The following story is a sequel to 'Me, Mum and Pans People' and it may make more sense if you read that first. Alternatively, you can just accept the unusual mother/son relationship and read on.
Many thanks for all the email responses to 'Pans.' It's great to receive your feedback and to hear about your own experiences.
This story doesn't fit comfortably into any single Literotica category, and be advised it does include depictions of incest and aggression. Whatever your personal tastes, I hope it will entertain.
R.C.
All characters are eighteen or older.
* * *
London, 1972.
I'd seen
Straw Dogs
shortly after its initial release the previous year. Susan George was one of my fantasy girls at the time. I loved seeing her dressed-up in classic English school uniforms in
Twinky
and
Spring and Port Wine.
Although Susan the sexy schoolgirl was absent in
Straw Dogs
, the oft miniskirted Ms George showed more flesh in that film than ever before, and the graphic rape scene made me think inevitably of my mum.
* * *
Munching a second mouthful of baked beans on toast, I casually perused the local newspaper which stood partially propped-up against an HP Sauce bottle on the kitchen table. In small boxes down one side of the page, the local cinema listings proffered: extravagant disaster at the Regal, where fat Shelley Winters croaked heroically underwater in
The Poseidon Adventure;
banjos and buggery in
Deliverance
at the Odeon, and at our local flea pit: Susan George having her knickers ripped off, prior to being brutally fucked on her sofa. Susan showed her tits in that one, too.
So it was the second time around for
Straw Dogs
and this year the film was showing at the Gaumont – the dodgiest, dirtiest theatre north of the river.
In an attempt to stay afloat, the decrepit old cinema had in recent years been showing some of the raunchier offerings from the previous decade. Along with
Hammer Horror
double bills, were screened cinematic masterpieces such as
Candy
and
Bikini Beach;
the
St Trinian's
schoolgirls being perennial favourites. The old place had recently gained a reputation as a magnate for the dirty mac brigade and I'd actually witnessed a middle-aged man tossing himself off in the dark whilst
Barbarella
'strips in space.'
Later that evening, Mum and me relaxed on the big sofa in our cosy little suburban living room. The telly in the corner was on as usual, the lights off (as usual), and the room was bathed in the warm orange glow emanating from our three bar electric fire.
'Mum,' I enquired, '...do you fancy going to the pictures this week?'
'Not really...what's on?' Her eyes remained fixed impassively on the TV screen.
'Straw Dogs.'
Almost imperceptibly, her small body quivered as if brushed by passing ghost, 'That's an 'X' isn't it?'
'Yeah, I think so.'
Of course, I knew the film was X Rated. I also knew within the split second the ghost had taken to pass through her, that Mum had heard about the rape scene.
'Where's it on?' she asked casually.
'The Gaumont.'
'Oh.'
Mum knew the Gaumont; she'd been there as a little girl - at a time when the old cinema enjoyed a better reputation.
We were playing a game. Mum and me knew each other's minds: she knew precisely what had been said, felt, and surmised over the duration of our brief conversation, and so did I.
* * *
The following evening, I stood in the narrow hallway of our little Edwardian terraced house waiting for Mum. I selected my raincoat which I judged appropriate for an outing to the Gaumont, then reconsidered; the weather was clement and my tank-top sweater would suffice. As I slipped the coat back onto its peg, Mum appeared on the upstairs landing wearing a navy-blue pinstriped blazer over a white blouse, with a black pleated miniskirt. Her legs were bare, except for white ankle socks. I smiled. The schoolgirl look suited her. Although in her late thirties, Mum had kept her petite figure and young looks. Her elfish face peered at me enquiringly from beneath her trademark Mary Quant bob, recently coloured a radiant dark auburn,
'Do I look alright?'
I smiled admiringly, 'Beautiful, Mum.'
She sat on the stairs a few steps up, fastening the buckles on her shiny black patent shoes, and I looked up her miniskirt. Staring at Mum's white cotton knickers, I felt my cock move in my jeans. The semitransparent white triangle between her legs left little to the imagination, gently accentuating the small fleshy mounds on either side of her slit.
Looking up at me, and then at the bulge in my jeans, Mum exclaimed with feigned indignation,
'Are you looking up my skirt?'
