Locked Down With Lavinia

"Lovely Lavinia Laker, writer of racy romances, at home in her farmhouse conversion. Here Lavinia enjoys an afternoon cocktail in her luxuriously appointed drawing room..."

I threw the gossip magazine down disconsolately, and looked over the coffee table at the same drawing room depicted in its glossy pages, when in walked the lovely Lavinia Laker herself, holding two cocktails.

"Glamorous Lavinia, her youthful curves and enviable pins belying her age of forty-five, her blonde hair coiffed into a sexy bob, likes to dress to impress..." the article had said. In fairness, they weren't wrong. She could have been dressed for an evening at a party in that red mini-dress and matching heels, rather than having a mid-afternoon drink with her son. With me.

"Thanks, Lavinia" I said as I took the offered drink. I had always called her by her name rather than "Mum" or "Mummy" or "Mommy" or any such. "I'm that sort of mother" she would joke. She had always been rather Bohemian in her approach to marriage and motherhood. A strange contrast with my late father, the earnest and sensible banker. When he died, in a car crash with his young secretary, and the scandal of their affair had broken, no one had been more surprised than me. Except perhaps Lavinia. For all her flirtatiousness, her joie-de-vivre, she had been a dutiful, faithful wife. And all that time, her husband, the sensible, stolid one, had been cheating on her with women half her age.

"Well, now it's my turn, isn't it?" I had heard her say once. And she made good on that vow. A string of affairs with young men in their twenties, and even the odd nineteen-year old university student. A shamelessly outspoken anonymous sex blog, then the first of a series of bestselling raunchy "romance" novels, as smutty as could legally be sold in WH Smith's. When a tabloid journalist managed to work out her real identity, Lavinia had pre-empted it by outing herself, becoming a television chat show favourite and media celebrity. An unstoppable, man-eating force of nature.

I don't see that much of her. Since university I have lived in the city and only visit occasionally. Too many awkward conversations with her one-night stands or toyboys over for a booty-call. What do you say to a guy your age who's been fucking your mum and wants to talk football with you? But still, she is my mother and I do love her. And it was her I turned to when my girlfriend dumped me.

Katy and I had got together in our final year of university. She was the daughter of an Earl, but never gave herself airs about it. I had gone on to work in, and then manage, a little independent cinema. She had studied law and became a lawyer for a big firm. I thought everything was OK between us, but one day unexpectedly she had announced she wanted to break up. I was devastated, but I believed her when she said she just wasn't ready for commitment. Then a few days later, I saw the announcement in Tatler of the engagement of the Honourable Katy Stresser-Price to Lord Angus Bridgington QC. It seems her affair with her boss, a man twenty years older than her and now officially her fiancé, had been common knowledge to everyone but me.

Lavinia had seen it too and called to suggest I some and stay for a few days. So I did, and she was, it must be said, as supportive as any broken-hearted son could have hoped. She listened to my sob stories, she fed me and kept me plied with expensive wines, and after a while I began to feel a little more myself.

And in a day or two I would probably have gone back to my little place in the city and got on with my life. But then came the virus. It was March 2020 and the world was changing.

"Darling," whispered Lavinia, in that low, husky voice which had made her such a hit reading the audiobooks of her own bonkbuster novels, "I think you ought to stay."

"Stay? But I need to go back to work!" I replied.

"Why? You know it's only a matter of days before the government has to close everything down to save us all. Your cinema will be shut by the end of the week. And you'll be stuck in your poky little flat out of work and bored out of your skull. We have a huge house here, and each other for company. I'll find lots to keep you busy. We'll have fun together. Why not say you'll stay? It makes sense, surely?"

And so I agreed. She was right -- that same afternoon my employers texted me to say they were closing up and I needn't return for the foreseeable future. Already, people were avoiding public transport. As Lavinia had said, it made sense to stay in her big house.

The first few days saw me setting up a home office in one of the spare rooms, and trying to adjust to the thought that I might be there for some time. Then came the announcement of total lockdown from the government. Next morning, Lavinia found me rummaging through the kitchen cupboards.

"Whatever are you up to, dear?" She asked.

"I'm checking what supplies we have. There's only one small shop in reach and I bet they'll have sold out of all the staples already. I'm seeing how we are off for rice and tins..."

"Darling! There's really no need to worry. You're not on your own now. You're locked down with Lavinia!"

