This is the story of what happened after Joan, our next-door-neighbour, caught me fucking my mother on a sunbed on the patio at the back of our house.
It contains quite a bit of very explicit anal sex, so if that's not your thing, please move on.
For those who continue reading, thank you and please leave your comments/feedback as these are very important to an author.
Sylviafan
I'll start this story just after our neighbour, Joan, appeared round the angle of the house and saw me fucking my mother in the missionary position on a sunbed on our back patio. I'd told mum, when I was in the long and complex process of seducing her, that nobody ever came around the back of the house, they always knocked on the front door, which was true, ninety-nine percent of the time. So it was a shock for both of us when Joan from next door appeared and stared in disbelief and then shot back round the house and disappeared.
I was just about to come in my mother's pussy, so the timing, for me, couldn't have been worse. I had a sort of semi-climax and leaked my spunk into my mother as she lay rigid in shock underneath me. Then she pushed me off and we bundled ourselves through the patio doors into the dining room and mum slid the door shut and we stood looking at each other.
'Well that's done it!' said mum. 'We'll have the police around before the evening's out! Oh, God! How can we have been so stupid?' She fell forward into my arms, half sobbing, and I held her tightly and kissed the top of her head, and my spunk leaked out of her and dribbled down the inside of her thigh.
'It's ok,' I whispered. 'Joan won't say anything.'
'I hope you're right!'
For those readers who haven't read Chapter One of this story, my mum, Gillian, is a university lecturer in English literature. She's five feet six or thereabouts, and with a trim figure. Not as slender as she was twenty years ago but she looks good. She's got nice long legs, a full bosom and a pretty face and collar-length hair, dyed ash-blonde. She's got a rather elfin face with a slightly pointed chin and a generous, full-lipped mouth. Above this is a straight nose and brown eyes with dark-brown eyebrows. She's sixty-two now and her face is showing some lines and crow's feet and loose skin at her throat, but when she's made up and dressed for work she looks really nice.
And, just for completeness, I'm Michael, or Mike. I'm just shy of six-feet tall and wiry. I've got a mop of dark-brown hair and a friendly sort of face that my mum says is made for laughing.
The previous summer, just before my mum's sixty-first birthday, I accidently saw her masturbating on a recliner on our back patio. It had a profound effect on me and I spent most of the rest of that scorching summer trying to seduce her. As you will have noticed, I eventually succeeded and for the past nine months or so mum and I had lived like man and wife. Well, to be frank, we had sex a lot more than most of the married couples that I know. We fucked every night, and at least twice a day at the weekend. The sex was sensational, driven both by the incest taboo and our mutual love of intimacy.
I couldn't get enough of my mother's body, and she appeared to feel the same about mine. We fucked and sucked and licked. We used vibrators and dildoes and bondage restraints. We did oral and anal and loved them both.
And now Joan from next door had seen us both naked and fucking on the sunbed.
I was possible, just possible, I suggested to my mother, that Joan hadn't recognised me. After all, she'd never seen me naked and I'd had my back to her. Mum took little comfort from this, although she did admit it was a possibility.
The crunch came when bedtime arrived and mum refused to allow us to sleep together. I tried to tell her that it was a severe case of shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted but she wouldn't relent. She was tense and miserable; if the news got out that Gillian Parsons was fucking her son it would be she, as the parent, who would attract the most odium, the greatest condemnation. Her career would be at an end and her social and family life would be in tatters.
So I didn't press the point but it was a lonely and miserable week that followed that awful Sunday afternoon. We didn't touch or even kiss, and our conversations were forced and stilted. The summer looked bleak indeed and I was considering suggesting to mum that we move somewhere else when, on the following Saturday afternoon, as we dully watched television in the sitting room, there was a knock on the front door.
Mum went to answer it and I heard some muffled voices. A minute later Joan from next door came into the room, followed by mum, her face a mask of woe.
I've always been a great fan of the more mature lady, and I've always had the hots for Joan Armstrong, who lives next door with her husband Dave. I'll take this opportunity to describe Joan, as she's quite central to this story.
She's petite, no more than five feet two or three, and perfectly formed with sculpted legs, well-defined hips, a narrow waist, a full bust and thick, black, wavy hair. She has a rather round face, like a doll's, with very full lips, and a snub nose and big blue eyes with very white whites. She's three or four years younger than mum, maybe fifty-eight or fifty-nine, though it hardly shows in her face, unless you get really close up. But despite her age I always used to think she looked innocent, and my adolescent fantasies about her knew no bounds.
She was always kind to me when I was a kid and, her sexual attractiveness aside, I liked her very much. Particularly when it dawned on me that her husband was a self-centred and lazy bastard who bullied his mild-tempered wife into doing everything for him.
