For Liz ...
My mother had been behaving strangely. I thought it might have been something to do with her age – she was in her mid-forties - or maybe it was just that I didn't understand women. I hadn't had much experience with them. I was nearly nineteen, but my furtive groping with girls had left me unsatisfied, physically as well as emotionally, and I thought I was probably under-sexed. Mum and I had always been open about sex, and I'd tried to talk to her about it. She'd looked concerned for a moment, but then she just laughed, and said I was probably going through a phase, and that I'd grow out of it.
A little later, though, she kissed me goodnight in a way she'd never done before. She slid her arms round my neck, one hand cupping the back of my head, her body moulded to mine from breast to knee, looking into my eyes with an unreadable expression on her face, and then she'd slowly worked her mouth on mine for probably fifteen or twenty seconds, although at the time it seemed like years.
She had an ankle-length housecoat she sometimes wore, and she suddenly decided it didn't fit her – it was too large. One evening, she told me she'd taken it in, and wanted to know what I thought of it. She went to change into it, and when she returned I could hardly believe my eyes. It had buttons all the way up the front, but she'd only done up three or four of them, from her waist to her groin. Now the housecoat was extremely tight-fitting – I was surprised to see that she'd taken off her bra, and her full breasts were only half-concealed, almost bursting out the housecoat, and every time she moved a bare thigh emerged from the lower half. She circled lazily in front of me, allowing even more of her legs to escape, her breasts moving inside the thin material seductively. I stammered something about it being very nice, and she pressed herself against me and stroked my face, thanking me for the compliment. All I could think of was her soft body, naked under the housecoat, and I felt my penis stiffen.
Long, wet goodnight kisses had become the rule, and I found myself looking forward to them with increasing eagerness. Also, my mother seemed to be more and more forgetful about closing her bedroom door. I had to pass her room on my way back from the bathroom, and I'd often glimpse her moving around half naked, and once when she emerged from the bathroom she had only a towel wrapped round her waist, leaving her breasts completely bare. Likewise, I went into the kitchen one morning when she was doing the ironing, and to my amazement she was naked apart from her panties, but she seemed not to notice the way I stared at her.
It was a Saturday morning when she insisted that I went out shopping with her, although she knew I hated it. She wore a short, tight denim skirt, and a v-necked sweater, with obviously no bra beneath it. Her legs were bare, and on her feet she wore high-heeled sandals with cork soles that showed off her legs to perfection. I trailed around the shops with her, embarrassed but at the same time excited at the way men looked at her breasts and legs. She wanted to buy some new tops, and I waited outside the cubicle while she tried them on – again, she was careless about closing the curtain completely, and I was given frequent sightings of a bare breast lifting as she raised her arms above her head. Then I had to give my opinion on what she'd selected, and she watched my reaction as I stared at her body.
At lunchtime we went to a pub for a beer and a sandwich. Mum perched on a stool and crossed her legs. She took my hand and thanked me for coming out with her, and she let our hands rest on her bare thigh – the short skirt had ridden up considerably, and I had difficulty in not staring at her legs, as did several of the men in the bar, when they weren't gazing at her breasts.
Mum noticed it too, and smiled at me. 'I like it when men look at me,' she said. Her legs were lodged against mine as I stood beside her, and I could feel their warmth through my jeans, while I surreptitiously glanced down at her cleavage.
That evening Mum got out some photographs – she was still wearing her denim skirt and sweater, and sitting on the sofa and leaning forward over the coffee table meant that I had an opportunity to see even more of her thighs and the deep valley between her breasts.
She produced a packet of photos taken when she'd gone on a safari holiday in Kenya. I'd seen most of them before, the usual tourist pictures of scenery and wild animals, but then she took out some she hadn't shown me previously. They were taken by a lake at sunset, and the first one she handed me was of her wearing a bikini, stretched out on a rock enjoying the last rays of sunlight.
I studied it carefully, taking in every detail of her body, including the way her nipples poked at the tiny triangles of material that constituted the bikini top. There were a few more of her in different poses, and then she passed me two of her topless. Her breasts looked lovely, lush and ripe, and now her nipples jutted rigidly. I could hardly take my eyes off them, that is until Mum hesitated, then gave me half a dozen photos of her completely nude. I could hardly hold them steady as I saw the patch of hair at the base of her belly, and the way she smiled invitingly at the camera, her body completely exposed.
