Enjoying My Middle Aged Mother

Enjoying my Middle-Aged Mother

Jonah's mother is fourteen years younger than his father and the age gap is beginning to matter.

This story contains anal sex and analingus so you have been warned.

I hope you enjoy the tale and look forward to readers' comments, as always.

Sylviafan

My parents drive down and visit me once a month or so and generally stay for anything up to a week. It feels like a bit much, sometimes, but I'm all they've got and I live the best part of two hundred miles away so I don't feel as though I can refuse. And it's not like I take a week off work when they come; I carry on as normal and dad potters in my garden during the day and mum goes shopping and cooks evening meals and on a Saturday or a Sunday the three of us go walking in the Shropshire Hills, if the weather's fine. If it's not we all stay in and mum bitches about dad and he ignores her.

They're both retired now. Well, mum never really had a job to retire from; she helped out at dad's engineering firm in Harrogate for a few years as a secretary until she got bored with it. After that she did her own thing which involved a lot of shopping and expensive hobbies which dad funded without a murmur. She took up painting at one point and she was really good at it.

Dad's nearly seventy, now, and he's slowed right down. His hobby is re-enacting Napoleonic battles with model soldiers. Toy soldiers, according to mum. He has a group of like-minded friends and they get together and do all the Peninsular wars and try to change the outcome with their brilliant and strategic thinking. It's not my cup of tea but it's my dad's escape from his wife, who's only fifty-five and seems to be getting more and more impatient with her husband as the years go by.

I'm Jonah, by the way. A twenty-nine-year-old Chartered Surveyor from North Yorkshire but now working in Ludlow, in Shropshire. I bought a house there because at university I met a girl from Shrewsbury, and we got engaged and then after a couple of years we broke it off and she moved to London and I stayed in Ludlow in the little semi-detached house, on the outskirts of the town, with fields at the back. After that I tended to steer clear of relationships; I still date but it's all non-commitment stuff, and not much of that, recently. At the time this story starts, I hadn't slept with a girl for nearly six months, which might explain what happened, to some degree.

It really all started on a Friday afternoon in June. I was expecting mum and dad to arrive that evening so I got home from work by five o'clock to do a bit of housework and make up their bed and so forth and I was upstairs in the spare bedroom at the back of the house when I heard the front door open and mum call out my name. I went downstairs to find the door open and mum unloading groceries from her Toyota hatchback, rather than dad's BMW saloon. Furthermore, there was no sign of my father.

'Where's Dad?' I asked, puzzled.

Mum came over and kissed me on the cheek. 'He's at home,' she said, tightly, and I judged it best not to pursue the point at that time. Instead I helped her to unload her car and carry stuff into the kitchen and upstairs to her bedroom. She was looking smart, as usual, in a black, barathea trouser-suit which I knew to be bespoke and which was tailored to show off her figure which, for a lady in her mid-fifties, was very good indeed: long-legged and slender with hips and bum that were maybe a few pounds heavier than a decade ago but none the worse for it. She's also got a shapely bust and shoulder-length blonde hair, mostly out of a bottle. Facially she's attractive, in a rather severe way. She's got a square chin and a rather full-lipped and kissable mouth, which nowadays always seems to be pressed into a line or turned down at the corners. She's got high cheekbones and clear, blue eyes but you can see her age in the fine lines at their corners and elsewhere on her face. To conceal this she uses plenty of makeup including eyeliner and eyeshadow and bright lipsticks. She also paints her manicured nails or has them painted. Usually in shades of bright red but sometimes in green or blue.

A little while later, as I stood at the oven cooking and mum sat at the kitchen table sipping white wine, she explained the situation, or rather her interpretation of it.

'Your father's got a cold coming on, apparently,' she began, 'although he looked fine to me,' she added. 'It's that wretched toy soldiers club of his,' she went on. 'They've got some sort of convention at the weekend, apparently, and he would have had to miss it if he came down with me. I bet that's what it's all about! Cold indeed!'

'He is sixty-nine, Mum,' I said quietly.

My mother's face relaxed slightly. 'I know,' she sighed.

My mother, Charlotte Bishop, can be a difficult, selfish, opinionated and sarcastic individual, but if you call her out and she's in the wrong she usually admits it. A lot of people don't like her and think dad spoils her, but she's an interesting person underneath the hard exterior and she and I always have a laugh together. I've always thought the surface personality is a front to protect her insecurity.