And indeed, that afternoon a large van arrived and the driver unloaded a series of crates full of food and drink at our gate.

"I took the liberty of phoning that nice man at the supermarket in town. We'll be getting a delivery every week from now on. No go and bring those crates in would you, dear?"

I struggled in with the mountainous loads of food and crates of alcohol she had ordered. My efforts were rewarded with a glass of champagne and a smug smile.

"I'm a celebrity, remember? And I'm very rich. Supplies won't be a problem. When you're locked down with Lavinia, you're locked down in luxury!"

And so it proved. Fresh foods, fine wines, anything we needed, was just a phone call away.

Of course, with such fine dining, standards had to be maintained. The very next evening, I was called to dinner only to be met by Lavinia with a face like thunder.

"Thomas! What do you think you're wearing?"

"The clothes I've been wearing all day."

"Well they won't do. In this house, young man, we dress for dinner. We do not turn up in jeans and a T shirt. Go and get changed. Now!"

Her tone brooked no disagreement. I fled to my room, showered quickly and came back down in smartish trousers and shirt.

"That's better. When you're locked down with Lavinia, you dress for dinner!"

And just like that, it became a catch phrase, a private joke. She would jokingly admonish me with it, and the list of lockdown rules grew longer and longer as time went on.

When you're locked down with Lavinia, you load the dishwasher.

When you're locked down with Lavinia, you take cocktails on the terrace.

When you're locked down with Lavinia, you let her win at Scrabble...

And so on.

After a week or two of work from home, I was furloughed. Leaving me with nothing to do - or so I thought. Lavinia had noticed that I didn't have many clothes with me and ordered some more. When I opened the parcels of new clothes from the tailor in the nearest town, she led me through them all.

"Those are everyday lounging clothes. Those are casual weekend wear. Those are evening wear for formal dinners. That suit is for special occasions. And those are for gardening in!"

"Gardening? And how come there are three sets of them?"

"well, you'll be working in the garden every day now. You don't have your old job, and I can't get the gardeners in, and there's a lot of work with grounds this size. So from now on, from eight in the morning to five in the afternoon every Monday to Friday, you're going to be hard at work in my garden. When you're locked down with Lavinia, young man, you work for your living!"

And work I did. Lavinia was not joking. From eight till five, she expected me to obey her orders and work hard in her gardens. I mowed lawns, dug earth, weeded, planted, pruned, chopped trees and firewood, non-stop except for a long lunch break to enjoy a feast of country cooking she would prepare each day.

Meanwhile, Lavinia herself worked on her latest bonkbuster and when she wasn't writing or cooking would work out in the house's gym and yoga studio or would sun herself in the garden. Most afternoons when the weather was hot, as it was so often in those weeks of lockdown, she would stretch out in her sun lounger with a book and a cold drink (which it was always my duty to keep replenished; "when you're locked down with Lavinia, you don't make her wait for her drink!"). She liked to bark orders at me from her recliner, referring to me during my "work" hours only as "Gardener". Occasionally, she would give me strict orders as to which part of the garden to work on, so that she could have privacy to sunbathe "au naturelle"" as she put it. It is rather strange, toiling in the garden knowing that one's mother is sunbathing in the nude just around those trees...

I could have used the gym myself in my free time, but to be honest the constant gardening was all the exercise I needed. I could feel my muscles developing, my condition improving. I realised this was part of the reason Lavinia was doing this to me one afternoon when I attentively brought her a long cold drink. I was stripped to the waist and soaked in sweat.

"Oh, yes! You're coming along nicely! Country living's agreeing with you!" She purred. Unexpectedly, she took an ice cube out of her glass and ran it slowly down from my throat, over my chest, teasing a nipple with it, then down my stomach. I twitched as it came down to the waistband of my trousers. She slid it back up over my body, then fed it into my mouth. I tasted the salt of my own sweat and the chill of the ice. It was a strange, unexpected intimacy.

"Off you go, Gardener! Back to work!" She commanded. "Oh, and formal dress tonight!"

That night, I wore one of the more formal jackets and ties she had provided. She looked me over carefully before pronouncing that I would do, and we then enjoyed a delicious meal.

"I do think you're looking very well for all the outdoors work and everything!" She told me; "Much better than moping around a tiny little flat, don't you think?"

I had to agree. I was tired by the work, but my stamina was improving daily. I was rather enjoying it. And our evenings were fun too.

