Catching Mother at Christmasbygeronimo_appleby©
A little experimental piece from me for the Winter Holiday Contest. In this one Philip catches his mother masturbating. He's torn by what he sees, and fights against his feelings, but as Christmas approaches things develop in a nasty, dirty way.
I hope you enjoy the piece and, regardless of its final position in the contest, that you'll send feedback to let me know how it's received out there. I'm not bothered too much by the votes, I'm more interested in the impression the story leaves with you. Feedback can be by public comment, a PM, or an email. If you want a response to feedback then email is best -- but leave an address for me to write back to!
Just a note on the setting and some of the terms I've used -- in England in 1963 coal fires were still the norm, and some coalmen still used a horse and cart. A lorry is vernacular for a truck.
Anyway, as usual, I hope any errors that I've made don't detract from the overall.
I hope you enjoy my effort.
GA -- Melaka, Malaysia -- 20 November 2012
They blamed the weather, a dumping of snow in late December -- with a white Christmas now a certainty -- meant the lorries couldn't get over the Pennines; and because the trucks and their cargo couldn't negotiate the high Snake Pass crossing over the spine of England, Philip Masters got sent home from work early. When he arrived back at the house he lived in with his mother things would never be the same again.
"You might as well get on out of it," the lugubrious foreman had muttered, taking it as a personal affront that the snow and ice and treacherous driving conditions between Manchester and Sheffield made the delivery impossible. "Take an early knock off, lad."
And Philip hadn't needed telling twice. Muffled by a scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face, twenty years old, fair-haired and considered to be good-looking but painfully shy and awkward around women, with gloved hands deep in the pockets of his heavy donkey jacket, the soles of his boots squeaking against the snow underfoot, Philip trudged homeward.
He arrived at the narrow-fronted terrace, the house identical to rows and rows of others all huddled together collectively, as though their proximity would give some respite from the cold beneath the purple bruise of a pregnant sky in the back streets of the industrial city. Philip moved quickly through the brick archway of the small tunnel running between his house and the one adjoining -- a snicket or ginnel they'd called it as kids, access for the coalman to the bin in the tiny yard at the back of the house. He reached the back door, unlocked as usual, nobody bothered to lock doors, they didn't have anything worth stealing really, and once inside in the relative warmth, Philip pulled off his boots. He left his footwear to bleed melted snow onto the lino of the vestibule between the back door and the kitchen, the back-space that his mother used as a store for vegetables, an assortment of coats on a line of hooks fixed to the wall, Philip's boots, and other odds and sods that had no other place to call home in the confines of the small house.
In his socks, after hanging his donkey jacket on a hook and putting his boots neatly to the left of the vegetable rack -- his mum went spare if her left the "great clod-hopping things" lying about, berating him like an irate wife whose errant husband had spent the wage in the pub or lost it on the horses -- Philip walked quietly through the kitchen. Relieved to be indoors after the cold outside he walked in his socks as silent as a burglar along the narrow hallway to the living room; the parlour as his mother insisted. The room looked cosy with its small tree brightening the weary, worn out décor. Dangling baubles winked like jewels in the cosy firelight from the glowing coals in the grate. Christmas Eve was two days away, and Philip had been looking forward to a couple of days off work.
He hadn't meant to move so quietly, not on purpose, but being quiet had become a habit since he'd started working at the warehouse. He left home so early in the morning that out of consideration to his mum he went about his morning routine as silently as possible.
Even though it was now the afternoon he shouldn't have been home at that time of day, not so early, but it was because of the snow, and because of the snow he'd been given an early bath, which meant, when he walked into the warm parlour, he saw her.
She obviously hadn't been expecting him.
Beverly Masters loved sex. It wasn't something she told anyone about, it might be 1963, an enlightened age, but her husband buggering off with that tart from the foundry, a little scrubber with loose legs and a tight pair of firm young tits had still caused a flurry of gossip and sideways glances along the terrace, and the odd snicker or two, so if anyone knew of her liking for cock things could really get uncomfortable. And there was Philip to consider, her son, a good lad, out working, bringing in a wage, he'd been fourteen when his dad had run off, an awkward age for anybody, but his dad's abrupt departure had affected Philip badly. Already a shy boy, he really went into his shell, so much so that even now, six years later, the young man blushed and stammered around girls. He was so much better than he was, but at twenty Beverly hoped Philip would grow out of it soon. Time he found himself a nice girlfriend.
