Catching Mother at Christmas


"Philip," she said seriously after lighting up. "We have to talk about what happened." Ignoring her son's wince, she continued. "If we don't get it out things will just fester. The awkwardness between us will grow and grow." Beverly drew heavily on the cigarette while Philip stared into the dancing flames. "I know it's embarrassing, Philip," she snapped, frustrated by her son's silence and refusal to acknowledge her. "But we have to clear the air."

Philip sipped at the tea before turning to face his mother. Like her son a few moments earlier, Beverly experienced a swelling of emotion in her chest. She loved him dearly, felt for him acutely, knowing his excruciating shyness would be making this situation doubly difficult to deal with.

"Oh Mum," the young man sighed.

Tears pricked Beverly's eyes at the forlorn words and the tortured face of her own flesh and blood. She sucked at the cigarette vehemently, blowing smoke to the ceiling before she took a deep draught of gin. Surprised at the suddenly empty glass, she stood up and, sniffing with emotion and the harsh spirit that burned her throat, Beverly said, "I'm just going for a top up." She regarded her son and steeled her resolve, adding, "And then we're going to talk, Philip."

"Bring me one too, Mum," Philip said as he nodded his head at the empty glass in his mother's hand. "I could use one."

Surprised at Philip's choice, he was usually a beer man, and even then it was only the odd tipple -- like at Christmas which was now so close. Nevertheless, when she returned to the parlour Beverly carried two glasses.

Philip carefully placed the half finished mug of tea onto the carpet and took the gin from his mother's hand.

"I'm sorry you saw what you did, Philip," Beverly began. "It must be a ... a shock." One hand fluttered in the air as she explained her surprise. "It was to me. I mean I'm mortified by the fact that you caught me doing that, but I have to try to put things right between us."

"I really don't want to do this, Mum," Philip mumbled. He still refused to look at Beverly directly, preferring instead to watch the snapping flames rather than look at Beverly's face.

In part, some of Philip's discomfiture -- a large helping of the pie in fact -- came from his own reaction to seeing his mother's body displayed as it had been. As he'd walked coatless through the warren of narrow, snow-covered streets, through the freezing cold and biting winds, he'd had a few minutes to recognise that, as well as being shocked, he'd actually experienced a surge of arousal when he'd seen his mother's face twisted into that mask of pure, undiluted lust. In the moments before Beverly had opened her eyes, as Philip stared at her, he'd seen her expression of wanton desire. He recalled the sight of her fingers twisting urgently between her labia as she sought the glorious release of her orgasm. He remembered also the sound of her hand squelching around her cunt, and the obscene language she'd used to coax herself along the road towards that climax. And, when her orgasm had ripped through her body and his mother had writhed and squirmed against the settee, when he'd seen her thighs twitching, the muscles dancing in that involuntary paroxysm, Philip had been dimly aware of his cock stiffening in his trousers.

He couldn't deny that he'd wanted his own mother in a sexual way. And he was deeply disturbed by the feelings. As Beverly talked on, oblivious to the real cause of Philip's torment, Philip heard her trying to explain about how she had feelings and urges and, despite being his mother, still had a sexual appetite.

"It's been difficult for me, Philip," Beverly said quietly. She too, following her son's lead, spoke into the fire. As though the flames would consume her words and the relationship between mother and son would, like the phoenix, rise again from the ashes.

She couldn't possibly know it, nobody could foresee the future that lay in store for Beverly and her son, but the coming days would see a dramatic and irrevocable shift between the pair. Not in the way Beverly imagined, for never in her wildest fantasies could she picture what was to come by Christmas morning. How she and Philip would be altered forever.

"It's natural," Beverly continued. "I know you do it too, Philip," she added in a near whisper. "I've seen the mucky magazine you've got in your bedroom." She held up a restraining hand, palm outward as she closed her eyes to her son's stiffening body and opening mouth. "I'm not judging or censoring you, darling," she rushed. "All I'm trying to do is explain that what you saw is normal behaviour." Beverly's tone softened as she looked into her son's anguished face. "We all do it, Philip. It's nothing to be ashamed of." She sipped at the gin and looked at Philip over the rim of the glass. "Please don't let this alter the way we are, Son."

