0 comments/ 190790 views/ 13 favorites Mother's Old Photos By: jon.hayworth (I should like to remind readers that this is a work of fiction - non-consensual sex is never right. Women should not be used for sex. Nor should drugs be administered for the purpose they are in this story.) I had just finished school, a skinny, somewhat introverted eighteen year old, still plagued by acne and a stammer - all the foregoing caused me to be friendless and somewhat introverted. The physical aspects could be blamed on my age and to a lesser extent maybe my genes: but the stammer could be blamed fairly and squarely on my parents, the name they had given me. I was the complete outsider in that day and age, in our village boys left school at the earliest age allowed (fifteen) with no academic qualifications. Whereas I had passed my eleven plus, attended the local Grammar School, at the time I am writing about I was waiting to go up to University. This was 1960’s England, I was born in 1948 and they had named me Karole! There was a middle name also, but that one to this day I cannot say without my throat muscles contracting, my voice dropping to a strangulated whisper and my having to take a deep breath or else my banished stammer reappears: indeed my fingers even refuse to push the letters of the keyboard. When I started school, I said my name for the first time and endured the ignominy of all the Thomas’s, Richards, and Harry's bursting into fits of laughter. Mother always said that she gave me the names because she thought they were musical. Maybe they would have been accepted in Hampstead or Chelsea, but in a Cornish fishing village - no way. Mother did not fit in either, a leading light in the local amateur drama society, she said that before marrying she had been an actress. Which brings the story back to this last summer at home. The hormones were rushing and daily I would be masturbating over the pictures in a somewhat tatty copy of "Health and Efficiency". This magazine was supposedly a naturists’ magazine, the nearest thing to soft porn freely available in those long gone days. The censorship laws were beaten by showing, either women with shaven pussies or the genital area was air brushed into the sexual blandness of a doll. Even better I had a somewhat battered paperback copy of Frank Harris’s "My Life and Loves", early on I had discovered words were more stimulating than the airbrushed photographs my peers treasured. It is I suppose little wonder my peers thought I was either a snob or gay, or both. I did not fit in with the dominant culture of a fishing port. This story begins on the spring day Mother sent me into the attic to find some playbooks, which she was going to lend to another drama group. Torch in my hand I opened box after box working my way further and further away from the hatch. Boxes filled with plays tied in bundles, photographs of productions, some with press cuttings attached to them. There were also boxes filled with old costumes and props. I could remember seeing many of these plays, indeed I had played juvenile bit parts in some. Tucked at the back I found an old scuffed case. Opening it I saw it contained no plays, there were some bits of costumes most made of gauze and feathers, there were also two hard backed scrapbooks. I should have closed the case and carried on looking elsewhere, but teen-age introverts even if they are boys can be incredibly nosy. I opened the scrapbooks, even by the yellow torch light it was immediately it was apparent that they related to her career before she married. I wanted to see more, but the torch was too dim and the attic too uncomfortable. Carrying the scrapbooks I crept back to the hatch. Listened - the coast was clear, I could only hear voices downstairs. Sweating with fear at being discovered I silently descended the attic ladder, opened the bedroom door and put the books under my bed. It was not until later that evening that I was able to examine the books. The glossy monochrome photographs immediately revealed to me mother had done a lot more dancing than acting. There were photo’s of her in high kicking Music Hall chorus lines. Some of the scenery and costumes were sumptuous and others distinctly run-down and to be frank tacky. In the back of one book was a dog eared brown envelope - the type with a stiffened card back. I opened it, tipping its contents onto my bed. What spilled out literally blew my mind. There was my mother dancing and posing in the buff - stark naked. There was no retouching, the black thatch of her pubic hair clearly on display. Mother sitting open legged on a swing shaped like a crescent moon. Excitedly I went to the chest of drawers where I kept my stamp collection, (a popular hobby in those days when in the UK we only had two T.V. channels), and got out the magnifying glass. Focusing the glass I could clearly see her open slit, and the bits I had heard smutty references to but never seen. Now the mythology of the playground and Frank Harris’s accounts were becoming reality, I could see the fleshy lips of her labia and even the nub of her clitoris. It is difficult to have a wank when you are trying to keep a magnifying glass focused but I can assure you I did just that. When I came the thick creamy essence shot everywhere. First I mopped the precious photo clean, then turned my attention to my trousers and shirt, then the candlewick bed cover. There were never any tissues in the house, maybe they were not available in those days, so I always used my dirty socks. My reasoning being, no one looks too closely at a sweaty sock they just get chucked in the washing machine. Over the next few days I reappraised my mother. I had previously not paid much attention to her, she was just Mum - now she was a sex goddess. Many times I had seen her stripped to only her bra and panties, when I was really young I had changed in the improvised women’s dressing room back-stage of the church hall when I had a part in a play. Thinking back Mum’s figure was pretty trim compared to her friends, who all seemed to have; drooping tits, thick waists and sagging barrel round bellies. Even now I often heard her friends saying things like, "I wish I had your legs …" or "of course with your figure you can wear that!" With my discoveries about mother my dirty socks were getting so stiff that they could have walked into the washing machine, I was wanking