. She wanted my tongue to stay there but she’d have to wait. With my middle finger I delved into her vagina while still teasing around her opening with my other fingers. She was contorting herself to get the most out of her exhilaration.
Again my tongue took exploratory excursions along the insides of her labia, sometimes taking broad lunges inside, sometimes content to just paddle along. But then I was back to her clit and this had her writhing. I knew it was bringing her to the boil because she had brought one of her legs up and over my shoulder in an effort to squeeze out more of the delight I was lavishing on her.
And then the explosion.
I stuck the middle finger of my hand holding her bum right up into her ass.
She screamed in surprise and excitement and leapt forward onto me, bringing her other leg up and over my shoulder.
The motion threw me backwards and I found myself once again on my back, only this time, my face engulfed in the flow of juices pouring out of Amanda’s cunt as she came and came while licking my whole face with her pussy.
I lay there for a short time enclosed in my little light-blue tent, safe from the world, encased between my Mother’s legs. She was breathing heavily and I lifted my hands to her belly to track and stroke the movement of her breaths. Then light streamed in as she lifted the hem and looked down on my face.
“Wow, Mum.”
“Wow, indeed. Where on earth did you learn that technique? It certainly wasn’t on the syllabus in my school.”
“Oh, that? Yeah, well, you know when you go into a search engine looking for info about something or other..?
“Aha…”
“…and then it refers you on to other things and before you know it you’ve spent half the morning browsing after just wanting just one tiny bit of info..?”
“Uhuh…”
“Well that’s what happened when I looked up ‘cunnilingus’. I came across an interesting sub-heading called ‘Venus Butterfly’…”
10/10 Excellent! See me after class and bring the gear stick.
I told my professor I’d thrown out my original draft and was taking a new direction but which would still revolve around experiences at home.
“Wonderful, Alan! Be certain to include your mother for it to be authentic…”
I told him I’d see what I could do.