George

My mother, despite being nearly forty, has what I suppose a man would consider a fine figure. (For a woman of her age, of course. I'm only eighteen and my figure is just naturally a lot better than hers.) For all her age she can quite easily slip into my jeans. (Not my top as I have a little more than her in that department.) Still and all, a fine figure.

I'd finished school early one day, my last two classes being free study classes, and in my opinion I could study just as effectively at home as at school, so I went home.

I came waltzing up the drive. My mother's car was in the drive so I guessed that she'd be home. My father would still be at work. I just barged in through the back door, closing it quietly behind me (my mother hates doors being banged closed), toddled down to my room to sling my books onto my bed (study could wait a little longer), and then went in search of my mother.

I heard voices from the front room and headed in that direction. I started to walk into the room and then took a quick step backwards before they noticed me. My mother was there with George, a guy who lived a few door down. George was about the same age as my mother, a big, boisterous, man. He was an extrovert, and noisy with it, and everyone seemed to like him. For that matter I liked him myself.

I edged a little closer to the door so I could see in without being seen. I wanted to be certain of just what I was seeing. George had my mother backed up against the arm of the couch. When I'd first looked in he'd been pushing her top and bra up, exposing her breasts, which explained why they hadn't noticed me. Both of them were looking at her breasts.

Now that I was peeping in again I was in time to see George pulling down my mother's skirt and panties, lifting one leg to rip them right off that leg, leaving them tangled around her other ankle. My mother was protesting but George was simply ignoring anything she said.

You're probably wondering why I didn't barge in to rescue my mother from this dastardly attack. I guess it was the way she was protesting. My mother had an upper and a lower level of protesting something. The upper level was along the lines of 'if you try and do that I'll tear off your arms and beat you to death with them', said in a loud and piercing voice, a voice that would send shivers down the spine of the bravest reprobate. At the other end of the scale was 'Don't eat a cookie now. You'll spoil your appetite.' This would be said in dulcet tones with every expectation of being ignored and not greatly concerned if she was.

The protests she was giving where George was concerned barely reached her lower limit. Apparently the only protest an attack on her virtue warranted was a feeble, "Stop that, George. You really shouldn't be doing this." Not exactly fighting him off with a stick, if you get my meaning.

My mother's hands feebly fluttered in front of her, trying rather ineffectually to hide the assets that were now on display. George just laughed and caught her wrists, moving her hands away from her body while he looked at her.

Then it was a case of, "Oh, George, no, you can't," from my mother as George's trousers went down and his cock went up, standing tall. I had to cover my mouth with my hand when I saw that thing rearing up in front of him.

George moved closer to my mother but I still had an excellent view of the action. He was holding his cock and stroking it up and down along my mother's slit, with her protesting the entire time.

"Will you stop that? We both know you're not really going to do anything. Just stop mucking around."

They might both have known that George wouldn't do anything but I wouldn't be placing any wagers on that. Either my mother was in denial or she knew what was coming and was getting in her formal protest. I was wagering on the second.

"Come on, George," she protested, still in that soft voice of sweet reason, not actually doing anything to prevent him. "It's not as though - oh, lord, you are, you brute. You're really doing it. You're an animal."

Doing it was right. He'd lined himself up and then pressed forward, driving firmly home. My mother gave a loud shriek of what I think was supposed to be no but sounded a lot more like w-oh. I noticed that George didn't slow his charge until his groin slapped against my mother's. (Slapping was the operative word. My mother was clean shaven. The way they slapped together made me wonder if George was as well. Do men shave down there?)

"Seeing that I've started, you might as well move with me," George said. "It'll make things finish quicker. You won't want to spend the next hour here while I encourage you to finish."

"If I must, I must," complained my mother, but in truth I couldn't see much in the way of reluctance when she humped her bottom, pushing to meet him.

George was having a fine old time, his cock plunging in and out, his hands running all over my mother's breasts, as he thoroughly worked her over. My mother didn't seem to be feeling any pain from the brutal assault, either.

George banged away and innocent (relatively speaking) little me assumed that it would be all over in a couple of minutes. Five minutes later they were still going strong and didn't look like finishing any time soon. I have to admit that it was quite an education in what a man could do.

At what I estimated was the ten minute mark George seemed to be girding his loins for a grand finale. That's when my mother's protests moved towards the upper end of the range.

"Don't you fucking dare," she snapped. "You wait until I'm ready or I'll rip your fucking balls off bare handed."

I raised my eyebrows at that. My sweet gentle mother could talk like that? A day of surprises.

A couple of minutes later she was all, "Yes, yes, yes. Go now, damn you," and George set to with a will.

