Rich's Mum

FOREWORD:

This was an odd one to write. It started off as an idea for a simple stroke story about two friends and a weird incestuous mother and then, as they so often do, the characters became a little more two- and then three-dimensional, until they started quietly insisting that readers should be given a fuller picture of what was going on and be allowed to make their own minds up about the situation for themselves. So, here it is. The second part will almost certainly be a bit shorter and feature some 'proper' sex instead of all this slow-burn stuff.

NB: Rich and Mark are in their first year at university and are both 18. Priscilla is in her early 40s.

Shouldering his backpack, Mark Dennett made his way through Cossington station's crowded concourse, narrowly avoiding tripping over a particularly doddery OAP's shopping trolley and murmuring a shy apology as he inadvertently bumped into a well-dressed middle-aged woman who had, for some reason known only to herself, stopped suddenly in front of him.

Returning the woman's embarrassed smile with one of his own, he pushed on, eventually breaking free of the crowd and reaching the relative calm of the side entrance to Marks'. He loved Christmas but it was a bloody nightmare if you were reliant on public transport.

"Mark!" he heard a familiar voice call. "Over here, mate!"

He looked up and grinned. There was Richard, waving manically at him like a right tosser. Shifting the weight of his backpack from one shoulder to the other, he made his way over. His friend hadn't changed much. A little bit thinner in the face maybe, but still the same gangly, gormless teenager he'd last seen the night before they'd both left for their respective unis.

"Good to see you, Rich," he said. And it was. Richard Macauley was a good friend and a good laugh and, with everything going in his life at the moment, he was in sore need of both.

His brown eyes flashing with amusement, Richard clapped him on the shoulder. "Still gay as ever, then."

Mark waved the jest away. "Yeah, yeah. I've been having my fair share of cock at uni, mate, I can tell you."

Richard barked his strange, staccato laugh and turned to head off towards the main road. Mark fell into step beside his friend and smiled. The bedraggled shop fronts they passed glittered with tinsel and fairy lights, transparent attempts to entice shoppers looking with a promise of Christmas spirit that was as hollow as it was gaudy. Well-worn Christmas songs blared tinnily from doorways, from which tired-looking shop assistants stared vacantly. Cossington was still a bit of a shithole, but it was home and Rich made things better.

"How's Angie?"

Well, apart from his knack of asking exactly the wrong question at exactly the wrong time.

Mark blew out a breath. He'd been expecting this question and he still didn't know how to answer it. He decided on brutal honesty.

"We split up, Rich."

"Oh,

fuck

!"

"Yeah. 'Oh fuck' indeed."

Angie Sanders -- blonde, blue-eyed and with a body that would make your average Babestation babe green with envy -- had been a more or less permanent fixture by Mark's side for the last couple of years. Until, suddenly, she wasn't. Mark had his suspicions about exactly what had happened and he thought it probably involved the post-grad lecturer in American History who had been Angie's seminar leader for the Civil War module. Suddenly, the decision to go to the same university didn't look so clever. At least he wasn't taking the same course as her, but even so...

"I'm sorry, mate."

"It's alright." They'd arrived at the bus stop. It was raining -- the kind of cold, fine drizzle which soaked you without you realising it -- and the queue was already quite long. "Back to yours, eh?"

Rich glanced away. "Let's shoot some pool first. There's a pub down the road that's just got a new table."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. The Ship."

"The Ship? That dump?"

Rich shrugged but looked a little defensive. "Yeah, well, it beats standing in the rain waiting for a fucking bus, doesn't it?"

Mark was about to point out that the rain didn't look like easing off anytime soon and that they'd have to wait for a fucking bus eventually, but something in his friend's eyes strangled the words in his throat. Instead, he shrugged and followed Rich down the road, weaving in and out of clumps of slow-moving shoppers laden down with shopping and looking about as miserable as he felt.

As he trudged through the rain and splashed through the puddles, though, he remembered the phone conversation he'd had with Rich just a couple of days ago. And began to wonder...

*****

"... and it'll be good to see you, mate."

"Yeah."

"Look, with everything going on at home, do you mind if I stayed with you for a couple of nights?"

"Erm, yeah... sure... I suppose..."

"I suppose? What's the problem? I've stayed at yours before, haven't I?"

"Yeah, I know. It's just..."

"And your mum's always pretty sound, isn't she?"

"Yeah..."

