Falling for My Mum Ch. 02

This is the second part of the story inspired by the wonderful, talented CatMoore and deals with the aftermath of chapter 1. Readers would be advised to read that chapter first, though this could stand alone. There is rather more sex in this chapter but I hope that readers will still feel that it's the love story that is most important. Thank you for the positive comments and ratings on chapter 1, it is much appreciated, and I hope that readers will enjoy this. There is more to come in due course...

*****

I've been making cups of tea for you since I was eight years old. It was one of the first things I did that was helpful to you, a way of giving back a little of the love you showed me, and it had been a special little ritual between us ever since. The first cup of tea one makes after making love to your mother for the first time, therefore, comes with added significance and I made it with extra care and attention that fine summer's morning. It was strange but exhilarating to take it to you, not in your bed but in mine. I entered my room and placed the steaming mug on the bedside table, careful not to spill any.

"Your tea Madam," I announced in solemn tones. I watched as you stirred in my bed, under my duvet and turned your head to look at me and then the tea. Your blue eyes cleared and a smile played across those lovely lips.

"Thank you angel, it's nice to know some things don't change." You had been lying on your tummy and now rolled over onto your back and opened your arms, giving me a seductive smile. "Now, come down here and get your reward for all those years of tea making." Pulling the cover aside, I slid into your warm and welcoming embrace. God, it was heaven. We kissed leisurely, the joyful thought of an empty Sunday ahead of us ensuring we had no need to rush anything. You looked and tasted glorious and I could have spent all morning snogging like teenagers.

It was then, though, that it struck me that despite the fact that we had made intimate, passionate love last night, I had still seen neither your breasts nor your pussy. I laughed inwardly at the thought, how incongruous, it made me feel like a Victorian who might make love to his wife for years without ever seeing her naked body. Well, I was certainly going to rectify that oversight. I hooked my hands inside the thin straps of your red silk slip and slid them down your shoulders. You freed your arms and my hand went hungrily to the top of the slip. Our eyes met and the eagerness that you saw there calmed the slight nervousness that flickered in yours.

Slowly, like a boy who has learned that the best presents are those that are savoured, I unwrapped your breasts and drank them in. I'd seen them in the 'favourites' Dad had taken, of course, but that was nothing to having them before me in the flesh. You were fifty years old but your breasts would have made a twenty-five year-old proud. They were alabaster in colour and smoothness shading slowly into the light tan of your chest. Just above your left nipple were a tiny cluster of little moles that drew my gaze down to the perfectly round and pink areole topped by a small button of a nipple. God, it was magnificent. I reached out my hand and stroked your breast and felt it respond to me, felt the nipple grow towards my touch. I smiled in awed wonder and you looked at me with something like pride in those blue eyes.

I asked silently for permission and your eyes gave it. My cock raged in my boxers as I slowly lowered my head and covered you nipple and areole with my mouth. The taste and texture was divine. The wonderful smoothness of your tit flesh contrasting with the puckered nipple felt sensational against my tongue. I can't properly describe the taste, I don't have the words, but at that moment I would happily have tasted that and nothing else for the rest of my life. I suckled silently, lovingly, joyfully at your breast as you stroked my hair gently with one hand and stroked your pussy with the other. It was at once tender and wanton. What is more natural after all than for a mother to suckle her son? But when that son is twenty-three and she has fucked him and buries her hand in her cunt when she suckles him? Society shudders in outrage and horror at the thought but not us - not us who can see the beauty and joy in it.

You gasped as the sensations of my tongue, lips and teeth fired out from your nipple to all parts of your body as you whispered encouragement to your son. "Yes, oh fuck yes, my beautiful boy, suck Mummy's big tits for her, just like you used to." Lying there, held in your arms as I made love to your breast, I felt you cum your expert fingers driving you over the edge, your cries of delight filling the room. Your chest was flushed red, your breathing heavy and ragged as I stopped my ministrations on your breast, realising it was too sensitive for further attention, and just rested my head there, my cheek flush against the warm flesh of your tits. Was there a better place on earth to be? I doubt it.

"Darling," you whispered eventually, "You are making Mummy feel so wonderfully naughty and nice. I'd forgotten I could feel anything like this good, thank you angel." I look up at you wickedly.