My mother was climaxing and I assume that George was as well. Me, I quietly returned to my room. I decided I wouldn't arrive home for another half hour.

That's not the end of the story. I truly wasn't sure if George had raped my mother or not. She had been protesting so that meant he did but, and it was a big but, even I didn't believe her protests. Why would George? I noticed that she was still polite and friendly with him when we met him down the street the next day.

I decided to just forget about the whole incident. It wasn't as though I was in a position to discuss it with anyone. What, front up to my mother and ask her if she was raped by George while I stood and watched? I don't think so. I didn't actually forget about it but I resolutely ignored the fact that it happened.

I ignored it right up until the next weekend when I was walking down the street and George called out to me as I was passing his house.

"Katherine. Just the girl I wanted to see."

I was like, "Excuse me?"

"I saw you," he said, smiling genially.

"Saw me?" I asked, puzzled.

"That big mirror in the front room of your place," he said.

I knew the mirror he meant. A rather ornamental item purely meant as a decoration. What about the mirror, I wondered.

He must have seen my confusion because he elaborated.

"If you're standing in the right position that mirror shows the hall way. I saw you watching while I was raping your mother. I was wondering if you'd interfere."

"So that was rape," I snapped, glaring at him.

"How could you doubt it?" he asked. "Surely you heard your mother protesting and telling me not to." He shook his head sadly. "Kids. Ever ready to believe the worst of their parents. You should be ashamed."

"I didn't believe the worst. I knew it had to be rape. I just didn't know what to do."

"Or perhaps you thought your mother didn't mean it when she said no," he said with a smile. "Tell you what. I'll give you a chance to demonstrate the right way to say no and protest."

With that he took hold of my arm and went strolling down the drive, towing me along with him.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" I demanded. "If you think you're dragging me into your bedroom you're sadly mistaken."

"What a narrow mind you have to be sure," George said. "I have no intention of doing any such thing. I'm not even going to try to make you enter the house."

That eased my mind a tiny bit but if he wasn't dragging me inside to rape me just what was he doing? I found out quickly enough.

"It's a nice sunny day," he said, stopping once we were on the grass in his backyard, "and we have complete privacy here."

With that he lifted his foot and pressed firmly against the back of my knees and as they folded and I started to go down he guided me until I was on my back. That done he grabbed my ankles and lifted them high, my skirt naturally falling down, leaving my panties exposed. He reached down and grabbed my panties and hauled them off, taking them right off and dropping them on the grass next to me.

I was frantically trying to push my skirt down so it covered me, demanding to know what he thought he was doing and telling him to stop it, instantly or sooner.

He just laughed at me, holding my legs in the air with his shoulders, while his hands pushed mine away from my pussy and took their place. He started rubbing me there. He rubbed me using his fingers, fingers that seemed able to dip between my lips whenever they wanted to. He used the heel of his hand to rub me roughly, really rubbing my mons, and I could feel the pressure of that travelling deep inside me. He used his knuckles, running them up and down my cleft, and I was almost screaming when he did that, it felt so strange. I'd never realised that a man could touch you in so many different ways.

I was also vividly reminded of my mother while he was doing this. I was doing exactly what she'd done, protesting with little "oh no"s and "you can't"s and "stop that"s, all of which were being ignored. I also realised why mother had being protesting quietly. No way was I going to yell and have someone come and catch me with my goodies on display and being sampled by George.

He finally stopped touching me but that was only so he could drop his trousers. Just like that I was seeing his equipment again, but this time it was up close and personal.

I was all "Don't you fucking dare," and he was just smiling and stroking me with the damn thing. My eyes were almost popping with the sight and feel of it and I was shaking my head from side to side, my eyes remaining glued to where he was touching me.

The way I was being held, flat on my back with my legs pushed high and towards me, meant that I was almost bent in two and I could see my own pussy. While I wasn't exactly a virgin I'd never been in a position to see a cock actually entering me. I didn't want to be in that position now but I didn't seem to have much choice.

"What I'm going to do," George announced, "is to simply enter you and hold myself inside you. While you're adjusting to that I'll be taking off the rest of your clothes so that we can enjoy ourselves more thoroughly. I know you'd be disappointed if I didn't get to touch your breasts."

"No, I wouldn't," I assured him most earnestly. I was quite sure I could live with myself if he simply let me go without and more messing about.

He just laughed again and I had to watch while he parted my lips. I wanted to cover myself with my hands but for some reason I just didn't have the nerve. All I could do was watch as the head of his cock nestled in the space he'd made and then started burrowing into me.

