The Reluctant Mother Ch. 01

The Reluctant Mother - Chapter 1

Michael, a man in his mid-thirties, becomes fixated with the idea of a sexual relationship with his mother, Gillian, who is sixty. Not surprisingly she rejects his advances. This is the story of how he goes about the long process of seducing her. The build-up is slow, as you may imagine; seducing one's mother is a tricky and time-consuming business. But I hope you find the end satisfying. You can always skip the first few pages!

Please note that this story does contain descriptions of anal sex, so if this isn't your thing, you may wish to skip it.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank my readership for their kind and supportive comments on my other works.

Sylviafan

I'd like to begin by making it quite clear that I have always had a penchant for an older woman. Not in their seventies or eighties or anything like that but give me a fit lady in her forties or fifties, or even sixties, over a twenty-something any day. In my time I have lusted over my friends' mothers, my schoolteachers, the older secretaries at work and the older female neighbours, especially Joan, who lives next door.

Curiously though, what I have never done, or had never done until recently, was lust after my mother. For some reason she never entered my head as an object of desire, although she is certainly an attractive and mature lady - she turned sixty last year. I just thought of her as mum, the person who'd given birth to me and raised me and still caters to most of my needs, although I'm now thirty-six.

Perhaps I should also add that although I strongly desire older ladies, in practice I tend to date in my own age group; a subconscious urge to conform perhaps. The exception to this was Valerie, who worked in my office. I started dating her when I was thirty and she was in her mid-fifties - she never did tell me her exact age. Eventually the age difference became too much of an issue but we enjoyed almost two years of the most delicious and uninhibited sex I've ever had. This had the effect of whetting my appetite for older women even more and, I guess, was a contributing factor to what happened with my mother.

I suppose I ought to give you a few background details before embarking on the story proper. Hopefully it'll avoid having to interrupt the flow later on.

My name is Michael, although everybody except my mum calls me Mike. I'm an average sort of guy, which is to say that I try to get through life with the minimum of effort and inconvenience whilst at the same time extracting every ounce of enjoyment. Physically I'm just shy of six-feet tall and I think of myself as wiry, rather than slim. I've got a mop of dark-brown hair and a friendly sort of face that my mum says is made for laughing.

Work is as a nine-to-five paralegal in a big law practice. It's typical of me that I didn't become a lawyer, and it means that I'm habitually short of money, because I've got some expensive hobbies, like skiing and sports cars. All of which explains why I still live at home - the original fur-lined rut. It might also have something to do with being an only child.

Home is a big, four-bedroomed detached house at the edge of a nice village a few miles from the city where I work. It's L shaped and the back looks out over farmland and woods and when you're on the back patio, in the angle of the L, it's completely private. I don't own the house of course, my mum does. She inherited it in full about six years ago after dad died in a car crash. So it's just the two of us now, rattling around in too much space. I pay a pittance in rent and in return my mum does the lion's share of the housework and all the cooking. It's not quite as bad as it sounds, I do most of the gardening and any DIY that needs doing.

What can I say about my mother? Well, she's called Gillian and she's a university lecturer in English literature, although she only works three days a week now. She's a touch above medium height, five feet six or thereabouts, and with a trim figure. She's not as slender as she was twenty years ago but neither is she in any way overweight. She's got nice legs, a full bosom and a pretty face, surmounted by collar-length ash-blonde hair. The hair colour's out of a bottle, she started dying it when the grey appeared; her natural colour's the same as mine - dark brown. She's got a rather elfin face with a slightly pointed chin and a generous, full-lipped mouth. Above this is a straight nose and brown eyes with dark-brown eyebrows, which clash with her hair colour, I think. She's sixty-one now and her face is showing some lines and crow's feet and loose skin at her throat, but when she's made up and dressed for work she looks really nice.

Personality-wise mum's rather reserved and quiet, but she's kind and smiles a lot. She doesn't laugh much, except when she's had a glass of wine or a G&T too many, which doesn't happen often. When it does she can get quite silly and giggly. Mostly though she's thoughtful and self-possessed, as befits an academic, and if you tell her something she listens carefully and thinks about her reply. Mind you, when she's stressed she can be a bit full-on and even a bit sarcastic.