"Mother dearest," I said in a low, playful tone, "I've only just begun, you do know that." You giggled at that, the most delightful sound, and I started to slide down your body, kissing around your stomach, licking your belly stud, eliciting both a giggle and a growl as I headed southwards. "Turn over," I ordered peremptorily, surprising you with both the command and its force. You eagerly obeyed, swinging your long leg over my head with the grace of a ballet dancer, giving me a most brazen view of your pussy lips.

I was now lying between your legs with your arse right in front of me and stretched out behind it the contours of your back and the soft strands of blonde hair that covered your shoulders. I was in awe at this wonderful sight. I placed my hands on each thigh and ran them up to the crevice of your bum, watching as the flesh moved under my touch. With my thumbs, I touched and gently pressed your pussy lips open, feeling the springy hair above and around it. It was all deliciously moist and knowing you were wet for me gave me such pride and joy. I admired the firmness of your arse, its smoothness, God you'd worked hard at it and it had paid off - it was splendid. The tiny blemishes of moles that dotted it, your thighs and back were adorable and added a sense of realism to what otherwise would have been almost unearthly in its perfection.

I couldn't resist any longer. I buried my face in your rump - kissing, licking biting, chewing the soft, delicate flesh in my hungry mouth. I felt ravenous, like a wild animal as I abandoned myself and all decorum to worshipping your arse for all I was worth. Slowly, surely, I parted the flesh with my nose, with my lips and my tongue until my lips touched your cunt for the first time. I luxuriated in the taste of the nectar of your pussy juice, pushing my tongue deep, deep inside. I ate you out with a passion and fervour I'd never experienced before. That I couldn't see your face, just hear your cries and watch your hair whip around as your head flayed about in my pillow, somehow made it even more intense. Knowing those guttural, viscerally sexual sounds were emanating from my gorgeous, elegant mother was like nothing I could have conceptualised before. The explosions of pleasure that fired in my brain stay with me even now. I can close my eyes and see, feel, taste and smell those wonderful moments.

You screamed your orgasm into my pillow, while your pussy convulsed around my face and I held you tight, my tongue buried in you as you rode your climax to its sweet end. As you pulled me up your body to embrace me both our cheeks were stained with tears - the joy of finding each other in this new and deepest way overwhelming our senses. You kissed your own juices off my face as we sank into the bed together. It only took a few moments for your hand to reach out for my rigid, slick cock and to guide me home.

The tea, that special tea I made you, went cold and never did get drunk.

* * * * *

That Sunday passed in a haze of sunshine, sex and chat free of any restrictions. It was so liberating to be able to talk with you about anything at all and to be able to touch you in the ways that I wanted. Sometimes that was overtly sexual but, more often, it was simply intimate - a touch of your cheek, your hair, your hand in the way that lovers can touch but that friends or family members can't.

I make no great claims to culinary skills but that evening I cooked risotto for you (one of the few meals I could manage) and we ate together in the dining room with candles, like on a date. You were dressed in a red cowled jumper that clung delightfully to your breasts and a simple short black skirt. Your tanned and bare legs emerged from the hem with their usual elegance. Your pretty feet, with red painted toenails, were in wedged sandals. You were probably a little over-dressed for a meal at home but this was special, everything we had done and were doing that day was special as it was the first time we were doing it as a couple.

The meal was simple but sharing it with you, watching your face through the soft light of the candles and the gathering gloom of a summer's evening was both deeply romantic and yet at the same time entirely natural. Afterwards I loaded the dishwasher and we sat down to watch Sunday-night telly. This was something that millions of couples all across Britain were doing at that very moment, nothing special in that. It wasn't even new for us to watch TV together, we had done it for years but this was different. Tonight, you sat between my legs, your head resting on my chest and shoulder, your long blonde hair fanned out over my bare arm in my navy polo shirt and tickled my own hairs each time you moved. My other arm was wrapped around your tummy, my hand had slid under your jumper and my fingers splayed across your bare flesh, feeling the texture of your belly-stud.

It wasn't too far off the pose of a mother and son who were close and comfortable with each other but, to even the casual observer, it was the embrace of lovers - lovers who had both known each other forever but who were also just discovering each other. There we sat, comfortable, silent, intimate beyond what words could express, the peace that only a love of kaleidoscopic varieties could bring. We watched one programme then another, revelling in our company, getting slowly more sexual in our touches and embraces until, eventually, without realising when, we were no longer watching television but were 'making out'.

