I'd moved in with my wife Rachel and her mother, Joan, even before we got married; it'd never even been a point of discussion, they shared a huge rambling house at the stables the two of them owned. Except in extremis I'm not involved with their business; horses never seem too keen on me, apparently I don't 'have an affinity' with them? I have a plumbing business, though that too is based at the stables.
The Gerrity stables were opened by Rachel's great-grandfather; he'd been a successful jockey then began training race horses, with equal success, in 1960. It became a family business when Joan's father took up the licence thirty years later, with the lady herself inheriting it at the tender age of twenty-six, when her father died in 2009. Joan's mother had died in a riding accident fifteen years earlier, when Rachel was only nine years old.
Until I married Rachel two years ago, Grandpa-Joe had been the only man in Joan and Rachel's lives. The story was that Joan had fallen pregnant at sixteen to an apprentice jockey from Italy who worked for Joe, but he'd skipped the country, the moment he found out. Around the village pubs, less kindly folk suggest that several lads had skipped town when word of Joan's pregnancy spread and that nobody, not least Joan herself, knew which one of them she ought to be trying to track down.
Whatever, at twenty-six with a primary school aged daughter in tow, Joan had a sixty-box racing stable to run. Joan retained, indeed still retains a Trainer's Licence, but knew that she didn't have the knowledge or experience to be successful, so rapidly transitioned the business: They still house a few second rate steeplechasers in the yard, several point-to-pointers and hunters too, along with ponies of varying sizes of their own, for Rachel's riding school side-line.
For the most part however, the stables are filled with injured horses and pregnant mares from other racing yards. While Joan didn't know the racing game, even at twenty-six she'd gained a reputation for foaling mares and nursing sick and injured horses back to race-winning form. Joan's reputation has since spread far beyond the local area and over the years several Group One winning horses have been born or nursed back to health at the Gerrity Yard.
The yard's a seven days a week, often twenty four hours a day undertaking, but Joan and Rachel, along with their dedicated staff keep it going and very profitably too. Whilst free-time's in short supply, Joan and Rachel do give each other a break at the weekends, with Joan getting a lie-in on Saturdays and Rachel enjoying her morning off on a Sunday. Being a Monday to Friday sort of guy, I of course get to lie-in on both mornings.
This tale starts on a Saturday morning last August: I was laid in my bed at about nine o'clock, covers thrown back, eyes only half-open and a hand sliding leisurely along the length of my erect cock. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, but I hadn't given that much thought; Rachel probably hadn't closed it when she'd got up at five-thirty. Or at least I didn't give it much thought until I saw, or perhaps sensed, movement beyond it.
I couldn't see through the doorway, but the dressing table mirror in the corner reflected a partial view onto the landing. It was far darker out there than inside my bedroom so I couldn't really 'see', anything or anyone, but there seemed to be an area of slightly lighter shadow just beyond the doorway and I sensed that it moved. Rachel was out in the yard, I'd heard her shouting only a few seconds earlier; it could only be Joan.
Joan's thirty-nine, but still as fit as a butcher's dog, green-eyed, copper-blonde hair, around five-six and athletically slim. Save for Rachel's more Mediterranean colouring the two women could be mistaken for sisters rather than mother and daughter; their lithe frames being much as you might expect given their shared heritage from a long line of steeplechase jockeys.
The notion that Joan might be watching me whack-off put a whole new twist on my fantasising. Taking care not to look directly towards that mirror, I resumed stroking my cock and made an effort to be more... demonstrative about each stroke. I don't recall who or indeed what I'd been fantasising about in the first place, but by the end it was Joan who was filling my thoughts.
My climax wasn't long in arriving and that too was showy; rather than wrap my cock in the handkerchief that lay beside me, I blew my load straight up into the air, from where it sprayed down onto my thighs and belly. In that moment I thought I heard a small yelp -- beyond the satisfied groan which I released myself - but that too could've been just wishful thinking.
I stayed where I was and listened... all was silence for another ten or fifteen minutes until I heard Joan go into the bathroom and a few minutes later head downstairs. In usual circumstances I would likely have followed soon after, but that morning I stayed in bed until I heard Rachel returning from the yard; I wasn't confident that I could maintain a conversation or even just control my expression in the kitchen with Joan alone.
