Deep Strokes

Disclaimer:

The fictional characters herein are both over the age of 18 and free to engage in whatever dubious and highly illegal acts they may.

1.

I followed a conversation in a group chat a couple of weeks ago that disappointed me deeply. The gist of it was that men who put their mothers before their girlfriends were neglectful. For the most part, and I might add that most of the commenters were women, everybody took it lightly and made fun of the subject, either in agreement or in dismissal.

Honestly if anything I was struck by the absurdity and naivety of the presumption. My automatic feelings on the matter were frustration and, dare I say, offence. What kind of person neglects their mother for fear of envy?

What kind of person expects another to forget the sacrifice and loyalty their own devoted mother showed them? The kind who'd throw them in a nursing home and visit them on birthdays and Christmases?

Like; "Thanks for the childhood, mum, but we're done here. Get in the bin!"

It probably goes without saying that that's not somebody I'd trust with my life.

On the thread in question I'd waited for someone to say what I was thinking, and was quite surprised that nobody did, considering that at least half of the audience disagreed. I guess most were just dismissive in avoidance of conflict, which is fair enough on the dullest of days.

I could have just stayed out of it and spectated on this girl being called stupid all day long, but even that seemed unfair. Eventually I just came out and said it as the chat finally began to stall:

"Women used to praise men based on how they loved and honoured their mothers and told each other to avoid men like the plague if they treated their mothers poorly. I don't know when that changed, or why, but it shouldn't have."

Who else but my ex thumbed up my comment and responded, "yep, always treat your mum right," adding a cheeky wink emoji on the end. Not that I virtue signal by habit or try to be a role model to anyone but our daughter. That moment my ex and I shared went down like codeine after so many aches and pains.

At 45 I live the bachelor lifestyle. After the crushing effects of executing the mutual decision of divorce with one of the most important people in my life, and then facing unforeseen redundancy in the process, I took on a mountain of depression. Now I live the simplest life I can, but there's always hope that an opportunity will change things for the better again.

My mother, who is now practically the centre of that simple life (since my daughter Tracy grew up and went in search of herself), is now 62.

She had me too young in a time when single mothers were judged and criticised so unnecessarily, and sometimes to the point of cruelty. Ironic how superiority complexes fluctuate with society's ideals over time.

No matter what any critics might say about that, and about my living situation, etc., nobody can hold a candle to my mother when it comes to love, loyalty, and honour.

Sure, it's not the best thing to try to be your own child's best friend, but we had so little because our own extended family acted like we didn't exist - all because of me, or so I felt growing up.

Mum was definitely not like anyone else's parents, which I started to realise all the more as my teenage years became less confusing and adulthood started to rear its ugly head.

She certainly was never overbearing, and was neither a pushover, She just never had the behavioural filters that everyone with a stick up their arse seemed to possess. Sometimes she was like a law unto herself.

The ex has often said the same of me. I am indeed my mother's son.

2.

I'd just had dinner with mum and taken our trays back to the kitchen. We were sitting idly, digesting a while, watching the evening news, the bay windows of the living room open to allow the summer breeze through. She was wearing a flowery skirt and a strappy white cotton halter, which she always wore really well over her trim but motherly figure.

Honestly, from my exploits, that kind of body on a woman is my favourite. I've secretly fantasised about my mother on and off since I was a teen. I even bedded a couple of motherly figures when I was younger and marriage was still but a "what if?"

I used the opportunity to fuel those fantasies further, which led to the most intense orgasms as they inevitably coaxed me into going sans condom, wanting to feel me unload inside them.

Don't tell me you've never done something similar at least once in your life. You know exactly what I mean. You closed your eyes as you initiated the vinegar strokes, clenched your teeth, imagined her face, and as that woman in your bed wrapped herself around you and clung on for climax, she said what she said and your imagination became as brilliant and as clear as diamond, and you saw in your mind the ultimate taboo come to life.

Anyway, back to the story: My mum's name is Kathleen. She's a cuddly elfish woman with a bubbly personality, probably no less wild or filtered than she was twenty years ago, and as you're probably guessing she's no less unpredictable.