While I can't remember the programmes we watched, I can remember those kisses, I will until the day I die. Your lips were so soft - they weren't the 'bee-stung' lips of porn stars and erotic fiction but they were real and sensual and tasted so very good. You were wearing a red lipstick that matched your jumper and nails but before long I had kissed it off and was getting at the real you. It was so visceral but yet gentle and loving, like we had stripped away everything that had and might come between us and were now just two people alone as the world span around them. I kissed your lips, your chin, your prominent cheekbones and the little lines that ran from the side of your nose to your mouth and which were uniquely you. Holding your face in my hands, I drank you in, making you mine as you kissed me back. My hands were in your hair, gripping fistfuls of it and twisting tendrils round my fingers, luxuriating in all of you.

I felt your hands at my belt, ripping it clear of its housing and then those long, sensuous, expert fingers at the button of my jeans and then dragging down the flies. I stood up, kicking my shoes and socks off and allowing you to slide my jeans off my slim hips and down my long legs until they pooled at my feet. I step out of them easily as your left hand closed around the fabric of my boxers, rubbing my cock through the thin layer of cotton while your eyes burned with passion and lust. Looking up at me from the sofa, a look of hunger and greed on your face that was so intensely erotic, you could wait no longer and ripped my boxers down my legs, your red nails drawing long lines down my flesh as you did. I stood there in just my polo shirt my cock rock hard and swaying hypnotically between us, pointing accusingly at you, its mistress, begging you for attention.

You reached up and grabbed my hands in yours. You pulled me back down onto the sofa and then slipped to the floor gracefully. You pushed my thighs apart and nestled between my legs, looking up at me and deliberately, slowly licking your lips.

"Tommy," you said softly, "Mummy's hungry. That's ok isn't it?" you asked playfully. I couldn't find words, just nodded dumbly and you chuckled, the laugh of a sexual woman. "Good boy." You lowered your head and I felt an explosion rip through my body. Your mouth was so warm and slick and the texture of your lips, teeth, tongue and mouth all touching different parts of my cock made me jump in the chair. You placed your hand on my thigh and grinned, "Mmm, calm down my boy, this is just the start," you cooed.

Truth be told, I've only ever partially enjoyed blowjobs and have always found it hard to cum from them, partly because I've always felt that I just wanted to get to the actual fucking which felt even better. Not tonight. Not with you Cat. I wanted it to last forever, to savour it, to wonder that you, this amazing, gorgeous sexy woman was sucking my cock in our living room. There is something intensely intimate about a blowjob, a position of utter trust on both sides, one which can be utterly dominant for either participant but which, if done right, teeters absolutely on the edge - the man trusting his woman with the most sensitive part of his body and the woman worshipping her man's cock. That was how it felt that night, a connection I'd never felt with another woman, an act of sheer intimacy on both our parts. You licked, nibbled, lapped and sucked while I took everything you had to offer me and gave it back to you.

Barely breaking your stride, you removed your jumper and I stared down into the perfect orbs of flesh cupped in a red satin balcony bra. They quivered tantalisingly in front of my eyes as with your free hand your reached for them, running your hands over them in your own excitement, reaching in and pinching your nipples, gasping which, in turn, sent amazing sensations down my cock length and up into my body.

"Oh God Mum, I won't last, I can't last," I warned you. Where would I cum? Where did you want me to cum? I looked down at you and our eyes met. You blinked and gave the faintest nod. Oh fuck, you wanted me to cum in your mouth. Only one of my girlfriends had done that before and I knew, from one of our intimate conversations we had had when drunk one evening, that swallowing wasn't something you particularly enjoyed but that it was the ultimate act of intimacy. As we looked at each other, my shaft emerging from your mouth, we both knew that that conversation was in the other's mind. "Oh fuck Mum, Cat, I fucking love you, cumming in your mouth, cumming now," I gasped nonsensically.

It wasn't a big cum, it couldn't be the number of times I'd cum that day, but it was intense, the sensations crashing through me as my cum spurted into your mouth. I saw you wince but control the gag and then I saw you swallow.

