His Mother Knows Ch 02

Well, hello again Gentle Reader. If you haven't figured it out yet, I have just a touch of ADD (for those of you living in the basement off-grid for the past dozen years or more, that's Attention Deficit Disorder). In my case, it manifests as my hyperactive subconscious (unconscious?) popping out storylines as I sleep. Then I wake up and write it down. It's like, the story is already there, I just need to get it on paper.

The problem, as any of you who read Chapter One of this story understand, is it's been a while since I checked in on Mary and David and their randy next-door neighbor Cleo (that's "Cleo," not the more-popular-today "Chloe" and yes, there IS a real Cleo in my past). Sometimes I need a bit of a prod. So if you'd like to keep track of this interesting throuple, leave a comment. Then, when I log in to Literotica, there will be a notification, "XXX commented on His Mother Knows Ch. 02." That, in turn, will trigger me to check in and see, first, what the comment said and, second, how the story stands in terms of rating, number of views, and number of "favorites" designations.

Anyway, that's what happened in this case. So I checked on our happy throuple and the next morning, well, here it is.

Enjoy.

Chapter Two

I was smiling.

"Do you still even have it?" I asked myself.

I giggled and rolled out of bed.

At my chest of drawers, I rummaged through my swimsuit drawer. When my husband was killed a part of the insurance payout was spent on the swimming pool in my back yard and I use it a lot, it's my primary way to stay in shape, and there it was, down at the bottom of the drawer, below my regular rotation of swimsuits.

I went to the full-length mirror hanging on the back of the bedroom door and held the suit up. It was white and perfectly modest. There were no sexy cutouts, no low cuts to show cleavage (of which I have none), or no high cuts to show off my ass (see prior parenthetical comment). Wide straps ensured it would stay up, and the way it was cut across the bottom, it was almost an extremely short skirt. I purchased it because it reminded me of those suits the women in the water shows in those movies in the 60s wore.

But when I wore it the only time I wore it Mary had laughed and when I looked down I could see that when wet, well, it wasn't quite transparent but my nipples, my belly button, and my pubic hair showed clearly through the wet material.

"Oh, yeah," I said softly aloud, "just the thing to seduce an 18-year-old boy."

I hung the suit on the doorknob, repaired the wreckage of the bed, and started the water running in the shower. The decision made, I wanted to be ready when David showed up around eleven to do his pool boy duties.

I thought about it and got into the bottom drawer of the bathroom vanity and pulled out my

Wyklaus

"bikini trimmer," a present I bought myself during my "Merry Widow" year.

In the shower, I scrubbed my face with my

CeraVe

hydrating soap and then shampooed my hair with my

L'Occitane

shampoo. I took plenty of time with my hair. I think it's my best feature. I finished my hair with my

Alterna

moisturizing conditioner.

Then I started on my body, the hydrating soap with its infused oils making my skin delightfully slick as I washed carefully. The back scrubbing towel felt good, and I could feel my two-thirds of a century-old skin drinking the oils from the soap.

When I was clean, it was time to deal with my body's hair.

Menopause brought odd changes to my body. I was never one of those hairy girls, and I'm still not, but scattered hairs, sometimes individual hairs, sometimes in pairs or triplets, and once in a strange little clump just above my left nipple seemed to appear overnight. It was like I would wake up, look in the mirror, and there would be a single hair, right in the middle of my chin or on my lip or my earlobe or nipple or knee, an inch long and very curly, thick, and coarse. The first time I found one on my lip I plucked it and had the weird thought -

"I wonder if I dipped this in rubber cement if would conduct electricity

." My mind has weird thoughts sometimes.

I used the simple

Lady Schick

hanging on its little rack on the shower wall to make a first pass, to knock the longest hairs off of my pubic thatch, and then started with the

Wyklaus

. I started with my feet. I said I'm not a very hairy girl, and that's true, but I'm a bit of a Hobbit. I don't know why but right across the tops of my feet I've had a dusting of very dark hair since puberty struck with such a vengeance.

The odd seven-rotary-blade head whirred as I smoothed my feet. I giggled when it tickled. I did my legs, slow and easy, and then, bypassing Madeline, that little dusting of hair below my navel, the fine down around my nipples, my arms, with special attention to that light hair on my forearms, and my armpits.

