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*
On her way to classes at London Metropolitan, where she was studying for a degree in journalism, film, and television studies, because she harboured thoughts of one day being a TV producer, Izzy pondered how her mother had been at breakfast. OK, so she normally fawned over Ollie like he was gold-plated, but that morning there had seemed to be an edge to it, something different, maybe even something flirtatious? Well, she was a cow, maybe Mad Cow Disease had struck and it was time for the white coats to come and get her; she was two sticks short of a bundle at the best of times, perhaps she'd finally gone completely batty and they could lock her up in a soft room somewhere with a bubble-pipe for company and all the silly-putty she could eat...
Thinking happy thoughts like this, Izzy made her way across London to the campus in North London, but occupied fully as she was with her course-work, that little termite of disquiet still refused to drop away, instead gnawing and burrowing around inside her mind all day. By the end of the day, having thoroughly chewed it over, three possibilities had presented themselves.
One: She'd gone bats and it was time to quietly lock her away before she started wandering the streets with her underpants on her head.
Two: She'd rumbled them and was mind-fucking them before delivering the sucker-punch, or:
Three: She actually had the hots for Ollie and she'd been giving him the come-on.
One and two sounded plausible, seeing as how Carol Bartlett was such a moody, miserable, unpredictable, vindictive cow, at least as far as Izzy was concerned, but option three, now that was interesting. If she was indeed up for a little ugly-bumping with Ollie, then that opened up all kinds of blackmail opportunities for Izzy.
It also jibed nicely with the scenario she'd already cooked-up with her brother. If Carol was up for it, and, after this morning's little performance it seemed like Miss Barkis was indeed willing, then Ollie could give her what she wanted, paste a permanent smile on her bitch face, and then they could take a few candid shots to blackmail the bitch.
Possibilities abounded. She could threaten to post the pictures all over the internet, or maybe offer to open a website or two on some foreign server outside the law's jurisdiction with their naked mother as the star; there were so many other possible scenarios. Whatever it took to get her off Izzy's back and keep her trap shut when Izzy fucked her brother's cock raw, which she had every intention of doing as often as possible, just as soon as possible.
*
Meanwhile, Ollie was already home, having had an unexpected half-day due to a lecturer calling in sick, so Carol had been pleasantly surprised when he'd breezed in before lunch and headed for his room; the images from earlier that morning had been preying on his mind, and he needed to relieve the pressure, regardless of the fact he'd fucked his sister like a sex-starved circus chimp the previous night.
Unfortunately, some needs can't be quelled by taking a cold shower and a couple of laps around the running-track, so he'd come home eager to relive that morning's floorshow, with maybe a little visual stimulation from his 'hot mom' porn collection.
Carol smiled to herself as he bounded up the stairs, knowing full well why he was in such a rush to lock himself in his room. However, today it wasn't going to happen. She needed him simmering and ready to burst all day so he'd be easy to overwhelm when she finally offered him a deal she knew he couldn't possibly refuse. With that in mind, she tip-toed upstairs as soon as she heard his door click shut and stood outside his room, listening for any clues that he was indeed choking his chicken, which was a distinct possibility, given the strained expression on his face when he'd charged in the front door. She grinned to herself, mentally counting-down.
"Three...two...one...OLLIE!" she yelled, hearing the thud as he fell off his bed and the kerfuffle as he struggled to get his pants back on. At least, that was what she surmised, which showed she had some insight into post-teen young men, because that was exactly what he was doing.
When his mother had shrieked his name out right outside his bedroom door, a terrible thing to do to a young man with urges, he'd nearly snapped his dick off as his hand jerked in sudden reflexive fear of being caught with his swollen dick waving in the wind and his shorts around his ankles.
He tried to answer her but only a muted, gargling sound emerged as that same reflexive fear tightened his vocal chords and nearly loosened his sphincter; only the thought of the even bigger humiliation at being caught with his cock in his hand while being simultaneously covered in something unspeakable enabled him to control himself before something unfortunate happened.
Ollie hopped around, kicking his shorts off one ankle as he tried to shove his other foot into the leg of his jeans; he somehow managed to wrestle his jeans on, then taking them off and putting them on again the right way round this time, and going briefly cross-eyed, his mouth opening in a soundless scream as a tuft of pubic hair got trapped in the zipper and threatened to give him a half-Brazilian when he yanked the zipper up.
