The Girlfriend's Mom

Mark rode his bicycle to the riverbank, parked it beside the shelter for the ferry and sat down on the bench inside.

He had no watch but knew it was too early to go and knock on Danielle's door. She would still be walking home after school. Or would she? She could be hanging out with a friend or be busy with something intramural. Volleyball? If only they attended the same school that would not be an issue.

His stop had another reason. He was nervous. What would he say? Would he stumble over his words and look like a fool? Would she smile happily or with that smile he saw her bestow on others -- more of a sneer? Dismissal.

Butterflies in the stomach. Was he reading everything wrong?

Saturday's dance at the Apollo had been fun. He had been at his gregarious best, he thought, and Danielle had willingly danced with him. He even had been so confident he had asked her mother to dance as well. She too had agreed. To something she called a fox-trot, although he did not know the steps. His false steps had made her giggle, but not condescendingly. They had light-hearted banter and -- because he could only afford two beers -- he had not made a drunken fool of himself. And could not buy a round for Danielle or the two of them.

When it was time to go, he had said, wagging a threatening finger, "I'll come knocking on your door this week." Danielle had replied, "OK" and her mother, Jocelyn, merely smiled.

A lot can be read in a simple "OK" and now he was parsing that single, enigmatic word.

Two girls on bikes came riding down to the ferry. One of them kept pulling her skirt fastidiously down over her knees. The other one let it ride, billowing over her thighs. She gave Mark a taunting look when she drove by. The stopped at the top of the wooden ramp leading down, where the ferryman was washing down all the silt left by the ebbing tide.

Would Danielle taunt him?

He did not know these two girls, so figured they were from Danielle's school. Perhaps it was time to collect his courage and see if she made it home yet and invite her to the movies on Saturday.

He cast one last look at the saucy girl, got back on his bike and rode the five blocks, past the town square, to Danielle's house. Like so many, it was a row house where the garage took up most of the main floor, leaving only room for the entrance, lobby and a staircase leading up to the living quarters. He leaned his bike against the house and rang the bell.

It took a little while and he worried no one was home before the intercom came alive. "Yes?"

"It's Mark," he announced, his heart thumping.

There was a fraction of a delay before the reply came. "Oh. Hi. Come on in." And the buzzer went that unlocked the door.

He stepped in a marble-floor hallway, two stories tall, with white walls and two paintings decorating the walls. Stairs led straight up to a landing with a second set leading up from there to the next floor. He could see all the way to the top of the third floor.

No one was there. His mind in a race, he looked around, saw a tray for shoes and boots. Would he take his shoes off now or when he was asked?

At the top of the second flight of stairs, Jocelyn emerged. She was clad in a white smock. She waved and descended the stairs to the living area. "Come on up, Mark," she called out.

"Shall I take my shoes off?" he asked.

"That would be nice," she agreed.

Shoes off, he climbed the stairs. Jocelyn met him at the landing with outstretched hand. "Dannielle's not home yet, but come on in, anyway," she said. And added, "I look a mess, don't mind me."

She was. The white smock she wore was splattered with paint. Not house paint, but oils and acrylics. Splashes, blotches, streaks of reds, yellows, blends of all colours. Her face, though, was unblemished, but her fingers showed that she had been painting. Mark had taken it all in in an instant, even to her feet in heeled indoor sandals, and her hair in need of a brush.

"You paint?" he asked.

"I try," she smiled. "But do come in." She led the way into the living room that bathed in afternoon light filtered through sheers. "I'm due for a break anyway. A drink?" she asked.

"No, thanks, Ma'am."

"Jocelyn," she corrected him. "I'm going to cheat and have a small Dubonnet on the rocks. Take a seat."

And she left him for the kitchen.

The room oozed luxury. It made Mark feel ill at ease. The room, airy, had a warm-beige carpet, tan leather chairs--a sofa, a love seat, an armchair--buffet and, by the window, a table with a record player, complete with vinyl records stacked, ready to drop down and play.

Jocelyn returned, carrying two glasses. "You did say on Saturday you've yet to taste Scotch. So, here is some of my husband's favourite brand. You're supposed to drink it neat, they say, but a splash of water is permitted. I added some. Try it. There a first time for everything."

She sat down across from him and now he noticed that Jocelyn was not wearing hose or stockings, sitting primly, knees together.