"Look, it's alright. I can stay at my sister's if the worst comes to the worst. It's just..."

"No, no, it'll be fine. She'll be fine..."

*****

The black ball span into the top corner pocket and Mark grinned. Rich still had three balls on the table. He was shit at pool and he knew it.

"Fucking

hell

!"

"This was your idea," Mark pointed out.

"Yeah," Rich said, gloomily.

Mark glanced at the clock that hung on the wall, just below the big section of peeling wallpaper. "It's getting on," he said.

"Yeah," Rich said. And this time, Mark got the feeling that his unhappiness wasn't feigned.

"Come on, Rich," he said, feeling just a little irritated at his friend's reluctance to get home and let him put his feet up. "What's the worst that could happen?" He paused. "Your mum

could

make her lasagne, I suppose..."

Rich laid his cue down on the table and smiled weakly. "I'll suggest we get a take away."

"Sounds like a plan."

Together they left the pub and headed back to the bus stop.

*****

"Mark! How lovely to see you!"

Wrists dripping jewellery and flashing him her most dazzling smile, Mrs Priscilla Macauley enfolded her son's friend in an embrace that lasted perhaps a second or two too long to be strictly comfortable. She pulled back for a moment and gazed at his face, her wide blue eyes scrutinising him.

"What a handsome young man, don't you think, Richie?"

"Yeah," muttered Richard as he dumped Mark's backpack into the hallway. "He's gorgeous."

Mrs Macauley leaned closer in to Mark, close enough that he could smell the alcohol on her breath. "He's just jealous," she whispered. More loudly, she declared, "I'll put the kettle on." She sashayed away towards the kitchen. Mark couldn't help watch her rear, still pert and shapely underneath her thin cotton dress.

Truth be told, he'd always had a thing for Rich's mum. Nothing serious, of course, but Priscilla Macauley had once been a stage actress ("I've acted with Ian McKellen, don't you know? Before he got his knighthood.") and she still possessed a certain poise and faded glamour that somehow managed to get to him.

He shrugged out of his damp coat and hung it up on the coatrack by the front door alongside Rich's. He glanced at his friend who seemed less out of sorts now that he was home. "You got the latest FIFA?" he asked.

Rich grinned. Unlike pool, FIFA was a game he excelled at. "Oh, yes."

"Great, we'll..."

"I have put the kettle on," announced Mrs Macauley grandly. She was leaning against the frame of the kitchen door in a stance that at first glance seemed to be casual, but on a second look was clearly studied. Her right arm rested against the painted wood, her head held upright, blue eyes narrowing slightly, while her straw-blonde hair, shoulder-length and loosely curled, framed her pretty face. Her dress fit her body perfectly and her legs were shapely, although the effect of well-toned elegance was slightly ruined by the pink fluffy house slippers she was wearing. Her breasts were full, though -- fuller than he remembered, maybe -- and the top button of her dress was undone, revealing lightly-tanned skin and a tantalising glimpse of cleavage.

"Erm, good, Mum," said Rich. "Do you mind bringing the tea up to my room when it's brewed? We're going to play FIFA for a bit."

Rich's mother allowed a thin, wistful smile to pass across her lips. "Of course, darling. Whatever you say."

She moved her gaze to Mark for a moment and then returned to the kitchen.

Mark followed Rich up the stairs, feeling a strange sense of anticipation fluttering in his gut.

*****

"And that makes it three-nil."

Mark scowled. He didn't mind being beaten by Rich on FIFA, but his friend's apparent need to comment on every significant moment in the match tended to grate after a while. He watched the replay of his friend's goal morosely, relaxing his grip on the controller for a while. It was a pretty well-worked goal, to be fair, he thought.

The door to Rich's bedroom opened and his mum walked in, carrying two cups of tea. She set them down next to the two of them at the foot of Rich's bed. This was a manoeuvre that necessitated some bending over and, for a split second, Mark found himself looking straight down the front of her dress at two gloriously firm half-globes of flesh nestled together in a lacy contraption that looked barely able to contain them.

Had she had work done?

Mark wouldn't put it past her.

She straightened up in front of the TV screen. Rich had paused the game when she'd entered so it didn't matter so much that she was blocking Mark's view. Except that it

did

. She was in fantastic shape and Mark had to admit that her toned legs and shapely figure were having an effect on him.

