A Small Souvenir

Matthew - or Matty, as she quickly came to call him - was the exchange student that entered her family's life one late Spring afternoon. The town where the Severinsens lived was twinned with another town in southwest England. And every other year the local high school would welcome a group of children from the secondary school across the Pond. Twelve months later, the favour would be returned, and a group of American pupils would be shipped off to the 'old country'.

Matty had been pen-pals with Molly's eldest child, Curtis. They'd been swapping letters for months, with a growing sense of excitement and anticipation. Then, the big day arrived and a coach load of British teenagers appeared in the parking lot in front of the school. One of the last to get off was a tall, blond-haired young man, who almost immediately proceeded to steal Molly's heart.

The attraction was profound and almost instantaneous. She felt flushed and excited the very first moment they were introduced. It was insane, really. Bizarre. Illogical. For some reason, she almost fell in love with the boy from the very first sight of him. She was totally infatuated with him. She was in her late 30s; he had only just turned eighteen. Yet, there it was.

To begin with, she rationalised it as merely a sense of excitement at the introduction of this charming young man into their lives. But it didn't take long for her to realise that the attraction was also sexual. She felt her nipples harden and her cunt moisten, almost every time Matthew was in her company. And a sudden renewed interest in masturbation was prompted by fantasies of her young British guest.

She couldn't deny herself his company, hanging around him all day and all night. She was constantly asking him if he was okay or if he wanted for anything. He seemed so charming and delightful, she kept expressing to her husband how lovely Matty was. What a good job his parents had done bringing him up. How much fun he was to have round the house.

Matthew Sutton was eighteen years old and a horny motherfucker, to say the least, so he noticed Mrs Severinsen almost as much as she noticed him. She was a knockout redhead, with big boobs and a curvy butt. And he couldn't help but notice the way she flirted with him all the time. She was so affectionate, constantly stroking his cheek or holding his hand or giving him big hugs.

Only a matter of days after he had arrived, she came to his bedroom. Both he and Curtis had expected to share a room, but Molly had insisted Matty sleep in the spare room.

"It'll stop any mischief you two might get up to," she had told them definitively, which is kind of ironic, bearing in mind the mischief she was about to embark upon.

When she arrived in his bedroom that night, she hadn't planned on doing anything with her young guest. She was just going to wish him a good night and see if he was okay. The fact she was wearing nothing but a small pair of panties and a low cut t-shirt was just a coincidence, surely.

She sat on the bed beside him, slightly flustered by his bare chest proudly on display. He really was a handsome young man, lean and muscular, effortlessly perfect in the way only young men could be. The way she was sat, with her hands placed flat on the duvet cover, squeezed her breasts together, creating a shocking amount of cleavage.

It was impossible for him not to notice.

It was impossible for her not to notice him noticing her.

She looked down at her chest, then looked up at him. She smiled seductively.

"Seen something interesting?" She asked.

"What? No...uh...no...sorry..." he flustered, his face turning a dark shade of red, humiliated by her question. A little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Do you want to see them properly?" She said, softly.

"What?" He replied.

"My boobs, silly. Do you want to see them properly?"

For a moment, he sat their dumbfounded, his mouth dropped wide open. Then he managed to pull himself together a little, and nodded tentatively.

"Ok, sit up on the edge of the bed," she ordered.

He quickly did as he was told, pulling back the duvet and swinging his legs round, perching himself on the mattress. She stood up in front of him and then lifted her t-shirt up and over his head, pulling his face tightly against her breasts.

He gasped, as he was presented with this decadent display of naked succulence. She wrapped her arms round his head, squeezing her boobs against his lips and nose and cheeks. She stroked his hair gently, through the material of her shirt, as he wallowed in her décolletage. She felt his lips tentatively move towards her nipple, and then felt him attach himself to her. She smiled broadly, remembering the sensuous connection she had enjoyed feeding her children as babies.

But this was no baby. This was a grown man. Young enough to be her son, certainly, but a man nonetheless. And soon he was sucking on her nipples, his tongue teasing and tickling them. His teeth squeezing and biting gently.

