You Don't Need Girls...

A very quick teaser I put together after watching a clip of Sandy Dear. I disabled voting and comments, again. It's short but I hope you get some enjoyment out of it. No twists or surprises in this one. I suppose it's a bit of an experiment. Working on dialogue. This is an amended version of the original - in case you read it before. I changed a few things.

Anyway, here it is.

GA -- Cambridgeshire, UK -- 13 Sept 21

"You've been spending a lot of time with Alison."

We were in my bedroom. I'd just come in after being with Alison at her house. I needed to wank, to purge myself of cum and frustration. I'd had my hand inside Alison's knickers, fingers slipping over her intimate folds as we snogged and I pawed her little tits outside her sweater. I was about to get undressed when my mother barged in, demanding to know where I'd been and what I'd been doing.

Embarrassment squeezed my guts while heat flared in my cheeks. My mother was glaring at me, the accusation in her face and her tone. I knew my fingers stank of Alison's musk and I could feel the slippery wetness in my underwear where my excitement had seeped from my cock.

My eyes slid away from my mother's withering gaze.

"She's nice," I said.

"She's pretty," I heard my mother say.

I shrugged and said: "I like her."

My mother was sneering when I dared to look at her.

"You probably do," she said, "but you don't have time for girls. We need to think about your future. You need to focus on what's important, Peter. Education. Career. There's time for girls and all that nonsense later."

There was defiance in it when I said: "I can do that and still see Alison."

My mother sighed, slowly shook her head, and folded her arms beneath the thrust of her bosom.

"Girls are a distraction."

A leaden sinker of despair plummeted into the pit of my stomach because I knew my mother was very determined.

Intractable.

"Mum, please."

I said it hoping but knew it was a waste of time.

My mother unfolded her arms and gave a half-shrug.

"I know what it is you want."

The heat in my face burned hotter because there was something odd in my mother's expression, a strange light behind her eyes and the intensity in which stared at me. The awkwardness in me was down to sex, a subject we never discussed.

"It's not like that," I lied.

My mother tutted.

"It's

exactly

like that," she said.

I squirmed, withering under the heat of her stare and the strangeness in it. There was something dark and feral in her expression, an oddness to her demeanour which set tingles through me.

Then, adding to the weirdness, my mother asked: "Do you like what I'm wearing?"

I didn't understand as I looked at her. She was wearing a button-front, velvet blouse untucked over a short, dark skirt with a hem at a flattering point above the knees. There was nothing markedly out of the usual.

Except maybe the skirt was a little higher than normal?

And perhaps her shoes were longer in the heel than she usually wore?

"You look nice," I said, confused and awkward.

It was silence between us for a few seconds.

Then she asked: "What about my hair?"

Straight. Ash-blonde. To her shoulders. Centre parting.

Maybe a little lighter and neater?

"You had it done," I said.

My mother nodded.

"I did. Do you like it?"

"You look pretty," I said.

My mother put one fist on a hip, head canted towards one shoulder as she looked at me with an odd mix of doubt, suspicion, and something else in her face.

"Do you mean it or are you just saying that because I'm your mother?"

"I mean it."

"As pretty as Alison?"

The strange conversation was unsettling for a couple of reasons. It was embarrassing because I'd had my fingers inside Alison up to the knuckles, her excitement obvious in the way she gasped and wriggled and returned the desperate, ardent kiss. The oddness in what my mother was asking and the way she was acting set fire to my face. I could feel the tension winding tight inside me as the atmosphere between us thickened and, for some weird, indefinable reason, my cock thickened and grew. I was looking at my mother, her feminine appeal percolating through for the first time. Up until then she'd just been my mother. Female, of course, I understood that. I knew my mother was a woman yet had never connected that to anything sexual. I'd never thought about her as having needs or desires. She'd divorced my father several years before. It was amicable as far as I knew. I saw my dad on a regular basis. We had fun. He was wealthy and I never wondered much about how he made his money. A sort of entitlement, I suppose. They'd been careful to avoid spoiling me, but I wanted for nothing. My father had a new wife, the reason for my parents' divorce in the first place, but I'd never known my mother with anyone else.