I needn't have worried, when I went down at about ten thirty the girls were deep in conversation about the stable yard and neither one, Joan most especially paid me much attention at all. Throughout that day and indeed the whole of the following week, Joan never once gave any indication that she might've been out on the landing watching me. I would've noticed If she had, I watched her closely.
Despite that, I couldn't bring myself to accept that it had just been a figment of my febrile imagination, so as I went to bed on Friday evening, I opened the blind on the landing window. It was at the opposite end to our bedroom doorway and overlooked the stable yard, so for privacy it was rarely opened. I didn't roll it up entirely, so not obviously open, only perhaps a third of the way up, but hopefully sufficient to shed a little light.
I was awake when Rachel went out in the morning and she fully closed the door behind herself; when I next woke up at eight-thirty it was ajar, by a good five or six inches. I took care not to glance toward the dressing table as I made a big show of stretching, yawning and rubbing the sleep from my eyes, then throwing off the covers I began stroking my shaft in the same elaborate manner as I had the week before.
Though it wasn't quite the same, my cock was already bar-hard and I didn't want to waste my erection if I was proved right. While the action was flamboyant, my hand was actually barely brushing against my shaft during the three or four minutes I gave it before risking a sideways glance toward the mirror. Bingo! Joan was out there watching.
I could make out Joan's shadowy outline and over the next minute or so it resolved itself as my eyes focused: Joan was wearing a shapeless cream-coloured nightgown, her left hand was massaging her breasts -- possibly tweaking at the nipples? - while the right massaged at her groin. As I watched Joan's right hand scrabbled to raise the hem of her gown and when the fabric fell back, Joan's hand remained beneath it.
I continued to watch for a couple more minutes, the lively movement of the night gown's fabric around Joan's crotch indicated that her right hand was working feverishly and the expression on Joan's face suggested that it was achieving results. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves, then called out in a clear voice: "It's rude to peer through doorways. Come in here Joan."
Joan froze in the instant, her expression betraying a mixture of embarrassment, shock and perhaps more than a little fear. Joan jerked her right hand free of her nightdress -- and presumably her panties too? - as she glanced first toward the staircase and then back towards her own bedroom; I didn't allow her the time to decide: "I won't ask you again Joan... Come here... Now!"
Joan shuffled through the door, her face beet-red and eyes downcast; once inside the room she looked sheepishly toward me beneath half-lowered eyelids. "Not there... Over here!" I waved her toward the right side of my bed, then held my arm rigid as I pointed to a spot on the floor almost beside me. Joan hesitated and glanced back toward the landing, as she did so, I snarled "No! Over here... Now!"
Joan advanced slowly, her eyes never once leaving the carper even once she'd arrived at the position I'd indicated. I withdrew my arm as Joan approached, allowing her room to stand on the precise spot that I'd decreed. Joan stood there trembling and silent, her eyes resolutely avoiding mine; save for an increase in her tremors, there was no change in Joan's demeanour even as my hand returned.
Neither of us said a word as my right hand reached and clasped Joan's taut calf muscle; though Joan produced a mewling whimper as my hand slid upward to her knee, my forearm lifting the nightdress' hem as it rose. That whimper became a small yelp as my hand continued to her thigh and when it stopped perhaps five inches above, Joan's trembles returned with a vengeance.
Neither of us uttered a word, but I could feel my heartbeat racing and hear Joan's heavy gasping breaths as I loitered. As my hand next began to stroke the soft flesh of Joan's inner thigh, she began to emit a quiet, almost feline purring sound; with each upward stroke my hand slid a little higher, while on the downstroke, my hand never quite returned to where it'd started from.
After a half-dozen such strokes my index finger bumped lightly against the damp fabric of Joan's panties; that impact garnered another of those small yelps. When it returned to deliver a second impact, I didn't afterwards lower it again; instead I swept the finger right, left and then right again across the damp fabric and yielding flesh which I could feel beneath.
Joan responded by shuffling her feet and releasing a protracted groan; rather than clamping her thighs against my intruding hand, that foot-shuffle eased them further apart. A twist of the wrist and my hand encapsulated and squeezed Joan's mons, while my fingers pressed into the soft folds of her vulva; Joan's groans became a louder and much heavier; a sound which could only be signifying pleasure.