The knowledge that his mother had found his magazine caused Philip yet further anguish. Somehow, her knowing that he looked at the pictures of naked women was more embarrassing than seeing her in the masturbatory act.

He groaned and lifted a hand to his forehead. Eventually, with a deep sigh, he capitulated. His body deflated as he sank back into the chair. "All right, Mum," he sighed again as the fight left him. "I just need a little time to get used to it." Philip swallowed the gin and grimaced at the unfamiliar taste. He leaned forward and set the empty glass on the carpet near the mug. "You know I'm not good with ..." He shrugged and gestured ineffectually with his hands. "I'm not very good at dealing with private things."

"Oh, Philip," Beverly sighed. She looked at her son and felt so sorry for him. He looked as though he had the weight of the world resting on his shoulders as he sat in the worn armchair, his elbows resting on his knees while he massaged his forehead with one hand. "Let me get you a beer, darling. I got some in for Christmas." Beverly laughed, a short, brittle sound, cold and fragile as ice. Christmas, what kind of holiday could they expect now? "But I suppose you could use a beer at the moment."

Seconds later, while Philip tilted the bottle to his lips, Beverly, with a fresh gin and a newly lit cigarette settled once again onto the settee. The couple talked until the fire once more faded to glowing coals in the grate. Beverly explained to her son as best she could about how she felt, about the need for physical release.

Several bottles of beer later and Philip nodded. "I understand, Mum. Really I do." And he actually found, to his surprise, that he did understand, that the talking made him feel so much better. He turned his burning face away and mumbled, "And you're right. We all do it. That's why I keep that magazine. I like looking at the pictures and ..." Philip left the rest unsaid, he'd come a long way in the last hour or two but enough was enough. The beer had helped to ease his inhibitions and loosen his tongue, but he wasn't affected by the alcohol so much that he didn't know when to stop talking.

Realising her son had said all he was going to say, and more than a little embarrassed herself at his surprisingly candid revelations, Beverly stood and held out her arms. "I'm glad we got it all out in the open, Philip," she smiled. "Now give me a hug. It's time I was in the kitchen getting us some tea made. You must be starving."

With his mother in his arms, Philip was shocked to find his body responding to her physically. The images flooded back into his head. In his mind he saw her again, as he'd stumbled upon her that afternoon, skirt bunched at her waist, big tits trembling while her face creased and she panted and swore and fingered herself.

Philip's cock stiffened quickly as a surge of desire burst through his senses. "You're beautiful, Mum," he mumbled into her thick, dark hair. His lips nuzzled at her neck as he squeezed her tighter to his body. "So beautiful."

Beverly eased herself out of her son's arms. She stared at him for long seconds, confused at the way he'd held her and the words that had spilled from his lips with such meaning. The look in his eyes reminded her, with a jolt, of the moments immediately after she'd opened her eyes and seen him standing in the doorway looking at her. His expression seemed somehow hungry, more like the heated and longing look of a lover.

Her face reddened when she remembered how, rather than gasp with shock and scramble for modesty, her first act had been to flaunt herself to his burning eyes. Beverly had wanted him to see her gaping sex; she'd just let her legs fall open and had exhibited herself in the lewdest way. And the act had thrilled her, there was no denying it, the look on his face, the desire she'd seen in his eyes had sent a frisson of arousal through her own body. As much as the knowledge appalled her, Beverly couldn't quite quell the flicker of that same arousal now.

"I'll go and make us something to eat," she stammered, shocked at her body's reaction. Taking a backward step she held her son's stare for another few seconds. "You really must be starving," Beverly muttered as she finally wrenched her eyes away from Philip's face.

When his mother had all but run from the room Philip collapsed back into his seat. He looked down at the bulge in his trousers, a tenting of the material caused by his stiff cock -- an erection that had been brought about by his desire for his own mother.

"Jesus," Philip muttered. He picked up the beer bottle and swigged at it, wondering, despite their frank conversation, if things between him and his mother would ever be normal again.