three or four times a day. The photos were all right but I wanted to see the real thing. The obvious place would be to see her in the bath, the question was how. I considered just bursting in and rejected the idea - a one off quick flash was the best I could hope for. I retreated into the attic, if I lifted a board I could see the ceiling, a hole in the ceiling would allow me to see all when she lay in the bath. The next problem was how would I ensure that the hole was not seen. Back into the bathroom, I lay flat in the bath and surveyed the ceiling, it was smooth, I was confounded. Then fate stepped in, a chunk of the Kitchen ceiling plaster fell out. (Thinking about it, probably caused by my violent wanking in my bedroom above.) Mother told Dad, who said leave it he would fix it when he had time. Dad was away fishing five or seven days at a time, home to sell the catch, take on fuel and supplies and out again. This meant that when the weather held he was never at home, little jobs like the kitchen ceiling went on the back burner until the storms of January through to March. When I went to University in September Mum would be at home totally alone. I made sure that Mother was out, before I picked up my gutting knife. I went into the bathroom, carefully I cut a triangle shape into the plaster, each side about two inches long, a little levering and a chunk fell away exposing the open lattice of the lathes. To conceal the cuts I hacked the edges rough, then scored and thumped the plaster to make a tracery of cracks. I left the debris in the bath for mother to find. "This place is falling down." Mother said to me that evening. I responded by looking at her quizzically - her acting lessons were paying off. "The bathroom ceilings falling down, and it will wait forever before your father fixes it." Dutifully I went upstairs to survey the ceiling, for her benefit feigning surprise. The next day I was up before her - not an unusual event. She was still asleep when I entered the attic, hoisted the ladder and closed the hatch. I waited for hours in the dark. I heard her calling me, go into my room, she would assume that I was out doing something - out in my open boat, long lining or up on the cliffs, birdwatching. When I heard the water running I looked down. She removed her dressing gown. I could see the top of her head and her firm breasts, I had not realised how they jutted out. My imagination worked overtime as I listened to the water tinkle as she sat on the toilet open legged. At that time I was disappointed, the overhead view seemed to be singularly unsatisfactory. Then she got into the bath. I could have jumped with joy, my efforts were rewarded. As she lay back I was at last able to enjoy the view of her long legs, her black thatch, slim waist and breasts that only fell slightly to the side. She soaped herself, then lay back in the water luxuriating. Then came the bonus, my stiff prick drove hard into my stomach when I watched her lift one leg onto the side of the bath, opening her sex to my curious gaze. With her fingers she began to massage herself. She picked up the loofah and worked it against the lips of her sex. I could tell from the rhythm that she was masturbating. I got my cock out and I jerked myself off as I watched my mother masturbate. When I came it did not seem to want to stop, great gobbets of spunk jetted onto the dusty boards of the attic, and more would boil in my tight testicles to in-turn fountain from my stiff cock. She was still in the bath still masturbating when my cock started to soften and grow lifeless. I had learnt another lesson, women could keep going for far longer than men! Every morning for nearly a week I rose early and crept into the attic, then my father was back and I had to stop. To tell the truth the attic was becoming unsatisfactory, obviously I was not a voyeur. I had to hatch another more satisfying scheme to get what I wanted, contact with my mother’s body. The two days, three nights Dad was home gave me the time to think. I considered the possibility of a direct approach, revealing my desires to my mother, and I rejected the idea out of hand. Then I considered using the photographs to blackmail her, but I reckoned she was too strong a character to succumb. If Dad knew about her past, and there was no reason to think he did not, when she told him he would surely beat me to a pulp. (At this point my story gets nasty, I am sorry but if you don’t like non-consential sex you should stop right here.) Mother’s pills offered an answer. In those days, before Rock and Roll, The Rolling Stones, marijuana and Hippies, doctors prescribed drugs as if they were dishing out sweets (Candy USA). In the bathroom cabinet mother kept a large bottle of yellow Nembutal capsules alongside a bottle of yellow Benzedrine tablets, (the inspiration of "Mother’s Little Helper" by the Rolling Stones). I looked at the label of the Nembutal, "Take 2 at night." I took out a dozen, put them in a matchbox and secreted them in my room. We went to bed about ten. I listened to mum in the bathroom, I slipped the matchbox into the pocket of my dressing gown. As she came out I opened my bedroom door. "Can’t sleep mum I’m going to make myself a cocoa." She reacted as I knew she would, "Make me one dear." I put the kettle on, spooned the cocoa powder into the mugs, deliberately I choose two of different colours, mine blue striped creamware, hers maroon striped. As I emptied four capsules into her mug I experienced a moment of doubt. "I hope she hasn’t taken any." I quickly assured myself that even if she had six would only make her sleep better. After I had taken her cocoa into her I went to my bedroom. Half an hour I guessed and she’d be asleep, another half an hour and she would be insensible. TICK-TOCK the second hand of my alarm clock dragged itself so slowly. I refused to touch my insistently hard cock. Half an hour seemed like an eternity, but eventually it passed. I opened my bedroom door. "Mum." I called softly. "Mum." Louder this time. "Mum!" Still there was no answer. I crept across the landing opened her bedroom door. The bedside light was still on, her mug was empty, she was asleep, the book she was reading had fallen open onto the bed. I crept back to my bedroom. Now was a battle of willpower. The clock hands seemed to have stopped - maybe when I was not looking they were running backwards! It