A Holiday with My Mother

A Holiday with my Mother

This story is about Callum, a recently divorced man in his late twenties who goes on holiday to the south of France with his fifty-something mother. Soon after they arrive there is a heatwave, which effectively confines the pair to their remote villa with its own swimming pool. Here, on the secluded patio, late into the sultry, moonlit nights, Callum discovers a different, wilder side to his mother.

I hope you enjoy the story. Comments welcome as always.

Sylviafan

I suppose by most standards my divorce was pretty amicable. We'd grown apart over the years, developed different interests and discovered that actually, we weren't that fond of each other. So we had a trial separation and then we did the legal stuff and sold the house and I bought a flat in the centre of town and that was that.

But however much it was the right thing for us to do, I was depressed by the divorce and I went into my shell a bit and stopped going out and seeing friends, even though I was really quite lonely. My friends tried to persuade me to come out, insisting that a night on the town and getting out of my face was just what was needed. They were probably right, but somehow I couldn't face it; couldn't face having to appear cheerful; couldn't face the prospect of my friends trying to set me up with a girl in every bar we visited. Next week, I kept telling them. Or next month.

I also stopped phoning my mother on a Wednesday. This was one of our rituals, and an important one for me because my mum and my now ex-wife hadn't always seen eye to eye, so my visits to my mother had been a bit sporadic and tended to put a strain on an already disintegrating relationship. I imagine she was expecting me to visit her more often after the divorce, but somehow I couldn't even face that. Which was crazy, because my mum is the world's least judgmental person and I could have talked to her about how I was feeling.

In the end, after I hadn't returned about six phone calls, she came round to my flat one Saturday afternoon. I was in of course; I was always in, when I wasn't at work.

I answered the doorbell slowly and reluctantly. There's no spyhole in the door and no way of seeing who's standing the other side, but I had a shrewd idea who it was and I was feeling guilty for not returning her calls.

'Hello, stranger,' she smiled at me as I opened the door. I smiled back, mildly embarrassed and stood aside to let her in. She pecked my cheek in passing and made her way to the little kitchen where she found a vase for the flowers she'd brought and put the bottle of chenin blanc in the fridge.

'Tell me what you've been doing, Callum, I haven't heard from you for about three weeks. Have you been ok?'

She's great, my mum, although I can understand that she's not everybody's cup of tea. She's a scientist, working in a university laboratory in the field of animal behaviour, and she's got a scientist's mindset and behaviours. She's quiet and reserved and she doesn't laugh very often. She doesn't talk unless she's got something to say and she thinks carefully before she opens her mouth. And when she does talk, it's with a quiet authority and clear logic that used to piss my ex-wife right off. Cathy was the very antithesis of a scientist, but she did have quite a decent pair of tits, which probably tells you a lot about why our relationship failed.

My mother is Dr Simpson by the way. Her first name is Sylvie, which is a French name, because she's French-Algerian; she grew up in Perpignan, near the Spanish border. If you listen carefully you can tell that English isn't her first language. Not that she's not grammatically and idiomatically perfect, but some of her vowel sounds have a hint of Gallic in them and she still has that light touch with some syllables that is so typical of that language. She looks French too, if you know what I mean. Jet black hair, with a few silver strands, now, and a Mediterranean, light olive complexion. She's got a rather long and narrow face with deep-set, serious hazel eyes, high cheekbones and a firm chin and mouth. She's about five feet seven inches tall and very slender. At that time I couldn't have really described her figure more accurately than that because as far back as I could remember, she'd always worn very functional and unflattering clothes. She didn't really care about her appearance; I suppose that was the scientist in her again - judge me by my brain and not by my appearance. So it was big jumpers and leggings most of the time. And little or no make-up, which was ok, with her complexion; she doesn't have very many wrinkles to cover up. Also she doesn't wear any jewellery except a thin, gold wedding band on the third finger of her left hand. She also wears spectacles with black frames which make her look even more academic than she is, if that's possible.

To complete the family history, my mum came to the UK as a student and studied at the University of Cambridge where she met my dad. They got married after she completed her doctorate and I came along a few years down the line. Twenty-seven years later they're still married, in name at least. But dad spends most of his time in California and mum doesn't seem to mind being on her own; she's very self-contained.