Ollie eventually managed to kick his shorts under the bed, and, hunched over like Quasimodo, shambled in a sort of sideways scuttle to open the door, tears starting from his eyes as every least little movement threatened to yank the trapped pubic hair out by the roots.
"Ye...ye...yes, Mum!" he gasped. Carol stared at him bent double, the expression on his face exactly like someone was hammering a porcupine into his backside.
"Baby, are you alright?" she asked, concern in her eyes at his strained, awkward posture, "I called and called and got no answer, so I came to see if anything was wrong."
"Fine Mum, just fine, I, um, I stubbed my toe, be alright soon, I just need to change, be downstairs in a jiff, gotta go!" Slam.
Carol grinned at the door, and went to sit on the top tread of the stairs; as soon as she heard him opening his door, she'd slip downstairs and make out like she'd been there all along.
Ollie, meanwhile, was making scary faces, trying not to scream as he inched his zipper down, wondering how in the name of all fuck it could hurt even more pulling his zipper down than it had yanking it up. How was that even possible?
Eventually, after a certain amount of gritting his teeth and counting-down and taking of the Lord's name in vain, he managed to untangle himself from his zipper, checked his door was locked, and filled the sink in his en-suite with cold water so he could soothe his aching bits while talking consolingly to them. He kept looking at the door, reassuring himself his mother couldn't walk in unexpectedly, because he could think of no plausible way to explain what exactly he was doing dabbling his wedding-tackle in a sink-full of cold water, and "I caught them in my zipper when I was wanking over you, Mum so now I have to try and soothe them" probably wouldn't go down at all well...
Once the pain had subsided to a dull ache, he dried off, musing that waxing was definitely in order; a 'back, sack and crack' as soon as possible was the only way to stop this happening again; in the meantime, cargo pants, polo shirt, and training shoes were as dressy as he was going to get. So now to see what his mother wanted that was so pressing she'd had to screech his name like a fucking banshee right outside his door and nearly cause him a permanent injury.
Ollie found his mother posing artfully by the big marble fireplace in the sitting room, minutely examining the Dresden shepherdess there as though she actually knew anything about fine porcelain.
"Ah, Ollie darling; feeling better, my little Olliekins?"
Ollie grimaced; was she actually insane? Maybe Izzy was right, white-coat time had arrived; 'Olliekins'? Of all the fucking stupid names...
Carol grinned inside, watching the play of emotions on his face as she deliberately used the name he'd hated even as a very young boy; this should be good!
"I'm feeling much better, Mum, thank you for asking. And Olliekins? No, anything but that. If you pull that in front of my mates, any street-cred I might have left after Izzy's trampled all over it will turn into thin, runny shit and just trickle away. Have a heart, Mum!"
"How about 'Ollie-Pollie then, you used to like that..." she pouted, looking both adorable and fuckable; what a pity she was probably certifiable, he mused.
"Look Mum, how about we forget about the pet-names and you tell me what you wanted, because I have things to do..." he grumped, conscious of his mid-afternoon wank window of opportunity closing as they spoke, although, given the state of his groinal regions right now, touching it with anything except an ice-pack was probably out of the question...
Carol carefully put the delicate porcelain figurine back in its place, and turned to face him, her expression serious.
"It's occurred to me that we don't spend enough time together, Ollie-po...sorry, Ollie; we used to do so much together when you were younger; you always jumped at the chance to come out with me, go shopping with me, anything, and now, now...I feel like I'm not part of your life anymore, that you don't need me; I'm not even sure you like me anymore; you hardly even speak to me anymore!"
Carol allowed two large tears to well-up in her large, expressive eyes, a tactic sure to make Ollie just that bit more pliable, as she well knew.
Ollie gulped; making his mother cry was not something he knew how to deal with, so he did what most men would under the circumstances; he crumbled.
"Mum, no, look, I didn't, Mum, please don't cry, look anything you want, anything at all, I promise!"
Carol ducked her head to wipe her eyes, and also to hide her grin of triumph; God, he was just like her husband; made himself out to be such a tough-guy, and a couple of Mummy-tears turned him into a tongue-tied mass of guilt; this was too easy, like shooting fish in a barrel; she almost felt sorry for him. Almost...
Ollie, meanwhile, was feeling wretched and guilty for making his poor mother cry, so desperately cast around for a way to make it better; ah-ha, wait a second; she said something about going out with her; of course, that should do it! He crossed over to where Carol was standing, her head still bowed, trying to look like she was actually crying, and slid his arms around her shoulders.