"I half expected you to show up. I guess you're here to ask Danielle out?"

She sipped her drink, her brown eyes questioning.

"Yes," was all he managed.

Where was the gregarious boy of last Saturday? Tongue-tied?

"We had fun. You were fun," she went on. "Not too many boys like to dance. Danielle appreciated that. So did I, as a matter of fact."

"Thanks, yes, I enjoyed it too." Mark produced a smile. "Although I still have to apologize for how often I stepped on your toes."

Jocelyn slipped one foot out of sandal, stretched out her leg and wiggled her toes, each nail a dash of red. "They're back to normal," she smiled. "Although they could have used a massage." She lowered her voice. "Actually, my hubby did, so it all worked out."

Mark laughed in response. It was the right thing to do. And took a sip of the whisky.

Whisky, he instantly concluded, is an acquired taste. He put the glass carefully down on a coaster, on the glass-topped coffee table between him and Jocelyn.

She looked so different. This was not the meticulously made-up woman at the Apollo, demure mother of Danielle. There was something unfished, fresh about her despite, or because of the rumpled, paint-stained frock and flecks of paint on her fingers.

Mark decided he had to at least try and carry on a conversation. "I didn't know you paint."

"Like I said, I try." And she pointed at herself, her outfit. "Sometimes there's more paint on me than on the canvas."

Again, Mark joined her in an agreeable giggle. "You paint abstract, then?"

"No. Would you like to see? My studio is on the upper floor."

It was impossible to disagree. Jocelyn stood up. "Take your drink with you."

She walked ahead of him, up the stairs, and now he noticed that the frock -- more of a lab coat, really, was rather short, reaching only halfway down her thigh. She has nice looking legs for someone who is around forty, he thought.

Jocelyn's studio was in a large room with a window looking north. Mark was unaware of the significance of muting light and colours by denying direct sunlight. It was a messy place, with paint-splattered sheets on the floor, several easels, two three-legged stools, a counter strewn with paraphernalia. Canvases line against the wall. A standing mirror.

Had Mark been asked what to expect he would have said, "Still lives. Landscapes." Instead, he saw portraits. Old faces, young faces, men, women, boys, girls. Light, dark, close-up, full-bodied. Thin, thick.

There was a portrait of Danielle, a self-portrait of Jocelyn, one of a man who had to be Danielle's father.

He was stunned. This was museum-quality stuff. But then, on one easel, with a stool in front of it, was Jocelyn's work in progress. Jocelyn's self portrait. A nude. Almost finished.

Only after he spotted it, only after she heard him suck in his breath, did she find a sheet and casually draped it over the canvas. "That's OK," she said, with a smile and what Mark thought was a bit of a twinkle. "It's what I do."

He knew he had coloured and tried to hide his embarrassment by studying the portrait of Danielle, her daughter, the girl he had a crush on.

"You paint from a picture?" he croaked.

"Only for the basics--the posture, the outline of the head. My models have to pose for their eyes and mouth. That's when, that's how I capture their essence."

She stood close by him as they looked at the painting. "You like it? You like her?"

He nodded.

"Seen enough?"

And so they went down the stairs, back into the living room. He had yet to take a second sip of his whisky.

Back on the leather chair, opposite Jocelyn who ineffectively tugged the hem of her smock down a bit, he tried to revive their conversation.

"Sorry again for stepping on your toes so much." That was so lame, to merely regurgitate what he had already apologized for.

She laughed, but to Mark's ears, it was not deprecating. "You do like to dance the swing, but you haven't been taught the basic step. You got the moves, but the wrong rhythm."

"I was never shown," he pleaded.

"It's your basic 'back-step, one-two-three'. Come, let me show you."

Jocelyn got up, went over to the record player, checked the stack of records to make sure a swing-tune would drop down first and got it going.

"Come," she said, holding out her arms for him and a welcoming smile. "The carpet won't help, but at least we can go through the steps."

The music started. She made him take her in the proper hold position. "You hear the back beat? Make sure you start right, like this." And, with him just standing still, she took the small steps to illustrate what she meant. And soon, Jocelyn expertly leading, he began to learn.

The record ended. A second dropped down and they continued.

"Remember, you have to tell me when to turn, not the other way around," she reminded him.

