Lockdown with My Mother

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A quick scene I wrote this morning. Nothing too taxing in it. Just a stroker. I hope you enjoy it regardless of any typos and/or errors in the text. Comments and voting disabled. Thanks for reading. merry Christmas, etc.

GA – Barnes bridge, London – 22 December 2021

***

On the day everything changed it wasn’t even noon when I caught my mother pouring a hefty measure of gin into the glass.

“It’s early,” I said.

She looked at me.

Said: “There’s nothing else to do.”

Then she shrugged.

“We could go for a walk,” I said.

She tutted, rolled her eyes, sighed, and then fixed me with another look like I was simple.

“Oh, another walk? What fun.”

She put the bottle down onto the counter.

Muttered: “Ice.”

“Yes, again,” I said. “Fresh air, a little exercise. It’d be better than drinking. Can’t you leave that ’til later at least?”

She was on her way to the fridge when I spoke.

“Fuck off,” my mother spat. “I’m old enough to decide when I can have a drink.” She sighed again after she said it. Then fixed me with a look that told me she regretted the outburst.

“I’m sorry, Marcus,” she said. “That was mean.”

She was looking at me, turning so she was square-on, the bathrobe slipping loose when she moved. I caught a glimpse of her body, the shock of it a cold-water wave when my eyes registered the rounded inner flanks of her breasts and the strip of pubic hair down low. I had a fleeting thought about the beginning of regrowth down there, the detail of dangling folds imprinted itself against my mind’s-eye as I gasped and turned away.

“Mum,” I blurted.

“Oh shit, Marcus, I’m sorry,” she said.

“Yeah,” I put in. “Don’t you think you should put some clothes on at least?”

I risked a glance and saw she was tightening the belt, the robe pulled over her nudity.

She pulled a face.

“What for? What’s the point?”

“Because if you keep on going like this, you’re going to get all depressed,” I said. “Drinking, sleeping all day…”

“Going to? ‘m not feeling too chipper already,” my mother scoffed.

“That’s why it’s important to have a routine. You know, get up, take a shower, get dressed…”

“It’s a lockdown, Marcus,” my mother said.

She gave me the look again, the one where she seemed to think I was simple-minded.

“There’s no point in doing anything. If I go to the shops, I’ll put some clothes on. Otherwise…?”

She gave a half-shrug and turned away.

Muttered: “Now, where’s the fucking ice…?”

She had a quick, vehement rant when I grabbed the glass and emptied the gin into the sink. It was a full thirty seconds of bile and vitriol where she called me names and accused me of being: “Just like your arsehole fucking father.”

“It’s not up to you,” my mother raged. “You forget who owns this bloody house, Marcus! Me! That’s who! I just let you live here!”

I looked at the wild eyes and greasy, unkempt blonde hair.

I was trying to keep it calm and easy. No sense in provoking her by joining the argument.

“It’s my home, mum,” I said. “I don’t just live here.”

I could have mentioned I paid rent for my room and board but let it lie.

She glared at me, fire behind her eyes as she sucked in deep gulps of air.

Then, I added: “When was the last time you washed your hair?”

The anger had cooled. It was eyes-brimming-close-to-tears time in the cycle of me nagging and her denial.

“God, I hate this, Marcus,” my mother breathed.

Tender emotions surged within.

“I know, mum,” I said. “Me too. I think most people do.”

“I just want it all to be over.”

She was forlorn, beaten down.

“I know,” I said.

“It keeps going on and on and on.”

I nodded. “Uh-huh. It does.”

“I hate it, Marcus.”

“I know you do, mum.”

“I need a drink,” she said.

I sighed.

Said: “What about you have a shower first? You know, get cleaned up. Put on some clothes.”

I was soothing, cajoling, a role-reversal like I was the parent.

Then I added: “Or a bath? I could run up and get it going. Put in one of those bath-bombs. Light some of those smelly candles.”

“They’re not smelly, Marcus. They’re scented.”

“Okay, scented candles,” I said.

I was seizing onto the interest I saw spark in her eyes. It was rare and fragile, something which needed nurturing.

“Can I have a nice glass of chilled white wine in the bath?”

My mother smirked, slyness in the look.

I gave in because wine had to be a softer option than gin.

“Okay,” I said.

She grinned when I shrugged and nodded.

Which is how I came to be in the bathroom with my mother, the room like a sauna, water cascading into the tub, vanilla scent from the candle around us when she dropped the towelling robe and exposed her ripe, voluptuous nudity.