"Look Mum, I'm sorry, really, I didn't mean to leave you out, honest; it's just, you know, uni, my life, all the things I do, I didn't realise, so look, let's go out somewhere, just you and me; how about that?"
Carol gave him a completely fake, 100% bullshit look of sorrowful rejection and distress that her little boy had gotten so distant from her, and allowed just the right amount of quivering pathos to colour her reply.
"Really, you'd do that for me? You don't have to; you're young and your friends, what will they say if they see you with an old trout like me, what about your 'street-cred', Olliekins?" She couldn't resist that slight jab, and there was almost no malice in it, she was absolutely sure...
Ollie hugged her closer even as he winced at the jab and the nickname.
"I don't care what they say, Mum, and you're not an old trout, you're a cougar!"
Carol looked up at him at that, all wide-eyed innocence. "'Cougar'?"
Ollie grimaced, face flushing as he tried to get out the idea of a 'cougar' without actually offending her.
"You know, olde...I mean 'mature' hottie, I mean..."
Carol watched him twist in the wind, then turned up the heat a little with a look of combined innocence and incomprehension.
"So you think I'm one of these...'cougars', then? What exactly does a 'cougar' do?"
Ollie felt his collar tightening as his internal temperature rose. Was it possible she really didn't know what a cougar was, or was she just fucking with him?
"Olliekins...? she quavered, looking near tears again, so he plunged on; he had to; he'd gone there, and now there was no other way out of this.
"Look Mum, a 'cougar' is a beautiful ...mature...lady who likes to ...y'know...with younger guys...much... younger guys, oh jeez, Mum, haven't you ever heard of, I mean, has no-one ever, y'know, I mean, don't you ever read, y'know, like magazines and things, I thought like Cosmo would be, like, y'know, full of this stuff...? How about Izzy, she never once...?"
Carol stared at him, her eyes wide and shocked.
"Oh. OOOHH! You think people might think I was with you because I'm a 'cougar', and we're doing...y'know?" She might have let him off there, but she couldn't resist doing the clenched fist and elbow pumping gesture, complete with quizzical eyebrow, watching the colour drain from his face.
Ollie backpedalled furiously, his face and neck crimson with embarrassment.
"NO! No Mum, I didn't mean that, I don't think you're a cougar, I just meant that you could be a cougar if you wanted, I mean, shit, you know what I mean, what I was trying to say was I'd love to go out somewhere with you, you know I would, and you don't have to be a cougar, which you're not, but you be could if you wanted, but not with me, I mean...oh shit, Mum can we please start this conversation again...!"
Carol took pity on him and touched her fingertip to his lips.
"Shush, baby, I get what you mean, so why not take me out somewhere no cougars go, just mothers and their big, sweet sons, how about that?"
Ollie nearly collapsed with relief, and hugged her again.
"How about bowling? There's a place called 'Queen's' in Bayswater with a nice cocktail lounge as well, or we can scoff burgers, my treat; there, is that 'Mum and son' enough for you? No cougars there, I promise!"
Carol gave him her patented 'blowtorch' smile, and tugged his hand to the door.
"I'll leave some money and a note for Izzy, and get my shoes, won't be a tick!"
When she came back in, Ollie's eyes widened. In all the toe-curling embarrassment of that conversation, he hadn't really registered what she was wearing. Now he realised she was wearing a short, a very short, black dress of some stretchy material that clung to her thighs and clearly outlined her shapely buttocks, with a fashionable fringed chequered silk shemagh thrown carelessly around her neck and hanging over her shoulders like a shawl, and a towering pair of Louboutin shoes with the trademark red soles; the black shoes and the short black dress made her legs look long and model-flawless, and with her hair in a casual puff around her shoulders, and her salon-perfect makeup, she looked ready for a night at a swish cocktail bar or a casino on the arm of a playboy millionaire, not bowling on the Bayswater Road. Carol took in his glance and looked at herself.
"What, have I spilled something on myself?" she asked, and Ollie shook his head.
"No, Mum, you look fab; that's the problem; you do know we're going bowling, right?"
Carol looked dismayed, turning slowly as she looked herself over.
"What, too much? Not enough? Tell me Ollie. It's been so long since I've been anywhere with you, I don't want to embarrass you!"
Ollie looked her over critically.