Philip woke to the cold and dark of another working day. He went through his usual morning routine, shivering in the tiny bathroom until his cold water toilette was complete. After loading the first wagons of the day he breakfasted at the café, all steamy windows and boisterous male bonhomie while lorry drivers and other working men bantered with the plump, pink-cheeked girl behind the serving counter. He ignored the hubbub all around as he sipped his tea, lost in his own little bubble of distraction.

What were these feelings he'd suddenly developed for his mother? More to the point, how did he rid himself of them? It was so wrong to feel this way, to be so strongly drawn in a sexual way to his own mum. In the vaporous humidity of the café, wreathed in steam and cigarette smoke, Philip felt his face burning as he recalled how beneath a den of bedding the night before he'd tugged at his cock and recalled the sight of his mother sprawled on the settee with her fingers mushing between her legs.

The shame had rushed in even as the semen spurted from the eye of his cock, almost as though filling the vacuum created by the hot stuff jetting from his body. Sleep had been elusive, his thoughts filled with wild and sordid fantasies of his mother creeping across the landing and, with words of her own desire sweet from her lips, her sliding into bed next to him to take the engorged length of his cock in her fist.

Philip sighed and drained the last of his tea and rubbed gritty eyes with the heel of his hand as he left the café, the bell jangling to signal his departure. He worked quietly, diligent and efficient as usual until, like the previous day, the foreman appeared and told him that the trucks still couldn't manage the climb over the Pennines and that he might as well call it a day.

Philip hurried home, his mind filled with possibilities that swelled the pit of his stomach with anxious hope. Could it be that his mother would be in the same indelicate position as yesterday? His mother may have gotten into the habit of masturbating at a particular time of day. It could be that she was there right now, in the parlour, all bare-limbed and wide-legged, her big tits trembling and swaying as she finger-fucked herself to a climax.

When he arrived home he paused at the back door, breathing deeply to calm himself, breath smoking in the grey twilight of the winter afternoon. He eased the door handle down, determined to be as silent as a burglar. Sliding his boots off after untying the laces on the doorstep, Philip left them in the backspace and moved quietly through the adjoining door into the kitchen. The warmth of the stove and the doughy scent of baking enveloped him in a welcome embrace; his mother must be in the middle of Christmas preparations. His heart leaped into his throat when he realised that he detected no sign of his mother's presence -- no noise from upstairs, she obviously wasn't in the kitchen, and she wouldn't be outdoors, not with the oven on.

Could she be in the parlour? Oh God, it was too much to hope for. With his heart hammering in his chest Philip felt his trembling legs might give way at any second as he crept along the hall. He struggled to contain the bellows of his lungs, certain that if his mother was in the parlour his breathing, which sounded to him as loud as a steam train, would alert her to his presence.

Closer and closer he inched forward until ...

There she was, just the same as yesterday, sprawled on the settee as she rubbed urgently at her clitoris.

He hadn't really expected to find her like this again; it had just been a wild hope that he hadn't expected to be fulfilled. But here she was fingers busy, eyes closed as she panted and writhed, lost in her own masturbatory fantasy.

Philip supressed a moan and, with his eyes fixed upon his mother's exposed flesh, he unbuttoned his files and hauled forth the rigid tumescence.

He stroked himself slowly, daring only to peer around the door jamb, still fearful of discovery. The long talk and clearing of the air of the previous day had been one thing, the honesty his mother had shared with him meant that they both understood and accepted that each of them had physical desires and needs, but Philip was pretty certain that spying on his mother while he wanked his cock wasn't exactly going to be met with a cheery smile and a shrug of the shoulders.

It felt so good to stand there and slide his fist along his length as he watched his mother enjoying herself. Philip committed her to memory, each curve and soft bulge of her flesh stored away to be used later, at night under the tented bedcovers.

The groan escaped without him even realising he'd made a sound. Of course, his mother's eyes snapped open instantly.


Beverly woke up full of the joys despite the cold in her bedroom. The prospect of Christmas and the heart to heart she'd shared with her son filled her heart. There was just the one thing that concerned her as she went about the necessary chore of mending the fire in the parlour, and that was the matter of the way Philip had held her and nuzzled her neck. There was something ... odd about it, something not quite right. Whenever Beverly called that moment to mind she dismissed it immediately, also conveniently forgetting how she'd let her son stare at her hot and scarlet cunt for a few moments when she'd first realised he was there in the doorway watching her.