I was behind her when she did it, wine in my hand, her feminine shape a magnet for my eyes.

I gulped as my cock thickened and grew to a full, quick, and savage tumescence, attention on the contrast Lefkoşa Escort in skin tone: the pale outline of her two-piece against her fading tan. As I stared at her, my mother turned, buttocks jiggling with that particular elasticity only seen in female flesh, her breasts swaying with the action, my focus shifting to the landing-strip coif low down on her body.

I knew I was gawking but couldn’t stop it from happening as I heard her voice come at me from a long way away.

I heard: “What are you staring at me like that for, Marcus? Stop looking at my fluff. That’s not for you to see.”

A sense of the surreal was a blanket settling on me, steam wafting around my mother, my eyes fixed to her body.

“Oh my God, Marcus,” my mother gasped. “You’re being very naughty. It’s rude.”

Despite the surge of sensations working through me, and regardless of the erection pulsing inside my jeans, I recognised the absurdity in her tone. I was twenty-two years old while the way she was talking to me knocked over a decade off that.

As my attention moved up to her face, I paused, her large breasts holding my focus, their size and shape and saucer-sized areolae setting dark urges swirling within.

I saw her eyes go wide as her mouth fell slack.

Then I realised what I’d said.

“You’re gorgeous, mum,” I’d murmured.

My mother’s nostrils flared.

“Marcus! Behave!”

Common sense and propriety percolated through. I felt my cheeks start to burn.

“I’m … I’m sorry,” I stammered.

My eyes fell away from my mother’s nakedness as I held the glass out.

“I brought your wine,” I said.

I caught movement in my peripheral vision and, when I looked up, saw my mother had turned away to turn the taps off. She was halfway around in a three-quarter profile, breasts swaying as she leaned in over the bath, rump presented to me so I could see the curve of her hip, the shape of her setting a deep, aching void yawning deep within.

Lust bubbled inside me as I pawed at myself through my jeans.

Then my mother sat on the edge of the bath so she could dip her fingers into the foamy water.

“Ooh, that’s lovely and hot,” she said.

My mother wasn’t looking at me as she said it, her attention set on the water, murmuring it out before she suddenly looked up to my face.

“You’re so kind to me,” my mother said.

She smiled and then held her lower lip between her teeth, expression sly.

“And I’ve been such a selfish bitch lately,” she added. “Thank you for putting up with me, Marcus.”

I was pleased but also embarrassed.

“It’s no bother,” I said.

“You should get in the bath with me,” my mother went on.

I boggled, mouth slack because I was certain I hadn’t heard her correctly.

She was stepping into the bath when she repeated the invitation.

“I can’t,” I gasped.

Conflicting sensations swirled. I was thrilled yet also appalled, desire and excitement louder than the voices of caution inside my head.

“Of course you can,” my mother crooned. “It’s simple. You take your clothes off and get in here with me.”

My mother settled back, reclining against the end of the tub, eyes closing as she sighed.

Her breasts were islands in the sea of bubbles, skin slick, areolae and button nipples dragging my focus.

“I can’t,” I said.

It came out half-choked as I thought about the shame of exposing my hard-on to my own mother.

“You could wash my hair,” my mother suggested.

I could anchor that against the rushing tide of my ebbing moral code. It wasn’t such an outrageous suggestion as bathing together while it meant I could stay with her in the bathroom and look at her body. The need to be close was compelling. I recognised the wrongness in what I was doing but couldn’t stand to drag myself away. I wanted to look at my mother’s nudity, dark urges working inside me as I looked away from what was confronting me inside my head. I refused to acknowledge the notion I was going to use the experience and memory to masturbate later, my head full of confusion about how it had happened and why I was in the bathroom with her when she was naked.

“Yeah, okay,” I said.

She thanked me when I passed the wine. Then I was on my knees next to the tub, the shower attachment in my hand as my mother tilted her face towards the spray, eyes closed.

I took the opportunity to soak up more detail of her large, rounded breasts, a fantasy-reel running where I imagined myself ducking in to suck at her nipples, a low murmur of consent coming from my mother before she invited me to kiss her mouth.

I managed to shampoo her hair without acting on the impulse, goo seeping into my underwear when I accidentally-on-purpose dared to brush the outer flank of one breast with the writer’s palm.

“God, it feels so good,” my mother breathed.

I couldn’t make up my mind. It was an ambiguous statement. Was she talking about me washing her hair or the slide of my hand over her skin?