Mark felt a bit giddy, especially when Jocelyn said, "You might as well dance properly with my daughter."

"One more," Jocelyn decided, but when the record dropped, it was a slow ballad.

"Oh, well," she shrugged, "That's easier." But rather than separating, she stepped into his embrace. "I don't think I remember you stepping on my toes when we danced a slow one."

He felt her against him and instantly felt the difference with the evening at the Apollo. Then, he had been impressed with the pressure against his chest, how stiff her breasts felt against him. Now, there was softness and he realized back then he had merely felt the pressure of bra designed to encapsulate, project.

The difference amazed him. What also amazed him was how closely she hugged him, how he could feel her tummy, how he was slightly taller than her, her head so close to his. He could smell the fragrance in her hair now.

But for the music, the room was quiet, and they shuffled slowly.

He had no idea what caused it, suspected the carpet being the culprit of feet not moving as smoothly as they ought to. Did he stumble a bit, a shoe getting stuck on the carpet, or did Jocelyn?

The result was that her tummy slid across his, sideways. Once, twice.

To his horror, it excited him, and felt himself growing stiff.

He pulled his hips back, but Jocelyn simply held him tighter. If anything, her moves became more erratic. Mark stopped breathing. It did not prevent his cock growing harder yet. He froze. It meant that Jocelyn slowly moved herself against him. Even when the music stopped after the last disc had dropped.

"Relax," she whispered in his neck. "I kind of like this."

And with 'this', she clearly meant the close, intimate touch.

Mark could hear and feel her breath, and the air became erotic. She moved against him just so that he rubbed against her lower belly. "You liked the nude?" she whispered suddenly.

"Yeah," he croaked.

She continued to move slowly. "Would you like to see?"

He could barely answer. "You mean, you?"

She let out a low, amused chuckle. "Yes. I mean, me." Yet she did not disengage. If anything, the way she moved her body against him was becoming more insistent, the bulge of him prominent, her body in pursuit. "It feels like you do."

Throughout, they had not looked at each other, her lips in his neck, her breath on his skin. Jocelyn rotated slowly against him. Even her chest now undulated against him.

"Should I let you?" she whispered.

His throat complete dry, Mark croaked, "Please."

Still, Jocelyn did not pull away, continued the slow dance of her body against him.

"If you insist," she finally said. At last, she let go off him, took half a step back, and, after a quick glance to his pants, looked Mark in the eyes. "Have you ever seen a naked woman?"

"No."

She smiled. "Your first whisky and first naked woman all in one afternoon."

A hand, fingers, rose up to the top button of the coat she wore and loosened it.

"If you're sure," she continued, and loosened the second one. The coat opened a little. She saw his eyes riveted on her chest, the look of arousal so strong on his face that no denying could erase. "I think you are."

By now, with the third of five buttons undone, the valley between her breasts was revealed. Not a tight slit of cleavage. It was enough for her to shrug her shoulders and let the coat slide off her shoulders, down her arms, to the floor.

She let it drop, crossed her arms in front of her, covering her breasts. Standing in her heeled sandals only, she took a step back, so he could take all of her in.

She saw his eyes drift down to her dark bush, saw his lips twitch.

She knew her body intimately. Her breasts still youthful, her nipples erect because of the excitement of the moment. She uncovered her breasts, lifted them with her hands. She loved the way he looked at her, that mixture of awe and lust.

Without a word she stepped back to him. Deft fingers unbuckled his belt.

"My turn," she said. Her eyes were on his face while deft fingers found the tab of his zipper, slid it down, the back of her hand gliding down his bulge. She needed not look down, intent on Mark's expression as her fingers found the opening of his fly and struggled just a little to expose his cock. Only then did she look down.

"Uncut," she observed, sotto voce.

Her voice was lower, more guttural.

"Strip for me," she said, stepping back again with that simple demand.

Now he could see that her eyes were riveted on his erection. He saw her wet her lips even. Her face had softened, somehow. But his eyes roved on, hungrily, seeing how puckered the skin of the areola of the breasts--boobs--tits--of Danielle's mother, and the surprise of how dense that hair was between her legs. Can nipples really be that big?

Mark struggled to shed his clothes, like he suddenly had two left hands, to left feet and a disobeying brain. But he managed.