No boyfriend.

No dates.

Nothing.

My mother pressed the question after I stood and gawked at her for several long moments.

"Tell me," she said. "Be honest, Peter. Am I as pretty as Alison?"

It suddenly dawned that my mother was more than pretty as I looked at her, sensations churning in the pit of my stomach, hard-on a vague, disconcerting distraction while I took in the subtle beauty of her face, the promise of a ripe voluptuous body under her clothing working on me as I pictured her as I'd seen her the summer before: a pink skimpy two-piece, big breasts shivering over the cups of the bikini bra, skin slick with lotion as she'd reclined on a lounger in the shade of a huge umbrella next to the pool.

With that image in mind, a sudden need to masturbate a visceral squeeze, I nodded and told my mother I thought she was beautiful.

I was looking at her face when I said it and saw her eyes flash with surprise and delight.

I nodded again when my mother asked: "Oh, you do, do you?"

My cock pulsed when I heard her say it. There was something in her tone which set dark urges loose inside me. It was in the way she was looking at me, expression sly and part amused.

The words came out clotted and thick. "You're different to Alison," I said.

My mother's eyebrows were twin arches of inquiry.

"How so? Tell me, Peter."

I gulped, floundering because I didn't have the experience. It was also confusing because sexual arousal was flaring hot within. I didn't understand why my body responded that way. I couldn't believe I was hard for my own mother. It didn't make sense and I knew it was wrong.

I blurted: "You're older."

At which my mother scoffed and said: "God, well, thanks a lot."

I backpedalled immediately.

"No, I don't mean old as in--"

My mother held up a hand, chuckling before she said: "It's all right. I know you didn't mean it like it sounded."

With all the confusion on me, I asked: "Why are you talking about all this? What does it matter how pretty you are?"

"Because I want you to have a wonderful, successful future," my mother said.

It didn't make sense. I couldn't make any connection.

"What's that got to do with Alison? I don't get it."

My mother sighed and shrugged.

"I told you, girls are a distraction."

"I ... I still don't get it."

"I want you to stay away from them."

She said it like it was simple and matter-of-fact, the casualness setting anger flaring through me.

"I can study and have a girlfriend, mum. I can do that."

My mother ignored the bite in my voice as she sighed and looked at me with pity in her face.

"You think you can," she said through the sigh. "But I know what it's like. You'll get all..."

Anger shifted to frustration when my mother didn't finish. She stopped talking and looked at me, grimacing as she waved her hands in a nonsense gesture.

My mother shrugged when I said: "All what? Mum, please, I don't understand."

I groaned when she said: "Distracted, Peter."

As she said it, my mother was moving around my bed. She got close to me, less than an arm's-length away.

"You'll be thinking about sex and how to get it," my mother said, low and slow, her eyes on my face. "It's the way you're programmed, darling. Your male. You'll want to ... Well, to be crude, you'll want to fuck. It's natural, Peter. It's how we survive as a species."

I was boggling at her use of the f-word. I'd never heard it from her before. She'd blurted "bloody" or "damn", and I'd heard her say "shit" a few times, but it was the first time my mother had dropped the f-bomb, the shock of it more intense because she was used it as a verb.

"Mum, shit," I gasped.

"What? It's true," she said, eyes wide as she looked at me.

"You shouldn't..." I started. "I mean..."

My mother tutted and rolled her eyes.

"What's the matter? Think I don't know what fucking is?" She grinned at me, eyes flashing mischief. "I know a lot more than you think. I know what boys get up to, Peter. I mean, for instance, you've been sneaking around with that Alison--

"Ah, no, don't say anything, Peter," my mother said when I opened my mouth to speak. "Don't get me wrong, sweetheart," she added with a quick nod. "I expect she's a very nice girl. Very sweet and everything. I know you like her, darling ... But, I also know you'll be desperate to get into her drawers. God, I don't know, perhaps you've been fucking like rabbits already--?"