I took a deep breath and started on Madeline. I pulled skin taut and and ran the bikini trimmer over my

mons Veneris

slowly in a smooth, circular motion. Memories flashed back to that year after Jim was killed, my "Merry Widow" tour, I had kept Madeline bald because I figured men would like the look.

At my labia, I pulled skin and ran the electric razor over it, remembering how erotic this felt.

I almost came when I lifted my clitoral hood to get those last fugitive hairs. It took self-control to resist touching Betty and letting it happen. But I didn't.

Clean and dry, and smooth as a grape, I allowed myself the vanity of standing at the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door.

"Not bad for an old broad," I thought."

My body showed the results of my four pregnancies, four vaginal births, and four hungry mouths, five if you count my husband's, suckling like hungry puppies. My breasts, never large, had fallen until they were flat little pancakes with my big pink nipples hanging from their own weight. Across the tops of my breasts, deep stretch marks showed where once I had ballooned to almost filling a "C" cup. Right above Madeline, my belly button and the rise of my mons, a perfect circle of soft skin, deeply stretchmarked, was a gift from my children.

My skinny legs, no longer the runner's or gymnast's legs I had until menopause started stripping fat cells away, left a distinct thigh gap where they joined. Madeline dangled, still another gift from the kids, with my inner lips peeking out as well. My arms were reduced to bone and sinew.

"Well, not bad if you like your old broads skinny," I amended my evaluation.

I turned to peek over my shoulder. My back was pretty good, I thought, if you like your women skinny enough that you can see ribs. But my ass, my poor ass, was just gone. I was never an hourglass, but when I was a gymnast and a runner, it had been round and firm. Now, with no fat padding, there were two thick strings of muscle standing out clearly in the soft skin.

The little voice in my head was my grandmother's. She was my conscience although I didn't hear much from her after the Merry Widow year.

"You're really going to do this, aren't you?" she asked.

I grinned at the skinny woman in the mirror.

"You're damn right I am," I said, picking up the swimsuit and starting to squirm into it.

I flashed back to when I was young and girdles had not yet gone out of style and got the giggles.

I got the suit on and struck a pose, the classic pinup pose with my left leg lifted slightly, knee bent and toes pointing down, my right arm straight up, and smiled at myself over my shoulder.

I looked at my face and thought,

"MAKEUP!"

I've never considered myself pretty. My face is too angular, my eyes too deep set, my nose too hawklike, and my chin too prominent. I did think I was attractive or, at least, as one of my favorite fictional characters, Matt Helm put it once, "not unattractive." But I also have one of those faces that benefits a LOT from some makeup.

The thing is, about the time I received my Medicare card, as I passed the two-thirds of a century mark, it was like my skin wrinkled like my face was an apple left too long in the sun. Tiny laugh lines around my eyes turned into deep canyons. Those delicate lines around my mouth deepened.

I sat at my makeup desk and leaned forward, inspecting my face as I always did before putting on makeup.

Christ, I still had hair to take care of. I took the little

Braun

trimmer, put the odd little bent cone of the nose and ear attachment on it, and started to work. I giggled as I worked the trimmer in my ears and nose. The damn thing tickled.

I plucked the last few wayward hairs and started on my face.

Plexaderm

under my eyes and along the line of my crows' feet worked its magic, smoothing my skin as I watched.

With my skin as good as it was going to get, I started on my makeup.

I opened my

Estée Lauder

case and got busy, seeing if I could pass for 60, since I had long since given up thinking I might pass for 50. I spend a lot of time in the pool, so it was important that I bought the best waterproof makeup I could find since I NEVER leave the house without makeup on.

Finally presentable, my eyes highlighted with a light brushing of blue eyeshadow that I think sets off my dark, almost black, eyes nicely, a hint of color in my cheeks, and my NARS

Morocco

lipstick, that red Taylor Swift made famous, I ran a brush through my hair. No need to do much with my hair because I don't just stand in the pool and look good ((giggles)). I SWIM!

The water was cool. My solar heating system extends my pool season from Memorial Day to well past Labor Day and even longer if I don't mind a little shivering. I settled into my easy Australian Crawl stroke. In my high school and college swim days I could keep this stroke up indefinitely. Of course, I had a better specific gravity in those days. Now, with no relatively light body fat to help me float I had to rely on strength to keep me from sinking and that uses a lot more energy.