Philip was nothing like his mother in that regard, Beverly attracted the men, even at forty-two she had them sniffing and chasing after her. She never went with any of them, none of the locals; she didn't want a reputation as a slut. More for Philip's sake than her own.
But she craved cock, thought about it all the time, daydreamed about sizes and shapes and how good they felt in her hand and between her legs. Beverly loved to see them grow thicker and longer as they stiffened up, the man behind it hungry for her. Her penchant was for a brutal looking penis, something thick and gnarled that rubbed her insides and got her all hot and bothered. She loved to watch them come too, spitting spunk from the single eye, flinging jizm about.
Not long ago Beverly had enjoyed a hot affair with, of all people, the coalman. She'd seduced him two summers ago as he'd carried a bag of coal from the horse drawn cart along the ginnel, offering him a beer and a good long look at her cleavage, What a fuck that had been, the first one, him with his bludgeon of a cock, incongruously pink and clean compared to his coal-blackened hands and smudged face. She'd bent over the kitchen table and offered her cunt to him after wanking and sucking him to iron-hard tumescence. He'd left her gasping and filthy with black handprints all over her arse while spunk slid down her legs after a brief but frenzied fuck.
"Got to get back and move the cart along," he'd said as he tucked his great organ away and buttoned his flies.
Despite it being mid-summer, gasping with heat and exertion, Beverly had panted, "I'll need another bag next week." And the man had grinned, teeth pearlescent in his grimy face, and left Beverly half dressed, her knickers on the flagstone floor, her skirt up round her waist, tits and fanny sore from where he'd mauled her and fucked into her hard and fast. But oh, she was so fucking satisfied.
He'd come again the following week. This time he stayed longer after leaving the horse and cart at a mate's yard away from prying eyes and sharp, gossiping tongues. Beverly loved it, the rough fucking as his huge, grimy hands pawed at her skin. The girth of him split her open, the broad mushroom dome, pliant yet unyielding, relentlessly probing deeper and deeper forcing her apart while the beautiful ridges and veins in his gnarled length rubbed her to climax after climax.
When he grunted a warning that his own surge was imminent, Beverly, with her thighs juddering at the intensity or her orgasms, pushed him away from where his fingers gripped her hips and he fucked into her from behind.
"On my tits!" she'd cried, "spunk on my tits." She squatted and offered her breasts to him as he tugged at his length.
Grimacing, desperate for the sublime release, the rough and begrimed man gave a huge, bull like bellow and poured a viscous rain of semen onto Beverly's big breasts.
"You're a dirty lass," the groaned. "I've never fucked anyone as mucky as you. You love it, eh?"
Beverly's response had been to smirk up at him as she squatted on her kitchen floor. She smeared his outpouring over the soft flesh of her breasts with one hand and reached for his oozing cock with the other. "You love it too," she murmured before wrapping her lips around him. The woman sucked and slurped at the man's diminishing erection. Her cheeks dipped to concavity as she cleaned all residue of their coupling from his cock.
And it had gone on from there, he a regular and welcome visitor who never took his boots off or got beyond the kitchen.
The end came when the coalman's son joined the man on his rounds, the boy's presence curtailing his father's extra-marital activities and, by default, denying Beverly her weekly ration of stiff penis.
Beverly took to masturbating to cool the fires and salve the itch between her legs. As the colder months came on she found being naked in her bedroom too uncomfortable without a fire to warm her exposed flesh, and since she couldn't afford the luxury of a fire in the bedroom she was forced by economic necessity to use the parlour room downstairs.
At first Beverly was as nervous as a cat in Battersea dogs' home as she settled on the settee with her skirt around her hips. Her ears were tuned to every creak of the terraced house's old bones, and each sound heralded a flurry of libs as the woman hurriedly rearranged her clothing and, red-faced and guilty looking, she scrambled to her feet, thinking her son was about to walk in a catch her with her fingers swirling around her hot and swollen sex.