She pulled off her t-shirt, and straddled his lap, pushing herself up against him. He fell backwards and she dangled her tits over his face. Then she reached out and fished his cock out of the front of his boxer shorts. She started to jerk him off, her hand squeezing his member, as he continued to suckle on her breast.

Within a matter of moments, he came, squirting a little torrent of creamy liquid over his lap and her hand. She almost shrieked, as his dick erupted, but she kept on stroking and fondling his prick.

After he came to his conclusion, she stepped back, licking his semen off her fingers. She was a little shocked by what had happened, even if she had instigated it. Her mind was a storm of conflicting emotions: surprise, shame, excitement, disbelief, lustful pleasure. The whole thing had been entirely spontaneous, at least that's what she kept telling herself, and now she was uncertain of what to do next.

She quickly left the room, telling Matty to clean himself up. She rushed to the bathroom and splashed cold water over her face. She looked at herself in the mirror, her eyes wide open in crazed turmoil. But then she smiled. A big wide, toothy grin.

Nothing was said the next day, everything seemed to go back to normal, but that night she returned to his room and gave him another handjob. This time she took off her panties and let him watch her masturbate, her fingers spreading her vaginal lips wide, the shiny succulence of her gash, obvious and evident.

By the end of that week, they were lovers. Oh boy, were they lovers. Over the course of the next few months the two of them took every opportunity they could to have sex. She would come to his room first thing in the morning and wake him with a blowjob. Last thing at night she would sneak back and ride him in his bed, his hands wrapped round her breasts, as she felt his dick inside her.

They snatched whatever fleeting moments arose to be intimate or affectionate. Matty always offered to help with the washing up after every evening meal, and the two of them would make out in the kitchen, while the rest of the family were otherwise occupied. They were always touching and stroking and fondling each other, as they passed in a hallway.

Sometimes she would sneak into the bathroom while he was taking a shower and she would let him fuck her in the tub, her fat tits rolling up and down the tiles on the wall as he pounded away at her from behind, hot water cascading down on top of them. He would kiss her back and shoulders as they made love.

Molly was determined to be the ultimate fantasy dream girl for her young lover, willing to give him every sexual experience he might want, offering up special treats she would never have dreamed giving to her husband. She had enjoyed anal sex at both high school and college, it had been something of a Godsend in those days when contraceptive wasn't always easily available, but she had never done it with her husband. It was a very different story with Matty, who got to be balls-deep inside her butt on a pretty regular basis.

They tried a little light bondage and spanking, but neither of them hugely enjoyed it. It was fine, but they preferred normal fucking. She did sneak out every out so often to a trashy video rental store on the other side of town, to get hold of some porn tapes. They would, when circumstances allowed, watch the videos together; and she would jerk him off or he would feast on her tits.

She was available to him whenever he wanted, within the constraints of a busy household. She stopped wearing panties and took to wearing shorter skirts. That way she could be manhandled, bent over a couch or a table and be quickly and efficiently fucked by her adoring sexual partner.

He always took her bareback. Every. Single. Time. Neither of them even mentioned contraception. She was on the Pill and, if she ever did give it any thought, she reckoned she was probably too old to get pregnant. She wasn't the first person to discover that thoughts like that are often meaningless.

The best times were when she could somehow contrive for them to be alone together for a few hours. That way, the sex needn't be too frantic or desperate. They could make love with a tenderness and ease that thrilled them both. Then they would sit together, intertwined, their bodies still flushed and aroused, and talk and kiss and whisper sentiments of mutual adoration.

Let there be no doubt, as reckless and crazy as it was, this was a genuine love affair - and now that love affair was coming to an end.

They fucked a couple more times that final afternoon, the rest of the family enjoying a double feature at the local picture house. Matty had feigned illness and Molly had insisted the others go without them.

"I'll look after him," she had said, her pussy juices dribbling down her legs as she spoke.

Once they were finally done, their carnal exertions wearing the both of them out, they lay in a pile together, silently contemplating their imminent fate. Their hands clasped together, their fingers tightly intertwined. Neither of them wanted to let go for an instant.

