Hello, Literotica.
I was recently challenged by a creative writing class to go to a coffee shop and write a story. The mandate consisted of two criteria: that the story itself must cover a timespan of no greater than a day; and that it should be written within about two hours.
According to the mandate, I succeeded. But, given where my mind wandered after the first three paragraphs, I think it's probably for the best that my distasteful concoction stays between you and me. I'll think up something else for the class, I suppose.
- As a side note, I felt like writing this story in British English. I find noble English accents do better for my imagination, and to ignore one's imagination is undoubtedly shallow.
*
From an outsider's point of view, it might have seemed that I was studying in great detail the physics of the bubbles as they floated up through my glass of beer. My gaze was aligned with them for at least a minute before my consciousness was woken by the absurd note of a cuckoo clock telling me that the afternoon was now one hour old. Of course, my brain wasn't really concerned with the bubbles, or even the beer; rather I was just staring into space, as they say. This is what happens when we lose things that are important to us: we just stop, and, instinctively, we take stock and concern ourselves with ourselves, so as not to carrying on losing things.
In my case, I'd lost my wife. There'd been no deaths, nor even any infidelity or some such thing; we'd just grown apart. We married as 18-year-olds and now, as 20-year-olds, we were simply no longer in love. The day before, we'd finally admitted it to each other, after months of tireless bickering. We hugged, stiffly, and I left the apartment and walked, walked and walked before returning to the apartment and a handwritten note from Sally saying she was at her parents' place. So that was that.
I drank what was left of my beer -- about three-quarters of the pint -- and put the glass down firmly and loudly enough for the woman at the bar to take the hint from my expectant smile. From my position in the dark corner of the pub, I looked out towards the door, wondering exactly how many minutes late my mother would be.
"If you arranged to meet someone here at one o'clock, what time would you get here?" I asked the barmaid. "Probably about five-past!" she said, giving me a third pint and laughing unnecessarily.
And, right on woman time, as my mouth was about to address the beer, the wooden door in the distance opened, and through the entrance stepped my mother, complete with shopping bags, and, I must admit, a charmingly tight top as well as a mid-length skirt and crumpled leather boots. She always did have a superb figure -- absolutely superb, I must stress, for those in favour of hourglasses -- and she didn't look anything like 40 years old. Mother bounded towards me, excitedly, waving to me with a big smile.
"How many behind am I?" she asked.
"Eight," I smiled.
"EIGHT?! Oh you're taking the piss. Same old Gabriel," Mum said, dumping her bags next to me, ruffling my hair and walking back to the bar. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and the pub was quiet. Apart from my mother and me, and the barmaid, there seemed to be just one other person -- a scruffy man at the bar. He took a good look at Mum, and I couldn't blame him -- she looked very sexy.
"What time do you call this, anyway?" I asked as she came back with.
"Woman's prerogative! Now, you be nice to your old mother," she played.
"For dressing like that, I forgive you completely," I said, surprisingly openly and matter-of-factly, and Mum raised her eyebrows a little.
"So this is all I have to do to get away with being late!" Mum spread her hands out a little, as if presenting her outfit of the day. "Now I'll know for next time! Are you okay? How are you feeling?"
I just shrugged.
Mum nodded, slowly. "Where are you staying? Do you want to come home?"
"Can I? Just for a few days?"
"Your old bed is still there, and you'll always have a place to stay under my roof, young man."
My sense of relief nearly overwhelmed me. I felt my eyes become a little moister, but then I looked at Mum's big boobs as she leaned forward for her glass. There was no cleavage on show ¬¬-- indeed it was zipped up to her neck -- but the tightness of the fabric over her chest was bordering on the indecent, and it was clear that the white bra had some kind of floral pattern at the cups.
And Mother and I had always been honest and open about sex-related topics, so I wasn't exactly risking getting slapped when I said, "Nice top!" nodding slowly, and playfully lewdly.
"So that's what happened! Sally's weren't big enough! Even when you were a baby you loved big boobs. I remember you grabbing at your gran's big hangers in the middle of a restaurant and shouting 'BOOBIES!' when you were a toddler! She didn't know where to look!"
"I did!" I cracked.
"And then after all that you go and marry a girl with a B-cup. Silly Gabe." Mum was shaking her head, sarcastically.
"Yeah," I said, scratching my head. "Silly Gabe."