'And you could have postponed the trip,' I told her.

'I wanted to see my baby boy,' she smiled at me and sipped her drink, her blue eyes on me.

We chatted over dinner and afterwards we took the remains of the wine into my conservatory and sipped the chilled Sauvignon Blanc as the sun set over the distant hills of Wales and the garden fell into shadow. I suggested opening another bottle but mum said she was tired after the drive, which was not like her, she was normally the last man standing. But she'd been a bit quiet all evening and I got the feeling all was not well in her life. If that was the case, she would let me know soon enough.

The next day was Saturday and it was a belter of an early summer day so we went walking around the Stiperstones, near the Welsh border. Mum looked good in slimline walking trousers and a short-sleeved checked shirt and I was similarly dressed and carrying a knapsack with water and sandwiches.

It should have been an idyllic walk but it was spoiled by my mother's endless litany of dissatisfaction, mainly with dad. Nothing he did was right, it seemed. I tried to defend him but she just kept saying that I needed to be there to see it, which I couldn't really argue with. I tried to steer the conversation onto other topics but somehow it always came back to how shit her life had become. She didn't use the word 'shit', mum rarely swore and never in front of me. In the end I just walked alongside her in defeated silence and eventually she got the point and stopped talking herself.

Back home she went up for a shower and came down half an hour later in a bathrobe and came up to me and hugged me.

'I'm sorry I spoiled the walk today by being such a cow,' she told me, contritely. 'Let me take you out to dinner to apologise. We could go to that nice Italian in the centre of town.'

Which is how we ended up at Luigi's later that evening. Mum was dressed in a dark-blue cocktail dress and black stockings and high heels. She'd spent ages on her hair and makeup and she looked pretty damned good for fifty-five. More than one head turned as we were shown to our table by the waiter.

Neither of us was driving so we had an aperitif and a bottle of Chianti with the meal and a brandy afterwards.

'Forgive me for saying this, Mum,' I began after the waiter had poured the coffee, 'but you've been out of sorts for a while, haven't you? I mean it's not just today, it's the last few times you and dad have visited. Is there something going on that I should know about?'

Mum sipped her brandy and put the glass down on the table and looked around at the other diners. 'Yes, I am going through a bit of a... a difficult time at the moment.'

'Is there anything I can do?' I asked.

She smiled. 'Maybe. But I don't want to discuss it in a restaurant.'

So we went back to my house and opened a bottle of red and sat in my front room, me in my recliner and mum on the leather sofa, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, giving me a good view of her slender calves and slim, stocking-clad ankles. She really did look good this evening, I thought to myself as I watched her run a red-tipped finger absently round the rim of her wineglass.

'Ok,' I prompted her, 'spill the beans.'

She sighed and took a long sip of her wine.

'It's an age thing,' she began. 'Your dad's age, more to the point. The age gap between us is becoming more noticeable and relevant as we get older and I'm not coping well with the circumstances. I'm irritable and tense most of the time and I'm making life difficult for both of us. My fault for marrying a man fourteen years older than me.'

'Well can you get some help in?' I asked.

'No, Jonah,' she replied, recrossing her legs with a faint hiss of nylon against nylon. 'It's not that he needs a carer or anything - he's only sixty-nine, as you pointed out yesterday. It's...' she took a deep breath. 'It's the physical side of our relationship. It's the sex.'

'Oh,' I said, inadequately and feeling embarrassed. 'Can't dad, you know...'

Mum drained her glass and filled it again, not offering me a top-up. 'It's always been a bloody disaster,' she continued quietly. 'Right from the word go, starting on the honeymoon. It's a miracle we ever had you!' Her voice was rising. 'I wanted so much more but he wasn't interested. Once a week and think of England, that's your dad's style. And I'm sorry to go on like this but if I don't tell someone I'll go mad!' She was almost shouting, now. 'He's told me that he doesn't want to do it anymore and it's been six bloody months since he last touched me! Six months since I last had sex!' she ended with a shout.

'About the same as me,' I replied, appalled and at the same time fascinated by her outburst.

She looked at me quizzically. 'Well yours is presumably self-inflicted. I can't imagine you have much trouble attracting bed mates.'

'Can you...' I began and tailed off with a vague hand motion.