"I can't believe this is the end," he said.

"I know. Me too," she responded, "but that's the way it is. This Summer has been the most amazing period of my life, but we have to stop now."

"You could come back with me?"

"No, I couldn't," she said, firmly, "there's no future in this. There can't be. We had this time together and then this time ends."

"I do love you, you know."

"And I love you." She looked at him, staring him straight in the eyes. "Listen to me, my darling boy. I said it earlier, and I want to repeat it now. I love you more than anything. More than anyone. More than my husband. More than my kids. More than the whole world. But this has to end."

Both of them sobbed as these final words left her mouth.

The next morning, before they had to leave and go to school for the beginning of his trip back home, she came to his room one last time. She sucked his dick one last time. She swallowed his cum, the way she always did, one last time. Then she stood up and reached under her skirt, her hips shimmying as she pulled her panties down. She had been wearing them today just for this very purpose. She passed them to him and he could feel their warmth, smell her arousal.

"A small souvenir of your trip to America," she said, smiling, even though tears were rolling down her cheeks.

He brought the panties to his face and inhaled deeply. Then he smiled at her and curled them up in a ball and stuffed them in his pocket. He held on to them almost the entire journey home.

A small souvenir, she called them.

Well, as it turns out, Matty had left a small souvenir of his own.

3

25 years later

Matthew Sutton's best friend at university was a guy called Henry. Henry was a fairly ludicrous character in many ways. He was skinny, with bad skin and he had a terrible laugh that sounded like a broken trombone having sex with a donkey. But he was funny and crazy and really, really smart. Matty liked him a lot.

"All Asian chicks have great bodies," Henry had told him, with that extraordinary certitude he always manifested, no matter what the topic.

"What do you mean?" Matty had replied.

"All Asian chicks have great bodies," he repeated. Henry was full of theories, that he enjoyed sharing with his best friend.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"It's true! I promise you! The next time you see an Asian chick, see for yourself."

"All Asian women?"

"We'll, not East Asian women. They're fine, but they're usually too skinny. Too flat-chested. I'm talking about South Asian women. Girls from India or Pakistan. They're all fit as fuck. I don't know if it's genetics or their diet or what, but it's true."

"Isn't that a bit racist?"

"No, how can it be racist? I'm saying something nice about them."

"Yeah, but you're lumping together every woman who's Asian, just because they're Asian. That's definitely kind of racist."

"I'm not racist," he said, one eyebrow raised, "but they do all smell of curry."

Henry didn't say anything for a second, and then burst into howls of raucous laughter. Matty couldn't help laugh along. He knew his friend was nuts (and yes, possibly a bit racist), but he was entertaining with it.

Another of Henry's little theories was the idea that whenever a man met a woman for the first time, the very first thought that crossed his mind was, would I fuck her?

Henry was adamant this was true. It happened on an instinctive, subconscious level, he explained; something you had absolutely no control over. The very first moment those new particles of light struck the back of your eye, and you formed an image of this new woman, whoever she was, some part of your brain was sizing her up for her sexual adequacy.

It didn't matter who it was. Some hot girl you met in a bar. Some ancient old prune you saw in the Post Office. You were always deciding, yay or nay. Deal or no deal. Fuck or no fuck.

Matty didn't know if Henry's theory was true, but he did know this: when he saw Holly for the first time, he did immediately decide whether he wanted to fuck her or not. And the answer to that question was a resounding yes.

Which would prove to be something of a problem, all things considered.

He saw her in the foyer of the building where he worked. It was first thing in the morning and he was striding across the room towards the lifts. His office was on the fifth floor. He worked as an architect, a slightly frustrating alternative to the career he had always wanted. Matty, who by now was known mostly as Matt, had been an avid comic book reader as a child. Not only as a child, if he was being totally frank. He still read comic books today, a slightly shameful secret that his wife endlessly teased him about.

"'When I was a man, I gave up childish things', Matthew," she would say to him, in all mock solemnity, "it says so in the Bible."

"Oh fuck off," he would reply, his face flushed in embarrassment.

