I recently wrote a story called "The Surprise" - a non-consensual story with a twist. I deliberately picked a vague title, and so I will try and write a different tale under each of Literotica's twenty-five writing categories with the same inspiration over the next year. This is Number Four.
I met Paul during freshers' week at university. He lived in a cramped flat of six, opposite me, in a building from the 1960s. Our rooms and accommodation were ridiculously expensive, but were the cheapest accommodation on campus.
We studied on the same course, often worked together, always cooked and ate together, and once a week, we went "on the pull" together. I didn't need to admit it, as it was painfully obvious, but I had not managed to find a girlfriend during my high school days and had travelled to university as a virgin. I was never comfortable talking to girls in such circumstances, and our evenings at nightclubs consistently finished outside the kebab van, rather than in bed with a nubile lady.
Paul was the complete opposite; he had two dozen dates and a number of one-night stands during his first term. He effortlessly made women laugh and could establish a connection in seconds that I was unable to make in hours.
I was envious and longed to have his confidence; I wanted to ask Nina, a girl on our course, on a date, and asked him to reveal his "secret", but he casually dismissed me. "Ain't no mystery," he laughed. "Just be yourself. You need to get laid once and then it'll be easy. Find a slut to show you what to do and then you'll have the bottle to chat Nina up."
It sounded so simple, but even at the Christmas Ball, I didn't hook up. Although a few revellers came with their partners, many women attended to party and have a one-night stand. Alas, my conscience and sexual confidence would not let me take advantage of a drunken lady, despite the array of inebriated and uninhibited students in alluring outfits eager for intimacy.
We broke for the Christmas holidays in December, and Paul invited me to come to his home for New Year. I accepted, and on New Year's Eve, I travelled by train to the Berkshire town where my friend had grown up. He lived with his mother in a two-bedroom terraced house a mile from the station, and he set up a camp bed in his room. It was a tight squeeze, but fine for a few nights. We took a walk to the out-of-town supermarket, and I bought a couple of boxes of beer and a pair of pizzas.
"I've been asked to go into work at lunchtime tomorrow," he said apologetically. "It's only four hours, but it's double rate 'cause it's bank holiday." He had taken holiday employment to top up his finances, and I promised him I would read while he toiled at the nearby superstore. His absence was not a problem.
We ate in front of the television with a few cans. Paul's mum was "out for her New Year's bash" and afterwards, we dressed in semi-smart clothes and walked to his local pub for an evening of revelry. We got drunk; Paul was catatonic and at 1am, I had to carry him to his home, helping him to the bathroom so he could throw up.
His mother, peering through her black-rimmed glasses, watched from the doorway, still wearing her party clothes. She was much younger than I expected, and had long, wavy dark hair that framed her face. She wore a tight, black lycra-style dress that hugged her curves and her large bosom, and finished a dozen inches above her knee. Her legs were encased in black hosiery and she shook her head as her son expelled his stomach into the lavatory.
"Silly boy," she muttered; I could smell lots of alcohol on her breath, too, but she was sober enough to be in control of her senses. "I'll go get him some water." We gave Paul a drink and tucked him into bed; she had changed from her black clothes to a thin, satin dressing gown. "You must be Steve. I've made us hot chocolates downstairs," she said. "Get into your pyjamas."
I didn't bring any nightclothes, but wore just my boxer shorts and T-shirt in her terraced abode. She grinned as she sat on the couch and passed me the steaming mug of brown sweetness. "Thanks, ... err ..."
"Ellen," she introduced.
"Thanks Ellen," I muttered. It felt wrong, but Paul's mother was sexy. Her short dressing gown had ridden upwards and rested at the top of her thigh, and as she leaned forward, I could see her cleavage. For a man who had used pornography significantly for years, and had spilt copious amounts of cum to "MILF porn," Ellen was unwittingly provocative. "You're much younger than I expected," I said, breaking the silence.
She coyly looked away. "Yeah, Paul was the result of a fifteen-year-old getting knocked up. He's eighteen, so you can work out my age."
"My mum was older than you are now when I was born!"
She tucked her hair behind her ear and licked her lips. "My partner was a senior director of a major firm with a wife and kids. He didn't want a pregnant underage girl spoiling his life. So I made him an offer he couldn't refuse." I raised my eyebrows at her. "He bought this house for me in 2005 for a hundred grand, and he pays me maintenance until Paul leaves full-time education."
"It's a nice home. Supermarket at the end of the road, and is close to the station and ..."
"All I had to do was to raise a kid by myself and not reveal who the scumbag father was." She slurped her drink. "And who wants to date a girl at nineteen with a three-year-old child?" She sighed. "Paul won't tell me. Does he have a girlfriend at university? He's mentioned a few names - Susie, Olivia, Maria - but I don't know if they are friends or ..."
"Susie and Maria are regular ... visitors," I said. My alcoholic consumption had impacted on my discretion and I was as candid as Ellen.
"As long as he uses protection."
"I'm sure he does. We got a box of ten from the university when we started and he's been to get replacements multiple times."
She smiled as she drank from her mug. "And you have too, I bet?"
"No," I replied. "I didn't need a single bloody one," I moaned, sipping my drink. She went to speak, but we heard Paul move upstairs, and we hurried into the toilet to see him vomiting once more.
