Magnus and His Family

Magnus and His Family (Chapter 5)

Kathryn M. Burke

Paul was Lorimer's starting wide receiver—had been since sophomore year—and he was already off to a good start in this season's contests. Practice had begun in mid-August, well before the semester started, and Paul working diligently to hone his skills. Given the heat of the late summer afternoon, the players practiced only in shorts and thin mesh jerseys. Everyone was sweating profusely, and even a shower after practice didn't really help matters much.

Paul came home exhausted but elated: he thought it was going to be a good season. As he burst into his apartment, he was still on something of an adrenaline high. Imogen wasn't immediately visible, but Paul could tell that she was puttering around in the kitchen, as indicated by the sounds of pots and pans being arranged in a cabinet.

As he entered the kitchen, Imogen was kneeling down, having finished her organizing of the dishware. She was, as usual, wearing an apron over her dress.

Something about the sight of her in that vulnerable position struck Paul deeply.

Man, oh, man, she really is the most beautiful mom in the whole world!

Imogen looked up at him and said, "Hi, Paul. Have a good practice?"

"Yes, Mom," he said in something close to a whisper.

She knew her son inside and out and sensed something amiss. "You okay?"

"Sure, Mom. I'm great."

"Then what—?"

"Can you suck my cock?" he interrupted.

She fell silent for many moments, and Paul could hear the ticking of a clock that had been mounted on a wall of the kitchen.

"Right now?" she said quietly.

"Yes, Mom. Please . . ."

I'm so hot—and you're so desirable.

She gave her son an inscrutable look. Then, becoming all business, she said: "Okay, drop your shorts."

Paul hastened to comply—and found that he was already hugely erect. Imogen was a little taken aback, but took the matter in stride. She slid over to him, took his cock in her mouth, and wrapped her hands around his bottom—something she knew he liked. Paul took her head in both hands and pumped gently; he wanted to thrust harder, but knew that Imogen didn't like the gagging sensation that came from a cock going too deep in her mouth. As it was, she still managed to take in all but about two inches of his member.

Paul couldn't hold out long. There was something inexpressibly affecting about this tender scene, and his love and gratitude for his mother swelled even as his cock shot out its thick discharge. It slid easily down Imogen's throat, although one small dollop escaped and dripped down her chin. She quickly scooped it up with a finger and slipped it back into her mouth.

Afterward, she stood up and said, "Okay, go change. Dinner's almost ready."

*

The camaraderie established by the fifty-odd members of the football team was a thing to behold, as guys from all different backgrounds, ethnicities, and temperaments got together for the single-minded purpose of triumphing on the field.

A transfer student that year was an African American named Curt Mansfield. He had, incredibly, come from as far away as Virginia: his small liberal arts college had disbanded its football team, and he was hoping for a fresh start somewhere else. He was a fullback, with the sturdy build that comes with that position (about five foot eleven and 220 pounds); and while he was rugged and relentless on the field, once he shed his uniform he was a mild, gentle soul—perhaps even a bit shy. In fact, very shy.

Some of that may have had to do with his unfamiliar new surroundings, so Paul took it upon himself to take Curt under his wing.

After a game where Curt had saved the day by a key block that allowed the team's quarterback to toss a winning touchdown to Paul, the two young men were in seventh heaven as they showered and got ready to resume their normal activities outside the stadium.

"Say, Curt," Paul said, taking him by the shoulders, "why don't you come to my house for dinner? My mom's a great cook."

"You live with your mom?" Curt said in his soft Virginia accent.

"Yup," Paul said. "It's just to save money. Can't afford to live in a dorm, or in an off-campus apartment."

Curt could sympathize: even though he had an athletic scholarship, he barely had enough money to hole up in a decrepit rooming-house with several other guys.

"Dinner sounds great," Curt said. "You sure it's okay with your mom?"

"I'll just give her a call. I think she's making a big beef stew, so there'll be plenty for everyone."

Paul did make the call, and as expected, Imogen was happy to have Curt come over.

When the two guys entered the small apartment, the aroma of beef and vegetables and fresh bread so filled the place that they both began salivating at once. "God, Mom, that smells great!" Paul enthused as he led Curt into the kitchen.

Imogen, dressed in her patented apron over a flowery print dress, extended a hand to her new guest. She liked what she saw. She had to admit that Curt's stocky frame brought her ex-husband somewhat to mind—but that really wasn't it. She just admired the young man's impressive physique and, from what she could already tell, his mild-mannered and courteous bearing.