He had long held ambitions to draw comics professionally. But he had been cursed with parents who believed - much like his other half would come to believe - this was a frivolous and undesirable line of work, and also a certain academic aptitude that meant a university life was obvious.

So he had buckled down, got a first class degree, taken a number of postgraduate architectural courses, and then joined a thriving company that was run by a friend of his father's, before eventually setting out on his own. He didn't dislike his job, there were many worse things he could be doing, but he would much rather be drawing superheroes and spaceships than doorframes and garage roofs.

The young woman who had inspired his lustful ardour was stood looking at the sign on the wall that listed the occupants of the building. Whoever she was, she was a knockout. She was tiny, only an inch or two above five feet, was his estimate, but great things do come in small packages. She was dressed all in black, from head to toe. Black knee-high boots, black woollen stockings, a tight black skirt that was definitely on the short side, and a black sleeveless top. It was obvious from looking at her that she was a buxom, curvaceous little thing.

He silently sized her up and then pressed the button for the lift. As he waited, he caught her eye and smiled.

"Good morning," he said.

"Hi," she responded.

Any further conversation was curtailed as his lift arrived and he quickly disappeared inside. As he rose within the building, idle thoughts of this delightful young apparition soon evaporated like mist on a Spring morning.

He let himself into his office - he was usually the first to work - and turned on the lights. He plonked himself down next to his drawing board and heard the outside office door open. His secretary, Eunice, had arrived mere moments later.

Matt was considering whether to go back downstairs to the foyer to buy himself a posh coffee, when his intercom buzzer rang.

"Yes?" He inquired.

"You have someone who wants to see you," Eunice replied, her voice emanating from the small electronic device on his desk.

"A client?"

"I don't think so. She says she doesn't have an appointment, but that it's a personal matter."

"Okay...well, send her in, I suppose."

A moment later, the door opened and Eunice appeared. She nodded curtly and then turned to usher someone else in. Suddenly, the foxy girl from downstairs appeared before him.

"Here you go," Eunice muttered and withdrew quietly.

"Uh...hello...again?" Matt said.

"Yeah, hi," she replied, the obvious tones of an American accent were apparent.

Now that he got a proper look at her, he realised his first cursory examination downstairs hadn't done her justice. This girl was a real beauty. Her hair was a dark rich red and she had ginormous blue eyes, that mesmerised with every glance. Her all-black ensemble couldn't disguise an astonishing hourglass figure, that looked like it belonged in a '50s movie.

She looked strangely familiar, too.

"So, can I help you?" He asked.

"I hope so," she stammered, "are you Matthew Sutton?"

"Well, that's what it says on the door, Miss..?"

"Severinsen, Holly Severinsen."

"Severinsen..?" His voice trailed off, momentarily discombobulated, hearing a name that he hadn't heard for a long, long time.

"Yes. Severinsen. I think you knew my mother."

Suddenly, the penny dropped and realisation rushed into his mind with astonishing speed and clarity. Like the lifeless void of space, streaming into a blown airlock in a sci-fi movie. Molly Severinsen. A name he hadn't heard spoken out loud for nearly a quarter of a century.

"Wow! That's incredible. Yes, I knew your mother. A long time ago, of course. Wow! How is she?"

The young woman's face suddenly darkened.

"Well, I'm afraid she passed earlier this year."

"Oh God, no...that's terrible."

Matt didn't know what to say. He was shocked and, slightly to his surprise, almost devastated. He felt his eyes water a little, as the news washed over him in a numbing wave. Although it had been more than twenty years since he had seen her, there was still barely a day that passed when he didn't think of her. She was his first love. And now she was gone.

"I'm so sorry," he said, "she was a lovely woman. A really lovely woman."

Suddenly an image of her naked, lying on his bed, with her legs spread wide apart as she masturbated for him, danced across his conscious mind. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"What happened?" He asked, "if you don't mind telling me."

"Cancer," she said matter-of-factly, "breast cancer. She first got it a few years ago and she had treatment. It went into remission and we all thought everything was fine. It came back last year and it turned out this time everything wasn't fine."