Take Off Your Robe and Get In

"You never call me by name," she murmurs.

"What?" I say.

"You never call me by name," she says. She sounds distant, as if she's not really talking to me. The bulk of her focus is on her hand and on her pleasure.

It's true. I've never called her by name. I've always been awkward around the mothers of my boyfriends. First name? Mrs. Last Name? Everything was either too formal or too informal, so I avoided it.

Suddenly, it didn't seem like such a big deal.

"What do I call you?" I say softly.

First name? Mrs. Last name? Mistress?

"Mommy," she says.

"Mommy," I repeat, playing along, feeling gross.

"Watch," she says, "and see how Mommy plays with her pussy for you."

My eyes are transfixed on the corded hand and short, strong fingers, fingers which have no doubt had countless adventures like this one, as they swirl, stroke, pump, and penetrate. I envy all that they've done.

With the one notable exception--and the less said, the better--I've only ever been with men. All cisgender, a majority of them chasers. I've been told I try to "replicate the patterns of heteronormativity."

But I am bisexual. I've joked that means I love men and the idea of women. Sometimes, I wonder if it's actually true, or if I have it backwards. Until now, I've only ever seen anything like this in porn.

"Ah," she breathes, and her head rolls back as she's really getting into it. She doesn't act for me. She's all wet noises, jiggling flesh, no fake moaning or flattering angles. She's hotter than any porno.

Then, just for a second, her body shakes, and she gives a halting grunt, and I have a gynecologist's view of her pussy flexing and gripping for a penis that isn't there while she has a silent orgasm.

"Mommy," I whisper. It feels degrading. It feels right.

Now I am thinking about masturbating. Very persistently.

She slumps, like an aging cowboy in the saddle, her low-slung breasts heaving as she catches her breath. Her hand rests idly on her pubis, until she lifts it away and pats the spot on the floor next to her.

"Your turn," she says.

It was such a bad idea. We could be caught. I could be caught. She was the last person I ever could or should want. If this had been any other time, if I hadn't been this horny, I never would have done it.

I stand up. The water is thigh deep. It drains down my tiny tits, my big round belly, my bald little half-erection. She stares shamelessly at my body. For a second, I let her, then I climb up onto the ledge.

I've never been this turned on. Most sexual encounters, I've been maybe 10% of this, and simply faked the enthusiasm the rest of the way. Just sucked the cock, or bent over and obediently spread my ass.

I sit down next to her, likewise dipping my feet in the water. The tile is cold. I spread my legs and lean back a little, propping myself up on one hand. My peepee looks so small and cute amid so much flesh.

Apparently, I'm not close enough, because she scooches closer, her thigh touching mine, her boob touching my arm, her breath on my ear as she speaks.

"You know what I want to see," she says. "Show Mommy what you do when you play with yourself."

For a second, I find myself wishing I had my vibrator, then chuckle inwardly as I think of the best way one might smuggle a vibrator into an all-nude communal bath. Not an option. My fingers would have to do.

I lay my middle fingertip on the underside of my glans. I'm keenly aware of Mommy sitting next to me, staring intently at the one part of me I usually wish my lovers would just forget. Again, not an option.

I start to rub, tight little circles that push the velvety skin this way and that, pressing my peepee up against the softness of my overhanging belly. It feels like nothing at first, but only at first.

It's no bullet train to orgasm, but that doesn't really exist for me anymore. What it is is a kinder, gentler, ambient sort of pleasure, which grows as I nurture it, until I feel like I'm floating in it.

There are things I do for myself that I've never done in front of another person, things that I'm craving now. As much as I know I'm about to humiliate myself even more than I have already, I feel bold.

I sit up for a moment, wad my robe into a ball, and lie back and rest my head on it. I raise my knees. My feet are in the air, dribbling warm water that splashes gently on my ass off the cold, hard tile.

I keep an eye on Mommy out of the corner of my eye. She looks surprised, but she says nothing as she waits for me to continue.

I start to masturbate again, as I did before, letting my middle fingertip bring me back into a world of insistent warmth. My other hand finds its way to the freshly exposed pucker between my asscheeks.

I don't fingerfuck myself, though I could and I have. I massage it on the outside, little circles, not dissimilar to the ones I'm making on the underside of my peepee with my other hand. It feels just lovely.

"This," I say, "is my pussy. Do you like it, Mommy?"

"Yes," she says, as if in a trance.

Her son, my ex, insisted on fucking me in the pussy every time, and I allowed it. I tolerated his pounding cock, though I would have preferred his fingers or a toy. He didn't have much patience for that.

I don't dare say any of this to Mommy.

By now, I'm pretty far along, and a mild, pleasant orgasm isn't out of the question. Mommy has gotten down on one elbow, lying on her side, her boobs on my arm and her pelvis on my hip. She's watching my face.

I feel her hand on the back of mine, the one touching my peepee. She rests it there lightly, impeding the ease of my motion only a little.

"Is this okay?" she asks.

"Yes, Mommy."

In some far off island in my brain, it occurs to me that this is the first time she's asked me a question that didn't make me feel like I was being interrogated. Her hand rides mine while I jill myself off.

The dormant strength in her fingers makes my bones feel as fragile as glass, but her touch is as light as a feather. I feel the slightest resistance in her muscles, and I realize she's learning my movements.

