A Widow's Comfort Ch. 03

This was one of those man-woman kisses she was so good at, but this time she didn't end it.

I "sprang erect," as the saying goes, but this time it was a literal truth, I didn't realize I could get hard that rapidly, when I felt her hands moving behind my head, her fingers digging in, entwining in my hair, pulling me to her, holding the kiss.

My hands, no longer anticipating her oft-repeated "Watch it, Buster," roamed freely. I felt the softness of her back where it squeezed out above the bra, the hardness of the bra where it constricted her, and then the even more intriguing softness where she bulged out below the tight bra.

She held the kiss.

My hands gently squeezed where she swelled out from under the bra and then lower, cupping her big soft ass and pulling her to me.

She held the kiss.

My hands moved back up, tracing the line of hooks at the back of the bra, the softness above it, and then finding those big, soft pads of fat behind her upper arms, squeezing them gently, loving the softness and warmth of her.

She broke the kiss.

And initiated the strangest conversation I ever had, before or since.

"Tell me this is okay," she said, looking up at me intently, her eyes holding mine, her lips parted a little, her breath a little ragged.

"This is okay," I said, bending to kiss her.

She pushed me away, not forcefully, not rejecting me, but enough to allow us to meet each other's eyes.

"Tell me I'm not crazy," she said.

"You're not crazy," I said, kissing her forehead.

"Tell me this is not wrong," she said.

"This is not wrong," I said, kissing her cheek.

"Tell me you want me," she said.

"Can't you tell?" I asked.

"No, Willie, say the words," she said.

I smiled and brushed a few imaginary hairs from her forehead.

"I want you," I said, nuzzling her neck, kissing the softness there.

"Tell me I'm pretty," she said.

"You are beautiful," I said.

"No, Willie, say the words," she said for the second time.

"You're pretty," I said, kissing each eyelid very gently.

"Tell me I'm yours now," she said.

"You are mine now," I said.

"Tell me you are mine now," she said.

"I am yours," I said.

With each question and answer I could tell she was getting more aroused. Her breathing was coming faster. Her face was flushed. Her eyes never left mine.

"Tell me you won't leave again," she said.

"I won't leave again," I said.

"Tell me I'm not crazy," she said.

I kissed her again, a soft, lingering, man-woman kiss.

"You are not crazy," I said.

Her eyes overflowed then, leaving long black streaks down her cheeks

"Tell me you love me," she said.

"I love you," I said.

She seemed to wind down then.

But her womanscent, that pheromone-laden perfume evolution developed to ensure a male would find his female irresistible, was heavy in the air now. This wasn't just talking now, kind of exchanging strange vows. This was sexual down at the brain stem level, down where male spiders sought females even knowing they would be eaten afterward, where salmon used the last bits of their energy before laying eggs and fertilizing them before becoming bear food. Her breathing was rapid now, as was mine.

I started what seemed to be my side of this odd exchange.

"Tell me you love me," I said.

She looked up, meeting my eyes, her eyes red now, swollen, tears running freely down her cheeks and her nose running, untouched.

"I love you," she said.

"Tell me you are mine," I said.

God, she was a mess now, but I was sure we needed to play this scene out.

"I am yours," she said.

"Tell me I have your heart," I said.

"You have my heart, Will, you've had that since the first time you latched on," she said.

I was holding both of her hands now.

"Tell me I have your soul," I said.

"You have my soul," she said.

"Now," I said, kissing her, a slick, snotty, sloppy kiss, "give your body to me."

She was crying now.

"I give you my body, if you will have it," she said.

I thought that completed the ritual.

I took her in my arms and kissed her, a long, sweet, slick, snotty, wonderful kiss.

I broke the kiss and pushed her to arm's length.

"Hello," I said, smiling, "Mother/Wife."

She took a very deep breath.

"Hello," she said, her eyes locked on my, "Son/Husband."

There was nothing left to say so, amazingly enough, I said nothing.

I took her hand and led her to her bedroom, well, our bedroom now.

As we cleared the doorway she turned, hell, she spun and threw her arms around my neck, pulling me down for a kiss

It was a slick, wet, sloppy kiss.

It was a good kiss.

I held her, pulling her to me, and I felt her back arch as she pushed her hips forward, offering herself.

I felt her hands moving between us, her fingers seeking the buttons of my shirt, and I caught them.

"No," I said, pushing her away enough so our eyes could meet, "on a wedding night the husband should undress his bride."

Her eyes were big, with a white sclera showing around the brown irises.

"Yes, Harriet," I said, calling my mother/bride by her first name for the first time in my life, "our wedding night. We'll get a ring for you tomorrow, but tonight I do the work."

I watched as tears dripped from her chin to her cleavage, leaving little dark circles from the mascara that left lines down her cheeks. In one of those weird non sequiturs my mind wanders down from time to time I thought, "I hope that dress isn't ruined, I like it."