Still, I managed two dozen quick laps, well, two dozen "easy" laps before I let my feet touch the bottom.

There he was, sitting on the deck, smiling down at me, and damn if I didn't feel a sudden rush, deep in my belly. That conversation with Mary ran through the tape recorder of my mind and yes, in my mind it is a tape recorder, not some fancy digital recording device.

"You know," she had said, "it wouldn't be such a bad thing."

I took a deep breath, laid my hand on the rail to the steps out of the pool, and walked up to him. I don't think, in my 66 years, I was ever more aware of what I must look like, the suit almost transparent.

I watched him, watched his eyes as he took in what he was seeing.

I was acting now, trying for a questioning look on my face. Since that conversation with Mary, I had played this scene out about a bazillion times in my mind. Okay, I'll be honest, it was just about all I thought about.

So I tried for that questioning look and then for a sort of shocked look as I "realized" what he was looking at.

"Oh, my," I said, trying for shocked and embarrassed.

"Well," I said, giggling, the giggle wasn't faked, I WAS nervous, "I might as well be skinny dipping, huh."

I watched as he struggled to tear his eyes away. I could see him look up from Madeline to the girls and finally to my eyes.

I took a deep breath and closed the distance between us.

I liked, very much, that he was blushing.

"It's okay, Davey," I said, looking up to meet his eyes. "I like being looked at just like any woman."

I took a step back, trying to look natural and feeling like I was the most awkward woman to ever walk the earth.

"It's okay," I said again.

He was frozen and I was starting to think this had been a very bad fucking idea.

Finally, I threw my last throw of the dice.

"You know what?" I asked, moving toward him again, "Let's do it."

I laid my hand lightly on his arm.

"Help me, Davey," I said, working the straps off of my arms and starting to peel the suit down, "It's hard to get out of when it's wet."

Which was true.

I pushed the front down, my nipples hard now and on display, and turned my back to him as I squirmed and pushed.

I was starting to feel foolish when I felt his hands work under the material in the back and help me push the suit down. Once it was past my hips it fell, my skinny legs offering no resistance, and I took off at a two-step run and dove, knowing I was giving him a flash of ass and Madeline.

I took two strokes and stopped.

My pool is a long lap pool, only four feet deep for its length. I was, in other words, showing him the girls as I said, "Come on, Chicken, the water's fine."

I watched him struggle, trying to decide what to do. I stood, the water not covering my titties, smiling, waiting.

I saw him staring but I didn't do anything silly like try to cover up. I just watched and waited.

And saw him decide.

He pulled off the T-shirt he wore and looked at me. I thought he thought I might change my mind so I smiled and said, "Don't stop now."

He didn't say anything, he just blushed, unbuttoned, and unzipped the cut-off jeans he wore, and pushed them down until he stood in his shorts, what we call "tidy whities" today.

"That's not skinny dippin'," I said, smiling.

I giggled when he turned his back to push down his shorts. I won't deny that I did admire his cute ass.

I watched him hesitate and could almost feel him gathering his nerve.

Finally, he turned, almost defiant.

Just like he had been earlier, staring at my breasts through the nearly transparent material of the swimsuit, I found myself unable to look away.

He stood, proud now, not trying to hide anything.

Christ, he was beautiful. He was erect and he was GORGEOUS.

During my Merry Widow period I had seen my share, well, okay, probably MORE than my share of naked men. I had seen men who were hairy and who were smooth. I had seen men who were skinny and who were fat. I had seen men who were handsome and who were homely. I had seen men so big I wondered if it would fit and who were so tiny I wondered if it would reach.

But the thing is, they had all been more or less age-appropriate for me.

The youngest of the dozens of men I had during that period had been 52 and I teased him, for the week we were together, about lying about his age to get into the Senior Citizen Center dance. The oldest, at 80, had been literally old enough to be my father although he would have had to start young. Frank, the 52-year-old had used Viagra and while it worked for him it didn't do much for me since he was softening even as he finished. Ronnie, my daddy figure for a week, had been impervious to Viagra or Cialis or Levitra and had worn me out as I coaxed an ejaculation from him with my mouth and hands, later enjoying his educated tongue and fingers.

