Just My Cup Of Tea

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Normie visits his Mum and stirs more than a cup of tea.
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rufriter
rufriter
710 Followers

Mum grew up in WWII England at a time when everything was rationed, which of course resulted in a flourishing black market. This was fine for those with money, but her dad was just an ordinary working stiff, and her Mum was a housewife and mother.

One day in early puberty, I saw something that changed my perception of her completely. I don't remember the reason, but I was on my hands and knees looking for something under Mum and Dad's bed. It was one of those big wrought iron beds with exposed springs underneath, and in the shadows I noticed something hanging from the springs on Dad's side. A closer look revealed it to be a freshly used condom, presumably from the night before, and Dad had clearly forgotten to dispose of it before he left for work that morning.

I knew about sex of course, or at least I thought I did, but like most kids it had simply never occurred to me that my own parents did 'it', but from then on I never again saw my Mum in quite the same light. Needless to say, Mum being Mum, she did what all mothers do and covered up whenever I was around.

When I was eleven I passed the exams to attend the high school where Mum was a teacher. Fortunately for me I was never in her classes, so none of the other kids saw the connection, other than remarking that we had the same surname. Something I hadn't expected was the way many of the older boys made lewd remarks about the lady teachers. It did annoy me a little when my Mum was referred to in such terms, but I soon got used to it, and at the same time I felt secretly proud that she was so attractive.

There was one particular bully boy who was always trying to big note himself, and I came close to fighting with him a couple of times when I thought he was overstepping the mark, except that he was way too big for me to handle. On one occasion, a bunch of us were standing around in the schoolyard, and as usual the subject came round to sex. We all listened enviously when one said he spied on his older sister and her boyfriend once. Needless to say another boy had to go one better, and claim he had barged into the bathroom when his Mum was washing herself. Of course everyone wanted to know if he saw anything, but before he could say, the bully boy chimed in by boasting about his own mum. We all knew what he was like, so we all laughed, which only made him more defensive. That was when he said what almost made me smash him in the mouth. The only thing that saved him was that he didn't realise how ridiculous he sounded to all of us.

According to him, my Mum, Mrs. Harris, had singled him out to help her tidy the stock room one day after school. He went on to say something about pink panties. Even though he was aware that we all knew it was all in his imagination, he tried to become a lot more graphic, but the way we were all laughing at him shut him up. Out of respect for my Mum I won't go into detail, except to say that 'filthy slut' was about the mildest term used. As soon as he stopped talking, he realised he had gone too far. Some of the guys became really angry, and told him to shut his filthy mouth, because in those days teachers were held in the highest esteem. There were teachers who may not be popular with some students, but every one of them was respected, so to even hint that one would act improperly was not only preposterous, but the gravest possible insult. It was tantamount to telling a guy his mother or sister was a prostitute.

I was so incensed that I almost blurted out that Mrs. Harris was my Mum, so I knew for a fact that whatever he was implying was a bald faced lie. Such a disclosure would raise questions which I most certainly did not want to answer. It was quite feasible that a boy might catch a glimpse of his mother, when dressing or showering or whatever, but saying so meant that questions would be asked. In the teenage mind, this might imply that I had seen more than I should, but I was not about to say one way or the other.

This would show her in a bad light, and since teenage boys are as bad as girls when it comes to embroidering and spreading scandalous gossip, it wouldn't take long for word to reach other teachers. More questions would be asked, and If Mum was even suspected of interacting inappropriately with a minor, especially her son, police would be called and Mum would lose her job, or worse still have to answer the accusations in court. Regardless of the outcome, mud sticks, and Mum would have lost the respect of staff and students. Fortunately a couple of boys who were bigger and braver than me, told the bully outright that he had crossed the line, and in future he was to stay away from our group.