As the days and weeks went on Beverly relaxed and began to ignore the usual sounds the innocent walls and floors made; she recognised that the noises were just the house grumbling about the change in the weather, rheumatoid joints contracting as the days grew colder.
Philip would be at work until five every weekday, and with the half-hour walk home there was little danger of him ever catching her in flagrante delicto with her skirt bunched around her waist and her cunt snarling around her fingers.
Beverly took to masturbating regularly at two in the afternoon. She would actually start the day with a little diddle under the sheets in her bed, but to find her best, most intense orgasms, she needed freedom to writhe and move about. The bedsheet and heavy blankets were too restrictive, hence the fire in the grate in the parlour and her legs akimbo on the settee.
One afternoon, as was now her habit, Beverly basked in the warmth of the fire in her usual position. The coals glowed brightly and sent heat radiating out into the room. The Christmas tree was up, only a small one otherwise the tiny room would be filled with its prickly branches and dangling ornaments, but the fresh tang of pine filled the room.
On Christmas morning there would be two presents under the tree, one for her from her son, and another parcel for Philip in a reciprocal gesture of giving. Nothing fancy, they didn't have the money for much extravagance, but it would be a pleasant day anyway, first the exchange of gifts in the morning followed by a nice turkey dinner and wine, beer for Philip, in the afternoon.
That afternoon however, with Christmas Day still two days into the future, Beverly was on the settee, the middle finger of one hand rubbing at her taut clitoris while she used the stiff fingers of her free hand to finger-fuck her scarlet opening. As she masturbated Beverly writhed and groaned, picturing herself as she'd been during the summer, bent over the kitchen table while the coalman fucked her with his huge, gnarled knob.
"Stick it in me," the woman gabbled, urging her fantasy lover on. "Fuck me with that big cock. I'm going to come. Fuck ... I'm going to come on it. It's big ... so fucking big ..."
She didn't hear the back door open and close, or perhaps she heard a slight shuffling sound as Philip took off his coat and boots but chose to ignore it, mistakenly thinking she'd never be caught out, not at this time of day. And because her son moved so quietly she didn't hear his transit from the kitchen to the parlour door. It wasn't until, as she came like a steam train, grunting and cursing while her fingers squelched inside her gooey twat that she opened her eyes and saw him, her son, standing there in the doorway, his eyes wide with shock.
Philip couldn't harness a single coherent thought. What he saw was impossible, it couldn't be happening. He stared at the scene, his jaw slack and his body numb as his brain refused point blank to register the truth of what his eyes were telling him. Seconds felt like minutes as, still ignorant to his presence, the woman sprawled so inelegantly on the settee kept on babbling obscenities as her body squirmed against the cushions and her limbs twitched. Philip watched his mother's thighs judder under the intensity of her climax, the muscles convulsing while she stuffed three fingers into her body and mauled at her exposed breasts.
He stared, still gape-mouthed and bug-eyed, at his mother's tits as she pawed roughly at her own flesh. Beverly had unbuttoned her blouse and hauled her boobs free of her bra when the urge had come over her earlier, and Philip found himself mesmerised by the pale, heavy orbs. Philip experienced a deep-seated and instinctive sexual surge at what he saw. The fact that it was his own mother made no difference; he hadn't registered that this was the woman who had birthed him, given him life. His mind refused to accept the facts; therefore his initial reaction was breath-taking sexual arousal. Philip didn't realise he was turned on, that his cock was stiff and huge, he wouldn't recall that until later, not until he'd had time to recover and analyse his impressions.
Then Beverly opened her eyes.
The moment ballooned, with both mother and son unable to grasp the reality. Even as her eyes widened and her pupils dilated in shock, Beverly's body continued to react to the impulses her orgasm continued to generate.
"Oh no," the woman blurted, as, even then, she winced and moaned and her hand squeezed her breast one final time. "No," she repeated. Like her son, she couldn't believe the reality of her situation. "No," she said a third time."
His mother's voice, like a hypnotist's snapping fingers, broke Philip's trance. He blinked quickly and swallowed heavily. Backing out of the room he began to babble. "Mum ... Oh. Mum ... I ..."