But Davey, standing there, had me thinking almost lyrically. Phrases like "the full bloom of youth," or "the untroubled face of innocence" ran through my mind.

He was average height but slender enough that he looked taller. His shoulders were broad, his waist small, and his legs showed the musculature of the middle-distance and cross-country runner he was.

All of that I knew. After all, we had shared this pool regularly since I had it put in.

What I hadn't known, of course, was what his erection would look like.

It was beautiful.

He was slightly bigger than average, and I had a pretty damn good statistical universe from which to gauge "average," after my Merry Widow year. He was circumcised and the

glans

, the head formed a slight bulb at the top. His shaft stood straight up, not sticking forward like many men, but straight up, and his scrotum was loose on this warm day showing slightly oversized balls. The triangle of his dark, curly pubic hair framed it.

Suddenly I was a teenager again, seeing a hard cock for the first time. I remembered how it had affected me, an odd mixture of excitement and fear as I prepared myself to take that step a woman can take only once.

I was frozen.

I understood what the word "tharn" meant from that silly book

Watership Down

I read many years ago when it was making the rounds among the college crowd.

I couldn't move. I couldn't look away. Hell, I couldn't breathe.

"STOP IT!" my grandmother's voice yelled in my head, "You're supposed to be the teacher, not a cockdrunk schoolgirl."

It worked.

I shook my head, making my hair swing and water fly.

"Well," I called, smiling and reaching with my right hand, palm up, and flexing the fingers in that "come on" gesture I learned in a karate dojo.

He dove in that smooth racing dive I taught him and didn't surface until he reached me.

He stood, looking down at me, his hands very light on my arms.

"What is this?" he asked.

I smiled. I was ready for this question.

"This is your old Grammi Cleo teaching you what you need to know so you don't leave the women in your future unsatisfied," I said, smiling up at him.

I watched him try to keep a serious look on his face.

He failed and a smile spread.

"Unsatisfied?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, looking up at him, holding his eyes with mine, "Women are different, Davey, and in my experience, few men understand that."

The smile was the same one I saw when he got that ridiculously overpriced Xbox game for Christmas a few years ago after Mary had told him over and over they couldn't afford it. I brought it over on Christmas morning but made him wait until it was the last present he opened as his mother and I shared coffee.

"Teach?" he asked.

"Yes, Davey," I said, shuffling forward a little, laying my hands on his waist, just above his hips, and smiling up at him, "teach. Now kiss me."

His eyes got big.

"Yes, Davey, I said, "Kiss me."

He bent and it was like kissing him when he was ten. His lips were puckered and as soon as he touched mine he started to pull away.

I pushed him away and laid my palms on his cheeks.

"What the hell was that?" I asked.

He looked surprised.

"You said kiss you," he said.

I rolled my eyes.

"Relax," I said and started pulling him down with the pressure of my hands on his cheeks.

I met his lips with mine, slightly parted, starting with a light brush before I moved my right hand behind his head, pulling his head to me, and my left hand down and around his waist, pulling his body to me. As the pressure increased, becoming a true man-woman kiss his body tensed, almost spasming, he gasped sharply, and I felt a sudden spot of warmth on my belly where our bodies touched.

It took a second for me to realize that he had cum.

His face contorted into a mask of contrition and he started to pull away, saying, "Oh, God, I'm sorry, oh, God, I'm so sorry," over and over.

I caught him behind the head, my fingers wrapping in his hair, not letting him go.

"No, Davey, God no," I said, smiling, laughing a little, "No, don't be sorry. Oh, Honey, no. You just paid me a wonderful compliment."

That seemed to stop him.

"But I," he started and I cut him off with a kiss. He still didn't know how to kiss properly, but at least he wasn't pulling away now.

"But you complimented me in a wonderful way," I said when I broke the kiss.

"Really?" he asked and in that instant, he looked about twelve.

"Yes, Honey, really," I said. "It's been a long time since this old bag of bones had that effect on a man."

He seemed to swell a little then and I thought,

"He likes being called a 'man.'"

I laid my palms flat on his chest, pushing him lightly away, and liked, very much, that he pulled me to him.

"Especially a strong young man," I said, giving him my best fuck-me smile, the one I perfected during my Merry Widow tour.