Slither Slather

Slither Slather

My god, she made me jump! I thought I was alone in the house! I don't know this young woman who's just come into my kitchen, but I don't think she's as surprised to see me. I'm just out of bed, waking up with a cup of tea. She's barefoot on the tiles, wearing an oversize tee shirt, which looks like one of Rowland's. He's my son, and for a fact, I heard him go out earlier. Really, it's not unusual for him to bring people home. We live close to the university, and sometimes fellow students stay when stranded after a gig or party. This stray is fair, and in vogue with her pudding basin haircut: shaved at the sides, and feathered down her neck. She's plain, poor thing... No, that's not fair - she's interesting. Grey eyes, sandy eye-brows and lashes, pale lips: she isn't wearing makeup. But her features are symmetrical and appealing. The spare bed is in my son's room, so a single girl's presence in the morning doesn't mean anything necessarily. Of course I'm wondering! She's carrying a small bundle of clothes. I'm not being very polite: the guest's first to introduce herself.

"My name is Katrine, but it ends with 'e'?" (She said 'Katrinuh'. She must explain that all the time.)

"Got you!" I hope I sound encouraging, I'm trying to put her at ease.

"I guess you're Rowland's yummy mummy!"

That throws me! I'm in my pyjamas, not even washed! She speaks precisely, with no accent; I don't think she's British. She's smiling. Rowland calls me that to get round me!

"I'm Wendy. Pleased to meet you." It's tricky for her shaking hands with her arms full. Her palm is cool and dry; I'm fearing mine's a little sweaty. I'm looking at her burden enquiringly.

"Rowland said I could wash this? A drunk guy in the crowd last night sloshed a whole pint of beer all over me!"

It's a pair of blue jeans and a lilac top, and some underwear too. Now I notice a stale aromatic whiff.

"Oh, poor you! Pop your things in there, and I'll set it for a fast wash and dry." I point out the machine beneath the worktop.

She's sharing the under-curves of a round-cheeked bum, stooping to put her clothes in. There her skin is lightly tanned, as are her legs. When she's upright again, she sniffs her armpit casually, and pulls off the tee shirt too, stuffing that in as well. She's clearly uninhibited, because now she has nothing on at all! Maybe she's Danish? I've heard they're not shy about nudity! Anyway, she's getting an appraisal: what woman wouldn't give another a once-over? Not that the playing field is level - she's probably twenty, like Rowland. She's a cuddly shape (but no flab that I can see), just a nicely rounded tummy, and up-tilted, bra-optional breasts: now they're a wistful memory for me! She wears a small ring through a nostril, and her navel's pierced with a little jewelled bar. No obvious tattoos. She's naturally blonde of course, and unlike me (I'm dark) she doesn't seem to groom - she's fluffy under the arms. Her youthful looks are making me feel the grown up, and on top of that I'm taller. I'm sure that boys would like her (especially to see her like this!). However, she's going to get cold pretty soon, for the heating's just switched off! Since I'm staying in for the next two hours, I was going back to bed to save energy. She stands aside, and I set the machine in motion, not quite knowing what to say, apart from the obvious.

"You can't stand there like that until your washing's done!" She bites her lip, looking doubtful, like she hadn't thought this through. But she might be teasing me.

"Please may I have a towel? I'd really like to shower."

"Come with me, and I'll find you one. You can borrow my bathrobe too. And some knickers."