was only later when I dropped some LSD that I had a similar "time-slip" experience. I had intended to give her half an hour, but after twenty odd minutes my willpower collapsed. I crept back into her room. Another series of tentative calls, she did not stir. A full blooded roar, "Mum." Still she slept. Trembling I cautiously pealed the covers back, pulling them to the foot of the bed. She did not stir. She was lying on her left side, her night-dress covering her body. Tentatively I touched her, she did not stir. Emboldened I gently rolled her onto her back, still she slept in fact putting her on her back had caused her to snore. I lifted her night-dress, exposing her hairy belly. I spread her legs. For the first time in my life I had a close up view of a woman’s sex. She still did not stir. I dumped my dressing gown onto the bedroom floor. Like a yacht’s bowsprit my cock pointed out in front of me, throbbing as my excited blood thundered into it. I climbed onto the bed, over her leg and knelt between her knees. The dark red outer lips were as Frank Harris had described them. I touched the fleshy leaves, there was no reaction. When I spread them I saw the delicate coral hues of the inner lips, nestling above the hole was her clitoris, it looked like a fat red sea slug. With my finger I stroked the red lozenge, intrigued I caught it between my finger and thumb and gently made a masturbating movement. I froze when she moaned. She was still asleep I repeated the motion. The lozenge grew and hardened beneath my touch. The coral skin of her inner lips and the entrance of the opening began to moistly glisten. I had just made my mum cum! I dipped my finger into the moist hole, put them to my lips and tasted her sex. The throbbing of my cock was painful now. I was so aroused ten, eleven no more than fifteen strokes and my spunk boiled out. I thought that I had cum a lot in the attic, but it did not begin to rate compared to what came out of me now. My heart thundered like a single cylinder diesel as spunk pumped out of my cock in jerky hot jets, like the cooling water that pulsed out with the exhaust from the stern of my boat. The thick black thatch was coated in my creamy white spunk. I dipped my finger into some and it was thick. Putting my finger into it I began to spread it trailing it down into the slit, bathing her clitoris. No sooner did I touch her clitoris than she came again. Such is the stamina of youth that my cock was springing to attention when it had barely softened! I inserted a sticky finger into that mystical orifice, not just into the entrance as I had before, but pushed in until the whole finger was in her. I tried a second finger, gently I moved them in and out. Suddenly her muscles clamped on them and they were bathed in her juices. I took out my fingers and licked the heady cocktail - my spunk her cum. I wanted access to her breasts, but how, if I lifted her to push the night-dress up to her shoulders she might awake. So I contented myself with loosening the bow that tied the neck opening, try as I might I could not expose her breast. I had lost track of time, I began to worry that she might awake if I stayed much longer, but first I had to get rid of the ache in my balls. Again kneeling between her legs with my right hand I began to rub my stiff cock. The forefinger of my left hand I kept occupied in mother’s cunt. All too soon the spunk jetted from me, coating her stiff brush. Frightened she might awake I got off the bed. I took a sock from the pocket of my dressing gown. I dabbed at her pubes removing some of the still sticky spunk, but the spunk from my earlier cum had dried starchily on her skin stiffening the hairs. The sheet below her was also stained with already dried spunk that had trickled down that magic slit. I abandoned my attempts to clean her up, pulled down her night-dress and carefully covered her up. Back in my bedroom the enormity of what I had done really came home to me. When I considered the evidence of my actions I had left behind I sat and shook with fear. Did I regret what I had done? No, I was only afraid of detection. Six o’clock after a sleepless night I scuttled into the attic, to wait by my spy hole. I had formulated a contingency plan. If when mother awoke she realised what had happened, she would be unable to find me, but I should know she knew. Time dragged in the attic, she did not awake at her usual time. I think I dozed up there in the darkness, which was only penetrated by odd diffused beams of light that filtered under the slates. Hearing movement my senses sprung into full awareness. She seemed to be following her usual routine, up call me, open my bedroom door, into the bathroom. I could see her now. She was swaying slightly. She peered into the mirror examining her eyes. She turned the bath taps on. Following her routine she sat on the toilet and peed. I held my breath when she pulled her night-dress over her head. As she lowered herself into the bath I wanted to scream and shout - I’d got away with it! I had enjoyed her body, explored a woman, watched a woman cum, whilst she was asleep I had possessed her. I looked at my watch, it was nearly ten o’clock - those pills really made her sleep, I could have stayed with her for a lot longer. Mother did not go out that morning, maybe it was because she was still drowsy from the pills, but as a consequence I was stuck in the attic. About two o’clock I could hear no movement, cautiously I lifted the hatch and lowered the ladder wincing at every creak and groan. Having closed the hatch I crept down the stairs. Mother was not in the kitchen, I opened and shut the backdoor and went into the hall opening the living room door I found mother asleep on the settee. Out I went down to the harbour, looked around aimlessly before returning home. Through the door noisily this time. As I intended this awoke mother, attentively I made us both a cup of tea and cut us some sandwiches. She complained of having a hangover when she had not been drinking, I suggested it might be a migraine attack. Then I went up to my room, I glanced at the photographs then picked up my guru Frank Harris, from him I would find out what to do next. That evening mother went to bed early, good it suited my purpose. I went into her bedroom to pull the cocoa stunt again only to find she was already asleep. Frustrated I returned to my bedroom. No sooner