I caught her hands and gently kissed each fingertip before sucking each finger, holding her eyes as I did it. I kissed her palms then, soft kisses allowing my tongue to touch the skin.

Then I reached to the back of her neck, loving the way her eyes held mine, and unbuttoned the two oversized buttons that held the neck's turtleneck closed.

She drew a deep breath as I opened the material, the buttons were in the back, and pulled it away, exposing the tops of her breasts in the fancy bra.

She laid her palms on my cheeks, holding my eyes.

"Tell me this isn't wrong," she said.

I kissed her, lightly, and said, "This is right."

And I meant it.

I tugged the bows on the light strap holding the fingerless gloves on. Before I started tugging on the gloves I took my time, playing with the very soft pads of fat at the backs of her arms. I enjoyed them, soft and warm.

I could hear, in my Dad's voice from a long-ago talk, "Willie, I won't try to have the 'talk' again, we've been through that. But as you meet the women of your life I'll just remind you that women are supposed to be soft and round."

"Tell me," she said, shuddering a little as I played with that softness on the back of her arm, "if you think I'm too fat, Will. Be honest, please."

I squeezed the fluffy place I had been playing with and then lightly brushed her three chins with my fingernails.

"What are you talking about?" I asked. "If anything, Harriet, you're too skinny."

She giggled at that.

"My first husband," and I noted that she did not say Dad's name or refer to him as "your father" as she often had in the past, "always said that too. He liked feeding me."

"A smart man," I said, getting enough room between us to get the gloves off and start working the dress off of her.

"This can't be wrong," I heard her whisper almost too softly to hear.

I didn't respond to that. I just worked the dress up, over her head, and off.

I stepped back and made a production of folding the dress and laying it on the chest of drawers.

Damn, she looked good. The long line strapless bra gave her the image of a waist and supported her big boobs like they were on plates. The garter belt looked both sexy and comical on her big body, but the nylons with that slightly darker band at the top leaving soft flesh bulging above them were pure sex. And the shoes, of course, just finished the image of a pinup in heels.

I held out my arm, forefinger pointing at the floor, and twirled it in the universal turn-around signal.

She giggled and smiled, her happy smile giving her a delightfully cherubic look, and she turned, lacing her fingers behind her head as she did, and giving her ass a wonderful wiggle.

In many ways, her size showed even more on her back. The big soft pads behind her upper arms were more on display. Where the bra squeezed, almost cutting, backfat hung, almost like two more breasts. Below the bra she just flowed out, spreading into those big hips, the bra giving the impression of a waist.

As I started working on the hooks of the bra she breathed a sigh of relief and said, "Thank you, Honey. That's the LAST time you'll see me in that damn thing. I thought it was going to cut me in half.

"But it's a good look on you," I said, working on the next hook.

She giggled.

"I might like it too," she said, "if I could breathe when I had it on."

"Well," I said, my fingers on the final hook, "we wouldn't want that now, would we."

When I released the final hook the bra came free with an audible snap.

She started to turn but I put my hands on her shoulders, not allowing her to turn.

"Breathe," I said softly, reaching around and working my hands under her big breasts.

"Honey," she said, leaning back into me, "Do you have any idea how long it's been since I was touched like this?"

I nuzzled her neck.

"Well, Dad died two weeks ago so I'm guessin' about fifteen days," I said, trying to make light of her question.

She turned then, facing me, looking up to meet my eyes.

"Willie," she said, very serious, "Al's health started failing two years ago."

"Oh, Christ," I said, and I realized just how fucking oblivious I had been. I just hadn't noticed. Oh, I noticed that he was getting older but he was still only 40-something and could still break down a Holley carburetor much faster than I could, or throw a fastball that still gave me trouble.

Her hands were on my cheeks then.

"Will," she said, smiling, "None of it was your fault. One of those one in ten million weird diseases that doesn't even have a name. They called it Parkinson-like, but that was it."

She was very serious now, but had a, well, a playful look in her eyes too.

"Will," she said, "if you want to take it all back, I understand. Otherwise, well," and she giggled, "either take me to bed or lose me forever, Goose," she said, stealing the line from Top Gun.

"Mom," I said, no thought of calling her "Harriet," "I am yours, I told you."

She giggled again, gave those enormous tits a shake to get them swinging, "Then finish what you started."

So I turned her and dropped to my knees, pausing to give each nipple a little kiss.

On my knees, before my mother, I started working on the little keyhole-shaped wire hooks that held her nylons on. This was my first time with such things and it took a few tries before I worked out the drill but once I did I got the hooks undone and started rolling the nylons down.

Her legs, like the rest of her, were soft and bulged above the band of the nylons as I rolled them down. They were so white I wondered if she ever wore shorts, and the cellulite dimples were deep. And yes, I thought they were sexy.

