This is the second part of the story inspired by the wonderful, talented CatMoore and deals with the aftermath of chapter 1. Readers would be advised to read that chapter first, though this could stand alone. There is rather more sex in this chapter but I hope that readers will still feel that it's the love story that is most important. Thank you for the positive comments and ratings on chapter 1, it is much appreciated, and I hope that readers will enjoy this. There is more to come in due course...
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I've been making cups of tea for you since I was eight years old. It was one of the first things I did that was helpful to you, a way of giving back a little of the love you showed me, and it had been a special little ritual between us ever since. The first cup of tea one makes after making love to your mother for the first time, therefore, comes with added significance and I made it with extra care and attention that fine summer's morning. It was strange but exhilarating to take it to you, not in your bed but in mine. I entered my room and placed the steaming mug on the bedside table, careful not to spill any.
"Your tea Madam," I announced in solemn tones. I watched as you stirred in my bed, under my duvet and turned your head to look at me and then the tea. Your blue eyes cleared and a smile played across those lovely lips.
"Thank you angel, it's nice to know some things don't change." You had been lying on your tummy and now rolled over onto your back and opened your arms, giving me a seductive smile. "Now, come down here and get your reward for all those years of tea making." Pulling the cover aside, I slid into your warm and welcoming embrace. God, it was heaven. We kissed leisurely, the joyful thought of an empty Sunday ahead of us ensuring we had no need to rush anything. You looked and tasted glorious and I could have spent all morning snogging like teenagers.
It was then, though, that it struck me that despite the fact that we had made intimate, passionate love last night, I had still seen neither your breasts nor your pussy. I laughed inwardly at the thought, how incongruous, it made me feel like a Victorian who might make love to his wife for years without ever seeing her naked body. Well, I was certainly going to rectify that oversight. I hooked my hands inside the thin straps of your red silk slip and slid them down your shoulders. You freed your arms and my hand went hungrily to the top of the slip. Our eyes met and the eagerness that you saw there calmed the slight nervousness that flickered in yours.
Slowly, like a boy who has learned that the best presents are those that are savoured, I unwrapped your breasts and drank them in. I'd seen them in the 'favourites' Dad had taken, of course, but that was nothing to having them before me in the flesh. You were fifty years old but your breasts would have made a twenty-five year-old proud. They were alabaster in colour and smoothness shading slowly into the light tan of your chest. Just above your left nipple were a tiny cluster of little moles that drew my gaze down to the perfectly round and pink areole topped by a small button of a nipple. God, it was magnificent. I reached out my hand and stroked your breast and felt it respond to me, felt the nipple grow towards my touch. I smiled in awed wonder and you looked at me with something like pride in those blue eyes.
I asked silently for permission and your eyes gave it. My cock raged in my boxers as I slowly lowered my head and covered you nipple and areole with my mouth. The taste and texture was divine. The wonderful smoothness of your tit flesh contrasting with the puckered nipple felt sensational against my tongue. I can't properly describe the taste, I don't have the words, but at that moment I would happily have tasted that and nothing else for the rest of my life. I suckled silently, lovingly, joyfully at your breast as you stroked my hair gently with one hand and stroked your pussy with the other. It was at once tender and wanton. What is more natural after all than for a mother to suckle her son? But when that son is twenty-three and she has fucked him and buries her hand in her cunt when she suckles him? Society shudders in outrage and horror at the thought but not us - not us who can see the beauty and joy in it.
You gasped as the sensations of my tongue, lips and teeth fired out from your nipple to all parts of your body as you whispered encouragement to your son. "Yes, oh fuck yes, my beautiful boy, suck Mummy's big tits for her, just like you used to." Lying there, held in your arms as I made love to your breast, I felt you cum your expert fingers driving you over the edge, your cries of delight filling the room. Your chest was flushed red, your breathing heavy and ragged as I stopped my ministrations on your breast, realising it was too sensitive for further attention, and just rested my head there, my cheek flush against the warm flesh of your tits. Was there a better place on earth to be? I doubt it.
"Darling," you whispered eventually, "You are making Mummy feel so wonderfully naughty and nice. I'd forgotten I could feel anything like this good, thank you angel." I look up at you wickedly.
"Mother dearest," I said in a low, playful tone, "I've only just begun, you do know that." You giggled at that, the most delightful sound, and I started to slide down your body, kissing around your stomach, licking your belly stud, eliciting both a giggle and a growl as I headed southwards. "Turn over," I ordered peremptorily, surprising you with both the command and its force. You eagerly obeyed, swinging your long leg over my head with the grace of a ballet dancer, giving me a most brazen view of your pussy lips.
