His Mother Knows Ch 01

"You know," she said, smiling, her eyes meeting mine over the rim of her coffee cup, this one with a cartoon frazzled cat and the caption

I'll be with you as soon as I finish my first cup of coffee

on it, "it wouldn't be such a bad thing."

"What's that?" I asked, taking a sip of my own coffee, strong the way I like my morning caffeine hit.

She put the cup down, leaned forward, touched my hand with her fingers, and said, "If he learned from someone who cares and who wouldn't come home knocked up."

The subject of this conversation was David, her son, and my conversational partner was Mary, his mother. We had fifteen years of history since she moved in next door, a young divorcee with a three-year-old tagging along behind her. Over the years, we became friends and, in the way that can only happen between two women with a three-decade age gap between them, intimates.

She would tell me things she could never share with someone her age.

Mary was the classic "bad luck girl" when it came to the men in her life. The husband she had divorced when she moved in as a 19-year-old high school dropout with a three-year-old in tow was ten years her senior, had married her to avoid prosecution for statutory rape, and left after a year, telling her in no uncertain terms that he found her fat body "disgusting." She lived with her parents for two years after that, under their disapproving eyes and steady reminders of the burden she was putting on them.

She got lucky with a social worker who got Mary support to go to school and then Section 8 rent support which accounted for her being my next-door neighbor.

Over the years I became Mary's confidant and David's surrogate Mom much of the time. Mary worked, first part-time jobs while she went to school to become a nurse, and then as she worked those terrible hours to which young nurses are subject. I was retired and, well, comfortable after the insurance settlement, and it was kind of fun having a kid around.

The second time she came home from a bad date, and I mean a seriously bad date with a fat lip, black eye, and a bruise low on her back that had me worried about kidney damage, I held her and before the night was over we shared my bed and our bodies. We were, from then on, if not exclusive lovers, very intimate friends.

She reminded me of things I had forgotten. For the first time in years, I felt that wonderful pressure in my belly as I got sexually aroused. I felt the heat of swollen labia as I got excited. I felt that wonderful agony/ecstasy of an orgasm and then a second and third leaving me laughing and crying as I gasped for breath.

I like to think I gave as good as I got. She seemed pretty damn breathless too when we would spend a night together.

Don't get me wrong. I hadn't started playing for the other team or anything, nor had she. But two women living alone, well, it was a special relationship.

So here were were, old friends, sometime lovers, talking about her son's growing interest in women and sex.

"You really think he's still a virgin?" she asked.

"Mary, he tells me things he can't tell his mother," I said, "And yeah, I'm pretty sure he's still a virgin."

She giggled.

"God, an eighteen-year-old virgin, do such things really exist?" she asked, "I thought that ranked up there with unicorns."

"He was close with Lois," I said, smiling at the blank look on her face and adding, "the girl he dated for a while before Sammee, the one he took to prom."

She nodded.

"But, as he put it, she was reluctant and he's not a rapist," I said.

And that's when she shocked me.

"You know," she said, smiling, her eyes meeting mine over the rim of her coffee cup, this one with a cartoon frazzled cat and the caption

I'll be with you as soon as I finish my first cup of coffee

on it, "it wouldn't be such a bad thing."

"Are you serious?" I asked, holding her eyes, not really sure how I felt.

"Cleo," she said, and using my name drove home how serious she was, "yes, I'm serious."

She took a drink from her coffee and a deep breath and went on.

"Here's the thing," she said, "whenever I read an article, you know, some teacher somewhere is being sent to prison for having sex with a student, I think - - not one time in the history of the world, hell, in the history of the damn

UNIVERSE

, has a human being with a functioning Y chromosome been harmed by too much sex with a mature woman."

She took another drink, I think giving me time to let that sink in.

"And?" I asked.

She smiled.

"You love him, don't you?" she asked.

"You know I do," I said.

"Would you ever hurt him?" she asked.

"No," I said.

"So what I'm saying," she said, pausing to take another sip from her cup, "is it would be okay for you to teach him what a man needs to know."

I couldn't help the giggle that escaped.

"You're pimping me to your son," I said.

"Well," she said, "I've seen you act pretty fucking whory,"

"And you enjoyed every second of it, Slutterella," I said, standing and letting my robe fall open.

She stood, smiling, and slipped her hands under the robe, her palms tracing my waist around to my back to cup my ass.

She kissed me and then whispered, "Take me to bed now, make me cum like a garden hose, and then we'll talk about teaching my son to be a good lover."

I glanced at the clock on the stove.

"Well, it's 7:42 so we have a couple of hours before your lazy son will be up," I said, taking her hand and leading her inside. I giggled and almost fell when her hand slipped under my robe as we went up the stairs and she goosed me.

"That's gonna cost you," I said, continuing up the stairs.