"Hello, ma'am," he said quietly as he took Imogen's hand. "I'm Curt."

"I'm Imogen. You guys get comfortable—this is almost ready."

The meal was fabulous, and Paul regaled his mother with an enthusiastic summary of the highlights of the game. When he got to Curt's brilliant play at the end of the game, she noticed with silent amusement that, for all his chocolate-colored complexion, he did seem to be blushing.

"Curt, you're the hero!" she cried.

"No, ma'am. I was just doing my part."

"You're much too modest," she said, reaching over and placing a hand on his arm.

Curt gazed at the hand as if it was being touched by the Queen of Sheba. He swallowed heavily a few times, but was unable to speak.

Imogen was touched by his embarrassment—and augmented it by stroking his face with her hand.

"Oh, Curt, you're such a sweetheart!" she said.

That made him blush even more, and Paul took notice.

"Mom, you're making him uncomfortable!" he chided.

"No, ma'am," Curt said, finally finding his voice. "You're—being very nice to me. I think you're swell."

Paul almost rolled his eyes at the corny language, but Imogen replied, "I think you're swell too, Curt."

Both men had two helpings of the hearty stew, and Imogen capped the meal off with a store-bought key lime pie. Replete but not stuffed or bloated, the youngsters retreated into Paul's bedroom for some guy-talk while Imogen cleaned up in the kitchen.

"Man, that was the best meal I've had in a long time," Curt said, as he lounged on Paul's bed. "Way better than the stuff the athletic department gives us."

"You can say that again," Paul said. "For a while I thought it was dopey to live at home and commute to campus, but now I think there's a lot to be said for it."

"There's a lot to be said for your mom, too," Curt said in an undertone.

"Yes, there is," Paul said.

You don't know the half of it.

They talked on random subjects for a while. Then Curt suddenly changed the conversation by saying wistfully:

"Man, I wish I had a girl."

Paul was taken aback. "You don't have a girl? We athletes are supposed to be surrounded by awestruck coeds wanting a piece of us."

"Yeah, well, I don't see

you

with a girl either," Curt said pointedly.

Paul had nothing to say to that.

"I don't know what it takes to get a girl. I've

never

had one."

"Never?"

Paul cried. "You gotta be kidding me."

Curt shook his head lugubriously.

"You're telling me," Paul said with harrowing precision, "you've never done it with a girl?"

Curt's glum face told the whole story.

"So you're a virgin?"

"Yeah, man! You don't have to rub it in."

"And you're how old?"

"Twenty, man. Just like you."

"Have you ever

kissed

a girl?" Paul pursued.

"I guess I have—a couple. But it never led anywhere."

"So you've never touched a girl in any of her . . . sensitive parts?"

"Not even close."

"You've never seen a girl naked?"

Curt just chortled derisively.

"Oh, man, you gotta lot to learn!" Paul said. "When you finally get a girl, you need to know what to do."

"How am I to do that without getting the girl in the first place?"

Paul looked at his friend as if he were a kind of laboratory specimen. "I think I'm getting an idea."

"Yeah, what is it?" Curt said without interest. "Let's hear it."

"My mom," Paul said simply.

Curt frowned impatiently. "Your

mom?

What's she got to do with it?"

"She might be able to . . . help."

It took several seconds for Paul's suggestion to sink in. When at last it did, Curt actually got angry. "Don't tease me, man—and don't speak so disrespectfully about her. She's a great lady."

"I'm telling you, guy," Paul said with intense urgency, "I think she can help."

She's helped me a lot.

"And I'm pretty sure she wants to."

Now Curt was getting alarmed. "No way, man. I couldn't—do it with her. And there's no way she wants to—"

"She

likes

you, man! She does."

"Liking a guy and wanting to—you know, go to

bed

with him—are way different!"

"You want me to ask her?" Paul said provocatively.

"What? Right now?" Curt said in terror.

"Yeah, right now."

Curt just gazed at his friend, mouth open.

"I'll do it."

Paul slid off the other side of the bed and headed toward the door of his room. He gave one final glance back at Curt, who was continuing to stare at him.

With a little chuckle Paul left the room and headed to his mother's bedroom. She had finished in the kitchen and was resting on the bed, reading a book.

"Hi, Mom," he said casually.

"Hi, dear," Imogen said without looking up from the book. "Was the dinner okay?"

"It was fabulous, Mom! And

you

were fabulous."