My hands were trembling as Kıbrıs Escort I rinsed the shampoo away from my mother’s face and she opened her eyes. Her breasts shivered as she palmed water away from her face and then pulled her hair through her fingers, wringing it out, her attention fixed on me.

“You were right,” my mother said. “I feel so much better now I’m fresh and clean.

She chuckled and took the glass off the corner edge of the tub.

My mother took a sip, eyes sparkling with life and devilment as she held my gaze.

Then she started.

My mother sipped wine and yanked at the anchor of morality. She pulled it loose and set us both sliding down the slope to sin and taboo indulgence.

I let it happen, tempted into the wrongness by my own mother’s body and the lure of illicit intimacy with her.

It began when I saw mischief in her expression.

She murmured: “Do you really think I’m gorgeous, Marcus?”

Need was a visceral squeeze as I nodded.

“Yeah,” I muttered.

We were staring at each other, the strangeness of it on me as I watched my mother slowly nod.

“That’s nice,” she breathed. “Sweet. I like attention. I try my best to look good. It’s getting more difficult as I get older, but…”

My mother paused and smiled.

She gave a half-shrug.

“Being told I’m gorgeous does wonders for my ego, darling,” my mother went on.

Another pause followed, time stretching as my mother sipped the wine and kept my stare held fast with her eyes.

She asked: “Is that why you were staring at me?”

“Mum,” I croaked.

It was an inappropriate question, sensations shifting within as a quick fantasy ran through my mind: her breasts swaying, nipples erect with sexual interest as I looked over her curves, the shape of her body setting dark urges slithering through my core…

The water splashed as my mother leaned forward to set the glass down.

Then she settled back again, reclining as she sighed, eyes closing.

“You can look if you want,” my mother murmured. “Touch, too…”

I could barely breathe.

My heart was pounding, hand trembling as I let my palm and fingers hover over one of my mother’s breasts.

“I want you to touch me,” my mother sighed. “Please,” she murmured.

I was having trouble separating the fantasy from reality, disbelief the chief sense.

She gasped when my hand met her skin.

Need was a jolt like electricity running through me.

“Oh, Marcus, we’re being so naughty,” my mother said.

It came out low, almost a whisper, excitement a hot surge through my cock when I felt the spongy-firm texture of my mother’s breast.

I asked: “Can I suck them?”

I couldn’t believe I’d said it when I heard myself gurgle the words, her response another jolt.

“Mm, darling, yes, you can,” my mother said.

She let out a tiny moan when I leaned in over the bath and sucked at one teat.

Lust was an explosion inside me. I was pawing myself through my jeans, head full of wonder at what was happening, my mouth moving from one nipple to the other and back again while arousal surged.

Then I was squeezing tit-flesh, emboldened by desire and the dark urges working inside me.

“Marcus, God, so naughty,” my mother moaned.

By then I had a hand in the water, fingers confused by the folds between my mother’s legs. I sucked at her breasts and managed to find the bean, a blurt of shock gasping from my mother as I fingered her clit.

“That’s so personal, Marcus,” my mother groaned.

Her fingers were on my wrist, grip firm as I moved up from her nipples so I could look at her face.

My mother was staring at me, eyes half-glazed, face tight with whatever she was feeling inside.

“But don’t stop,” my mother implored.

It came out strained through gritted teeth, cords in her neck as stark as knife blades. He held my hand in place, the fuzz under my palm while my fingers diddled her clit.

“Rub me there, darling,” my mother gasped. “It makes me feel good. So much better than gin or wine.”

Sensations slammed into me like meteors. Part of me knew what I was doing while the other part of me was full of confusion. I was working on instinct, knowledge of who it was I was touching inside my had while desperate, urgent desire swirled and tumbled, the gasps and moans I heard coming from my mother spurring me on.

I asked: “Is this all right? Do you want me to do this?”

By then she was touching herself, fingers squeezing her own breasts as she held my wrist.

“Don’t question it, Marcus,” my mother snarled.

She was looking at me with an intensity behind her eyes I realised matched my own urgent need and desires.

“Don’t ask me anything like that. All I want right now is for you to keep rubbing my clit. Don’t fucking stop,” she gasped. “I need this to happen.”

Water was splashing as I worked at my mother’s body. She was gasping and moaning as she writhed and grabbed at the side of the bath. It was intense, a crazy, wild few minutes Girne Escort in which my world altered forever. I knew we couldn’t ever take it back. There was no way to erase the illicit intimacy of my goading my own mother to orgasm with my fingers. I was seeing and hearing things I had no right to see and hear: sex sounds from my mother; her gasps and moans and blurted obscenities; her flesh in my mouth as I sucked at her nipples again.