In my bedroom, I turned and kissed her.

I enjoy our mornings together. There's something about me being fresh and her being tired after twelve hours at the hospital that, somehow, equalizes us. When we make love in the evening, her energy overwhelms me.

But it was morning and, especially after her suggestions regarding David, I was very much in the mood.

Per hospital requirements, she was dressed in scrubs, that simple outfit, almost pajamas, that at some point had replaced the white dresses I used to wear as a nurse's uniform.

I was proud of the steadiness in my hands as I reached up and unbuttoned the top of her scrubs. I kissed her again as I worked it down her arms, holding it when it was at her elbows, hobbling her arms as I leaned forward and took her earlobe between my teeth and bit down, drawing a cry from her.

"Toldya you were going to pay for that," I said, giggling and then kissing where I had bit her and then below her ear, right at the hinge of her jaw.

"I know, Cleo, I deserved it," she said, her head leaning to the side, offering me more should I want it.

I reached around and unhooked her bra, all four hooks of it. She's a heavy-chested woman and needs a heavy-duty bra. When I pulled the bra her big pancake boobs sagged. She overflows her 38D bra but she's one of those women whose mammary glands just shrunk to nothing when she quit nursing. Her areolas were large, the size of tan coffee cups, her nipples small, little pink pencil erasers centered in the areolas. As I watched the areolas tightened into wrinkled cones and her nipples stood out.

We had enough history that I knew what she liked. I kissed her, our lips meeting with the right amount of pressure, our tongues fencing playfully, while my thumb and forefinger pinched and rolled her nipple drawing a soft gasp from her.

I inhaled her gasp and more, taking her breath into my lungs and savoring it like a hit from a pot pipe.

The kiss lingered while I tormented her nipple and we shared that single breath until we had the oxygen depleted and were starting to get light-headed.

She broke the kiss with a sharp intake of breath, sucking air like a swimmer who had been underwater a little too long, and her hands went to my shoulders to push me down.

We had enough history that I knew what she wanted and, well, if I'm being honest here, what I liked giving her, so I started kissing my way down her body. I lingered at her breasts, sucking each nipple before nipping it hard enough to make her yelp, and then working my way farther down.

My slightly arthritic knees objected with the final six inches to the floor, but not too badly, as I kissed that line where soft skin met the hard bone of her ribcage.

On my knees, I pulled the bow knot of the drawstring of the scrub pants loose and then pulled it tight, forcing a slight roll, a muffin top, before retying the bow and lifting first her right and then her left foot into my lap to untie and remove the expensive, soft-soled shoes, a nurse's trademark footwear.

I got her shoes and the heavy cushioned athletic socks off of her, her hands on my shoulders for balance, as I massaged her feet, using my thumbs to dig in, providing relief I understood. My husband had done the same thing for me when he could and I knew how good it felt.

Besides that, it's an erotic experience for a woman and as I worked on her feet her fingers on my shoulders started digging in as she got excited. When I caught the first whiff of her excited womanscent I released her foot and gave a hard tug on the bowtie at her waist.

The scrub pants fit loosely and I just let them fall to pool at her feet.

Her panties, what everybody calls

granny panties

since Hugh Grant was undressing Bridget Jones, were pale blue and I loved the darker spot between her legs where her excitement showed.

I traced the line of her panties' elastic waistband with my fingertips, drawing a shudder, and then pulled the front down just enough that I could kiss her belly button, a deep slot of an innie. She giggled and squirmed as she always does when I probed that slot with my tongue, but my hands firmly on her ass now held her to me.

I inhaled her scent, an exotic combination of woman arousal and a body needing a shower after working hard. To be honest, I like her morning scent even more than when she's freshly showered. I've sampled both.

As I slowly worked her panties down I kissed the skin I revealed.

Mary's body is pretty much what you expect from a woman in her mid-30s who has delivered a baby vaginally. The barest hint of a waist remains. Her big boobs and wide hips, combined with a bit of a bubble butt and the extra weight of a 30-something woman, give her almost an hourglass figure. Between the hollows of her hip bones and her navel and

mons Veneris

, that Mound of Venus of her sex, a soft pouch of skin, deeply stretchmarked, a leftover from her pregnancy, emphasizes her "mombod." Her pubic hair is very coarse, black, and straight. After a night under her panties, it laid flat on her mons and her nether lips.

She is, in other words, pretty much the opposite of me. My body is reduced to bones, muscles, and sinew. I'm one of those women who shed every fat cell she ever had by the time my menopause was complete.

I kissed her mons, drawing a soft hum from her. I knew what she liked in the morning and pressed harder, my chin where her thighs joined, no "thigh gap" for Mary, and she made a little side-step with her right foot, parting her legs enough to let me give her what she wanted.