We moved into my lounge-diner which is the biggest room in the flat by a long way and I sat in my chair by the window and mum sat on the two-seater settee and I told her about what I'd been doing since we last spoke, which didn't take long.

Afterwards she sat looking at me for a few moments, not saying anything, just thinking.

'I think you need a break, Callum,' she said, eventually. 'To get away from this flat, this town, for a while. Have you got any holiday left this year?'

'I haven't used any yet, so I've still got four weeks. But—'

'Perfect! Well how about this: you and I go and stay in my sister's holiday home for a couple of weeks. I'll visit friends and family and you can come if you want to or you can just chill out by the pool. I can be around as much or as little as you want. We can do some walking and take Benoit's boat out on the lake, I'm sure he wouldn't mind. No! Let's go for three weeks! We can get the car ferry to Dieppe and drive down. That would be lovely and there's nothing much going on at the University over the summer break. And you'll still have a week's holiday left for Christmas,' she added.

I had rarely seen my mother so animated.

'How do you know Aunt Amelie won't be there?' I asked, taken aback by the suddenness of the proposal.

'Well, let's find out.' Mum slipped her mobile phone out of her bag and speed-dialled her sister's number. Aunt Amelie answered after six or seven rings and mum began a conversation in French.

My mother spoke to me in French from when I was a toddler and I'm fluent in that language. She started out with a bit of family chit chat and then asked her sister if we could come and stay in her holiday home sometime in August. I couldn't hear what the reply was, but mum gave me a thumbs up and a few minutes later she said her goodbyes and broke the connection.

'Sorted.' We can have the place any time in August; they're going on a cruise to southeast Asia.'

My mother's sister had taken the precaution of marrying someone high-up in the French automotive industry. Hence they could afford a holiday villa on the hills overlooking Lac du Caramany in the foothills of the Pyrenees, not that far from where she'd grown up in Perpignan. Benoit, her husband, was a keen fisherman and so he also had a boat on the lake.

I'd been to the place once or twice as a kid. It was quite remote, accessed by little better than a cart track, but it had everything you needed, including a fifteen-metre-long swimming pool. It also had a great big lounge-diner with picture windows overlooking the lake, two bedrooms, each with a bathroom, a well fitted kitchen and a double garage. In short, it was a perfect place to recover from a divorce and even in my vaguely depressed state I could see the attractions.

'Ok,' I said. 'Yes, great. Thanks, Mum.'

We fixed a date and mum went online and booked the ferry from Newhaven to Dieppe. Then she fetched the bottle of chenin blanc.

'This deserves a celebration. Oh I'm so glad you like the idea, Callum. We'll have a lovely time. It's been years since we went on holiday together.'

We left England two weeks later, at the beginning of August. The weather was clear and warm, the sea calm and we disembarked at Dieppe without incident and began the six-hundred-mile journey to Caramany, taking it in turns to drive on the uncluttered and beautifully surfaced French motorways. In the early evening we stopped at a service area and booked two rooms for the night in the anodyne motel.

We ate in the motel restaurant, which was actually quite good. We also drank a bottle of wine and a glass of Armagnac. I felt relaxed and happy for the first time in months. Mum had been on good form in the car, telling me anecdotes of work and of her childhood in the south of France and I'd responded with a few tales of my own and, at one point, she'd even laughed out loud, something she very rarely allowed herself to do.

We started early the next morning and after another five hours on the road, including a stop at a supermarket to stock up on supplies, we reached our destination in the late afternoon. The Satnav didn't recognise the track down to the villa, but fortunately mum did and we parked up in front of the garage, found the door key and the alarm code hidden under a horse trough, and went in.

After we'd unpacked we strolled out onto the patio that extended out at the front and sides of the house and admired the view. It was beautiful! The villa was nestled into the hillside and in front of the house the ground dropped away sharply giving an uninterrupted view of the sparkling blue lake. On the opposite shore, dry hills rose, dotted with villas such as ours, and in the far distance, above the haze, the white peaks of the Pyrenees were just visible to a keen eye.