I lead the way in my dressing gown and slippers. Going upstairs with this bare, unfamiliar girl behind me is weird: I mean, it doesn't happen every day!

~~~~~ ooooo ~~~~~

Katrine's looking into my room; I'm sat up in bed by the window. While she's been showering in the bathroom, I've been similarly engaged in my little en-suite, and I feel more presentable now. Her hair looks damp.

"Do you want a hair dryer?"

"No thanks. I like to let mine dry in the air."

"Well, help yourself to breakfast. There's bread for toast, muesli if you want it, coffee, tea..."

"Thank you. Do you have some fruit?"

"You'll see a fruit bowl on the microwave, and there's grapes in the fridge, if my son hasn't finished them off."

"Would you like something?"

"Oh. Well, another cup of tea would be nice. Could you manage that?"

"I can make tea. That's no problem." She's says that with a touch of pride. I guess not all her generation have the skill.

My computer's on my lap. I'm kind of at work - some research for a lecture. In a while she's back, bearing two mugs on a tray she's found, which she puts down on the dresser. She brings one over to me. The bed's a double, all to myself, but I still have a favoured side.

"Room service. I like it!" I take a sip.

"Is it alright?"

"Lovely!"

She looks pleased. "Are you busy? May I stay here with you?"

I wonder why? Does she want to get to know me? Is she having a thing with Rowland? Maybe I'll ferret that out!

"Yes, that's fine." I'm about to tell her to chuck the clothes off the chair in the corner, but she's put her mug down on the bedside table, and she's pulling back the duvet on the other side. Her nonchalance is amusing, and why shouldn't she make herself comfortable? Settled in, she smiles at me, and gets her phone out of the pocket in my bathrobe that she's wearing. Actually, it's nice having someone there - a companionable feeling. We're both staring at our screens.

I'm getting an intuition of movement beside me: subtle persistent vibrations through the mattress. Does she have a tremor? I glance surreptitiously at my bedfellow. Her phone's held in one hand - I can't see what she's watching. I can't see her other hand either. Maybe somewhere is itching...? But if there's no mice in bed with us, I'm pretty sure what she's doing! True, I do it too - when I'm alone! We may be women together, but isn't it peculiar to be so oblivious? The activity's out of sight, starting and stopping. Does she think I won't notice? It's embarrassing - my face is getting hot!

I'm trying to ignore her, focus on my work. Anyway, what can I say? When I glance at her again she's sort of frowning, which wasn't her expression before. Then something happens! She utters some foreign words (which sound quite a lot like cursing!) and slams her phone down on the duvet. Her mouth opens wide, then she clamps it shut, as if trying to choke off the sounds of distress which are catching in her throat. Her whole body jerks alarmingly with violent convulsive throes! I'm retreating, horrified, helplessly watching (now I know!) this girl's full blown orgasm - the sort that sends you head over heels and turns you upside down!

She's lying back with her eyes screwed shut, twitching now and then like a galvanised frog. Her face, her neck, her chest that I can see, are pink as a piglet's. It's quite comical, really! Yet curiously, crudely stirring. She looks up and sees me staring (goodness knows what my expression's like!), and grabs the pillow to hide her face.

"Oh! I'm sorry! I didn't mean that to happen...! You know how sometimes you're just sort of doodling, and something comes into your head, and bam! - it hits you far too strong, and you lose it?"

Do I know? She's peeping out at me, disarming and cute.

"It's so much more for us than for the boys, isn't it? And I was so cosy here, and still sexy from last night, but Rowland had to go out early..."

Oh, she's frank! I'm fearing too much information. I break in,

"Katrine, would you get into bed with your mum and do that?"

That's startled her, like I've said something hurtful!

"Wendy, I don't confuse you with my mother! Don't you know how hot you are?"

Before I can respond to that, she picks up her phone and mutters, swings out from under the covers, does something to her underwear, and ties the robe.

"Oh no, I really have to rush! I hope my clothes are dry enough!"

She gulps a mouthful of tea. At the door she looks back at me, as if for reassurance. At that moment, lit by overcast daylight through the landing window, dressed in my white robe, her androgynous grey-eyed fairness seems ethereal and cherub-like. She may be rather odd - peculiarly natural somehow, but I've decided I like her for it.

"Katrine, keep the pants." It's all I can think to say. It must be the grin I'm beaming that makes her laugh as she goes away.

~~~~~ ooooo ~~~~~

Rowland has never had a father, beyond the interlude of stoned abandon which created him. I was pressed up elbow to elbow at a crowded festival bar, next to an American rock musician fresh off-stage. Or not so fresh: his wife-beater was saturated, he reeked of pheromones of male. I quailed and turned soft all at once. I wasn't wearing much: a bra top, short shorts. It was a hot summer afternoon. I ordered Southern Comfort, and the tattooed hairy bear picked up on that, with a crowd-pleasing smile just for me. His easy Louisiana drawl was reassuring, he wasn't scary at all. He said he was stoked, like always after a show: adrenaline high. Would I care to chill with him for a while? We smoked grass in his caravan. We clicked, free spirits in the moment. The dope, and his exotic company, turned me on like hell. He said they were leaving at six to catch a flight, and that made up my mind. It wasn't my first time. Though I had so little to take off, he helped me. He offered to shower, but I said I liked him as he was - would he lie on top please? I got a virtuoso performance: 'I reckon I know how to please a lady.' That was for sure. A condom split. Oh well, my period was due soon. Wrong.