This story starts the afternoon I caught her masturbating on the back patio. Actually "caught" probably isn't the right word, it implies she was doing something wrong. Observed is probably better.

It was a Sunday afternoon in mid-June and we were going through a heatwave. Most Sundays in the summer I turn out for the village cricket team. I'm not a star player or anything; I normally bat somewhere in the middle of the batting order, I field competently wherever the captain sees fit to put me and I can be called upon to bowl a few overs if the team is desperate. We're in a local league of about twenty teams and we try to play at least once a week. This Sunday we were up against arch-rivals Shipton Parva, about three miles away. Mum said she was going to spend the afternoon sunbathing and reading and when I said goodbye, in the kitchen, she was already in a black bikini and making herself a cold drink to take outside. The patio was south facing so it was a real suntrap.

I drove off in the direction of Shipton Parva and about ten minutes later I realised that I'd left my mobile phone in my bedroom. I could have gone on and just done without it for the rest of the afternoon and early evening but that's getting quite tough to do nowadays and besides, I'd got plenty of time to go back home and still make it to the match in good time. So I turned back, and life was never the same again.

I parked on the drive, let myself in through the front door and skipped up the stairs to my bedroom at the rear of the house. My phone was on my bedside table, next to the window that looked out onto the back patio. The window was open to try to keep the room cool and, as I picked up my phone, I thought I heard a faint noise from outside. I stepped to the window and looked down. On the paved area there were the two recliners with cushions that I'd got out of the garage that morning at mum's request. I found that I was looking directly down on the recliner occupied by my mother. The first look transfixed me and I stood numbly at the window, observing, but not observed.

She was lying on the cushion, her bikini top was still in place but she'd placed her feet on the paving either side of the recliner, her legs open wide. Her left hand was gripping the arm of the couch but her right hand was inside her bikini bottoms and I could see her fingers and knuckles move through the thin fabric. It was obvious what she was doing but in case I was in any doubt, faint moans of arousal floated up to me from below. Inconsequentially I noticed that her open book was face down on the ground next to the sunbed.

I shouldn't have spied on my mother like that but I just couldn't drag myself away, it was so erotic! I could see the muscles of her forearm flex as she stroked herself. I could see the bumps in the material she made when she crooked her fingers, presumably to slide them into herself. And I could see the white knuckles of her left hand as she gripped the plastic sunbed arm.

I don't know how long I stood there at the window, five minutes at least. Eventually mum's moans got a bit louder and more constant and her fingers started working faster and then she arched her back with a great groaning noise as her orgasm washed through her. She relaxed back onto the cushion and I was about to turn away and sneak back down the stairs when I saw her slide her hand out of her bikini bottoms, bring it to her face, and slide two fingers into her mouth. I watched goggle-eyed as she sucked her fingers clean. Then she straightened her legs, leaned over and picked up her book and started to read.

I came to as if from a dream. Realising immediately that I didn't want to get caught in the house, I pocketed my phone and tiptoed out of my room and down the stairs. Halfway down I realised I had a raging erection.

I opened and closed the front door as quietly as I could, hoping that mum wouldn't hear something and come and investigate, and I pulled away from the house and drove off uncharacteristically slowly. Goodness knows how I got to Shipton Parva in one piece, my mind was all over the place with what I'd seen. Luckily it was country lanes all the way and no tractors.

Reaching the cricket ground, I parked and went into the pavilion, where the rest of the team were changing into flannels before taking the field.

'Are you ok, Mike?' asked Jeff, the captain. 'You look like you've seen a ghost.'

'I'm fine,' I smiled. But inside it was turmoil and I just wanted a bit of peace and quiet to start processing things.

The match seemed to take an eternity and I didn't distinguish myself either fielding or at the wicket. Afterwards, we all trooped into the village pub and the beer flowed and there was a bit of a buffet. I tried to join in the conversation but the image of my mother masturbating on the sunbed kept playing over and over in my mind in an endless loop. After about an hour I said my goodbyes and left.