It's odd but if I'd stopped to think about being raped I'd have assumed that I'd be screaming my head off when it was happening. Even as George was getting ready to invade me I was getting ready to protest most strenuously. What finished up happening was that as I felt his cock starting to rub against me inside me I started going, "Wow, wow, wow."

That thing was big and fat and as it penetrated me it was sending the most delicious shivers through me. It rasped against my passage, the vibrations of its passing travelling deep into me, its size stretching me, and I could only lie and watch as it sank into me, yammering that silly wow sound the entire time.

His groin was finally rubbing against me and I could feel his pubic hair lightly scratching against my skin. (That answered another question by the way. He didn't shave. I suppose I should have noticed when he whipped his cock out but I was distracted by the dimensions of the thing, not noticing the setting.)

He hadn't been kidding about just sticking it in and leaving it there. There I was, his cock in deep enough to tickle my tonsils from the wrong direction, and he was just holding still. Um, holding still cock-wise that is. His hands were busy pulling my top free from my skirt, pushing it up until it was bunched under my arms. That done he reached under me to unclip my bra before pushing that up and out the way, leaving my breasts on display, gleaming white in the sunshine with pink nipples erect.

He stroked my breasts and I could feel them swelling under his touch. I was twisting about slowly as he touched me, feeling those touches sinking deep into me, stirring me up. At the same time I was becoming more and more conscious of his cock inside me, filling me. It was almost a relief when he started using it properly.

He pulled back and returned, not in any great hurry but not taking his time, either. He set up a brisk rhythm and he didn't need to tell me to move with him. I was pushing against him from that very first stroke, wanting his cock fully back inside me. Not that I would admit that to him.

For that matter I guess I didn't need to admit it. If you're fucking someone and they're going, "Yes, yes, oh god yes," then I suspect that you would know that they're not totally averse to what you're doing to them. It was totally embarrassing acting like that but I just couldn't seem to help myself.

My legs had dropped and were now wrapped around his waist, holding on tight, while my arms were spread wide, my hands clutching at the grass, leaving myself wide open to do as he wished, and he did it, and kept on doing it.

It slowly dawned on me that that rhythm that he'd set up was fast enough to build up my arousal and keep it high but not fast enough to push me over the edge. I tried to subtly encourage him to move faster, needing him to move faster, but he ignored any hints. I finally switched to a direct demand that he get a move on. Really, if a man is going to rape you he should have the decency to do a proper job of it, not stuff around with this half-hearted bullshit.

"But I'm not ready to move faster," he told me. "Don't worry. You'll get there. Just relax and go with the flow."

Relax? Was he kidding? How do you relax when you're flat on your back with a big fat cock working mayhem on your innards? As for going with the flow, if I went with the flow any more than what I was doing I'd be a liquid. I cursed him (in dainty language, of course) and sweated as my arousal continued, unabated.

I was half convinced that I was going to go mad before he'd finish and then he seemed to stiffen slightly and his pace increased. I was all yes, yes, and he was really giving my pussy what-for, bouncing off me with every increasing vigour. I climaxed and I could feel him doing the same, him jerking frantically as he let loose while I shuddered and shook.

I just lay there after he climbed off me, not knowing what to say. He didn't have that problem.

"Why don't you come inside and have a quick shower before heading on home?" he invited and, feeling that I was a sticky mess both inside and outside, I reluctantly agreed.

It was a quick shower, I can assure you, and then I was dressed and leaving, hopefully while George wasn't looking. Going through the kitchen I saw his phone on the table and a memory surfaced, something I hadn't quite grasped at the time. While I was lying there I'd seen him tucking his phone into his pocket. Why had it been out in the first place?

Suspicious, I picked it up, pleased to see it wasn't locked. I brought up the photo gallery and there I was, lying on the grass with everything exposed. That rotten sod had taken my photo when I wasn't looking. I hastily deleted that blasted thing to find myself now looking at a photo of my mother, also effectively naked. That also got deleted.

That wasn't the end of it. The next photo was a picture of my best friend Sally and her mother, both of them totally naked. I decided I wasn't going to look at any more and put the phone down. George natural showed up at that time.

"Damn. Deleted my memento, haven't you," he said with a smile.

"Damn right," I agreed. "And the one of my mother. Ah, did you, um, Sally and her mother?"

"Did I um Sally and her mother? That depends on what um means. Let's just say it was an interesting experience where her mother and I would demonstrate and then Sally would attempt to copy it. A very athletic pair, I found."

I was so going to have words with Sally. I wondered if George could handle both Sally and me together. Probably not as we were both young and healthy and men were somewhat limited in what they could do. Still, it was an interesting thought, not that I intended to do anything about it.