Closer at hand, a huge chestnut tree dominated the side of the property. Underneath it's spreading branches there was a vine-covered pergola with a scattering of patio furniture: sun loungers, little tables, settees and chairs with outdoor cushions. There was also a barbecue area with a gas-fired grill.

Then there was the pool, achingly blue and, in the warmth of the afternoon, cool and inviting, the water filtered and clear as crystal.

'Well,' said my mother, 'I don't know about you, but I'm going to have a swim before dinner. I've been thinking about it all afternoon.'

After the heat of the patio, the house was cool and gloomy. I went into my bedroom and stripped off my sweat-damp shorts and polo shirt. I found my swimming trunks and slipped into them, then I went back out onto the patio and, taking a short run-up, dived cleanly into the pool and did two lengths in a fast front crawl. Resting my forearms on the edge, I savoured the silky-smooth water on my skin as I waited for my mother to come out, wiping pool water from my eyes.

She appeared shortly afterwards and I believe it's not an exaggeration to say that my life was never quite the same again. Coming across the patio towards the edge of the pool, with a short-stepped, feminine walk, I got a perfect view of her in the bright, Mediterranean sunshine.

She was wearing a black, two-piece bathing costume. As I said earlier, it was years since I'd seen her in anything but baggy tops and leggings, so what I saw was a revelation. Her bikini top enclosed her small, rounded breasts and revealed a modest amount of cleavage. Further down, her stomach was flat, her hips beautifully curved and her legs were long and slender. Add in the night-black hair, tied back in a ponytail, and her olive skin tone and you begin to get some idea of the vision that approached the pool that late afternoon that we arrived in Lac du Caramany. My mother was gorgeous!

'Is it nice in the water?' she asked.

I realised I was gawping at her, my mouth half open. 'It's fantastic,' I croaked,' my voice deserting me for a few seconds.

She sat down on the edge and paddled her feet in the water, then she slipped in and stood next to me.

'Oh God, that's wonderful!'

She took off and swam a slow breaststroke up and down the pool for twenty minutes, then she got out and stretched out on one of the sun loungers, the water running off her. I got out at the same time and dragged another sun lounger over and lay down by her and closed my eyes, feeling the heat of the late afternoon sun on my skin.

Neither of us spoke and, after a few minutes, I felt myself slip into a semi doze. It had been a long day and driving long distances, even on French motorways, was tiring.

Sometime later I drifted back into consciousness. The sun was beginning to lose its power and I felt cool and refreshed. And I had an erection. Something that was impossible to hide in my bathing trunks. The head of my cock was pushing against the waistband, threatening to expose itself.

I looked over but mum had her eyes closed and seemed to be asleep. I got up and slipped into the swimming pool, hoping that the cold water would deflate me. It didn't. The bloody thing wouldn't go away. And where had it come from? I hadn't thought much about sex for weeks. The odd wank here and there was about it. So where had this come from? I could only assume it was seeing my mum in her bikini, which was weird.

And very embarrassing if she should notice. So I swam around until I saw her get up.

'I'm going in to get some dinner ready,' she called to me. 'Are you coming? I thought we could open a bottle of that white we got at the supermarket.'

'I'll be out in a minute,' I replied. 'Couple more lengths.'

'Ok,' she smiled at me and walked away towards the house and I watched her buttocks moving as she walked and my erection strained to be free.

We drank a bit too much that evening, but we had a good time. After an al fresco meal we sat under the pergola on the cushioned chairs and talked as the sun disappeared over the Pyrenees and the air grew cooler and bats flitted around the chestnut tree and the stars appeared, twinkling against their velvet-black backdrop; there was no light pollution here.

'What would you like to do tomorrow?' my mother asked, and before I could reply she suggested a walk.

So after breakfast the following morning I slung a small knapsack on my back and we set out up the cart track.

Our walk was over the sere, rocky hillsides, passing vineyards where the grapes were soaking up the sunshine, and along the shores of little lakes where cattle drank in the shallow water. It was warm but not oppressive and I felt comfortable in my shorts and a checked shirt. Mum wore cargo shorts that nearly reached her ankles, and a loose-fitting shirt similar to mine. I remembered what she had looked like in her swimsuit and I thought guiltily about last night when I had gone to bed, slightly tipsy, and masturbated to visions of her body.