It was still light when I got home. Mum was in the kitchen making us a late supper. She'd changed out of her bikini and was wearing a loose cotton skirt and blouse.

'You're home early, Michael,' she smiled at me. 'Did you win?'

'No, we lost by three wickets.' I went over to her and pecked her on the cheek and she blushed. It wasn't something I normally did but somehow I had an urge to touch her skin, perhaps to catch a scent of her earlier arousal.

'Are you alright, Michael,' she asked. 'You look a bit... I don't know. Not quite yourself. You're not coming down with something are you?'

'Just a bit tired, Mum.' I yawned to reinforce this message. 'What time's supper?'

We ate soon afterwards, and about ten o'clock, at least an hour before my normal bedtime, I made my excuses and went up to my room, giving mum another peck on the cheek before I went.

'Goodness,' she said. 'What have I done to deserve all these kisses?'

In truth I couldn't have stayed downstairs with my mum any longer; I couldn't keep my eyes off her and I was afraid she'd notice and ask me what the matter was. I had surreptitiously observed the way her simple summer clothes sat elegantly on her body; how she kept flicking back a lock of blonde hair from her forehead; the shape of her calves as she crossed her legs on the sofa opposite me; her slim ankles and bare feet; her arms, with a hint of golden down; her long fingers with their manicured nails. I drank in her expressions as she watched a drama on the television, the curve of her neck and the swell of her bosom under the cotton blouse.

In my room I stripped and threw myself on the bed and masturbated to a frenzied orgasm in about sixty seconds flat. I cleaned myself up and lay back down and started masturbating again. It took longer the second time, much longer. Long enough for me to imagine my mother masturbating in the garden. Imagine her naked. Imagine her in my arms, underneath me on the bed as I entered her, thrusting into her middle-aged pussy from behind. I tried to visualise what her vagina might look like, what colour her pubic hair was. What she would smell and taste like.

Before my second orgasm overwhelmed me with its exquisite pleasure I knew that I was hopelessly in love with my mother. Not a son's love, but the passion and desire of a lover.

I lay awake for hours that night in the sweltering June heat. I couldn't get the image of her hand and fingers working away under her bikini bottoms out of my head. And sucking her fingers clean afterwards! Valerie sometimes used to masturbate for me and she would offer me her fingers to lick, or she would lick them herself. But Valerie had a dirty, wanton streak a mile wide. My mother wasn't like that. Or was she? What did I actually know about my mother's sexuality? Nothing, of course. Sex had never been mentioned with my parents, apart from dad's stumbling attempt to tell me about the facts of life. I didn't even know if mum had dated before she met dad. Was she a virgin bride? Had she only ever had one man?

And if she had a need for sex, why hadn't she dated after dad had died?

The uncomfortable fact that I kept coming back to, as the clock on the bedside cabinet ticked away the night, was that I strongly, fundamentally, wanted my mother. Wanted her to be my lover. Wanted to share intimacy with her. To kiss her and stroke her skin and arouse her and take her. I suspected that something like lust for my mother had been lurking under the skin of my psyche all the time, it would explain my attraction to older ladies. Freud, I'm sure, would agree. And now this incident had erupted it to the surface. The genie was out of the bottle and couldn't be put back.

So what was I going to do about it?

The answer was both simple and complicated: I was going to seduce my mother. Or rather I was going to try. This conclusion almost took my breath away. The taboo of incest is very strong and I shuddered at the thought of making a first move, which would surely be rebuffed, probably with some degree of horror. But that first move had to be made because a conversation needed to begin. Slowly, over the next few days, a plan, of sorts, began to form in my mind.

I put stage one of the plan into action the following Saturday. It involved taking my mother out walking in the nearby hills. It was something we used to do as a family when dad was alive. After he died mum and I went walking a few times but although I knew she enjoyed it I selfishly felt that my time would be better spent in the garage, tinkering with my car.

That Saturday was a glorious day; the temperature had dropped a few degrees and it was less humid than it had been, but the sky was cloudless and there was a gentle breeze to cool us as we walked the familiar byways and bridlepaths, small knapsacks on our backs.