"Is he beating you, Mark?" She turned to favour Mark with a heavily-lidded gaze that he could only describe as 'sultry'. He felt his cock beginning to stir in his jeans. "He's good at that." She turned her attention to Rich, ruffling his hair affectionately. "Aren't you, darling?" Her hand fell to his cheek, stroking it gently in a manner that instantly made Mark feel very uncomfortable. Her voice had fallen to a breathy whisper. "You like a good beating, don't you?"

Mark glanced across at Rich whose face was a mask of conflicting emotions: embarrassment and resentment, yes, but also a longing that seemed almost obscene under the circumstances. He licked his dry lips uncertainly, wondering exactly what was going on here.

"Don't, Mum," he heard his friend murmur quietly. "Please..."

She appeared not to have heard him. Winking at Mark, she made her way to the door, turning briefly to announce, "Food'll be ready in about fifteen minutes. It's stew." With a rather attractive air of self-knowledge she smiled at them. "No lasagne today, I'm afraid."

When she'd gone, Rich sighed and picked up his controller. "Mad cow," he muttered.

Not able to bring himself to agree with that assessment, Mark returned his focus to the game. "Time for a historic come-back, then," he said, but his jollity was forced and the erection that he had somehow developed at some point during the last few minutes was only now beginning to subside.

*****

Tea was pleasant enough. They sat around the small dining table on scratched but solid chairs, and ate and talked. At times, Rich's mum seemed to be lost in a world all of her own, her pretty blue eyes unfocused and lips pursed as if in deep contemplation. At others, she was almost garrulous, talking animatedly in between mouthfuls of food, waving her fork or jabbing it to punctuate whatever point she was making. And then, occasionally, she simply gazed at her son with a look of something approaching adoration on her face.

Mark was finding it difficult to tear his eyes away from her. She was a world away from the pre-packaged glamour of Angie and her friends, whose fake tans, fake eyebrows and fake smiles seemed to come cookie-cutter from the same style handbook. He had thought he had loved Angie but it seemed her feelings for him were as false as her eyelashes. By comparison, Mrs Macauley's beauty, somewhat faded and worn over time admittedly, was the real thing. Her features were not quite as delicate or obviously pretty as Angie's, but her cheekbones were high, her lips full and her eyes captivatingly beautiful. She was, in short, a woman -- not a girl. It was perhaps a cliché to think it, but her attractiveness was as much to do with her character as her physical features.

Not that anything would happen, of course. Rich was his best mate and had been since primary school, when they'd bonded over their shared love of some short-lived cartoon series about super-powered vegetables. He wasn't stupid enough to do anything to jeopardise that even in the unlikely event that Mrs Macauley was interested in him. He enjoyed her company, though. There was something very comfortably sexy about her.

And her stew wasn't bad either.

Watching her take the mostly cleaned plates into the kitchen, Mark turned to Rich. "That was pretty good!"

"Yeah." Rich seemed to shake himself and return to something approaching the slightly awkward but fun-loving lad Mark had known for most of his life. He smiled. "Look, I'm sorry about being so... uptight. Things have been a bit weird round here lately, but..." He took a deep breath. "Well, maybe you being around will be a good thing."

"I like to think I have a positive impact on all I come across," Mark said, smiling. But he didn't really have much of a clue what his friend was talking about. He didn't have an opportunity to find out either, as Mrs Macauley re-entered the dining room with a chocolate gateau-laden plate in one hand and a jug of cream in the other.

"Dessert," she said, placing both items carefully on the table. "I've got cream. Rich likes cream, don't you, Rich?" Rich's face had once again transformed into a mask of embarrassment and yearning. His mother was smiling at him -- a little sadly, Mark thought. "And so do I."

With a theatrical flourish, she dipped her finger into the jug of cream and brought it to her mouth, sucking its tip suggestively, all the while staring at her son, who appeared utterly transfixed by her gaze, squirming under it in that curious mixture of pain and pleasure.

Mark stared in astonishment. It was the most overtly sexual display he'd ever witnessed from her and it had made him instantly hard. It also challenged his earlier thinking about the woman. Far from being comfortably sexy -- a distant fantasy figure to toy with in idle moments -- she had suddenly become

dangerously

sexy, a woman whose playfulness had just gone beyond mild flirtation into something altogether more purposeful.

And Rich knew it, too. The look in his eyes was an intense pleading -- part desire and part desperation.