"Can I try?" she says, her breath splashing against my ear.

I slide my hand out from under hers. Her powerful hand comes to rest on my delicate peepee.

Ordinarily, I wouldn't allow this. Most lovers just want to jerk me off, to indulge their fantasy of a chick with a dick. As absurd as it is, the fact that I hate this woman makes me more likely to trust her.

She lays the middle fingertip on me, as she's learned to do, and swirls me not unlike the way she swirled herself, little circles. She's not perfect--I would have done it better myself--but it's nice.

I concentrate on rubbing my pussy, that tightly coiled ring of muscle. My newly freed hand travels up to my tit. Some days, my nipples are far too sensitive. Other days, it just depends on how aroused I am.

I squeeze my tit, pushing the flat of my palm against my nipple, and it's okay, so I keep doing it. This seems to delight Mommy, whose breathing is hot and loud next to my face, her stare unabating.

A few times, I almost feel like I could come, but I can never spend quite enough time in that zone to get me there. Meanwhile, everyone's fingers are starting to get tired.

"Do you have faith in Mommy?" she says.

"Yes," I say immediately.

"Is your faith in Mommy absolute?"

"Yes."

"Are you going to be a good girl while Mommy tries something on you?"

"Yes..."

Her movements are deliberate. Slow enough that I could stop her at any time. She sits up, swings a leg over me, and straddles me. For a moment, I'm horrified as she lowers her hairy pussy towards my peepee.

But I have faith in Mommy.

She's leaning over me, her hands on the tile to either side of me, her hair and her breasts hanging above my face, as our bodies make contact.

Instead of penetration, she rests her pussy lips on the underside of my peepee. Her hips start going back and forth, stroking the head of me. She's so wet and warm. I've never felt another person this way.

"Sometimes, Mommy likes to rub herself on her girlfriends," she coos, as if to herself as much as to me. "Mommy loves the way it feels on her pussy."

God. It's so good. I can't do anything but lie there and take it.

"Mommy," I grunt, "I'm gonna come if you keep going."

"Good," she says simply, and sits up and arches her back and leans back with her hands on my thighs and starts whip-sawing her hips in earnest, and that warm, abiding feeling grows and overtakes me fully.

"Grope me," she commands.

I reach up and clasp a tit in each hand, stopping them from flopping wildly as her hips gyrate and her belly undulates. They're so soft, like squeezing a cloud. Her nipples are hard, poking into my palms.

Riding me must be tiring. She lasts a short time before leaning in and collapsing, her breasts in my face. Her hips are still in motion; she grinds me in short, stubby movements, somehow even more pleasurable.

I guide one of her tits to my mouth and suck on it, listening attentively to her and making adjustments until she's grunting in the back of her throat. The baths have faded. I hear and smell only her.

Once, I had orgasms that were fiery, passionate, crashing like a wave and rolling back just as quickly. Then, for a long time, I stopped having them. I thought I'd lost them forever. They're still rare.

This orgasm is clean, clear, and abiding, a warm electrical hum that rises everywhere in me at the same time and holds me there, like standing naked on some wild beach in the warm seabreeze and sunshine.

I'm enveloped in the sensation of Mommy's weight, her scent, her soft flesh, her slick labia, her sweat mingling with my own, her throat somewhere above my head, recklessly singing out in unbridled joy.

My innards clench and my balls tighten. I'm suddenly very wet. It's a little surprising. I don't usually ejaculate, and never with partners anymore. No, it's not a cum-shooting spectacle. More of a steady leak.

Suddenly, she stops, and she sits up. Still astride me, and evidently very close to an orgasm of her own, she starts strumming her hooded clit, more vigorously than before, and again I get to watch her come.

One last time, she collapses on me. We make out awhile, lazily, there on the floor, until both of us straighten up at about the same time, wondering silently together just what the hell it is we're doing.

She lifts herself off of me on jellied legs. Strands of clear, gossamer girlsemen briefly connect us before breaking and falling away, making a Jackson Pollock painting of my peepee and bald pubis.

She stands up, takes her robe from the wall, wipes herself with the inward-facing side of the flap. I lie there a moment, still pretty stunned, before rolling over, hauling myself up, and kneeling upright.

She walks over to me, still nude, holding her robe over one arm instead of putting it on. Once again, that magnificent bush is just inches from my face. She looks down at me, a loveless, imperious gaze.

"I never liked you," she says.

"Likewise," I say.

"Call me. You need someone to make a proper fast woman out of you."

She dons the robe, opens the door without waiting for me to cover myself, and she's gone. It clicks shut behind her. I'm still kneeling, on the tile, incredulously mulling over everything that just happened.

I pick up my robe and try to straighten out the wrinkles. I wait long enough for it to not be obvious that I just had sex, then brave the crowd on my way back to the women's changing room. I think she's gone.

Call her, she said.

Even though I'm still bewildered, I already know I will.

On my way out of the building, the receptionist apologizes that the scrubbing ladies never showed. They'd had a huge group of tourists all at once who demanded their attention. A common thing during winter.

I assured her that it wasn't a problem. My stay had been worth it.

"Happy New Year," I hear her chirping after me as I open the door and step outside. Cold flakes of snow land on my warm cheeks and melt away.

~END~