December 23
What do you do right after a funeral on the day before Christmas Eve? When your brother or son is dead in his prime? Neither Peter, his mother, nor his girlfriend knew. Wrapping presents was out. So they sat in his mother's sprawling ranch nine thousand feet up in the Rockies looking out at the mountain scenery. A massive log fire crackled in the center of the airy lounge. In the valley below six miles away lay Telluride, already half in shadow as the December sun sank behind the mountains.
Peter Kneely had not seen his mother for a long time. He had spoken to her by phone when his brother had been taken ill, but they had not actually met face to face in years. His older brother, only thirty years old, had fallen ill and died within weeks. Peter managed to see him in the hospital before the end, but almost wished he hadn't. The doctors described it as a rare idiopathic syndrome of the renal and genitourinary systems. Peter believed that to mean 'we have no clue' in doctor language.
Peter's brother had worked in the family business, a world renowned specialist chemistry consulting group. Clients included global food and beverage corporations, as well as a host of other businesses. The company was privately owned and Peter's mother, a brilliant research chemist as well as a savvy businesswoman, was now worth a fortune. Peter did not know exactly how much, but somewhere up in the hundreds of millions.
He knew that after the death of his father ten years previously his mother and brother had become very close. His mother had never remarried, and his brother's wife had left him the previous year. Peter himself had struck out on his own in business years before, as soon as he left college. But now, after seven years of success, he had overstretched and was headed for bankruptcy. A bad year all round, really. The funeral in Telluride had been very difficult. He had given the eulogy, a task he could not avoid, which made the event even more harrowing.
He knew his mother was hurting terribly, so he decided to stay over Christmas until she got her emotional bearings. His girlfriend, Claire, had closed her art gallery in Manhattan early for the holidays to accompany him back from New York. Claire had never met Peter's Mom before, and this was hardly a pleasant occasion to do so. But, anyway, there they were.
The afternoon passed almost in silence, and as it grew dark Peter made his excuses and they both retired to their room. Peter's mother fell asleep downstairs on the sofa, looking at the embers of the fire as she grieved for her dead son.
Exhausted after the funeral and still suffering from jet lag Peter and Claire lay on the king size bed in their palatial guest room. Claire was an elfish dark beauty, slender with piercing brown eyes, and looked younger than her twenty eight years. Emotionally unaffected herself, she was trying hard to help Peter get over the day's events. But in the end they just watched some TV and fell asleep early, Peter taking some sleep aids to help. The TV spoke of a big winter storm headed for the Rockies.
Midnight Snack.
It was two am and Peter was hungry. Claire was asleep beside him. He had eaten almost nothing the previous day because of the funeral and now his jet lag had woken him up. He needed a pee and a bite to eat. He got out of bed quietly, put on a robe over his shorts and T-shirt and made his way to a kitchen at the other side of the sprawling house. He switched on a light and swung open the refrigerator door. It was stacked with food and drink, mostly in numbered plastic containers. His mother was a very systematic person. Peter opened some containers at random, hunting for a snack. He was suddenly aware of a presence behind him.
"It'd be quicker if you told me what you want, Peetie."
Peter turned to find his mother standing next to him. Peter's mother was a tall woman of fifty one, still with the foundations of a good figure, middle age spread kept at bay by a brutal Pilates regime and a personal trainer. Her hair was dark auburn (dyed of course), her eyes green, one lighter than the other. Her face was well looked after, pampered by top beauticians, dermatologists, and the best skin care products money could buy. An iron will and her scientific abilities had placed her in the top ten powerful women lists of magazines, but it was her resemblance to Sela Ward that put her on their front covers.
Peter loved his mother but he had escaped the nest as soon as he could, for good reasons. Now he was back.
"Anything. I'm hungry," he said, looking at her.
His mother was wearing a white toweling robe. It was unfastened and flapped open to show her body in a sheer satin nightie which barely concealed her breasts and belly. He could see a dark triangle between her legs through the translucent material. His mother gently pushed past him and bent over to pull out one of the lower drawers. He smelt her fragrance and old memories came flooding back.
"Fresh berries? A little cream? You don't want anything heavy in the middle of the night."
"Fine. Thank you."
"Here. Take some for Claire. I expect she's hungry too."
His mother put a small numbered tub on a plate and handed it to him, along with two spoons. He took it and put it on the granite countertop. He hadn't had much chance to talk to her alone since he'd arrived, not that he had tried very hard.
"I'm so sorry about Paul, Mom."
Mistake. Grief transformed his mother's face, and he stepped forward to embrace her, half afraid that she would collapse with emotion. They held one another as he felt his mothers silent tears fall on his shoulder, his body pressing against her as she trembled. They stood like that for a while until the warmth of his mothers body, her breasts pressing against his chest, her belly against his groin reminded him that they were man and woman not merely mother and son. Half buried memories and images flashed before him and he let her go. She unclasped him reluctantly, gathered her emotions and feelings, packing them away. She looked at the tub of berries sitting on the countertop. A hint of a smile crossed her face as she wrapped her robe around herself, tying the cord.
"Enjoy it. See you both tomorrow. It will be a better day. A much better day. Goodnight, Peetie."