"She had no arse either," I loitered on the topic of Sally. "Maybe I was hoping she'd grow one if I gave her enough time."
Finally Mum broke into laughter.
"Never mind, Gabriel. At least we can laugh about it. I'm not really eight pints behind, am I?"
"No. This is my third. What did you buy?"
"Probably a load of rubbish," she said. "Boring trousers for work and a coat for winter," she continued, looking down into a bag: "Oh and these shoes. Do you like them?" She pulled one of the shoes out of the bag to show me.
"Don't they show off a bit too much cleavage?"
"Boobs mad, you are!" Mum said, laughing again.
"Never mind. Let's just do it. A toast, to boobs!" I said -- almost cheered -- raising my glass, and Mum played along.
Frankly, I'd been feeling progressively hornier since Mum walked through the door. She looked phenomenal, what with the way she was dressed, the way her burgundy-coloured hair flowed in waves down to her shoulders, and those damn boots weren't exactly helping my cause either. Our table was glass-topped, so I could see right through it down to her legs, which were uncovered from just above the knee down to just below her calves. I just wanted the conversation to stay boobs-related or at least woman-related.
So I reached forward, holding the glass somewhat close to Mum's chest, and surveyed what I could see.
"Almost!" I said.
Mum laughed again. "What are you on about now?"
"My beer. I think it's almost as big as one of your boobs."
"GABRIEL!" Mum said. "You're not supposed to say things like that to your old mother!"
"True," I confessed, looking down, and then back up as Mum brought her own pint glass next to her chest!
"I think you're right though!" she said, feigning shock. "Maybe I should get them reduced!"
"I'll beat the shit out of any surgeon who goes anywhere near those wonderful globes of yours!" I declared, simulating a proud grandfather at the end of a dinner table, before quickly realising how far I'd gone. Thankfully the dirty old man at the bar didn't know Mum was indeed my mother. "Sorry," I retreated.
"Ha! No, don't worry. I wouldn't do that. These women who complain of a sore back just need to get off their lazy arses and into a gym for a change," Mum said. "Just like your old mother! Look!" she went on, and flexed her arm.
"Good for you, Mum," I nodded, with wide eyes and a smile. I was glad to see she kept active, and I told her so. "But you can't beat this," I said, rolling back my right sleeve and flexing my own arm, drawing back when I realised the barmaid was looking.
"Who are you and what did you do with my skinny son?" Mum mocked.
"Very funny. But there's a gym in the basement, so I go down there every night. It beats being in endless arguments with a wife. But I'm glad you keep yourself active, Mum. Very glad."
"Well," she smiled, "I don't want to get like your dad. He's put on at least 10 pounds in the last six months. He used to be quite trim, you know? You know I met him when he was playing rugby, don't you? Then he stopped playing and never stayed in shape, and you've seen the state he's in nowadays."
"It's funny that you mention shape. I was just admiring your shapes!" I dared.
"You shouldn't be admiring them at all, you!" Mum protested, with perhaps the faintest hint of authenticity. And then her phone rang, and she answered it. It was Dad.
I smiled a resigned smile. Then I grabbed my beer, and, as with the last one, downed the last three-quarters of it. The barmaid was nowhere to be seen, but Mum smiled as she functionally yessed and noed to Dad on the phone. With no immediate prospect of more beer, and Mum tied to her phone, I snickered to myself, leaned forward and comically stared at her chest.
I looked up and Mum's wide eyes were begging me to behave, but I disobeyed and leaned further forward with one elbow on the table and my chin resting on my hand.
Mum's mood had been playful all the while, feigning decorum throughout our get-together, but I was still shocked when she tilted her head and lifted her shoulder to clamp her phone to her ear, and hefted both of her boobs with her hands, presenting them to my gaze. My candour was beaten by hers, and I looked up to her and let my mouth gape. She couldn't suppress her laugh.
"Gabe's making me laugh," Mum said to Dad. "No, he seems fine," she continued, as I stood up, kissed her on the cheek and walked to the bar.
I coughed a keen cough to win the barmaid's attention from her crossword.
"Looks like she was worth the wait, then!" the barmaid said, pouring my pint. I smiled and ordered another cider for Mum.
"Your old man's staying in Aberdeen for a week. Oh thanks." Mum said as I returned with the drinks. "Why did you pick this shithole, anyway?" she asked.
"The pub?"
"Yeah."
"I like the glass tables."