When I was nineteen, I injured my leg playing football, and needed surgery. In the hospital I hit it off with one of the nurses, a beautiful brunette named Andrea, and after I was discharged we started dating. Less than a year later we married and I left home. We had only been married fourteen months, when Dad succumbed to the lung disease that had seen him pensioned off from the armed services. It was a difficult time for Mum, being without the man she had married when she was only sixteen and heavily pregnant, and she found it hard to cope on her own. She was becoming more despondent every day, and when I suggested that she make her three bedroom government house available for a young family, in exchange for a small easy to maintain bedsitter, she reluctantly agreed.

The move proved to be a catalyst, because although she never stopped mourning Dad's passing, away from the ghosts and memories she began to regain her old zest.

Her new place was not far from where I was living, so I dropped in for a cup of tea and a chat several times a week after work, and to check she was OK. When she was in her early to mid forties she started having chest problems, so I convinced her to see her doctor. Three weeks later she was admitted to hospital for a coronary bypass. After she was discharged, I brought her home with me, so that my wife Andrea and I could monitor and manage her recovery, but within six months she began yearning for her independence. Against my better judgement I agreed to let her move back into her flat, although I insisted on keeping up my visits.

Some months later during one of these visits everything changed. She was now fully recovered, and we were sitting chatting over our customary cups of tea, and I had just broken the news that I was to become a father. As they had so often, my eyes were drawn to the slowly fading scar that started just below her throat, and disappeared into the neckline of her dress. She noticed my stare, and pulled her ever present housecoat closed to hide the blemish. "I'm so glad this happened after your dad passed on" she said quietly. "He so loved looking at what he called my 'perfection', and I think it would break his heart to see these ugly scars."

"It's not an ugly scar Mum." I touched a fingertip to the mark and traced it as far as the top of her cleavage. "It's a badge of survival, and Dad would be every bit as proud of it as you should be." She smiled gratefully, and then something occurred to me. "Anyway, what do you mean by scars? You only have one."

She shook her head. "No, I have another from where they stripped a vein from my leg to use for the bypass." Without thinking, she pulled up the hem of her dress to show me, and my eyes popped. Starting just above the knee, the scar ran in a thin line the whole length of the inside of her thigh, to a couple of inches short of her crotch. Whether or not she had inadvertently pulled up her skirt further than she intended I had no way of knowing, but for the first time since my early teens I had a clear view of her still beautiful, still bald pussy. As I had with the one on her chest, I ran a fingertip lightly along the cicatrix, stopping before I went too far. Something struck me as strange, and I blurted it out without giving it a thought.

"How come you still shave, all these years after Dad died?" My bluntness seemed to amuse her, because she gave her familiar tinkling laugh.

"I've never shaved. It must be something in my genes, because I've never had hairs there, or anywhere else apart from my head. At least nothing more than bum fluff."

My disbelief must have shown in my face, because she didn't flinch when keeping my forefinger on the scar, I extended my thumb and ran the ball gently across her mound, just above her slit. It was just as she said. There was only a very light fuzz, much as you would find on a teenage girl's arms, but apart from that there was nothing. Definitely not the stubble you would expect from shaving. Other than a slight tremor she showed no reaction to my touch, and I carefully closed my fingers, parting the lips from each end until my finger and thumb met on her clit. Mum drew in a sharp breath and held it, but otherwise she didn't flinch, and taking this as a good sign, I stroked gently, surprised to discover her going suddenly from being bone dry to enticingly slippery.

I won't flatter myself by saying that I knew Mum wanted me, because I didn't know what she wanted. I only knew what I wanted, and that was to get my cock into her before she got cold feet or an attack of conscience.

Not wanting to spoil things by speaking, I lifted her from her chair and took the two or three steps to her bed. She did nothing to encourage me, but neither did she offer any resistance. She merely kept her eyes locked on mine, and allowed me to lay her on the bed and part her legs. Her gaze still didn't waver when I slipped a finger into her pussy, then freed my cock from my pants and moved between her thighs, but her eyes widened as I entered her. I figured it was because she hadn't been touched since Dad passed away, but Mum was a lot tighter than I expected, and after a few tentative thrusts, she began to respond by raising her hips a little.