Mum loves her movies - classics, thrillers, comedies, and the more raunchy stuff of late - providing she can sit still long enough. She's well read in spite of her boundless energy and can hold a conversation with anybody. People in her neighbourhood literally only stop to talk to me because they know she's my mum.

Physically mum has aged better than gracefully, I'd say, and what was once golden blonde hair has embraced the prevailing grey. In my eyes she has since gone platinum.

She's always got a tan from working in the garden. She's always active in other ways, which is why I take care to see her as often as I can. I don't want her overdoing it and hurting herself. That worries me sometimes because, not that she's hyperactive, she doesn't know when to stop. I care a lot for her and conscientiously avoid making her feel taken for granted.

Notably we have shared almost everything in life without shame. I know not everybody does with their parents but we were old fashioned and had a very enlightening birds and bees talk.

Eye-opening too actually. Mum ordered me nude magazines by mail as a reward, on the condition that I took to heart her principles on what constituted a strong and healthy relationship - none of which involved treating women like objects and having sex with anyone who paid me the slightest bit of attention.

That birds and bees talk never really ended. Or rather it was rekindled at times over the years, and more recently when I became free and single all over again. Mutual frustrations I guess. Mum obviously missed sex but was happy to share that she enjoyed a lot of modern substitutes.

Still, would any man in his forties count on the day his mother ordered him a fleshlight and a bottle of lube from Amazon so that he could blow off some steam?

Of course I used it. And of course we discussed it. Mum wanted to know how realistic they felt to a man since they were clearly so popular. Through that conversation she came to understand that, obviously, nothing compares to the real thing with a woman who knows what she's got and how to use it.

What I didn't explain to her was the fantasy material I projected onto the back of my eyelids the first time I used the fleshlight she bought me. It was just too temptingly taboo that my own mother bought me a toy to take sexual pleasure from, and came with some dizzying connotations.

3.

Quickly growing bored with the BBC's ever plunging depths of political bias, I reached for the remote and hit the Netflix button. We were sat practically side by side in mum's lush leather recliners facing the TV mounted on the opposite wall. I was looking for something to fill in the void when I became aware of her smoothing her hand over her inner thighs and quietly oohing and aahing.

I could guess she was in some kind of pain, but for a moment it didn't sound that way. I felt a twitch, a very specific kind, located in my pelvic region. It's that twitch a man feels as his libido signals his reproductive equipment that the amygdala recognises the likelihood of sex.

I had to admit to myself that, again, I was frustrated and uncharacteristically responding very easily to what was obviously a false signal, but for crying out loud, this was my mother. I had surprised myself and my instinct thus far was to remain fixated on the TV, but something made me turn my head out of curiosity.

What came next surprised me. "You dog," I thought to myself. "Even for you this is another level of perverted."

My mother had lifted her skirt and was massaging the inside of her own thighs when she told me that she thought she had pulled some muscles doing the gardening. I was hearing her, but I wasn't really paying attention. Did she know or even care that she was giving me a full-frontal of her very pronounced camel toe?

She was wearing thin white cotton knickers. I swear almost every detail of what lay beneath became clearly silhouetted the longer I looked, and for as long as I continued to casually ogle, mum didn't seem to notice.

"I could use a good deep rub later before you go. Doesn't have to be now," she said. Still rubbing her thighs up and down, I was then left dumbfounded as she absent-mindedly ran a hand over her crotch and gave her fat pussy a tentative little rub too.

"Mum, are you aware of what you're doing?" I asked, now staring directly into her eyes. Nothing seemed to register, at least in the following moments, until she started to lower her skirt again, her eyes questioning me with an innocence I couldn't ascertain as either genuine or feigned.

"You really are desperate, you know that?!" I silently admonished myself. "Yep," I agreed, and my immediate instinct was to investigate this further. I was curious as to how unaware she was about her own sudden change in body language, and what else might transpire if...

"I'll give you a good rub now if you like," I offered, rising up to the edge of my seat. "Sooner the better, right?"

With panties still on show, legs spread wide, mum didn't seem to hesitate in the slightest when she assured me almost bashfully that I didn't have to.