"Mum, stop it," I gasped, appalled.

My mother tutted and rolled her eyes again.

"All I'm trying to say is you need to be careful. And I know you're embarrassed because I'm your mum. But I just want what's best for you, Peter. I want you to seize every opportunity to get on in this world. Education. Good job. I know it can't buy happiness, but money can open so many doors for you. You don't want to be working every hour for minimum wage. That's why I don't want you messing around with girls. With Alison."

My mother sighed and grimaced when I said: "I'll work hard, mum. I promise."

"Ah, but girls, Peter. I want you to stay away from girls."

"Then what am I supposed to do!"

I blurted it out, angry and frustrated because she kept going on and on and on.

"I like girls, mum! I like Alison! I don't want to stop!"

"Mm, I know," my mother said. "That's why I'm concerned. She's your first real girlfriend. Thing is, she won't be the last. Alison isn't your future. She's not going to be a wife. Well, not

your

wife, anyway."

I was sucking in air, heart jumping around in the cage of my ribs.

My mother reached out one hand and caressed my cheek with the back of her fingers when I gasped: "You're making me crazy!"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," she crooned. "I don't mean to do that. I just worry. I'm your mother. I'm supposed to be concerned."

The anger left me like air from an old balloon.

"I just want to take care of you," my mother said, low and lulling. "You're my baby," she added.

I was limp and near exhausted, worn out by her relentless arguing.

"I know, mum," I sighed.

She smiled and moved in close, hugging me before she gently kissed my cheek.

Then she held me at arm's-length, both hands on my biceps, her gaze holding my eyes.

I nodded when she asked: "So you think I'm pretty?"

"You're beautiful, mum," I said.

I shrugged, confused all over again when she asked: "What is it that makes you say that?"

"I dunno," I said. "Everything."

She was staring at me as she murmured: "My hair?"

"It's nice," I told her.

"My face?"

"I told you, you're pretty."

I felt the illicit surge of carnal need when my mother whispered: "My body, Peter? You like big boobs?"

"Mum," I croaked through the shock.

"I need to know," my mother insisted. "Your father likes ladies with big knockers. Me, your stepmother..."

I gulped, swallowing down on desire as it rose inside me, my eyes going to the swell of my mother's bosom, an image of her in the bikini uppermost in my mind.

I gawked when my mother asked: "Do you like old-fashioned underwear? You know, stockings," she added with a half-shrug as she let go of my arms.

She was smirking at me, amusement in her eyes when I gurgled: "Mum ... What?"

"Oh, I bet you do," she said went on. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. If you're like your father you'll be silly over for a busty woman in stockings and high heel shoes."

Which is when she stepped back and lifted her skirt past her thighs.

"Just like these," my mother added.

***

My mother was on my bed, skirt on the floor next to her velvety blouse. She was still wearing the shoes, large breasts scooped free of her bra, nipples like pebbles in the centre of saucer-sized areolae, knickers next to her as she spread her thighs and then splayed her meaty labia to expose her scarlet, glistening core.

It had been a swift, shocking, relentless seduction. My mother had worked with deliberate speed, shock after shock hitting me like a boxer delivering punches as she stripped to her underwear, talking all the way through until she stood and faced me square-on, fists on her hips, boobs and vulva exposed to my disbelieving stare.

"You don't need girls You can have me instead," my mother murmured as I gawped at her.

That's when she'd moved onto my bed, spread her legs, and offered her cunt.

By then, stunned and feeling a disconnect with reality, at her insistence, I was stroking my dick. My jeans and underwear were at my shins, hard-on in my fist, my focus on my own mother's body, all the intimacies exposed.

"Come on, Peter," my mother purred as she slid a forefinger over her bean. "Come here. Come and fuck your mother."