It was all so confused anyway, and Beverly was sure that she hadn't really allowed Philip to look at her. Surely it had been something to do with the shock of the moment, of finding him staring all slack-jawed and glazed-eyed. He wasn't meant to be home at that time and had caught her by surprise, totally unguarded. No, she was sure, absolutely certain she hadn't really just laid there and let him take a good, long look. She'd just been immobile with surprise -- that had to be it.

Nevertheless, as she kneaded dough in the kitchen, with the stove warming her, Beverly couldn't quite deny the tickling between her legs.

Not that itch had anything to do with Philip. No, the heat inside her had nothing to with her son at all.

Beverly had been determined to ignore the need. She managed to last until two, her habitual time for some self-love.

"A couple of minutes," she muttered to herself as she settled onto the settee. "Just a few minutes."

A flutter of anticipation tickled Beverly's stomach when she lifted her skirt around her hips. She peeled her underwear off and splayed her already gooey labia with her fingertips. Looking down at her opening, slick and hot amid the matted bush of her dark pubic hair, Beverly chewed her bottom lip and savoured the delightful moment just before her forefinger slid over her clitoris.

"God," she gasped, swallowing heavily. "Yes. Oh, that feels so good."

Sighing deeply, Beverly sank deeper into the seat's familiar embrace. Her buttocks slid over the cushion as she wriggled and squirmed, her forefinger describing languid circles around and over her clitoris. She groaned and opened her legs wider, calling to mind memories of her former lover and the robust fucking she'd experienced in his coal-begrimed hands.

When the pictures in her mind grew more sordid her fingers began to move with more urgency. Beverly used two stiff digits to finger-fuck her opening while, at the same time, she rubbed harder and harder at the taut nub at the cleft of her sex.

Her body tensed, limbs going rigid as the first waves of pleasure began their irrevocable tidal surge. Recognising the precursor to her climax Beverly began to pant and gasp, intermittently mumbling an expletive to demonstrate vocally how intense her feelings were. She loved the dirty talk, revelled in the dirtiness of it. "Fuck," she mumbled, "my cunt's so fucking hungry. I'd love a big cock to suck before it batters my twat."

The woman could scent her own arousal wafting from between her legs. The musk of her desire reminded her of the coalman's semen that she let dry on her skin after he'd covered her breasts with his outpouring. Leaving the jizm to cool and dry on her flesh, Beverly had kept the smell of him on her body for the rest of the afternoon following his visit, only washing herself clean of the crusty residue just before her son was due home.

The musk of her own body pushed Beverly closer and closer to the caldera, and it was just as she teetered on the edge, seconds before she fell into the roiling, molten pit of her climax that Beverly heard the groan.

Her eyes snapped open and, as her orgasm reached up and pulled her into the bubbling depths, Beverly saw her son.

She had a moment in which to think, Not again, and then the sensations gripped her consciousness.

Beverly knew Philip watched her; she even knew, in a vague and foggy way, that as he watched her he was also pulling at himself. She'd seen the length of him in his fist, had even managed to notice in the second before her climax took her that he was huge -- her son's cock was bigger than the coalman's sizeable offering.

"I'm coming," Beverly groaned. And there was nothing she could do to stop herself. Even if she could stem the tide, the great rush of the tsunami wave of ecstasy, Beverly knew that she would still have laid there, legs wide, with her pussy gaping and bubbling and simply let her son watch.

Philip recognised, as he watched and masturbated, on some instinctive level he knew that what he was doing was wrong. He just couldn't help himself. Seeing his mother like that again overwhelmed him. And when she opened her eyes and saw him, and then just continued fingering her squelching cunt, letting him feast his eyes as he tugged at himself, it all became too much. He heard the words drop from his mother's lips -- she was coming right in front of him. She knew he was there; she'd opened her eyes and seen him. In fact, even as she writhed and trembled and the cords in her neck stood out like knife edges, her eyes were open. His mother came right in front of his staring eyes and watched him watching her.

Philip's eyes caught his mother's stare and, as the woman sighed and gasped, he grunted and let the surge erupt from the eye of his cock.

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