My hands were on her ass, holding her to me as my lips kissed and my tongue probed. I liked the feel of that coarse hair against my lips and I LOVED the taste of her growing excitement. When she started trembling, the tell of her impending release, I used my hands to spread her cheeks and my fingertip to find that sweat-damp sensitive spot that she liked to have touched as she climaxed.

When Mary cums it's a sudden thing, her entire body clenches, and the love honey of her release, very thick, very sticky, and VERY salty is produced in a single thick dollop. My tongue licked the inside of her swollen labia when she came and I swallowed her climax like an oyster.

I held her to me, my hands on her ass holding her cheeks spread, my mouth covering her, just holding the contact, allowing her to enjoy the tension of completion and then the relaxation that follows.

She relaxed with a sudden sigh and a loosening of the tension in her body.

Her hands stroked my hair.

"You know," she said, her voice breathy, "David Has Two Mommies wouldn't be a bad book title."

I laughed and stood.

"No, Mary," I said, flashing that Cougar grin I had perfected during my year of wilding once I got past mourning, "We both like dick too damn much for that."

She laughed, truly pretty in that instant of joy, and said, "Fair enough. Now up on the bed, Skinny. Your turn."

I crawled up on the bed, groaning a bit when my knees, abused by what I had done for Mary, complained.

She got up onto the bed, settled on her knees sitting back on her feet in that way I no longer could, and started massaging my feet.

"Oh, fuck," I moaned, the sensation of what she was doing beyond sexual, "Maybe the two mommies thing would work."

She laughed, reached up, patted Madeline, what I call my pussy, and said, "Is Madeline really ready to give up dick?"

I laughed and then groaned as her thumbs dug into my arches giving me that special agony/ecstasy someone with strong hands can.

I laid back then, relaxing, letting her educated hands and those positively brilliant thumbs work up my legs. My arthritis is more an irritant than a disability, but what she did on our special mornings together as she came off of the last of her four consecutive 12-hour midnight shifts on that ridiculous rotating shift the hospital used, made even the irritation disappear for the rest of the day.

At my knees, knobby and a bit swollen, her thumbs found the tendons at the back and I felt the sudden rush low in my belly. Mary found that erogenous zone I didn't know was there on our first time together and always enjoyed my reaction.

What she was doing was so intense I could feel my nether lips, my labia, swelling as her thumbs massaged gently.

When she left that spot I couldn't stop the soft mewing sound I made. But then her hands were working up the insides of my thighs, pressing, her thumbs working out any tension, hell, any tone my muscles held as my legs parted in invitation.

I knew what was coming, we hadn't been together enough that our lovemaking was "scripted," but there was a pattern.

Her fingertips brushed my pubic hair, the light sensation making me gasp as it always did.

I felt as she touched where I was leaking a little. I may have a Medicare card, but I don't need

K-Y Jelly

or

Vaseline

yet.

The middle finger of each hand slipped in, not deeply, and she opened Madeline, stretching me as her index fingers and then ring fingers joined in, opening me further, almost to the point of pain.

She held me in that limbo for some timeless time. I could feel Madeline overflowing, drooling down the crack of my skinny ass. I could feel my nipples tightening until they were so hard they hurt. I could feel that pressure, that wonderful itching pressure, building low in my belly.

Mostly, I could feel Betty, my clitoris, swollen and begging to be touched.

Her thumbs lifted my clitoral hood and the feeling of air cooling Betty where I never felt a breeze almost made me cum.

Her thumbs were teasing now, gently rolling Betty, making her squirm and dance.

I held off as long as I could before I whispered, "Please."

The sudden pressure as her thumbs worked Betty hard enough to hurt and her fingers pulled me even wider, passing the threshold to pain but not by much, took me over the top.

I felt my release pouring out of me like hot oil as her thumbs kept at Betty and her fingers tormented Madeline.

I couldn't relax.

I couldn't breathe.

My entire body was trembling, shuddering, and the tiny fraction of my mind still capable of thought wondered if this was what a seizure would be like.

I collapsed when she released me. I could feel Betty still standing and hard, and Madeline slowly closing up.

"Okay, Honey," she said, getting off of the bed and leaning over to kiss me, "time for me to get home."

I managed a weak smile.

I heard the door shut but still hadn't moved.

As I lay there, sated, I had a conversation with myself.

"Are you going to be his teacher?" I asked myself.

"Well, she's right, you know. Better me than some girl who might get pregnant," I replied.

"That's an observation, not an answer," I told myself.

I giggled.

"Touche'," I said.

"Sooooooooooooo, are you?" I asked myself.

"You know the answer to that," I said.

"Then say it," I said.

"Yes," I said aloud to the empty room.

Decision made, I laid back in the afterglow and thought about how I would go about becoming my

faux

son's sex teacher.