The thing that sticks in my mind most about that first time was that there was none of the bullshit you read about in fiction. None of the 'it's so sinful and wrong' ... 'I'm your mother' ... 'we shouldn't be doing this but it feels too good not to'... none of the yowls and howls of 'fuck your slutty mommy' ... 'harder big boy' ... 'shove your big hard cock in your mommy's nasty cunt' ... and unlikely rubbish like that. Mum just lay with her arms by her sides, staring into my face as I pushed in and out. After a little while she started to thrust her hips to match my rhythm, and then her arms went around me and she whimpered softly as her orgasm took control. She shuddered when I came inside her, then seconds later she came too, and when she did it was the wettest and messiest climax I could ever have imagined.

After I withdrew she rose from the bed and went into the small bathroom. Moments later the toilet flushed, followed by the sound of running water, and I guessed she was cleaning herself up. She returned and handed me a wet washcloth, looking away discreetly until I had wiped the mess from my cock and balls, and then resumed her seat. There was a long awkward silence that seemed to last for hours, during which neither of us looked at the other. I honestly don't think it was embarrassment or guilt, it was more that we didn't know what to say, so we said nothing rather than say the wrong thing.

I know I certainly didn't feel guilty. For years I had dreamed of fucking my Mum, and now that I had, the only thing I could think of was how unexpectedly tight she was, and how good it had felt to have my cock inside her. I replayed in my mind the gentle shudder that ran through her when I shot my cum deep into her, and the wet warmth as her cum bathed my cock and balls. After a while the silence began to get to me, get to us both maybe, so I washed the empty teacups, and giving Mum a quick kiss on the cheek I left.

On the drive home I reflected on how I had just committed the most intimate act a man could commit with a woman, and the wonder was I had done so with my own mother. And the strange thing was that I hadn't seen or even tried to touch her breasts. Now I felt a sense of loss, because after the uncomfortable silence she may have decided the whole thing was a spur of the moment mistake, and not only would I never have another chance to know how her tits felt, I may never get to fuck her again. The mere thought was almost unbearable to me, and only made me want her more, and by the time I arrived home I had another raging hard on.

Fortunately Andrea was her usual demonstrative self, and flashed me a saucy grin as soon as I walked through the door. "About time. Another ten minutes and my toy would have been where you belong." Her laugh was deliciously wicked as she leaned back against the soft cushions of the couch and hitched up her skirt. "See how much she wants her best friend?"

One thing about my gorgeous wife was that she wasn't half hearted about anything she did. When we had first started seeing each other, she had steadfastly resisted any attempts I made to do more than kiss her, but when after about three months I finally got to feel her boobs -- on the outside of her clothing, because that was as far as I believed she would let me get -- she held nothing back. Without hesitation she had undressed completely, and we had fucked with an intensity that was almost frightening. When we married she threw the same enthusiasm into her relationship with my parents. She had grown up in a succession of foster homes, so now that she had a 'real' Mum and Dad, she was determined to give them all the love she had been unable to give the natural parents she had never known.

Now I glanced at the darker blue of the wet patch on her pale blue panties, and pulled up her tee shirt and bra. Because I hadn't seen Mum's tits, I looked at Andrea's with a new appreciation, shaping my hands to their firm roundness and teasing the already hard nipples, before taking one between my lips as she fumbled to free my erection. I pushed her sopping panties off and brushed my hand across her short wiry bush, then spread her pussy lips and drove my stiff cock deep into her wetness. For the next hour or more we fucked with the same intensity as we had the first time, changing positions often and finishing with her kneeling on the cushions, her cum running down her thighs as I grasped her boobs and poured my thick jism into her cunt.

I was apprehensive about visiting Mum again, because I was not sure what sort of reception I would receive. The last thing I wanted was any form of confrontation, so I put off seeing her for as long as I could. By the third day after I would normally have visited, I forced myself to accept I would have to face her sooner or later. Preferably sooner since the longer it dragged out the harder it would become. Steeling myself to face the worst, I dropped in on Friday after work.