Mum invited Joan to sit down and offered her a cup of tea. Joan declined with a thank you and a smile and I was glad because I didn't want to be left in the room with her while mum made the drinks.
Joan took the easy chair, which faces the settee, and mum sat down at the other end of the settee, a good three feet from me, and we looked at Joan and Joan looked at us. She seemed embarrassed, not surprisingly. Eventually she spoke.
'Excuse me if I'm a little bit nervous; this is really difficult for me. But I thought I ought to come round and put your minds at rest. I'm sorry it's taken nearly a week to summon up the courage.'
'It's about Sunday, isn't it,' my mother said, quietly.
'What you and Michael do is entirely your affair,' Joan continued. 'Obviously it was a bit of a shock to see you both like that and I'm sorry I just turned and ran...' She paused, as though recalling the incident. 'Actually I suppose I couldn't really have done anything else, could I?
'What I really came round to say was that I haven't told anybody else and I won't tell anybody else, ever.'
I looked at my mother and saw the tension drain out of her. Her shoulders relaxed and her face lost that strained look. I was probably undergoing the same metamorphosis.
'Thank you,' she said, with sincerity. 'Are you sure you won't have a tea?'
This time Joan accepted. She looked a bit more relaxed too. Mum disappeared into the kitchen and I was left with our neighbour.
'Thank you,' I echoed. 'It would have been devastating for us if word got out, especially for mum.'
'Yes, I can imagine.'
We lapsed into silence and after a few minutes mum appeared with a tray of tea and some chocolate digestives on a plate. She fussed around with the teapot and the milk and then we sat with our mugs in our hands and looked at each other, nobody sure of what to say. Some comment about the weather would have seemed banal in the extreme, given the circumstances. Mum eventually broke the silence.
'I'm sorry you came upon us like that, Joan. It must have been as great a shock to you as it was to me. Us. You see nobody ever comes around the side of the house; I thought the side gate was locked but evidently it wasn't.'
'I knocked on the front door but when you didn't answer I thought I'd pop round the back. I could see both your cars were on the drive. I'm ever so sorry. It's not as if it was anything important, I just wanted to borrow that big casserole dish.'
There was another silence which we tried to fill by sipping our tea and reaching for a biscuit. It was mum who spoke first, again.
'It started last summer,' she began, and I looked at her in surprise. 'It's alright Michael, I'm not going to give Joan any of the gory details.
'And since we started sleeping together I've felt like a new woman. More relaxed, more confident, a greater sense of well-being. Sleeping better. I was lonely, Joan, as I think you know, and Michael has made me feel like a whole woman again. A whole person.
'Oh I know what we're doing is against the law, though it's not in some countries, like France for example. But we're consenting adults and so I think the decision should rest with us. It's not as if I can have any more children,' she added, with a hint of defensiveness.
'You don't have to explain it to me, Gillian,' said Joan. 'If I had a son like Michael I'd probably feel the same.' It was supposed to be a joke but nobody laughed and Joan went bright red and looked at her watch and said she needed to be going.
I heard the front door close and mum came back in and I stood up and took her in my arms and we kissed and her mouth opened against mine and her tongue slipped into my mouth and I hugged her tight and pressed my growing erection into her loins and she pressed back and suddenly we were both light-headed with desire.
'Bed?' I suggested.
'Oh God, yes.'
We flew up the stairs to mum's bedroom and stripped off in record time. Then we were on the bed, naked, mouths fastened together, my hands on my mother's breasts, cupping and squeezing the soft flesh, feeling for her nipples, hot and rubbery.
She gasped as I squeezed her thimble shaped buds hard and kissed her cheeks and her throat and her shoulders and she writhed in pleasure as I worked my way down to her bosom, taking a nipple in my mouth and sucking and biting. She squealed as I bit down harder and then I was on the move again, kissing the soft flesh of her tummy, tickling my nose with her soft pubic hair, parting her thighs, seeking her labia and sucking the fleshy lips into my mouth. She was very wet; her secretions musky and light, almost sweet. Her love honey, I used to imagine it as and I lapped it up with relish, my cock rigid, part of my brain revelling in the fact that this was my biological mother I was going down on; this was full-blown incest and it was, as always, mind-blowing!
I slid my tongue into her as far as I could get it and licked upwards, rasping over her clitoris, making her moan and shudder with desire.
'Yes,' she gasped. 'Oh God, yes!'
I sucked her little pearly bud into my mouth and flicked the tip of my tongue over it. At the same time, I coated a finger in her juices and found her anus. I slid my finger into her sphincter and pushed it deep into her rectum, and my mother came with a scream, twisting her body and clutching at the duvet with white knuckles.