had I closed the door than she called me, "Karole is that you?" My heart leapt, "Yes mum I came in to see if you wanted a cuppa." "My head still feels strange, not a headache as such, more just sort of heavy. Tell you what make me a cup of tea and bring me a glass of brandy." I was down those stairs in a flash, into the front room, into the sideboard out with one of the bottles of brandy. (In our village spirits were never in short supply as boats often unloaded their catch in French ports or in bad weather French boats would take shelter in our harbour.) Into the kitchen, warm the tea-pot, one spoon of tea for the pot and a spoon for each cup. Whilst the tea in the pot was brewing I emptied some of the little capsules into mother’s mug. Four last night and there had been no ill effects, I decided to give her more five would really knock her out. For my purpose I wanted to be sure she would be really unconscious! To mask any taste of the drugs I added an extra spoon of sugar. Mother's Old Photos I had a scare when I watched mum use the brandy to swallow a Nembutal capsule, saying, "This should make me sleep." I mumbled something and retreated to my room. It did not take me long to rationalise away my fear, ignoring the fact that the stated dosage was two, I reckoned one added to five was not all that much more. Half an hour passed before I crept into mum’s room. She was on her back snoring, on the bedside table stood the empty mug and glass. She did not stir when I touched her arm. Still I decided to give her more time, I went back into my room. I whiled away the time rereading the passage in Frank Harris. I did not hurry this time, I let a full half hour elapse before ramrod hard cock leading the way, I again entered her room. She had not moved, throwing caution to the wind I once again removed my dressing gown, then I pulled back the covers. The sight was erotic, one arm her left lay across her, her left hand touching her right breast. Her other hand lay on her abdomen almost covering where her pubic hair was concealed by her night-dress. I immediately wondered if she had been playing with herself when she fell asleep? She was like a doll when I half lifted half dragged her down the bed and lay her close to the edge. I piled all four pillows in the centre of the bed next to her abdomen. She did not even stir when I pulled her into a part sitting position and lifted her night-dress up under her armpits. Now I could see her breasts. I gazed in wonder at those nipples I had admired from afar, lowered my head and began to kiss one. Instantly it responded growing hard between my lips. I began to suck and it grew harder, with my hand I massaged the other nipple and it too hardened. I stopped, lifted and turned her so that she lay face down her firm backside elevated by the pillows under her belly. I spread her legs, just above her cunt I could see the brown puckered rosebud of her anus. Climbing onto the bed I parted the firm cheeks, lowered my head and kissed the closed flower. The first kiss was gentle, an exploration, then boldly I went to work lavishing wet sloppy kisses as I moved my tongue around it in a circular motion. I was sure the tip of my tongue could feel the rosebud opening. I raised myself, pulled back my foreskin to reveal the purple head of my cock, a la Harris I spat on my hand and moistened the proud warrior. I leant forward taking my weight on one arm with the other I positioned the tip of my prick against the rosebud. I pushed gently, nothing happened. I pushed harder, still nothing. Another push something gave, it felt like an elastic band around my cock. I realised the head was in. Another push and the full length was in and she had not made a sound or movement. I began to move my hips. I stopped repositioned my hands, now I was cupping her firm breasts in my hands. I began to thrust with my hips simultaneously squeezing with my hands. Soon all too soon the sap rose. I could feel the pulses as I discharged my spunk into her. My cock did not soften so I began to move again, this time I lasted longer. This was absolutely fantastic I was doing the absolutely forbidden and getting away with it. The sheer evil of the situation spurred me on and once again I came. This time my cock softened and with a soft plop fell from her. I knelt up and looked down. Her anus now looked like a rosebud about to bloom, from the opening seeped some of my spunk. I bowed down and licked savouring the salty, spicy taste. Following Harris’s dictums I rose from the bed went into the bathroom and washed my limp tool paying special attention to the area behind the head. All the washing and fiddling about had one result - another erection. Not as hard and urgent as the first one but an erection non-the-less! Intending to put mother straight, the pillows back and so on I went back into the bedroom. The sight of her lying face-down, open-legged with spunk trickling from her anus down onto the glistening lips of her sex was such a turn-on. Once again my cock began to send throbbing messages to my brain. I had not fucked mother because I did not want to get her pregnant, but then I began to reason, so what if she did get a "bun in the oven", I was my father’s son, therefore the child would look like his. I turned her onto her back, got between her open legs and without a second thought plunged my prick into her moist cunt. As I pumped away I savoured the situation. This was the ultimate in wickedness, a sin no one would ever forgive. I was filling the organ that had given me life with my life. I was not too impressed with the sensation: her ass had gripped me tightly, virtually milking the spunk from me; her cunt was slacker gentle and moist but not holding not grasping like her asshole had been. - I think it was there and then I developed what has become a lifelong preference for buggery over normal or cunt sex! The upside was that it took me far longer to cum. There was no rush, no bang when eventually my balls contracted and the spunk jetted into my mother. I felt incredibly let down, a real fuck and it had been about as thrilling as an interrupted wank. Honestly the experience had been more intense when I shot my load over her pubes. I had learnt the truth of Lord Rochester’s dictum before I had even heard of Lord Rochester. (For readers who do not know what I am talking about, Lord Rochester was a friend of King