Proving that miracles do happen, I got the nylons off without running them. After that, the garter belt and panties were a snap.

On my knees, with her so close, I stopped and looked.

Mom has a FUPA. If you're not up on your sex slang, that's a Fat Upper Pussy Area. In Mom's case, it's a double plus FUPA. The crease of her pussy hung below that soft, apron of a fat woman's natural modesty.

The inside of her thighs, from that lovely, sexy FUPA almost down to her knees was a slightly darker tan color, the skin, when I touched it, was an odd combination of thick and soft. The phrase "butter soft leather" from a description of some upscale car or other that I read in Car and Driver once came to mind. That same odd texture covered the outside of her FUPA where it met her thighs. I later learned that what I was looking at and touching is called a "chub rub."

She was perfectly smooth, but I didn't think it was from shaving. Hell, I couldn't see how she could shave. Rather, I was pretty sure it was from the constant rubbing.

When I touched, she shuddered.

When I leaned forward and kissed, her fingers were suddenly in my hair, pulling me to her.

Her womanscent filled my lungs.

No, that's not quite right.

Her womanscent filled my brain, leaving room for nothing else.

And I buried my face in the soft, warm FUPA, feeling how big she was down there.

She groaned softly, a sound somewhere between pain and pleasure, or maybe bouncing back and forth, but the demand in her fingers as they twisted, not quite pulling and hurting but controlling, was irresistible.

I rotated my head right and left slowly, burying my face deeper and deeper into her until my mouth found the delicate inner lips of her labia minora. As I probed with my tongue and then sucked gently with my lips she started trembling. Something deep inside of me was desperate to give her what I was pretty sure she needed. I hadn't been lying when I told her I loved her.

And when she told me how long it had been, well, I always knew my parents were sexual beings.

I wanted to help her make up for missed time.

These were the thoughts in my mind as she came and I damn near drowned.

Christ. She came suddenly and hard. That sweet nectar of a woman's release was hot and thick and filled my mouth so quickly I couldn't swallow. It was hot and thick and salty and and when she came in a second wave her fingers twisted in my hair holding me, hell, sealing me against her, the pressure of that second orgasm, even more powerful than the first, forced her hot elixir into my sinuses and out my nose.

I was drowning when panic gave me strength to pull away enough to cough, spraying her FUPA and the bottom of her belly apron with her hot thick liquor before drawing a breath and burying my face in her again.

The first level of desperation had passed, and I settled down to give her the best blow job of her life. Her body was trembling and her fingers in my hair kept twisting and relaxing.

And, honestly, I was relishing the feel, the taste, the scent of her. I wasn't a virgin, that first time with Mom, but she was the, well, the wettest woman I had ever been with. And the thing is, I was, to use the archaic term, mesmerized by what was happening. I wanted to feel her pleasure, thick and hot and sticky, soaking my hair, and running down my face. I welcomed the burning in my eyes from her salty brew. I liked the tears it drew.

And I loved that it was mutual.

The sounds she was making went from soft moans, almost whimpers, to a sharp "UNHH" when her body would clench and I would be rewarded with another cascade of that gorgeous honey. I understood why those Hindus called what I was tasting Amrita, the literal translation "no death." More freely translated it's the "Nectar of Eternal Life" or the "Nectar of the Gods." I learned all of that only later.

For now, I just knew I wanted more.

So I took more.

Or maybe I just accepted what she wanted to give.

Hell, it's all a little confusing, you know?

For, well, who knows how long?

For some timeless time, I stayed on my knees before my mother, my face buried between her legs as she came, over and over. My hands on her ass held her to me and gave her some support. At the same time, her fingers entwined in my hair and held me to her. When my hair was so slick with her honey she took another twist.

I licked and sucked and with each little shudder, with each sudden release, I drank her pleasure greedily and couldn't stop even when I felt my stomach getting full.

Mom, it seemed, couldn't stop either. I could feel the heat of her overexcited body, and the sweat on her lower back and ass. I could hear her labored breathing, and the soft moans punctuated by sharp little screams as she soaked me more.

Finally, she shuddered and went still.

When I pulled away, leaned back, and looked up, I could see that she was nearly as much a mess as I was. Her nose was running in her excitement, sweat poured off of her, her mouth was open and she was actually drooling a little in her excitement. Her breasts were shiny with a mixture of drool, mucus, and sweat.

She looked wanton, like some fertility goddess appearing on earth, big and beautiful, with breasts to feed the world, and hips to populate a world.

She breathed a soft, "Oh, Jesus."

She took two steps and collapsed onto the bed.

I crawled up with her, expecting to take my own pleasure.

But that would have been a little too necrophilic, or, I suppose, somnophilic.

She was already snoring.