Lavinia took to reading bits of the day's writing work to me. Her latest novel, just like the previous two, was a sexually-charged erotic romance between a handsome young man and a glamorous, seductive older woman.

"Come to Mommy!" Cooed the wicked, irresistible Lady Lawley. Slowly, tantalisingly, she unbuttoned her dress. Beneath it, she wore a red velvet corset and black stockings. Unbidden, he sank to his knees, in awe of her sexual charisma. She strode forward, took his head between her hands and guided it to her most intimate place. He was lost. "Mommy!" He cried..."

"What do you think?" Lavinia asked.

"It's a bit near the knuckle, isn't it? "Mommy"?"

"All part of the thrill, darling. For the toyboy and for the MILF! Trust me, I've said that to enough young men and my God does it make them hard! Their ultimate fantasy's about to come true. That's what the older woman fantasy's all about, of course; she's the mother and the lover all rolled into one!"

I didn't want to think of that. Of Lavinia's many virile young lovers calling her "Mommy" in the throes of passion. I had never even called her that.

"Don't look so disapproving, darling! It's just a fantasy!" She paused, then said casually; "Just because a young man calls me "Mommy", it doesn't mean I'm really his mother. Just like when I wear my SS uniform in the bedroom -- that doesn't make me a real Nazi, does it?"

This was just too much information.

"Do I really have to be your test audience?" I pleaded.

"Yes, dear. When you're locked down with Lavinia, you will listen to her read!"

And so she did. Every evening, I would have to endure my mother reciting lascivious seductions and sex scenes from her lurid novels. She seemed to enjoy my discomfort, if I am honest. If I am also honest, her writing was seriously arousing. I did admit this once. She seemed genuinely thrilled.

"That's lovely, darling! But then, my books are mostly popular with women over forty and men under twenty-five!"

"You have young men fans?"

"Oh, yes. You should read some of the fan mail I get. It would make your toes curl, some of it!" She chuckled at the memory. "Some of the things those boys want to do to me! Can you imagine it?"

I was trying hard not to imagine it. But it wasn't easy. The predatory, wanton cougars and MILFs and Mrs Robinsons in her books were beginning to blur into her. Lingerie and uniforms and graphic descriptions of all-night sex sessions and "call me Mommy" and -- well, it was all a bit much.

I was starting to feel the effects of lockdown. It had been months since my last time with Katy, and being locked away with only my over-sexed mother and her erotic story-telling was starting to affect me. Later that evening, I made my way to the spare home office where my laptop was still set up. I needed some outlet for my pent-up frustration. I tried looking surreptitiously for some porn, but somehow it didn't appeal. Then I opened the last image I had of Katy. The one I had not been able to bring myself to delete. It had been after a party. She had emerged from the bathroom having stripped off her dress and wearing only a black lace bra, panty and suspender belt set with sheer stockings also in black, and high heels. It was the only time a woman had ever dressed up like that for me, and the sex session following that quickly snapped picture had been mind-blowing. A week later, she had left me. I had wondered many times if I had been the first to see her in that lingerie or if it had been a present from her secret lover. Her sultry smile, the memory of that luscious body, mingled with my resentment of her, my jealousy of the man she'd left me for. I felt myself stiffening in arousal. I slid my hand down to reach inside my trousers...

"Ooops! Don't mind me!" Came Lavinia's voice from behind me. I turned to look t her. She was in a long black satin nightgown. She had a glass of wine in her hand, and she was more than a little tipsy.

I blushed as I hastily tried to close the computer.

"It's alright!" She said; "I understand. You've been alone with just your aged parent all these weeks, you're bound to need to 'let off steam', aren't you? Oh, is that Katy? My my. Naughty girl! Stockings and suspenders! I know she broke your little heart, but I do see what you saw in her. All that dark hair, that sexy little smirk. Who knew she had such a fantastic body? Must be all that judo you two used to do together. Oh, those legs! And those are some porn star tits! Bet you loved getting your cock between those beauties, eh?"

"Lavinia! This is a bit weird!"

"Nonsense! You're a young man, and I know a young man's needs. IF that girl was locked down with us, hate her or not, she'd be getting it. Hard! Wouldn't she?"

I had been caught about to wank over Katy's picture, so there wasn't much I could say except a rueful; "Yeah!"