"Don't be silly," I replied, "you asked and so I will."

"You're such a good son," she cooed as I got onto my knees and took in the sight of her sat back spread-eagled before me. Unreal.

"Do you want talc or do you have some oil I could use? Your choice."

"Actually there's some painkiller gel in the bathroom cabinet. That'd be helpful," mum suggested and got up to go get it for me. There's never any stopping her, but since I was about to do this for her - aaaaaand for myself, I couldn't lie - I let her go.

Twenty seconds later she was back down the stairs and planting herself back in her seat, but not before hitching up her skirt completely, showing off her curvaceous pins and with a mile-wide grin on her face.

4.

A brief word, if you'll allow me, on a fixation I've always had with my mum. Crows feet and laughter lines, and all that, my mum has the loveliest smile. Unconditional love has always been a two-way street for us, before and after dad died. Even her steely grey eyes contain no coldness, just a depth of untold love that seemed to need no words.

No matter how tired or stressed she ever was, mum always had a smile for me, and it's always made me feel like the centre of her world. It's been a central fixation of my long-enduring fantasies, the thought of that face looking up at me as we take pleasure in each other. Shameful I know, but I'm past justifying what's been on my mind from time to time.

It doesn't just come automatically, I'm certain. I've been watching mommy porn or reading the equivalent and the thoughts come flooding back. I don't imagine some buxom botoxed Cali valley girl when I'm fantasising. I want something real and, well, that particular fantasy needs no filter if you ask me.

So take what you will from that and imagine what I might have been feeling as she's sat back before me, basically in missionary position with her knees up and that plump mound in her knickers, smiling at me knowingly as I set her chair to mid-recline.

I unscrewed the cap on the ibuprofen gel and squirted out a liberal amount into the palm of one hand and began to warm it, rubbing both slippery palms together.

"Are we doing it like this or do you want to stretch your legs out?" I asked.

"Is this okay for you?" mum probed.

"If that's what you want," I relented agreeably and grasped her left back thigh with both hands, and began to apply the gel in thorough but gentle strokes. Mum flinched and gasped.

"Cold?" I knew that wasn't the case.

"Mmm..."

I continued, coating her entire thigh from the back of the knee and in long smooth motions, but not going anywhere near the level of her knickers. It wasn't that I was trying to be respectful either. The heat emanating from the pronounced mound beneath her gusset frankly intimidated me. In no real scenario ever is a man prepared for that reality when tending to his mother's aches.

Now adding pressure to her left thigh I put both hands fully into it and much to mother's delight. I had heard her moan many a time as she appreciated a good neck and shoulder rub. This though?

The gel worked into her skin fast and the slick shine of her skin in the dusky evening light faded to a glow. I was about to move onto the next leg, another glob of the gel in hand and ready to get to work, when mum broke the relative silence to ask me rather bashfully...

"Is it alright if you go a bit higher on this leg first?"

Reluctance? I don't know. Maybe I was just pausing for absolute certainty that I was going to do this, and to register any threat that her request posed. And that's a difficult thing to do when you're thoroughly enjoying what you're doing.

"Scoot forward a bit more then, or I'll get this stuff all over the chair," I said as innocently as I intended to sound. Now her pussy was virtually right under my nose. I couldn't avoid it as I looked down to where I didn't want my hands straying to. I was feeling a sweat coming on and had to regulate my breathing, to appear calmer than I was in fact.

Now I had both hands at work again. One was on her butt, the other stroking her upper thigh, where the flesh becomes its finest and most supple. My mother's moans were now reduced to restrained gasps and the heat between her thighs was building, as was her humidity.

"Good?" I asked.

"Better," she panted.

"Next leg?" I asked.

"Mm-hmm..."

5.

Dutifully I began again. Starting on her right leg I noticed that she had grown stiffer. Maybe not as stiff as me, but then that was a different matter altogether. I warned her that her right leg didn't seem as limber as the other and that I didn't want to hurt her by forcing her into an uncomfortable position.

"That's okay, love, just go right ahead and pin my leg back," mum groaned as I quickly complied.

"Sure?"