I'd never done that before. She wasn't really the sort of person that one had sexual fantasies about, especially if you were her son. She was too scientific, too clinical, too logical. But as she walked ahead of me I looked at her buttocks moving under her cargo shorts and admired the slim elegance of her ankles.

We had lunch in a village café and by three o'clock we were back at the villa, dark sweat stains down the backs of our shirts, the pool glinting in the sun, inviting us in.

Like the day before, we swam for about twenty minutes then climbed out and lay down on sun loungers. After a while mum got up and went in to get us cold drinks and I watched her walk across the patio, hips gently swaying, quintessentially feminine.

And when she returned and lay down again I couldn't help but sneak surreptitious looks at her body. Her long legs, stretched out on the sun bed, her slender arms, her slim hand, with its long, tapered fingers grasping her drink, a frosting of condensation on the glass. Why had I never noticed that my mother had a lovely body before? Answer, because she generally covered it up, and besides, I hadn't really looked before now.

And naturally, my covert scrutiny wasn't limited to her arms and legs. I wore sunglasses, which meant that I could stare undetected at the swell of her breasts, the faint outline of her nipples underneath the fabric of her bikini top. And I stared at her bikini bottom, half seeing and half imagining the gentle bulge of her vulva, peering intently at the edges of the costume as they disappeared between her thighs, hoping to see a stray hair. And inevitably I grew ragingly hard and I had to disappear into the pool again and swim around until it had gone away.

This cycle repeated itself two or three times. Sometimes mum joined me in the pool and we would swim together, other times she just lay in the sun, her olive skin turning a shade darker, sipping her drink. She wore sunglasses too, most of the time, so it was impossible to know what she was looking at. From time to time she would roll over and ask me to put some suntan lotion on her back. Massaging the cream into her soft skin with my fingertips inevitably made me ragingly hard. I also got hard when she applied some to my back, her fingers light and smooth over my skin, making me shiver.

That night I masturbated again, jetting thick gouts of spunk onto my stomach and chest as I imagined what my mother's breasts would look like, what her labia would look like. I masturbated the next morning, too, hoping that this would delay or even prevent another erection by the poolside. Because we were going to spend the day at the villa; a heat wave had arrived, pushing the temperatures into the high thirties, effectively precluding walking, or just about anything other than lounging by the pool.

By ten o'clock we'd had breakfast and we were out on our sun loungers, soaking up the sun before the temperature climbed too high. Mum was wearing a white bikini this morning, and the contrast with her darkening skin was delicious. I tried not to look, tried not to think about not looking, but it was a losing battle; my penis stirred and swelled and bulged in my swimming trunks until I had to turn over on the sun bed and lie on my stomach. But that was uncomfortable, so I tried lying on my side facing away from my mother and that was ok but when she spoke to me it seemed as if I was ignoring her so I got up and dived into the pool and stayed here until my embarrassing tumescence had subsided.

Later, as the thermometer under the pergola recorded thirty-eight degrees, we retreated under its leafy shade and I went in for more cold drinks. Afterwards I was drowsy from the heat. Mum was reading a detective fiction book but I couldn't get into my novel so I just lay motionless, encased in warm air, and drifted off to sleep.

I don't know how long I slept, half an hour maybe. I do know that I had a vivid dream, although I couldn't really tell you any of the details. I have a vague recollection of touching another person's bare skin in my dream and running my fingers over their intimate places. I woke with a start and looked over at my mother. She was perched on the side of her sun lounger, her book face down on the patio, next to her sunglasses, and she was looking at me, or rather at my loins.

I looked down and realised that my erection was back with a vengeance. Not only was it straining to get out of my swimming trunks but there was a damp patch in the dark fabric where I'd leaked a bit of seminal fluid.

I looked back at my mother and she looked at me and smiled.

'You were obviously having an interesting dream, Callum. You were making some very funny noises.'

'Oh, God, was I?' I felt my cheeks burn. 'Sorry, Mum.'