"Oh, yes. Well said, young man, She would. Be. Getting. It. Hard! From both of us!"

"Both?"

"Oh yes. You're not the only one locked down in enforced celibacy here. That young madam would be a very nice bedmate, once I teach her who's the boss! What? You know I like to include a sapphic scene in every book. You must know I write what I like to do? I mean yes, ultimately I crave hard young cock, but after my first drunken threesome with a young couple I met at a gig I've enjoyed more than a few special moments with pretty girls! And your ex is just my type -- athletic, but busty, with legs to die for. Oh, yes! I definitely would, Katy!"

As she spoke, she was not looking at me but hungrily at the image of Katy on screen. In a fit of devilment, I clicked a couple of keys and said; "Fine!"

"What?"

"I've just sent you a copy of this. Now leave me in peace to er, think about Katy, and you can go and do the same!"

She shot me a surprised look, an eyebrow raised. She nodded to herself, as if I had passed some secret test.

"Very good, darling! When you're locked down with Lavinia, she always gets the girl! I'll go to and take Katy to bed with me!" And she swanned out.

I settled down to start to think of Katy, fantasising about what she and I did together, but somehow in my fantasies I was not the one with her. In my head, Katy performed in the lesbian scenes from Lavinia's novels. Not just that. She performed -- with Lavinia! As I played with myself, as I neared my climax, the image of Lavinia in lingerie standing over a submissive, kneeling Katy, forcing the younger woman to eat her out, came unbidden into my head and would not go away. I came thinking of Lavinia -- of my own mother -- for the first time.

The next morning, I was feeling guilty and awkward. Lavinia wasn't.

"Morning, darling! Hope you slept well! I certainly did after imagining -- well, you don't want to know what Katy did in my imagination last night! Hope she performed to your satisfaction too!"

And she winked saucily, as though what had happened last night -- a mother and son masturbating (separately, but still) over the same photograph -- had been some kind of normal, fun thing, rather than deeply weird.

There was no more mention of Katy after that. But that evening did mark a change for me. For the first time, I was forced to realise what an intensely sexual creature Lavinia was. My lockdown frustration began to become even more intense as I became more and more aware that I was in an enforced state of celibacy while in close proximity to a beautiful, flirtatious, highly-sexed, predatory vixen with a body as good as my stunning ex-girlfriend and a taste for men my age. And she was untouchable, off-limits. She was my mother.

And the more I began to think of Lavinia sexually, the more I noticed how much, as that magazine article said, she really did "flaunt" her sensational body. Her garden dress was usually just a swimsuit, or often a bikini, cut high on the hips and revealing a lot of tanned, toned, golden flesh. A combination of good genetics and rigorous exercise had tamed her naturally full and curvaceous figure into a sculpted hourglass, and her legs were long and athletic. In the evenings, she wore one of her many figure-hugging cocktail dresses with heels and jewellery. Her make-up emphasised her strong profile, her high, pronounced cheekbones, her vivid blue eyes and her wide full lips. Late at night, she would slip into a silk or satin nightgown or peignoir. I was acutely aware of how good she looked at all times. And also of the warmth of her luscious body when she stood close to me, of the scent of her perfume, or of her freshly-shampooed hair, or her body after hours tanning in the sun. The only effect of lockdown on her looks was that her hair had grown out of the neat blonde bob into a shaggy, ever-longer mane, and a few strands of silver were beginning to appear among the blonde hairs. It didn't detract from her appearance, though. If anyone could style it out, it was Lavinia.

And then there was the tease of those stories she read to me -- describing the outrageous erotic adventures of a series of desirable older women, all clearly based on Lavinia's own shameless sex life. She seemed to revel in making me listen to tales of seductions, of kinky romps, of sexual excess. Imagine having seen your mother flirting outrageously with the blushing lead singer of a famous boy band on a television chat show and then months later sitting next to her on the sofa with her wearing the exact same dress she did on TV while she reads out a seduction scene starting with the most thinly-veiled version of it, even down to some of the dialogue being word-for-word what she said to him. And then that seduction continuing to a graphic extended description of sex between "Kelly" the fictional MILF erotic writer and "Baz" the fictional young pop star, including such tidbits as her using her black stockings to tie his hands to the bed. And at that point imagine your mother crossing her legs so that her skirt hitches up just enough for you to see the tops of black stockings on her long legs while she smiles happily to herself at the memory.