Mum smiled when she answered the door and saw me, and I assumed that she had decided that once was more than enough, because her usually loose housecoat was buttoned to the throat. Waving me to my usual chair, she set about making tea, and with cups in hands we sat chatting about trivia, carefully avoiding any reference to what had happened last time.

When her cup was empty, she set it on the small occasional table and went into the bathroom, returning almost immediately and spreading a large bath towel over the bed covers. She stood for a moment, her eyes flickering nervously around the room, looking everywhere but at me, and then slowly unbuttoned her housecoat, shrugging it off to reveal her totally nude figure.

I swallowed a sudden lump in my throat as I looked at her breasts, sagging slightly from age and gravity, but still amazingly firm, with hard brown nipples. Strangely the scars on her thigh and chest, and the faint stretch marks on her abdomen, seemed to add something special to the beauty of her nudity, and my cock stiffened instantly. She looked meaningfully at my clothes, and as I undressed hurriedly, she sat on the edge of the bed and held her arms out to me. As I came to her she lifted her breasts, and with a tremor in her voice she whispered. "You forgot these last time." It was only five short words, but they broke the tension, and I sat beside her fondling the wonderful soft globes. Her breathing quickened when I took a nipple into my mouth, and holding my head firmly she lay back, taking me with her and swinging her legs onto the bed.

For what seemed like forever I sucked first one glorious tit then the other, lashing each nipple with my tongue, until she grasped my hand and pushed it against her wet sex. My finger slipped in easily, and I pressed my thumb against her clit, causing her to arch upwards. I only stroked for a few seconds before she pushed my hand away. "Now, Normie."

Her use of the diminutive form of my name made me smile. She had only ever called me by my given name of Norman, except as a child if I hurt myself or did something that particularly pleased her. Now as I moved between her thighs she grasped my cock and guided it into her. Her orgasm seemed to start almost immediately, and she clung to me, setting her own rhythm with gentle thrusts of her hips. She continued to cum the whole time I was fucking her, the whole time she was fucking me, the whole time we were fucking each other. I could feel the wetness of her secretions seeping out over my balls and soaking into and through the towel, and she pushed my head down onto her tits, giving the delightful little shudder as my cum poured out of me and into her.

We lay silently side by side, mother and son, replete and sated, lost in our own thoughts, and I turned on to my side to say something, but before I could speak she put a finger against my lips and shook her head. "There's no point in recriminations. Nothing happens that isn't meant to happen." She paused, as if trying to find the right words. "You know, when your dad died, I felt that part of me died with him. I hardly ever ever thought of sex since that awful day, because he was the only man who ever touched me. When I showed you my scar, that was all you were supposed to see, but then I figured that since you had seen what I had plenty of times when you were younger, once more wouldn't matter. It was the anniversary of your dad's death and I was missing him really badly. When you touched me here," - her fingers traced the point above her slit that I had first touched, " -- it awoke feelings I thought I had forgotten. It didn't matter to me that you were my son, I just wanted you inside me more than I ever wanted any man apart from your Dad. In a way maybe even more than I wanted him. Then when you stroked my pussy, any doubts I may have had about you wanting me vanished, and I didn't dare hold back in case I never had another opportunity to feel you inside me. When you came into me, and then came inside me, it was as if you had given me more than your semen. You had given me my life back. I cried a little after you left. Not because of what we had done, but because I was afraid we might never do it again."

A single tear ran down her cheek and I kissed it away, surprised to find my own eyes filling. What she had just told me certainly explained one thing I had wondered about. Why she had offered no resistance and let me fuck her so easily the first time. It also raised another question that had always puzzled me. "Seeing as you knew I used to look at you, how come I never saw you wearing panties? Was that deliberate or not? Did you leave them off so I could see?"

She shook her head and laughed. "Goodness no, it was more practical than that. Growing up during the war everything was rationed, and your grandparents thought it was more important to use our clothing coupons on warm outer clothes and shoes, rather than waste them on underclothes, which would never be seen anyway. When rationing ended years after the end of the war, we were so used to not wearing knickers we didn't see any point in starting again. Except for once a month I've never bothered with them since."

rufriter
rufriter
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