Imogen looked up wryly. "Gee, thanks. Your friend is real nice—good looking, too."

"Well, that's kinda what I wanted to talk to you about."

As Imogen gazed at her son, he expounded what he had in mind. His words were a bit halting, and there was a flush of embarrassment on his face—a flush that soon transferred itself to Imogen as she slowly absorbed what Paul's plan was.

"Paul, come on," she said at last. "Don't joke about this."

"I'm

not,

Mom!" he exclaimed desperately. "The guy really needs help! I mean, he'll make a fool of himself if he gets involved with a girl and doesn't have the slightest clue what to do. It'll shatter his confidence—maybe ruin his life!"

"Paul, everyone has to learn these things on their own. Mistakes are a part of human relationships."

"I know that—but a little guidance wouldn't hurt, would it?"

She eyed him closely. "I suppose not, but—"

"Then you'll do it?" Paul's eagerness was infectious.

"I didn't say that."

"Oh, come on, Mom!"

"You mean—right now?"

"Sure, why not? You're not doing anything, are you?"

"And what are

you

going to do?"

"Oh, I'll just lie low in my room. I figure you'll want to do your business in here."

He was on his way out when Imogen cried: "Hey, I haven't agreed to this!"

"Oh, Mom," Paul cried, crestfallen.

As she looked at her son in exasperation, she reluctantly said, "Oh, all right. But what exactly do you want me to do with him?"

Paul's glance was incredulous. "Mom, I think you know."

"You really want me to—?" She was incredulous too.

"Sure, why not? I'm sure you'll make a great teacher."

"Yeah, right," she said, bowing to the inevitable. Then a sudden horrible thought shot through her.

"Paul, you—you didn't tell him about us, did you?"

"Of course not, Mom! I'm not that stupid."

"Well, okay. Just make sure you don't."

Paul almost raced back to his room, where Curt was sitting on the edge of the bed in an agony of anticipation. Paul simply said, "Okay, it's all set," and nodded toward Imogen's room.

"You really mean it?" Curt whispered.

"Yeah, you're good to go. Maybe give her a minute or so to get ready. Then just go on in."

Curt sat on the bed, looking deeply at his hands as if they held the key to the bizarre situation facing him. Then he got up stiffly, gave Paul one last look, and left the room.

As he walked the short distance down to the corridor, he stood in front of Imogen's bedroom (he had noticed it earlier in the evening, when the door was open) and knocked lightly on it. "May I come in, ma'am?"

"Sure, come on in," Imogen said.

His sweaty hands were barely able to open the doorknob, but he managed it. Inside, he found Imogen resting on her side, elbow propping her up, on the bed. She was wearing a robe. Even someone so inexperienced as Curt could see that she wasn't wearing anything underneath.

As she saw the rugged, muscular young man, she got up slowly and came over to him.

"Paul tells me," she began slowly, "that you need some . . . help in dealing with women."

"Yes'm," Curt managed to mutter.

"Well," she said, encircling his neck with her arms, "we're not as much of a mystery as you seem to think. Why don't you start by giving me a kiss?"

Curt seemed a little unsteady on his feet, and he wrapped his arms around Imogen's waist, not so much to initiate physical contact with her as to keep himself from fainting.

Then he lowered his head and placed his lips tenderly on Imogen's.

The first contact with those soft, moist lips was heavenly, and Curt immediately pressed down hard—too hard.

Imogen backed her head away. "No, Curt—not so rough. A little gentler."

Curt could have kicked himself. One of the reasons why he had not gotten involved with girls was his self-consciousness about his size and strength: he was terrified of hurting the very females he wanted so badly. And now, when a luscious, full-grown woman was handed to him on a platter, he had caused her pain!

"I'm so sorry, ma'am," he said bitterly.

"It's okay, dear," Imogen said, stroking his face lightly. "Try again."

This time the kiss was soft and ethereal—and lasted a long time. In the process each of them brought their bodies into contact with the other, and Curt felt for the first time the warmth and contours of a gorgeous woman all up and down his frame.

When their lips finally parted, both sets of eyes were shining. Imogen in fact thought Curt's eyes might be filling with tears.

She pulled away, slipped out of his grasp, and stood a few feet from him. Calm and unhurried, she untied the sash binding the robe together and let it fall from her shoulders.