"Oh god, yes, I need it," she sighed on the back of a deep breath before releasing into me.

Dying to keep a straight face as I considered the blatant but likely unrealised innuendo of her words, I went slow and careful, kneading the chub of her thigh playfully, before once again reaching the edges of her knickers, right at the gusset.

"Do it," my lizard brain dared. "Tease it, see what happens," my inner devil tempted.

The hesitation passed. The ball of my hand hovering right over her pussy settled back in and slid effortlessly into the nook where her labia majora joined to the groin, and I continued to make shapes like I was a potter at the wheel and she was the wet clay at the mercy of my fingertips.

Mum suddenly jolted at the deliberate action, but half lying back with her knees spread wide, she had nowhere to run and she wasn't trying to hide either. She was now breathing harder, nasally, trying to pinch her smiling lips shut.

No chance. "Ohhh, shit!" she hissed.

"Did I find the trouble muscle?" I asked playfully.

Mum's face was a picture of many messages - surprise, shyness, shock at my audacity. This had been her idea though. Mostly. A long pause came before she mustered the words.

"Looks like you've found something else," she whispered timidly.

"Want me to stop?" I asked, although while I was asking her, I was pouring more of the gel into my hands and smearing it over both inner thighs, practically pinching her plump vagina together every time both thumbs came parallel to one another.

Mum cleared her throat, attempted something of a straight face, which appeared to require a bit of effort as I repeated the more intimate motions without pushing any further. She hummed, relaxed, licked her lips, and paused as she opened her mouth to speak...

"I'm afraid I might start wanting something else if you don't stop," she giggled with only a hint of embarrassment. Lovingly I stroked her thighs as I smiled back with sly intent. I don't know when I became so bold or comfortable with the idea that she would never scold me for taking advantage.

Maybe villainous would be more appropriate a word. I took a chance and spanked the hot bump contained in her gusset, and heard her yelp, breathlessly. This time her entire boody jolted, before she settled into a barely contained growl.

Wet clay, fresh in the oven, hot and steamy.

"Naughty boy," she chided with a grin on her lips.

Sweet Jesus, what had gotten into my mother?!

6.

"Do you want me to stop?"

Mum considered my question in silence, a thumb coming to rest between her lips, the tip of the nail now nestled between her teeth. She fought every urge, it seemed, to suck on her thumb before blushing hard and turning her eyes to avoid mine.

"No," she laughed, then, "please don't shame me."

"Why would I shame you? I just meant that I might not be able to trust myself if you want me to continue into this territory," I told her truthfully.

"Do you want to?" mum asked, as beside herself as I was. As I fought the urge to blush and squirm before her, she practically radiated shyness and began to breathe harder.

Again we were seeing eye to eye, more intensely than my normal day-to-day frame of mind would have ever been able to comprehend. She was flush, from forehead to neck, rose red and glowing, now biting nervously at her thumbnail.

"Do you?" I had to know. I couldn't change the world if I knew there was a single unseen shadow of doubt, and yet I somehow believed that I could change course for the good of us both if I really had to.

"It couldn't hurt," she said. That wasn't enough to break my now hormone-clouded sense of judgment.

I needed to know. "Mum, you do know you're basically asking to shag, don't you?"

She gasped, smirked up at me, and then flippantly shrugged.

"Ohhhh," she groaned as if indecisive, but quickly seemed to make up her mind as that unbelievable question hung between us. "A little sex never hurt. If you want to, that is..."

That statement, firing up the overhead lights of that old hormone factory within me, was in itself filled with both urgency and a timely yearning. She hit the button on the side of her chair to lower the foot rest of her chair. Possessed I hooked my fingers under the gusset of her damp cotton knickers, pulled it to one side, and revealed the thickest bush of silver and gold...

My mother's deepest hidden treasure of all!

And how could those thin knickers hide what was underneath? Staring up at me, as the scent of arousal filled my nostrils, and then my whole being, were the thickest inner labia lips I had ever seen, topped off with a ruddy dark pink clitoral hood, her big button not as shy as the rest of her.

"Oh my god, that's such a pretty pussy," I gushed, expending what little air I had left in me.