A little experimental piece from me for the Winter Holiday Contest. In this one Philip catches his mother masturbating. He's torn by what he sees, and fights against his feelings, but as Christmas approaches things develop in a nasty, dirty way.
I hope you enjoy the piece and, regardless of its final position in the contest, that you'll send feedback to let me know how it's received out there. I'm not bothered too much by the votes, I'm more interested in the impression the story leaves with you. Feedback can be by public comment, a PM, or an email. If you want a response to feedback then email is best -- but leave an address for me to write back to!
Just a note on the setting and some of the terms I've used -- in England in 1963 coal fires were still the norm, and some coalmen still used a horse and cart. A lorry is vernacular for a truck.
Anyway, as usual, I hope any errors that I've made don't detract from the overall.
I hope you enjoy my effort.
GA -- Melaka, Malaysia -- 20 November 2012
One
They blamed the weather, a dumping of snow in late December -- with a white Christmas now a certainty -- meant the lorries couldn't get over the Pennines; and because the trucks and their cargo couldn't negotiate the high Snake Pass crossing over the spine of England, Philip Masters got sent home from work early. When he arrived back at the house he lived in with his mother things would never be the same again.
"You might as well get on out of it," the lugubrious foreman had muttered, taking it as a personal affront that the snow and ice and treacherous driving conditions between Manchester and Sheffield made the delivery impossible. "Take an early knock off, lad."
And Philip hadn't needed telling twice. Muffled by a scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face, twenty years old, fair-haired and considered to be good-looking but painfully shy and awkward around women, with gloved hands deep in the pockets of his heavy donkey jacket, the soles of his boots squeaking against the snow underfoot, Philip trudged homeward.
He arrived at the narrow-fronted terrace, the house identical to rows and rows of others all huddled together collectively, as though their proximity would give some respite from the cold beneath the purple bruise of a pregnant sky in the back streets of the industrial city. Philip moved quickly through the brick archway of the small tunnel running between his house and the one adjoining -- a snicket or ginnel they'd called it as kids, access for the coalman to the bin in the tiny yard at the back of the house. He reached the back door, unlocked as usual, nobody bothered to lock doors, they didn't have anything worth stealing really, and once inside in the relative warmth, Philip pulled off his boots. He left his footwear to bleed melted snow onto the lino of the vestibule between the back door and the kitchen, the back-space that his mother used as a store for vegetables, an assortment of coats on a line of hooks fixed to the wall, Philip's boots, and other odds and sods that had no other place to call home in the confines of the small house.
In his socks, after hanging his donkey jacket on a hook and putting his boots neatly to the left of the vegetable rack -- his mum went spare if her left the "great clod-hopping things" lying about, berating him like an irate wife whose errant husband had spent the wage in the pub or lost it on the horses -- Philip walked quietly through the kitchen. Relieved to be indoors after the cold outside he walked in his socks as silent as a burglar along the narrow hallway to the living room; the parlour as his mother insisted. The room looked cosy with its small tree brightening the weary, worn out décor. Dangling baubles winked like jewels in the cosy firelight from the glowing coals in the grate. Christmas Eve was two days away, and Philip had been looking forward to a couple of days off work.
He hadn't meant to move so quietly, not on purpose, but being quiet had become a habit since he'd started working at the warehouse. He left home so early in the morning that out of consideration to his mum he went about his morning routine as silently as possible.
Even though it was now the afternoon he shouldn't have been home at that time of day, not so early, but it was because of the snow, and because of the snow he'd been given an early bath, which meant, when he walked into the warm parlour, he saw her.
She obviously hadn't been expecting him.
***
Beverly Masters loved sex. It wasn't something she told anyone about, it might be 1963, an enlightened age, but her husband buggering off with that tart from the foundry, a little scrubber with loose legs and a tight pair of firm young tits had still caused a flurry of gossip and sideways glances along the terrace, and the odd snicker or two, so if anyone knew of her liking for cock things could really get uncomfortable. And there was Philip to consider, her son, a good lad, out working, bringing in a wage, he'd been fourteen when his dad had run off, an awkward age for anybody, but his dad's abrupt departure had affected Philip badly. Already a shy boy, he really went into his shell, so much so that even now, six years later, the young man blushed and stammered around girls. He was so much better than he was, but at twenty Beverly hoped Philip would grow out of it soon. Time he found himself a nice girlfriend.
Philip was nothing like his mother in that regard, Beverly attracted the men, even at forty-two she had them sniffing and chasing after her. She never went with any of them, none of the locals; she didn't want a reputation as a slut. More for Philip's sake than her own.
But she craved cock, thought about it all the time, daydreamed about sizes and shapes and how good they felt in her hand and between her legs. Beverly loved to see them grow thicker and longer as they stiffened up, the man behind it hungry for her. Her penchant was for a brutal looking penis, something thick and gnarled that rubbed her insides and got her all hot and bothered. She loved to watch them come too, spitting spunk from the single eye, flinging jizm about.
Not long ago Beverly had enjoyed a hot affair with, of all people, the coalman. She'd seduced him two summers ago as he'd carried a bag of coal from the horse drawn cart along the ginnel, offering him a beer and a good long look at her cleavage, What a fuck that had been, the first one, him with his bludgeon of a cock, incongruously pink and clean compared to his coal-blackened hands and smudged face. She'd bent over the kitchen table and offered her cunt to him after wanking and sucking him to iron-hard tumescence. He'd left her gasping and filthy with black handprints all over her arse while spunk slid down her legs after a brief but frenzied fuck.
"Got to get back and move the cart along," he'd said as he tucked his great organ away and buttoned his flies.
Despite it being mid-summer, gasping with heat and exertion, Beverly had panted, "I'll need another bag next week." And the man had grinned, teeth pearlescent in his grimy face, and left Beverly half dressed, her knickers on the flagstone floor, her skirt up round her waist, tits and fanny sore from where he'd mauled her and fucked into her hard and fast. But oh, she was so fucking satisfied.