Then, as my mother groaned her delight, she looked at me and caught my focus with her eyes, working the dial of wrongness further around as she fixed me with a vixen smirk.

It was a moment of calm in the tempest.

“I want to come. I need to get to an orgasm, darling,” my mother breathed.

I gasped in shock.

A second later I was rubbing my mother’s bean while I looked at her face, wonder running through me because I recognised her features but had never seen that face twisted into a mask of agonised ecstasy.

I managed to rub my mother’s clit while also working the belt, button, and zip loose on my jeans. Then I was tugging my size, sensations sublime in my root, the effervescent fizz of my own climax bubbling quickly.

“Oh God,” my mother gasped.

She was looking down at my hand as I cranked my length.

“You’re wanking,” she muttered. “Marcus, my darling, look at you all big and hard.”

I was somehow managing to rub her body as I jacked my cock, her attention moving from my hand to my face. My mother was staring at me, mouth slack, expression showing shock and delight.

“Stand up,” my mother added. “Let me watch you while I do this myself.”

I was out of control by then. I couldn’t have stopped myself — not even the threat of death could have made me let go of my cock.

I went up onto my feet, jeans and underwear slipping to my knees, my hard-on in my fist.

“Show me,” my mother urged.

She was watching, attention shifting between my face and my dick, her own hand between her legs.

The water splashed and pashed as my mother fingered herself. She was working it hard, one hand mauling tit-flesh while I watched it happen, the surge quick and surprising as cum flicked from the eye.

I grunted as my mother yelped, spunk dribbling down the tiles as more ejaculate burst forth. It came out of me in what was almost one continuous rush, semen an indiscriminate rain as I urged myself of heat and desire. Goo plopped into the bath, a rope of it glistening on my mother’s wet skin, the snotty rope on her shoulder, her blurt of shock issuing out of her when the blob spattered against her body.

I was moaning and tugging, juddering as the joy erupted, the outrush tapering after a few seconds of sublime, incredible joy.

Then, as I cooled, I watched my mother lay back against the end of the tub, hand busy between her legs, bubbles dissolving so I could see her fingers busy down at her sex.

“Oh, fuck, I’m going to come,” my mother announced.

It came out of her as she squeezed her eyes closed, breasts rolling, water sloshing onto the floor while she worked herself towards the climax.

It hit her in a groaning, shuddering exhibition of absolute pleasure, a huge blurt of joy coming from my mother as the spasms shook her body, my eyes set on the formidable, unbelievable spectacle of my own mother losing it all as her orgasm took her away.

As it went on, I moved in to maul her breasts, ducking in low to kiss her mouth.

My mother gasped and twisted her face away from the attempt at a kiss. She was moaning and sobbing, back arching so her body came out of the water, my lips and teeth at her throat

My mother moaned and gasped as I nuzzled at her tender skin, her breasts slick and slippery beneath my fingers as she moved through her orgasm.

Then, suddenly, my mother went limp.

I stood upright, slowly stroking my cock as my mother sucked in air.

She had her eyes closed, water lapping the sides of the bath for a few seconds until she opened her eyes.

I saw my mother glance at my cock before she craned to examine where my outrush had spattered onto her shoulder.

“Fucking hell, Marcus,” my mother gasped.

She set her attention on my face.

“That was incredible,” my mother added.

She was staring at me, head moving side-to-side, eyes showing her own shock and disbelief.

“I had no idea any of that was going to happen,” my mother added.

She rinsed spunk off her shoulder.

“Mum,” I said.

I was incapable of anything more. My own shock was working at me. I was waiting to wake up from the incredible vivid dream.

“My mother asked: “Are you all right?”

She was getting out of the bath, focus on me as she stepped out with care.

My mother was saying: “I mean … Fuck … What we just did…”

I gawked at her nakedness some more, the realisation dawning that my dick was still out.

I managed: “I can’t believe it, mum.”

She shrugged.

Said: “I know. Me neither…”

A few seconds of disconnect followed. It was surreal, too strange to be true.

“Listen, go to my bedroom,” my mother said.

She closed her eyes and held one hand up to cut me off when I started to speak.

“No, just go,” my mother added.

Panic rose inside me.

I blurted: “Am I in trouble?”

My mother opened her eyes.

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