This story is in Incest but it could as easily be categorised Non-Consent, if you do not like the theme please do not read. I hope you enjoy this story, it is an original work and I assert my rights under copyright law.
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According to the social scientists, the politicians and the journalists, we live in an ageing society. I know this to be true. I also know that age is relative. When I was a young man in my late teens and early twenties, men of sixty appeared to be old, very old, as old as Methuselah! Now that I am sixty years of age, sixty seems young. There is so much I want to do and so little time to do it in.
I have wasted thirty years of my life in a marriage, which began with lust. The only way the girl of my dreams would have sex, was if she had a wedding ring. The attraction soon waned, the marriage became shear boredom and routine. Ironically finally ending in lust, when two years ago she, (my now ex-wife) decamped with a man fifteen years her junior.
I would like to travel, spend eight or nine months travelling around Europe. But that is not to be, because my mother, has moved in with me. For her age, eighty-five, she is active. Has all her faculties - she is not Ga-ga. She can cook and drives her car. Nor is she at all reclusive, she goes out with her friends and enjoys a drink.
Fate or providence appeared to set the timing. My wife departed with her new man, at almost the same time as my mother's partner Stan's death. As a dutiful son I tried to support mother cope with the loss. My mother claims she was helping me cope with my loss!
Somehow almost without my noticing mother moved into the spare room. Initially a temporary arrangement, mother kept her own home. Then almost without consulting me, she rented out her flat and moved in. "It is a matter of economics dear, two can live cheaper together than separately." She had said in a tone of voice that brooked no arguments.
"Say I brought someone home?" I said.
Mother countered, "I may bring someone home. We are both adults."
So it was mother stayed. Despite being active, mother is elderly and does need a certain amount of care. Unfortunately despite having bought myself a camper van, at this time I cannot go travelling and leave her alone.
It was the end of the month, we were busy at work, invoices to send out, contractors to be paid. I had worked late, which was not unusual. It was nearly midnight when I got home. The lights in the living room were on, the television still on. Mother was sprawled on the sofa snoring. As she often did in the evening Mother had got herself ready for bed, wearing a nightie and her dressing gown. Beside her on the coffee table was a three-quarters empty bottle of Bacardi.
It was not the most decorous pose. She slept with head back on a cushion, her mouth open slackly. One leg was out straight on the sofa, the other bent at the knee her foot on the floor.
I think I was going to wake her when I realised her nightie had risen up, her dressing gown was unfastened, this afforded me a glimpse of her pussy.
The sight of a pussy, even an old pussy began to give me an erection.
For Christ's sake!
I admonished myself,
That's your mother your looking at.
I was disgusted with myself - or so I told myself. But disgust did not disperse my erection.
The last time that I had had sex was about three months ago - a sort of sympathy screw during an office Christmas party, not very satisfying for either of us. A man has needs, even a sixty year old man, often I'd read a porn story or watch a video while jerking myself off as if I was sixteen not sixty!
Lust began to overcome my scruples. I knelt on the floor beside her leg and looked closer at Mother's pussy. Carefully I lifted the hem of her nighty onto her belly. Her labia seemed to invite me on, they were slightly parted revealing to me a glimpse of her clitoris and her vulva.
onto her belly.
How deep was she really asleep? "Mum are you OK?"
She did not respond to my voice. By now I was beginning to formulate a plan. I got up, stood by her shoulder, and shook her lightly, "Mum."
There was still no reaction. I could smell the sickly sweet tang of rum on her breath. My hand slid from her shoulder to her breast, pushing the shoulder strap of her nightie to one side. Now her breast was in my hand, in a moment things would go too far to step back. One last time, "Mum."
There no reaction apart from the fact that I could feel her nipple hardening against the palm of my hand.
I glanced at the coffee table again, suddenly it all made sense. Not only had mother drunk most of a bottle of Bacardi, but also on the table were her sleeping tablets. I looked closer, four of the blister packs were empty. This would not be not the first time that mother had zonked herself with a mixture of drink and drugs, she was dead to the world. The question was, how dead to the world?