Mum glanced at me sideways as she took the pictures from me, and then she handed me some of a black boy about my age, and I caught my breath when I saw that he was naked. The setting sun gleamed on his ebony skin, and he was grinning at the camera, his penis flaccid. But in the next couple of shots he was semi-erect, and then there was one of him holding his cock, now completely hard, still smiling at the camera.
'That's Henry,' Mum said softly. 'He was the son of one of the guides, and we became –good friends ...' Her voice trailed away, and she passed me two more photos. I nearly dropped them in surprise when I saw that they were of her and Henry, both naked, their arms round each other as they looked at the camera. In the other one his arm was completely round her body, and his hand was cupping her breast, while her fingers were wrapped round his erect penis.
'Henry took the pictures of me, and I took the ones of him and for those I used the self-timer on the camera ...' Mum said, and I could feel her looking at me, studying my reaction.
'Did he – did he – do you, Mum?' I asked hesitantly, and she laughed throatily.
'Of course he did, darling! He loves white women – and I loved his body – especially the bit I was holding!' She took my hand and squeezed it – we were sitting side by side on the sofa, very close together, and she held my hand between our legs, which were almost touching anyway, and the back of my hand was pressed against her bare thigh.
'You know I go out with men – you aren't shocked, are you, darling?'
I just shook my head, unable to speak. Yes, I knew about her men, but this was different, seeing her naked with the boy, holding his cock, and imagining his hands on her, and him fucking her with the cock she was holding ...
Mum sighed and released my hand, to gather up the photos and put them back in the envelope.
'I'm sorry, darling – I shouldn't have shown them to you – I just thought you'd like to see them.'
Somehow we got through the rest of the evening, but when it was time to go to bed it was I who kissed her, holding her even closer than usual, and then I fled to my room.
On Sunday mornings I always took Mum a cup of tea in bed, and sat with her while she drank it – it was something I'd done since I was little. All her nightdresses were very low-cut, and made of very thin material that was practically translucent, and as always I kept glancing at her breasts swelling from her plunging neckline, and the shadowy nipples that pushed against their insubstantial coverings.
As always, I bent to kiss her on the forehead as she struggled to sit up, but she lifted her face in an unmistakeable invitation to kiss her on the lips. One strap of her nightdress slipped off her shoulder, almost completely baring her left breast, and I felt my penis hardening inside my pyjama trousers. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her as she casually replaced the strap and sipped her tea. She was wearing her black nightdress, made of some sort of filmy lace that was even more transparent than her other nighties, and there was no mistaking her nipples moving slightly inside it, nor the shadowy curving undersides of her breasts.
To try to take my mind off my mother's body, I started to ask her something about what she planned to do that day, but then her hand slipped and she spilled most of her tea into the saucer.
'Damn!' she said. 'I'm sorry, darling – could you take care of it for me?'
I took the cup and saucer and went to pour her another cup of tea, still thinking of her breasts, and hoping that my erection wasn't too obvious. But when I got back to her room I nearly dropped the tea in amazement – my mother was still sitting up in bed, but she'd taken off her nightdress, and her breasts were completely bare. She held out her hand to me, and I moved towards the bed, almost in a daze, staring at her body.
'Put that down, darling,' she said softly, and although my hand was shaking I managed to put the cup and saucer down on the bedside table without dropping it. 'Now put you arms round me,' she whispered.
Suddenly, I was holding my mother's naked body in my arms, and then we were kissing. I had thought our recent kisses were exciting, but this one was incredible. Her wet, soft warm lips parted as her tongue gently probed my teeth, trying to gain entry, her head twisted as her mouth worked on mine, our tongues finally met, and mine explored inside her mouth, tracing the inside of her lips, flirting with her tongue, caressing it with mine. Our mouths parted and reunited, wetly, gently, then more passionately. I felt my hands stroking her naked back, her skin silky-smooth, and then she was fumbling for the buttons of my pyjama jacket. She got them undone, and then, still kissing, she pushed the jacket off my shoulders, and she rubbed her naked breasts against my bare chest.
She broke away for a moment, smiling at me. 'I thought one of us should do something, and it didn't seem as if it was going to be you, darling, so it had to be me!'
Then we were kissing again, and her arms slid around my neck as she ground her breasts against me. The kiss lasted a very long time, and then she reached for my hand and carried it to her breast. It's yielding softness was like nothing I'd ever known or dreamed of, and I caressed it, fondled it, kneaded it, feeling her pebble-hard nipple in the palm of my hand. Then she slipped her hand into the slit of my pyjamas and gently stroked my throbbing penis.