Mum had been thrilled when I suggested the walk and she was animated and chatty as we trudged over moorland and farmland.

'What a lovely idea to come out walking today,' she told me. 'I'd almost forgotten how beautiful it is out here. Thank you ever so much for doing this for me, Michael, it's about time I got out a bit more.' High above us a pair of buzzards wheeled and called to each other.

Mum was wearing walking trousers and boots and a short-sleeved top that accentuated her breasts. Her hair was blowing about her face as she stood looking around with one hand on her hip, in what I thought of as an intensely feminine posture. I wanted to grab her there and then and kiss her, but that wasn't part of the plan.

We had lunch in a wayside pub and it was perfect. The beer was cool and flavoursome, the ploughman's lunches interesting and delicious. Afterwards we walked the five miles back to the car and we talked about all sorts of things that we didn't normally discuss: politics and history and our jobs and colleagues. I felt I'd actually got to know my mother a bit better that day. I planned on getting to know her even better that evening.

When we got back to the house I told mum that I was cooking dinner and she smiled and came over and hugged me.

'Thanks, Michael, that's really kind of you.'

She disappeared upstairs to have a shower and I stood in the kitchen and stared through the window into the garden and thought about what I was going to do later that evening.

I opened a bottle of red wine with dinner; we didn't drink every evening but I wanted mum to be relaxed and this had been a special day in a small way so I didn't think she'd object.

She didn't object when I kept topping her glass up during and after dinner either, although she did ask me if I was trying to get her drunk. She didn't say anything when I opened a second bottle either, although it was clear she was affected by the alcohol.

We eat late in our house and by the time we'd settled down in the sitting room and finished the last of the wine, it was ten o'clock and the evening news was starting. I was sitting next to mum on the big leather settee, quite close in fact. I'd moved there from the easy chair to pour her the dregs of the wine and stayed put.

'Do you want to watch the news?' I asked.

'Oh goodness no,' replied mum. 'I've had a lovely day and I don't want to spoil it with a lot of gruesome news stories. Do you want to find us something silly to watch before bed?'

I thumbed the remote control and the screen died. 'Actually, Mum, there was something I wanted to do first.'

I slid my right arm around her shoulders and drew her to me. She looked around at me surprised as I lowered my head to hers and kissed her. And kept kissing her.

Her lips felt full and warm and soft and tasted of wine and I gently worked mine against hers and opened my mouth fractionally against hers, slipping the tip of my tongue between her lips.

This all happened in about five seconds which was how long it took my mother to realise that her son was french kissing her and to pull away with a gasp and stare at me open-eyed.

'Whatever are you doing, Michael?'

I hadn't really expected her to return my kiss and for us to fall into a passionate embrace. Her reaction had been much as I'd expected.

I dropped my head in contrition. 'I'm really sorry, Mum, I just...' At that point I rose and fled the room, running upstairs to my bedroom where I stood gasping to release the tension, aware that I had crossed some sort of Rubicon and that things could go very badly wrong.

But my plan had been to try to kiss mum and, if she rejected me, to disappear to bed and have a conversation with her the next morning. I suppose I'd hoped that the wine would have suppressed her inhibitions a bit, but I guess you can't overcome a lifetime of taboo with a couple of glasses of supermarket Merlot.

What I hadn't anticipated was mum coming up to my room, which she did just after I'd brushed my teeth and got into bed and turned out the lights.

She tapped lightly at the door and I told her to come in. Mum was still in her cotton skirt and blouse; she came over and sat on the edge of the bed and I turned on the bedside lamp, partly to see what sort of expression she had on her face, but it was neutral.

'Michael, what happened tonight? I know we'd had a few glasses of wine but you tried to kiss me.' She looked puzzled rather than cross. I took a deep breath.

'There's something I need to talk to you about, Mum.'

'Ok.'

'Look, this is going to sound awful, but last Sunday, when we were playing Shipton Parva, I came back to the house because I'd forgotten my mobile phone. It was on my bedside table and I went up to get it and you were on the sun lounger and you were... your hand was in your bikini bottoms and... well... I saw you.'