Then I was twenty-three and pregnant, headed for single motherhood. I was a recently-qualified teacher, in my first job. Life-plan ruined, and no more fun, ever! But who is it says you have to be unhappy? I'm only speaking for me. With baby Rowland in tow, I was certainly less attractive to single guys my age, and quite unavailable time-wise. But somehow it suited me to focus. I had my son and my career to do my best with, and I didn't begrudge the energy demands; it was hard, but I could handle it. And support was forthcoming, from friends and non judgmental parents. Day to day I was determinedly self-reliant. I didn't want sympathy - that wasn't appropriate at all. So home has always been me and Rowland. From the start I was afraid of stifling him with emotional over-attachment. Consciously, I've encouraged him to do things by himself, and he's grown up more self-possessed than some of his more cosseted peers. Also, he's kind and inclusive. I'm proud of him.

~~~~~ ooooo ~~~~~

She's left the house, as I must soon. I'm fingering, and I'm slick. I hadn't really noticed it happening, but there isn't time for anything. Nor could I say what's got me in the mood, but for a heady feeling as if there's some new excitement.

'Don't you know how hot you are?'

Was she only being generous? I'm boosted, I must admit, that coming from one so young! I wonder if she's bi - or even has a thing for older women? I've no idea really.

~~~~~ ooooo ~~~~~

Well, that was a waste of time: twenty minutes drive to college for a meeting, only to find it forgotten by my head of faculty, who's been whisked by her husband to gay Paris for a surprise romantic break! I did a bit of admin which didn't take long, and came back. I don't have my own office space, I essentially work at home. Parking up at the kerb, handily right outside, I notice the curtains in the lounge are drawn. Approaching the house there's a rhythmic thump of bass, and opening the front door it's clearer - electronic dance music emanating from the front room. I think about the old lady next door: the party wall is thin, and we hear her telly. She turns it up because she's deaf... So I don't need to worry. Duh. Rowland must be back. I hang up my coat, put on just to walk from the car. Right now it's raining and cold outside - normal for November. I think I'll pop my head in and say hello.

Mercifully, from across the room, they don't notice the door now ajar. But then, they are very preoccupied. The volume of the music has turned up a notch in my ears, the beat is driving and infectious. Katrine's feet, in ankle socks, are waving in the air in time to it. She's upended on our plush sofa, otherwise nude so far as I can see, and Rowland's hip thrusts between her wide-spread legs are the source of the synchronisation. He's dressed, sort of. I need to inform that my son is 5' 10" with a slender build; he's bearded with a moustache, and has straight, shoulder length hair to add to the picture. My dress that he's wearing - it's a summer frock, with flowers - is unzipped at the back (or no doubt it would be too tight) and I see the white straps of a bra he has on too. He's leaning over Katrine pounding her, his knees braced against the cushion (yes, they're going to make a stain - I'm thinking of that) and she's clinging on with her arms around his waist.