Charles II - the king who had Nell Gwynn as one of his mistresses. This 17thC Earl wrote that - a woman’s cunt is the organ of procreation and her arse is designed for recreation.) Somewhat disconsolately I knelt there, exploring this region between her legs with my fingers, while masturbating myself with the other hand. It took me a long time to achieve an erection. Eventually my cock was again erect. I was intending to shoot over her, when I realised that if I lifted her legs high I should be able to enter her anus once again. No sooner had the thought struck me than I had those long legs draped over my shoulders, her heels resting on my back. Sure enough I was able to put the tip against the part open bud. It took little effort to effect an entry and once again I was in the saddle. It was ecstasy, I could feel that tight elastic band around the base of my throbbing cock as I pounded in and out of her. Long hard strokes, I would raise my hips until only the head of my cock was in her, crash down onto her pubic bone until every last millimetre was buried in her. This time despite the enjoyment there was no premature ejaculation. Up down, in out, long strokes varied with quick sharp short thrusts, and so it carried on until at last my final cum began with a sort of electric tingle and finished in an earth-shattering cataclysmic explosion. Despite still being asleep her sphincter muscles were in a spasm of involuntary contractions that milked every last drop of spunk from my balls. And even then did not release their grip on my prick until it had shrivelled to fall lifelessly from her. I got off her, looked at the clock, I had been in her room for nearly five hours. A veritable orgy that even Harris would have envied. Carefully I edged the pillows from under her. Sat her up and pulled down her night-dress. Before returning to my room I covered her up. I must have been exhausted because I did not remember falling asleep. When I awoke it was light. Mother was still asleep. Briefly I considered going to my spy-hole. Then decided as I had not been out for nearly a week I had better take my boat out. If I did not there would be questions about fish I had not landed. I made myself a thermos flask of tea and headed down to the harbour. The tide was halfway in and small boats like mine could just get out, the local yachtsmen, (we called them "sticks and rags") would wait for another hour or so. The passage out was beautiful I sat back, my arm resting on the tiller, listening to the TUNKA … TUNKA … TUNKA miss TUNKA … TUNKA miss TUNKA heartbeats of the little single cylinder diesel. I wanted to share my joy with someone, but there was no one, not even a sea-gull. So I screamed at the boat, "Hey I fucked the arse off mum." The boat carried on serenely round the point as if nothing was different. It was a perfect day, not too warm and not too calm. Hour after hour I worked the handle of the jigger, with the same motion as sex I bobbed up and down the hundred baited hooks of the longline. As the fish bit the line grew heavier until I transferred it onto the winch drum and began to wind it in. On the first shoot I caught about twenty legal mackerel. Rebaiting the hooks was a laborious task, but at last they were all back in the water and again I worked the jigger. When I winched in the next time I stopped and drank from my thermos flask. Whilst I drank, I gutted my catch laying the silver blue fish flat in a box of dry-ice. To everyone else the day was like any other day. Overhead mewing gulls circled, diving for the tit-bits when I flung the guts over the side. Looking for a chance to steal fish from any uncovered boxes, but I was used to their tricks and did not give them a chance. Two of my cousins hailed me as they passed, "All right are ‘ee Karole boy." - In fact by months one of them was younger than me, but as I have said I was not one of them, - one of my uncles had said. "Boy you is playing around with that boat when you’me better suited to one of they rags an’ sticks jobs." Not trusting myself to speak lest I gave way to the urge to shout out my adventures, I merely waved back. Then they were out of hailing distance, off round the far point to where they had laid their lobster pots. The day drifted on. Daydreaming I missed the half ebb tide and had to spend an extra five hours at sea. It was dark when I came in on the flood tide, line astern of old Pengelly’s boat. Pengelly must have been eighty if he was a day, yet every day he went out in his boat. He was a second cousin to my father and so a relative. I was shivering with cold and had a raging thirst. Some of them chaffed me for missing the tide, I said I was on a shoal and the boxes I unloaded supported my story. Mother was not so easy to placate. In those days we had no VHF, no mobile phones, the only means of communicating with shore carried by a small boat were a few flares. Everyone knew that if you fired them, you had probably cashed in your chips! I shrugged off mum’s fussing, drank several mugs of tea in quick succession and sat down to a plate of fish and chips. That night I slept like a baby. In the morning I again took the boat out but I did not miss the tide this time and was home in the early afternoon. Up into my room, dragged my treasures from under the bed. I spent hours looking at the photographs, reading Frank Harris and sitting looking into space recalling the events of the last few nights. I regretted that I had slept the night before. In preparation for the coming night I checked the contents of my matchbox, there was only three left. I went into the bathroom, opened the bottle and replenished my box. It was mum’s drama group evening. From seven o’clock I endured the agony of an anticipatory hard-on. I moped around the house unable to settle, the evening dragged, I tried to watch TV, it was no good all I could do was look at the crawling hands of the clock. From half-past-nine waiting for mum’s return at ten o’clock was like suspended animation, every rotation of the minute hand seemed to take an hour or more. I would look, then look away, then look again and the second-hand seemed not to move: and my cock got harder and harder. I had nearly decided to succumb and go for a wank when I heard the front door open. Mum came in dropped the deadlock, put her head round the living room door, announced that she was worn out and going straight to