"Lose the shoes, Mum; if you wear a pair of shoes like that to the bowling alley they'll be off the shelf and on sale down the Portobello Road before you've finished lacing up your bowling shoes. Everything else is OK."
Carol looked affronted.
"'OK?' Did you just say 'OK'? Is that it, just 'OK'?"
Ollie grinned. "No Mum, you look great; you'll be the best dressed 'yummy-Mummy' at the bowling alley, I promise you, so, if you're ready...?"
Carol levered off the stylish stiletto pumps, and slipped on a pair of harem slippers.
"OK now? Good, let's go. Shame really, I haven't worn those shoes in years, I was looking forward to giving them an outing; your father bought me them for my birthday, you know..."
As they were leaving, Carol stopped as a thought struck her.
"So, is Marla Devlin a 'cougar' then? I mean, she seems to fit your definition, apparently, as far as the interest in young men, anyway, so tell me, do you think she's one of these 'cougars', then?"
Ollie grinned.
"No, Mum, she's a Mountain Lion."
Carol looked quizzically at him as he grinned broadly.
"A Mountain Lion's what a cougar is 25 years down the road; still knows how to hunt, but only gets lucky in the dark..."
Carol's laughter pealed out as they walked out the front door and hailed a cab.
*
When Izzy came bustling in from classes, making the maximum amount of noise and fuss, just to piss her mother off, the first thing she noticed was the quiet stillness of the house; the place fairly throbbed with emptiness, with no sense of either her mother's or Ollie's presence. As she dumped her bag by the front door, a note on the hall stand caught her eye. She picked it up and unfolded it, and the twenty-pound note inside.
'Izzy, Ollie and I are out, we're having a little Mum/son time, raid the fridge or get yourself some takeaway. I don't know when we'll be back, Love, Mum'
Izzy went pale with jealousy. No! That scheming witch, acting all 'Mumsy-wumsy' with Ollie, dragging him around town like he was her personal adornment, HER Ollie, how fucking dare she!
Izzy fumed a little while longer, then slowly, her colour returned, and a sly smile spread across her face. So, the Wicked Queen was out on the town pretending to be a loving princess, with Prince Ollie in tow, was he? Time to throw a spanner into her little magic pumpkin! She began texting her brother.
'Where R U?'
After a few seconds: 'Bwlng @ Queens, Y you wnt 2 know?'
Izzy texted back: 'Keep her there, get drnks, she lks Bnana Daiquiris, get a few in hr'
Back came the answer: 'Y?'
Izzy texted back: '2nite, U hve 2 do her 2nite, or I tell hr, U gt me?'
After a long wait, long enough to make her think he'd backed out of their deal, back came the answer:
'OK, 2nite: Game on'
*
Part 4: Step Into My Parlour...
Carol pushed open the front door and giggled as she nearly went over as the door swung open. Ollie grabbed her arm at the last second and she pulled herself upright again, still giggling.
"Thank you Olleee, my lovely little Ollee-Wollee!" she sang, while Ollie grinned and nudged her forward, nearly overbalancing her again.
"Oops, nearly fell on my bum, help me, Olleee, you naughteee, naughteee boooy, Olleee, letting Mummeee drink all those lovely da'kri's!" she slurred, falling the other way this time, straight into his arms.
"Ooo, Grandma, what big arms you've got!" she cooed, grinning cross-eyed at Ollie as he grinned at her.
Ollie was wondering if it was such a good idea, knocking her over while she was obviously shit-faced; what would be the point? She was already standing-up, falling down drunk. No, the next night would have to do; he needed her to be into it, and right now was wrong; she was too trashed to call a halt if it progressed, and Ollie had no intention of forcing himself on his mother, not while she was completely pie-eyed.
All very commendable, except for one thing: Carol wasn't drunk. Ollie had been buying her drinks all afternoon and most of the evening, but she'd been busily pouring them away as soon as his attention was distracted; the pot-plants at Queens were going to be feeling very sorry for themselves come morning, because right now, Carol Bartlett was stone-cold sober, and Ollie was in for a wild ride.
Carol grinned, then crossed her eyes and hiccupped.
"Oops, sorry, naughtyyy Carol, one second while I...ulp! Ollieee, sick...sick...ooohh, quiiiccckkk!"
Ollie grabbed her and pushed her into the cloakroom, and as she slammed the door, Ollie heard the sounds of someone being heartily sick many times.