I was now lying between your legs with your arse right in front of me and stretched out behind it the contours of your back and the soft strands of blonde hair that covered your shoulders. I was in awe at this wonderful sight. I placed my hands on each thigh and ran them up to the crevice of your bum, watching as the flesh moved under my touch. With my thumbs, I touched and gently pressed your pussy lips open, feeling the springy hair above and around it. It was all deliciously moist and knowing you were wet for me gave me such pride and joy. I admired the firmness of your arse, its smoothness, God you'd worked hard at it and it had paid off - it was splendid. The tiny blemishes of moles that dotted it, your thighs and back were adorable and added a sense of realism to what otherwise would have been almost unearthly in its perfection.
I couldn't resist any longer. I buried my face in your rump - kissing, licking biting, chewing the soft, delicate flesh in my hungry mouth. I felt ravenous, like a wild animal as I abandoned myself and all decorum to worshipping your arse for all I was worth. Slowly, surely, I parted the flesh with my nose, with my lips and my tongue until my lips touched your cunt for the first time. I luxuriated in the taste of the nectar of your pussy juice, pushing my tongue deep, deep inside. I ate you out with a passion and fervour I'd never experienced before. That I couldn't see your face, just hear your cries and watch your hair whip around as your head flayed about in my pillow, somehow made it even more intense. Knowing those guttural, viscerally sexual sounds were emanating from my gorgeous, elegant mother was like nothing I could have conceptualised before. The explosions of pleasure that fired in my brain stay with me even now. I can close my eyes and see, feel, taste and smell those wonderful moments.
You screamed your orgasm into my pillow, while your pussy convulsed around my face and I held you tight, my tongue buried in you as you rode your climax to its sweet end. As you pulled me up your body to embrace me both our cheeks were stained with tears - the joy of finding each other in this new and deepest way overwhelming our senses. You kissed your own juices off my face as we sank into the bed together. It only took a few moments for your hand to reach out for my rigid, slick cock and to guide me home.
The tea, that special tea I made you, went cold and never did get drunk.
* * * * *
That Sunday passed in a haze of sunshine, sex and chat free of any restrictions. It was so liberating to be able to talk with you about anything at all and to be able to touch you in the ways that I wanted. Sometimes that was overtly sexual but, more often, it was simply intimate - a touch of your cheek, your hair, your hand in the way that lovers can touch but that friends or family members can't.
I make no great claims to culinary skills but that evening I cooked risotto for you (one of the few meals I could manage) and we ate together in the dining room with candles, like on a date. You were dressed in a red cowled jumper that clung delightfully to your breasts and a simple short black skirt. Your tanned and bare legs emerged from the hem with their usual elegance. Your pretty feet, with red painted toenails, were in wedged sandals. You were probably a little over-dressed for a meal at home but this was special, everything we had done and were doing that day was special as it was the first time we were doing it as a couple.
The meal was simple but sharing it with you, watching your face through the soft light of the candles and the gathering gloom of a summer's evening was both deeply romantic and yet at the same time entirely natural. Afterwards I loaded the dishwasher and we sat down to watch Sunday-night telly. This was something that millions of couples all across Britain were doing at that very moment, nothing special in that. It wasn't even new for us to watch TV together, we had done it for years but this was different. Tonight, you sat between my legs, your head resting on my chest and shoulder, your long blonde hair fanned out over my bare arm in my navy polo shirt and tickled my own hairs each time you moved. My other arm was wrapped around your tummy, my hand had slid under your jumper and my fingers splayed across your bare flesh, feeling the texture of your belly-stud.
It wasn't too far off the pose of a mother and son who were close and comfortable with each other but, to even the casual observer, it was the embrace of lovers - lovers who had both known each other forever but who were also just discovering each other. There we sat, comfortable, silent, intimate beyond what words could express, the peace that only a love of kaleidoscopic varieties could bring. We watched one programme then another, revelling in our company, getting slowly more sexual in our touches and embraces until, eventually, without realising when, we were no longer watching television but were 'making out'.
While I can't remember the programmes we watched, I can remember those kisses, I will until the day I die. Your lips were so soft - they weren't the 'bee-stung' lips of porn stars and erotic fiction but they were real and sensual and tasted so very good. You were wearing a red lipstick that matched your jumper and nails but before long I had kissed it off and was getting at the real you. It was so visceral but yet gentle and loving, like we had stripped away everything that had and might come between us and were now just two people alone as the world span around them. I kissed your lips, your chin, your prominent cheekbones and the little lines that ran from the side of your nose to your mouth and which were uniquely you. Holding your face in my hands, I drank you in, making you mine as you kissed me back. My hands were in your hair, gripping fistfuls of it and twisting tendrils round my fingers, luxuriating in all of you.