bed. Before I had turned off the TV she was calling me. "What mum?" I called up the stairs. "Make me a cup of tea." "I must go to the toilet first I shouted back." I had to get upstairs, I could hear her moving around in her bedroom. I went up the stairs two at a time. Dived into my room, grabbed the matchbox. Into the bathroom, eventually forced out a leak, pulled the flush and back down the stairs into the kitchen. She says she is tired so she won’t take any, I thought as I emptied the contents of six capsules into her mug, then I spooned in the sugar. When the tea had brewed I carried our mugs upstairs, took mother hers and retreated to my room to wait. Half an hour went by, there was no reply when I called. I crept across the landing and opened the door, she was asleep. Back to my room. I must not be impatient. More clocks dragging, I don’t know if it made the time pass to review what I had already done to her or if it made it drag. Either way that is what I did for the next half-an-hour, I sat thinking about all that I had done with her. The wonderful arse fucks and the let down of fucking her cunt. Was I weird that I had a decided preference for fucking an arse rather than a cunt, was I a secret Gay (except we did not use the word Gay in those far off days)? Eventually it was time. I was so sure of myself that I did not even bother with my dressing gown. Naked I crossed the landing and went into her bedroom. Mum was asleep on her back lying diagonally across the bed her head nearly hanging over the side of the bed. I turned back the covers. She must have been tossing about because her night-dress had ridden up almost to her armpits, exposing her sex, pubic hair and belly. I only had to lift the night-dress and her breasts were exposed. I was going to move her to the centre of the bed to get her in the right position to fuck her arse with her on her back. Then I was attracted to her partly open mouth. I recalled another passage from Harris, I knelt astride of her head gently opened her lips. As I lowered myself towards her, my cock slipped between her lips and over her tongue. I moved up and down gently fucking her mouth. This was mind-blowing I bet no one else at school has had oral sex. I froze! Fear made my prick begin to soften. Mother’s hands were grasping the backs of my thighs as she pulled me closer to her. She was swallowing the whole of my god-damn prick. She was awake. I was no longer doing her. By grasping my thighs she was controlling my body and doing me. Pushing me away so that my cock was no longer crammed into her throat, she began to stimulate just the head. I thought that she was moving her tongue in a circular motion - as if she was polishing it. I felt my balls tighten as the cum started its journey up my pulsating cockstem. As I tried to pull out, she knowing I was about to cum pulled me tight to her. I could feel her nose against my scrotum and her chin pushing into my pubic hair. The spunk jetted into her throat in a series of pulsing jets. My young vigorous cock remained erect and she did not release me. She was like a vacuum cleaner sucking the spunk out of me, stimulating my balls by moving her nose against them. Just when I thought she had emptied me, she jammed a finger up my arse. A seismic explosion ripped through me as the last of my spunk flowed into her mouth. She released my thighs. I pulled away. She patted the bed come on dear hop in. I got into bed next to her, unsure what to do. I was confused. Nothing in Frank Harris’s adventures had prepared me for this. Where was the anger I had expected. The indignation. All of that I could have coped with, but this silence was unendurable. She seemed to accept what had happened. Opening her legs she grasped my hand guiding it down to her pubes. "Stop thinking for now. Be a gentleman. I want you to bring me off. It’s not fair to leave me high and dry." I was cautious when my finger entered her slit, tentatively I stirred her clitoris. This one fingered exploration lasted for a while until she said. "Stop fooling about do me harder, use two fingers … Put one on each side of my clit - that little bud you’re teasing and move them around … That’s better." She began to move her hips in a circular motion, her breathing became faster and shallower. "Oh come on baby doll make me cum … Oh lord please don’t stop … please don’t stop … don’t stop …" She gave a long drawn out. "Ooooh." Grasped my hand pressed it tight against her and clamped her thighs shut. Opening her eyes she simply said, "Thank you." We lay there in silence, this was a situation that I was totally unprepared for. If she had shouted, screamed, threatened, been angry, I would have known what was going on and responded accordingly. Again it was her silence and apparent acquiescence confounded me, not knowing what to do or to say I simply lay there. The silence must have got to her because eventually she spoke. "Did you enjoy that?" "Why yes of course I did, in fact I think you are fantastic." She reached for my cock and gave it a squeeze. A strange feeling, it was a gesture of affection akin to when she would squeeze my arm when we were going somewhere that might not be nice, like going to the dentist or a funeral. "You are not bad yourself. I must have been going around with my eyes closed I didn’t realise you had grown-up so fast." My cock began to stiffen in her grasp. "You randy little git!" She laughed, "if that is how fast you get hard no wonder my backside was sore." It was out she knew. I mumbled something about how sorry I was. "Sorry you did it or sorry I caught on?" She flashed back. "Just sorry." "Oh so you didn’t enjoy screwing me then?" She said angrily. Another lesson - with women it is all too easy to say the wrong thing. Maybe that is sexist to say, and as you will see it is all too easy for a woman to say the wrong thing to a man. Maybe it would be more accurate to say the male and female psychological make-up is so different that often we are incomprehensible to one another. "I did not mean that." I hastily assured her, "I really did enjoy every minute of it." "Well from what I could tell the other morning you certainly made good use of my arse. I could not decide if you fucked my cunt. Did you?" I was stunned at the language coming from my mother’s mouth. Hypocritical, really when you think about it - after all I had been more than willing to put my