Oh my. Well, Gentle Reader, it seems I struck a nerve with this one. It has a good rating only a few hours after dropping (4.5 stars when I looked) but, more to the point, has far and away the highest "favorites to readers" ratio I have ever seen. So let's check in, shall we, and see how our slightly cold-blooded MC (that's Main Character for those of you who haven't tried to get published in other venues and suffered the indignity of receiving rejection notices, many of which question the MC's motives or want more development of the MC or, well, you get the picture) and his borderline nymphomaniac, knocked up, 46-year-old BBW (if you don't know that one, well, maybe Literotica isn't for you) Mom. I don't know about y'all, but my curiosity is piqued.
Chapter Two
Our ride home was oddly, and awkwardly, quiet. I didn't know how to start a conversation for some reason, and Mom seemed content to just look out the side window, watching the city pass by.
At home, I parked and ran around to open the door for her. At first, as we started walking to the door, I took the way she held my arm with both hands as her needing my steadying presence. But then it hit me that what she was doing was holding me in that possessive of a woman with a man.
On one level I liked it.
On another level, it kind of creeped me out.
We walked like that, me slowing my pace to help her keep up, her a little slow after her trauma, as I led her into the bedroom. I was glad I had taken the time to make the bed. I felt a little funny about sleeping in her bed, well, in my parents' bed for the past few nights.
In the bedroom, she stopped short.
I turned.
She smiled.
"So, Man of the House," she said and her smile was sweet, almost angelic, "will you keep me as the Lady of the House or should I start looking around."
"Don't be silly," I said, "this is all yours anyway now."
She sighed theatrically, closed the distance between us, put her arms around my neck, and pulled me down for a kiss.
A real man-woman kiss, not a mother-son peck. A good kiss. Oh, hell, a great kiss.
"I guess," she said, "I'm not being obvious enough or maybe you're just too hung up on the taboos to accept. I'm offering myself, David. I'm 46 and pregnant and I don't want to have to find a new man in my life. I love you, you love me, so," and she paused here, I'm sure for dramatic effect, and said, "Whattya say?"
"Mom, I," I started and she touched a finger to my lips.
"Call me Netty, Honey," she said, her hands moving to my hips, pulling me to her while she arched her back a little, pressing into me.
It helped.
I was hard suddenly and she was smiling, aware of my erection.
This time it was me doing the palms-to-the-cheeks thing, holding her face and meeting her eyes.
"Are you sure this is what you want, Netty?" I asked.
She smiled, and I thought I saw at least a hint of triumph in that smile.
"Yes," she said, "are you?"
Now it was a woman, still Mom but a woman, in my arms as we shared a kiss. Neither of us was the aggressor. This was as purely mutual a kiss as I ever experienced.
"Yeah," I thought, "I get what you liked so much about our lovely Netty, Dad."
I reached down, caught the hem of her top, and started pulling it up. Each light contract between my fingertips and her skin made her shiver and each shiver seemed to make me even harder although I knew that was impossible.
"Arms up," I said.
She smiled, a smile of pure happiness, as she lifted her arms to help me. I peeled the blouse up and off.
And I looked.
We had never been shy around each other and over the years I caught little glimpses, peeks of her. I knew what she looked like in a bikini.
But this was different. This wasn't Mom, giggling, and saying "Eyes in your head, Buster."
This was a woman with whom I expected to have sex in just a little while.
It was different and, yes, it was better.
I brushed my fingernails slowly down her arm, kissed her, and reached around to start on her bra.
I wasn't a virgin, that first time with Mom, and she was still "Mom," not yet "Netty" in my mind. I lost my virginity, and as I typed that line I thought, as I always do when I hear or read the phrase "lost my virginity,"
"How do you 'lose' something you've been trying so hard to get rid of since that first downy pubic hair appeared?"
In my case, I "lost" my virginity at, well, let's just say a pre-legal age, after begging the neighborhood slut for hours and promising to pay for our next three movie dates. I suppose, when you think of it, in many ways, she was a whore and I was a john, but I managed to shed my virginity. My point is, and yes, I generally manage to wander back to my points, that I was not unfamiliar with (Sorry, Mrs. O'Neil, my third-grade grammar teacher, but sometimes a double negative IS the best way to describe things in English) how those weird wire hooks that keep a woman's breasts caged worked.