For a few moments we just remained where we were, my cock slowly softening until you pulled it from your mouth. You stood up and slowly, matter of factly stripped naked. There was no ceremony to it and yet it was utterly erotic. You put out your hand. "Come," you said. I took it and we left the room, our clothes strewn on the floor. Up the stairs we went until we reached your door. "Bedtime," you said and, opening the door, you took me to your bed.

****

Waking in your marital bed and knowing that it wasn't a dream was an amazing feeling and I just lay back on the pillow a stupid smile on my face as I watched you stir and wake. You looked at me and gave my face a gentle pat.

"What have you got to grin about on a Monday morning?" You asked.

"Waking up with the sexiest woman I've ever met I think allows me to wake up happy!" I replied and embraced you rolling you onto your back fully intending to have my wicked way with you before work.

"Now, before you get an ideas in that handsome head of you," you said putting your hand on my chest, "you need to remember that, while you may have a young man's power of recovery, this old lady needs a little more time." I grinned wickedly.

"Aww," I pouted, "have I made you sore?" I teased and you nodded. "Well, this once, I'll be a gentleman but," I said rolling you onto your side and giving your delicious rump a little slap, "Don't you ever call yourself 'old' again or I'll have to give you a spanking. You, mother, are, like Miss Jean Brodie, very much in your prime."

"Is that a promise?" you arched your eyebrow suggestively.

"You bet!" I told you eagerly and gave your arse another little tap. "You'll just have to think of a reason to tell Dad why your arse is all red." You looked a little sad at that comment.

"Fat chance he'll look," you said with just a hint of bitterness in your voice. I leaned forward and kissed you gently.

"I'm sorry to mention him Mum and to be a downer. He's mad not to appreciate what he has but I think you know that I do and always will as long as you'll have me." You smiled at that and then looked over at the clock.

"Thank you Tommy, but we can't lie here gassing all morning, you have work to get to." And with that, we were off into the morning routine. The next couple of days were both wonderful and strange. We had the big house to ourselves and, when I came home from work, you were there and we were like a newly married couple. We couldn't keep our hands off each other but we also did the little thoughtful things that couples do for each other when they know each other really well - know each other's needs without thinking, before we even know them ourselves. It really was like we were a proper couple. We tried not to think about Dad's imminent return but, by Wednesday evening, it was hanging over us and we had to address it.

None of the options facing us, as we lay naked together in your big double bed, were particularly appealing. We couldn't tell him what had happened, the most honest route, because what we had done was illegal but neither of us wanted simply to pretend that it hadn't happened and just go back to life before. In the end, we agreed that as Dad was away so much we would have plenty of opportunities to be together, we just had to be good and sensible when he was around and not give ourselves away. We knew this wouldn't be easy, it's never easy to avoid showing affection when it comes so naturally. We were also uncomfortable about deceiving Dad but we were in love and we couldn't give each other up for his sake. Selfish? Undoubtedly, I don't deny it but it takes a better man than me to avoid placing my happiness and the happiness of the woman I love above the convenience of a man who was no longer in love or loved.

Dad's flight was due back at Heathrow from JFK around 7pm on Thursday evening and you had arranged with him to pick him up in your BMW as you had a business meeting near Heathrow in the afternoon. You didn't need the money but worked freelance as an editor and it so happened to coincide nicely with Dad's return.

We had agreed not to make love in the morning, today was a 'good' day and therefore we decided that on those days it would be better not to confuse the issue. We had parted with a lover's kiss, though, which I don't think either of us classed as 'good' behaviour but felt bloody wonderful. As I worked in the office that day, though, my mind was very distracted. All I could think about was you and having to hand you over to Dad and how painful that was to me. How the fuck were we going to manage this I wondered? My cock felt permanently hard all day and I regularly got my phone out to look at your photos surreptitiously. At 5 o'clock I made a decision and, leaving work, I headed for the tube at Westminster Station. Instead of taking the District & Circle Line east, however, to Blackfriars to get my train home to St Albans, I took the westbound train. Getting off at Hammersmith, I caught a Piccadilly Line train towards Heathrow. The whole journey took about an hour before I emerged into the gleaming Terminal 5 building where Dad's BA flight was due to arrive. I made for the arrivals hall and waited in a Costa Coffee my eyes scanning the hall.