cock into it and to fill it with my spunk, so why should I have been surprised when she spoke in earthy language. All a part of that contradiction in the male attitude to women we want then to be both Madonnas and Whores at the same time. "Yes mum." "Did you even consider you might get me pregnant?" I decided it would be best to lie. "I didn’t think - well not until afterwards." "Well it’s too late to worry now. Which did you enjoy the most?" "To be truthful I enjoyed screwing your arse the best. It was tighter and more exciting." She laughed, "You're a chip off the old block." "How did you know?" I asked. "When I awoke yesterday I felt lousy, like I’d got a hangover, at first I thought I was sickening for something, I felt the same the day before. Then I realised my arse hurt. In fact it was really burning like I had piles or like the first time I’d had sex that way. Then I felt that feeling, something wet and warm swilling around inside my bowels. There’s only two ways I know of that you feel like that, an enema or sex. I knew it wasn’t an enema, so it had to be sex. Then when I went to the toilet the grey white traces were clear to see. From there on it did not take Sherlock Holmes it was elementary really. I looked in the bottle some of my sleeping tablets were missing. I remembered the night-time drinks and I knew for certain what you had done and how you had done it." She gave a laugh squeezed my leg and said. "If you look under the bed you will see the cuppa you brought me up undrunk." What could I say except another mumbled sorry. Mother's Old Photos "Don’t say sorry - I’m not now I can have sex whenever I want even when your father’s away." Then she said her mouth was dry and she would like a cup of tea - one without any extras added. I took her full mug down, emptied it down the sink washed it out and made us a cup of tea. By the time I returned carrying the two steaming mugs I again had a steaming erection. "Down boy down." Mother said. When we had finished our teas Mother said. "Well do I have to beg?" I looked mystified, not fully comprehending the meaning of her words. She gave my cock a meaningful squeeze, more lewd than affectionate. "I was hoping you were going to put that where it belongs. Do you want me to turn over?" "No on your back." She threw back the covers, reached into the drawer of her bedside table and passed me a jar of Vaseline (petroleum jelly). "Use this it’s a lot more comfortable for me and probably for you." She said drawing her knees up to her shoulders exposing her cunt and anus to my gaze. Her anus was a swollen partially open bud, when I touched it, it felt as hot as its fire-engine hue suggested. I dipped my finger into the jar and smeared the greasy substance onto her. "Oh that’s so cool so nice. Now smear it on your prick." I did as she instructed, screwed the top back onto the jar. Once again I knelt between her legs. She lifted them and wrapped them over my shoulders scissoring around my neck. Aware that she was awake and sore I tried to be gentle. The tip of my cock nudged ineffectually at the slippery bud. "Dammit I’m not a china doll shove it in. I want fucked not fucking tickled." Acting on her urging I plunged in. A moment of panic, remembering the first time I had fucked her, I was afraid I might promptly shoot my load, but it did not happen. She gasped as I entered her then my cock was buried in her, my balls resting against the spread rounded globes of her arse. Gently I began to move my hips. She responded gripping my neck raising herself. Her hands were near my lower back. Exquisite pain seared through me as she clawed at my back. I pounded harder into her. Bucking like a two headed, four legged, four armed beast there was no love - if love is gentleness in our coupling. Just two people seeking physical gratification. Mother was yodelling. "Come on you little darling bang me … bang me … harder … harder … Don’t stop … If you stop now I’ll kill you … Harder … Harder … Harder … Oh sweet Jesus thank you thank you." As she subsided she rained kisses on me, not deep passionate kisses on my mouth but kisses all over my face. Then I came - and as I came I had a vision of my gallons of cum spraying around her bowels. The thought alone seemed to trigger the release of more spunk. Although my cock had not totally softened I was going to pull it out, as I moved mother grasped me. "Lie still there’s more there yet. You can go again in a minute." The next fuck started slowly and built up towards a crescendo. Mother came when I was still a long way from cumming. I stopped unsure of what to do. "Keep going." She urged, "I’ll cum again in a minute, and I’ll cum again, and again, and again until you stop." We carried on screwing, each time she came her legs tightened around my scrawny neck, squeezing me so tight that at times I feared I would faint. I slowed the speed of my thrusts. Some inherent instinct told me that I could increase her pleasure if I stayed deep within her and ground my pubic hair area in a circular motion where it came into contact with her clitoris and pubic bone. Her nails raked at the cheeks of my arse and backs of my thighs, I could feel my warm blood flowing over my glowing skin. "Where the hell did you learn that?" She asked adding, "Don’t you dare stop just ignore me keep going." Eventually even the sex drive of an adolescent became physically exhausted. My prick was a shrivelled-up shadow of its former proud self when it fell from her. "Well! Well my little man has become a real man." Mother said as she clasped me to her. I lay still in her arms unsure whether or not I should respond. "Did you enjoy it?" She asked. "It was fantastic." "Do you love your old mother?" "Mmmm yes." Was my somewhat desultory reply. This was a conversation that I was uncomfortable with. "Well I love you - thank you for some of the best sex I’ve had in long time." Soon after saying this she gave me a kiss and sent me off to my own bed. In the morning it was as if nothing had happened. Just a perfunctory peck on the cheek when I left the house, no passionate kiss, no cuddles. Her question kept repeating itself through my head. Did I love her? What was love? Before that time I had never questioned the nature of love. That a child would love their parents seemed to be a part of the natural order of things. As natural a fact as the tide’s ebb and flow, or the changing