He had to get away. He couldn't stay here and see her like that. This was his mother! Oh God, he'd caught her wanking. Already, as the initial shock wore off, he felt the mortification overwhelm him. Myriad thoughts went through his mind: how could he face her ever again? This was worse than if she'd walked in and found him with his cock in his fist. Their lives would never be the same. This would always be there between them.
Every instinct now screamed at Philip to turn around and take to his heels, to get out of the house and let the shock of the freezing day outside numb his tortured mind. He had to get away, get clear of this room, the house, and most of all away from his mother. He needed to get the sight of her out of his head; he couldn't stand to see her sprawled like that with her legs open and her breasts rolling on her chest.
Why then couldn't he take his eyes off her?
"I didn't mean to walk in like that ..." Philip finished weakly.
More seconds past as Beverly lay on the settee and stared at her son. She knew she should move, that decency demanded that she cover herself, but, in those few moments that followed Philip's unexpected appearance, when she saw ... something in his eyes, Beverly couldn't help but lie there and flaunt herself.
Her son's expression, albeit one of total disbelief and shock, held a hint of some indefinable emotion that reached out and touched Beverly on a level she couldn't understand. And for a reason she couldn't articulate, without even fully realising that she did so, Beverly allowed her legs to fall apart, a boneless, lewd action that revealed the scarlet slit of her sex to her son's stare.
Then common sense and morality slapped her face and Beverly finally realised the truth of her situation. "Bloody hell" she cried. "Philip! No ... But ... What are you doing here?" The woman's thighs clamped together as she jack-knifed upright and her fingers scrabbled to draw her blouse together across her front. "This isn't happening."
Beverly waited for her son's return. She sat with her elbows resting on the kitchen table, the scene of her debauched affair from the summer months that now seemed so long ago. While she waited she smoked and sipped at the gin she'd poured following Philip's headlong dash from the house. He had to come back soon, Beverly mused, he'd left with such frenzied urgency that he forgot to take his coat, and it was freezing outside. Not that she had much of a clue about what she was going to say to him, but one thing she knew for certain, that they had to talk through what had happened. No matter how embarrassing or painful that might be, they had to talk it through, otherwise, Beverly knew, they would never be able to look each other in the eye again. And since it was just the two of them living together, and because of her son's innate shyness, which was close on being a disability in its own right, Beverly felt that they had to clear the air before any more damage got done.
Half an hour later and Beverly's pulse quickened when she heard the scrape of the back door opening. She rose to her feet and the backs of her knees pushed against the wooden seat of the chair. Beverly heard the double thud of Philip's boots on the flagged floor of the back-space. She wrung her hands as a leaden brick of agitation dropped into the pit of her stomach.
Philip halted when he saw his mother waiting for him. Despite the cold that gnawed his very bones he saw the anxiety in her pained expression. For a moment, when he looked into the deep, green pools of his mother' eyes, Philip felt a surge of love swell in his throat. This was the woman who had cared for him all his life, the one constant thing in his existence. Then, as he shivered in the doorway, with the draught whistling under the outside door, Philip recalled the vivid images of his mother in the parlour. His eyes slid away from Beverly's face.
"Go into the parlour, Philip," Beverly said gently. "I'll bring you in a nice cup of tea." She nodded towards the hallway and the warm room beyond. "Go on," she insisted, "sit by the fire and get warmed through." Easing the chair backwards, Beverly stepped around the table and moved to take hold of the kettle and fill it with water. "I said, in the parlour, Philip," she called when, from the corner of her eye, she saw her son sidling towards the stairs. "We've some things to discuss."
Philip's body tensed as he considered defying his mother's instructions. He stood there for a moment with his hand on the banister, one foot on the first riser. Then, heaving a huge sigh, knowing it would be useless to ignore her, she would only follow him upstairs to his bedroom where he'd planned to hide, his hand left the banister and he shuffled into the parlour.
"Drink this," Beverly ordered as she proffered a steaming mug of sweetened tea to her son. She busied herself with logs and the coal scuttle, avoiding Philip's eye while she built up the fire.
Philip blew across the meniscus of the scalding brew as he watched his mother work. When the flames leapt and snapped in the grate Beverly left the room. When she returned she brought with her a fresh gin and a packet of cigarettes.