I'm seeing things a mother never should, once her child's become a grown man. Rowland's white backside is darkly hairy - as are his pendulous balls: oh yes I'm glimpsing those as well. I'm taking in all of this at a glance - a lingering one. Katrine's jeans are crumpled nearby, the knickers I gave her still inside. Rowland's apparently tried to wear the shiny blue high heels (I found them at a charity shop) which lie on their sides on the carpet. Probably not successfully. My women's feet are largish, his men's smallish, but likely not enough to fit in those. But my stockings (nude-tone and sheer) have stretched, and the tights they're part of are bunched around his knees with some pastel coloured panties... They're the pair I had on yesterday, recovered from the washing basket! Ye gods, is nothing sacred? I've stumbled on matters reaching culmination. Rowland's glutes ripple with effort, his stamina is impressive, and Katrine starts wailing, melding into the mix of electronica, for her personal apocalypse begun. I close the door carefully, fetch my coat and shrug it on, and go out once more into the miserable weather.

~~~~~ ooooo ~~~~~

The cafe is only fifteen minutes walk, but I'm bedraggled, and shivering a bit, by the time I get inside. Now I'm cradling a boiling mug of builder's tea, too hot to more than sip at. In contrast to outside, the place is bright and busy, and the temperature's equatorial! I'm sat up on a bar stool in a corner, alone at a tiny table. I'd be looking out on the High Street, were the front window not misted opaque by running condensation. My wet coat's hung on an available peg, and I've warmed up rapidly. In fact inside my blouse, I'm feeling perspiration trickle, and cautious slurps of steaming tea are making me sweat even more. I'm easing in to the rough-and-ready ambience (where you can imagine them cooking with a fag on in the kitchen, and the all-day fried breakfasts leave you feeling over-full and slightly sick), and letting thoughts just swirl around in my head.

My bacon sandwich arrives, in the crusty bread I like, ordered though I'm not sure I'm hungry.

"Any sauce, love?"

The waitress is the proprietor's school-age daughter. She's looking at me curiously. I'm sure my face is shiny, and I know my forehead's damp.

"Are you okay? It's like an oven in here, isn't it?"

She lowers her voice to a confidential whisper:

"And especially when you've got the flushes! My mum's a martyr to them, walks round the house in her undies half the time! No sauce then? Enjoy!"

Cheeky little cow! I menstruate like clockwork! I might have told her, but she's gone. Still, at her age anyone over thirty's past it. For sure I used to think the same. So she's forgiven. I take a bite of sandwich. Tasty.

It's like today, out of nowhere, reminders of unfettered sex has been thrust in my face, and here I am hiding, trying to tack my tattered perspective back together. On the outside I'm forty-four, and I've tailored my expectations to suit, but what do other people see? I keep myself in shape, don't I? Eat healthily (well, not right now!), exercise regularly. Has Katrine told me I'm still desirable? Could it be my sex appeal which prompted that bizarre and rampant tryst that I just walked in on? Rowland was dragged up in my clothes! Did she put him up to that? If he has a transvestite kink (which would not be the end of the world) he's kept it well-hidden 'til now!

And what about Katrine? Was she flirting with me? She's not my student fortunately, so ethics aren't an issue. Even so, I meet many attractive women, but I never covet them! I can't imagine doing sex stuff with a female...

I read an article in a magazine, an interview with a US internet celebrity, whose name I didn't recognise. She was in her late-twenties, and she'd had a number of relationships in the spotlight, with very eligible men. And after the last one failed or faded, she'd hooked up with a girl friend, with similar romantic background. The interviewer was fishing for something salacious from behind the bedroom door ('You've done it with men - what's it like with another girl?' to paraphrase crudely). But what her subject gave her was so heartfelt and candid, that I felt I appreciated something which I really hadn't before. She said (the famous one),

"I don't know any rules about it. We kiss and cuddle, and we feel safe and loved. And sometimes I hold her while she comes, and she does the same for me. It's simple."

There are no rules! And Rowland won't be at home forever - not even for much longer, probably. I need to go and hunt! There may be a soul mate out there for me, if I but go and look! And of course I'm hot!! Right now I'm soaking where my thighs meet!

The atmosphere in here would rival a mangrove swamp! Very likely this whole drama's left a damp patch on my skirt. (I don't use liners - they're un-ecological.) The skirt's loose fitting, flared and calf-length. I've hiked the fabric out from under and draped it. In the process I've shown a bit of thigh, but my knees are covered, just about. This seat has contours like a saddle. My labia are protruding, and the way I'm perched creates a lewd, enticing pressure through my panties. What I'm doing now has no explanation I can give; decent hygiene's lacking too! I don't think I'm conspicuous, but I'm alert as a hawk, watching those around me - wriggling my tights and underwear off my hips.

I'm sliding to and fro, elbows on the tabletop, compelled by thrilling fear and the delicious friction of the slippery varnished wood. My mug's held in both hands, and my expression's as illegible as an illicit secret written in invisible ink! Pleasure's coming over me in surges, like warm waves breaking. I'm basking naked in the shallows, my face aglow in the sunshine, on some beautiful deserted tropical beach! You know, I'm not entirely confident that I'll cope with the climax deadpan!

[Fin]