A Holiday with My Mother

Within a few minutes the rush of sensations was building and swelling into a vast climax that had me crying out and shaking as I pumped my hot spunk into my mother's cunt.

She cried out, 'Yes, Yes!' and pushed herself back against me as I ejaculated inside her.

Afterwards we lay together in a tangle on the bed, the sheets damp from our bodies, the temperature in the room rising as the sun rose higher in the sky. I stroked my mother's arms and her neck and ran my fingers through her black hair and she smiled gently at me and I was transported into a golden land of forbidden desire and I wanted to stay there for ever.

Epilogue.

The heatwave ended that day, although it was still very warm by British standards and we continued to go naked about the villa and on the patio. But we were able to go walking again and while we walked we talked about us and what the future might hold.

In the evenings we got into the habit of making love in the pergola after the evening meal. I would kneel before the settee and lick my mother to a climax, then we would swap places and she would take me in her mouth and suck and lick and stroke me until I thought my cock would burst. Then she would mount me and, like the first time, she would ride me slowly and gently to a second orgasm.

The thrill of her sitting on my lap, impaled on my penis, never grew stale and, although I found it difficult to come in that position, the sheer intimacy and closeness was breathtaking. Afterwards, I would take her to bed and we would writhe with passion in the darkness of her bedroom and I would call out her name as I came in a welter of thrusting and pulsing gouts of spunk, our bodies slick with perspiration.

Eventually, like all good things, the holiday came to an end and we drove north to Dieppe, stopping on the way at the same motel we'd used on our outward trip, except this time we only had one room. We crossed the channel to Newhaven and drove back to mum's house and she made us a meal and we chatted as the daylight drained away.

'Are we sleeping together tonight?' I asked.

'No, Callum,' replied my mother. 'I was serious when I said that we mustn't be intimate while we are in England. But we can go to Lac du Caramany again at Christmas,' she added, seeing my disappointment. 'My sister always spends Christmas in Paris. God knows why.'

I wasn't too concerned. I had an idea that I could persuade my mother to discard that particular restriction. And I was right, she needed the sex as much as I did. About a month after we'd got back we slept together in her bed and it was utterly wonderful and my mother agreed that, if we took certain precautions, we could continue our intimacy.

I can see the change in my mother, and I think other people have mentioned it. She's wilder and more spontaneous than she used to be; she laughs more and I think she's happier and more content. She has even talked of us moving to France and living as man and wife.

As for me, the blues about my divorce are long since banished and I am in a very good place indeed. I know that I'm twenty-seven and my mother is fifty-one and our time as lovers is necessarily limited, but at the moment who cares.

The End