She smiled her naughty smile, seductively parting her pretty legs. I squeezed my cock through my jeans. I loved her slim pale legs.
'Come on,' she giggled, '...we'll be late.'
* * *
It was a fifteen minute stroll through the leafy suburban backstreets to the Gaumont. Mum took my arm as we walked, the orange evening sunshine casting lengthening shadows over the quiet roads and houses. Behind net curtains families settled into their evening routines, clearing plates and snuggling into favourite armchairs to watch Coronation Street or Monty Python on the telly.
Almost there, we turned a corner into Lilly Avenue, passing dilapidated Victorian mansions. Architectural relics from a time now gone, most of the once proud houses now stood empty and unloved, their gardens neglected and overgrown. We had crossed over the invisible boundary-line into Gaumont territory.
As Mum and me approached the high street, we noticed a tall heavily built man sitting on a low garden wall ahead of us. I judged him to be in his late fifties, maybe older. Even at a distance I could see his shifty eyes staring at my mum's legs, leering voyeuristically from beneath the brim of his flat cap. His hands were pushed deep into the pockets of his grubby dark-grey raincoat which, despite the pleasant warm evening, was fully buttoned.
'Scary!' Mum whispered.
In a hushed voice I joked, 'We're in Gaumont Land, now!'
Mum tightened her grip on my arm pulling herself closer to me, and then to my bemusement, she held me back, slowing our walking pace. Despite our close proximity, the impervious pervert's gaze remained fixed on my mum's sexy bare legs, and his raincoat was shaking. From the corner of my eye, I saw Mum reach down to her side, gently scratching her thigh, lifting the hem of her pleated miniskirt. As we passed the lecherous old man, Mum turned and pulled-up the front of her little black skirt, flashing her skimpy white knickers in front of him.
Her pace quickened and we hurried along Lilly Avenue towards the cinema.
I whispered disbelievingly, 'He was wanking to your legs, and you flashed him!'
Mum looked up at me half-smiling, 'Yeah, well, so what? ...no harm done.'
I felt a shiver of salacious exhilaration pass through her small body.
* * *
It seemed to take ages for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Mum was still clinging to my arm,
'Let's sit in the back row,' she whispered, and giggled softly.
I could see by the light provided courtesy of Pearl & Dean that the old picture house was nearly empty. Mum and me made our way to the seats unofficially reserved for courting couples. We had the back row all to ourselves and we sat right in the middle. Thunderbird 1 morphed into a multicoloured ice-lolly and zoomed off to Mars or somewhere. I put my left arm around my mum's slender shoulders and leaning down towards her, I kissed her pretty lips; a long lingering kiss.
As we embraced, the big red curtains closed over the screen with an audible
swish
and the projector above our heads clicked off, plunging the theatre into an impenetrable blackness. Mum caressed my crotch as I put my hand up inside her pleated skirt, relishing the tantalizing warmth of her soft inner thighs.
Then there were people in our aisle: fumbling, groping their way towards us in the darkness. We heard hushed voices heading in our direction, then the sound of two retractable seats coming down. Mum and me straightened up. When the curtains opened and the projector above our heads whirred once more into life, we looked to our left to see a young couple sitting just two seats along from Mum.
My heart leapt. The girl was seated nearest to Mum, and she was gorgeous!: petite and little like Mum, but much younger – eighteen, maybe – with long straight blonde hair that brushed her small breasts as she turned to look at us. Her brief courteous smile of acknowledgement was stunningly beautiful even in the dark cinema. She wore a very short yellow minidress with black over-the-knee leather boots. The high-heeled kinky boots were expensive looking and I guessed her parents were flush. When she turned back to face the screen, I allowed myself to look at her legs. They were slim and sexy and she wasn't wearing tights. I had a hard-on.
My admiration was reciprocated: her longhaired boyfriend leaned forward, peering past his date. He was trying to grow a moustache, with limited success. The teenage lad stared at my mum, checking her out. I guessed what he was thinking; dressed in her blazer and black pleated miniskirt, my mum looked the epitome of a sexy schoolgirl. It was only when his girlfriend turned her head towards him that the dark haired young man broke off his gaze.
Mum watched