Peter made his way back to the bedroom. Claire was awake and they nibbled at the snack together before settling back down to try and sleep. It turned out Claire was hungry and she ate more than he did.
December 24
The following morning Peter woke up horny. The room grew light and he patiently waited for signs of life from Claire lying next to him. When he heard an awake sigh he rolled over to Claire and puts his arm around her gently feeling her breast and playfully thrusting at her ass under the covers. Claire was already awake, wondering what the day would bring. Now she knew. Wake-up sex. That was OK with her. She turned around and put one arm around Peter, while the other felt down and clasped his semi-erect cock under his boxers to tell him yes.
On a whim he burrowed under the sheets and went down on her. She tasted good, fresh and clean. Almost fruity. Not the normal taste, which he was well used to and did not mind. But this was better. The taste came from inside her, so good he licked it deeply, just tickling her clitoris with his face and nose.
This was better for Claire than the usual focus on her clit, which Peter usually overstimulated. In time she came and drenched his face with her juices. He stopped, reluctantly, his mind whirring.
Claire sat up smiling.
"Have you been taking lessons? If so they were worth the money, honey. Here, let me do you. Just don't come in my mouth, ok?"
Claire sat up on the side of the bed while he got out of bed and came around to her side, standing in front of her, his cock waving around in the morning light. She grasped it and engulfed it with her mouth. Claire had never been keen on giving head. She liked Peter's dick inside her pussy where it belonged, but fair was fair. All her previous boyfriends seemed to expect it. Peter put his hands on her shoulders and stared out the window at the mountain on the other side of the valley.
Claire wanted to get on with it, so she stroked his dick rapidly as her mouth and tongue worked on his glans, awaiting the moment when he withdrew to come on her hand. But as she licked him she noticed not the normal salty fleshy taste, but a much nicer one, no salt at all in fact. Not bitter, either. She pressed on wanting to taste more of it. Pretty soon Peter felt the tingling sensation that told him things were about to happen and gently squeezed Claire on the shoulder to let her know.
"I'm going to come."
But she held him in her mouth, gripping him tightly as she bobbed up and down on his cock. Peter was pleased but worried as he felt his load rise up inside his cock and spill out into her mouth. She swallowed it down to make room for more, running it around her teeth with her tongue, the odd drip escaping her lips and falling off her chin. Then she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Wow. Thanks, sweetie. I thought....." said Peter.
Claire was surprised, too. Why had she done that?
"Hey, my pleasure. I must be getting used to it. Now what?" she said.
"Let's go into town before the snow arrives."
Before they left, Peter picked up the pot of berries his Mother had given them the previous night. It was still half full. He thought long and hard, then he finished off the lot. They tasted wonderful.
A winter storm was bringing a white Christmas, and even though his mother's ranch complex had everything they could possibly need, including two kitchens full of food and drink, a whole-house generator, a maid and a chef who came in daily, it would be nice to stretch their legs around Telluride before the snow arrived. His mother's house was two miles away from the airport, situated on a high bluff overlooking the valley that held Telluride. The nearest neighbors were a mile away along the ridge.
Telluride was buzzing on Christmas Eve. Peter and Claire spent the morning walking around the town looking in the high-end shops, and watching the sky darken with snow. After lunch at Smugglers, as the first flakes started to fall, Peter turned to Claire.
"Let's go back up the mountain before the road gets slippery."
When they got back to the ranch it was mid-afternoon. The maid told them that dinner would be served at seven. Peter showed Claire his mother's library on the ground floor and lost herself in it. Peter went up to their room to take a shower. He had to know.
He went into the ensuite bathroom and shut the door. He dropped his pants and looked at his cock. It looked normal enough. But he had to know. He squeezed out a palmful of Claire's hand cream and slopped it all over his dick. Then he started to pump away, thinking of whatever erotic thoughts he could conjure up. His cock was not very interested, after all it had been sucked dry by Claire only hours before. But hand cream is hand cream and eventually his dick became semi-hard. With a bit of work on his part it soon spat out a few gobs of semen onto the pale pink marble countertop. Peter looked at his cum. It looked normal. But what did it taste like?
He smelled it. He dipped a finger in it. Berries. He touched his finger to his mouth. Raspberries and cream. Top of the range. He licked his finger clean. Delicious. No wonder Claire had sucked him off.
This was his mother's work.
At the other end of the house his mother sat in front of a large flat screen connected to one of the many hidden camera lenses around the house. She watched her son finish eating all of his own semen, scraping up the last drop from the marble top. She sat on a soft chair, naked below the waist, low down with her legs spread wide and her hand half inside herself, rubbing and kneading, the juices from her pussy soaking the seat of her chair. As she watched her son lick his lips when he finished the last drop of his own cum, a powerful orgasm shook her and the secretions flowed out of her. She lifted her sopping wet hand to her mouth and licked it. She thought for a while and then made a note on a small writing pad by her side.
Christmas Eve Dinner
Dinner was set up in the large dining room, the floodlit ski runs on the opposite side of the valley just visible through the falling snow. By common consent the funeral was off limits for conversation.
