My mother, despite being nearly forty, has what I suppose a man would consider a fine figure. (For a woman of her age, of course. I'm only eighteen and my figure is just naturally a lot better than hers.) For all her age she can quite easily slip into my jeans. (Not my top as I have a little more than her in that department.) Still and all, a fine figure.
I'd finished school early one day, my last two classes being free study classes, and in my opinion I could study just as effectively at home as at school, so I went home.
I came waltzing up the drive. My mother's car was in the drive so I guessed that she'd be home. My father would still be at work. I just barged in through the back door, closing it quietly behind me (my mother hates doors being banged closed), toddled down to my room to sling my books onto my bed (study could wait a little longer), and then went in search of my mother.
I heard voices from the front room and headed in that direction. I started to walk into the room and then took a quick step backwards before they noticed me. My mother was there with George, a guy who lived a few door down. George was about the same age as my mother, a big, boisterous, man. He was an extrovert, and noisy with it, and everyone seemed to like him. For that matter I liked him myself.
I edged a little closer to the door so I could see in without being seen. I wanted to be certain of just what I was seeing. George had my mother backed up against the arm of the couch. When I'd first looked in he'd been pushing her top and bra up, exposing her breasts, which explained why they hadn't noticed me. Both of them were looking at her breasts.
Now that I was peeping in again I was in time to see George pulling down my mother's skirt and panties, lifting one leg to rip them right off that leg, leaving them tangled around her other ankle. My mother was protesting but George was simply ignoring anything she said.
You're probably wondering why I didn't barge in to rescue my mother from this dastardly attack. I guess it was the way she was protesting. My mother had an upper and a lower level of protesting something. The upper level was along the lines of 'if you try and do that I'll tear off your arms and beat you to death with them', said in a loud and piercing voice, a voice that would send shivers down the spine of the bravest reprobate. At the other end of the scale was 'Don't eat a cookie now. You'll spoil your appetite.' This would be said in dulcet tones with every expectation of being ignored and not greatly concerned if she was.
The protests she was giving where George was concerned barely reached her lower limit. Apparently the only protest an attack on her virtue warranted was a feeble, "Stop that, George. You really shouldn't be doing this." Not exactly fighting him off with a stick, if you get my meaning.
My mother's hands feebly fluttered in front of her, trying rather ineffectually to hide the assets that were now on display. George just laughed and caught her wrists, moving her hands away from her body while he looked at her.
Then it was a case of, "Oh, George, no, you can't," from my mother as George's trousers went down and his cock went up, standing tall. I had to cover my mouth with my hand when I saw that thing rearing up in front of him.
George moved closer to my mother but I still had an excellent view of the action. He was holding his cock and stroking it up and down along my mother's slit, with her protesting the entire time.
"Will you stop that? We both know you're not really going to do anything. Just stop mucking around."
They might both have known that George wouldn't do anything but I wouldn't be placing any wagers on that. Either my mother was in denial or she knew what was coming and was getting in her formal protest. I was wagering on the second.
"Come on, George," she protested, still in that soft voice of sweet reason, not actually doing anything to prevent him. "It's not as though - oh, lord, you are, you brute. You're really doing it. You're an animal."
Doing it was right. He'd lined himself up and then pressed forward, driving firmly home. My mother gave a loud shriek of what I think was supposed to be no but sounded a lot more like w-oh. I noticed that George didn't slow his charge until his groin slapped against my mother's. (Slapping was the operative word. My mother was clean shaven. The way they slapped together made me wonder if George was as well. Do men shave down there?)
"Seeing that I've started, you might as well move with me," George said. "It'll make things finish quicker. You won't want to spend the next hour here while I encourage you to finish."
"If I must, I must," complained my mother, but in truth I couldn't see much in the way of reluctance when she humped her bottom, pushing to meet him.
George was having a fine old time, his cock plunging in and out, his hands running all over my mother's breasts, as he thoroughly worked her over. My mother didn't seem to be feeling any pain from the brutal assault, either.
George banged away and innocent (relatively speaking) little me assumed that it would be all over in a couple of minutes. Five minutes later they were still going strong and didn't look like finishing any time soon. I have to admit that it was quite an education in what a man could do.
At what I estimated was the ten minute mark George seemed to be girding his loins for a grand finale. That's when my mother's protests moved towards the upper end of the range.
"Don't you fucking dare," she snapped. "You wait until I'm ready or I'll rip your fucking balls off bare handed."
I raised my eyebrows at that. My sweet gentle mother could talk like that? A day of surprises.
A couple of minutes later she was all, "Yes, yes, yes. Go now, damn you," and George set to with a will.
My mother was climaxing and I assume that George was as well. Me, I quietly returned to my room. I decided I wouldn't arrive home for another half hour.
That's not the end of the story. I truly wasn't sure if George had raped my mother or not. She had been protesting so that meant he did but, and it was a big but, even I didn't believe her protests. Why would George? I noticed that she was still polite and friendly with him when we met him down the street the next day.