Time seemed to stretch to breaking point, the three of them held in a set of connections that Mark could not fully comprehend but knew without a doubt was there. In this moment, Rich's mother, all experienced sensuality and almost heart-breaking vulnerability, was the most beautiful -- and desirable - thing he'd ever seen.

"Mum," Rich whispered, hoarsely.

His mother blinked. And became a flurry of movement. "Oh, dear. Whatever am I doing keeping you waiting for your gateau?" She picked up the cake slice and, in no time at all, had divided the gateau up into eight more or less equal slices and began dishing them out onto their waiting plates.

That done, she paused dramatically and gave Mark a dazzling smile.

"Let's get stuck in, eh?"

*****

"So come on, then. What happened?"

The two friends had gone back to Rich's room to drink cans of lager, play on Rich's Xbox for a bit, and finally settle down for the night. Rich's mum had come in at one point and, in a very business-like way, put up the air-bed for Mark. Whatever had prompted the flirtatious display at the dinner table had, it seemed to Mark, been determinedly subdued. Perhaps she realised she had embarrassed her son earlier.

Although Rich was clearly relieved by this, Mark couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. Still, he reasoned, it wasn't as if anything could happen anyway.

He looked up at Rich and shrugged.

"What do you mean?"

Rich was in his bed, which was a little bit higher than the air-bed next to it. He looked down at Mark, rolling his eyes in exasperation.

"What do you mean what do I mean? Angie. What happened with Angie?"

Mark sighed. He supposed it was inevitable they'd end up talking about his ex. At least, they weren't talking about his mother and her stupid boyfriend.

"What's to tell? I thought I loved her. I thought she loved me. Turns out I was wrong. We just... drifted apart once we got to uni. It's just one of those things..."

Rich paused.

"Did you... you know?"

Mark stared at him. "What?"

Rich shifted a little under his covers. "You know. How far did you get with her?"

"What kind of a question is that?"

"I don't know." Rich shrugged. "She was pretty hot. I just... never mind."

Mark leaned back on the airbed. He couldn't be certain, but he thought the sheets he was under smelled a little of Mrs Macauley's perfume.

"We fucked a couple of times," he said after a while, his voice quiet. "She was a bit weird about it. She..." He paused. "She treated sex like it was... I don't know... like a treat you give to your dog after it's performed a trick. I mean, it was good... she got into it... but... I don't know... It was a bit weird."

He glanced up to see Rich staring at him intently. "Yeah," his friend said, quietly. "I understand."

Did he? Somehow, Mark doubted it.

"She gave decent head," he volunteered, shortly after Rich turned off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into a companionable darkness. "But she never let me go down on her. Said it was too sensitive." He laid back, resting his head on his upstretched arms. "I don't know. Thinking back on it, I wonder if breaking up wasn't inevitable." He glanced across at his friend. He couldn't see him clearly; he was just a humped outline under the blanket. "What about you? Have you got anyone?"

"No," came a flat reply. "Not really."

"Not anyone you've got your eye on?"

"No. There's a couple of nice girls at uni, but they're just friends."

"You never know."

Rich sighed. A touch forlornly, Mark thought. "Yeah. That's true."

The conversation was fading away, and Mark found himself missing those times when, as younger teenagers, they'd sat up all night playing on the Xbox and talking incessantly about girls or City's chances in the league or the latest episode of whatever TV series had caught their imagination at the time. There had been no awkward silences then, no vague answers to painful questions.

Sometimes being an adult wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

The bedroom door opened.

Rich's mum was framed in the doorway by the light flooding in from the landing. Her hair fell in loose waves around her face and shoulders. She was wearing a long, elegant nightie of some sort; it was thin enough to be rendered almost transparent by the light behind her and her outline was breathtakingly feminine.

"Hello, boys," she said, slowly. "I was just passing and heard you talking..."

"Mum," said Rich. He had sat up when the door had opened and now blinked at his mother. Mark thought he looked... worried.

"I just thought I'd say goodnight," his mother said, as she took one and then another step into the room. "Properly."

"That's nice, Mum," said Rich quickly, "but there's no..."

Mark watched silently as Rich's mum walked over to her son's bed and sat on it, about halfway down. From his vantage point on the air-bed, he could see her clearly. The 'nightie' was, in fact, a negligee, thin-strapped and made of pink satin and black lace. Although it covered her legs, it left her arms bare and Mark watched, dry-mouthed, as she leaned forward and reached out to touch her son's cheek tenderly.