'Masturbate, you mean?' said my mother, grimacing. 'I do. Every day. But it's not the same as intimacy with a man.'

Bloody hell, I thought, what a thing to say to your son! 'What about counselling?' I asked.

'Oh, God, no. I couldn't discuss this with a stranger.'

'But it's ok to talk about it with your son,' I commented with an attempt at irony.

'Yes.' Mum had calmed down now and her voice had sunk to barely a whisper. 'That's why I came down on my own yesterday, to talk to you about it. To ask you...' she paused, taking another huge sip of Merlot. 'To ask you how you would feel about sleeping with me,' she finished, eventually.

My guts turned over and I flushed hot and cold and felt queasy. 'You want me to sleep with you?'

'Yes. Look, you don't have to reply now and I'll quite understand if you refuse... I'll quite understand if you throw me out of the house. But I'm desperate, Jonah.' There were tears in her eyes and she looked suddenly older and more vulnerable.

She stood up suddenly, her wineglass empty. 'I'm going to bed now. I've drunk too much and said far too much and... Well, if you want to join me that would be lovely but... well, otherwise I'll see you in the morning.' She stumbled against the arm of the settee and dropped the wineglass, which bounced on the deep pile carpet, leaving a red smear.

'Oh, God I'm sorry,' she wailed. 'I'll clean it up.'

'Just go to bed, Mum,' I told her and she clattered up the stairs and I heard the toilet flush and a door slam.

'What the fuck just happened?' I asked myself as I searched in the cupboard under the sink for stain remover. After I'd dealt with the mark I sat in my recliner and sipped the last of the wine and thought about what mum had said.

I should have been more shocked than I was, I told myself as I lay in bed a bit later. I thought about my mother in the spare bedroom, less than twenty feet away. Would she be naked? What would it feel like to hold her? I was rock-hard despite the wine and a small part of me said: Yes, go to her bed! But she would be heavily asleep by now and I wasn't sure I wanted to cross that line anyway. It was incest, and incest was a sin, wasn't it? But incest was also a thrillingly sexual taboo and I was not unaware of its attractions. I wasn't the only boy in the country who'd imagined making love to his mother as he wanked himself to an adolescent orgasm. Eventually I slept.

The next day, Sunday, was awkward, to say the least. After yesterday's debacle, I didn't want to suggest another walk so we both stayed at home and tried to pretend that everything was normal; our conversation was almost comically stilted. In the end I went into the garden and mowed the lawns and tidied up the flower beds while mum cooked dinner.

We had another bottle of red with dinner but we sipped at it and it lasted all evening as we sat in silence watching a crime drama. Ten o'clock was mum and dad's normal bedtime and as that hour approached I sensed a rising in tension in the room, seeming to emanate from my mother, sitting quietly on the sofa, dressed in a summer dress with bare legs and no shoes.

At about ten-fifteen she stood up and walked to the sitting room door, where she turned to me.

'I'm going to bed now, Jonah.' She paused, one hand on the doorframe, red fingernails contrasting with the white paintwork. 'The offer I made yesterday still stands,' she said quietly. 'I think we could both have a lovely time together.' Then she was gone. I heard her rinse her wineglass in the kitchen sink and go upstairs.

So my mother had just invited me to her bed again, and this time she hadn't been drunk. The only interpretation possible was that she was serious - she wanted to sleep with me! Christ!

I had no appetite for further television so I cleared up, set the dishwasher going and went upstairs to the bathroom where I brushed my teeth and went into my bedroom, glancing across the landing at mum's bedroom door, firmly shut.

Again I lay in bed thinking, and again my cock was a steel pole. I couldn't help it, I was immensely, enormously turned on. All the horrible thoughts I tried to have about incest seemed paltry quibbles against the prospect of actually making love with my mother. And not just my mother, but a peerless example of middle-aged, feminine perfection.

God, what would she feel like in my arms? What would it feel like to penetrate her? My hand gripped my shaft and I stroked gently. What would it feel like to kiss her, to put my tongue in her mouth? Would she be wild and scratch me and scream as she came?

I sat up suddenly and stared into the gloom of the bedroom, faintly lit by the streetlights on the road outside. If you don't go to her tonight, Jonah, you'll regret it for the rest of your life, I told myself. And I knew it to be true. What's the worst that could happen? It feels wrong and we don't do it again? Big deal. What's the best that could happen?