phases of the moon. It was not a matter for question, but now I found myself asking the question. My dog-eared copy of "My Life and Loves" contained no satisfactory answer. If as Harris seemed to imply love and lust were one and the same, then I loved mother: but then I also lusted after long legged, golden haired Jennifer Trenoweth I must also love Jenny Trenoweth. That night it was mother who took the initiative, half-past nine when she said to me. "I’m off to bed are you coming." Questions that were banished from my mind as my cock sprang to attention and I followed her up the stairs. On the landing she gave my hand a squeeze, then dropped her hand onto the prominent hard lump in my jeans. "We don’t want the neighbours knowing. Go and switch on your bedroom light, come into my room when you’ve undressed." She said. My mother a nymphomaniac! I mused as I undressed. No sooner was I in her bed than she guided my hand down to her already damp sex, her clitoris felt as hard as my erect cock. As my fingers stroked the hard nub, I worked the palm of my hand in a circular motion against the raised fleshy mound that covered her pubic bone. Mother opened her legs wider affording me greater access to her sex. I wormed my way down the bed, knelt between mother’s legs, raised them dipped my head and began to lick her already damp sex. Working my tongue up and down the crease on each side of the clitoris, by the movement of her hips she seemed to enjoy this. When I pointed my tongue and lapped the essence from her open orifice she slowed the motion - a sign I reckoned that this was not as enjoyable. I tongued the rim of the swollen, opening bud of her anus and was rewarded by movement from her hips. I kept circling the bud feeling it swell, passing my tongue over the top of it I could feel that it was starting to bloom. Her fingers clawed at my hair as she pulled me tighter to her. "Do it … do it … keep going … make me hot … Oh you little bugger how I love you." My tongue pushed into her opening, my taste buds sampling the exotic spiciness of her body. My nose, jammed tight against her pussy lips was bathed in the juices which seemed to ooze from every pore of her sex. At that moment it felt as if every part between her legs was a sex machine - my face must have been dripping with her juices. Eventually she released my hair. I knelt up. She opened the drawer, I needed no instructions when she handed me the Vaseline jar. "Oh that’s so cool, so nice." She said, more to herself than me as I anointed my favourite orifice. Before handing the jar back I smeared the shaft of my rock-hard erection, pulled back my foreskin and coated the glistening head. Her legs on my shoulders I entered her. I think that I was learning my lessons fast, this time I curbed my natural instincts and entered her slowly, wriggling rather than thrusting until once again the entire shaft was lodged in her. The slow action seemed to match her mood, she held me clasping me to her, until suddenly she exploded. Scratching, bucking her hips, urging me to do it harder. For a time from her cries and fragmentary sentences it seemed as if she was nearly cumming but was unable to cross the final hurdle before ecstasy. Finally she subsided with a long sighing moan. "Oh thank you lord." She said to no one. At some time during her frenzied thrashing I had shot my spunk into her, but my youth had soon restored my erection to full hardness. We rolled onto her side when she said. "Let’s stay like this and roll onto our sides." Yet another new position. I moved my upper torso when, releasing the grip her legs had around my neck she said "Lie back, away from me." Now we lay with our bodies at ninety degrees to one another, like clock hands at three o’clock. Staring into my eyes she trailed her fingers across my chest. I reciprocated by playing with her erect nipples, whilst admiring the firmness of her breasts. God my mother had a marvellous figure for a woman in her forties. I knew her long slim legs compared well to the legs of my classmates, that I had frequently ogled when we went swimming. Her breasts were firmer than those of any other woman I knew. I did not think that any other woman in the village would have sex with a teenager, son or not. Yes, I was really lucky to have a mother like mine. Then the idyll was broken. "Karole," she said. "Tell me that you love me." I sort of mumbled. Not satisfied with my reply she said again. "Tell me how much you love me." Her insistent questioning brought to the fore the problem I had been trying to reconcile all day. I could not answer her. I could not look her in the eye. "Do you hate me. Do you despise me because of what we are doing. Was it OK when you did me and I was not a part of it. Have I shattered your illusions about your mother’s innocence." "No! No! Its not that." I was indignant and angry. The dam tumbled down. I rolled over so I was on top of her, She tried to push me off but although only young I was already stronger than her. I thumped my prick into her, wanting to hurt her as she had hurt me. "Its not that at all." I pulled my cock out and pounded it back into her. "Its my fucking name." My cock pounded in and out in and out, she winced, the pain in her face spurred me on to hurt her. I wanted her to hurt to understand my own hurt. That day when I started school and every other time my names had afforded the other kids so much entertainment. "You must have really hated me to give me a name like that. A fucking girl’s name." I gasped as breathlessly I pumped in and out of her. "Don’t be silly I never hated you I’ve always loved you." Then she said the words that inflamed my anger. "Karole is such a lovely musical name." I was gripping her so tight my hands ached. My cock was smashing her insides as I wanted to smash her, pounding … pounding in and out, in and out. "You never thought of me when you named me. You were just selfish." I pounded in and out of her, punishing her until I had shot everything I had and my soft prick fell out of her. I think she was crying, I don’t remember. I was crying, I was sorry for what I had done it had been cathartic but my anger had evaporated. All night she held me as I slept in her bed. Something that I could not understand had happened that night and the anger did not return. I did not sleep with mother again until after I had changed my name - she paid the lawyer's bill.