"Socks too," Jocelyn instructed.

He managed that too and, naked, stood before her, his heart in his throat, his cock never before so hard, so aching.

The record player had already dropped its last disk, the needle aimlessly repeating the same groove after the music stopped. He did not notice. Jocelyn did not care.

She backed up, to the sofa behind her, sat down, leaned back, moved her knees apart and prepared herself for him, with two fingers pushing hair aside. Mark saw a pink slash.

"Come," she said.

He stepped to her, wondering what to do. Jocelyn was leaning back; he would have to lean over her. A flash of embarrassment rushed through him. Was that what she expected?

He stepped close. Jocelyn reached up, put her hand on the crown of his head and pushed him down. It excited her to discover she had to push harder than expected, because it had not dawned on him she wanted his head between her thighs.

But he did sink down on his knees and could no longer miss the scent of sex, unfamiliar as it was to him, never to be forgotten.

She pulled his face close. "Lick" she commanded.

He did, and as his tongue tentatively explored, she rewarded him with moving her hips, pushing her sex to him. Her fingers were close, stroking his cheeks.

"Suck here." Her fingers showed the small button standing proud at the tip of her pussy.

He did. He noticed how her breathing changed, how her hips were increasing their reward. His face got wet. He slurped.

She reached for his hands, put them on her tits, guiding his fingers to her nipples. If they looked engorged to him before, they felt like pebbles now. She helped him caress her while she slid her pelvis back and forth against his face.

To Mark it all was a revelation. He knew, instinctively, that Jocelyn liked what he did, wanted what he did, eager to feel his lips and fingers wherever she directed them. And not just that. Her breathing betrayed her and small choked sounds.

She got even wetter between the legs. He was filled with her scent.

Then, another word. "Come".

She lifted his face off her sex, her pubic hair all wet, pulled his face up to hers.

She let go of his face and Mark felt her hands, both hands, all fingers, grasp his cock.

"Come," she said again.

He knew what she wanted. And she helped, guiding him, one thumb giving him exquisite little strokes.

"Like that, dear," she said. And he felt his cock right up to her lips that had opened under the touch of his tongue."

"Like that," she repeated, languidly, when she felt him slide into her.

She heard that Mark stopped breathing as he slid his entire length inside her until she felt his pubic bone against her.

Yes, he was indeed leaning over her, his elbows on the back of the sofa, his face in her neck now. He felt Jocelyn's hand slide over his flanks, which made him shiver, and then down, each cupping a buttock. And a squeeze.

"Move," she said.

He did, unable to stifle a moan of pleasure.

"It's OK to be fast, dear," she whispered.

He moved more.

Her hands rose, found his head, moved it so she could kiss him. Her tongue darted in him. Her feet found purchase on the floor, and he could feel her respond to his motion, his strokes and the sublime pleasure flooding through him.

Jocelyn broke the kiss, kept his face between her hands, stared in his eyes. "Go on," she said, "I'm no porcelain doll."

Mark slid out, slid in, trapped. Jocelyn squeezed her muscles. It made her close her eyes. It made him gasp.

The urge now took over, and Jocelyn was well aware of it. This boy, she was certain, would not, could not last long. Nor did she want it. This, after all, was pure lust, plucked out the air of an afternoon when she had stared at her own nudity in the mirror, up in her studio.

Mark kept moving, looking down in awe where he saw his cock disappear and emerge, amazed, urged on by the wet sound he made down there.

Suddenly he felt both her hands grasp his buttocks, squeeze, drive him in deep, relax, squeeze, relax.

"Hurry up," she said. "Do it."

She dug her fingers in and felt him speed up. All she could do was gasp, "Yes, fuck me."

Seconds later she heard his wail of pleasure when he dug deep in her, froze, and she felt the spasms of his ejaculation. She lifted her legs, circled him, let her heels stroke the back of his thighs.

Then she said, "We better get dressed, dear. Danielle may be home soon."

Obediently Mark slid out of her, stood up. So did Jocelyn who simply put her smock back on, after she reached for a tissue box on the side table, her feet back in her slippers while she watched the boy get dressed.

He's not even soft yet, she mused.

She handed him the Scotch.

Just then they heard the front door open and they heard Danielle call up the stairs, "Is that Mark's bike in front of the house?"