Mom's a big woman, "buxom" is the word from the old hard-boiled crime novels I like, with big breasts. Her bra was heavy-duty with six of those wire hooks to contend with so it took a while. There was something about the way she held still, perfectly unmoving, that felt like what we were doing was a partnership. She was helping by not squirming around and making it hard for me, but she needed me to do this, or, well, my mind sort of flashed at that point as I wondered "Or what?" How would she get the damn thing off without me? I could picture her doing the double-jointed thing, reaching back for the hooks, but that seemed awkward to me since I could feel how tight it fit. Or maybe she would jerk it around until she could undo them in front where it would be easy to do.
But none of that mattered.
She held still, smiling, and I reached around, unhooking.
When I undid the last hook I liked the way it kind of sprang open.
Mom took a deep breath and arched her back, stretching but, I'm sure, showing off as well.
They were good boobs. I looked at the bra I held and saw 40DD on the tag.
At 46, they sagged dramatically. Her mammary glands, still full, made me think of the
Playboy
magazine centerfolds from the 1960s that featured women with boobs big enough that they sagged of their own weight. Mom's would have fit in that era. They were big and her areolas were big to match, covering about the bottom quarter of her breasts. Her nipples, centered in those areolas, were oddly small, little buttons. As I watched, the pale erectile tissue of her areolas tightened and pushed her nipples out. They were pale, barely a shade darker than the surrounding pale skin of her breasts. I was fascinated by the roadmap of blue veins that seemed to guide the eye to her nipples.
"Do I please you?" she asked, dragging my attention away from her breasts to her eyes.
There was, of course, only one proper answer to that question and I gave it.
"Yes," I said, kissing her before leaning back to start on the button of her jeans.
The angle was awkward so I eased to my knees.
I kissed her belly where it bulged from the tight jeans and had a thought.
I stood again, took her hands, and asked, "Do you like to be undressed by the Man of the House?"
"Yes," she said, her voice a little husky.
Well, she was the one who had started this, but I figured it was important to establish our, well, our positions I suppose you'd say, right up front.
"So," I said, smiling and pausing dramatically, "ask me for what you like. What you want."
This time her smile could only be called a "knowing smile."
"Please, Sir," she said and her voice was somehow younger, a girl's voice, "undress me."
She stepped closer, laying her hands on my chest, palms flat, in that way no man can ever resist.
"Please, Sir," she repeated and kissed me, a light brushing kiss across my lips, "undress me."
I kissed her back and got to my knees again.
Her jeans were so damn tight that the button cost me a broken fingernail before I got it loose. As I undid the zipper it was like her flesh, covered by the white material of her panties, flowed out of the expanding opening.
I worked the jeans down and realized I had my sequence off.
I lifted her foot to my lap and she fell, grabbing for my shoulder but tipped past the point of overbalance. I tried to grab her but my position was too awkward.
It was a true fall and I felt the thud through my knees.
"Oh, God," I said kind of knee walking to her. I knew enough first aid to not start moving her head around so I kind of knelt over her, asking, "Are you okay?"
"Yes," she said, giggling weakly, "I think seeing you down there made me light-headed."
"Seriously, Mom," I said, "Are you okay?"
"Yes," she said, rolling onto her side and then onto a sitting position, "But I think," she added, moving to hands and knees and then standing before sitting on the edge of the bed, "I'll sit here while you finish what you were doing."
She smiled and said, "I'm okay, David, really. Just a bit of a dizzy spell."
I held her eyes, a long look until she smiled, a real smile, and said "Really, honey, I'm fine. Just a little horny and needing you to finish what you're doing."
So I picked up where I left off.
I got her shoes and socks off, rubbed her plump feet for a few seconds, and then had her stand briefly while I FINALLY got that damn button clear and the zipper down.
I felt a moment of hesitation, maybe second thoughts or the damn taboo kicking in.
But that cold-blooded core took over. She was a woman and I wanted her so I gave the jeans a tug, got them past her hips, her panties coming with, and worked them down and off.
She was definitely a thick chick. Her hips and bubble butt flared dramatically from her relatively small waist. The active word there was "relatively." Later, before the baby bump was showing, I measured her. 40-30-44 if you're interested. So, hips and butt flared from a
relatively
small waist. I found the cellulite dimples of her hips and ass attractive so I bent and kissed that skin, making her giggle. The saddlebags at her hips were so big and soft they sort of sagged of their own weight. I kissed them too.
And it was making me hard.
God, the womanscent of her arousal was overwhelming, the good clean scent of womanneed.
She leaned back and parted her legs. She did it slowly, theatrically, and I was sure she had offered herself, her sex, to her share of other men like this. It was a practiced move.
And it worked. Her labia, seen from this angle, made a deep slit to the portal of her sex.
She was wet and ready. As I watched a little rush of clear, whitish natural lubricant flowed slowly from the bottom of her pussy and ran down her asscrack.