Curt let out a huge gasp. As he took in the glorious form revealed to his gaze—the sloping shoulders, the flat stomach, the strong thighs, the tapered calves, and especially the full, rich breasts and (so far as he could tell from this angle) the curved bottom—he couldn't believe this was anything but a wonderful dream.

"You're just so lovely, ma'am," he breathed.

"Thank you, dear." That little endearment, which rolled so effortlessly off Imogen's tongue, sent a shiver through Curt. "Let's see what you've got."

As he stood still like a petrified tree, Imogen first took off the heavy sweatshirt that he was wearing, revealing a hairless but incredibly muscular chest and shoulders that made Imogen gasp in her turn. Paul was well built, but he was quite svelte; Magnus was a big man with broad shoulders, but they were not as sculpted as Curt's figure was. With trembling fingers she then addressed herself to the tight jeans he was wearing. After struggling with the button at the top of his fly, she managed to pull down the zipper and then, falling to her knees, grabbed the jeans with both hands and forced them down to his feet. His underwear came down with them.

All Imogen could say was, "That's quite some equipment you have there."

His cock was probably only fractionally longer than Paul's, but it was a lot thicker. And it was, unsurprisingly, already fully erect; in fact, it was quivering with excitement, dancing in front of Imogen's face like a crazy marionette.

"Is it too big, ma'am?" he said anxiously, lapsing again into terror that he might end up hurting her.

"I think I'll manage," she said dryly.

Then, with a whimsical thought (

Well, down the hatch!

), she put as much of it into her mouth as she could.

That turned out to be at least half of its eight inches, and—as Curt watched in wonderment as those red lips encircled his member—she was able to get several more inches in, so that her nose almost touched his abdomen. But when she withdrew with a gasp, and turned her attention to sucking vigorously, using lips and tongue and not forgetting to tickle his balls for good measure.

Curt thought he might explode in her mouth right then, but somehow he managed to hold off. Imogen too sensed that he was getting overexcited, so she stopped her work and stood up.

"Let's go to the bed, shall we?" she said.

She hardly needed to say that, for Curt was all but carrying her to the bed, and he made her lie on her back while he handed right on top of her. He at once began making love to those incredible breasts of hers, licking and sucking as if he was an explorer in a parched desert who had just stumbled upon an unexpected oasis. Then, without waiting for further instructions, he slid up Imogen's body and mounted her.

She cried out at his ungodly haste, and the unusual thickness of his member filled her as she had not been filled for years. She barely managed to get out a few words of warning—"Easy there, Curt!"—before he pasted his lips to hers and began pumping madly. His hands explored every part of her body—her face, neck, shoulders, back, thighs, bottom—and Imogen could do little but hold onto him for dear life as, within minutes, he shot a huge emission into her, groaning hoarsely as he did so.

He then collapsed on her, his weight almost crushing her. But he remained firmly embedded in her.

"Curt," she said reprovingly, "you didn't have to go quite so fast and hard."

He looked down at her in alarm. "Did I—did I hurt you?"

"No," she said slowly, "but the point of intimacy is not to get to the finish line as fast as you possibly can. You can draw the whole process out—that makes it fun for both partners."

"I'm sorry," he said, mortified.

But he was one of those men who don't get very soft after a climax, and he was still plugging her to the hilt. After a few moments, with Imogen's encouragement, he began pumping slowly again, making sure to take his time and also to kiss Imogen gently on her face and neck and shoulders, even once in her armpit. She wrapped her legs around his and marveled at his stamina, for he seemed even harder than before. With exquisite gradualness his thrusts became harder and harder, until he once again doused her vagina with his seed.

As he pulled out and flopped over onto his back, Imogen said admiringly, "Wow! You came twice without coming out—I'm impressed!"

I'm not sure that either Magnus or Paul has ever done that.

But as she gazed at him, utterly spent, she said quietly, "Curt, dear, do you know how to make a woman happy?"

Curt, his eyes unfocused, looked up at her uncomprehendingly.

"Women like to have orgasms too, you know," she added.

"I know," Curt said.

"Do you know how—?"

He shook his head mournfully.

She smiled benevolently at him. "It's not so hard. We're not talking rocket science here. Can I show you?"

Curt, now fully alert and wanting to please, propped himself up on his elbow.

She took his right hand and brought it in the direction of her sex. She was pretty damp, mostly with his two discharges, but a certain amount of the fluid was hers. "When a woman gets wet, it means she's aroused and wants release, just like a guy. Of course, our reactions are a bit different: we take a little longer to get aroused, and our climaxes aren't quite like yours."