I slung the duvet off myself and stood up, naked, pulling my dressing gown off the hook on the back of the door and slipping it on. Ignoring the roaring in my ears and the tiny voice urging caution I opened my bedroom door and walked out onto the darkened landing. All was silent in the house as I approached my mother's bedroom door.

I knocked and, without waiting for a response, opened it and put my head round. The back bedroom looked out over fields and it was pitch black in the room.

'Are you awake, Mum?' I whispered.

There was a rustle of bedding. 'Yes, I'm still awake,' she whispered back. I stood at the door, indecisiveness tugging at me, a last voice of reason before I jumped into the abyss. Then mum made the decision for me. 'Do you want me, Jonah?' she asked softly and I was lost forever.

I slid my dressing gown off my shoulders, closed the door quietly behind me and felt my way to the bed. I heard the noises of my mother moving over as I slipped under the duvet into the glorious warmth and intimacy of my mother's bed.

There was no messing about; she came straight into my arms, her mouth seeking and finding mine in the darkness, her arms going around me, drawing me to her. I felt her lips against mine, warm and full and soft, I felt her mouth open, hot and wet, her tongue sliding into me. I felt the warmth of her body and the smoothness of her skin. I felt her loins press against mine, trapping my erection. I felt her breasts against my chest, her nipples big and stiff.

We kissed like lovers who have been long apart, feasting on each other's mouths, sucking, licking, gently biting. I smelled my mother scent, both natural and manmade, I tasted her saliva, minty from toothpaste, I stroked her hair, soft despite the bleaching and dying. I ran my hands down her naked back, feeling the ridges of her spine, feeling the swell of her buttocks, pressing my fingers into the rounded flesh so that she moaned into my mouth and lightly raked her nails over my shoulders making me shudder with desire.

In the blackness of the bedroom my mother took a handful of my hair and pulled my head back, breaking our kiss.

'Have me now, Jonah,' she whispered urgently. '

Please have me now!

.'

I rolled on top of her and she opened her legs wide and I gripped my shaft and guided the head of my cock to her loins, feeling her pubic bush against my swollen, sensitive glans, pressing myself into her, seeking her labia, her entrance.

'Down a bit,' she hissed and suddenly her lips were parting and I was sliding into her sopping depths and she was gasping and gripping me with her sharp-nailed fingers and I was groaning with arousal as I slid deep into my mother's cunt, the opposite direction of my headfirst journey down her birth canal almost thirty years before.

My cock's no great length, six inches at best, but it's thick and veined and the head is the size and shape of a big plum and I knew my mother would be feeling it filling her pussy, stretching her muscles. She felt glorious! Was that because it was my mother I was inside? Yes, partly, but also because she was hot and liquid and I could feel her muscles gripping me, way tighter than I would have expected.

I'd fucked one of the cleaning ladies at work once. Janice, her name was. It was after the Christmas party and we'd both been drunk. She was in her fifties, too, and we'd gone into the stationary cupboard and I'd had her bent over the photocopier. She was wet and slack and I'd had to ram into her to get the traction needed for an orgasm and she'd grunted and gasped as I crashed into her arse cheeks at the end of each thrust.

My mother was nothing like that. She felt more like my ex-fiancé. No, she felt way better! Deborah used to lie motionless as I fucked her and mum was hooking her legs over mine and thrusting her pelvis to meet my thrusts and digging her nails into my back and urging me on with cries of: '

Yes! Harder! Give it to me hard, Jonah!

'

Because by now I was fucking her properly, coming almost right out and thrusting deeply back in, our pubis's colliding with a wet slap. I leaned over and found mum's mouth and she worked her lips against mine and slid her tongue into my mouth and I felt love and desire rise in a thick, hot bubble and I gasped and rammed into my mother.

'

Don't stop, darling

,' she hissed. '

Please don't stop. I'm nearly there

...'

I thrust harder, feeling my own orgasm begin to tickle my balls and swell through my loins.

'

Oh, God

,' moaned mum as her climax broiled through her like a storm cloud and she dug her nails painfully into me and bit my lower lip.

Then I was coming. An unstoppable surge of intense feeling crackling up my spine and bursting in my brain as my cock pulsed its hot seed into my mother's cunt.